February 2007 Archives
TWO REASONS WHY I WILL NEVER GROW UP
Don't let bad knees, a diminishing sex drive, the grey beard, and a grey genital area that looks like you put a sausage in an ashy tray fool you: even though I'm 33 years old, I feel that I will be a toddler for eternity. I'm not trying to follow those words that "Toys R Us" made famous, because I indeed want to grow up, have a wife that nags me about my drinking, have a perfect white picket fence that would get me kicked out of the Public Enemy fan club, and have a son who I'd be worried about until his wedding day based on that ONE time he decided to put on his mother's high heels. I want all of that. (I really do.) Because I wanted to be the ultimate family man I made the necessary changes in my life to acquire that dream - I started showering regularly, I stopped hitting men in the mouth who said anything other than Rakim being the best MC ever, I stopped telling unruly neighborhood kids that their mothers should have digested them... I even started throwing my arm around chicks after sex. I thought I was on my way to adulthood, albeit late.
That is, until I got completely hooked to "Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas," and later "Guitar Hero II." I mean, who has the time to open up joint checking accounts, raise some crumb-snatchers who might resemble your favorite blogger, and talk about retirement plans after fucking my wife for like the thousandth time, when there are drug dealers to be killed and guitar levels to be mastered! But I feel there is a silver lining to my video game obsession, though. It stopped me from driving some woman who committed her life to me to lesbianism, and raising some violent offspring who have a very elitist view of Hip Hop.
Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas: I know this game is three years old, but it's as addictive today as it was when I took it out of the box in 2004. If following the storyline to the letter wasn't enough, a person can get lost in the game simply by driving around and taking in the vast landscape. But I have to be honest here, I get my real kicks by killing unassuming drug dealers, punching innocent bystanders directly in the mouth, taking out police helicopters with bazookas, and killing more young men than "You stepped on my sneaker" rants as I take over their gang territory with my small arsenal.
But you have to be careful, because this game will bleed into your actual life something fierce. You'll find yourself pulling up to women on the street expecting them to hop in your ride and service you, expect strangers on the street to compliment your body art, and wonder why haircuts don't take two seconds. I don't think walking up to a drug dealer and closing his drug distribution business forever is the most punishable sin in the world, but murder is murder, and before you know it you'll find a certain orifice constantly sore as you hold an inmate named Tiny's pocket as a sign of ownership.
Guitar Hero II: When I was the lead singer of a local rock band, I was the ultimate front man, mainly because I was an insufferable prick. I'd show up late, refer to myself in the third person, pick fights with heckling audience members, tell club owners who refused to book us that they would regret it "for the rest of their miserable existence!!", and I would sleep with groupies and act like I never saw them before in my life the following week. Yes, I'm really that much of an asshole. But I was just jealous that I didn't have the talent to be the lead guitarist, a position that I've coveted every since I heard my first Hendrix album. I mean, the lead singer could pull off the whole "tortured soul" act with perfection - but making that guitar wail, beautifully bending tunes with ease, exhibiting a musical wizardry that would magically make women throw their Lane Bryant's in your direction. With Guitar Hero II, frustrated guitarists everywhere get their shot at glory, even if it is a video game where the chicks have animated breasts. The one thing that slows my writing, besides my penchant for "rubbing one out" to thick Asian women, is my addiction to this very game. Where else can you play "Free Bird," Suicidal Tendencies' "Institutionalized," and the Police's "Message in a Bottle" without the crowd wanting to behead you? Unfortunately, I get carried away, and after some killer performances I've smashed a few guitars in the process, which is getting pretty costly for a dude who likes to shower himself in snacks and pornography.
I'M PROBABLY ALONE HERE, BUT I'M TIRED OF BILL COSBY
Even though Bill Cosby has been labeled "America's Black Dad" for the past 25 years, I've always looked at the most famous Jell-O pudding salesman ever as a fatherly figure in my life. Sure, I had a father and he was there in my life, but based on their similarities it was hard to see Mr. Cosby as being anything but a paternal force. They were both born in 1937, both of them were in the service, and both of them had the ability to make you laugh while delivering vivid stories that always seemed to have a point to them. The only difference was that I never saw Heathcliff Huxtable tell Theo how he "wasn't shit" and that he "wouldn't amount to anything." Matter of fact, one of the few times that my father and I bonded were those fleeting moments listening to old Bill Cosby records, the both of us laughing in unison. Even at an early age, I recognized the man's comedic genius, not for nothing, but I found myself severing my small intestines in laughter, actually finding a clean act hilarious. From listening to those old records made before I was born, watching old ISpy re-runs, my eternal love for both "Uptown Saturday Night" and "A Piece of the Action," and we can't forget "The Cosby Show," my role as Cosby apologist was already cemented.
When people would point to his early stand-up routine as being devoid of any social consciousness, I'd point to him actually being in the trenches during the Civil Rights Era as proof to his loyalty to his people. When people complained that he never tried to force the writers of ISpy to inject some relevant commentary in sync with the times, I'd always argue that he was breaking ground just by being on the show, and that I'm sure there wasn't much Mr. Cosby could do. When people attacked The Cosby Show, saying that it was unrealistic and never tackled any hard hitting issues in the black community, I always saw that as the detractors way of trying to dumb down the show for the legions of baboon's asses out there.
But come 2004, my feelings on Dr. Cosby had changed drastically. What once seemed like "America's Black Dad" had all of a sudden merged into a rather cantankerous and crotchety old man. Sure, I'm completely with black folks taking responsibly, and how many of us in the black community have to stop putting an emphasis on sports and fashion, and focus more on self-respect and self improvement. On the surface, that sounds like the type of shit I want to hear from a black leader, and many educators and leaders who share my melanin complexion praised Dr. Cosby for him "putting a mirror" up to our people so to speak. But I wasn't that quick to buy one of those ugly-ass sweaters and build a shrine in my house to the man. The tone always seemed rather angry, supposed "tough love" that comes across like black folks have been pissing in his cornflakes for years - witnessed by the way he constantly generalizes about Hip Hop culture as harshly and ignorantly as any right wing conservative that you can find.
Overall, I've remained virtually silent on my blog about Dr. Cosby over the past couple of years, because even though he was clumsy in his assessment, his heart was in the right place. (I guessed.) Besides, with my father six feet in the ground, I felt weird about ripping the man who reminds me of my dad a journalistic "new one." That was until last week, when Bill Cosby said it was crazy for Tupac, who died in Vegas in 1996, and his mother Afeni to enjoy the proceeds from Shakur's drug sales. He went on to say:
"How wonderful. Isn't that wonderful. You've got to be kidding. How many lives have you ruined selling packets? How many mothers are not going to go to work because they want to snort? How many dead mothers because of crack, how many babies we got to make turn around because they are crack babies?"
Listen, I'm not exactly what you'd call a Tupac apologist - I couldn't tell you how many times I wanted to fight whenever someone tried to tell me that he was better than Rakim on the mic - but Cosby's incoherent drivel would be funny if it wasn't so sad and uninformed. I'm not a walking encyclopedia when it comes to Tupac's biography, but I'm certain that even the most casual fan of Mr. Shakur would relay that his tenure in street pharmaceuticals was pretty short-lived. Is that how you want to strengthen the black community Mr. Cosby? Smear a dead guy and his grieving mother? I have to ask, sir: is the reason why you sit behind your Bully pulpit and attack the dead, pass down judgment and generalize poor people, even going as far as to nitpick the names that black folks decide to give their children - is it because you want to make up for all the decades that you decided against injecting social commentary in aspects of your career?
I know that Mr. Cosby is one of the biggest humanitarians out there, but the bile that oozes out of him as of late isn't helping. He just reminds me of one of those old men in the balcony of "The Muppet Show" - just constantly talking shit without any apparent rhyme or reason. I mean, how dare you talk about people who use "broken English" when there is a character that you created named "Mushmouth" out there. Matter of fact, the entire cast of that show didn't exactly speak the Queen's english. How about all that Jive ass shit you were spitting in those flicks you did with Sidney Poitier? So slang was cool back then, but now it's reprehensible? That's great, Bill, really. Matter of fact, I have to wonder what the Bill Cosby of the early '70s would think of the Bill Cosby of 2007 - suddenly, the words "Jive ass Turkey" comes to mind. As for the "personal responsibility" that you want to lecture us on ad naseum - care to go into detail about the financial payments you sent to that child out of wedlock that you thought you had? How about that lawsuit you settled with that woman who claimed that you drugged her with blue pills, molested her, and when she came to, her bra was undone and her clothes were in disarray? "Blue Pills"?? Who do you think you are, Morpheus? Listen, I don't even know the legitimacy of those claims, but people in glass houses shouldn't be firing off bazookas.
HumanityCritic's thoughts on "My Block: Virginia"
MTV made my hometown look like Mayberry!!
"I find it funny that we recorded such a club-friendly record in such a desolate area of the world... But the good part about working in Virginia Beach... is like the joke we made. There really is nothing to do there. There's nothing but strip malls and Chick-fil-A's, and I think maybe one club in the whole Virginia Beach area." - Justin Timberlake
Right when I thought the coast was clear to like this shit-stain again, especially after seeing that "Dick in a Box" sketch and realizing that I was never a big Janet Jackson fan anyways. (Sure I'd let her borrow my cock, but there is a million other women I'd lend it to as well.) Who does this boy-band graduate think he is, dissing my state like there won't be punch-worthy repercussions? I don't go around disrespecting the way he sings - not even once did I say that his high-pitched crooning sounds like he spent the better part of his childhood angrily masturbating to Michael Jackson's Thriller album. Never did I express my gut feeling that he was slightly effeminate - so much, in fact, that I always felt that he was an ass whipping and an airing of Annie away from embracing cock full time. I kept those comments to myself. (I'm the last motherfucker who should be talking about anyone's preference in women - the other day I almost rationalized getting a blow-up doll because of her "inviting lips.") Regardless, Justin better look over his shoulder when he comes back. I live exactly two streets away from the studio where he records, and since there is a recently drained land mass right behind said studio, I'd like to get the chance to see if Mr. Timberlake would actually "cry me a river" as I beat the "Darren's dance moves" out of his ass.
I've talked my fair shit about Virginia before, no doubt, but this is the state where I was raised, the state where I had my first kiss, first fuck, first fight, first MC that I humiliated in rhyme form, and Justin better "pump his brakes" (as Ice Cube so succinctly put it). I guess I look at my hometown the same way one would look at an alcoholic Aunt or a kleptomaniac cousin: there's nothing wrong with you or other members of your family talking more shit than a proctology chat room. But if somebody outside the bloodline adds their miserable two cents, you have to quickly inform them their gum-flapping doubled their chances of getting kidnapped.
This brings me to "My Block: Virginia," surprisingly the worst episode of all the Podunk around the continental United States MTV has covered thus far. I don't really have an issue concerning how Pharrell or Timbaland was covered, but what was up with the Clipse hanging outside of Bridle Creek as if they were Mobb Deep chilling in front of their Queensbridge project and shit? Granted, I'm not the biggest Clipse fan in the world, but if you knew that area like I knew that area, the voluntary eye-rolls would cause your brain to explode like a watermelon dropped from a 20-story building. When they showed Trey Songz in Petersberg, Virginia, like it was some sort of concrete jungle, where daily hand-to-hands take place, and where two out of three black males get shot before the age of 12, I immediately thought that I was watching "My Block: Mayberry." (Get the fuck outta here. I won't even mention Quan taking Sway to some bum ass flea market.)
Justin has a point: there isn't a wealth of entertainment going on in my fine city, but for Christ's sake, it isn't that dull. When you cross over city lines, your face doesn't begin to melt off in boredom like the arc of the covenant was here, as much as the clip above suggests. They should have came to me to set things up - I know a shitload of interesting places - bars, legendary streets, and enough low self-esteem mammary owners to make VA Beach look like Las Vegas out this motherfucker!!!
Side note: The school that Kenna and Chad are standing in front of, Kempsville, is my alma mater. Chiefs represent!!!
HumanityCritic's Favorite Venereal Disease Anthems
MCs desperately trying to save the world, one drippy appendage at a time.
Rakim was right: "It ain't where you're from it's where you're at!" But growing up in Virginia Beach, Virginia, I always wished that I had the opportunity to give golden narratives about block parties and DJ's plugging their sound systems into a light pole. I'm a firm believer that you can be from some Podunk town somewhere and still love Hip Hop as much as the next guy, but while I was listening to my headphones in the comfort of my childhood room, I secretly wondered if I'd ever get a chance to go to "The Latin Quarter," "The Rooftop" - even the Albee Square Mall for Christ's sake. I don't know if kids now experience the same thing that I did, based on the lackluster lyrical skills of MCs nowadays. But back then, the verbal imagery of your garden variety rapper was so clear that I wanted to battle motherfuckers on the L train, I wanted to say "Fuck Ed Koch!!" - and actually have a legitimate reason for spewing such a sentiment. I wanted the gold ropes. I wanted a made-to-fit outfit from Dapper Dan. There were so many aspects of the MC that I desperately wanted to experience firsthand.
My admiration had limits, though. For instance, I had no desire to experience a sexually transmitted sickness just because I both appreciated and enjoyed the venereal disease anthems that flooded the airways in the late '80s and early '90s. Full Disclosure here, I've never had an STD, I think... Let me explain: I dated this chick named Chalanda in my late teens who was the world to me, so much in fact that I probably would have killed for her or donated a spare liver if she needed it. (I know that you only have one liver, just trying to show you how deep my love was for this broad was. Try to keep up!) Anyway, she informed me via telephone that she had chlamydia and that I should get checked out as soon as humanly possible. I didn't know what chlamydia was, but I was scared shitless when I went to the doctor, as he informed me that he'd have to stick something up the hole that I pee out of to see if I was indeed burning like Hitler's Soul. Because I was shaking like a leaf, he opted to just give me the medication and forgo stabbing the one instrument on my body that would frustrate women for the next decade and a half. I don't even know if doctors should be saying this, but as I left he said, "Son, I think you are fine, but that girlfriend of yours? Well, her pussy is blowing smoke signals!!!"
I wasn't shocked that a gentleman in the medical profession was being so candid; I was just surprised that he quoted an Ice Cube lyric.
Kool Moe Dee, "Go See the Doctor" (1986): This song reminds me of a Richard Pryor stand-up routine: at the time I thoroughly enjoyed it, but I really didn't know what in the fuck he was talking about until I was much older. When this song was released I was hovering around 13; the closest I had come to sex at that point were the afternoon meetings I'd have with this white neighbor named Shelly where I'd rub her legs inappropriately. For all I knew that burning sensation that Kool Moe Dee experienced while pissing came from extremely spicy food. But as I got older, and each one of my friends' "wounded soldiers" fell victim to the Vietnam that was unclean vagina, it became unflinchingly clear what the resident of the "Wild, Wild West" was really talking about.
Boogie Down Productions, "Jimmy" (1988): The problem with dating someone younger than yourself is that you constantly feel like a relic whenever you name a rapper that she's never heard of; she stares at you as if you just asked her to write an essay on transcendentalism or some shit. The way she acts as if Silver Spoons was a show in the era of black-and-white television is wearing thin on a brother, and the way she says that I'm "old school" just because I refer to my penis as a "Jimmy," makes me feel as if I have one foot in the grave. I guess it all started with this song, possibly the best PSA when it comes to disease prevention that Hip Hop has ever known. This song is the sole reason that I always keep a condom on me. Granted, it's been in there since the Clinton impeachment hearings and I'm scared that if I ever use it that it will evaporate into thin air. But that's neither here nor there. I don't mean this to sound like an exaggeration, but I feel that this song saved my life based on how cool KRS made wearing condoms sound. Maybe this is too much information, but my lover named my penis "Rex Grossman," because it sloppily underachieves in tight situations.
Side note: If I was a rapper, this would be the song that I would use to diss the fuck out of Jim Jones. I mean, his name is in the title, and he is a diseased cock if you really think about it.
A Tribe Called Quest, "Pubic Enemy" (1990): Only Q-Tip could come up with a fairytale story about sexually transmitted diseases, albeit in his abstract way. If I'm not mistaken, this was a B-Side to "I left my wallet in El Segundo." I distinctly remember my mother knocking on my bedroom door and asking me, "HumanityCritic, are they talking about drippy dicks in that song?" (My mother, the delicate flower.) This is a classic track, and if I wasn't so much of a germaphobe I'd almost forget it was about getting burned by women who treat their vaginas negligently. Almost.
Ice Cube, "Look Who's Burnin'" (1991): Even though the man born O'Shea Jackson has been artistically dead to me for the last 14 years, he still ranks as one of my favorite MCs based on his musical contribution pre-"Lethal Injection." I always say that Death Certificate is one of the best albums of all time - what other artist can cover topics such as racism, gang violence, the black man in the military, the failing health care system, gun control, and venereal disease all in one album, and with the grace of Gale Sayers? From the opening skit, where a young man is ashamed to say what he is in the free clinic for and the nurse loudly asking him, "What's a matter, you BURNING!!!," you knew that Cube wasn't about to mince words when it came to the topic of STDs. Ice Cube lets out a verbal assault, talking about all the people he knew at the free clinic the day he was there to get free condoms (right Cube, tell a brother anything), and the careless behavior that caused each of them a free shot in the ass. Classic lines include, "Now she's sitting in the waiting room, burning like heat miser!," "First Ms. Thing, now Ms. Gonorrhea," "You'll hear more claps than a coliseum," and "You should have put a sock on the pickle/And your p*ssy wouldn't be blowing smoke signals!!"
It's Just a Friendly Game of Baseball
Hey Bill, talking out of your ass doesn't make you a ventriloquist!!
If I have one criticism of Hip Hop nowadays - besides the sub-par lyricists who are held up as if they were modern day urban versions of Ernest Hemingway; Hip Hop journalists who on one hand want to lecture you on what real Hip Hop is, but then on the other hand talk about how there will always be a special place in their heart for Chamillionaire's album; and radio so unbearable that it makes you want to visit your local Clear Channel affiliate with a trench-coat, artillery, and an extremely irritable attitude - is the fact that Hip Hop is the only topic on which people who know nothing about it are allowed to speak as if they are authorities on the subject. You don't turn on your television set and witness a dentist breaking down the intricacies of brain surgery. You wouldn't hear an ice skating champion dissect a prevent defense or certain blitz packages. And nothing would be more of an eye-rolling endeavor than hearing Courtney Love yap about the wonderful world of sobriety. So when I hear Bill O'Reilly - a man so blotchy that many times I get him confused with the penis of a dog in heat - criticize Hip Hop as if it's an airborne disease, I want nothing more than to hit him in the mouth while angrily clutching a role of quarters.
Listen, I'm one of the first guys to admit that there are many examples of Hip Hop that are pretty indefensible, verbal expressions of misogyny and violence that even make this sex-ohlic with a hair-trigger temper shake his head in disgust. But the reason I don't accept said criticisms from the likes of O'Reilly is because its painfully obvious that his knowledge of Hip Hop could fill up a thimble. He's one of those asshats that tries to blame popular culture for the decaying of society. And by the words he uses - such as "those guys" and other general terms - you can just tell that he's only attacking the genre because even FOX news won't allow him to call black men N*ggers.
So, because he knows that spewing racial epithets on the air might get his mangy ass kidnapped, Bill acts as if he is some sort of bouncer when it comes to pop culture, alerting us to all the riff-raff for the betterment of mankind as a whole. He even calls himself a "Culture Warrior" - which, in my honest opinion, is a code word for negligent parents who want to blame a movie or a rap song for their kids being gigantic fucking zeroes. I always find it funny that for a guy who is a part of a political party that preaches personal responsibility and pulling one's self up by the boot straps, he sure passes blame on questionable rap lyrics as the reason why demon seeds all across America are sucking on the glass dick, dabbling in criminality, and, worst of all, dating a black guy.
So when I saw this clip the other day, reminding me of his on-going feud with Ludacris, it was surprising to me how he lacked an understanding of hyperbole, not to mention his token black guest that apparently wanted to ban the "N-word" (and half of Webster's dictionary along with it). I quickly concluded that I would use my platform on VIBE to serve Mr. O'Reilly with some good old fashioned chin music.
What's chin music, you ask? Basically, it's a message that a pitcher sends to a batter who is crowding the plate; the pitcher throws a fastball near the batter's head to let him know that he better back the hell up, or the next pitch will result in him dining on a steady diet of apple sauce and jello for a few weeks. Since Bill has been "crowding the plate" with his hypocrisy for far too long now, allow me to give you some things to think about whenever he waxes poetic about how bad Ludacris is.
Bill the Beloved Husband:
* In October of 2004, Andrea Mackris filed a sexual harassment lawsuit against O'Reilly, claiming that he had not only made inappropriate references to threesomes, vibrators, and masturbation, he also had a weird fantasy of sticking a loofah inside her.
Bill the Historian:
* He claimed that the U.S Troops committed the Malmedy Massacre. It was actually the German Waffen-SS troops that massacred eighty-four surrendering American soldiers. So supporting the troops only includes those presently in battle? I get it.
Bill the Hitman:
*In a recorded conversion with Andrea Mackris, O'Reilly made a telling reference to having Al Franken killed. Hey Bill, show Ludacris what that gangsta shit is all about!
Bill the Child Advocate:
* Here is Bill talking about Shawn Hornbeck's kidnapping: "The situation here for this kid looks to me to be a lot more fun than what he had under his old parents. He didn't have to go to school. He could run around and do whatever he wanted." Ludacris endorses fornication and you Bill endorses pedophilia, interesting...
Bill's Knowledge of Black folks:
* When discussing Barack Obama: "Instead of black and white Americans coming together, white Americans are terrified. They're terrified. Now we can't even say you're articulate?" Does anyone else get the feeling that Bill is a walking dictionary of Black history facts?
HUMANITYCRITIC'S MESSAGE TO RAY-J: "This is how you make a sex tape!!"
Ray J, take this advice. It was either this or a driving instruction post for Brandy.
I've written about this before - but besides the fact that I've smoked and inhaled, defecated on Pat Robertson's property, and performed a few deviant acts within the holy walls of possibly a church near you - the main reason that I can never run for president is because there's a sex tape of me floating around somewhere. Ever since I first starting seeing women naked (and disappointing them to yawn-worthy proportions), I've had this weird fascination with seeing my chubby ass hump with the crazed intensity of a stoned test bunny on film. If you were to see the chunky state of my body, my beard and long dreadlocks giving off the utterly delectable "Black Jesus with a thyroid problem" look, a sexual exhibitionist is the last thing you'd think I'd be. But I can't run from who I am, and based on the fact that I have an appendage that I consider to be a "Black myth ruiner," I knew at an early age that my only chance at penetration was to seduce ladies with my sensual pillow talk (Come on girl, you know it's protein, right?) and Pavlovian response-inducing dance moves that haven't been seen from an overweight black guy since the days of Re-Run from What's Happening!!" (Nothing like seeing a fat guy doing the Running Man and the "Truffle Shuffle"-see The Goonies.)
For some reason I wanted to capture that magic on tape, so when I was 19 I had a girl that I was dating tape us with what seemed to be her father's World War II-era camera while we were having sex, an endeavor so noisy that it felt like we were cutting the grass, not making amateur filth. After we watched it she immediately set it ablaze, not because it wasn't any good, but because I kept waving to the camera, flashing piece signs, and shouting out my suburban friends as if they were old cellmates I had once did a bid with. Sure, there would be other attempts of me trying to film myself mid-coitus, but they got destroyed as well - not because my brand of humor or the woman's fear that one day my friends would possibly be able to identify her vagina in a police line-up - but because those particular scenes were shorter Robin Williams' attention span. But a few years ago, after an extremely rough breakup. I started dating this black goth chick so freaky that some of the shit she wanted to do to me still makes me blush - which is no small feat being that I'm a dark caramel-complected, deviant brother. Anyway, in my mind we made what I feel today to be the Citizen Kane of amateur pornography, a ten-minute short that had drama, comedy, adventure - and, of course, a climax at the end as predictable as the finales to Titanic or Malcolm X.
Like most of my relationships, that one ended badly. I think it had something to do with me being emotionally unavailable and not being sensitive to her needs. (This coming from the woman who once spanked me with a paddle and called me a "bitch" when I openly complained. Go figure.) So I have no idea if she destroyed the tape or not. She could be playing it at dinner parties for all I know, while scores of disgruntled women who keep a Mary J. Blige CD cemented in their CD player laugh hysterically at my toddler-sized penis. Who knows?
Like the journalistically constipated snob that I am, I usually wouldn't give a shit about a failed R&B star doing it on tape with the best friend of a cross-burning socialite (Paris Hilton), but so many readers of my blog have asked me to weigh in on what will probably be a porn tape as critically praised as the movie Ishtar. Now, I haven't seen the entire porn tape of Ray J and Kim Kardashian yet, but I've received enough clips via email to get a general idea of what's going on here. As a grizzled veteran when it comes to taping myself underachieve, I have a few pointers that I'd like to give Brandy's little brother. If I may...
Don't use a script next time: Being a cynic kind of sucks. I've smirked when women have expressed their undying love for me, stared off into space as someone praised my writing. Even though I don't give a fuck, I hardly believe that a woman is feeling any sort of pleasure as she belts out orgasmic screams as phony to me as Meg Ryan in When Harry met Sally. As I watched a few clips of this particular porn I wanted to believe it was an impromptu endeavor, like freestyling off the head or Tourette's, but I kept getting the sneaking suspicion that the whole thing was scripted. OK, not literally. But between an R&B singer that most people wouldn't piss on if he was on fire, and a girl whose sole talent is being cute and having a decent pair of tits, that's a recipe for an ill-conceived attempt to garner attention. Not for for nothing, but I've seen prison rapes with more chemistry. Put it this way: I wouldn't be surprised if during the closing credits you saw titles like "Script Adviser," "Best Boy," "Bob's Catering," shit like that.
Ray J, stop looking like a toddler: Being that I'm a firm believer in conspiracy theories, the second shooter on the grassy knoll, the government inventing AIDS to kill off black folks, and a missile firing into the Pentagon, I also honestly feel that Ray J is a vampire roaming amongst us. I'm saying, for a guy who is 26 years old, he sure looks like he should be in some junior high home room somewhere. If he ever decides to venture into the amateur porn game after this, he has to grow a full beard (if that's possible), acquire a grown-man voice, something, because as I watched I couldn't stop thinking of "Blues Clues" or old episodes of "Romper Room" that I used to watch as a kid.
Tell the next girl that this isn't a photo shoot: The beauty of watching a celebrity porn tape - in this case the term "celebrity" is used as loosely as Lil Kim's genitalia - is that since the participants never planned for the tape to be viewed by the public, there isn't any special attempt for them to make themselves look all pretty. I have no way of telling if Pamela Anderson and Tommy Lee's tape was meant to be seen by all of us or not - but based on the way Ms. Anderson didn't have any make-up on while she got her throat examined by Tommy's appendage, I tend to believe they planned to keep that piece of film part of their private collection. This chick Kim Kardashian, it seems that she is made up in every scene as if it were a photo shoot - and when she is not totally made up. she is applying said cosmetics. What the fuck is that about? Listen, for guys like me who literally have to pay a chick to see me naked, I want some realism with daily allowance of filth!!
Throw some comedy in there: Even though the tape seems to be a comedy of the unintended variety, I always found a bit of injected humor to be the right medicine when filming your own pornography. For example, while you are frolicking near the nether regions of your lover, make a contorted face as if you were just thrown into a landfill, regardless if her hygienic habits have her smelling like roses down there or not. Then, when you finish handling your business, invoking pleasurable eye-rolls and whatnot, when she asks you "How was it?" make her brain explode with obscure references: "Oh baby, it's as grainy as the Zapruder film down there!!" Sure, she might find your brand of humor inappropriate, but just think about the bonding experience that will be had by all as the both of you laughingly play back the tape later.
Paris Hilton: The Next David Duke
Aspiring to be a grand wizard is so "Not hot!"
This might sound weird coming out of the mouth of a person with melanin and a predisposition for hypertension, but I don't get all flustered and outraged when I hear that some person of note used some racial epithet in a public place, the N-word rolling off their tongues with the familiarity of a sister-and-brother inbred relationship. I guess I should be angered, but I'm not. Not because I feel that all Caucasians are inherently evil or anything, but ever since I've embraced my inner asshole I've just gotten used to believing the worst in people, regardless of what particular hue they are. Specifically with racism: coming from a town that likes to pride itself on being progressive - even though that hatemonger Pat Robertson is only a stone's throw away from my house and my state came within a pube of electing a guy who refers to black folks as "Macaca" - I've witnessed my fair share of racism over the years, so that hearing some celebrity use the N-Word just isn't particularly news to me.
Even though homophobia and anti-semitism is a slippery slope - one that probably leads that person thinking that black folks should still be enslaved - I really didn't care about Mel Gibson's track record or his latest incident of anti-semitism. Sure, what he said was wrong, but I didn't give a shit, because he wasn't talking about my people. And a brother really loves those Lethal Weapon flicks where "Riggs" acts all crazy, and Danny Glover says "I'm getting too old for this shit!" ad nauseum. The Michael Richards incident was a bit different. Again, I wasn't shocked at his usage of the N-word, because it just seemed that he was trying to hurt somebody and didn't have enough of a vocabulary to come up with a significant retort. But his references to lynching would have definitely had me going through his pockets for that proverbial phat "Seinfeld" cash, post-beatdown. That wasn't particularly a big deal either, however, since I'm possibly the only human being in the continental United States with a television who was never a fan of "Seinfeld." So Michael Richards being a racist didn't exactly affect my viewing habits.
Talking to my mother about this, she asked me, "HumanityCritic, what if an actor that you're a fan of turns out to be racist? Then what?" Well, DeNiro is addicted to that chocolate love, so that's not happening. No one is expecting Rakim to all of a sudden emerge as a self-loathing black person. Edward Norton seems like the ultimate tree-hugger who once dated Selma Hayek so I doubt he'd be joining Rush Limbaugh's fan-club any time soon. But because I'm a whore for movies, I'm sure at first I'd boycott said actor with all the black angst of Huey Newton. But as soon as the offending party appeared in a worthwhile flick, I'm sure that I'd be the first in line. (Just to feel like less of a sell-out, whenever that particular actor was on the screen, I'd mumble "God-damned racist" under my breath randomly.)
So you can assume that I didn't really care too much about Paris Hilton and her recent love affair with the most famous word attributed to oppression and lynching: she's an inarticulate no-talent whose only discernible skill is getting fucked by losers via a mini-cam. I mean, bless the dead and all, but the woman makes Anna Nicole Smith seem like Dame Judy Dench, based on her lack of marketable gifts.So when the tape surfaced of Paris saying the "N-Word" a few times, I could have cared less.
That is, until she really caught my attention when I learned that she referred to black people as "Lola's." Huh?? What in the fuck is that about?? It is this writer's humble opinion that the worst racists known to man are the ones who don't find the classic stand-by racial slurs acceptable - they have to invent their own terminology to soothe their oppressive needs. Remember George Allen and "Macaca" - only a person with a healthy amount of loathing of black folks can pull an epithet out of his ass that no black person on earth has ever heard before. When I was in Catholic school, around 1984, I would have preferred if my fellow classmate named Jimmy had called me the N-Word - at least I could smack his around without having to ponder anything. But the mere fact that he called me a "speed-bump" gave me the impression that he took a healthy amount of racism back to his house one day after school, worked on it feverishly like it was science homework or some shit, and unveiled his creation upon me and the other black kids as if it was an art exhibit. Even today, I swear, that word has haunted me to the point that whenever I hear it, I reflexively turn around and scream "What did you call me, motherf*cker!" Even though I'm in agreement that Michael Richards is a watery sack of crap, Paris Hilton is on a completely higher plain when it comes to racism. Paris Hilton: "When the words that have oppressed a people for a few hundred years just isn't good enough!!"
Cam'ron vs 50 cent? Hmm.. Who gives a f*ck!!??
Awarding mediocrity with ribbons and awards is cool for the mentally challenged, not Hip Hop.
I always feel funny whenever I talk about racism. Not because it turns off a large percentage of white women that I one day hope to penetrate while playing Public Enemy's It Takes a Nation of Millions... in the background, but because compared to the pure-grade racism that my old man faced back in the day, it makes anything that escapes my hairy mandible seem like preteen whining. Some of his first-hand accounts of racism were so vivid and horrifying that I always felt that if the guy who wrote Mississippi Burning had a conversation with my father, I'm sure that he'd not only piss himself, but he would possibly get the urge to throw himself off of a bridge somewhere. My whole life I thought that if I lived in that time period that I'd either bug the fuck out and go on a nationwide killing spree, decapitating every white man that I saw with a machete while exhibiting a deranged thousand-yard stare, or that the extreme forms of racism would emotionally neuter me to the point that I'd go through life not uttering another word. But the one thing that is as clear as day to me as I type this, is the way my father would chuckle for a few moments after he got finished telling a story that would make Ann Coulter herself go out and buy an X-Clan album and go public with a book that she'd wrote entitled Worshipping the Black Penis. I'd always be so shocked at the story, as I saw his big frame sway back and forth in laughter like some sort of negro rocking chair, it would provoke me to angrily ask him, "What in the hell is so funny??" Each time that I asked him this, from age 10-27, he'd always give me the exact same answer: "Son, sometimes you have to laugh to keep from crying."
Now that I'm four years younger than my father was when I was born (33), I don't have any experiences in my life where I have to make laughter the dam between my tear ducts and the 5 o'clock shadow on my face. Sure I've had some hardships - my old man died, I went through an extremely painful break-up that resulted in me having glitter embedded in my skin for an eternity and occasionally smelling like unadulterated ass-cracks (sex with strippers), I'm childless, never been married, and I cum so quick that my sexual relations last as long as the opening credits of Sandford and Son (I timed it) - but nothing that would force me to laugh to keep from crying. OK, maybe Hip Hop.
This is going to sound silly to a lot of people, but my love and dedication to the art form that I have been a part of since 1978 is so deep that I damn near treat it as if it were a martial art or something. Sure, on the surface you can learn how to stop would-be muggers by causing their nose-bone to penetrate their brains, but the disciplined involved, the dedication, the ability to adapt to any situation, and like the movie The Last Dragon I always secretly felt that if you got to some supreme level of MC-ing, B-Boying, or DJ-ing that you would have a distinct glow around your body that would scare the shit out of any would-be dispatcher. Add to that the fact that I grew up worshiping the likes of Rakim, Kool G Rap, and Big Daddy Kane, the bar that I set when it comes to Hip Hop is higher than crackfeins of trampolines.
That's why I find myself laughing, not to keep from crying mind you, but from putting a loaded shotgun in my mouth, pulling the trigger with my big toe, thus painting my wall with the brain matter of the greatest blogger that ever lived (just kidding, sorta.) whenever I see what people consider Hip Hop nowadays. So you have to understand that my mere existence on this earth the last few years has been a virtual chuckle-fest, either its when journalists want to wax poetic about the "deep" lyricism of Lil Wayne, when fellow bloggers give off the impression that the music of The Clipse's cures the bird flu, people apologizing for some of the Southern acts as if they were their retarded cousin who can't stop double dribbling, but nothing is funnier to me than the latest back-and-forth between Cam'ron and 50 cent.
I mean really, who fucking cares? I swear to god, man, only in 2007 would Hip Hop fans be clamoring for two men to go at each other who are, and I'm being kind here, nonexistent lyrically. People don't pay good money to see a baseball game when both teams are filled with utility schmoes. I'm pretty sure you wouldn't throw down your hard earn scratch for a Pay-Per-View boxing match where two journeymen had at each other relentlessly. The fact that people are all abuzz over these shit-stains on the undergarments of Hip Hop kind of lets you know where we're at as a genre. I must say though, watching these idiots battle each other is akin to watching two retards fight. What's the point? All they're going to do is swing wildly, say incoherent things in the process, and when the fight is over things will get back to normal, more than likely the both of them licking glass as regularly scheduled. A brother has to laugh to keep from, well, blowing his goddamn brains out.
Allow Me to Re-Introduce Myself
This is a brother's very first post on Vibe.com. I don't mean to sound like a sperm donor or anything, but "Wait'll they get a load of ME!"
You know, looking back at all of the friends that I've obtained over the last three decades, or the vast landscape of dissatisfied lovers and disgruntled ex-girlfriends that I've left in my wake, I can't think of one person that liked me as soon as they met me. I have great friends, dudes that I'd definitely fight for and maybe take a bullet in the fleshy part of the leg for, but either they thought that I was a insufferable prick immediately or they wanted to beat my ass so bad that I'd be unrecognizable to loved ones. If you were to do a poll of all my ex-girlfriends I'm sure they would tell you that their first impression of me was that I was a miserable black bastard, that's if you could even mention my very existence without them acting all Ally Larder on Heroes and shit, breaking your arm in three places not realizing that their split personality was protecting them from a chronic pre-ejaculator that they had once dated. I don't know what it is. In my head I'm a smooth-talking brown brother who could make women aimlessly follow me back to my "stabbin' cabin" based on the strength of my tongue, like some sort of new millennium Pied Piper with a thyroid problem.
But sadly, I don't get women aroused by whispering sweet nothings in their earring holsters.Maybe I'd fare better if I had the chatting ability of a deaf mute, to be completely honest. What usually comes out of my mouth when I first meet a woman is either me constantly calling her "Titty's" like that's her god-given name, or asking her, "How would YOU like to go down on ME???" with the same vocal inflection I'd use if I was offering her a new car.
That being said, I hope that this introductory post for VIBE will endear me to you instead of making you want to plot my untimely demise, I hope that me being one of those "articulate" black men that's all the rage nowadays will make me your favorite on-line craftsman of words in a sea of lesser lifeforms posing as bloggers, I hope that you will relate to my questionable choice of female sex partners and my overall penchant for violence - for I am nothing but an "everyman." That is why I'm providing you with a few examples, a brief guide if you will, to what you might expect on this very blog based my beliefs or incidents throughout my life. Enjoy.
I'm going to hell for snuffing Jesus: A few years ago I dated a girl whose ex-boyfriend stalked her relentlessly. Who am I to care about the welfare of anybody outside of me, my mother, or my weed man, but when it started interfering with our alone "are you sure I can put that there? Damn girl, you sure are freaky" time, then it became a problem. So I decided to pay him a visit at his job - he was a local actor performing in some sort of church-sponsored play. As soon as he walked out of the church I tackled him with all the force of Brian Urlacker and started beating the 10 commandments out of that bastard. I had a feeling that I was beating a guy who just played Jesus on stage. It wasn't the long flowing robe, or the Birkenstocks, I think what gave it away was a young child screaming, "Holy shit - the guy who died for our sins is getting his ass handed to him!!"
Can a person be both insecure and arrogant at the same time?: Ever since I was a kid I've been insecure, whether it be my lovemaking skills, my ability as a writer, my MC skills when I used to rhyme back in the day. I doubt myself more than David Caruso after NYPD Blue. I can also admit when someone is better than me - more times than not I have eagerly given props to writers who thus far I'm nowhere near in the neighborhood of creatively. That being said, I can also openly admit when I'm better than someone else, shaking my head in disapproval as I read someone's blog, wondering how many steroid pills it took for them to diss me when their writing is as articulate and coherent as a Jim Jones lyric.
My germaphobia stopped my suicide: At a very low point in my life, I'm ashamed to say, I contemplated taking my own life. My old man had just died, my mother was diagnosed with cancer, the woman who I had intended to marry dropped me like she was a pass intended for Terrel Owens (for a homeless guy no less), I no longer had any interest in getting to the "bridge" in this mangled song that I called a life. Somehow I acquired a handgun, a bottle of Jack Daniels, and enough marijuana to provoke both Cheech and Chong to perform an intervention on me. As I stared at the barrel, reflecting back on my life I thought to myself, "Wait a minute, I'm not putting that thing in my mouth, no telling where its been!!" After that I realized that I was bugging the fuck out and that ending my life wasn't the answer - I mean, who would be left to throat-chop black republicans and upset women by eating a sandwich while having oral sex performed on me?
"It's not what you're like, it's what you like": High Fidelity is one of my favorite movies because John Cusack's character expresses something that I have always believed wholeheartedly, that being: "It's not what you're like, its what you like." This might seem shallow to anyone who reads this but I can tell by your interests if we are going to get along or not. If you think Rakim is the best rapper that ever existed, that Clerks is a classic movie, or that Spike Lee's Bamboozled is a perfect indictment on the state of modern-day commercial Hip Hop, I'm sure that you and I will get along just fine. On the other hand, if you have anything complimentary to say about the vocal stylings of Lil Wayne or anyone in the Dipset for that matter, own a collection of Tyler Perry plays, feel that Keisha Cole is speaking directly to your soul, or think that Nick Cannon is our generation's DeNiro, I'd probably suggest that you run a 100-yard dash with an extremely sharp pair of scissors in your hands. Come to think of it, after I learn of your miserable tastes, even if you are a generally nice person, everything you say to me from that point forward sounds like Charlie Brown's teacher. Whah-Whah-Whah
