March 2007 Archives
IT'S JUST A FRIENDLY GAME OF BASKETBALL
Stop treating Hip Hop like bell-bottom jeans or the fucking pet rock!!
I realize that I'm getting old. The greyness rising from the hair follicles on my face is evidence of that, as it spreads at an alarming rate like an untreated cancer or the legs of that prostitute I once lost my precious virginity to. Losing the gut that hangs ever so slightly over my belt has become increasingly difficult with age, so much in fact that I've been reduced to finding dates in the most awkward of places like gyms and over-eaters support groups just to get laid. I physically get winded a lot faster - usually effortless tasks like playing lock-down defense during pick-up basketball games and three minutes of intense hardcore fucking has become quite the heart-racing endeavor. Even though I've always been forcefully vocal about my likes and dislikes, always feeling that a person's interests determine whether or not you are a stand-up individual or a steaming pile of cat-crap, I've become even more cantankerous with each passing year. It's as if I've become the human embodiment of "Statler & Waldorf," those two old guys on "The Muppet Show" who do nothing but constantly talk shit with reckless abandon from the confines of their balcony. More accurately, the ways the music that I love has been continually desecrated, with me longing for the glory days when people took pride in their craft. It is this writer's belief that I have officially become my father.
Even though at one time I regarded my father as an old coot who was a couple of years shy of visiting the glue factory, I can completely understand his critique concerning R&B during the late '80s and '90s. Sure, I could be found serenading some young lady with my out-of-tune rendition of "Candy Girl." If I had a quarter for every time I nervously dry-humped a girl to "Can You Stand the Rain" I'd be on one of those Forbes money lists, but even the most objective observer can admit that those gentlemen from Boston couldn't hold the proverbial jockstraps of some of their predecessors, like The Four Tops or The Temptations. As much as I loved grinding on some unknowing man's daughter to the begging sounds of Keith Sweat during one of the many High School dances I attended, and as much as his songs were an integral part of my teenage years, to put him in the same category as the likes of Al Green, Otis Redding, and Sam Cooke is a sentiment that at the most will get you beaten the fuck up, or at least invoke school-girl giggles from the roughest of criminals. But my father would also admit, grudgingly, that times were indeed different and that he had to accept the "changes in the musical tide" as he would so succinctly put it.
Which brings me to Hip Hop, whenever I talk about the declining state of Hip Hop to people, how individuals who fashion themselves as "Emcees" have purposely put lyricism on the backburner for financial gain and to cater to an illiterate populace, and how fans and critics constantly apologize for what I call "Uncle Tom's Cabin" Hip Hop, I'm usually confronted with asinine arguments like "Hey HumanityCritic, Hip Hop is evolving!" and how "Not everyone has to be lyrical, you know!!" Granted, the owners of such arguments are individuals with so little taste when it comes to music that it wouldn't shock me if they plugged their collective noses while playing their favorite CDs. Sometimes, just sometimes, a person uses that same "changes in the musical tide" argument that my father once used while talking about R&B, the biggest difference is that you can't treat Hip Hop like it's the "pet rock" or fucking bell-bottom jeans.
Hip Hop is like basketball to me. Sure the players might be stronger, taller, and the shorts that they wear no longer sporadically expose a testicle or two, but the one thing that hasn't changed since Dr. James Naismith invented that beautiful game in the winter of 1891 was that having skills has always been a prerequisite. Even though a couple generations separate the likes of Bill Russel and LeBron James, they can both watch tapes of the others' era and pick out the very best players on the court, both appreciating the game equally even though they're unfamiliar with the era that they are watching on an athletic level. Hip Hop was also founded on lyrical skill. The one thing about R&B singers is that they could go an entire career without writing a solitary word of any of their songs. The great thing that separated MCs from everyone else is that being mighty with the pen was a necessity in order to get any sort of recognition or acclaim.
Now in the age of what I earlier called "Uncle Tom's Cabin" Hip Hop, with all the shucking and jiving, and perpetuating the worst stereotypes imaginable about black folks, it's got me rather paranoid. Paranoid to the point that I secretly think the black fans who like that kind of shit are the same kids who thought getting good grades was "acting white" back in the day, individuals who I feel wouldn't know a well crafted sentence if they were ass raped by Ernest Hemingway's homoerotic ghost. This may be wrong of me, white fans can love Hip Hop more than anyone, but sometimes I feel that the white fans who love that dumbed-down Hip Hop are just passive aggressively laughing at black folks in the comfort of their own public head-nods.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that the problem with the new artists is that they don't know their history, you ask them who Kool Herc is - fuck, ask them who Kool G Rap is for Christ's sake, and they look at you as if you've just asked them to give you the square root of something. It's a shame that many of today's rappers have taken a solemn oath to ignorance, even the dimmest NBA player knows who Wilt Chamberlain is, the lack of foundation that I've witnessed is as preposterous as a basketball player who doesn't know what double-dribbling is. That my friend, is foul.
Three 6 Mafia: Undoing the Civil Rights Movement, One Episode at a Time.
Maybe I'm alone here - just like my last five sexual encounters - but I get the feeling that the relationship that black folks have with Hollywood is strikingly similar to the relationship that they have with the many police departments around the country. The same way that the police have a long and illustrious history of mistreating people who have a predisposition for hypertension and rhythm, you don't have to go to any great lengths to find smoking-gun evidence of how horrible the depictions of black folks have been throughout the history of Hollywood: Just turn on your television set or take a quick drive to Blockbuster. So yeah, I'm a bit wary based on historical record, but I also have to openly admit that my caution has caused me to overreact a bit in the past. For example, not every police officer who pulled me over for something that was clearly my fault was trying to intimately introduce his nightstick to my prostate, or illegally plant some illegal contraband in my automobile that would land me in jail for the better part of a decade - the man was just doing his job. Even though the visions of blackface performers and all the maid and servant roles we were given are enough to make anyone as paranoid as Barney Fife on an acid trip, the elder statesmen of the black community who called Dave Chappelle's Comedy Central program a "modern-day minstrel show" were clearly reaching - a sort of knee-jerk reaction to real-life black issues that they just felt uncomfortable laughing at. Then there are some of us that want to see the good in people so much that we become blinded with optimism and start handing out inappropriate praise, like giving a cop props for arresting that drug dealer in your neighborhood when it's his job to do so, or thinking that the movie Crash was as historically significant to African Americans like Brown v The Board of Education or the invention of the Doo Rag.
But as a writer who feels the need to mention his phallus every third sentence, and my constant desire to let the world know that a well-timed beating could indeed solve the world's problems, I sometimes feel that our past can sometime stifle good-natured creativity. For example, just imagine if My Name is Earl had an all-black cast. Every third-rate civil rights leader with an illegitimate child would spend their time (usually reserved for lining their pockets) bitching on all the cable networks, wondering why the lead character is a shiftless layabout who only does good things because he won the lottery. A black Jay and Silent Bob would particularly go over like a lead balloon as well, with every journalist and sub-par blogger desperately racking their brains in post form, trying to find the comedic value in a couple of black foul-mouthed drug dealers. Yeah, its a pretty slippery slope. That's why I tend to take my time to judge such media objectively before considering it a minstrel act, hoping that my decent sense of humor and my knowledge of history will equip me for the rough terrain so I won't end up like Sonny Bono. (figuratively)
But the other day, when I saw Three 6 Mafia in what seemed to be a spring break special, and the accompanying clips to their upcoming MTV series called "Adventures in Hollyhood," I literally felt the earth shake from all the deceased civil rights leaders that were spinning in their collective graves. Full disclosure here: I'm not a fan of these gentlemen's music - as an aficionado of intricate flows and well-placed similes, my arch enemies would only need to play their tunes to weaken my defenses if I ever decided to wear an effeminate spandex outfit, cape, and show off my gift of levitation. I'm also one of the black folks who secretly thought that their Oscar win was an inside joke amongst the people behind that gold statue - I'm sure the government used their performance that night as a tool to mentally cripple black militants that they feel are getting too powerful, playing the footage on a constant loop in the confines of some undisclosed location somewhere. But what I witnessed on MTV was the epitome of buffoonery, a new-age shucking and jiving, the wearing of ignorance like it was a badge of honor, and an intense bugging of the eyes that I haven't seen since watching 1930s-era movies with black performers. These guys actually make Flavor of Love seem like a concept show about the most famous hype-man in the world reciting old Malcolm X speeches. (I know - what should I expect from a network that had the audacity to have UGK as one of the top Hip Hop Groups of all Time?)
I'm sure that people will tune in. Watching black folks make asses of themselves has become a favorite American pasttime akin to Baseball and genocide. But maybe Three 6 Mafia's "Adventures in Hollyhood" will make people more accepting of that all-black version of "My Name is Earl" I plan on pitching.
JUST ME AND MY REMOTE
People think that I'm being self-deprecating when I wax poetic about me dying alone amongst a sea of cats, unable to find a soul mate because of my slap-provoking sarcasm and my need to masturbate in every room of my house. Granted, all that is true, on top of the fact that I hum the "Smurfs" theme-song while ejaculating and my habit of making silly remarks like "I just lost weight!!" and "That last turd favored the late Jack Palance" after defecating. But the one idiosyncrasy that will keep me from walking down the aisle with thoughts of a wedding-night sodomy session that my future wife will promise me is the way I handle a remote control. I wasn't aware of this until a rather geeky conquest recently taped me obsessively flipping channels with her camera phone. It was clear that even a woman with nunlike patience would be irritated to the point that chopping off my hands would seem like a viable option.
Well, if my television viewing habits condemn me to a life full of strippers and commitment-avoidance, I might as well be of some use to someone. Here is my take on some television programs I've checked out as of late.
"The Black Donnellys": I love gratuitous violence as much as the next guy. Random acts of aggression happen to be a running motif through my adult years, and nothing gets me more amped up than seeing some jackass get his proverbial ass handed to him (albeit on a fictitious program). But "The Black Donnellys" seems to be a show where the creators decide to write in a "beating" here, and a "shoot-out" there, because they are secretly suffering from some form of writer's block and ashamed to admit it. The show is desperately trying to come off as gritty and intense as "Goodfellas," with the finished product looking as tame and polished as an episode of "Thirtysomething". Besides, these are supposed to be a rag-tag of tough brothe's in New York, but the actors they chose to play those roles come off softer than baby shit, invoking child-like chuckles every time one of them flexes a mean-looking ice grill that they practiced in their apartments all week.
"30 Rock": I didn't think I'd like this show at first but it eventually won me over with the stellar performances and the smart writing, and I became a convert in no time flat. By the way, full disclosure here, I love Tina Fey so much that I'd proudly show her off at Nation of Islam meetings - yes, it's like that. Usually I would feel funny about them having Tracy Morgan's character be nuttier than squirrel shit, but I find myself too busy laughing to worry about black people perpetuating stereotypes.
"The Soul Train Music Awards": Here's a question: how are you going to have an award show for a program that no one has watched in 20 years? The other night I caught this debacle posing as an award show, the miserable acts that performed, the haphazard way the whole thing was put together, it would have made me ashamed to be an African-American if there wasn't that myth about black men's "packages" floating around.
"24": One of the criticisms that I disagree with concerning my liberal friends about the show "24" is on the topic of torture. Of course I know that torturing people has been found to produce lackluster results, primarily because the man getting his ass handed to him will say just about anything to get you to stop beating his ass. That being said, a slew of liberal journalists have blasted the show for the main character's (Jack Bauer) use of torture to get what he wants, claiming that the show is following some sort of Bush policy agenda. The problem with that, as anyone who has been a fan of the show knows, is that Jack Bauer has been torturing fools since that show started so you can't really cry now just because its currently en vogue to do so. Anyway, I'm tired of this show because it always follows the same fucking premise: Jack gets called to thwart some sort of national threat - CTU second-guesses many of his decisions- Jack tortures some suspect in an inhumane way- surprisingly there is a leak at CTU- the black president's staff tries to overthrow him or kill him- Jack is forced to kill someone that he doesn't want to, or he sees a loved one killed- Jack apprehends the suspect- season over
HELLO, I'M HUMANITYCRITIC, AND I'M A SNITCH.
Looking back on my 33-year existence, I'm not proud of too many of my actions. I once made sweet and tender love to a woman in the holy confines of a church pew. I once knocked out a 65-year-old man with a massive uppercut punch because he tried to welch on a 300 dollar bet. I once angered a priest so badly during a pick-up game of basketball due to my inappropriate clergy molestation humor, I forced a bona fide man of god to call me a "dirty cocksucker" in front of 20 onlookers. Shameful, I know - so shameful, in fact, that when I die, St. Peter and his co-workers will probably tease me in text message form as I wait in purgatory, emailing me cryptic "LOL" messages along with pictures of themselves giving me the holy finger. But the one thing I am proud of, outside of my being able to suck in my gut enough to see a rather unimpressive phallus that possibly only midget chicks view as "average," is the fact that I never subscribed to any sort of "guy code" in my entire life. You know, the kind of shit where I see my sister's boyfriend with another chick and I'm not supposed to say anything under the strict restrictions of the nonexistent document that is the "guy code." (Yeah, that one.) Well, I always rejected tom-foolery of that variety because it's my firm belief that there is no honor amongst thieves, so growing up I spent a great deal of my spare time ratting out the boyfriends of girls I wanted to penetrate in the worst and most deviant ways imaginable.
To be completely honest, if you weren't my friend or a blood relative, I didn't particularly have an issue with nakedly acquainting myself with the girlfriend of a guy I only knew in passing, drunkenly humping like a jackrabbit directly under the framed smiling visage of the "love of her life." Even though my porn collection has overtaken my habit of stealing women who already are spoken for over the last five years, I still buck a similar unwritten code that so-called men live by, that being the "no snitching" rule.
Listen, if you and I decide to rob a bank and my black ass is the one that gets caught - chubby guys with drinking problems aren't exactly the fleetest of foot - I definitely wouldn't snitch. But that's the only example I could give where I wouldn't snitch. Whether a murderer's whereabouts, the son of a bitch that stole Old lady Johnson's car last year, even the innocent-looking coke dealer who's only selling drugs to support her autistic child, I will draw the authorities an elaborate street map to the culprit's house equipped with bicycle paths and railroad crossings. Here's my long and illustrious history of snitching. Enjoy.
I once snitched in the name of Love: When I was in Junior high I was in love with a thick chocolate seductress named Carla, who by all accounts reciprocated that Love until this scumbag named Lamont entered the picture. Stolen glances that evolved into very indiscreet petting all but vanished when Lamont got placed into our Spanish class. Carla wasn't worried about me seeing her salivate over the "new guy." Something had to be done: this bastard is what stood between my chubby cheeks and her breasts that seemed like chocolate pastries that Shrek would eat. That's when I decided to take action. It was well-known that Lamont was the man to go to if you wanted to experience the best street horticulture this side of High School, so one sunny afternoon I decided to inform the principle of Lamont's business practices. Suffice it to say, a "random" locker search and one expulsion later, Carla and I went back to stolen glances and, by that point, pretty advanced petting. At least, until another new guy came in and stole my proverbial thunder - a fellow who didn't view Cheech and Chong as comic geniuses, unfortunately.
I once snitched for a parking space: Another example of drug snitchery, a neighbor that I had while I lived with an ex-girlfriend continuously parked in my designated spot. No matter how many times I told him to stop, he didn't give a shit, he'd still park his car in my spot like I wasn't going to do shit about it. Actually he was right - I'll fight anyone, but there were so many rumors about this particular drug kingpin and dismembered bodies that I knew not to overstep my boundaries. But him parking in my spot was rather troublesome, and I knew that if he kept doing it I'd be forced to beat his ass, but I didn't want to shit myself in front of my girlfriend as he put his gun barrel in my mouth as retaliation. So I did what any red-blooded American boy would: I informed a cop friend of mine about all the drug activity that happens a mere two doors down from me. A couple of days later I was awoken to a drug raid, and gun fire that resulted in the early demise of my drug-dealing neighbor. Yes, he died. Very sad, but fuck em'- I got my spot back, the motherfucker shouldn't have been selling poison to my people in the first place.
I still snitch for beer and lap-dance money: The best thing to come out of my town, outside of my self-deprecating humor and a few noteworthy Timbaland tracks, is this thing called "Crime Solvers." "Crime Solvers" is where they will show you random mugshots of criminals-at-large, usually on cable-access channels, where the viewer gets some proverbial phat cash if their snitching results in arrests. Some people might frown on this; I don't, since I have received thousands of dollars for my pedestrian police work, but I have been responsible for more than 25 arrests over the past decade or so. To quote Goodfellas: a guy that works at the local gas station is wanted for check fraud - "fuck you, pay me!!" - an ex-girlfriend that I was still on good terms with is wanted for drug possession - "fuck you, pay me!" - a cousin that I'm no longer on good terms with is wanted for something called "crimes against nature" - "Fuck you, pay me!!"
HUMANITYCRITIC ON HIS POLITICAL SOAPBOX ONCE AGAIN
The last thing I want to do with this blog is reinforce any stereotype about black males that some misinformed asshat might have: I don't have mass amounts of chubby offspring running around with writing prowess that I don't support financially; 95% of the women who I've intimately known in that "biblical" sense have openly admitted that my genitalia breaks any myth about the black phallus; and I'm pretty certain that I haven't come within a two-mile radius of a watermelon since the summer of 1986. By the grace of god I don't have a criminal record, I refuse to throw or attend parties for acquaintances released from correctional facilities, and I only lust after white women who don't look like they've spent the better part of their childhood living next to a nuclear reactor. But it pains me to admit, as much I don't what to give racists, cross-burners, and fans of "Larry the Cable guy" any ammunition, I do have a penchant for violence that has followed me around just like that dust cloud follows Pig-Pen in those "Peanuts" cartoons.
I've never robbed old ladies or anything, or stuck up the patrons of a sperm-bank while nervously gripping a handgun while saying something witty like, "Come on, you knew you had it coming!!" I've just had a weird habit of chopping people in the throat that I didn't particularly agree with, preferably mid-sentence. I wish I could sound remorseful to the point that each syllable was dripping with regret, but I'd be lying, I believe that violence solves so many problems that I'm about to introduce the concept as a cancer treatment. But I am ashamed of the fact that I used to make a sort of hit-list consisting of people who I had let get away with saying some form of "slick shit" to me sometime in the past, individuals whose name was then systematically scratched off as soon as I tried to adjust their Adam's Apple in the most public of forums. Now I'm older, wiser, and I have a clearer sense of random violence possibly causing me to be washing some big dude's drawers, when I'm not walking beside him holding his pocket as a sign of ownership.
That being said, let me scratch some political foes off of my list, minus the throat-chops, pleading for mercy, and me going through their pockets on some "High school bully" shit..
John Kerry: Because I wanted to get Bush out of the picture like a homosexual that just came out of the closet, I had no qualms about throwing my support behind John Kerry. Sure, he wasn't the dream candidate that I had hoped for, his speeches were as exciting as an I.R.S audit, and it seemed that his campaign was as cautious as someone with OCD playing a game of Chess, but he was all that I had and I'd be damned if I voted for a third-party candidate who didn't have a snowball's chance in Lil Kim's crotch of winning. When he lost I was mad at the guy - he didn't respond to those "Swift-Boat" bottom-feeders quick enough, for some reason he refused to call Bush incompetent in the debates, and how are you going to let two guys (Bush and Cheney) paint you as a coward when they are the ones who refused to answer the call when their country was at war? Anyway, I don't particularly hate the guy, I feel that he is a bright man who is purely a better fabric of Human being than George W. Bush is. I just have to get my black ass off his mailing list that I signed up for three years ago. Receiving mass emails from the likes of John Kerry nowadays is as disturbing as getting an E-Card from the son of a bitch that gave you herpes - leave me alone, you're nothing but a reminder of the horrible state I'm currently in!
Black Conservatives: I know, being a lifelong Hip Hop fan and all, that anytime a person groups together something and criticizes it under a bubble, that person is a ventriloquist who has the special talent of talking out of their ass. Nothing is sillier than hearing a splotchy jackass like Bill O'Reilly generalize Hip Hop because of his lack of knowledge on the topic, doing si primarily because he knows there would be a backlash if he called black males N***ers as frequently as he liked. When I had my certain feelings towards black conservative, you know, that many of them are a self-loathing lot, performing the most graceful of soft-shoe tap-dance routines for people who wouldn't piss on them if they were on fire unless they can be a seat-filler at the next Republican Presidential Convention, I just figured that I was as dead wrong as Ken Lay. The black conservative will say that they are republicans because the democratic party takes them for granted, which I agree with wholeheartedly, but they always forget to explain how becoming a republican is a vaible alternative. Not only that, many of them spend a great deal of their time pointing out reverse racism where the white man is wronged, being the staunchest opponents for affirmative action, and even before the evidence came out they were the biggest cheerleaders for the Duke Lacrosse team. Jesus Christ man, there's a name for that.
"Values Voters": I don't want to harp back on my penchant for violence or anything, but there isn't one particular group of people that I wouldn't mind hitting with a pillowcase full of soda's more. I supposed these individuals are the ones that take things like a candidates stance on abortion, religion, and private life into account when expressing themselves politically at the ballot box. It just seems to me that the media takes too much time discussing these people - I mean, they claim to be anti-abortion but they couldn't give a slippery fuck about the life of that child after its birth. When will people understand that having "values" isn't what some chick decides to do with her own body? It's about better school systems, clean air for everyone to breathe, decent wages for our fellow man, the proper armor for our troops over seas. Those are the real values.
Rudy Giuliani: I don't even live in New York. I never witnessed the overzealous nature of the NYPD while Giuliani was in office. But I do remember the public distaste for the man on September 10, 2001. That's why I can't understand, for the life of me, why Giuliani is seen like some sort of heroic figure that singlehandedly rescued screaming women and children out of crumbling buildings during the biggest attack on US soil. Watching the love-fest the media has had with this guy for the past six years is like watching a prize fighter go down by a punch that everyone saw, but no matter how many times I rewind the fight footage I still end up screaming at the television set: "The punch didn't connect, the bum took a dive!!!!"
John McCain: Mr. "Straight Talk" himself has come across like an utterly floppy pair of tits over the past couple of years. For one thing I lost all kinds of respect for the guy after he cozied up to Bush, a guy whose campaign once implied that his adopted daughter from Bangladesh was in fact "an illegitimate interracial daughter with a black woman," and that his wife was a drug addict by the way. But I guess what is more vomit-inducing has been the way that he's sucked up to the religious right (a group he's criticized before), and that shameful episode when he slammed his friend (John Kerry) for a quote the he knew full well was a botched attempt at a joke.
Robin Thicke plays The NorVa: A "Don't Take Your Lady" Concert Review
Even though my predisposition for constant snacking and well timed similes destined me to be a chubby wordsmith who effortlessly rides tracks like trolley cars, in my heart of hearts I always wanted to be able to melt the defenses of women everywhere with my sexy baritone crooning. Granted, ex-girlfriends have told me that my vocal stylings sound like cries from constipated turkeys, or similar to what a baboon's mating call might sound like. But I always knew that the quickest way to a woman's heart is outright shameless serenading. Sure, back when I had the gift of gab and felt that I was a pro at writing prose, I'd construct some hacky poem expressing my love for a woman, something that came across like I spent the better part of the last decade eagerly masturbating to Love Jones in my spare time. But that sort of sentiment only works on coffeeshop chicks, sarong wearers, women who have a closet full of head-wraps and incense, ladies who might try to sell you some "Black Soap" or some organic toothpaste right after making love to an India.Arie tune. Most women claim that they want a man to be thoughtful enough to write them poetry, but they're all lying their collective asses off. Your well crafted feelings on paper will soon become comic fodder when she shows her friends and says, "Hey y'all, look how bad I got this fool whipped!!!" That's why I always wished that I had the talent to express my feelings in song: there's no paper trail to indict you, and my 45 rhymes about my penis would go over so much better if I lovingly sang them in my mate's ear while holding some utterly romantic box of wine.
That's exactly what I thought about as I played some Robin Thicke songs in preparation for his show that I was about to cover: how many more chicks would have let me see their Lane Bryants if I had any singing prowess. For the first time in my life I wanted to be Marvin Gaye more than I wanted to be Rakim. (Minus the "shot in the chest by my father" thing.) Before I even start this review in the proper fashion that Vibe wants me to, just let me state for the record that I had some serious reservations about even going within a square mile of Mr. Thicke's performance. Here were a few:
1. Doesn't it feel weird when the world embraces an artist five years after you gave them your stamp of approval? I had a similar feeling when people acted like they had discovered Jill Scott 5 months after I had purchased her CD, when people started singing the praises of Res a whole year after I was rocking her CD, or the Fugees' "The Score" album that people swore by only after "Killing them softly" was released as a single. Maybe it's just the elitist in me, but standing amongst people of that ilk seemed akin to letting someone ride in your life-raft even though they refused to help you build it.
2. Even though that concert would be a single guy's dream - a virtual sea of ladies that I could see myself sexually disappointing some time in the future - the chances that they would go home with a chubby black guy with no discernible talent after watching a white guy who moistened undergarments off the strength of his vocal range, was slim to none.
3. Lastly, one of the most egregious of offenses, the fact that Robin Thicke allowed Lil Wayne to desecrate his song "Oh Shooter" was reason enough to miss this show altogether. I always promised myself that if I ever had Mr Thicke's ear, even for a moment, that I would give him some lengthy fatherly lecture on how wack Lil Wayne was. (But that's neither here nor there.)
Despite all that, I went equipped with a pen, pad, a free ticket from my homegirl Rachel who works at a local radio station, and a desire to get a few drinks into my system, a desire that I tried to desperately ignore during The Roots show I covered two weeks ago. When I walked in and saw that the crowd was equally divided between white women and black women, standing amongst each other in perfect harmony, it was a blind unity for fellow Americans that I hadn't felt since the days surrounding 9/11. Matter of fact, if there was ever a nasty civil war between black and white broads for some reason, it is this writer's belief that Robin Thicke is the only human being who could broker the best peace agreement between each warring faction. So after talking to some people that I know, speaking with a Spanish accent every time some random tryst decided she wanted to chat me up, and speaking to my homeboy Malcolm who writes for my local newspaper, that's when the show began.
As fast as a collegiate track coach can point out who the weak link on his 4x100 relay team is, I'm pretty good at pointing out who the dead weight is when watching any band play, but I have to say that Robin Thicke's band is as cohesive a unit as you will see. The bassist, the hard-hitting drummer, the keyboard player with his own singing chops, and the axe-man on the six-string who was a force to be reckoned with as well, I openly wondered if Robin Thicke had the ability to perform amongst such a incomparable supporting cast. As soon he belted out the uber-soulful "To The Sky," it was like he read my mind and was annoyed with my internal question and that was his way of answering it - he is one of the few singers who has the rare distinction of outperforming their records. I must say, you can't put him in that "Justin Timberlake" category, a guy who seems to have stolen Michael Jackson's playbook like it was "The Waterboy" and shit. Robin Thicke's influences haven't dictated what kind of an artist he's become. All of this was apparent as I watched him perform "Cocaine" and "When I Get you Alone" - sometimes coming off as a Motown-era crooner who preys on the pent-up sexual frustrations of the ladies in the audience, and sometimes coming across like an MC at heart who never got the chance to spit at the Apollo. For a guy who feels that most artists are so corny that they crap ethanol, I found Mr. Thicke quite the genuine article.
In an age where insecure guys view over-complimenting other males as "jocking" and other passive-aggressive ways to admit that they want to be penetrated in the most deviant ways possible, I felt no shame in publicly nodding my head to songs that were meant for female ears. "Complicated," "Teach U A Lesson," and "Would That Make You Love Me" would have pleased the roughest M.O.P. fan, because all men can relate to wanting to reach a woman's small intestines, feeling the pain of heartbreak, and jumping through hoops just to be served cheese eggs in an apartment that isn't yours. Besides the camaraderie that the band had with one another, the drummer and the keyboard player playing catch with a drumstick in the middle of a song, Robin Thicke's rapport with the audience was quite impressive as well. So impressive, in fact, that him having the audacity to recite Lil Wayne's hideous verse during an otherwise thrilling performance of "Oh Shooter" almost got past me - almost. (I really have to talk to him about the lyrically challenged company that he surrounds himself with, that is if I get a chance to holler at him and all.)
He covered damn near every song in his arsenal. The song "Angels" had the entire crowd lifting up their cellphones as if they were virtual lighters. He played "Ask Myself," "Got 2 Be Down" minus Faith "better singer than Mary J Blige" Evans, the theme song for men "Stupid Things," "I'm 'A Be Alright," a song called "All Night Long" that inspired me to say "Lil Wayne again - I'm about to strangle an innocent bystander!!" and a slew of other tracks that slight inebriation sort of erased from my memory. But there were a couple of highlights that malted hops and Beefeater Gin couldn't alter, a very rude lesbian who kept shoving me and me openly thinking, "Would mushing her in the face be wrong, she wants to be a man anyways, maybe I should give her a refresher course!", and a truly dynamic version of Al Green's "Let's Stay Together" that he sang when he came back on stage for an encore.
After the show was over and people had cleared out, the theater floor looking like a new millennium version of a wild west canvas, with empty plastic cups and other random trash doubling as tumble-weeds and spent six-shooter cases, my friend Rachel offered me the opportunity to chat it up with Robin Thicke if I liked. I agreed, not only because I wanted to give him a well respected pound and to let him know how great his set was, I figured that me going the extra mile would impress the folks at Vibe, thus rescuing me out of this blogging purgatory and letting me show my journalistic ass between Sean John advertisements and an interviews with a snap-music artists that I secretly want to bury in a desert somewhere. As I talked with him for a few fleeting moments it became abundantly clear that I was speaking to a truly humble guy, but as I blabbed on I kept trying to remember what I really wanted to tell him. As I learned that his favorite MC is Biggie, his favorite rock & roll front-man is Jimi Hendrix, the old school dance that he breaks out at the most inopportune moments is "The Wop," and that his favorite Stevie Wonder tune is "All I Do," I just knew that my bad memory was squandering an opportunity of a lifetime.
After giving him an exiting handshake and making my way down a flight of stairs out the building, I reflected on the good music and great performance that I had witnessed a mere half hour before. It wasn't until the door had closed behind me, the clanging sound letting me know that it locked automatically, that I finally remembered what I was going to talk to Robin Thicke about. To no avail, even though I was pounding on the door begging the good staff at "The Norva" to let me in, they ignored me as I yelled "Let me back in, I have to lecture him on how phenomenally wack Lil Wayne is!! Do you people have no sense of decency!!"
I'M PROBABLY THE ONLY GUY IN ISAIAH WASHINGTON'S CORNER
Besides the fact that I openly weep whenever I fall in love, or the weird affection that I have for Barbara Streisand, many people that I've come across over the past couple of decades have thought that I played for the pink team based on my stance on homosexuality. Don't get it twisted, my stance wasn't a bent-over one, a position that would have me walking funny for a week just because some insensitive asshole decided to use my prostate as a pinata - I'm talking about the way I've stuck up for gays over the years. There was that religious chick with the fat ass that I dated who thought I had a secret to share just because I didn't buy her very black-and-white "all gays are going to hell" theory. There was that time in college when I stopped two assholes from beating up a gay guy by damn near bludgeoning them half to death with a miniature bat I received at a local semi-pro ball game that I attended - but those selfless acts of kindness don't make up for some of the homophobia I've displayed over the years. Sure, I've made a few gay jokes in my day, made silly comments to gay co-workers that their rectums could double as crawl-spaces, askd a girlfriend's gay brother who lectured me on "How gross eggs were": "You let random dudes spunk in your mouth, and you are bitching about an omelet?" I even warned a gay cousin about eating indigestible foods before his dinner date because later on when he became "intimate" he wouldn't want his lover puling out and saying "What is this, corn?" I hope when my soul leaves this earth and I'm standing in front of St. Peter, and he's going over the laundry list of shit I've done in my life that could keep me out of the most exclusive club ever, I just hope he overlooks some of my verbal faux pas and considers what's exactly inside my heart.
That being said, a few months ago Isaiah Washington called one of his co-workers (T.R Knight) on the show "Grey's Anatomy" a "faggot" during a heated exchange, and he was properly taken to task for doing so by the media and the general public. I had no problem when some of his co-stars shunned him around that time period, and Mr. Washington didn't help matters when he denied that he ever said that hateful slur while backstage at the Golden Globes. I fully understand all of that. But for Christ's sake. After five months I have to say that I've never seen someone get so publicly crucified for a thirdhand conversation in my life. Move the fuck on already. Again, I find what Mr. Washington said to be blatantly wrong, but seeing T.R Knight go on what has become a safe-haven for gays and lesbians to vent their frustrations, The Ellen DeGeneres Show, and implied that Washington's comment pretty much forced him out of the closet - I just found that quite chuckle-worthy. Not for nothing, being called a gay slur is indefensible, but as a casual fan of the show without any sort of "gaydar," it was pretty clear to me immediately that Mr. Knight was a good actor who was horrible at portraying a heterosexual.
Not to mention how Isaiah Washington has become AWOL from any of the show's advertisements, he had to do that PR rouse that is going to rehab, and hypocrites like "there's nothing worse than a gay slob with a horrible fashion sense" blogger Perez Hilton all of a sudden become a champion of gay rights even though he usually "outs" gay actors who don't want to be "outed". Lastly, the most despicable and lamest of them all, is the way one of his co-workers seems to come out publicly on a regular basis against Washington, as if they all get together on the weekends and draw straws for such duties. OK, I hear he's a prick otherwise, but if his detestable demeanor is the issue they have with the man, then they shouldn't hide behind this controversy to express their displeasure with him. Talk about cowardice. At least Washington apologized when he fucked up.
Maybe it's just me, but when Mel Gibson had his public-relations nightmare - one that was documented by a police report, by the way - as much as people predicted the imminent demise of his career, we all knew that there was no way you could stop the man who once played "Riggs." When Michael Richards said what he said - captured on tape, by the way - there was a certain amount of outrage out there, but black folks have real racism to deal with, not a failed comedian who we see in syndication while we're flipping channels late-night. I just feel, compared to the two cases that I've named, there seems to be some sort of effort by the media and his co-workers to ruin this guy's career for something that's not in his heart - according to Melissa Etheridge's lover Tammy Lynn Michaels, who seems to know the man personally.
EXCUSE ME WHILE I DELICATELY DEFECATE ON MTV's GREATEST HIP-HOP GROUPS LIST
There's a good chance that I'm the only person this side of the equator who feels this way, but somewhere within the deep recesses of my brain I want Howard K. Stern to be the one who benefits from the death of the woman who was probably the most popular Marilyn Monroe impersonator ever. Sure, he comes off like a leech, a lawyer by trade whose only disposable income came from washing her soiled undergarments by hand and picking up her methadone prescriptions regularly. He seems like he hitched his wagon to the proverbial cash cow that was Anna Nicole Smith so he could figuratively throw money around like PacMan Jones in a strip-club (minus the shootings). But despite all his faults, as many times as you've seen this miserable enabler and had to adjust your television sets because you thought that his eyes were replaced with dollar signs, I simply think the man deserves some sort of compensation based on the many years of mindless conversation he was subjected to. Take it from me, mindless conversation can make you want to kill a motherfucker, I couldn't tell you how many times I fantasized about going on a killing spree as I sat and listened to the most incoherent ramblings from the chick that twisted my hair and her flock of cackling clientele. I finally understand how a loving husband can all of a sudden snap, dismember his wife, then bury pieces of her at every memorable location the couple shared during the tenure of their relationship. Thoughts of hacksaws would infiltrate my cerebellum whenever I would sit and listen to my ex-girlfriend laugh at some of the most juvenile shit imaginable while she was on the phone with a friend that I wouldn't trust with long division.
Poor Howard, I feel his pain. I can just imagine how many times he was asked with child-like wonderment, with those massive tits staring him in his grill, about some historical figure that your average 4th grader could wax poetic about. Having to be on the business end of "Guess this smell, Howard!!" games, vicodin-induced conversations about who would win in a fight between a "pickle" and a "potato," and having his penis be the main character of an impromptu puppet show that Anna decided to put on instead of pleasing him like she promised. I'd rather get a root canal, get "jumped in" during a gang initiation, or have a rather aggressive prostate exam, than be subjected to idiotic diatribes ad naseum. Like John Malkovich's character, KGB, said in the movie "Rounders" after Matt Damon handed him his ass at No Limit Hold'em: "Pay that man his money!!"
When I first saw MTV's "The Greatest Hip Hop Groups of All Time" list, it didn't surprise or anger me in the least. Sure I threw up inside my mouth when I saw it, but since "Yo MTV Raps" was the last time they had any credibility concerning microphone wielders, I just chuckled to myself like I do when I see an old person falling down a flight of stairs. But I didn't find a need to make a big fuss at the time. These were the opinions of people who worked for a network that pimps out our music like it's the most trustworthy "bottom-bitch." Taking their list with any amount of seriousness would be akin to listening to a homeless man go on and on about the job market. I mean, no De La Soul, no Ultramagnetic, no Beastie Boys? (I automatically knew that this list had to be taken with the same sort of intense seriousness as guarding a retarding child in a game of one-on-one.) I was ready to move the fuck on and go about my daily business of exercising certain appendages to Internet porn and leaving cryptic "Have you ever fucked a fat guy who has a Napoleon complex below the waist?" messages to women on myspace, when I stumbled on MTV and saw the "behind the scenes" conversations they had when making said list. Go here.
Man, talk about your mindless conversations, hearing some of the incoherent drivel spill out of the mouths of these blistering incompetents, I suddenly wanted to know which mental institution MTV got these rat pack of glass-lickers from. Let me just run down some of the horseshit arguments they pulled out the recesses of their collective asses when coming up with this, ahem, "list."
How they define a "group": Sway introduced the segment by breaking down what constituted a "group" in the eyes of the Hip Hop authorities over at MTV: an act with more than one primary MC sharing the microphone duties. He went on to say that that was the reason groups like "Gangstarr" and "The Roots" were excluded from said list, and that they would qualify for a "different list" at some time in the near future. (Shit-stick, if you've already done a "best group" and a "best MC" list, what other fucking lists are there going to be, exactly?) First of all, I disagree with what constitutes a "group" - I personally believe that a group is when more than one person contributes equally to the overall sound of the group. That being said, Gangstarr is a group based on Premo's beats and Guru's lyrics, the same applies with "The Roots" even though I feel that an MC by the name of Malik B comfortably falls under MTV's foolish guidelines anyways.
The "UGK over The Beastie Boys" argument: I was going to talk about the discussion that preceded this one, whether the Beastie Boys were Hip Hop or not, but those ramblings were so idiotic in nature that if I forced myself to recall them on this blog, the next step would be for me to run into the MTV building screaming "Death to the infidels!!" That being said, this segment was where the collective group of Hip Hop "know-nothings" talked about bumping the Beasties off of the list for UGK, based on the Southern group's influence on talented wordsmiths like Lil Wayne and Paul Wall. Let me just start off by saying that nothing tires me more than some ass-hat injecting some Southern rappers in the mix like this is a special Olympics event where retards get medals just for simply competing. Besides UGK being extraordinarily wack, I'm sure they influenced some folks, but the Beasties made people around the world who lacked melanin believe that they could one day hold the microphone in the most unflinching of fashions. That's impact, baby, and their dalliances with punk music during their careers somehow taking away from their "Hip Hop" status is as ridiculous as all those black folks who thought I was trying to be white for riding a skateboard back in the day. This is the segment where I realized that two gentlemen named Shaheem Reid and Tuma Basa were inbred clowns, who MTV probably rescued from jobs mopping Jizz at a porn theater somewhere and being a fluffer on gay porn video sets.
The "Outkast over A Tribe Called Quest" argument: If it wasn't silly before, this is where it got outright embarrassing. The way that certain people openly rejected the notion of A Tribe Called Quest being placed above Outkast like it was the most hell-worthy of trespasses. Matter of fact, when someone mentioned doing do, a chick named Bridget Bland screamed a "Hell no!!" that sounded like a legion of chicken-head girls scraping their collective nails against a chalkboard. As she argued her case for Outkast, you can just tell that she wasn't familiar with Tribe at all, or their catalog of classic material - listen, putting Outkast over Tribe isn't exactly Auschwitz, but when I think of all the classic songs that the group out of Queens put out, it just tips the scales for me. Also, not for nothing, but I'd put Tribe's first three albums against Outkast's first three any day of the week. (That's just me.)
The "N.W.A over Public Enemy" argument: Sure, I feel that putting N.W.A over Public Enemy is as blasphemous as masturbating to bible verses or sodomizing nuns, but the arguments these jackasses used were truly the insulting part. On an artistic level you can't really argue against Public Enemy. Sure, N.W.A's first album was a classic, and even though many people feel that the two albums that followed "Straight Outta Compton" were good, there was a significant drop-off after Ice Cube left. (I know that under MTV's standards N.W.A were always a group based on three people rhyming, but after Cube left the only legitimate MC was Ren. I'm just saying.) Public Enemy had three classic albums, and as much as I liked N.W.A., I just have to say that P.E's empowering the once-unenlightened masses trumps N.W.A's angering the already-angered masses. Going up against the boys in blue is rebellious, sure, but going up against a government that has had civil rights leaders murdered, presidents shot, and entire black organizations neutralized via murder and incarceration, Public Enemy is truly the epitome of "gangster."
That being said, here is a list of my own: people on that particular MTV staff who need to be beaten with a bag of Ego Trip books as soon as humanly possible, #1 being the person who needs the worst pummeling. (MTV, it would suit you better if you had Hip Hop journalists who were universally respected collaborating on these sorts of lists, sprinkled in with some underground artists. Having "the help" comprise any sort of Hip Hop list is akin to a musical artist using record company lawyers.)
1. Tuma Basa - manager-music programming, MTV
2. Shaheem Reid-Hip Hop editor, MTV news
3. Bridget Bland-producer, MTV radio
4. Buttahman-director, music and talent, MTV
5. tone boots-consultant, MTV
6. Kurt Williamson-producer MTV news
7. Joseph Patel-producer, MTV news
8. Rahman Dukes-senior producer, MTV news
9. Sway-resident headwrap wearer.
The Roots Play the Norva: A Very Sober Concert Review
I always knew that I was somewhat of a dreamer. A great deal of my High School career was spent staring off into space. But I never knew how intense my mid-day mind-wandering was until I started blogging a couple of years ago. As I posted each entry and the words flowing from my brain to my sticky keyboard became easier, my imagination elevated my future writing career into the thing of absolute legend. I imagined myself as an urban version of Craig Stecyk, the famous skateboard photographer and writer who captivated millions with his unique writing style that inspired a generation of kids to carve swimming pools with skinny wooden boards as their choice of weapon in that concrete jungle. I even imagined myself as a Hip Hop version of famous Rolling Stone writer Lester Bangs, exhibiting my own unique ranting style while being nothing short of combative with a multitude of sub-par Hip Hop artists that I'd be forced to interview.
But those visions were always cut shorter than circumcisions because my blog was more of a personal diary, and I thought that an entire site dedicated to music reviews and self-congratulatory writing would bore the piss out of people, especially me.
But now that the good people of Vibe have been kind enough to let me - a brother who grew up chubby and with a slight speech impediment - write for this site, the images swirling inside my head could resurrect Hunter S. Thompson only so he'd be able to piss himself profusely. Now I don't fashion myself after anyone, my future writing endeavors have me blazing my own trail, one day breaking out of this blogging purgatory, to have my words read between advertisements and profiles of rappers that I absolutely loathe. On top of that, I'm certain that in the years to come every writer in the Western Hemisphere will try their best to smear me, purposely leaving me off their "best writers" list, only to use my articles and my tantalizing wordplay as their secretive masturbatory material during those lonely winter nights when Internet porn just isn't enough.
Delusions of Grandeur aside, that's why I was so excited to cover "The Roots" as they came to my town this past Wednesday. Attempting to provide people with a peephole into my own concert experience seemed like a challenge that I was willing to unflinchingly accept like a Kamikaze pilot who accepted his fate a long time ago. But I had to enjoy the show sober. This might not sound like the toughest thing in the world for all you responsible drinkers out there, but for a guy who has treated live shows over the past 12 years as the background music for his inebriation, I get the sneaking suspicion as I type this that I might have an issue with alcohol. That being said, I went to the venue that The Roots were playing at (The Norva) equipped a pen, a notepad, a sudden desire for a Jack and Coke, and my friend named Jason who I befriended this time last year.
The sight of a chubby guy with extremely long dreadlocks standing besides a skinny white guy ten years his junior with earrings embedded inside his earlobe must have been quite odd. People must have thought that we were the stars of a new buddy cop movie or the strangest gay couple in the history of gay couples - but the both of us waited patiently in line as we braved the blistering, 37-degree weather. (Quite chilly for Virginia.) When we got inside, Lupe Fiasco, who was the opening act, was already halfway through his set. I'm not the biggest Lupe Fiasco fan, I can admit that, but as I pulled out my pen and pad during the Chicago native's performance, I promised myself that I'd be fair, in the same way that a black judge has to be when residing over a neo-Nazi defendant. After he played a couple of recognizable songs like "Kick Push" and "Daydreaming," I decided that under any other circumstance I'd give him a glowing review - but a man who rocks a D.A.T machine before a Roots performance automatically gets points taken off. He was alright, but I wanted to see the group that brings the house down every time I've seen them perform. Not to pile on Mr. Fiasco, but watching his performance was like having to endure pedestrian foreplay of the kissing variety from a girl equipped with a massive ass and breasts that could feed a small nation. I guess I'm saying that The Roots were the voluptuous chick in this scenario.
After Lupe finished his set, Jason and I decided to burn a few in the smoking area outside in the patio area, amongst about 30 other people who were on the fast track to ruining their lungs. Between shivering my ass off just to get my nicotine fix, I looked at all the people around me and was reminded of the fact that the crew from "Illadelph" has one of the hugest cross-sections of loyal admirers - a "United Nations" of Hip Hop fans at a Roots show. I mean, fans are fans regardless what their particular shade might be, but since I've noticed that the white fans of The Roots tend to be the savviest of the bunch, I naturally felt like I was amongst friends. It wasn't just the difference in people's skin color that was a thing of note - it was the different types of people altogether. One dude looked like he'd usually be getting wasted at a "Grateful Dead" show; another well dressed gentleman looked like he just came back from a Gerald Levert tribute concert; a few white girls looked like they were the only people on the planet that purchased Paris Hilton's album.
As soon as all of us slaves to the tobacco industry heard the crowd noise only muffled by two thick walls and a 20-foot hallway, everyone rushed to the door like we were 8th graders just hearing the final bell to go home. By the time I reached the area where I desired to watch the show, the entire band emerged from the back of the venue in a single file-line. With Questlove beating a couple of drumsticks together, Black Thought yelling out commands, and the horn section playing beautifully as they made their way to the stage, it reminded me of those funeral processions that you see in New Orleans. Only this time it didn't feel like a ceremony to mourn the passing of a loved one - it felt like a ceremony to resurrect Hip Hop.
Black Thought emerged wearing a jean jacket, a Yankees cap, and an intensity behind a microphone so great that it would melt the embryos of future MC's within a 50-mile radius. When he started his set I quietly felt reassured in my feeling that Tariq Trotter was by far the most underrated MC ever. While the self-described "Bad lieutenant" performed the song "Game Theory," rattling off Malik B's verse as if he wrote it, dealing with an incompetent soundman and a faulty microphone, an extremely intoxicated gentlemen kept violently bumping into me like he had lost his natural mind. I knew he was drunk, but I laughed to myself as I thought, "I'm actually going to have to beat someone's ass at a "Roots" concert!!" - a hell-worthy trespass akin to impure thoughts about nuns and sodomizing your neighbor's wife.
While they masterfully breezed through "Don't Feel Right," "In the Music" and "Be Cool", as a fan I peeped certain things that I hadn't noticed before. I mean, being sober is great, because I saw how certain people hung on every word that came out of Black Thought's mouth like their lives depended on it, the seriousness with which Leonard Hubbard (bassist) takes his craft, and the quirky way in which Questlove moves his Afro-pick throughout his hair between drum-strokes. True Hip Hop heads got a treat, as they did Eric B and Rakim's classic "I Ain't No Joke", a funky James Brown tribute, "Love of My Life," their version of Nas' "Hip Hop is Dead," and the break-dancers' wet dream that is "The Mexican." Man, I couldn't have been happier if you locked me in a room full of hookers and a year's supply of delicious snacks.
That's when trouble erupted. Sorta.
My young friend Jason, now visibly two sheets to the wind, had some sort of altercation with a shorter-looking version of "DJ Qualls." I didn't know what it was about - I really didn't care because Leonard Hubbard was in the middle of a mind-altering bass solo - until that guy's friend, who looked like King Sun in his prime, tried to push Jason. At that point, I even said out loud, "I'm really going to have to beat someone's ass at a Roots show!! What's this world coming to?" So I got in front of the gentleman, told him to "chill the fuck out" because he just pushed my young friend that I felt oddly responsible for, and I immediately recognized the sweet vaginal aroma coming off him as he continued to stare Jason down (a dude half his size) while not addressing the rather sober, portly gentleman right in front of him. Even though Jason kept wanting to approach the two continuously to "state his case" (whatever the fuck that means), cooler heads prevailed and I was able to put my full attention back on the show. I'm just glad I didn't have to knock a dude out at a Roots show - what a crime against humanity that would be.
Like receiving a spirited lap dance from a scantily clad woman, the minutes flew by. The Roots did a rendition of Jay-Z's "Lost Ones," Biz Markie's "Just a Friend," Snoop's "That's That," Talib's "Get By," Nas' "Made You Look," Tribe's "Award Tour," and other classics that Hip Hop fans the world over have cemented in their collective iPods. Now, I didn't have a problem with the band playing current radio-friendly tunes, but when they performed MIMS' "This is Why I'm Hot", "Throw Some D's", and a few other Southern favorites of the day, I noticed that the crowd gave a louder response for those tunes then they did any Roots song thus far. I suddenly felt that the cross-section of fans that I praised earlier for their "savvy" didn't apply to Norfolk Virginia any more.
The Roots were only 75% of the way through their set, but I had seen enough. They'd already put on a stellar show in my eyes - any more was just delicious seasoning on the entree served to all the miserable miscreants who ever purchased a Jim Jones album. From Kirk Douglas' guitar solo where he played behind his back and with finger twisting dexterity, the horn section getting their well deserved shine, through a fabulous rendition of "Jungle Boogie" and their classic "The Next Movement," I was having the proverbial time of my life - when I got tapped on the shoulder by the gentleman I almost chin-checked earlier.
He said in a very accommodating way, "You seem like a nice guy, I just wanted to make sure we were cool." I responded, "Yeah man, no big deal!" and we gave each other a formal handshake. Then he tried to slip a morsel of slick shit in there and said, "Besides, I wouldn't want to have to defend my boy by beating your friend's ass!!" To which I rapidly replied, "And I wouldn't have wanted to defend my boy by causing you to bleed out on this theater floor!" The tension had gotten to the level that I had tried to avoid, me clenching my fists and this time actually saying, "I'm actually going to have to beat someone's ass at a Roots show for Christ's sake!!! Jesus!" Finally, sticking the landing on what would be considered the "bitch move" of the night, the man in question retorted me by pointing to his Filipino friend and saying, "Yeah, if you would have fought me, my boy would have had to jump in!!" I'm usually not racist, but desperate times call for desperate measures, so I gave the Filipino gentleman the once over and said, "Hmm, I would have beaten the Pansit and Lumpia out of that motherfucker!! Don't let your mouth get Imelda Marcos here fucked up!!" Both men looked at each other like they had run out of things to say. Nothing happened and they walked away, but my brief bravado was immediately humbled by a tiny black woman tapping me on the wrist so she could whisper in my ear, "I can't believe you were about to fight someone at a Roots show. Do you have no home training?" That being said, only that Philadelphia collective had the sounds necessary to calm this savage asshole.
Thanks a lot, you've ruined that song forever!
Over my long and sordid 16-year dating history, I've done some things that even I'm not too proud of, to be completely honest. Ten years ago, I made love to a pair of sisters; they only found out about it last month when I drunkenly wrapped my arms around the both of them at a bar and uttered, "Ladies, I'm here to be shared again, what do ya say?" I left a woman stranded in another state after she told me that she cheated on me, even though I was actively cheating on her at the time. I can provide a laundry list of my offenses that range from having sex with people's mothers, to telling a young lady that I would post our sex tape on my blog if she kept my John Madden game hostage one more day. I'm an insufferable prick, I know it, and I won't be surprised if Saint Peter pisses himself laughing as I stand at the pearly gates of Heaven. But one thing that I'm really ashamed of are the chances that I failed to give women, based on how they reminded me of lovers that scorned me in the past. For example, my first love was a very light-skinned girl named Chalanda who broke my heart in a million pieces; I could hardly speak to light-skin women years after that. A woman that I loved dearly named Shay cheated on me. Sure, she told me, but the way my penis all of a sudden miraculously failed to touch either side of her vagina mid-coitus was a dead giveaway. Anyways, she was from New York, and this is the first year in a long time that I can even talk to a woman north of New Jersey without openly weeping.
Just like bad experiences with women of certain shades or from particular geographic areas of the world can ruin it for the others of their ilk that come after them, I feel the exact same way about music. How many times have you heard a song that you love being played continuously in some absurd commercial, or sampled by a rap artist devoid of skills to the point that they make Biz Markie seem like Rakim? Even though I might still have a soft spot in my heart for these particular songs, I'll never be able to hear them the same way again.
Stevie Wonder: "Pastime Paradise": When it comes to Hip Hop, Rakim is the gold standard; when it comes to rock and roll and the spirit it encompasses, Jimi Hendrix is the most stellar example in my eyes; and when it comes to pure musical genius regardless of genre, Stevie Wonder is the unadulterated shit. The man can play an orchestra's worth of instruments and craft melodies that stay in your subconscious for a lifetime. His gift for the English language would have made Shakespeare himself question his own self-worth like an over-the-hill Boy-band member. The only issue I have with Mr. Wonder is that he needs to have whoever dresses him and does his hair beaten mercilessly with a bag full of hot combs and fashion magazines. So yes, I'm a fan. That's why it pains me that I can't listen to one of his songs without thinking about the shit-stain on Hip Hop culture that is Coolio. When he sampled "Pastime Paradise" for his god awful "Gangsta's Paradise," for that ridiculous movie where a white person emerges from the shadows to save miserable black souls, I suddenly felt that my germaphobia was cured and I could proceed in putting a shotgun barrel inside my mouth.
Sam Cooke: "A Change is Gonna Come": When it comes to protest songs, "A Change is Gonna Come" is as good as it gets. I'm often amazed by our elder statesmen and their ability to create art amidst the turbulent times of the Civil Rights Movement. OK, nothing can really ruin this song for me, but for the life of me, whenever I hear it, I can't help but to think about Spike Lee's Malcolm X. When this beautiful song plays on my IPOD or my car stereo, I should be thinking about all the sacrifices that my people made just for me to say some of the shit I do on this blog - not thinking about the final day of Malcolm's life, with him walking into his impending doom with the courage of a mountain lion, Spike Lee having Denzel Washington on that gliding dolly shot as this song plays in the background.
Stevie Wonder: "Never Dreamed You'd Leave in Summer": Yes, another Stevie Wonder song. What can I say - I'm a fan. Being that I have friends who feel that expressing your feelings in an open and honest manner is akin to being the aggressor in a prison rape, or being Perez Hilton, I always found it hard to confide in people whenever a woman that I loved like Internet porn ripped my heart out of my chest. While going to my friends with my pain would invoke impromptu violin-playing motions and a pair of pampers on my doorstep, and going to my father would inspire him to say matter-of-factly, "Huh, I always knew you were a fruit!!", I found solace in Stevie Wonder because he writes about heartbreak like no other living being who's ever existed. For the longest time, I listened to "I Never Dreamed You'd Leave in Summer" while staring out the window, letting out pitiful sighs, and trying to get the image of my now ex-girlfriend literally getting "filled" in ways that I wasn't able to. That was until John Singleton's Poetic Justice, in the scene after Janet Jackson's boyfriend (Q-Tip) gets killed and she goes through a sort of nervous breakdown, looking in the mirror as this song plays, making contorted faces that makes me think that she's one bad day away from painting the walls with her own fecal matter. Having thoughts about Janet Jackson is usually a good thing. Not in this case.
Chaka Khan: "Ain't Nobody": Father Time is a bastard - I know based on all the grey hairs on my nether regions and my gut blocking my penis. So to say that Chaka Khan isn't desirable to me currently isn't the hugest knock against her. Seeing footage of her back in the day when she sang with Rufus, her singing her little heart out, her full lips, cute little half-shirts accentuating the perkiest of titties, if I had a time machine I would have no problem wading through her mass amounts of pubic hair just to reach the "promised-land" so to speak. Sexual fantasies aside, I'm a huge fan of her music as well, I think she is grossly underrated as an artist. The one song that I can't listen to without Vietnam-like flashbacks infiltrating my mind is "Ain't Nobody," even though it a classic. The reason why this song is even on the list is because every time I hear it, the thought of a couple of characters named "Turbo" and "Ozone" quickly come to mind. That's right, folks: Breakin'. I wish that the bad dialog, the absurdity of "Special K," and the clumsy broom-dancing didn't come to mind when I hear this classic Chaka Khan joint, but I just can't shake it like Steven Hawking after he takes a leak.
Eric Clapton: "Layla": Friends of mine, loved ones, and blogging brethren tend not to give Eric Clapton props, but I've always been one of the guy's staunchest supporters. (OK, the was that one time when I was a rapper that I uttered the line, "I never did a bid, but you'll find yourself falling out a window like Eric Clapton's kid!!" I'm sorry, Eric.) Shameful rap lyrics aside, I always had an affection for the song "Layla" - that is until the movie Goodfellas came out. I love that flick, by the way, don't get me wrong, but why Martin Scorsese chose to use the last two minutes of that song to play over the scenes where all the dead bodies were turning up is purely beyond me. Now, instead of letting my mind wander as this beautiful melody tickles my eardrums, I get the image of dead Italians in dumpsters and in meat lockers.
A Few Awkward White Chicks that I'm Crushing On
Come on, I skateboard and I like Woody Allen movies. You knew white women were next...
Not counting Shelly, a childhood neighbor of mine whose legs I could be found inappropriately rubbing back-and-forth while exhibiting the youngest erection ever, or my 6th grade crush named Kirsten who I'd think about while singing Wham's "Careless Whisper" and grasping my pillow, the first time that interracial love penetrated my little feeble world was through my sister Monica. I remember it like it was yesterday: my sister inviting the man who one would one day become her husband to my family's home, and them acting as if he had just taken a healthy shit in the middle of our living room. Seriously, I've seen chillier receptions after Eskimo weddings. My father is dead, and my mother and brother will probably deny this while exhibiting a Dick Cheney "This war is going great" poker face, but I remember being the only one that attempted to make the melanin-challenged young man feel comfortable. I mean, why should I care who she falls in love with? My only thoughts were that if he hurt my sister I'd hunt him down, torture him for a few days with physical abuse and "The Secret Diary of Desmond Pfeiffer" reruns, then wear his skin post-mortum like a light winter jacket. (Granted, I'd want to punish any man who harmed my sister, regardless the shade.) But based on me feeling that my future brother-in-law had "white people superpowers" - you know, the Michelle Pfeiffer "I am here to save a sea of clueless black souls" type (see Dangerous Minds), I felt that he might be useful if I ever needed him to speak to the police on my behalf.
This might sound weird coming from a black man, but I've pretty much stayed away from interracial relationships. Shocking, I know. Whenever I've said that in the past, any white women within earshot read me the riot act, acting as if I had just cheerfully quoted a passage off some Nazi propaganda, and openly wondering why their skin pigment prohibits them from laying in post coital bliss with your favorite pre-ejaculator. Nevermind the fact that white women who tend to like me look like they grew up next to a nuclear reactor - I just have a thing for black women. When in the fuck did stating a preference make you a card-carrying racist? I mean, I opened myself up to the possibility of skipping through a wheatfield as me and my lover sang "Ebony and Ivory," scaring the crap out of her parents as I tell them that I'm naming our first born child "El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz," and maybe even playfully blaming my partner for enslaving my people for 400 years between pelvic thrusts. I never totally closed the door on dating a chick with a stellar credit rating. I just prefer black women, that's all, and I know that I wouldn't want to spend my life telling inquisitive onlookers "What in the fuck are you looking at??!!" all day, yelling at disapproving black women with my arms above my head "Hey, you didn't want me!!", and carrying a high-powered pistol in my belt like it's the Old West - everytime me and my lady friend travel through some Podunk town like it's 1963 and shit.
That being said, there are a few white women that I've had in my chubby crosshairs as of late - chicks that I'd proudly bring to the Essence Awards and Nation of Islam meetings like it wasn't a motherfucking thing. True, some of these women are rather awkward - but then again, so am I.
Janeane Garofalo: I always said that if I ever dated a white chick it wouldn't be one of those broads who acted "black," getting their mannerisms and colloquialisms from watching a shitload of "Cops" episodes and Tyler Perry plays. If her ass can quote a DMX lyric or pop-lock better than me, her mangy ass has got to go without receiving a lovely parting gift. I would never hit a woman, but nothing makes me want to kick a white broad directly in her sternum like her trying to "out-black" me, making me feel like Bryant Gumbel because I had to stop her mid-sentence a few times and ask her what a particular slang term meant. The only prerequisite I have for any white women I might date is that she has to be liberal - very liberal - so liberal she makes Che' Guevara seem like Strom Thurmond. Janeane Garofalo fits that mold pretty accurately, pissing off right-wing conservatives when she made public her feeling that we were being lied to about Iraq even before our first soldier set foot in Baghdad. That's what I'm talking about: a true lefty, a white woman who wouldn't ask "What did you do??" after I told her that the cops pulled me over for some bullshit. She knows more black history than your average black chick, she's an actress so she could act like she's having the time of her life as my chubby frame humped on top of her like a drugged test bunny, and she's the only white woman that I don't feel weird about calling a black man a "House Negro." (Hello Larry Elder!) Granted, she's a recovering alcoholic so my binge drinking wouldn't go over too well, and she seems to loathe the frat boy humor which I've based my entire writing career on - but if she can see past my those faults (along with my love for dancers with glitter embedded in their skin), then I think we'll be fine.
Tina Fey: Like I just said, if I was to date a white chick she'd have to be as liberal as humanly possible - so liberal, in fact, that at times I'd even find myself saying, "Ok, you're just playing the race card now!!" Even though I feel conflicted about laughing at another example of a black man being portrayed as "crazy" (Tracy Morgan), I love 30 Rock so much that when I see Tina Fey's character lecture someone on racial profiling or the need for affirmative action, my heart gets all aflutter inside. Based on the history of black men putting white women on pedestals in this country, I have a sneaking suspicion that my mother has reservations against my ever loving a Caucasian woman in holy matrimony. But I'm sure that if my mother talked to Tina, swapped stories, learned more about her, and realized that they both feel that George Bush is a drooling incompetent, not only would my mother endorse our marriage but I'm sure that she'd even consider a lesbian relationship with the S&L alum. (OK, let me get that image out of my head.)
Samantha Brown: Sometimes when I don't have anything to do, or I've exhausted all of my porn options and my hand is numb from the chronic masturbating, I can be found watching the travel channel with the intensity of a fat man ordering off a menu. There's this chick named Samantha Brown who hosts "Great Hotels" and "Passport to Europe With Samantha Brown," who is absolutely adorable. Again, another chick who's secure in her whiteness, she exhibits a wry sense of humor that reminds you of Ellen DeGeneres, only prettier and one who who doesn't need phallic attachments to have a good time. She's a great host, showing you breathtaking locales, breaking down historic landmarks with the pinpoint accuracy of Dustin Hoffman in "Rain Man" - but it becomes abundantly clear after watching just a few minutes that this girl likes to drink. In Germany, she's having a few beers with some of the locals; in France, she's imbibing alcohol like there's no tomorrow; I even remember her asking a stranger where a bar was even though she was in an area not famous for any particular alcoholic beverage. That's what I'm talking about: a chick I could get sloppy drunk with overseas, one who uses her vast knowledge of international affairs to make it easier for me to transport some "grade A" Hashish across foreign waters.
"Conversations with a Conservative Friend": Ann Coulter
This is what I call having John Edwards' back, in the most heterosexual "I love women!!" way imaginable.
A few months ago, believe it or not, I was knee-deep in women's panties to the point that my closest friends nicknamed me "the gynecologist." (Not only because I saw more vaginas up close and personal than your average licensed physician, but also because I'm so germaphobic that listening to a women's heartbeat with a stethoscope wasn't beneath me.) Let me tell you, for a guy who hadn't received a steady stream of ass since the last relevant Ice Cube album, to say that I felt like a stud during this time period would be a huge understatement - something akin to saying that Lil Wayne kissing Baby on the lips is just "a little gay." During this time, I attempted to keep women as happy as an audience member on "Oprah." Every morning, as soon as I opened my eyes, before the first prayer that I uttered after wiping the crust out of my eyes, I'd thank the big guy who I affectionately call "JC" for blessing me with a "cock that works!!" But like all good things, especially in this clusterfuck of a life that I'm currently the star of, it came to an end. Slowly and surely, my asshole tendencies caused each one of my dalliances to give me their proverbial two weeks' notice, to the point that I'd come home every night to "You ain't shit motherfucker! I'm going to get Ray-Ray, Tootie and them to come over there and kick your ass!!" diatribes.
That's what inspired me to get this phone where I could record conversations while they were happening. I figured that a chick telling me that she's "seen bigger penises during ultrasounds" would be great entertainment for the people who frequent my blog. But because of legal issues, you know, taping people without their knowledge and them being able to literally sue the boxer shorts off of my fleshy backside, I decided against it. But the phone is finally being put to use though, especially when I have these political discussions with my conservative friend on many subjects. Here is one we had the other night.(Don't worry, I had his permission to post his brand of idiocy.)
(phone ringing)
HumanityCritic: Hello?
Chris: What's up man, what are you doing?
HumanityCritic: Nothing, just watching porn, staring at three bottles of lotion, trying to figure out which one would glide more effortlessly across my co..
Chris: Hey-Hey! Can we get through one conversation without you talking about your private parts, some "honey's" hair that you ejaculated in while saying "That should help your perm out!!" - or some other form of deviant behavior that I find absolutely offensive?
HumanityCritic: I forgot how uptight you conservatives were. Shouldn't you be somewhere masturbating to Mein Kampf - or watching FOX News on an eternal loop?
Chris: FOX News is the #1 news channel by the way. How do you explain that?
HumanityCritic: William Hung, millions of people buying Britney Spears albums, Jim Jones, Tyler Perry's fanbase, George Bush being re-elected, how do you explain those things? Fox News' popularity just proves that the masses are mindless. What person in their right mind keeps watching a network that has been proven to lie to them?
Chris: I'm not going to argue that point again. Are you talking about the Jim Jones that tried to get people to drink that tainted Kool-Aid?
HumanityCritic: Actually, it's a rapper who talks tough but who's literally softer than baby shit - a proverbial douchebag who talks an excessive amount of trash only because he's trying to mask the fact that he wants to be double-penetrated in the worst way imaginable.
Chris: Jesus, forget that I asked. So, what do you think of Ann Coulter?
HumanityCritic: I don't really think of her at all, to be completely honest. I mean, the best way to describe her shape is that of a blond javelin. The only way you can think she's attractive is if you feel classroom skeletons with a pair of water balloons draped around her neck posing as breasts are sexy.
Chris: Get the fuck outta here, Ann Coulter is smoking hot!!
HumanityCritic: "Smoking Hot"?? I've seen children standing behind Sally Struthers in those commercials come off as more voluptuous!! Not being racist, but is that a white thing?
Chris: What are you talking about?
HumanityCritic: Not for nothing, but I've known my fair share of white boys in my day who feel that anorexic looking girls are a thing to be worshiped. I vividly imagine that me fucking Ann Coulter would sound exactly like me fucking a sheet of bubble wrap. Her bones just a'poppin' and a'crackin'..
Chris: How about you black guys? Dating girls whose asses spill out of their jeans, women who when the sit down look like their seats are overflowing with ass, hips so wide it seems that the strongest hurricane couldn't knock them over.
HumanityCritic: You say all of that like they're bad things..
Chris: Forget it. What do you think about her calling John Edwards a "faggot"? People are sure pissed about that!
HumanityCritic: Man, she does this type of shit for attention, so dumbasses like you and me can talk about her, so dumbasses like me can dictate said conversations into a Vibe.com blog post.
Chris: So you don't find her comments objectionable?
HumanityCritic: Sure I do - her whole existence in the media seems to be as ugly as a Lil' Kim pap-smear.
Chris: Thanks for that imagery, by the way...
HumanityCritic: I'm just saying: is she a watery sack of crap? Yes. But when you look at her calling John Edwards a "faggot," her claiming that Bill Clinton raped women in the White House, her saying the 9/11 widows she had "never seen people enjoying their husbands' deaths so much," or her saying "My only regret with [Oklahoma City bomber] Timothy McVeigh is he did not go to the New York Times building." We won't even go into what she said after 9/11 - that we should invade all "terrorist countries," kill their leaders and convert the people to Christianity.
Chris: So you think that she doesn't believe what she's saying?
HumanityCritic: I think that broad is nuttier than squirrel shit, so she could believe a great deal of it, but I think it's largely to get her name in the paper. It's no different than Paris Hilton trying to get the paparazzi to desperately take a picture of her rotten snatch, or other shameless PR moves of that ilk. But don't get me wrong though, that doesn't make her statement any less detestable.
Chris: For a guy who apparently doesn't think about Ann Coulter a lot, you sure know a lot about her. Are you sure that you haven't got a thing for Ann?
HumanityCritic: Hell no, James Brown's rotting corpse is meatier than Ann's frame.
Chris: On that note, I gotta go.
AN IDIOT'S GUIDE TO DEALING WITH THREE BARACK OBAMA SMEARS
Your cable news staions won't do it - why not HumanityCritic??
When it was rumored that Barack Obama was even thinking about running for the highest office on the land (NO, I don't mean the owner of High Times magazine either), I feared for the brother's life the same way I fear for naked white girls in horror flicks, or my sweet asshole when I got arrested. People want you to believe that this country is more progressive nowadays, that the days of lynchings and drinking out of colored water fountains were a million years ago, but I live a stone's throw away from Pat Robertson's crib so I can tell you that America needs a serious rehabilitation program to get to the level of progression that we THINK we're at. America, in terms of racism in this country, is like that guy who drinks excessively every night like it's a part time job, but doesn't think he's an alcoholic because he doesn't drink alone, in the mornings, or on an empty stomach. That's where America is at, and based on how many times I've been praised for the clarity in which I speak, asked by white people why they weren't allowed to use the "N-Word", and other forms of idiocy passed through Caucasian mandibles, the last thing in the world I wanted brother Barack to do was run for President of the sometimes-great nation. But when he finally threw his hat into the ring, I suggested that he do a few things. For one, I felt that it would be wise of him to travel the same way the pope does, under that impenetrable bubble so strong that missiles and advances from white women would bounce off it with ease. Also, like I've said before, he needs to call Chuck D to see if he can borrow the S1W's for his daily protection. I'm just saying, nothing would scare aspiring assassins and other garden-variety Jeff Foxworthy fans like the S1W's dressed in their "Black Power" attire screaming, "Go get a late pass, STEP!!!" during one of his presidential addresses. We won't even go into me hoping that he takes a page out of Curtis Jackson's handbook, making bullet-proof vests worn over suits all the rave in the fashion world, even having a retractable gun that springs out of the arm of his jacket like a presidential "Inspector Gadget" and shit.
Listen, the presidential election is a long ways away - for all I know he won't even be the presidential nominee and there's no guarantee that I'll be thrilled about him if he ends up snagging said nomination - but there are a few things that I feel obligated to warn you good folks about. Here is "An idiot's guide to dealing with Three Obama Smears."
Barack "Hussein" Obama: From now until the end of Barack's presidential career, Republican operatives, strategists, and nominees as far as the eye can see will go that extra mile and say Mr. Obama's entire name, Barack "Hussein" Obama. Sure, when you protest this slimy tactic the offender will likely throw up their hands in disgust and say, "What, I'm only saying his name?", even though it's clear by including "Hussein" that the person is desperately trying to bring thoughts of terrorism and hiding in spider-holes to mind. The same people who use this tactic and want to point out the similarities between "Obama" and "Osama" are the same people who supported an illegal war, and are the same people who only support the troops when they are on the battlefield. (Not when they get home, that is) I mean, if I wanted to be a complete dick, I could mention our president's middle name, "Walker," bringing to mind horrible shows where an aging King Fu star recites bad dialog, needs stunt-men to perform the most pedestrian of fight tasks, and wears jeans so tight that I'm sure you can diagram the acne on his backside like a connect-the-dots puzzle. Now THAT's a punishable offense!
"Lack of Experience": When I was in High School I learned a powerful lesson, one that showed me that "experience" doesn't always equate to "quality." Case in point: there were two girls who were vying for my attention back when Big Daddy Kane reigned supreme, a smoking girl named Maritza who could have given hernia exams based on how many phalluses she'd handled in her lifetime, and a shy girl named Sherry who by all accounts was a virgin. Being that I have been a pervert ever since I escaped the womb, I went with Maritza. Sherry was cute and all, but I didn't exactly feel like brokering a peace deal just to get the opportunity to feel someone up. When the time came, the sex was horrible: she screamed like a porn actress, I couldn't enjoy it because the condom kept slipping off and I felt that if my bare body touched anything inside her my penis would melt as if I looked at the Arc of the covenant. (Let's not forget that I barely touched the sides - I've felt more secure reaching inside of my closet) But when I got with Sherry it was beautiful, tender. I knew what a parent must feel like as I saw her experience things for the first time, and let me just say, hearing a girl say "Are you really going to put that there?" is hotter than fish-grease.
I'm sorry I just went into that unnecessary diatribe, but when people say that Barack Obama can't be president because of his lack of experience, I think of Maritza being a metaphor for this current administration - Tired, Worn out, not producing any results, some new blood couldn't be any worse. By the way, what experience did Bush have when he became president anyway? Correct me if I'm wrong, but at the time that he was inaugurated, hadn't Bush only been overseas a couple times in his life?
"Articulate": There are many people out there - mainly individuals who pray to the altar of George W. Bush, think that Rush Limbaugh is this generation's Edward R. Murrow, and masturbate to skeletal pictures of Ann Coulter - who strongly feel that there isn't anything wrong with people calling Barack Obama "articulate." Even after you point out that Barack Obama has to be the only president of the Harvard Law Review who's ever been praised for his clear diction, people will still respond with "I'm giving him a compliment, I can admit that George W Bush isn't articulate. What's the fuss?" Let me break down the "fuss" based on my personal experiences...
1. Keep in mind that I'm not a presidential candidate and the only "Bar" that I know is the one where I get way too drunk and end up having sex with some woman of ill repute on the side of the building with all the might that a fat man could muster - but I have been called "articulate" at least 200 times in my life. At Job interviews the interviewer has said, "Boy, you sure speak extremely well!!" Talking to strangers inside of a bar: "Jesus Christ, when you walked up I never knew you'd be so articulate!" My point is this, I'm sure that your average white guy, one that has a strange love for Janeane Garofalo and late-night snacking, doesn't have his colloquialism brought into question a million times a year.
2. This isn't really about the "articulate" issue, but an example of subtle racism that I caught even as a youth. I remember like it was yesterday, a difficult task for a guy whose cranium is filled with bong resin and other mind-altering drugs, my English teacher Ms. Walker praising me to high heavens for getting a C+, acting as if I had just found Jimmy Hoffa or crapped out gold nuggets. Then, without missing a beat, she'd go over to my white counterpart who had just received a B+ for the same paper and saying, "Come on Jimmy, you can do better than that!!" It's not being called the N-Word, or having a cross burned in your front yard or anything, but it's still racism, man. Interesting post-script to that story: after that, my teachers' actions motivated me to get the best grades in the class, where I would say to Jimmy in the earshot of Ms. Walker (holding up my A+ paper), "Jimmy, motivational speeches from Jesus can't get your score any better than this!!"
THE CLOSEST YOU CAN GET TO THE BLACK EXPERIENCE: BEING A WHITE MC
Being the offspring of a man who was raised in the deep South, where being called a racial epithet was as common as someone commenting on the weather - a place so racially oppressive that my tales of not being able to catch a cab or being called "articulate" would seem like a Swedish massage - my father instilled one thing in my head from August of 1973 to February of 2001. That message - words that are seared on my cerebellum like a tattoo - was, "You have to work twice as hard as the white man to get ahead!!" Sure, he was referring to our history of being oppressed in this country, but he was also speaking from experience, a man who didn't finish the 8th grade who became a master chief in the Navy and taught himself how to become the best mechanic in my city to the point that he taught at least a thousand others how to "turn a wrench." For many years, especially not understanding the kind of dire straights that my old man had to navigate, I didn't understand where he was coming from until I was much older. Granted, when I ran track in high school, I was the epitome of the word "focused": I not only ran the bleachers after a hard day of practice, but on the weekends you could find me pulling my old man as he stood atop the sled the football team used. I outworked everyone