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Come back. Come back now.

I think my friend just wanted me to suffer with him, so at his request, I turned on 106 & Park. If you’re reading this, I will get you back.

So five minutes in I see this hooker with a bright yellow dress on and twenty-seven and a half inch heels. The dress is really tight. It’s riding her thighs. I can almost tell what day she got her snatch waxed. Who else could it be but Mariah Carey? Channeling Big Bird, Mimi struts down the 106 and Park set twirling her hair like Malibu Barbie, making her way to the couch with Pinky and the Lame to discuss her new tour.

Mariah Carey and Sean Paul on tour together. One can’t dance, while the other can’t talk. Match made in heaven. Her tour is called “The Adventures of Mimi.” One trip to the pyschiatrist. Another to the pharmacist. Then to the bar. All with a fan set on high blowing in her face. There, I just saved you some money.

I actually love Mariah Carey so I’m saying this all in jest (well maybe not all…), but it’s time I admit the obvious: Mimi’s crazy as hell. I want to just chalk her antics up to her being drunk, but some of that is just Mariah in rare form. I’ll just liken her to a crazy but lovable relative.

But what I won’t tolerate is that “Yes I’m is” talk she was yappin earlier. My my, aren’t we down when convenient. You can’t be ghetto and blow air kisses at the same time. “No, dawlin.”

Actually, Mariah could show up on the show with a bong pissy drunk trying to rap like Roxanne Shante and still be better off than Whitney Houston lately. So do your thisel, Mimi.

The show got progressively worse following Mariah’s appearance. And apparently the show has become 106 and Apollo. Dance contest? I’m waiting for Kiki Shephard to pop up with that old puzzle looking board from Soul Train any day now.

Then there are the actual videos. Sigh. Music sucks nowadays, don’t it?

Everything else I’ve learned from this show:

1. This show could be called 106 and Bankhead and no one would say anything.
2. Julissa and Tigga have about as much chemistry as a queen and a buttnaked stripper from Atlanta.
3. I could see little kids lining up in front of Mariah Carey in that dress like they’re about to board the yellow school bus. They looked oddly similar.
4. Cassie sounds like Lumidee and crawls around like Jennifer Lopez. “I’m Glad” you’re signed to Bad Boy; it means you only get one video.
5. When someone lets you know 106 is about to come, turn the tv off.

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Yesterday I attended my cousin’s high school graduation. Out of the twelve kids who walked across the stage, eleven of them had some of the most “creative” names I’ve come across in a very long time. These negroes (and one hispanic) might as well spray their resumes w/ hot sauce and Lawry’s seasoned salt and just scare the human resources people away. Here’s a look at some of the names:

Frozina (sounds like something Minute Maid sells)
LaPorschia Na’Quita
LaRocha Jenna
Tyronza LaShon
LaToydra Valienta
Zeandreia A’Nuel
Aunanesha Chanta
Jeretta Rashae
Sharnequa Danae
LaNecia Veronique
Treykia Quinchelle
Kokesia Kiqwane
Marquiesha Ja’Nae
CaNotstria Anvon
Jacorolynstans Onassis

I’m particularly mad at the last name. I sat there and waited for them to announce her name just so I could learn how in the hell you pronounce it. She (I’m assuming, but you never know anymore) didn’t show. If anyone can loan me $500 to figure out which vowel I need to buy to pronounce her name, it’d be greatly appreciated.

No wonder the sign language people sat down the entire graduation. After those names, they probably just said, “Fuck it.”

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I am not a frequent viewer of the Oprah Winfrey show. I am not my mother. I am not a Caucasian mother of three in sunny Sugar Land, Texas or Northern Virginia. But, for a second, I want to stand alongside them and go on and defend Oprah “I Own 5% of the World and I’m Working on Securing an Additional 10” Winfrey.

Ice Cube has joined Ludacris and 50 Cent in lashing out at the talk show host/world domination seeker for excluding him from her show.

“I’ve been involved in three projects pitched to her, but I’ve never been asked to participate,” the rapper-actor tells FHM magazine in its July issue, on newsstands June 6.

“For ‘Barbershop,’ she had Cedric the Entertainer and Eve on, but I wasn’t invited,” says the 36-year-old rapper, referring to his 2002 movie. “Maybe she’s got a problem with hip-hop.”

Cube goes on to add:

“She’s had damn rapists, child molesters and lying authors on her show. And if I’m not a rags-to-riches story for her, who is?”

Last time I checked, Eve gained fame as a rapper. And I’m quite certain Oprah wasn’t glorifying the rapists and child molesters on her show. It’s not as if she allowed them to promote their criminal antics on national television the same way he would want to promote his album, so I don’t think the comparison is valid. As for the lying author, she didn’t know he was lying I imagine, and I remember watching her on CNN punish the dude for being deceitful. Haha.

Cube, we can do better.

I remember reading 50 Cent’s rant about Oprah appealing to older white women a few weeks back. Well, you appeal to their children, so start humming “We Have Something In Common” and let that rant die down.

And then there’s Ludacris. Poor woo is me, Oprah pulled me the side and called me out on my shit, Ludacris.

“What I got was that by having rappers on her show, she feels like she is empowering in them. It was like being at someone’s house who doesn’t really want you there,” Ludacris told GQ. “I don’t see why Chris Rock and Dave Chappelle, who I am huge fans of, it’s OK for them to go on Oprah. They speak the same language as I do, but they do it through comedy, so I guess that’s acceptable to her.”

I don’t think this is a fair comparison, because like Bo mentioned in one of his blog entries, I don’t think Chappelle and Rock use the same language with the same connotations. But even if you thought so, they, like other comics, often employ humor to do sociopolitical commentary. It’s not always just a joke. Chappelle poked fun at racial stereotypes. Chris on race and class. Some of it may be crass, but more times than not, they’re willing to debate and in cases like Chappelle, apologize for some of the humor they use. By contrast, Ludacris doesn’t apologize nor even effectively defend his lyrics. Neither do 50 or Ice Cube. Those comics will own up to their act; these emcees doen’t want to be held accountable for anything. I find it interesting Ludacris can choose to comment on her yet he wouldn’t go after Bill O’Reilly’s hypocritical rants from a few years ago. He could have easily blasted O’Reilly for leading a campaign to have him removed from a Pepsi ad campaign for his lyrical content but ignored the rock group that literally urinated in the bottle of a Pepsi product while on stage. But instead decides to hold off and target someone like Oprah who actually has a point.

The ugly truth is that Oprah is right in her criticisms. This is her show. She can do as she pleases. Do you really expect Oprah, who just aired the heavily promoted Legends Ball honoring black women for their achievements to welcome men who excessively shout nigga, bitch, nigga, bitch with open arms on her television show. Same applies to 50 and his constant channeling of Bigger Thomas for profit.

I like Ludacris and Ice Cube, but I am so sick of them and so many other rappers acting as if they’re entitled to everything, then ducking people who question their lyrical content and the imagery they offer the public. It’s very akin to a politician who can’t give a straight answer. For two people forever shouting about bitches, it’s about time they stop acting as such.

I hope she invites each of them to her show next season. After an hour of talking to her on national television about her views on hip hop and its effect on culture, I’m sure they’ll end up regretting it.

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A friend filled me in about a promotion going on over at 24 Hour Fitness. You sign up online for a free ten day trial pass. I’m thinking this is great for me. I’m poor. I want to get fine(r). What a combo!

As I’ve mentioned before, I’m not the most active person. When I’m back in Houston, I will usually go to Rice stadium and run the three mile track and run the stadium steps. But, I’m in Houston about as much as Santa Clause, so I’ll get a quarter of a calf muscle that will hold on for dear life as I trek up and down the hills atop Howard University for nine months out of the year.

Not sure if I’ve ever mentioned this, but I used to be quite the fat ass.

Heavy D, are you the father?

I used to be likened to:

170 pounds in the 7th grade. Short as hell. Lucky for me I was quick witted with a sharp tongue and a lot of venom to spew (thanks Mom and Dad). If not, I might have had even more problems back in middle school.

A few years and fewer pounds, and much needed additional inches in height later:

Trimspa, baby!

Now that the extra 800 pounds are gone, I want to tone everything up. Y’know, preserve the sexy. Despite suggestions, I’m really not looking to gain an absurb amount of weight. It will just give me flashbacks of scarfing down a jumbo-sized Ultimate Cheeseburger combo wito two fried tacos for dessert. I want to gain just a little bit of muscle; enough to lift up my student loan debt. On second thought, that would make me Hercules. But you know what I’m getting at.

I had weight training in the Spring, but modest improvements at best were made. Didn’t help that the teacher didn’t like me. I mean, ok wearing a Beyonce t-shirt to class wasn’t the best idea, but when I went to class, I always worked out. I sweated and everything! Hater.

I’ve debated on whether or not I should just work hard and when it’s time to reap the benefits, I could get muscle transplants. But who knows how long that will be. Plus, after looking at some of my older relatives, I’m motivated to live a healthier lifestyle.

Well, thanks to 24 Hour Fitness, part of the plan is deferred for the moment. I stroll on in, looking at the well lit room full of sweaty ass people. People on treadmills. People on Stairmasters. People on machines that umm do things to make you stronger (hey, I said the coach didn’t like me, so I don’t know the terminology). People using dumbbell. Then there’s me, the dumbbell who thought they would actually value my coupon.

The assistant manager shows me around the place. You know, gets me all hyped up, and then tells me know once we sit back down that this coupon isn’t valid. He says if I pay $50 I could get a student pass. Yeah, I don’t have $50 to give you. And, I’m going to New York in a few weeks and there’s no 24 Hour Fitness there, so what’s the point in me singing Jodeci outside the bus station to raise enough funds to pay for this temporary membership if I’m not going to get my money’s worth?

Then he asked me why haven’t I joined a gym in D.C. I’m poor. He asks how many times do I eat a day while in D.C. I tell him maybe once or twice. “Why is that? That’s really bad.” Well I’m poor. It be’s that way sometimes, pimpin. He said I should eat 5-6 small meals a day. Who has that kind of time and that much money? Maybe I can buy a box of Ritz crackers (the saddity kind) and just munch on those all day. Will that count?

He was kind enough to let me work out that day. Felt good to work out. Too bad that feeling won’t return for a couple of weeks until I’m in New York with a paying gig and a dorm with a gym accessible with an NYU ID.

I can see why people in Houston decide to just eat an Asian salad from McDonalds and call the walk from the car to the house (Houston is a natural sauna) their workout.

In the meantime, I’ll just keep running like the po po’s are chasing me at the track and lift my niece up and down like she’s a free weight. Or maybe one of you readers can loan me your old Tae Bo tapes.

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Before I head back to New York for another summer (details soon), I’m back home in Houston to relax, not hurt my father, try really hard to not hurt my father, drive my brother’s car and pray there’s nothing in the car that will get me arrested, tell my niece she’s the most beautiful girl in the world over and over again, listen to my mom say “know what I’m saying?” and ask her if she’s been hanging around my brother too long, eating at Pappadeaux’s, not hurting my father, and catching up with old friends that don’t have records.

But, if there’s one thing you do in Houston, it’s go to the club. On Wednesday’s it’s the Roxy.
Gold teeth everywhere. Not many people particularly dressed up. Pretty much a if I dress my jeans up enough I bet they won’t even notice I’m wearing house shoes sort of affair.

They had Dallas rappers there. *shudders* MC Gray or something. I don’t know. I’m not that interested. He did some dance called the guitar.

Now extend your left arm out, then take your right and pretend to be strumming a guitar like you’re a seven year old emulating a rock band for the first time. Then move your right leg a little, do your step. You can even walk with it like you’re actually on stage somewhere. That’s the guitar. Creative I know. And I can do it all by myself. Take that, snap dance.

Now of course even though I’m mocking it I sure did it at the club. I wish I could say I was a little inebriated, but that would be a lie. I’ll probably do that stupid little dance tomorrow at 8:45 in the morning, then maybe around 2:15 in the afternoon, and certainly at 10:30 en route to the club because I don’t know any better.

Back to the gold teeth. I don’t mind grill, but wow, not really my scene anymore. It’s cool and all, but you know, I can’t do that all the time. That’s kinda too much like…

I will give my people credit, though. It wasn’t any of us acting the fool last nite. Random white people found their way into the Roxy. I thought they stopped frequenting the place in the late 90s. Apparently not.

As ignorant as this sounds, I was happy to know it was someone not black getting arrested for being an idiot last nite. Some random blond, clearly influenced by Lindsay Lohan, dipped her face in powder before she entered the club. You know how people stage dive? Well, this club doesn’t have a mosh pit. You’re at club blasting bounce, H-Town music, and Young Jeezy. Do you really think someone is going to carry you in their arms while they do the ratchet? I turn around and I see a blond hit the floor…hard. I’m thinking they pushed her down. No. The high dropkicked her to the floor. What does the blond crackshell do? She gets up and gives it another go. Ouch. Then she wipes her nose (surprise) and lifts her shirt to flash people. She’s then arrested by HPD.

She beat out the retarded old man in his Sunday’s best from 1983 who kept moving his pelvis back and forth with his two hands in the “Gimmie some” position to every song played hour after hour. Nothing like a “spechul” man to make you want to put that drink down..well after you gulp it down. No sense in wasting money.

All and all, a fun nite was had. It will probably the only nite I spend there for a long time, but it was cool for a Wednesday. Nothing like dancing around with one of the very reasons you left Houston in the first place. Now it’s time for M Bar and Visions where I can see people inspired by the superficialities of Los Angeles dance to the exact same tunes.

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Kelly: (Tears) I could never be as good as you.
Beyonce: (Tears) No way in hell. You’re not even good enough to dip my Popeyes biscuit in honey. Sucks to be you, number two.

About a month or so ago, promosquad leaked a couple of tracks from Kelly Rowland’s sophomore effort, titled My Story. Her story seems to be more horror than fairytale. Just about every track with the exception of one made me envy the deaf. “What It Do” was a “What It Don’t” and almost warranted Kelly to receive an official ban from the city of Houston. “Ghetto” made you want to move to the suburbs. “Still In Love With My X” gave you the idea to delete numbers from your SIM card. And I can’t forget the very dated “Gots To Go,” which features two female rappers (I probably already lost you with female rappers) that haven’t had hits in years – (St)Eve and Da Brat. Da Brat kicks off the song with saying “Welcome to the beautiful world of Miss Kelly Rowland.” It’s a small world after all.

“Gots To Go” was intended to be Kelly’s first single. If you scroll down, you’ll find a link to Kelly’s performance of the track at the MTV Asia Awards. Click at your own risk. The performance wasn’t that horrible. It just wasn’t that good either. Maybe it’s the Ike Turner/Lauryn Hill wig that keeps throwing me off.

I don’t want to be completely negative. She did have one good song in “The Show,” featuring Tank. So there you have it: one small gem in a sea of pointy rocks you dare not touch.

Now after bad reviews from fans and critics alike comes word that Kelly’s album has been officially pushed back until 2007.

“We want to make sure our marketing strategy is a multi-tiered approach that capitalizes on the synergies afforded by her other projects,” [Mathew] Knowles tells Billboard.

That’s a cute way of saying we need to find another gimmick for this chick.

Asked if more songs will now be recorded for the pushed-back set, Knowles says, “If she finds a better song or songs to add, we’ll use them. But that’s not the reason for changing the date. [Everyone] is pleased with the record Kelly made.”

These people sure do know how to lie, don’t they? No wonder they get sued so much. With My Story Star Jones is more likely to be chosen as a Playboy Playmate than that album has a chance of going platinum. On second thought, make that Al Reynolds. Not to mention she was about to be bitch slapped down the charts by her former bandmate, LeToya Luckett.

People all the time cry that the Knowles cult doesn’t really care about Kelly. That it’s all about Beyonce and that Kelly will never achieve her full potential if she sticks with that camp. Well…yeah maybe so. But you have got to give it them this time. They threw her a bone. So best of luck to you, Kelly. You’re going to need it. Right now LeToya is in a much better position to take the “Destiny’s Child member not named Beyonce we care somewhat about” crown.

Speaking of Beyonce, news has surfaced that we’ll be treated to a new Beyonce album in September. I’m sure it will get pushed back a couple hundred times, but no matter. Bouncy is coming back!

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I was reading a short interview with Rhionce, that focused on how the “singer” won’t let fame get to her large fivehead so she won’t end up strung out like her idol, Whitney Houston.

The “Pon De Replay” singer, who sang Houston’s For The Love Of You to clinch a deal with rap mogul Jay-Z, is horrified by recent reports of Houston’s descent into a life of drink and drugs.

Why would anyone sign Rhianna to a record deal for butchering a song covered by Whitney Houston? Was she butt ass naked when she sang this in front of Jay-Z? Was Mr. Biggs AKA I Lust For Young Women Seventy Eight Years My Junior Ronald Isley there to give his approval of what I’m sure was a monotone soar throat sounding mess that could possibly cause one’s ears to bleed? She’s a cute girl. I like the video for “S.O.S.” I’m digging her tribute to Verne Troyer by becoming Beyonce’s real life Mini-Me. But, I’m a bit confused as to how anyone could sign her after listening to her sing that song. Whitney could be high, drunk, and fresh from getting dropkicked in the neck and still sound ten times better than Rhianna singing the ABC song, let alone “For The Love Of You.” I’m betting she ponned more than the replay.

Click here to see why more people like Beyonce.

Kelly should give either Lauryn Hill and Ike Turner their wig back. After that, she should fire whoever told her to go out there and perform that awful song that way. If Kelly doesn’t step it up, the world will be telling her she gotsta go. We should be screaming at her for that song, not the other way around. Whooooooa.

According to Khia, she has a collaboration with Janet Jackson dropping this summer. What some people won’t do to get a buddy to go with them to the buffet.

And just when you think it can’t get any worse, Jadakiss records a song with Paris Hilton. Jada, this is exactly WHY your ass is wack.

What a way to kick off the week.

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I head over to Sala Thai on U Street over in Hell (or Washington, D.C., take your pick) to have lunch with one of my good friends that’s graduating (unlike me…kicks self). As we’re leaving, we are greeted/yelled at by a man sitting on the hot cement near Subway. He asks for money. Realizing that just two days prior I had to pick dimes out of a cup to buy water at the corner store, and that this little meal was a late birthday gift, I had nothing to offer, unfortunately. But my friend, always giving, offered her food to the man. He looks at her and asks, “What is it?”

No, negro (and that’s not the n-word I’m really thinking). That’s not how it works. I mean, sure, if she had offered you dog food, or worse, something from Taco Bell, I could see you saying, “You know what, I’m broke, hungry, smell, and living near an overpriced sandwich shop…but you know what, I’m good.” That would make more sense. But to turn down a nice meal, to quote somebody’s cousin (I just don’t want to act like I’m the one saying the word), “Nigga is you crazy?!”

No you’re not crazy. You really just wanted a dollar or twenty to go buy crack. Just a few streets up and a few months prior, I was greeted by some man who has either pop locking or thirty seconds into convulsions ask me for change. I was broke then, too, but I wanted to help the man out. I try to ask the cashier for change for a five. She looks at a stack of singles and says, “No. We don’t have change.” I look at her like the hateful wanch she is and just go ahead and get two snacker sandwiches and give him the food and the change. After walking across the street, I swear that crackhead threw my bag down. If it hadn’t been heavy traffic and I wasn’t rushing to be somewhere, I would have gone back and got that sandwich.

Punk ass crackhead. You know, some people say you need to understand that the lack of opportunity in this city has spawned this nihilistic mindset in many of the area residents, so they in turn look to drugs as a means to escape their problems, blah blah blah. Fuck all that. My minor in sociology means my head understands that. My stomach, which is growling profusely, is telling me I need to go fight that crackhead (I know crackheads can fight, I ain’t never scared). I just gave you almost three dollars and a sandwich. You better eat that shit.

Just like that crackhead who turned his nose up at my friend should have taken the Thai food.

I cannot stand D.C. bums. They’re rude. You give them money, they look at you like you robbed them. They’re crazy!

It’s times like these where I wish I was in New York. There the bums have talent and will perform for you to get money. They’ll open doors for you. They’re more appreciative. And hell, I know they would have eaten that Thai food, then found someone else to help them get high. And they most certainly would’ve eaten that KFC Snacker sandwich, too.

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So by the time I realized the Mike story was a hoax, I didn’t feel like deleting the entry. Why? Hey, I’ve been holding off that material out of respect for the Kang of Pop for some time. I just knew he’d give me an opportunity to talk noise, though. Too bad it ended up being a joke on us.

Sadly, I have to talk about another Jackson now. My beloved Janet. My fourth grade girlfriend. The woman I’ve loved since I was kid mumbling “Controooooool.” What spawned this? Have you been over to her website to listen to her “gift?” The site has loads of pics celebrating her twenty year career. For about ten days now she’s had a counter on the site counting down to her “surprise.” The surprise is some wack ass song called “Weekend.”

“Weekend” makes me yearn for Monday mornings. I don’t think it’s any indication of her new album, but it’s one hell of a way to kill the buzz for it. The song samples Debbie Debb (Yep someone had to fill me in on who that is…and I’m still not entirely sure) and recalls the same b-boy era of hip hop sound (Too young for that, too) as the really annoying LL Cool J and J.Lo track, “Lose Control,” which samples Afrika Bambattaa.

I can tolerate “Lose Control” when compared to “Weekend.” The latter just sounds like really bad 80s music. Janet, I hate to say it, but perhaps it’s time you give Renee a call. If it’s too hard for you, I’ll dial for you.

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