Share on FacebookTweet about this on TwitterShare on Google+Email this to someone

This year in music sucked more than Chris Stokes at a kid’s party, but suffice to say, not every artist was completely horrible. There were a few artists with actual talent that delivered quality music, and there were those with marginal traces of ability who were smart enough to align themselves with people who could mask everything they lacked vocally with catchy lyrics and a hot beat. To add a positive spin ’round these parts, here’s a list of albums I enjoyed.

On her first album she rocked a Kool-Aid red hair color, and cursed out her dude like she was ready to pull the blade from underneath her tongue and channel Lorena Bobbit should he decide to get out of pocket with her again. Naturally, I loved it. However, on her sophomore album, a more demure (well for her) Keyshia Cole showed her softer, yet still sad side, offering a much more mature and cohesive effort. A few people miss that certain umph about her (I believe that umph consists of four letter words and racial epithets), but I enjoy Just Like You and I think musically, it’s a step in the right direction for Oakland’s would be Blige.

She may look like life drop kicked her in the skull, and she may act like a retarded kid with a black card, but Britney Spears can still churn out a hot album. It’s unfortunate that her personal life has been on such a downward spiral, because Blackout is by far the best pop album of the year, and a career best for the artist formally known as Britney Spears. I would say her little sister should just re-record this in a few years, but what a difference a pregnancy test makes. Let’s hope Britney pulls herself together, because for all of her faults, she still produces better music than those longing to replace her.

So maybe I’ve been harsh on the girl since this blog’s inception, but I can admit when someone does well. I was expecting this album to sound like that ear-ache inducing “Unfaithful,” but, I was pleasantly surprised with Good Girl Gone Bad. It’s a finely crafted pop album full of singles, and offers a little something for everyone. It also features one of the hottest covers offered this year. If not for this album, I would have probably already snitched to INS about the status of her green card. Nice work, Rih Rih.

By far my favorite album of the year. It’s unfortunate Amy didn’t take Whitney Houston’s “crack is wack” comment to heart, as the singer-songwriter made the album Christina Aguilera tried to make a year ago. Winehouse is an exceptional singer and equally exceptional songwriter. Hopefully, our new Elvira will pull herself together and continue to build on the promise of Black to Black.You can read the full review here, but let me just say Pop-Pop came back in true form with American Gangster. I’m grateful for that, because executive Jay wasn’t doing much for me. 30 is the new 20 didn’t apply to him anyway.

All of ya’ll trying to sneak K-Ci Mary’s cell number need to quit it. Though she lost a bit of her trademark bark and grit, the Queen of Hip Hop Soul is still delivering quality music. Though I didn’t care for it at first, I’ve come to love Mary’s happy ass “Just Fine.” Turn it on again and fake it…eventually it will become real.If we were in the pre-shiny suit era of rap, you would probably know a lot more about Lupe Fiasco. Not every rapper is stuck on gold, hoes, and clothes, and while that’s a good thing for my brain cells when I listen to him, it’s somewhat detrimental to his record sales. Still, The Cool is a dope album, and hopefully, it will help him cross over a little more…even if only modestly.

I’m not quite sure how to describe Janelle Monae, but that’s actually part of allure. If you haven’t listened, Google around, look on iTunes, and check out her EP. I love “Violet Stars Happy Hunting!” mainly because the end of the song reminds me of A Pup Named Scooby Doo. What? It does.

“And if you miss Pimp C, throw up ya dueces and ya tres!”

Share on FacebookTweet about this on TwitterShare on Google+Email this to someone
Share on FacebookTweet about this on TwitterShare on Google+Email this to someone

If anyone sees Raz-B driving a new Accord, we know why. Days after taking to YouTube to accuse his former manager and reported cousin, Chris “Yes, I Really Dress and Style My Hair Like This” Stokes, as a child molesting, money-leeching pervert, Raz-B is now retracting that statement. What a difference a threat makes.

Notice how camera shy the former boy band member has become. That’s a stark contrast from the other hundred videos he and the other former B2K members have posted on Youtube. Judging from him revealing accusations of child molestation to YouTube users versus an attorney, it’s obvious he’s not receiving the best advice on how to handle matters. That’s a shame.

I’m no expert, but I’ve watched enough episodes of To Catch A Predator (two) to get a colored Lou Pearlman vibe from Chris Stokes. Something is just not natural about anyone who dresses like the oldest boy band member alive. Better yet, something isn’t right about a manager releasing a picture of three young boys in their underwear laying next to each other. What should have been deemed child pornography was instead thrown into issues of Right On! and Black Beat because the picture in question featured Immature.

Unfortunately, when it comes to child molestation, my community still isn’t the most supportive, particularly when men are the victims. It’s not surprising Raz-B is being force fed lines (listen to the video closely) to a half-hearted retraction. This is what happens when the fear of ridicule and speculation can consume you enough to let money silence you. Moreover, this is exactly what happens when we let pedophiles get away with stealing people’s innocence so long as they make your body move like a snake.

Share on FacebookTweet about this on TwitterShare on Google+Email this to someone
Share on FacebookTweet about this on TwitterShare on Google+Email this to someone

Thank God for my brother, the hustle, and the hookup: I have a new iPod now. When I told one of my friends that I can get back to walking and twirking at the same time, she responded, “What happened to the last one you had? You’ve had like ten iPods.”

Ok. She has a point. I’ve run through quite a few. The first died of natural causes, and was subsequently replaced with another one just as janky. I’m grateful for extended warranties. I ended up switching it out for the special black and red U2 edition. That was the first summer I spent interning in New York. On the last day of one of my internships I was finally allowed to go on a shoot — this one with Kanye West. Just so you know: That stool he sat in was carried by me. I know: E! True Hollywood Story, look out.

Anyway, I had my iPod attached to the hip and I must have knocked it over in the cab carrying that big ass stool. Thanks to me, Habib is probably banging screw in his taxi right now. A bit impatient and impractical, I just went out and charged another. I curse the people who gave me a credit card almost as much as I curse myself for using it. I should have asked Kanye to buy me another one.

That iPod lasted until this spring.

I was shaving, texting, and dancing to “Sex Shooter” and I dropped my iPod in running water. In my defense, the song is very catchy.

The little thing punked out on me in some water. I tried to see if the store would honor my extended warranty, but said something about it being my fault, blah blah blah. Bitches. I’ve had a mild grudge against them, the area codes 410 and 281, and Appolonia ever since. Well I have no beef with the area codes, but the incident did remind me of why I was always more partial to Vanity. If you don’t believe me, you can ask the pregnant women I made dance to “Nasty Girl” in the street last year. That’s what friends are for!

Electronics hate me, so please say a prayer, wish on a star that I don’t throw this thing in the air trying to superman some hoe, or drop it on the floor trying to rap.

Share on FacebookTweet about this on TwitterShare on Google+Email this to someone
Share on FacebookTweet about this on TwitterShare on Google+Email this to someone

I turned on the radio and heard some Christmas song about rims, Hennessy, and getting crunk. I think I may have blogged about this song before, but I’m not sure — there’s no telling how many songs like this can be churned out every year. Why must I have to hear about hoes, gold, and clothes at Christmas? If we’re going to be ign’t at Christmas, can’t we at least get Soulja Boy to teach us a Santa dance? If not, shut up, and mess up another holiday, because I’m not trying to hear about your pill popping, Trojan gift wrapped Christmas.

Then again, I spent Christmas night at the club last year, so I suppose if you’re going to detract from the sentiments of the holiday, at least get T-Pain to sing the hook.

Now that I’ve gotten my Ebenezer moment out of the way, I wish everyone a Merry Christmas, a Happy Chanukah (But yeah that’s over, sorry for being late), and a Happy Kwanzaa to all three of you who celebrate it.

If you feel like leaving a little money in my Paypal account, I can drop you the address. Or you can send me a vocoder and I can hit the studio and earn enough ring tone money to pay off my loans. Whatever’s clever. Be safe. Be blessed. Be nice to other shoppers, because you could get stabbed.

P.S. If you crack on my curly flat top and my knees, remember: You chickens is ash…and I’m lotion. And yes, I just put some cocoa butter on my knees. Don’t hate.

Share on FacebookTweet about this on TwitterShare on Google+Email this to someone
Share on FacebookTweet about this on TwitterShare on Google+Email this to someone

Every so often I’ve noticed there is an article or twelve published in the mainstream media that seeks to chop Oprah Winfrey down from the very pedestal her criticizers have placed her on. Everything from her comments about beef to her choice to put a plagiarizing author she mistakenly backed on full blast have been placed under a microscope to be heavily scrutinized with her loudest detractors crying, “Just who does she think she is?”

This time, people are whining over the talk show deity’s (well, that’s what that make her out to be anyway) decision to stump for Democratic presidential contender, Barack Obama. There are a couple of articles, namely, “Is Oprah backlash gathering steam?” that speculate for the millionth time if this will be the thing that leads to her downfall.

I wouldn’t bet your money that it does, but it’s funny to see how far this might go. The aforementioned article is particularly funny, because it features quotes from Oprah’s most avid viewers: suburbanites.

Some of these women have taken to Oprah’s official website, making comments like, “I cannot believe that woman all over this country are not up in arms over Oprah’s backing of Obama. For the first time in history, we actually have a shot at putting a woman in the White House and Oprah backs the black MAN.” This comment was made in a thread entitled “Oprah is a traitor.”

I think this person wanted to cap another word, because if this were so solely an issue of gender politics, then there would be no need to preface “MAN” with “Black.”

Then there are others, who dub her support to Obama’s campaign “a manipulation and abuse of power and influence on the American culture.” Pressed much? So basically some people don’t like that she’s used her clout, others hate that she didn’t use it the way they would prefer her to. Because of this, those positive superlatives always thrown before her name have turned sour among some of the faithful, with a few angered fans now calling her narcissistic, power hungry, and sanctimonious.

Has it ever dawned on some of these people that maybe it’s their own fault for having such unrealistic perceptions of who she is? Take blogger, Lisa Ferris, who has spent a lot of time following Oprah’s every move.

On Oprah, Ferris says:

“Oprah is like the girlfriend who comes into your home and chats with you while you fold laundry. Lately she has imaged herself into some spiritual angel mother high priestess…that has made her seem infallible and above reproach.”

Translation: “I like Oprah when she’s talking about her favorite things, or when Tom Cruise is jumping on her couch like a retarded monkey, not when she’s talking about anything of substance.” That type of self-indulgence is fitting for people whose life is fixated on tiles, towels, and tots, but Oprah grew up poor, encountered all forms of abuse, including sexual, and as a perpetual overachiever, managed to build her own media empire, so if she wants to use her money and influence on matters important to her, what’s the big deal? Besides, she’s a talk show host; they’re typically full of opinions anyway. Why are people surprised she’s decided to have one now? If people want to fold laundry and chat, don’t they have Martha Stewart? Yeah buy her towels, just skip the stock tips.

I don’t think Oprah’s narcissistic, but if she were, I wouldn’t be surprised given she blows her nose and the stock of Kleenex shoots up.

Before I’m asked, of course I fear Oprah, and indeed, if she offered me the position of the new Stedman, I’d accept, and contemplate pushing Gayle down a flight of stairs so I can get on her level, but that’s not why I’m taking up for her. I am not a regular Oprah viewer. I don’t know what her favorite things are, but I’m certain I can’t afford to even say them out loud.

Oprah is not above criticism, but criticism over her political convictions, how she spends her money, and how she views herself is annoying. I don’t need Oprah to tell me to pick up a book. I don’t need Oprah to tell me how to vote. I don’t need Oprah to tell me that I should try to do good in the world. Do I appreciate her trying to do that over her leading a Britney Spears death watch like some other media personalities? Uh huh.

As a person with her own mind who has earned her own fortune, she should be free to think and spend as she pleases. She may be using her celebrity to generate public interest in Barack Obama, but she’s not making demands as if she co-wrote the Ten Commandments. She’s enticing people to look further into him, and come to their own conclusion. Apparently some people have yet to process that. Those who feel “betrayed” by Oprah backing Obama need to latch off her bra strap and go finish folding their clothes.

And before it’s implied, no this is not a race thing. It’s more so a you can’t complain about the very power you gave her simply because she’s not using it the way you want her to, you dimwitted sheep thing.

Share on FacebookTweet about this on TwitterShare on Google+Email this to someone
Share on FacebookTweet about this on TwitterShare on Google+Email this to someone

I’m being forced to see this soon, but let me say, these new Chipthugs are not the Chipmunks I grew up loving in The Chipmunk Adventure. With the advent of Youtube, it was only a matter of time before folks started creating remixes. Too bad I didn’t know about it until today. Why didn’t anyone tell me sooner?!

Listen to “Duffle Bag Boy.”

Don’t be saddity: You know that sounds hot. This song fits the Cripmunks new look perfectly. I jigged through the whole song.

Oddly enough, he sounds exactly like T-Pain. You can take these vocals and stick anyone in a video set in a hole in the wall club and this will still make #1 on the Hot 100.

And of course there’s:

This video made my day.

Times sure have changed. Now the Chippetts are doing background vocals to “Pop, Lock, and Drop It.”

Now, if anyone has a link to Papa Smurf rapping to “I Got Five On It,” hit me up!

Share on FacebookTweet about this on TwitterShare on Google+Email this to someone
Share on FacebookTweet about this on TwitterShare on Google+Email this to someone

Sylvia Browne couldn’t predict a breeze during a hurricane, yet she’s invited each and every year to appear on The Montel Williams Show (yeah, I thought it was canceled in the ’90s, too), to share prophesies from her crystal ball of bullshit.

I’m not sure of how the process works you embrace the money hungry habitual liar within, but I think I’ve watched enough Dionne Warwick and Cleo commercials to fake it learn the gift, so indulge me and read my predictions for the New Year. If I get most of them right, I’m sending this entry to Sally Jesse Raphael. That still comes on, right?

Kelly Rowland will re-release Ms. Kelly, and will [finally] get the solo stardom she’s destined for. Hahaha. Sike.

LeToya Luckett will sell more than Kelly…again.

Monica will stop singing songs as if she just came out of the fryer at Church’s, leading her to sell more than 7 albums this time around. (Yes, I’m one of those 7 people who bought The Makings of Me.)

Beyonce will refuse to take a vacation. She will endorse at least three more products, rush out two singles by year’s end, and will find even bigger fans to blow her Indian lace fronts on stage.

Brandy will release a song hotter than her driving record.

Jessica Simpson will continue on her path to becoming white people’s answer to Vivica A. Fox.

Michael Jackson’s weave game will continue to stunt on you hoes.

A Pimp Named Slickback is sure to keep on touting his penchant for both paler women and baby wipes.

The much lauded “meaning” being the title of Nas’ forthcoming album, Nigger, will translate into publicity stunt. Folks will call it deep anyway.

Pissy won’t go to jail, but will be seen at a McDonalds Playland near you. He’ll also release “Trapped In The Closet: Part 27.”

Puffy’s baby mama drama won’t stop, ’cause it can’t stop.

Rihanna will finally find a new outfit not inspired by S&M. She will only get bigger next year. I might stop hating.

T-Pain will be featured on 800 more songs. We will all get one step closer to determining whether or not he’s sprinkling crack on his tracks.

It will dawn on Ciara that no one else is buying The Evolution of Ciara. She’ll meet up with Jazze Phae at a Golden Coral and begin work on a new album.

Britney Spears will prolong her real comeback, opting instead to serve as pop music’s own Elly May Clampett.

Lil Wayne – the best D.A.R.E. ad made stateside – will give even more interviews high, making all non pill-poppers feel good about themselves. His abilities to rhyme words like ‘stork’ and ‘fork’ will keep him hailed as the best in the game.

Look for his British counterpart, Amy Wino, at a corner near you.

Some other little illiterate, non-rhyming teenager will come up with a dance that won’t make an ounce of sense. I’ll do it in the club anyway.

DJ Khaled will keep yelling at us on every song.

The Making of the Band winners will have another hit season, then drop an album, will start moving some units, then Puffy will decide to stop promoting the album, compelled by the spirit to re-release Press Play and boss hog the spotlight.

Share on FacebookTweet about this on TwitterShare on Google+Email this to someone
Share on FacebookTweet about this on TwitterShare on Google+Email this to someone

My Latino brethren, grab your man, because Francisco ain’t living right. This man is living proof that some people don’t need BET, let alone a MySpace account. The status on his MySpace page reads, “People call me the Puerto Rican 2Pac.” More like all around dumb ass.

At first glance, I suppose you would think it’s ‘Pac, considering 1996 was the last year anyone took pictures wearing Tommy Hilfiger, but hopefully most of us know ‘Pac would never wear two pairs of jeans. You can’t do the Humpty Hump with all that on.

It seems “2 Pac,” the postmortem, post-buffet version is majoring in biology, but because of his uncanny resemblance to the famed rapper (sponsored by MAC), he’s thinking about changing careers. In the 20th century people impersonated Elvis and Michael Jackson. This century, I guess it’s 2 Pac’s turn. Tupaco also mentioned a career in porn. Someone might want to warn him to not keep playing around like this. Suge Knight might rob his ass just cause.

Outside of that nose, he looks more like Saddam Hussein anyway.

Share on FacebookTweet about this on TwitterShare on Google+Email this to someone
Share on FacebookTweet about this on TwitterShare on Google+Email this to someone

Looks like all of you bug collectors in lust with Lil’ Wayne (eww) have a new person to spew venom at besides Lauren London (allegedly) and his secret boyfriend Baby. Judging from this new interview ecstasy’s poster child gave to OC Weekly, Wayne has made a new friend.

On a mission to garner himself more mainstream appeal (good luck with that one), the Suessville (by way of New Orleans) bred rapper has decided to add High School Musical star Zac Efron to his ever growing list of collaborators and possible conquests.

Though some might question why Wayne would go this far to spread his name, Wayne doesn’t seem to be concerned.

“I’m just being me,” Wayne insists, leading a tour of his recently purchased oceanfront house, which features a faux-bronze statue of his own nude figure, and a Juicy Fruit-dispensing bathroom attendant who lives on the premises full-time.

Make my day and explain the need for a fake bronze statue of your dick and 24-hour candy girl to me in dummy with money terms.

The rhyming drug addict also shared details on how this unlikely collaboration came about:

“Zac and me was both in San Francisco a few months ago for a comic book convention or something, and we met at an afterparty at some bar,” he says, pausing to break down pieces of pungent pot to roll into a joint. “To get away from these girls that was chasing him, he ducked into the bathroom and I followed him in there. I was like, ‘What’s crackin’, my brother from another mother?’”

A comic book convention? Is that what we’re calling gay bars now? From what I hear about him, I’m sure Zac Effron ran away from those girls as fast as humanly possible. Interesting Wayne couldn’t fight the urge to follow him into a bathroom. Senator Craig would be proud.

Oh, the writer mentions the songs, too:

I wish I could share his enthusiasm, but the songs are a bit jarring, to say the least. On “All for One,” Efron sings the chorus—“Everybody all for one, a real summer has just begun! Let’s rock and roll and just let go, feel the rhythm of the drums. We’re gonna have fun in the sun!”—while Wayne raps: “I’m a dog, you’re all a bunch of fleas on my dick. Driving a Jag, er, like my name was Mick. I’m so sour like cream with chives, and my sperm will make your face break out in hives.”

I’m sure parents can’t wait to hear their children repeat lines about funky spunk.

If Wayne hasn’t lost you already:

“What’s up, my nigga?” Efron says, giving Wayne a pound, a hug, and then, to my astonishment, a full-on kiss, reminiscent of the one Wayne famously gave his surrogate father Baby last year.

Shocker Wayne’s stupidity dictates he be cool with Efron calling him that. Sigh. As for the kiss: Didn’t he say when he kissed Baby, that it’s similar to a child kissing his father? Maybe Zac calls Wayne daddy?

(Obviously, Efron is going to have to work harder to squelch rumors surrounding his sexual orientation.)

He can put in all the hard work he wants and I doubt he’ll ever be as hard as he is with Wayne.

Now, as for you Wayne, fans: Come out, come out, wherever you are.

Edit: I had a feeling the article was Onion-like, but I don’t like Wayne, so I wanted to pop shit anyway. But, the homie, Jason, pointed out the article was indeed a spoof. Damn. That’s ten minutes of my life I’ll never get back. Blah. Pretend the article is real and laugh anyway. Thanks.

But to be fair, I’ll say something nice about Wayne: I like “Duffle Bag Boy.” There. I said it.

Share on FacebookTweet about this on TwitterShare on Google+Email this to someone
Share on FacebookTweet about this on TwitterShare on Google+Email this to someone

I thought really long and hard over whether or not I should touch this. By long and hard, I mean about thirty seconds. Forty five, tops. It’s just that, y’know, it’s kind of obvious DMX has played a lot more with his pipe than his own children lately, but he’s not really of the “funny” crack head variety like Bobby and Whitney, or the crack heads you watch pop, lock, and drop it at the bus stop. He’s more of the this man is crazy, run before he throws piss in a glass at you persuasion.

The hell? What’s good with the growling? Woof, woof? Bark, bark? I guess he is an actor. Maybe he’s auditioning for the Michael Vick biopic early?

“Bam! Bam! Bam! Go down!”

Who wrote that? Not to throw any shade at X fans, but he’s swagger jacking my neighborhood crackhead and schizophrenic, Major, something terrible. I’ve seen him with my own two eyes do the same thing in his church vest and old Bugle Boys jeans (with one of the pants legs rolled up, because he gotta stay f-llllll-yyy). If I catch him at the corner store not having an intense argument with himself, I’m telling him he might want to sue.

Here’s part two of the video. No doubt this was shot after DMX caught up with Britney and Amy:

Oddly enough, for a man who says he can judge people by their eyes, he’s dead in his.

Share on FacebookTweet about this on TwitterShare on Google+Email this to someone