Since I have a penis, I’ve decided that it’s time I start giving unsolicited advice to people in need of guidance and are willing to take it from anyone audacious enough to give it with authority. Speaking of dicks, I’m pretty sure I could film myself walking around holding mine while screaming “I’m playing! I’m playing! I’m playing” and some people will swear on their blood types that I’m not. Ah well. I can’t help the fool, only try to help and if they refuse to listen, point and laugh and move along.
In any event, if you don’t my play cousin, Satire, this new column will make for a great introduction. If you’re already familiar, well, click above and play along, why don’t you? Enjoy, and oh yeah, send questions. C’mon nah, please.
When I close my eyes, I can picture the recording process. India Arie has candles lit all across the recording studio that as legend has it, Tammi Terrell once took a piss in on the way to Berry Gordy’s house. There’s a spread of Palmer’s products near the recording booth. For inspiration. The lights are dimmed and soon India takes a deep breath to reflect on the sweet aroma of strawberry kiwi incense and the cocoa butter cure for stretch marks encompassing the room. With these smells now consuming both her and her spirit, she opens her mouth to sing the lyrics that I’m sure she is convinced presents another beautiful expression of the great emotion we call love.
Meanwhile, I’m laughing at my ass off at the just name of this song alone, “Cocoa Butter,” and the sample lyric I see on my Twitter timeline, “Your love is like cocoa butter on my heart.” Such laughter only intensifies upon actually hearing the track.
Maybe I haven’t frequented enough soul vegan restaurants, but India Arie’s “Cocoa Butter” is one of the corniest things I’ve ever heard. Wait, I’ve had an awesome Frederick Douglass burger before, let me not do my meatless people like that. India Arie probably still eats pork anyway.
In any event, I love cocoa butter as much as every other Negro with visible scars. And while I’ve been told shea butter may be the better move, if you’ve had stretch marks, issues with uneven skin tone along with every other issue I’m currently reading off my own cocoa butter-centered product, you understand cocoa butter’s importance. Still, to use that as a metaphor to signify a relationship gets a “Girl, I guess” from me.
I feel like India Arie has been making the same song over and over again. This is like “Brown Skin” only now she’s revising the song structure to mirror a product for brown skinned people. I should also point out that “Cocoa Butter” is the first single from India Arie’s forthcoming album, Songversation. She needs to rub some cocoa butter lotion on her ideas because they’re sounding ashy as hell.
I’m on to you. I can’t wait for the remixes by way of the Twitter:
“Our love is tight like the condom on my dick.”
“Your love is like DayQuil for my common cold.”
“Your love is good like the Gillette on my pits.”
“Your love sanitizes me like the clear gel on my hands.”
“Your love controls me like the remote for my cable box.”
“Your love checks me like the red line on my Firefox.”
“Your love is tasty like the skin on a chicken.”
“Your love is like Beyoncé Knowles performing at the Super Bowl.”
“Your love is loosens me up like lubricant on my…” alright now, you get the point.
And no. Just no. Now let me go turn on Next’s “Butta Love” to cleanse.
So this happened. At first I couldn’t figure out why this deranged 12-year-old from 1996 was randomly tweeting me a threat. Then it hit me that it was probably the post I wrote about Lil’ Kim the other day. Or it could’ve been this post. Or this one. Or that one. Maybe the piece I wrote for EBONY.com last year. Whatever it was, clearly this crazy sum’bitch to become quite upset with me.
When in the business of speaking your shit to earn your supper, you get used to be told that you ain’t shit, ain’t ever been shit, will likely never be shit or are a piece of shit in return. It’s the circle of shit, if you will. When I was writing political pieces every week for AOLNews.com, I routinely got emails from cranky conservative white people who saw me as Assata Shakur’s long lost ornery son — and in some cases her ornery gay ass Black ass son. Insert more racism and all sorts of vileness here. I’ve also had numerous insults directly sent to me within this space and all of the other various places my writing has appeared.
So I’m used to people having words for me, though none have ever been on some “stay inside fo’ I kill you, bitch” sentiment.
After I saw this post, I initially thought to say something like “Fuck you, fuck the bitch that bred you, and fuck whoever didn’t lock up their wifi, which outlawed your Internet thug ass to keyboard goon.” I opted not to, because well, it’s not worth it. In fact, I feel bad for anyone who not only makes a celebrity the centerpiece of their life – to the point where they want to inflict bodily harm on a complete stranger if someone speaks ill of them – but does so for a celebrity who star is more faded than a pair of acid wash jeans from 1986.
Whoever didn’t hug that ridiculous, jello-nose loving asshole in his or her youth, you failed us all. All that said, fuck this idiot. Before I ended up making fun of this psycho in real time on my timeline, I definitely reported their tweets to Twitter directly. I went outside this weekend and will be outside tomorrow and every day thereafter, but anyone so stupid enough to make a traceable threat for the world to see is not worthy of the service.
Even gang members and drug dealers on social media use codes. How do you have the nerve to be both dumb or crazy? You can only be one or the other. There is no sense in trying to overcompensate when it comes to flaws.
I like Kimberly Jones, circa before all this bullshit happened, and I wish her and her Batman-villain manufactured body well. But rest assured, if she’s doing something ridiculous and/or awful and I am so inclined to write about it, I will continue to.
The wonderful Jackée was the inspiration behind a recent gallery I wrote for Complex.com, “The Top Former Sitcom Stars on Twitter.” If the above tweet should easily answer why that is. Oh, I just love her.
Even more now that she actually read the gallery and liked it. Now I just need to figure out how I can get her to agree to be my play auntie. While I brainstorm on how to make that come to be, you can read the list here. Some more of my writing can be found below. Read and share, please.
Oh, Kelly. You and me were doing so well. If you’re a Destiny’s Childogolist, the “Kisses Down Low” video harkens back to Beyoncé’s “Check On It” video, which was inspired by the DC3 video for “Bootylicious,” which nodded to DC 2.0′s “Say My Name” visual. My, my, do my H-Town girls love their splashes of color.
Kelly Rowland looks gorgeous in the clip for her fourth album’s second single, proving once again that cosmetic surgery can do wonders for a person so long as the surgeon doesn’t get too creative. It’s serving you pin-up realness in that Katy Perry, vintage Britney Spears sort of way. I get it, but that’s not what I was hoping for.
What I wanted was something dance-heavy that would give me the kind of choreography I could try to mimic when dancing inappropriate to “Kisses Down Low” in public.
Where is your twirk? What happened to your p-pop? Why aren’t you dipping it low, picking it up slow, rolling it all around, poking it out and making your back go…p-p-p-pop that thang?
I’ve seen you on tour. I know you can do this. Hell, you were just giving us cute face, slim waist, thick thighs, ample backside now watch it glide at the Super Bowl.
Why is that not in this video? I know you said you wanted something lighthearted and flirty since the song is so sexually suggestive. Fine, you didn’t want to take it back to Uncut, but hey, the song is still about oral sex. It’s a fantastic song about fellatio at that. It deserves better!
So Tamar Braxton finally put some beans in that oven, and while I’m happy for her womb, as soon as I read the news I started mourning her sophomore album. Children are great if you’re into that kind of thing, but yo, what does this mean for that hot sugar, sugar? Tay-Tay singing to Epic already prolongs the release of her new project, but between breastfeeding and diaper changing, who knows how long it’ll take now?
I realize harboring these sentiments places me right in the top five of the universe’s ain’t shit list, but you know, if the almighty Beyoncé can still struggle promoting an album during pregnancy, what chance does a mere mortal have? I’m not just selfish, I’m concerned. That makes it somewhat less trifling, right? No, well, I’m entitled to my feelings. I’ll ultimately get over it. Not before I hit publish on this post, though. So, yeah, let’s keep this going.
I mean, I wouldn’t have a problem with Tamar Braxton shooting a video for “Hot Sugar” with a baby bump. I’ve learned over time to stop judging pregnant women in the club. It’s like, so long as they’re not taking shots, shots, shots, shots with everybody, or giving her fetus blunt breath, have at it…in your private section preferably.
I just wanted Tamar to finally enjoy the kind of musical success worthy of her talent. I’ve waited more than a decade for a second album. I suppose another year will be fine. Eh, probably not, but I’ll still buy it, girl. You know I love that voice.
That said, salute to Tamar for announcing her pregnancy by saying “I have a love on top.” #Beyhive ’til she die. And now baby makes two.
Oh and Toni: You can drop the bit about retirement and call Babyface now. If I have to wait until Tamar is done with postpartum (I’m going to hell), you’ve got to carry the weight of the Braxton family’s musical legacy. Yes, again. Sorry, Trina can sing, but not enough are here for acting like Ke$ha’s Black nanny trying to get her groove back as “Black Britney.”
So I like Sharaya J’s track “Banji.” The video works, too. It’s cheapness done right: creative, energetic, and engaging. And if this song and video are any indication, it looks like we may have ourselves a worthy successor to Missy Elliott. Wait, let me fix that. There is potential there though I realize that even with a Missy co-sign and backing, one has a ways to go before truly being worthy of such a title. Cool your crotches, just throwing it out there with hopeful intentions.
With all of that said, I can’t help but think, “And here goes another instance of a Black gay term hitting the mainstream by way of a non-gay Black male.”
Minutes after I watched Sharaya J’s video, a friend hit me up via text asking, “Hey. Am I wrong for being irked by straight women using the term ‘hunty?’ It is beyond annoying to me.”
She followed with an example of a co-worker instantly abusing “yaaaaas hunty” with the new Black gay guy in the office. She assumed that because the dude likes dudes he must’ve been not only knowledgable of the lingo, but uses it all the time. The homie noted how it’s the equivalent of a white person “Being all “yes, girlfriend!’ to Black women. Just stop.”
And much like that white person trying to get you to answer questions about Waka Flocka or Barack Obama, not every colored knows everything there is to know about the ways of the Negro culture. Same goes for the gay boys. Hell, I mentioned this song to a Black gay dude and hit Urban Dictionary before I could explain. Plus as the homie Fresh reminds me constantly, “You didn’t even speak the Queen’s English.” For those curious, I’ve improved by leaps and bounds — making other friends proud in the process. Insert your “yasss” here. It’s fine.
I knew about “banji” because my kin’s friends would call me that in the club years ago. Apparently they thought I was “classy” because of the way I was dressed. To which the kin would bark back, “Who?! That nigga?! Pssh. Wait another hour and a couple of drinks.” I was later told that they would indeed see me later on – singing along to certain tracks, throwing up Hiram Clarke, jigging – and conclude, “OH, he banji like you.” That’s a read.
So yeah, I do find it annoying when straight women go out of their way to throw out a “hunty” in that I’m about to make you my gay pet sort of way, or as my friend noted: “The overuse of any slang is annoying.” Still, I don’t find it that troublesome generally speaking since it’s not done with malicious intent. It’s merely excitement about the something new around them. You can turn it down a few notches before you make a motherfucker deaf, but your purpose is understood.
Now what does bug me about this and instances like it is how it shows you aspects of gay Black culture all over pop culture at large yet we continue to be way in the back. Well, unless we have on a dress. No, that’s not shade, just an assessment of the situation at hand.
I don’t begrudge Sharaya J, but I do boo, hiss at the people who partake in this trend who are in the positions to change such realities but don’t. I’m sure if you turn on Bravo and figure out one perfect example there. Then you can flip to other channels for those with darker interests. The examples are everywhere. It’s too bad I can’t say the same about members of the culture.
I hope this doesn’t come across as ageist, but considering Lil’ Kim is about to run wig first into the age of 39 in a couple of months, why is she getting drunk with Hannah Montana? And isn’t she too old to be misplacing her breasts? I just feel that certain point in life you either learn how to hold your liquor or you keep it light and tight with white wine. Not to mention, Kim purchased those melons so I’m sure her surgeon doesn’t appreciate her treating them like Chapstick.
Sadly, that line isn’t even the worst part about Tiffany Foxx’s aggressively awful track “Twisted.” Make no mistake, I think Kim sounds juvenile as hell on this track and it pains me to see her turn into the auntie you have to flee as she goes to take a piss before she tags along with you and your friends to the club. My, my have doth fallen the fuck off.
Memories, like the corners of my mind. Misty water-colored memories of the way we were.
She looks like an old pro who should’ve cashed in long ago. In my mind, Lil’ Kim should either be still be signed to a major label, dropping a hot single here and there while having other revenue streams in the entertainment industry, or at the very least, rapping sparingly yet remaining undoubtedly rap royalty — while living in Dubai on some oil man’s dime. Or her own ’cause she got it. Girl power.
She was supposed to be Tweety who flies off into the sunlight not stubbornly stumble and end up like Foghorn Leghorn.
And I say, I say we all know that she for damn sure doesn’t look the same anymore, but Kim doesn’t even rap the same either. Are her vocal chords being dragged to the floor by the weight of her hip and ass injections? What is the problem and can we get together and pray about it?
This is worse than Jay-Z spraying Old Spice all over Justin Timberlake’s “Suit & Tie.” I will give one thing to Hov: As much as people give him grief for becoming the Pop-Pop of rap, a few offenses here and there aside, he straddles the line between aging gracefully and being current without being that old nigga in the club better than the bulk of his peers. See LL Cool’s J “Ratchet” and Kimberly in the posted clip.
And what really goats me is that of all people to co-sign, this is who Kimberly finally attaches her name to? Let me get something straight. Lil’ Kim had Nicki Minaj paying her constant homage in the earliest parts of her career. She obviously botched that, but you she got another chance when rising rap star Azealia Banks went out of her way to try and include Lil’ Kim on a track for her mixtape. A track that would go on to be used in an Alexander Wang ad. Yet, she did not pass go and collect $200 on either renewed cultural relevance by way coattailing opportunity, but she co-signs Keys The Problem and the child Jamie Foxx apparently abandoned.
Umm, you need to go look at yourself in the mirror like “What the fuck?”
In the last few weeks I’ve been asked twice if I was interested in going to see Rihanna on tour and twice I’ve laughed loudly at the suggestion before informing each questioner, “I don’t reward bad behavior.” As curious as I am to see Rihanna in concert, I don’t want to pay for it. It’s not about cheapness either. Even if Rih-Rih has absolutely no trouble filling up an arena nowadays, I just can’t bear to pay more than $100 to see a girl perform songs I could do better with the right alcohol level.
For a second, though, I was starting to regret that decision. Thankfully, that’s now over. Oh, girl. What is going on in this first clip? Do you need a B-12 shot? Well, I heard Rihanna might’ve needed some flu medication instead, though you’ve got to admit, this doesn’t look any different from a healthy Rih on stage.
I imagine you probably have an S-class model vagina, Rih, but don’t those come with self-heaters? Why are you rubbing it so much? I’d say masturbate on your own time, but as a pop artist, it’s likely a part of the show. Fair enough, but yo, don’t let your crotch be your crutch.
I don’t want to be a complete, dick. Rihanna’s p-pop and drop have slightly improved. In this second clip she no longer dances like the stripper on the last 15 minutes of her shift. She’s got at least an hour and pair of pennies before she clocks out. Werk?
And when picked her leg up I thought “gon’ girl.” There is nothing like lifting your leg in the air to twirk. The second best thing ever is patting your thigh as you grind to the ground. Or so I’ve heard. Mind your business, people.
And this. This! Did you see the way she dropped and swung that hair? How glorious. Also, how fucking gay am I?
Now if Rihanna were giving me 90 minutes to two hours of that, I’d whip out my check card and add to her booming tour box office the way I did for Beyoncé tickets (after several attempts and $250 later). But you just don’t know with Rihanna. One day she’ll surprise you by giving her all for a performance, the next nine she’ll give you the bare minimum because she knows she won’t face any real consequences for it. I grew up in the Madonna and Janet Jackson eras so anything less than consistency is uncivilized.
You just can’t be fucking with the church’s money like that, you know?
Ugh. I wish Rihanna would dedicate as much time to the performance aspect of being a pop star as she lends to its fame counterpart. I think that more than anything else is why I’ll buy her albums, but not rush to support her monetarily in other endeavors. I’d party with her, drink with her, eat chicken with her (I know you love KFC, Rih, but we’d have to have Popeye’s), or hell finally take a field trip into a woman (we’ve discussed this before).
But pay for her in concert? I am just not there yet. If you’ve got a ticket, I’ll go, but so far, Rihanna’s best work as an entertainer is found on her social media feeds…for free.