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I’ve long told my friends that I dance like a girl with a burgundy weave; thanks to SGT, I now have proof. Not that any of them needed it, but it’s always nice to have, you know? You can’t see me, but I am listening to the song as I write this post. In fact, I’m about to get up and get back to bopping. It’s very hard to be still to this.

Hold please.



Like, do these girls need a Kickstarter for more studio time? I will happily donate. I’m all about supporting the arts.

This fantastic gem entered my life a few weeks ago and I’ve been obsessing over it ever since. I made the mistake of reading the YouTube comments and I noticed lots of people were hating. Some people just cannot help waking up and being a useless hater bitch. It’s so sad.

I hope these musically gifted young ladies are letting their haters be their motivators. They are not thots, they are twerk ambassadors. Respect them, you bitches.

I’m so mad I wasn’t on the street set when they were filming. I would’ve gladly joined the big girl in the yellow and home girl in those spandex shorts and dropped it on the ground.

And before you respectable Negroes ask, yes, I wondered if they could all read. I said a little prayer to Jesus that they all graduated from high school and at least considered cosmetology school or becoming an astronaut just in case slaying these hoes on the rap scene doesn’t work out for them.

With that bullshit out of the way, let me go back to how great this song. These girls can actually rap. I love the choreography. It’s like the organic chicken wing of dancing, which is how I’ll now be describing my dance style to people for the remainder of 2014.

Ugh, I hope y’all know I’m not being sarcastic. I legitimately love this song. It is everything. So mad it’s not on iTunes. Ladies, please never stop rapping. I am flipping my air Chinese bang to the beat in your honor. Stay Black and blessed!

Back to bopping I go. #birdgang

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Given Keyshia Cole’s last major hit was the one members of the #Beyhive placed upon the back of her head, I’m delighted to know she’s going back to what works for her.

I don’t wish misery on anyone much less the daughter of Frankie Lons, but Keyshia’s music is best when it caters to the following themes: Fuck that nigga. Fuck that nigga, he ain’t shit. Fuck that ain’t shit nigga. Sure, she has her moments when she can offer a gem when she’s singing about the joys of love and sex. The little known track “Hey Sexy” comes to mind. Still, most of Keyshia Cole’s fans – self-included – prefer Keyshia Cole when she’s cursing someone out.

That’s not to say she isn’t capable of singing more lovey dovey songs, but a lot of her decline can be attributed to her trying to sell us an image of herself that didn’t exist yet. It took Mary J. Blige a smooth decade before she introduced “Happy Mary J. Blige” and even then she had suffered some bumps in the road initially. You know, the Love & Life album that y’all didn’t buy. Or the one before it, No More Drama, which was essentially saved by “Family Affair” and “Rainy Dayz” from the rerelease. Whew, white people and old Black aunties and uncles love the hell out of some “Family Affair.”

In any event, Keyshia Cole was trying to serve you Happy Mary J. Blige in less than half the time, only it didn’t work because her “happier” themed reality show (among other things — like her opening her mouth) proved that she was still always two snide remarks away from potentially pulling out the razor blade from underneath her tongue and stabbing you in the neck. Where you at, Oakland?

And God Bless her throat, but it wasn’t made for some of the pop songs she attempted to sing. Girl, that’s not your purpose. The same goes for that one time I saw you sitting by Paris Hilton’s bed looking confused as the MTV cameras role.

That said, while I do think Keyshia Cole is at her best when she’s abrasive, I don’t think that she necessarily has to be angry to offer good, commercially viable music. The same goes for anyone else, including Our Lady of the Somber Bop, Mary J. Blige. Soul music doesn’t have to make you want to slit your wrist after one too many sips of Wild Turkey and Jack Daniels Honey, but it does have to actually be soulful — which requires you to sing from the heart. It you don’t sing it with conviction, consumers are going to know that and not buy accordingly. That ultimately is the larger issue that gets ignored in the sad vs. happy music debate we have about acts like MJB and her Solange, Keyshia Cole.

Keyshia, Mary can get away with singing soulless Christmas tunes made for the department stores of the country versus the hoods of the world because she gave us a whole decade of music we can always go back to. She’s family at this point whereas you remain that play cousin we’re cool with, but still won’t invite over for no more than a few hours.

Which is why Keyshia Cole can quietly continue to move a couple hundred thousand units each release – no easy feat for an R&B artist in today’s climate – but be seen as a declining act all the same. After all, K. Michelle has stolen all of Keysh’s old red packets of Kool-Aid for hair inspiration and won over fans with her mixtapes and album that gives The Way It Is (with a better voice) teases.

There’s room for both, but Keysh, there’s nothing like you singing about a bullshit man with your blend of sore throat-sounding hip hop soul. Maybe you can try that happy thing later. Say, when you actually seem your happiest. Like, many of us have come to accept that Mary is in a different space. We just hope that space incorporates more R&B when it can ala My Life II: The Journey continues. That’s not a common sentiment held for you, though, sis.

Until that changes, stick to songs like “Loyal Freestyle.” Well, without Sean Kingston. That’s not okay and you need to know that.

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Tamar Braxton, K. Michelle, and Kim Zolciak for a smooth five minutes have each proved to the masses that reality TV is a nice way to either reenergize a fledgling music career or temporarily create one despite any signs of actual talent. That said, there have been others – hello, Kelly “I’m Booked” Price and Nicci “Surprised Syleena Never Swung On You” Gilbert – who beautifully illustrate the dangers in showing the persona behind the product. However, those R&B Divas waited to show their asses after netting a few plaques.

I can’t say the same for Love and Hip Hop star Amina Buddafly, and based on a few episodes of the fourth season of the popular VH1 franchise, I never will. In a recent interview with Power 105.1’s “The Breakfast Club,” radio personality Charlamagne Tha God tried to explain to her manager, husband, and fellow show villain, Peter Gunz, that her music career is effectively over. Peter didn’t want to hear it, but I’d like to tag myself in.

I wouldn’t buy an Amina Buddafly album even if it was wrapped in Popeye’s buttermilk biscuits. Hell, Amina could release a single featuring Jesus, Beyoncé, and Mariah Carey’s 1993 vocal chords and I still wouldn’t click “buy.”

In the very first episode Amina is smiling in Tara’s face and actively telling Peter to stay in bed instead of going to pick up his son from school. Yes, it is ultimately Petere’s fault, but she’s in bed smiling at the thought of Peter ditching his kid to tend to her needs the way Cruella de Vil smiles at the sight of a sad little spotted puppy sleeping on the sidewalk.

I’m all for people living out their truths, but there are consequences. Seriously, how does a struggling R&B singer go on national TV and behave like the disrespectful, wretched side piece that all of the R&B singers complain about on record? That is so not smart.

I mean, perhaps that might work if Amina decided to remake MoKenStef’s “He’s Mine.” On second thought, no it won’t as that would still make her the woman Monifa, Kenya, and Stefanie sang about. Sure, Peter married you, Amina, but he already sounds like he regrets it in the press.

Read the rest at Clutch.

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It’s nothing like the excellence served on All My Ratchets starring the greatest to ever slur it, Joseline Hernandez, but I’ll be watching the new season of Love & Hip Hop, which I’ll now be referring to as Hip Hop Hannibal’s Harem. Full disclosure: In all likelihood, I was going to watch the shit anyway, though at least now I know I’ll be entertained. Much of that has to do with the joy that is Tahiry, but first, let’s begin with Hannibal himself, Joe Budden.

Don’t let his three days after Thanksgiving dry turkey delivery confuse you, Joe Budden is a walking one-man play. He is an Evil Geppetto of Emotion. He literally creates situations where he gets to play Dr. Phil for his own amusement, God complex. I’m so fascinated.

When he purposely riled up Tahiry mere minutes after she sat down for their lunch with no food, I thought, “Ugh! I know sum’bitches like him!” Folks love to get a rise out of me and I absolutely hate, but stupidly give in every single time. As the homie told me via text last nite, “We have all dated a Joe Budden.”

True, but he speaks like prep school Steebie J and gives way too many Silence of the Lambs teases. I’m intrigued, though I want to warn all of the readers: When someone tries to rile you up via a carefully planned mind fuck, raise your two fingers like Celie did Mister and tell that person, “Don’t you Budden me, bitch.”

I’ll chronicle more of Budden’s Jedi dick tricks in the week’s ahead. Dude is far worse than Steebie, whose issues appear sourced in mommy abandoned issues whereas Mr. Budden is kind of like the villain Tyler Perry wishes he could write convincingly. Not sure if you can get that from this interview, which is cool but continues to leave me wishing I had sprinkle it with horseradish mustard, spinach leaves and cranberries for added flavor and a boost in presentation.

Meanwhile, I would like to declare my love of all things Tahiry. She is beautiful, thick, will curse you out if you get out a line, and based on the way she went for Raqi’s head on the season premiere, apparently can kickbox. Some good man needs to wife her now. Of course, if she wants to be married. Not everyone does, you aspiring Tyreseians.

One thing I’d like to say to those of you who shaded her for being a waitress: Shut up.

Being a pinup opens doors, but not necessarily ones to the bank. Publishing remains in a volatile state as it were. And as you can tell from this interview, if she co-signed for things for Budden and  left with the bill, well, a girl’s gotta keep her credit in the Black if someone’s Black ass acts up. Let that be a lesson to us all: Don’t co-sign anything but the hook in that SWV song.

I hope this show opens up more doors for her. Tahiry is like Joseline after she got her self-worth out of layaway and got Rosetta Stone for Christmas.

Also, thank you for introducing the phrase “tweet the cheeks” into my lexicon, Tahiry, xoxo and shit.

Oh yeah, Olivia is still here, largely for decoration. I don’t care for Erica Mena so in all likelihood I’ll use her airtime to go to the bathroom or check on the wings I’m sure to be cooking in the oven. As for Olivia, she hasn’t let go of her entitlement, and I’m caring less and less. I’ll look out for the single, but the show was never carried by her — even less now with the new folks.

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fantasia gay marriage, fantasia instagram, fantasia gay bashes

As a practicing gay, you become accustomed to being blamed for the world’s troubles big and small. If your bitter homegirl can’t get a man, it’s because her hairdresser keeps turning all of the available breeders out. Should a sizable earthquake happen, it’s because the homosexuals have gotten way too beside themselves now that a few secularists have decided to co-sign their call for equal rights. The same applies for hurricanes, heavy rains, speeding tickets, and you getting the burnt biscuit with your five-piece spicy strip combo. And according to Fantasia’s Instagram feed, it’s also my fault that she met somebody’s husband at a T-Mobile store, fell in lust and love, had his baby, and proceeded to brag about their relationship as his wife went “What the fuck?” before deciding to take advantage of an old North Caroline law targeting home-wreckers and sue her ass.

Despite shouts to the contrary, it’s obvious that Fantasia still feels a way about some judging her. Never mind that she publicized the affair and proceeded to further antagonize the public by constantly trying to justify her relationship. Nope, it’s everyone else’s fault that a public person made a private affair public, and as a result, was criticized publicly. And surprise, surprise, since this soulful simpleton wanted to invoke the Bible to pan others’ for their perceived sins as a means to deflect from her own actions, she’s getting judged again, only this time she’s judging back.

As far as the Bible goes, I must’ve missed the part about God hating ganja. Also, as much as I would love to talk context and historical accuracy, re: the six verses that reference the gay in that book, let’s just say if I ever started a book club and thought to invite Fantasia over, she’d have to wait until we got on Patti LaBelle’s cookbook.

I will say this, though: Someone needs to sit her ass down and explain how what anyone else does has no bearing on her actions.

If I’m looking at a picture of Trey Songz from behind, the side, the front, or him just seductively eating some turkey sausage and start singing to myself “Oops, there goes my shirt up over my head. Oh my.” that has nothing to do with her caressing the scrotum of someone else’s husband.

The gays didn’t force you to be Antwaun Cook’s bottom, baybee.

Fantasia needs to come to gripes with what she’s done and move on. Maybe people were a bit too harsh on her — self included. However, get over it or at the very least, blame someone else for your problems in silence. Of the fraction of the fan base Fantasia used to enjoy, a fair share of it consists of gays. We’re the people that will ensure that she can afford white meat forever.

She’s got her nerve riding the rainbow and then taking a piss on it when she’s feeling crabby about her choices.

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And since we’re on Jesus, let us pray that he and all his deity-friends work as a cohesive unit to help celebrities learn what “taken out of context” means.

What she argued was: “Y’all judging me, but look up at all the other unholy shit going on? The gays getting married and people are smoking weed legally.” What did we take out of context? If you’re going to two-step out of that shit with the hopes of getting future Pride weekend and Ru-Paul’s Drag Race bookings, start by admitting what you said and apologizing accordingly.

Otherwise, shut up. Her head is as thick as the bottom of half of her because she fails to see that if she had kept things to herself starting two years ago it would’ve only been Aunt Bunny telling her she and her married boyfriend are in the wrong. I hope Fantasia manages to bounce back with her music career and come to a place where she doesn’t need to pop one too many Advil PMs to deal (sincerely), but she needs to learn when to shut the fuck up. After a while, you get sick of artists who need your kind for varying reasons pretend to be down for you only to show you how they truly feel later on.

Bottom line: Illiterates ain’t shit and they ain’t saying nothing, a hunnid motherfuckers can’t tell me nothing. I’ll be in that ass, beez, beez in that ass.

God bless, though.

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I am not exactly a B2K fan so the thought of a B2K reunion doesn’t especially excite me. They don’t have New Edition’s talent, or frankly, New Edition’s anything. B2K certainly doesn’t have the catalog of groups like Jodeci or Boyz II Men either. What they do have is what always kept me open to the idea of at least entertaining them: aesthetic value. Namely Omarion’s assets, J. Boog’s…I don’t know, I saw some flicks of him on Tumblr and there’s definitely a talent there (see: Omarion), and Lil’ Fizz’s everything.

I had the biggest crush on Lil’ Fizz. He talked at the speed of someone moving in a wheelchair with one arm, but dammit if he wasn’t the cutest thing to me in their prime. Judging from this shot, unless that’s some Instagram magic my BlackBerry owning ass (shut the hell up, I’m gonna replace it soon) can’t pick up on, he’s still pretty damn cute. It’s just something about that perpetually blank expression on his face that does something to me. It’s like a sexy warning about the problem with rampant marijuana usage. I even love the fact that he never took off his shirt like his fellow pimped out bandmates. Not even because that left an element of mystery. I think we know what the mystery was: He still act Jack in the Box as opposed to steamed veggies and grilled chicken breast everyday. I can appreciate that. In my mind, if push came to shove (or the bellies rubbed too much) we could always run some miles together.

It’s good to see them together again minus that poor little touched boy after those years of presumed bad blood. But yeah, I don’t see it for them with respect to a musical reincarnation. Not that they have announced one. The picture merely spawned speculation. Don’t encourage that, though, y’all.

There’s really no place for them. Well, unless they learned to sing or something. Nasally singing and noisy raps are for texturizer using teenaged Black boys. And judging from my nieces, Mindless Behavior is all the rage and Bow Wow is currently raging because he refuses to accept that the world no longer wants to hear him spit Da Brat’s hot fire.

I do have one idea for these young men. How about the next time they’re together – particularly in a studio – they just turn the camera on and see what happens. For fun, let’s add lots and lots of Ciroc to the set. Peach Ciroc in particular as that’s the one you can drink straight and not taste a single ounce of alcohol. Meanwhile, we’ll have what I’m listening to as I write this – Jodeci’s Diary of a Mad Band – playing in the background.

You know, to set a relaxing mood and such. We should also totally lock the door and have a a sign, “NO GIRLS ALLOWED.” On some He-Man Woman Hater’s shit for that ass. Speaking of ass, I think by now you’ve pretty much figured out what my idea is. I actually am not even a great fan of the adult form of entertainment, but as Tumblr (by way of Fresh) has brought to my attention, it certainly has a redeeming quality if you let go and let gif.

Oh, can you just imagine the kind of gifs this production would generate? Think of the possibilities, boys. Also, cut the check because if I didn’t know any better, I think I just wrote the treatment for my first porno.

Don’t worry about thanking me, just get to work.

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Hello, hell. You look a lot harsher than I ever imagined. Don’t get me we wrong: While I think the trailer of this show will prove to be all the rage on You Tube and World Star Hip Hop, I seriously doubt any network will order it to series. Then again, strangers things have happened. As have worse shows. Regardless of whether or not it does make it to the telly, one thing is certain: Similar pilots like will be shot. I find that quite horrific. However, I can’t be too pious about the matter because it’s people like me that are responsible for it happening.

I watch The Real Housewives of Atlanta, The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, The Real Housewives of New York, Mob Wives, Basketball Wives, Basketball Wives: Los Angeles, and Love & Hip Hop. I have seen several episodes of The Real Housewives of New Jersey, The Real Housewives of D.C., The Real Housewives of Orange County, and The Bad Girls Club (which is awful). My Catholic guilt gene sometimes makes me feel sorry for things that I shouldn’t, but in this instance, I’m very much culpable. Even still, doesn’t The Mistresses of Atlanta sound trashier by comparison? Granted, mistress is a more appropriate title for many of the woman on the “wives” shows, but something about a show themed around infidelity hoe shit seems so…okay, fine, I’m not going to win this argument so I’ll move along.

From what I read, one of Drake’s ex-girlfriends is featured on The Walking Mattresses of Georgia. Just what the world needed: Another ex of Drake showing her ass on national television, potentially spurring more melodramatic lyrics from Droopy about the perils of fame. At this rate it won’t be long before The Real Cum Stains of Coke Rap is shot. After that, we can anticipate The Jezebels of Jig Music. Then once those two shows become huge successes, we’ll get the spin-off called The Jaws of Rap. No wait, it’ll be called Jocks & Jaws or Hoop Hoes. Whatever, this all makes me wonder whether I should retreat a bit on some of my viewing habits. I’m displeased that I even feel compelled to entertain such a question. I hate this new show already.

Now on a slightly unrelated matter, I’ve noticed quite a few criticism about the current direction of that Negro Telenovela now airing on BET. Many place blame at BET’s unpolished feet for the injection of various aspects of hood shit. Well, y’all need to quit it ’cause that’s not their fault. I have no reason to run to their defense, but those who make those allegations ought to look at their other original comedies and compare and contrast. If BET wanted to King Triton the crew at Sports Goes Soap to “color” up their show, they would have done the same to the other ones.

If anything, BET has become hypersensitive about past criticism and tries too hard to avoid doing anything that might cause the hair on the back of Jesse Jackson’s neck to stand. I hate it, because now I won’t ever find out why Rick Ross was smoking weed on camera (in this instance at least). I don’t give a damn if he’s getting high; just show a sad commercial of a crack head after with a stern warning. It’s probably more entertaining than a lot of these positively bad “positive” shows my remote control refuses to acknowledge.

I still don’t want to see On Call Asses of Atlanta, though. Nu uh. I have my limits. We all should.

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There’s a good an explanation for this lacefront, I swear. Before you dare even think it, no, it’s not mine, and please, I do not cross-dress. I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with that if you elect to make that one of your favorite pastimes. See what had happened was: I was kind of drinking a lot and doing hoodrat shit with my friends. After we gathered ’round the table to talk 2012 resolutions before a bountiful plate of some bomb ass nachos. Then while we made our way to the host, Mimi’s, bedroom to see its glorious transformation, I spotted the wig. Mimi, being the quintessential bad influence, told me, “Wanna try it on?” I was ambivalent and then she said, “Do it!” So I did.

I immediately thought of Funky Dineva and said, “My hair is layed” like Michael Jackson’s last years.” As soon as I threw that wig on I felt like I had been hit by a smooth criminal, ready to check on Annie’s little young pasty self and see if she was okay. I was named after the King of Pop, after all (my mama since claims that she named me after Saints Michael and Joseph, but my sister broke it down) so there’s nothing wrong with a delayed tribute. Well, besides dancing in the heat to “In The Closet” (for the record, Naomi snatched MJ’s thunder a whole bunch in the clip) on a public sidewalk.

Fresh says I look like Venus and Serena. I imagine if my mama saw this she’d say I looked more like a mortal sin. Or are those terms mutually exclusive? Kidding. Don’t wanna beef with Canada Dry or  Chicago’s Deepest Dish. I might as well be able to make fun of myself. The student loan corporations sure are doing it. Anyway, so feel free to point and laugh…now ’cause this shit will never happen again. Never. That is, unless someone offers me $20 million to do it. Or get me drunk enough. Then again, the economy might force me to go snatch Mimi’s wig from her place and make it do what it do.

I will never put on a bra, though. If I didn’t wear one when I actually needed it, I won’t be doing it now.

Now as I go debate whether or not I’m out of my mind for posting this, get into Funky Dineva, he who rocks that shit much, much better. My favorite clip is below the hood.


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If you watch VH1’s Love & Hip Hop Rap & Relations, you saw Kimbella’s ass greet her old friend, the ground, once again following a track snatching themed brawl with one of her fellow reality personalities on the show. In Kim Vanderhee’s defense, she did precede that fall with a moving tribute to the fighting style (if you can call it that) of Evelyn Lozada. Her adversary this time was Erica Mena, another model who boasted of taking part in New York Fashion Week, hair care campaigns, and you know, other gigs that don’t involve ass cheeks and titty tantalizing. What’s that covering Kimbella’s light? Erica’s shade, of course.

While I’m not exactly Kimbella’s biggest fan given the way she opted to symbolically slap the taste out of Emily’s mouth with her sexual past (that includes Em’s baby daddy), this incident wasn’t her fault. She was being polite to that over eager beaver who came there with the sole intention of picking a fight with her as the cameras rolled. Then Emily had the nerve to call the laws after. To quote the great Pimp C, “You ain’t no pimp, you a fairy.”

If all of that weren’t bad enough, now this model turned aspiring singer is babbling to TMZ about how her appearance on The Real Housewives of Hip Hop has derailed her career. She told the site, “My whole image in my career is now affected by this. I wanted them to pull this clip because I don’t want to show this side of me.”

This is the same person who shook her breasts in the face of another woman during a business meeting. The same person who picked a fight and proceeded to threaten the woman on camera. See a pattern here? I bet the producers of this show did when the first interviewed her in casting. I imagine Erica was proud of her stunt up until she looked at her mentions on Twitter and realized more people prefer her showing her ass in a thong over showing it via a fight with Juelz Santana’s lady. Oh well. Her bad.

You would think she’d know how to act by now. According to my own mentions on Twitter, Erica used to work as an “employee” of Dash on Kourtney & Khloé Take Miami. And my friend Google filled me in on some of her modeling work:

Word to the wise, Erica: Telling Kimbella you’re on a higher level than her because you got to lay on your back for King while Kimbella tooted it up for Black Men is like someone munching on dark meat from Church’s Chicken telling me I’m not worth shit for ordering wings and shrimp fried rice from the hood carryout a few blocks up.

If your aim was to transition into singing you should’ve went on this show acting like the person Olivia refuses to be. You either let the producers gas you up or you should really retrace your K-12 education and figure out where your critical thinking went wrong. Whatever the issue is, it is your own. This show’s ratchet levels were just fine without you. If you want to go, please. In fact, your segment could’ve gone to Somaya Reece, who I noticed is complaining about much of her footage being left on the cutting room floor. I can’t blame her. I would want to have my story of crawling out of the attic chronicled, too. Wepa! Or you know, whatever “gon’ girl” means in Spanish.

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Say hello to my first quasi-celebrity crush. Actually, that’s probably Will Smith, but Omar is the first person I saw on TV that I recall really doing his part to lend credence to the theory that girls are icky. That makes it more special, right? Why yes, yes it does.

Some of you might remember this image still from his appearance in TLC’s “Creep” video. Others might recognize him as one of Janet Jackson’s dancers. The one Damita Jo was fortunate enough to crotch grab in the “If” video, to be exact. If none of this rings a bell to you, that means you were born in the 1990s and are trying to make me feel like an old man versus the young-ish one that I am. Gon’ somewhere . Ye ain’t ’bout to make me feel bad, pimpin’.

Anyway, during that time both my sister and I had a crush on Omar. I’m pretty sure she didn’t know I was coveting him more than she was, but oh well.  This would be the perfect time to throw out the lyric “I may be young, but I’m ready,” but unfortunately since I was barely alive at the time of my first Omar sighting it would be inappropriate to do so. I guess. Shucks. I’m free to talk about it now, though.

Look at him. Meet my prototype. Is he not the perfect introduction to sin?

Mark my words: One day when I’m a regular on TV and promoting my projects I’m gonna show up in a t-shirt with an image of Omar Lopez from the janet. tour book on it. Don’t tell my mama that. I left that tour book back home and she’d probably drown it in holy water or old bacon grease to spite me. I’m kidding! Maybe. No matter because I’ll also pay tribute to him in the acknowledgements of my very first book: “I love you, Omar Lopez! Thank you  for sending me on my first mental field trip to gayland.” Or something to that effect.

Apparently, these days Omar is a yoga instructor in West Hollywood. Yes, I have thought about grabbing a yoga mat and stretching for serenity in his presence. Sadly, I have yet to go through with it due to fears that such a move would have me teetering on Courtney Love levels of crazy.

That’s too bad as I’ve seen recent pictures of him and he’s still fine. Damn fine, to be specific. Is there no one in this city that can’t push me directly in front of him? Heaven, I need a hug.

Oh well. I suppose I’ll always have “Throb.” And the “Creep” video (although it’s a shame T-Boz is standing in his light so much).

Now do not leave me hanging, readers. Instead of trying to email this post to the police, share some of your childhood crushes with me. Or, turn that video on, bow in the presence of greatness, and proceed to get your ass up and butterflying. For love.

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