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For much of last night’s GOP presidential debate, I found myself playing Rae Sremmurd’s “Up Like Trump” in my head. The chances of me voting for Donald Trump for president are about as likely as me extending an invite to Rick Santorum to film my gay honeymoon, but I take great joy in him exposing the current state of the GOP presidential primary system for the crock that is. Trump’s persona makes him a standout, but substantively, he is no less silly or vile than his peers and the party’s base.

As the Beyoncé of the crowded field, the first question went to him—and it was loaded as they come. Trump was asked if he would support the eventful Republican presidential nominee and forgo a third party bid, which he has teased of running in recent weeks. Ever defiant, Trump answered, “I will not make the pledge at this time.” Why would he? He’s not the only person putting himself ahead of party.

After all, if these 17 Republicans running for president were genuinely about their party, they would have taken cues from the nasty 2012 GOP presidential primary and only declared candidacies if they had the means and organization. Many of them do not, but they’re in the race anyway. A presidential run can lead to book deals, talk show radio contracts and FOX News contracts, among other things.

The likes of Ben Carson know this, which is the only conceivable reason he’s running for president. Carson danced around the questions the majority of the time and always leaked “grateful to God” when the buzzer rang, momentarily freeing him from the farce. With his plans to create a tax system based on tithing, defense of torture, and pleas for us to look beyond color, Carson was more so running for America’s next Black friend.

Despite having actual experience in government, the others were just as asinine. Mike Huckabee—a master of presenting evil ideas with a smile—made comments like, “The purpose of the military is to kill people and break things.” This was his answer to a question about transgender rights in the military, noting we don’t have time for “social experiments.” Yeah, like letting another religious zealot run the country.

When asked about his position on forbidding abortion even in the case of a mother’s life being threatened, Governor Scott Walker told FOX News’s Megyn Kelly, “I’ve got a position that’s in line with everyday America.” Walker said this seconds after Kelly introduced a statistic disproving that very notion. Then there is Senator Ted Cruz, who gleefully shouted about him never being for amnesty.

The only memorable thing about Chris Christie and Rand Paul’s respective performances involved their mini tit for tat over the Patriot Act. Paul was Drake, Christie, Meek Mill. Both should have run four years ago. Oh well.

Florida Senator Marco Rubio was quite prepared with his answers, though conveying sincerity still isn’t his strong suit. And when it comes to his fellow Floridian, former Florida governor Jeb Bush, he wasn’t bad, but not particularly memorable either. Though he was initially seen by his family as the Beyoncé to George W. Bush’s Ciara, the Jackie album, his political gaffes (five and growing) and so-so energetic levels during a debate will ultimately prove that “Dubya” is the superior politician. That is, if you haven’t been convinced of the obvious yet.

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If you could score my Twitter mentions over the past 48 hours, the shrieks of a whining newborn baby would perfectly encapsulate all of the He-man-woman-haters and Drake devotees who found themselves pissed at me for being honest.

The tweet in question is:

I don’t need anyone to explain to me the way rap beef works. Nor do I require anyone to remind me of how the hippity hop is battered and deep fried in misogyny. I’m aware, but that doesn’t debunk that Drake leveling Nicki Minaj’s success as a pejorative against the man she’s very clearly in love with was a lazy diss. It’s a pretty shitty thing for a friend of Nicki’s to do, too.

However, this beef and everything that comes with it—namely the use of Nicki Minaj as chess piece—is all Meek Mill’s fault.

Hopefully, Meek learns a few things from this embarrassing episode. The most important lesson being this (pay close attention, y’all): When deciding to try and publicly ruin someone’s career, it pays to consider whether or not your significant other might find him or herself in the crosshairs. Meek Mill seemingly had no concerns about the political entanglements that might result in him coming for the neck of his girlfriend’s friend and co-worker. It’s no wonder why some are calling on Nicki Minaj to dump him. Like, if you don’t know how to act on social media, you probably don’t know how to act around Beyoncé and Jay Z.

So: Meek Mill started a beef with a wittier and more widely popular rapper over some dumb shit that was probably a misunderstanding. Drake then uses Nicki Minaj as a weapon in this ridiculous ass beef despite Drake being friends with Nicki Minaj. Meek Mill can’t even win the dumb ass beef he started, embarrassing himself and making it supremely awkward for Nicki Minaj the next time she runs into Drake.

All of these men are garbage. If you think using a woman’s success to emasculate and belittle a man isn’t sexist and trite, you’re trash, too. I don’t care how much that truth nugget slathered in Sriracha stings.

What’s most interesting about all of this is that if she really wanted to, Nicki Minaj could destroy them both.

As far as albums go, Drake would more than likely win the popular vote given his sound is more cohesive (and for an album, that does indeed constitute “better”). Even so, that doesn’t necessarily make him a superior MC to Nicki. Nicki is often the star of any track she jumps on, and her collaborations with Drake are no different. Sure, there is a schizophrenic-like quality to Nicki’s catalog, but a lot of that has to do with circumstance (a female rapper trying to not only be recognized in a world that had all but forgotten about rappers like her, but to also thrive commercially in and out of that world) rather than talent.

Read the rest at Complex.

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Dear JoJo,

Do you remember me? We met during Grammy Awards weekend 2010 at some event and I interviewed you and told you how some boy I was so in love with put me onto your music? India Arie was there, having her handlers tell people that she didn’t want to talk to press as Justin Bieber ultimately took all of the press’ attention anyway. Does any of this ring a bell?

No? Okay, well my point is that you’re my favorite white girl next to Tina Fey so I really want to talk to you about a recent tweet I saw.

Well, girl, where is the baby? She should be filling out her FAFSA soon, taking in warnings from her older relatives about the burden of student loans. Now, I know you had to endure a lengthy legal battle with your former label, who effectively held your music hostage. When we did get pieces of new music, their useless selves didn’t do much with it.

I will never, ever let Blackground get away with allowing “Demonstrate” not to reach its full potential. And yes, I do know you have released two mixtapes and an EP to calm the nerves of impatient fans like me. But, but, but: It’s been too long now. Where is the music that I can purchase on iTunes?

Notice I said purchase and not stream. I’m already thinking about ways I can best support your new product. When is the single coming? When is the video for that single coming? Repeat these questions for the second single. Then answer me about the album release date.

Read the rest at VH1.

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I would like to begin my recap of last night’s Love & Hip Hop: Atlanta with a very important public service announcement: Husbands, do your wives a solid and never tell people they are tempted to slap on national television that they may suffer from postpartum depression.

You would think this would go without saying, but evidently, Kaleena’s husband Tony needed the memo. In his mind, he, along with Kirk, thought they were doing a good thing when they decided to surprisingly put their wives in front of each other, but it ended with Kaleena needing to be pulled away after tossing a drink in Rasheeda’s direction. Rasheeda sat there and laughed after Tony openly expressed fear that his wife may have mental health issues—essentially proving that she is an awful person inside with a beautiful person’s exterior.

Later on, Kaleena did confide in Karlie Redd that she may very well need to reach out to someone in order to figure out what exactly is going on with her. At that moment, Karlie Redd revealed that she suffered from postpartum depression after her daughter was born. Karlie Redd is the wood glue holding this show together. She is the stand-in friend for any cast member who either doesn’t know anyone yet or has alienated the majority of her co-workers. She may be messy as hell (which also makes her an essential figure of this show), but I do believe she is a nice person.

That said, Kaleena did coyly acknowledge that she did indeed talk shit about Rasheeda to Tammy during this Patti Labelle “You Are My Friend” moment. That does Rasheeda’s resentment, but the laughing at someone possibly suffering from a form of depression is still a pretty shitty thing to do.

For our second order of beef, I bring you Erica versus The Bam. Surprisingly, Erica and Momma Dee have made peace—so much so that Momma Dee wants Erica to sit upon her wedding throne as a “bridemaid.” Yes, taking a cue from NeNe Leakes, Momma Dee said “bridemaid” instead pronouncing it the way those of us who speak like we have all of our teeth. I worry that if I keep hearing it, it’s going to make me one day forget the “S,” too.

In any event, Momma Dee also invited Erica to help her shop for a wedding dress. That’s where The Bam comes in. Bambi offered the girls some weave for the special occasion, only Erica quickly rejected the offer. Erica probably has good reason to despise Bambi, but I do think she could’ve kept the comment to herself.

For those wondering why Bambi still even matters after last week, Bambi apologized to Scrappy. I’m not surprised at all by this. I mean, I wouldn’t want to give up that VH1 check, either. Scrappy said he would do better about supporting her goals—whatever those are—and went on to tell her, “I love you like Italians love…pasta.”

I’m suddenly in the mood for Tex-Mex.

The Bam and Scrappy may be back to being of one accord, but Joseline and Stevie J continue to have problems.

Because she’s clearly watched the show and taken notes, Tiffany Foxx reached out to Joseline to settle any potential fears that she wants Stevie J. She’ll never admit this, but Joseline’s fears seem rooted in the reality that you typically lose them how you get them. You know, your producer is booed up, but you show up to your sessions with your ass hanging out and can’t stop yourself from body rolling like you just had a large cup of cold brew mixed with half a bottle of cognac.

Read the rest at Complex.

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“I told you about sex when you were three,” my mother explained to me in her typical matter-of-fact fashion. I had asked her about when I had first learned about sex.

It made perfect sense because, even as a very young child, I can’t recall a time in which I did not I understand the mechanics of sex, at the very least, in the context of where babies came from. My mom is a devout Catholic, but she’s also a registered nurse who takes care of new mothers, meaning she sees plenty of pregnancies, including those from minors. Right after I asked, she went into a quick lesson about how to put on a condom and mentioned a banana. I remember saying, “I’m not having sex anytime soon.” I was barely a teenager, and while my hormones were raging, the same could be said of my body— the round belly and fat deposits on my chest screamed “the training bra soon cometh.”

My father has always been in my life—for better and for far worse—but we have never had a conversation about sex. Ever. The only sex-related question he’s ever asked me was well into my 20s—he wanted to know if I was gay. Even if I said something sooner, it’s wasn’t like he was going to go out of his way to find a pamphlet detailing the pleasure and pains of gay sex.

I did take a health class in 11th grade that vaguely referenced sex education, but as the wave of pregnant girls in my high school swelled, there was not much in the way of wisdom shared and it was too little, too late, anyway.

So yes, while I understood sex in terms of procreation, I knew embarrassingly little beyond that. But, like many things I was intrigued by as a child—religion, whatever I saw on the news, and the various warnings of doom and gloom that I saw on episodes of Captain Planet—I wanted to know more. I don’t know many people who can say they have talked with great frankness about sexuality with their folks. Many of us, however, can say we’ve been largely influenced by the images we’ve seen in film and television and the music we grew up listening to.

If there’s a pop cultural figure that played an integral role in my sexual education, it was Janet Jackson.

When the janet. album was released, I was only nine-years-old. I vaguely knew what she was singing about, but I didn’t have any meaningful understanding of what exactly I was singing along to. What I did know, though, was that I could not stop staring at one of her dancers, Omar Lopez, with excitement. If you don’t remember this man, he was the one Janet Jackson groped in the “If” video. He’s also the beautiful man who played the male lead in TLC’s “Creep” video. Omar Lopez is a legendary bae and one of the first real tests of my heterosexuality.

Spoiler alert: I was defeated.

Read the rest Complex’s NTRSCTN.

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When I told a friend that I would be writing about Keri Hilson’s return to music, she immediately responded with the question, “Who’s looking for her to come back?”

Therein lies the issue with the singer-songwriter as she plots a return to music. Like many music writers and bloggers, I received an email announcing Hilson’s return along with a link to two new tracks, “100” and “Scream.” Months prior, the likes of Timbaland teased fans with new works like “Listen.” Around the same time, Hilson herself teased us with audio of “Dinero,” although singer Monica sold the new track far better than she did.

The songs we’ve been teased sound more interesting than what’s come in full, but whatever we do get in terms of a new Hilson album, one wonders whether or not the public cares anymore. “100” and “Scream” were leaked to the Internet in full, but in terms of volume, both generated more of a “hi and bye” than conversation. Whenever Hilson does make an official return to music, she’s got her work cut out for her.

Two years ago, the Atlanta-bred artist took to Twitter to lament about the years of “verbal abuse,” noting, “You have no idea what your hateful words could do to someone’s spirit.” She was mostly referring to the Beyoncé fans that consistently berated her for her not so subtle shots at the Queen Bey. To this day, Hilson acts as if other people misinterpreted her past comments and actions about Beyoncé.

No one did, though, and regardless of whether or not she’ll ever own up to it, the reality is Keri Hilson is responsible for her reputation as the Maleficent of R&B. Like I noted at the time, she’s been equally shady to her other contemporaries, which is why many dislike her. At the very moment, a few people are reading these lines and thinking, “But it shouldn’t matter if you like the artist. What counts most is the music.” That’s cute, but that’s never been the case— likability has always factored into one’s success. In fact, one could say in an age where buying music is a choice an increasingly less amount of people opt to make, it matters more than ever.

And to be blunt, when it came to Keri Hilson openly shading Beyoncé in public spaces, it was just a dumb decision. Not only is Beyoncé one of the biggest pop stars on the planet (and to some, the biggest), she’s also known as one of the nicest. It was like Ciara taking an unnecessary shot at Rihanna on Fashion Police. In that instance, Rihanna simply read Ciara her rights via Twitter, but both Ciara and Hilson looked like the Jan Brady to their Marsha.

Read the rest at VH1.

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I like when Love and Hip Hop: Atlanta launches into a new episode without pretense. Last night, we went straight to the drink throwing—in this case, Karlie Redd aiming her presumably mango Myx moscato chased with Diddy-flavored vodka at Khadiyah—and security stepping in before a full-fledged brawl erupted. Khadiyah says it was water, but I like my version better. Anyhow, as Sina and Karlie Redd chuckled about playing with Khadiyah’s emotions, Karlie Redd’s new boo thang, Lyfe Jennings, was not as amused. He pulled her to the side to remind her “I got legal situations,” thus if she were to get into altercation and he would have to jump in, that places him in a precarious position.

Love is your man letting you know that he’s on papers. So it’s probably not a great idea to intentionally put him at risk of needing to throw hands and subsequently get his ass tossed back in prison. Are you as touched as I am right now?

As far Khadiyah, she met Yung Joc at the studio to deliver the same damn speech we’ve been hearing far too many times in a single season. I swear Khadiyah is the first and second Keyshia Cole albums on loop. Fed up with her speeches, Joc told Khadiyah, “Fuck you.” Yo, if a man you already feel mistreats you tells you that, you’ve really got to move the hell on.

May the Lord be with Khadiyah and all her future endeavors, but I’m tired of this relationship and I’m not even in it.

Later on, Joc stopped by Karlie Redd’s store (which she once again noted was featured on “CNN News”) and told her to leave Khadiyah alone. Oh, and his baby mama Sina, who Karlie said is a new friend. Joc then tried to look at Karlie’s ass, which just goes to show he’s content living his life as a southern rap version of HBO’s Big Love.

Keeping with the theme of doing the most, Joseline popped off on Margeaux for not appreciating Stevie J’s offer to appear on the cover of his magazine (although it came at the expense of Margeaux’s estranged husband Nikko’s ego). As Margeaux walked away—thinking she was cute—Joseline had one final request: “Take the wedgie out of your ass.” Joseline is so good at this and only improves with time.

By the way, Margeaux dresses like Smurfette at the strip club or Judy Jetson’s Black friend from the projects with style and dreams of rap stardom. I needed to get that out. I feel better now.

Another thing about Margeaux is she’s also not as shrewd a businesswoman as she fancies herself to be. Margeaux, if you do a photo shoot, shouldn’t you have already agreed to a rate and other terms? Like, you want to position yourself as the reasonable one on this great mess of a TV show, but you’re married to Nikko. Case dismissed.

Although I’d rather not, we have to discuss the Rasheeda portions of the show. For starters, she met with Tammy, who apparently is just going to be here for a while, at the viewing party for the video Bambi made a cameo in. Before they pretended to support The Bam, they gossiped about Kaleena. Tammy tells Rasheeda that she wanted to know the “snake bitch” she was dealing with, meaning Kaleena. You see, Tammy’s had this intel about Kaleena for so many years, but only decided to tell Rasheeda once she had a problem with Kaleena. Friendship is beautiful, isn’t it?

Read the rest at Complex.

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I realized I wasn’t that young anymore when my oldest niece innocently asked me, “Is Aaliyah that singer who died in a plane crash?” Immediately after I answered, I went into pop quiz mode. “Do you know who Brandy is, beautiful?” Frighteningly, she had absolutely no clue–until she released a single featuring Chris Brown.

More recently, I’ve gone on dates with men born in 1990 – you can drop your judgment off right here, thanks – and openly cried out to God over their lack of knowledge about one of the greatest women to ever body roll on this Earth, Janet Damita Jo Jackson. Some of these very men have referred to me as “old.”

This can’t be life.

As youthful as I feel, I was born in 1984 and I’m getting frequent reminders that I am entering a new stage of life. Many of the albums I grew up listening to have either hit their 20th anniversary mark or they’re right on the cusp of doing so. This includes janet, CrazySexyCool, My Life, Brown Sugar, and soon, Faith and Hardcore. The same way I looked at my mama about her Chi-Lites and Whispers, referring to the group members as “pop-pops” is what’s happening to me now when I bring up UGK in certain groups. Karma is a hateful heifer.

While many folks my age crack jokes about “aunties,” as one of my friends recently reminded me, we are now the aunties. Do you know who is now doing the Tom Joyner Cruise? Trina! Yes, “da baddest bitch” is out here on the cruise shop that the super grown folks are known for attending performing “Single Again.” One of my friends is so amped about one day joining the cruise. In his mind, he thought 40 would be the perfect age, but auntie life came calling a bit sooner.

I’ll also admit that if not for the youth in my life, I’d have no idea what in the hell so many of the folks on the Twitter talk about. Like, what is a fleek? And one question I’m constantly asking: Who in the hell is this rapper that sounds like English is his fourth language?

I am only 31-years-old and while I can still drop down and get my eagle on, my pop, lock, and drop ain’t what it used to be. There’s also yoga, but that’s not the core issue. I’m just getting older and in the HOV lane to a new stage in life. An era where linen pants will sooner than later overfly my closet. Where all white parties will fill my calendar. A place where, Crown Royal and Wild Turkey will be my drinks of choice – just like so many of my uncles. Hell, I’m already halfway there if you include Crown Apple. In my defense, that is delicious and best served with ice in a mason jar.

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Bobbi Kristina Brown never had much of a chance, did she?

I feel guilty for simply posing that question, but I have more grief over what has happened to her in her short life. Though there are conflicting accounts over the marriage of her parents, Bobby Brown and Whitney Houston – and who did what and to whom – the greatest sin of their romance was this: their child was victim to their chaos.

When called to reflect on Bobbi Kristina in the wake of her being discovered unresponsive in a bathtub, I said that no matter who happens to that girl, I hope that she finally founds peace. Since that time, we’ve found out more about the last days of Bobbi Kristina’s life and it only made it more apparent just how much she was in need of that. Multiple sources would confirm that the daughter of two famous addicts had her own struggles with substance abuse. She reportedly regularly used heroin, cocaine, and Xanax. She also described as a “heavy drinker” and a person who regularly “appeared to be high, slurring her words and seeming incoherent.” There are also serious questions about the young man who she chose as her partner, someone who had been loved and cared for by her mother.

There were signs of this on the now even more inappropriate reality series, The Houstons: On Our Own, which chronicled Whitney Houston’s family members in the wake of the singer’s untimely death. There was one scene in particular that featured Bobbi Kristina – who already arrived to the home of her aunt, Pat Houston, seemingly high – drinking wine and barely able to form a coherent sentence. During a confessional following that scene, Pat said, “I do not want her dealing with her mother’s passing in the wrong way.”

What Pat wanted clearly did not happen, and though we may never know exactly what did, it all ultimately serves as yet another reminder that everyone around Bobbi Kristina failed her. Of course, there is something to be said of personal accountability, and it is true that there were people within the entertainment community who tried to help her as she grieved while the public watched. I do not judge her nor should she be judged.

When you are the child of an addict, certain skill sets and life lessons often go untaught.

You also tend to carry with you so many of your parents’ burdens on your own shoulders. Those suffering from the disease of addiction can point to a specific pain from a specific source. Said pain is often transferred from parent to child and subsequently from child to their own creations. It is an ugly, vicious cycle far too many aware acutely aware of. Couple that with instant fame by way of her lineage, and it’s easy to see how what all that happened to Bobbi Kristina did.

Yes, very few people are born into fame and fortune, but what good is it if you don’t have stability around you, parents you can depend on, and a safety net that doesn’t include those willing to exploit your pain for profit?

Bobbi Kristina did not have much chance of survival – that is, beyond the vegetative state she laid in for months before her death – after it was revealed she suffered “global and irreversible brain damage.” What’s saddest, however, is that she never was provided much of a chance for a healthy life.

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While at a mixer for black writers and editors earlier this week, a friend and colleague of mine was accosted by the sight of bare butt cheeks on my phone. I was not the proud owner of said behind; I was answering a text message and had no idea a flirtatious exchange had escalated to full-out sexting. My colleague and I were already too far into enjoying laughs and tequila for it to matter, but it did remind me of how exposed I am through my phone.

Yes, my financial information and other pertinent information is stored there, but also things I’m equally, if not more, concerned about getting out: my sexual secrets. This includes my visuals, conversations and other items that my friends and I affectionately classify as “ho shit.” A few months ago, I wrote about a reluctance to try out what are commonly known as “hook up apps” and how being recognized by others on the apps resulted in initial embarrassment. Initial because, after a while, I decided to not let anyone else’s stigmas burden me any longer. I am human, after all, and expressions of sexuality – in this instance, by way of a free app I downloaded on my iPhone – come with the territory.

That sort of confidence takes a long time to build up for many, and it can be hard to maintain – ergo the aforementioned “sorry about this ultra-nice butt accosting your eye sockets, girl.” While I now own my antics, I often worry if one day I’ll anger the wrong person who will literally expose every facet of my body and whatever sexual desire I’ve shared in presumed confidence. To “blast me,” which is loosely translated into embarrassing and shaming.

Throughout the year, and every year really, there are people exposed for essentially being human. This is not just limited to famous people, though not surprisingly, a celebrity sex scandal draws greater interest by virtue of name recognition. Still, in 2015, if you are sexually active and sexually free on your cellphone, you run the risk of being exposed in this manner.

But sexts have different levels of stigma attached to them. A lot of us can say we’ve seen someone’s nudes leaked to social media in fits of rage from an angry partner, or a part-time plaything. Meanness is a staple of social media, and in an era where folks just love to “shade” and “pop off,” this trend of outing people for whatever they’re into or have done is just a new facet of it.

What isn’t new is that being “different” is a more shameful thing to expose. Sex itself, particularly between two people of the same gender, can still be regarded as shameful. The same goes for being sexually drawn to someone whose gender identity does not fit into a neat little two-seat box.

If I had my way, I’d wave a magic wand and sing a solution – accept every form of sexuality, don’t be so ashamed about how you get it down – and end it with “Bibbidi-bobbido-boo.”

Unfortunately, I do not have the magic powers of an old lady in Cinderella, so it’s more likely that this  trend will only worsen with time. Perhaps such secret sharing and subsequent stigmatizing won’t happen to you, but there’s surely something about yourself on your phone that you wouldn’t want aired out. The courtesy you would want paid to you in such crisis should be extended to others. But that would be too much like right, wouldn’t it?

Read the rest at The Guardian.

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