No Rihgrets

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.

The Next Greatest Show On Earth

After all these years, La Toya Jackson has finally found a project that can maximize her very limited stream of talent. Bless her heart, she was a reality star before reality television existed. She’s been a psychic cousin, appeared butt ass naked in Playboy pictorials, shot soft core porn flicks, appeared on national television in Michael Jackson drag face to accuse her own kin of being a kid-luster, and years later, claimed her husband trapped in the closet marriage and forced her to do all the aforementioned by way of brut force. Toy-Toy offers the kind of trash and scandal that VH1, Bravo, and E! viewers live for. Seriously, should any of us be surprised her BFF is Paris Hilton’s mama?

And now finally, mother Oprah is going to give the funniest Jackson of them all her just due.

I assume Oprah is going to try to class the show up a bit, but whatever, girl. It’s La Toya Jackson so we know shade, kookiness, and opportunism are going to reign supreme. In fact, I was reading about Toy-Toy signing Michael Jackson’s “lil’ white chillen” to her talent agency. Who knew she had a talent agency? I’m sure Toy-Toy didn’t either until the idea popped into her head after a bill arrived in her mailbox.

You see, Janet’s big sister wanted to be an entertainment lawyer before Papa Joe said, “You best get your light skint ass up on that stage and shimmy your ass off.” I suppose thanks to a combination of shifty medical professionals, tragedy and television executives in need of ratings-grabbing programming, part of that dream can now be realized.

Make no mistake, I do love La Toya Jackson. At least, since 2001 anyway. When I was a kid, I just couldn’t understand why Michael and Janet’s sister was walking around in Casper’s makeup throwing her people under the party bus. I’m over it now. As I got older, I understood that she’s an odd mix of naive child star and master villain. Like she might appear crazy as hell on Entertainment Tonight crying to what looks like a bored with her Bubbles, but deep down homegirl knows that in the end, a gig is a gig.

Life with La Toya premieres the day after my birthday. Clearly the universe wants me to enjoy April because I work hard, so I deserve it. I cannot wait for this show. Who knew she did impersonations? Good ones at that.

No, this doesn’t count.

Who knew she could slap the secret simp out of a UFC fighter? I can’t wait to learn more about my beloved Toy-Toy. Congratulations, La Toya. You have finally found the perfect vehicle for your abilities. Gon’, girl.

Although it will forever sadden me that she didn’t keep the nose that worked for her and became some Vanity/Apollonia-like two-minute star singer. And for the record, Toy-Toy is the one Jackson who I believe doesn’t truly sound like Barry White with a strep throat under that high pitched stage voice of hers. Now shake your rump if you feel the funk.

Where Has She Been All Our Lives?

Rihanna knows just what to do to stop me from calling INS and reporting her. Those of you who have followed this site at length know what a long road it took for me to get to the point where I could call myself a Rihanna fan without quickly following up with a, “Bitch, is you crazy?” But there God, I’m here, although being a fan hasn’t made me deaf, dumb, or blind.

What I believed about Rihanna then is the same that I believe now: There is a solid entertainer, deep, deep inside of her. Problem is given she’s already achieved so much by doing the bare minimum on stage already, she has no incentive to improve. Why would anyone when their lazy body roll (akin to a stripper with a cold on the last 15 mins of her daytime shift) has already cemented their spot in modern pop musical history?

That said, this video gives me hope. I was ready to give up, though Rih-Rih has upped and gotten me excited again. Do you see her in this clip, folks? Rihanna is doing actual choreography. More than just a two-step squared and a post-energy drink and Circo shot ass shake — she’s out here trying to give us a real dance routine.

Round of applause to the Illuminati dark lord some of your dumb ass cousins genuinely feels she sold her soul to.

What is bizarre to me is that for as busy as Rihanna’s schedule is, fitting time for actual rehearsal is an anomaly. Here’s to hoping such a feat becomes the norm in her professional life. I would say the same about her cutting out smoking and – ahem – other activities for the sake of her voice, but baby steps. Baby’s first steps, to be exact.

Regardless, I am so sincerely excited to see this video. I sure want Rihanna to deliver. Can you imagine? If she’s giving even decent choreo and incorporates it more into her performances it would excuse a lot of the other complaints she gets about her on stage act. You know, ’cause you can’t be sounding cool some of the time, a damn fool the other half when all you’re doing is jumping up and down on stage with one fist in the air.

Love you, girl, but you know what it is, which is why I hope you begin living up to your potential.

A few months ago I stumbled along to this glowing example of Vanessa Williams’ underrated musical genius and instantly wondered, “Why doesn’t Rihanna give me this?” They’re so similar minus the fact that ‘Nessa was obviously trained well in the arts and was more serious about performing.

Rihanna may never be this good, but she can at least be better than what she’s given before. Yeah, yeah, she has improved thus far though I always feel like we collectively grade on a curve. I’m starting a prayer circle. Come one, come all.

If Rihanna becomes a regular on stage dancer it would make it even more difficult for Ciara to book that mysterious stage she once spoke of. C’mon, Rih-Rih: Don’t let me down! I’m excited for you.

You Sent It: Big Yo’s Lesbian Housewives Trailer

I am all types of confused after watching a trailer for the would be reality series, Big Yo’s Lesbian Housewives. In case you were curious as to what a Big Yo is, it’s a longtime lesbian club promoter based in Houston. I recall hearing about her club from a lot of my fast ass gay friends in high school. One of those very friends sent this to me – presumably as bait.

I get it, folks. Everyone wants to be a star. Y’all see NeNe Leakes has gone from Country Crocker to the country club and y’all wanna be down, too. Trailers like these, though, prove yet again why everyone can’t be like Baloo.

No offense to these studs and fishes in the clip as they seem like lovely people, but if you’re going to try and sell a reality show (Keefy prefers the title The Secret Lives of Studs) can you front with feeling? And reason. Am I really supposed to believe that this stud with a sleeve is messing around with men? What, is she topping the dude? They both looked like they were holding in their laughter. Let it out, ladies, ’cause I damn sure did.

I will applaud Big Yo for making the most effort. Clearly, she’s been studying the Tyler Perry school of overacting. She still needs a lot more people, but here’s to hoping she scores the lead in Madea Gets Her Bussy Licked. As for that “Coming Soon to VH1!” line in this video’s summary:  They’re gonna air the sex tape Santa Clause made of the Easter Bunny blowing Jesus’ back out before this. But you know, there’s always LOGO or World Star so good luck and God bless and shit.

Strike Two?

A year ago, I made the mistake of believing that perhaps with the help of hit producer Kim Kardashian might actually be able to feign a discernable talent. That idea was based on the premise that maybe The-Dream might be able to mold Kim into something that’s sort of like Vanity, but not nearly as good or anything. Whatever it was gonna be, it was supposed to be decent enough to entertain me musically. Such a dream delusional was soon shattered the minute I actually heard their collaboration. I quickly realized that Bea Arthur has more energy in her right now than Kim did trying to sing through “Jam.”

You would think I would have learned my lesson and not bother holding out any hope that people famous for being famous could manage to tease us with something more. Then I stumbled along this clip. Look, if Kim Kardashian failed as Vanity 2.0 it doesn’t necessarily mean Amber Rose can’t be Appolonia 0.759, right? Now, a commenter on Necole Bitchie’s site was quick to remind everyone that once members of the paparazzi asked Amber if she had any musical talent. She said she couldn’t sing or rap. This person then quipped, “Now all of a sudden she is an artist.”

Well, y’all let cornbread eating divorcees become marriage experts and Evelyn Lozada fictionalize her already fictitious tales of being an NBA player’s wife with Cash Money Content (they have a book imprint with Simon & Schuster…I know, I know). Are you really surprised that Amber Rose wants to sing now? Call it optimism or suggest that it’s just another example of the goodness in my heart (shut the hell up, I can be sweet), but maybe Amber might be able to put out a decent track or two.

It’s not like house music requires a great voice. Hell, does a lot of R&B or pop these days? If all else fails, at least her music will give me something to talk about. Can’t we all appreciate that, if nothing else?

No? Ugh, naysayers. I’ll leave you with this:

Who knows what miracle

You can achieve

When you believe

Somehow you will

You will when you believe

Yes, I’m aware that quoting legitimate artists and their banal duets probably might be counterproductive in advancing my argument. This is what hope looks like. Now sing-a-long.

Gang of Confusion

As much as I like Amber Rose, I’m a bit confused. While I’m not exactly an expert on Westerns, my Pa-Pa surely was and every now and again I would catch my mama watching, too. I myself have seen a few episodes of Walker, Texas Ranger. I am not sure that even counts, but for the record, the theme song to that show knocks. To this day. Yeah, I don’t know much about the genre. Be that as it may, I’m pretty sure no woman with a blond fade could just walk into some tavern with a deep Philly accent asking some old country man where her homegirl’s at.

The same can be said of the other clips I’ve seen of Teyana Taylor, Claudia Jordan, and Rocsi, who also star in the movie. I missed the first Gang of Roses on purpose, so perhaps I’m missing the dots that connect this story that make it plausible. Like maybe the Wild Wild West had a hood version across the railroad tracks where women of various ethnicities and dialects were allowed to roam free on their horses and buggies.

I’m also a bit miffed at the title of this clip: “AMBER ROSE/ SURPRIZING peformance in Gang of Roses 2!!!!”

What was “SURPRIZING” about this performance exactly? That she didn’t start laughing at her surroundings?

In theory, I kind of dig the idea of blacks doing spins on Westerns. We ought to be diversifying. As if Tom Cruise is really the last damn samurai. Problem is, this flick just doesn’t seem like it makes much sense. Thus far this looks akin to Herman Cain playing Nitta Sayuri in Memoirs of a Geisha. I won’t discount it completely, though. I mean, if anyone of you wants to buy this for me on discount (and believe me, this will end up in the discount bin at Walmart) and send it off, I’ll give it a formal review later. If not, I’ll just assume the villain of this film looks like T-Pain, talks like Trick Daddy, and rides a horse with platinum hoofs.

Let’s end on a positive note: At least Amber Rose is making some money. That and only one fight broke out on set between Teyana Taylor and the director (allegedly). Maybe they can do a spin-off based on that: When Harlem Hits Haw upside the head (allegedly).

Way To Go, J.Lo!

The last time I wrote about a Jennifer Lopez song, I wasn’t particularly nice. In a review of “Fresh Out The Oven” I wrote that I’d rather hear a mixtape from Rosie Perez. That was probably the nicest thing I said, too.

I wasn’t happy to write any of that, though, because I like a lot of Jennifer Lopez’s music. Well, before it started to suck. I haven’t claimed anything before “Get Right” until now.

After two disappointing albums, a random alter ego named “Lola” and a bunch of a ill advised single choices I assumed that Jennifer Lopez the singer was over.

And then I saw this clip. This magical clip of Jenny giving exactly all that made me love her.

Sure, she sings over other people’s vocals, and yes, she sometimes steals people’s songs from them. But dammit, J.Lo gives it in a video. Look at her. Doesn’t she look amazing? My shallowness is in full glee.

Yes, I agree that she kind of looks like Beyoncé’s long lost Spanish auntie, but so what? The Queen borrowed from Jenny and Jenny is now borrowing from her. It’s the circle of twirk.

After watching this clip I went and found the full version of the song. I am in love now. I didn’t think The-Dream and Tricky Stewart were going to do much with Jennifer considering they didn’t do a great deal for Ciara. I have a bit of hope now.

Now, I’m not entirely sure this song will do well on the charts. Even if it doesn’t though, this video gives me reason to renew my interest in Jennifer Lopez’s recording career. She is still capable of giving me meaningless, superficial songs that I can get up and dance to. That’s all we can really ask of our marginally talented pop singers, really.

So, kudos to you Jennifer. Not only did you get me to watch American Idol for the first time since George W. Bush’s reelection, but now you’ve got me singing along to you again.

I’m excited. So excited that I went back and gave your Neptunes track another try. That didn’t turn out too well, but hey, you can’t win ‘em all, girl.

C’mere Wolf Boy

I know what some of you are thinking: “Negro with an igga, you been ghost for more than a week and you come back blogging about this shit?”

Look, I’ve been working hard on…other things. Plus, if I’m being perfectly honest, ideas were a little scarce as I hit up various editors with pitch after pitch in order to avoid hitting the pole and potentially catching a permanent itch.

But hey, it’s better than not posting, right?

Probably not if I’m coming back talking about a movie called Wolf Boy, huh?

Well whatever, I might actually see this. Probably not because this looks like a cinematic masterpiece or anything. Full disclosure: I only clicked on the trailer because the preview image on the homepage of World Star Hip Hip was of Romeo Miller with his shirt off.

Now that he’s allowed to buy us a drink without catching a club a case, I can say that without shame.

In theory, I support the idea of black filmmakers going for the genre less traveled. Not every film needs to depress me or try and make me laugh at a joke only funny to people who can’t define the word stereotype without stuttering. At the same time, though, I’m not sure what to make of a movie called Wolf Boy starring Master P’s kid.

There’s only two scenarios for such a flick: Either you’ll be surprisingly entertained or predictably pissed off you didn’t use your time better — like say, pouring Four Loko into your ear for the hell of it.

Show of hands: Who plans on watching this on YouTube in six or seven months? And am I the only one who clicked on the link for incredibly shallow yet still very much satisfying reasons?

Be honest even if you’ll be clowned for it the way I’m sure some of you are about to clown me.

Help Them Or Us?

This is the problem with telling people they can be anything they want to be without offering specific details.

Perhaps it’s because I haven’t paid any attention to Marques Houston since the time those set of twins would shut doors in his face, but I had no idea that he and his fictitious relative, Omarion Grandberry were doing horror films directed by that walking colonic, Chris Stokes.

And little did I know that whatever straight-to-DVD feature they did the first performed well enough to warrant a sequel. Now who among you do I have to send sternly worded emails to for making this happen? No really, fess up now and get ready for my fired up font.

I suppose in theory, I should be supporting the notion of a black-helmed horror film given we’re typically sliced, diced, and discarded so easily in much of the ones Hollywood produces. Thank goodness I don’t often lose my better senses in the name of symbolism, though, because this movie looks like some old bullshit no matter who’s behind it.

Marques Houston has obviously all but abandoned the advice the acting coaches in his formative years shared with him, opting instead to embrace this hokey, blatant type of acting. I think there’s a term for it: bad (“you know it, you know”).

Spaghetti is a boring enough dish in of itself. He could’ve at least tried a little harder to make that student loan meal sound better. Focus, Marques!

Like that girl who walks into this rented home that I swear I saw on an episode of Keeping up with the Kardashians. The one that’s Khloe Kardashian’s friend and assistant (the best kind of friend, apparently). You know, the one that was pretending to date Rob but we all knew better even if they didn’t tell us they were just kidding? She’s actually not awful.

As for his brother in booty (according to Raz-B anyway), Omarion: As much as I enjoy looking at him (well, one part the most), he is to acting what Ciara is to operatic singing.

And really, he’s playing a security guard? Isn’t he like barely hovering over five inches? No shade to the short men as I dig them, but that dude can’t even throw his flashlight in the face of any bandit. Who exactly is he supposed to secure, Poking Stokes?

O seems like a really nice person, but I don’t see it for him as an actor. Go do some kid show, man. They have lower standards. Then again, maybe he already is. I can’t imagine anyone over the age of 14 and 3 quarters being into this.

Well, an unexposed teen anyway. I knew awful early on. I don’t know what damage “No Child Left Behind” has done for the future of film.

According to its Facebook page, Somebody Help Me 2 premiers on TV later this week. Ya’ll let me know how that goes down, okay?

Don’t Save Him, He Don’t Wanna Be Saved

In white people please stop it news, Hollywood has unveiled yet another film about some poor, misguided, unscrupulous Negro being saved by you guessed it – some paler, gentler, caring individual from the other side of the racial aisle.

I really like Sandra Bullock, but is the best her agent could come up with? The accent is abysmal, the storyline is trite, and wait, no why keep going – let’s just focus on the storyline.

Has the film industry not learned from the lessons of Radio?

How many stories like this is the film industry going to keep telling? I don’t want to see some story about some big black man being taught to read well enough to sign his name on an NFL contract. We all know how that story ends. Ain’t that right, Michael Vick?

To be fair, this movie is based on the book, The Blind Side: Evolution of a Game by Michael Lewis. The premise is as follows:

An intermittently homeless Memphis ghetto kid taken in by a rich white family and a Christian high school, Oher’s preternatural size and agility soon has every college coach in the country courting him obsequiously. Combining a tour de force of sports analysis with a piquant ethnography of the South’s pigskin mania, Lewis probes the fascinating question of whether football is a matter of brute force or subtle intellect.

So it’s indeed rooted in a true story. Yet I’m still irritated. I haven’t read the book, but based on its summary it seems as though film producers have taken this story and trivialized it into some cliché-driven sports movie focusing on the same old black pathology subplot. He’s poor, he’s black, he’s big, so brawn, he can’t read, but thank you Lordy, some nice wealthy woman is gonna hug him and make it all better.

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