No, I Love Nippy. I Really Do

When I tweeted about Whitney Houston’s performance on Good Morning America, I seemed to annoy Nippy Newport fans who thought I was being too harsh on her. I can’t recall what I said exactly, but it was to the effect of “Wow, she really needs to laugh off those cigarettes.”

Then I was met with the, “Oh you’re being too critical. That’s what you critics, writers, overly opinionated relentless types do.” You would have thought I said Whitney needs to be locked up for assaulting my ear drums. I said nothing of the sort, but c’mon nah, ya’ll, did she sound good to that day? Most people would say that she didn’t, though I wasn’t willing to completely write her off as a vocalist.

She will never be able to sing the way she used to. Aging made that a guarantee; the wear and tear to her voice stemming from drug use only sped up the inevitable. It doesn’t take away from her overcoming her struggles. It doesn’t taint her largely well received return to music. It doesn’t even knock her always consistent wig game. All it suggests is that the bulk of us probably don’t want to hear her try to sing “I Will Always Love You” anytime soon.

And that’s fine, so long as she can continue to deliver performances like those above. Though she doesn’t do her trademark belting anymore this performance proves Whitney still has some grit to her voice. Her tone is intact although her range is obliviously shot. Much of that has to do with the fact that she smokes. Even when speaking to Oprah, while I was happy to see her be so forthright about her battle with drugs I couldn’t stop thinking about how much she sounded like an ashtray.

Her charm and energy is what made her performance so enjoyable. She’s able to emote and sometimes that provides a far more entertaining performance than vocal ability alone could provide. That’s why I wish she had made an album more honest that dug a bit deeper. I’m not a fan of those banal ballads from the early 90s. What made those work was her vocal prowess…one that she doesn’t have. Someone made a good point on Twitter yesterday (I talk about Twitter too much…I think I have a problem): Billie Holiday’s voice was completely gone by the time she died, but her music worked because it allowed her to show emotion. I Look To You is a decent offering, but not as powerful as it could have been.

But as long as someone buys her a patch and forces her to go to vocal training to hone her new voice, there is hope. I love the fact that she doesn’t try to guise her diminished voice with a terrible dance routine. Yes, this means you, Mimi. I loves my Mariah, but why does she insist on trying to dance? Whitney knows better, but I will say she’s been lowkey getting it on stage. Kind of like your old auntie who thinks she’s young and tries to learn the dances at every family get together. That’s Nippy.

And of course things could be worse:

Whitney could actually look as bad as she sounded on Good Morning America (but not on Oprah). Tevin Campbell may still have his voice, but dammit if he doesn’t look like Tyrone Biggum. Well, post-crack Tyrone Biggum in pre-pipe Tyrone’s clothes from the ’70s.

Whitney may look like a carbon copy of Auntie Dionne these days, but I’d rather look like I could predict the future for $2.99 a minute than collecting that same amount in spare change in a cup.

So I didn’t mean to throw shade at Whitney for sounding the fool at GMA. I was simply being honest. She’s since proven she still’s better than 90% of the talk-singing tone deaf women who’ve come after her.

I’ll just continue to miss the days where she could kill it. I hope she continues to do interviews, too. I love how she says “you know what I’m saying” so regally. She’s like the classy girl in the hood. The one who sips her Kool-Aid with a straw and only eats ribs in private. I’m not mad at that at all, Nippy. Love you…even though you know damn well “rock cocaine” is crack. But hey, as long as you stop cracking during performances, I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.

Never Trust A Man Who Looks Like A California Raisin

Jermaine Jackson is living proof of why you should never trust a man who looks too greasy.

I think I can officially declare that he is my least favorite Jackson. Tito never hurt anyone. Katherine is too nice for words. Marlon and Randy could be the worst two people who ever walked the globe, but since I can barely remember they’re alive it’s hard to judge them so they get an automatic pass. Janet is everything…or at least used to be. Rebbie, well, you’ve heard “Centipede,” haven’t you?

Now LaToya is certainly an opportunist who is arguably bat shit crazy, but when you’re the only Jackson born without an ounce of rhythm life has got to be rough for you. Especially when you chopped off your nose to look all fancy and end up being rumored to be a knock off version of your kid brother. She can’t win, she can’t break even and she can’t get out of the game.

Of course, Papa Joe is first cousins with Satan so I imagine many of you are asking, “Why doesn’t he top your list?” Joe is under Jermaine on the Jacked Up Jackson list because of one thing and one thing only: He’s trill about his.

Joe makes it very clear that he’s all about the money.

I’m sure that old Dinosaur Negro wakes up everyday singing, “C.R.E.A.M. Get the money. Dollar, dollar bill ya’ll.”

I may not like it, but I can appreciate that he’s honest about his intentions (probably not to the tax man, though). He’s a Moneysaurus Rex. Always has been. Always will be.

Jermaine, on the other hand, is acting like we can’t tell his motives are rooted in his desire to boost his fledgling career.

I’m not old enough to remember Jermaine had three and a half hits and recorded with Whitney Houston. I only know those fun facts because my older sister happened to like one of his songs.

But, I’ve since heard while he’s certainly acted as a spokesperson for the Jackson family on all issues related to Michael in years past, he was planning to release some tell-all book in which he roasted his little brother. Granted, he’s got 50-11 kids to take care of, but you don’t do that to family. LaToya did it, and that’s why her psychic hot line failed.

The more I hear about Jermaine, the less I like him. There are stories that he harbored some deep seated jealously towards Michael. That he knocked up his brother’s wife, then his wife, then his brother’s wife again.

He’s what the old folks would call “a nasty man.” Or a dirty muthafucka…take your pick.

I was fortunate enough to be at the Michael Jackson memorial so I caught Jermaine Jackson’s “tribute” to Michael.

I recall a press release saying Jermaine would “bring the house down” with is rendition of “Smile.” Yeah, someone was looking to get it in. Then they released his cover on iTunes. All of that to me suggests this had more to do with Jermaine keeping up with his supply of Luster’s than honoring baby brother.

And now this concert.

Of all places in the world you choose Vienna in Austria? Because you think it’s a fancy city with history.

Why not keep it 100: Say these people hit you up because you’re last name is Jackson and in Europe, that’s an automatic winning lottery ticket. And since people are so passionate about Michael they’ll do anything to honor him. You need the money, they’ll give it to you. The end.

Once I found out mama Kat had an issue with Jermaine doing this concert and that Janet is reuniting with MTV to do a real tribute to the King of Pop, it became all the more clearer with Juice Head was up to.

I hope that Michael Jackson is somewhere sitting with Biggie Smalls and Nipsey Russell, eating a bucket of KFC and threatening to body slam Biggie Smalls if he reaches for a wing as the three of them watch The Color Purple.

That way Michael can stop teaching Biggie to moonwalk long enough to focus on this all important quote from the movie:

Until you do right by me everything you think about is gonna crumble!

Let the record show that already acts like Chris Brown and Mary J. Blige have backed out of the show, while others like Natalie Cole are already writing in dates in their daily planners to get out of performing.

Karma doesn’t play that, Jermaine.

Shamon.

B-Day

Of course, I didn’t forget. Back to business as usual soon, but until then channel your inner Creole and wish the Queen a Happy Birthday.

Read It Because I Asked Nicely (And S**t)

I remember being a freshman at Howard and being confused as all hell when I took a course called “Gender Roles and Relations.”

I didn’t know what I was getting myself into, but I learned a lot and became confused even more by semester’s end. Confusion isn’t necessarily a bad thing, though, because it allows you to learn about things your prejudices and the outside forces that have produced them would normally not allow you to.

Such is the case for the piece I wrote on B. Scott. Admittedly, I didn’t necessarily get it at first. And like some, I thought that by behaving in a sort of way it made it difficult for others who don’t necessarily share behavioral traits.

That, however, is as flawed an argument as it is a selfish one and the longer I took the to open my mind up the more appreciative I became of people like B. Scott and others who choose to live their life in a way that might not be classified as a norm yet could care less.

I invite each of you to read it, register and leave a comment.

I focus on B. Scott, but I also touch on confining notions of masculinity and whether or not people should have free reign to challenge them.

Judging from some of the responses about my Tiny and Toya piece, I can imagine even less people will hear me out in this article.

We’re all different and judging people before you really take a chance to see their point of view won’t lead result in anything but a bunch of pissed off folks.

Ahh well. I’m young and like me not initally getting it, a lot of people will learn. In due time.

Until then…

Click here to check it out.

P.S. No worries: My ign’t ways will be exploited again on the blog before you know it. I don’t need ya’ll thinking I can read and shit. There’s no money in that!

Bidness

So, I’m sure some of you (especially those I know personally) kept looking at the homepage of the site and wondering, “Where the hell is he?”

I’m starting to feel like a deadbeat dad who only shows up every other Christmas. Well, if it’s any consolation I wasn’t hugging the block or twirkin’ on the stroll (although it pays better).

I have two pieces running on The Root this week. The first is up today. It’s about Tiny & Toya and I essentially argue that these two are not capable of destroying black America.

For that matter, neither is Tyler Perry.

You can check out the piece by clicking here.

Also, I’m excited about the one running tomorrow. I’m actually off to go reedit that one now.

Will be back with more posts as I have a lot to yap about this week.

In the meantime, hope you enjoy me defending Tiny & Toya.

I expect at least seven of you to call me a coon in the comments section (although you should register on The Root and call me that there…thanks).

P.S. I want the dotcom up and running, too. Sigh squared.

Nutty Negro Nia

In theory, I don’t have anything against PETA.

With lobbyists for everything ranging from porn to bananas (in this instance, there is no connection, nasty), it’s nothing wrong with Scooby, Scrappy, and Yogi having their own advocate, too.

In practice, however, I take offense to some of PETA’s methods in trying to sway the masses to fall into their line of thinking.

Not even their incessant need to throw blood on those who wear fur. Sorry, but if they try that shit with Mary J. Blige, that’s their ass.

No, what gets me is the way in which they handle black celebrities who rock Rocky and Bulwinkle.

Take for instance a post from way back that I wrote about Jay-Z. It detailed how a spokesperson from PETA wrote a letter to Jay-Z in “hip-hop speak” (re: black). I found it to be as patronizing as it was incredibly stupid.

Even worse are the correlations the organization sometimes make between animal rights and slavery.

I distinctly remember PETA showing pictures of African men and women in shackles and placing their images next to that of Dumbo and the Lion King in chains.

In no way shape or form are the two comparable. I always say such an opinion to be something a white person would say.

Enter Nia Long, who just reminded me of Zora Neal Hurston’s adage, “All my skinfolk at kinfolk.”

Here’s what the next chick that needs to be traded out of the race said about her support of PETA.

“It’s a clean beautiful ad but the message is clear from that one photo, from that one image that all living things should have the right to live….I’ve realized how important it is that we really take responsibility for the environment, for treating animals with love and care just like we would any human being. I really do believe that all things that have been given life deserve to live life. It’s no different, in my opinion, from slavery or the Holocaust it’s just that we’re not dealing with human beings, we’re dealing with animals, but it’s still a living thing.”

Negro, please!

First off, white readers, my bad. It was wrong of me to assume only someone who checks off the Caucasian box would say something so asinine.

Forgive me? I hope so.

Anyhow, where is Nia Long’ publicist? Did she write one too many bad checks? I mean, since Nia claims Beyonce’s taking all of her jobs (Shazaam!) and all.

The Newport’s explain her mouth, but what sort of narcotic has is she using to cause her to think a raccoon being skinned to make Mama Combs a hat is the same as enslaving an entire race of people for centuries and throwing another group of people into an oven for sport?

Was the PETA check that good? I hope she was paid extra, because I wouldn’t be surprised if a couple of people out there aren’t inspired to commit black-on-black crime after that.

This is the problem I tend to have with certain organizations that should be open to all, but tend to be headed by “liberals” who pose as people evolved and tolerant, but typically fall in line with the typical racist bullshit.

Like the feminist movement, like the gay rights movement, and very much like the animal rights movement.

Sadly, now we have black people helping them perpetuate such an ignorant way of thinking instead of enlightening them to a different point-of-view that would ultimately make their groups more inclusive and thus more successful.

If you are a self-respecting person of color and dare liken animal rights to slavery, you need to build a tree house in the jungle and go live with the rest of the animal kingdom.

I can’t believe she even fixed her mouth to say something so stupid.

Jesus be a history book, Allah be some common sense, and Zuul of the Netherworld be a damn clue.

P.S. That’s why they didn’t even give your silly self a belly button!

So:

I’m alive. Writing. Plotting. For the dotcom version of the site. Still trying to get it together.

Updates are coming today and tomorrow, but for now, go support my other blog, “The Recession Diaries,” and more importantly, today’s entry.

Not as biting as it is here, but I still dig it (but if I don’t, who will).

Click here, register, and please leave feedback.

C’mon now. It’s time to push me into the sky, not let me bust my ass trying to work the pole.

Thank you!

Baby, I’m A Star

As children, we’re told that in order to be famous you had to be exceptionally talented and ambitious. Or at the very least, be marginally talented but down for doing the nasty with the right person in power.

Ever since I was a kid I’ve been told my talent would get me far and that all I needed to do was work hard and persevere. I would have done better writing Santa Clause. These days, the only skill you need to hone is your talent in attention whoring.

More and more are people famous for the sake of, and the longer I use Twitter, the more apparent it becomes that a generation has been inspired by the likes of Kim Kardashian, Paris Hilton and “insert your favorite reality and/or Internet personality here.”

That statement doesn’t come from a place of jealously. Honestly, I like the fact that people have attained celebrity despite side-stepping the typical route to earn it. I really do. For people to make a name for themselves on their own terms is an important step. The internet has made it obvious that many of the folks who are famous are pretty dull and vapid without someone more savvy pulling the strings.

There are people who do have personality (which by default is somewhat of a talent in itself now) and if not for the Web would likely have never seen their star shine.

I get it. Go them. Seriously.

That being said, it’s becoming creepier about just how fame hungry our culture is. We now have breaking news alerts when Britney Spears stubs her toe or when a reality star from E! dies (I liked her, but I’m sure you get it what I’m saying).

Does anyone remember when Anna Nicole Smith died? CNN broke from a hearing about the Iraqi war to dedicate hours upon hours of coverage to her untimely passing.

That’s cool for E!, but not for an international news station.

That’s the part that concerns me. We have created such a celebrity-obsessed culture that now your average person is a celebrity in their own mind. If not, one is who actively fishing for fame online.

The desperation oozes from many a keyboard.

As someone who writes about celebrities and pop culture, I sometimes feel like I’m part of the problem. I try to write about celebrities in a way that doesn’t scream “Idol worship.” Can’t be pissing off God – according to some of ya’ll I’m already on thin ice as it is.

I think by making fun of myself and them it subtly reminds people that they’re human.

I’m not sure that’s enough, though.

Who actively uses Twitter (if your answer is no, you’re LATE)?

Tell me you’ve noticed the influx of users tweeting about every inch of their body for attention?

Or the ustreams of people sitting in their draws eating a box of NERDS?

Oh and the blogger beefs.

And the crotch shots.

And the celebrity antagonists.

Or the ass kissers.

I hope the day doesn’t come where when I finally do get an agent (hint, hint, mu’f-ckas), he/she won’t suggest I turn on my Web cam, and sit in my draws sitting on the top of my desk ranting about Bow Wow while I eat Popeye’s chicken.

That or dress up like Malibu Barbie, get some weave eyebrows and put on an impromptu stage play on the life of Lil’ Kim. That seems to be the thing to do these days.

Probably be more fun to binge out on Hamburger Helper and try to spoof Heavy D.

I don’t have either option in me, though. I’d rather start on my Plan Q than take it there.

I have a feeling some people will be offended by this, but if you don’t fit the bill, you won’t fold, ya dig?

Now that the disclaimer is out of the way, let’s keep it moving.

Are you tired of this growing “Make Me Famous” trend or are you over there at your 9-5 penning the script for your new YouTube video (trust me: that stuff is not off the cuff).

I’m not really mad at the people who break through, but the longer this goes on, the more outrageous people will get. Octomom anyone?

Feedback, ya’ll!

That’s The Type Of People I Hate

I know, I know. Indulge me.

I consider myself to be a people person. I have always been a floater, so I’ve never been bound to any particular group. I like all types of people. These days, though, I’ve become increasingly annoyed with certain segments of the population.

Some have tried to place the blame of said annoyance on me moving to LA. I disagree, because it excludes the fact that the biggest generator of self-important jackasses these days can be found on the Web, not Hollywood.

With that said, indulge me in my list called, “You Make Me Want To Start Handing Out Birth Control On The Street.”

1. The hipster, the blipster, the whatever you call the people who dress like 1983 but think on the level of someone born in 1810 B.C.

I am very happy that now more than ever Black men and women don’t feel bound to dress a certain type of way. I’m not Marc Jacobs, but I can appreciate individual style when I see it. It’s honestly refreshing.

Now, having a sense of style doesn’t necessarily make you Andy Warhol or Donatella Versace. Sadly, that fact is lost on far too many people who seem to be legends in their own mind. These days everyone wants a title, their own particular brand, or whatever they think will make them seem “different” and thus “important.”

More times than not, these sort of folks looking to be christened the next whoever don’t really do anything other than dress up, walk around, and write two sentences about how haute they are.
That may earn them a little bit of attention via a blog, it may even boost them to the G-List or innanet famous status, but does it really translate into anything credible insofar as money and the mainstream attention that they undoubtely crave?

Perhaps it does and maybe I’m just late boots (I’m learning the lingo, bear with me), but it typically reads to me as the sort of attention that leads on to “famous for nothing status.” That’s cute when you’re a Kardashian, Hilton, or Richie, because you have money from the jump and ties to parents with actual talent. It works for them because the weight of their last names, but if you’re not on that level and you’re just on a blog, well, you’re just on a blog.

And now more than ever are so many people trying desperately to out do each other in the race to appear “different.” They all end up looking the same, then have the nerve to try and be obnoxious about it.

I’m not going to even pretend I’m where I want to be professionally. I am not, but I work hard and I will get there. Fortunately, I’m not even there yet but I can spot a pretender a mile away.

I look at blogs, I see tweets, and I pick up on folks bragging on events that anyone in their 20s working in media with a gap not too distractingly wide can get into. If you’re sense of self-worth is based on wearing something by a person who likely cares nothing about you to attend a party full of folks who aren’t as pressed about the event as you appear to be go read a book.

Speaking of which, I would like to think that the generation out now with their sense of style and go get ‘em attitude mirrors those in the Harlem Renaissance. Yeah, hell no. We’re not even in the league of those in late 80s/early 90s. Why? Because a lot of us don’t read.

Being fly is not an excuse to be stupid. Put it on a button or pay Pharrell to say if that’s what it takes to get the message across.

I’d cut for someone who could dress and thought they were more important than they actually are so long as they could formulate a coherent sentence. I really would. A lot of people are assholes, but insight is insight. So many people in my age group are ridiculously vapid. There’s no depth, no real sense of creativity. Just a desire to become a celebrity (or something close to it) because they’ve fallen into the trap of celebrity worship.

Which leads me to Type 02.

2. The person who writes about celebrities thinking they’re one, too.

This isn’t directed at any particular blogger. It really isn’t. But, I will say I think sometimes this obsession with celebrity our society produces way too many confused people. I don’t actually mind the wave of bloggers changing the media game. I think it in many ways, it was necessary. However, I do think [most] journalists (not all, even they suffer, too) are trained to realize that they are to tell the story, not try to insert themselves in it.

There is a line that shouldn’t be crossed, but far too many people jig up and down through it because they’re trying to get famous themselves.

If that’s the case, get off the blog and go learn to play the piano, or take a pole dancing class. Hell, you’re a blogger: Go find a rapper to slurp and get a lit agent. That seems to work well, too, these days. Whatever you need to do, go do it. That way you can stop wasting cyberspace talking about yourself when you know damn well people clicked on the link to read about what contact solution their favorite celebrity uses.

3. You Trapped In The Closet People

This is dedicated to the men and women who are walking vaccum and carpet cleaners late at night or in my inbox, but fake breeders during the day. I would go on, but if I did it would turn into my first book or something.

4. No Wait, The The Pretentious People Really Do Irk Me

I think this whole entry is really dedicated to them. I’m trying not to sound like a hater. There’s a difference between constructive criticism and hate. Hate would suggest jealously, but I don’t want to dress like Carlton Banks and Cruella Deville to earn a feature in a magazine that will likely be folded in three days.

I just want people to stop trying to convince me that they’re cool, that they’re fly, that they’re meant to be a celebrity and just BE.

How much more fun are people when they’re just being versus projecting all the time? Stop it. Some people may love me, other people may think I’m nuttier than a Snickers, but I am me. All the time.

5. The Folks Who Would Give Themselves Fellatio If They Could

There’s self-confidence and then there are people who I feel like have themselves on their breath. It’s OK, we know you know matter. Don’t all of God’s children important or something like that? Yeah, we got it. Now sit your happy self-congratulating ass down somewhere.

And: Bloggers who don’t update their damn blogs.

With my punk ass, right?

Wait, wait, almost forgot: The Bougie Black Brigade

I don’t know what post-Blackness is supposed to mean, but it comes across as another way for privileged middle class Blacks to separate themselves from their poor brethren. This isn’t as prevalent in my generation as it is in the previous one, but they’re still the ones getting most of the camera time.

I think every faction of the Black community deserves their voices heard, but it irks the hell out of me so many of this group turn their noses up at other Black people. Trying to live up to some white standard is passe, and as cold as it may sound, I look forward to the day that the generation still clinging on this to this us vs. them mentality passes on.

Despite are recent triumphs, Black people are suffering now more than ever. The last thing we need is some saddity colored regurgitating some bullshit from the yestercentury.

That’s it. My rant is a complete. Call me a tacky hater if you must. I am not, but hey, since I pulled out the shovel no sense of stopping other folks from digging in.

Giving Brain Doesn’t Make You A Brainiac

You know, I really try to give Karrine Steffans the benefit of the doubt despite my overall feelings about her.

There are a lot of low self-esteem having whores out there slurping up your favorite bisexual rapper, but very few of them reach their goal in winning the lotto via an unplanned (for the men at least) pregnancy.

Those sort of women lack foresight, though. They don’t get in an age where the media has created such an obsession with “celebrity” that even a story about Solange Knowles asking her barber for the Florida Evans cut is worth dissecting for hours. Karrine understands this, however, and was smart enough to figure out a way to profit off of society’s two biggest obsessions: sex and celebrity.

So from her to go from video girl in videos no one remembers seeing to a New York Times best-selling author is impressive. I cring a little bit each time I think about her holding that title, but I respect her hustle.

Now that we’ve gotten the pleasantries out of the way, let’s get to the real: She’s a pretentious hoe with delusions of grandeur.

Let her tell it she is literary genius who seems to think she’s a genius in a land of peons. To her credit, she’s well spoken and doesn’t strike me as an idiot like some of the woman who have tried to follow in her hoe stroll. Still, there’s a certain way you speak to people and Superjaws, that ain’t it.

I’m baffled by her wife and mother of two bit. Does she think we all suffer from dementia? People call you a hoe because of the things you did in the past that you yourself have acknowledge doing. People still call you a hoe because years after the book you were dropping hints left and right about which rapper just spent a vacation in your crotch.

If she weren’t acting so “above it all,” I’d probably be less inclined to bring up her antics. But she does so I must.

She is not Zora Neale Hurston. She is not Toni Morrison. She’s not even Terry McMillan or Sister Souljah. She’s Zane meets 106 & Park. That’s all well and good, but please stop acting like you just wrote some Pulitizer-prize winning piece of literature. Before this video, that last time I’ve seen her on camera she was pulling out her husband’s pair of anal beads. Before that, she was alluding to having sucked the ‘Tussin out of Lil’ Wayne — and her son’s toys were visible in the hotel room.

I’m glad someone called her out although I don’t think it’s the place of a journalist to do so. Or at the very least, not in that manner. On the other hand, Karrine criticized black media — villifying it and again, trying to seem “above it all.” I wonder how she likes them apples now.

Am I the only one irked by this woman acting like the Princess of Monaco? I don’t believe someone’s sexual activities alone suggests how they should be treated, but when you’re entire brand is based on illicit sex with men – including married ones – shouldn’t you take a minute, smell what you just did in your room, and fall the hell back on the cockiness?

And don’t na’an one of ya’ll try to get me to read this book. I’ve seen excerpts. I’ve gotten more insight from a stale fortune cookie. Besides, for every A-list rapper her tongue has entertained, she ended up with Eddie Winslow. I’ll pass on the lessons.