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If he has his way, Donald Trump may have laid the groundwork for a race riot right by Red Lobster.

According to the New York Daily News, the Trump campaign has been actively trying to book the legendary Apollo Theater in Harlem for a rally.

Apparently, organizers have been calling “every day,” though there is a bit of a discrepancy over how interested the Apollo is in allowing him the space to hold a rally featuring a bevy of paler folks with an allure for those who like to make aesthetic statements with white foods. One described insider said, “They don’t want him there,” while another claimed, “The two parties may have talked, but no deal has been announced.”

You know, Harlem may have changed, but racism is pretty consistent as far as consequences go.

I remember casually strolling along 125th Street one day and asking myself, “Where did all of the white people come from?” No shade, white folks. I had just never seen that many of y’all in Harlem. The next day, I learned that Amy Schumer had been recording a comedy special at the Apollo, which ultimately aired this time last year. Schumer fans are one thing, but when it comes to supporters of a hate-mongering man who looks like the lovechild of Fanta and Benito Mussolini, can we not?

Trump supporters remind me of a few things: Mama’s Family, business-casual bigotry, misspelled signs and “Heil Hitler!” Needless to say, you pile that into Harlem and all I see happening is white people with signs about Obama arguing with Black Israelites while someone eventually pulls out his phone and yells, “WorldStar!” And lots and lots of NYPD, which can be fearful for anyone who doesn’t look like they belong at a Trump rally.

Why exactly would Trump want to hold a rally in Harlem? At this point in the campaign, “the Blacks,” as he affectionately calls us, know what his deal is. He has four black friends: Ben Carson, Omarosa, Diamond and Silk. Zora Neale Hurston already settled the matter with them: “All my skinfolk ain’t kinfolk.”

As for his “black outreach,” which one presumes would be the basis of his Apollo rally, we’ve already heard his shtick. We’re living in the slums of the inner city, where, as soon as we step outside, we duck bullets because we’re our own suicide squad. We’re all dancing energetically across, below or right on the poverty line. When it comes to our schools, they’re falling apart brick by brick, and students have had to burn the books left over from Reconstruction to stay warm because the heat went out and Booger from Good Times never fixed it.

Like, we get that we’re poor, black and ugly, Trump, and honestly, the lines were performed better by Mister in The Color Purple. Then again, Trump’s black outreach was always for white women anyway.

Just this week, Trump professed a desire to improve conditions for blacks and Hispanics. And yet, days before that, during a campaign stop in Pennsylvania, Trump had this to say to supporters: “So important that you watch other communities, because we don’t want this election stolen from us. We do not want this election stolen.”


Read the rest at The Root.

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As many of us politicos have come to know, the Grand Old Party is overflowing with stupid white men. In this campaign season, though, Donald J. Trump has been sucking up so much of the election coverage, the rest of those of that dumb-dumb-diddy demo have been overlooked.

That’s why I am so grateful to Jon Girodes, the Republican candidate for New York’s 30th Senatorial District, who’s doing his part to make sure we all remember there are many other racist buffoons worthy of our ridicule and condemnation.

As NBC 4 New York reports, Girodes planned for an event in Harlem, which, I’m sure in his mind, was some sort of attempt at black outreach. However, if you took a random poll of black folks, most would hear this plan and say something to the effect of, “Bitch, you got us f–ked up.” And he does.

What’s the plan? Well, per an email Girodes sent out to NBC 4: “I’m hosting an event in Harlem which will be in front of the state building in a few weeks. We will [donate] Kool Aid, KFC and watermelons to the public on 125th street in Harlem. Please join us to help the community.”

Of course, the image for this proposed event features Martin Luther King Jr., this type’s personal get-out-of-“That’s racist!” card. Bless his ignorant, clueless heart.

As someone who walks past that building just about every single day, I’m trying to envision what it might look like to see some Republican stroll up to the Adam Clayton Powell Jr. State Office Building and more or less offer a trio of stereotypes to black people.

“What I think is anyone who gives free food to people is doing them a favor,” Girodes explained to NBC 4. “Get a bunch of people who say it’s offensive and let me go into their neighborhood and give it out for free and see if they take it.”

Fine, I’ll admit that if I just so randomly stumbled onto someone handing out chicken wings and fried fish sandwiches, it might initially pique my interest. No one will shame me for a love of either thing. That said, who goes to Harlem and offers KFC? There is a Popeyes on 116th, 125th and 145th streets. How are you shimmying into Harlem with KFC? No one wants that, you silly, likely no-seasoning-using man.

If you’re going to stereotype us, at least do so more productively.

Then again, fried chicken is beloved by all, so to couple that with watermelon and Kool-Aid is pretty damn offensive. You want black votes, so you give black voters high cholesterol and “the sugar”? For the love of God, it is National Diabetes Month.

Read the rest at The Root.

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When Nicki Minaj took to Twitter this week to announce a new album, titled Pick My Fruit Out and featuring tracks like “Fruit Loops” and “Bananas (Harambe Interlude),” one could quickly deduce that she was clowning around. Pick My Fruit was a joke, but it called attention to the fact that it’s been nearly two years since she released The Pinkprint, her finest album to date, and that her fans are rightfully ready for new music. Apparently, the wait won’t be much longer—Minaj’s new Marie Claire cover story promises that she has a new album on the way.

Which leaves us to speculate: what will the album sound like? With Minaj, it’s always hard to say.  As a member of #TeamMinaj, I have some hopes (and fears) for what Minaj’s fourth release will have to offer. This is, of course, very Laptop Label Head of me, but it’s all said with love, beloveds.

Trim the tracklist.

The Pinkprint is Minaj’s best complete body of work because she finally managed to deftly bridge her rap songs with tracks catering to her pop leanings. That said, there are still a smooth six songs that could have been left out.

I love Cash Money, but their model of album-making is stuck in the CD era. Their modus operandi is to give you at least 20 tracks. That was cool ten years ago, because it truly gave fans their money’s worth for an album. In the age of streaming, though, it just comes across as too much. Yes, there are those who call the album a relic and continue to argue we live in a singles world, but when I think of a rapper as iconic as Minaj, what separates her from rappers of yore is an undeniable classic record. Being more selective about tracklisting and sequencing will get her there.

Think of it as a meal. We all have our greedy moments, but in this instance, it’s like you’re getting fried fish, ox tails, chicken wings, turkey legs, and then it’s like 19 sides awaiting you after that. You don’t need it all.

Less pop, more rap. No shade.

In August, London On Da Track told Complex that he was in the studio with Nicki Minaj, but noted that the songs were more on the pop side than rap. Please reconsider this, or, at the very least, can we place a small cap on the number of pop songs on NM4? Yes, “Super Bass” was a huge hit, and helped Minaj reach fans who might’ve otherwise taken far longer to access her (if they ever were going to), but please, oh please, Nicki, not too many of those.

I would love an album of Nicki Minaj just straight rapping throughout. Hell, give me Beam Me Up Scotty, squared. No “Starships” please. Please. I said please. Please. I said it again.

Read the rest at Complex.

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When I saw that tonight’s Atlanta episode was entitled “B.A.N.,” I thought it was an acronym about “bitch ass niggas,” which promptly had me body rolling at my desk to Sevyn Streeter. Alas, “B.A.N.” actually stands for Black American Network, a fictional television channel that’s the love child of PBS and Bounce TV. And on that network is Montague, a low-budget panel show starring Franklin Montague (Alano Miller). The dude looks like Ed Gordon’s nephew by marriage.

“B.A.N.” comprises an entire episode of Montague that’s centered on transitions. To start, Montague wants to explore the “growing outlook on accepted sexuality and its effects on black youth and culture.” That sentence alone elicits fear, given most discussions related to black folks’ views on sexuality being drowned in stereotypes about how us colored people are so much more homophobic and transphobic than everyone else.

The show-within-a-show features the one and only Paper Boi as a guest along with a white woman named Dr. Deborah Holt (Mary Kraft), who is introduced to as a trans activist. According to Montague, Alfred was invited to the show because, during a recent tweet storm, he said he wouldn’t sleep with Caitlyn Jenner. When asked if he would explain the statement, Alfred’s initial response is a simple “Nope!”

After a follow up, however, he goes on to declare, “I just don’t think I have to have sex with Caitlyn Jenner ’cause y’all said so.” Montague volleys a leading accusation guised as a question: “So how long have you disliked trans people?”

“Man, I just found out they exist,” Alfred answers. Montague won’t let it go, quoting some Paper Boi lyric about Caitlyn Jenner. Alfred fires back by saying he’s just rapping and shit, you know, before highlighting that the host doesn’t know all of his catalog. Has Montague ever even heard “Illuminati Sex” before?

Sidenote: How in the hell is “Illuminati Sex” not a real song?

In any event, Deborah very much plays into familiar Negro pathology. She claims that Alfred plays into “cultures of exclusion and power.” She then blames hip hop for Alfred’s attitudes, albeit with a slight twist: This time, issues with masculinity are supposedly the problem, rather than widespread homophobia or transphobia.

“Please, please. Tell me about myself,” Paper Boi quips.

Deborah most certainly does. “Black men aren’t ready to accept the implications of a trans accepting culture,” she says. Even if this is a parody, it’s unfortunate that so many believe this idea. The Montague panel reminds us that many white liberals are as guilty as their conservative counterparts in generalizing black people. What Deborah does is right on par with Donald Trump watching two episodes of Good Times, then declaring that all black people live under hellish conditions in the inner city.

Likewise, I must say that Paper Boi not wanting to smash Caitlyn Jenner is an extreme example of an ongoing media trend: When a person of note makes controversial comments, critics are ready to pounce. That’s not necessarily a bad thing, but in some cases, the outrage goes way too far. Is it worth ascribing a belief to Alfred that he may not hold? Of course not. Advocacy is important, but plenty of folks see it as a come up so they trot out terms like “problematic” in an effort to appear more enlightened than thou. When people make mistakes, you should correct them, but only within reason.

Although I appreciated the humor employed to shoo-shoo away blanket generalizations about black people and our thoughts on sexuality and gender, the next Montague segment almost negates those efforts. It’s a story called “Trans-racial,” which features a black man named Antoine Small who says that deep down inside, he is a thirty-something white man named Harrison Booth. Reminds me of a bunch of black dudes along the Florida-Georgia border.

“I’ve always felt different,” he tells the interviewer. “I go to the store and movies and just be thinking to myself, ‘Why am I not getting the respect that I deserve?’ And then, it just hit me: I’m white. And 35.”

The segment follows Harrison as he begins transitioning by doing a bunch of “white things.” He practicing ordering an IPA at bars. He wears thick brown leather belts. He’s also planning surgery for a “full racial transition.”

Now, I did laugh at his mama’s response to it all: “I’d love to wake up one day and say, ‘Hey, everybody. I’m Rihanna.’ But I ain’t.” But it’s all strange to watch if you’re familiar with the likes of Rachel Dolezal, who I long ago dismissed as a fake-ass Freddie Brooks from A Different World. According to some of Dolezal’s apologists, if one can argue the sex they were assigned at birth does not speak to their true gender, then why not race too?

Race is a social construct. Race is complicated. Nonetheless, gender has historically been far more fluid and varied outside of Western ideals. I didn’t necessarily expect Atlanta to invoke the hijras of India, but I do wish the fundamental differences between this T-Pain-looking black man and those of Dolezal’s ilk were better explained. You know, for the folks watching at home who might not get it.

Read the rest at Vulture.

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How many Black lesbians can you count on television? There’s Kima Greggs on The Wire, but that show’s been over for years.

Ditto for The L Word, which gave us Bette Porter. There’s Anika Noni-Rose’s character Jukebox on the recently concluded last season of Power, but although she was a standout, she was nonetheless a guest star. In the film, the scarcity of Black lesbian visibility is even worse. My only immediate reference was the superb but largely overlooked 2011 film Pariah.

Although Black people were found to self-identify more as LGBTQ than other groups by a Gallup poll in 2012, so much of how the entertainment industry represents the community is lily white. Black lesbian visibility is lacking, so it’s not surprising that Black lesbians themselves have had to force a change.

The award-winning documentary The Same Difference focuses on this much-overlooked group and examines the impact that internalized homophobia and the stubborn clinging to gender roles have on Black lesbians. The film, directed by Nneka Onuorah, was initially released in June 2015 but will premiere tonight on CentricTV in celebration of National Coming Out Day.

While it’s important to celebrate people owning their truth, it’s just as vital to examine what exactly they’re coming out to.

Over the course of an hour, we learn that while there are varying labels women in the community identify with—gender nonconformist, stud and AG (related to women who are considered more masculine), trans, femme-aggressive (as in a woman who switches between masculine and feminine roles), and so on—there remains a binary that boxes in far too many. Those limitations can result in slights from other lesbians, and, in some instances, violence. At one point in the film, one lesbian reveals that she was jumped and told, “You’re too pretty to be stud.”

Moments into Onuorah’s film, you hear the declaration, “We are conditioned to categorize ourselves.” Throughout the documentary, we see how this happens by way of purported rules among the community: “Must be stud or femme, nothing in between,” “No stud on stud,” “No bisexuals,” and “No pregnant studs.”
To a gay Black man, parts of The Same Difference feel familiar—like the way heteronormativity plays such a pivotal role even in non-heterosexual spaces, and how so many people who are not straight look to straight relationships as the basis for their romantic and sexual relationships. So many of the women in the film conform to the idea that if one appears like “the man,” they take on certain roles both sexually and in terms of who more or less “leads” the relationship.

Read the rest at ELLE.

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At the end of September, Rob Kardashian got mad at his sisters and posted the phone number of one of those sisters, Kylie Jenner, on Twitter. (Chyna did the same to Kardashian a few days later). Kardashian has seven million followers—making his actions all the more petty and immature. It’s been reported that he did this in retaliation for Blac Chyna not being invited to a baby shower thrown for him. She was not invited because the two had apparently “broken up.” Excuse me—they’re said to “not be in a good place,” though he’s still Snapping shots of Chyna’s pregnant belly. He’s also gone back to liking Kim Kardashian’s pictures on Instagram, if that means anything.

Who knows what will happen next, but when it comes to the foundation of his new reality show and looming new life as a father, one wonders: Will we ever learn the real foundation of Rob Kardashian and Blac Chyna’s relationship?

There are timelines going around, but there’s nothing specific about what actually got those two together and has him back in the public eye. Most onlookers have assumed that Rob, who has admittedly gained a significant amount of weight due to depression, and in the past, has taken public shots at siblings like Kim Kardashian, found a perfect partner in Blac Chyna, whose friendship with Kim went sour once her then teenage sister, Kylie Jenner, started dating her ex and father of her son, Tyga. That assumption is totally plausible, and for Chyna’s sake, many have saluted her for doing to the Kardashian clan what the sisters are often criticized for doing to others. But while the couple has more or less trolled and frustrated the Kardashians in the past, now both sides are selling us reconciliation, and through the spinoff, Rob & Chyna, a happy ending.

However, now that we’re a little over midway into Rob & Chyna’s first and short season (and likely only), the question of what exactly brought these two together matters more because from the looks of the show, they may have their baby, but they just might not make it as a couple.

Whatever the outcome, for Chyna, she ought to be fine. From what we gathered via social media, but more noticeably in the TV medium, she is confident, acts with purpose, and is quick to let you have it if you wrong her in some way.

Then there is Rob, who acknowledges that he continues to struggle with his confidence. He more or less behaves like Eeyore on the show. On the first episode, we see this as questions Chyna about people texting her—assuming she is communicating with other men—only to later learn that it’s him who is talking to other women. On the second episode, he bails on plans to travel with Chyna to a hosting gig abroad. Rob doesn’t feel comfortable in how certain clothes fit on him and he does not want to be met with a barrage of photographers, spreading images of himself to the world that he struggles with witnessing in the mirror. On the third, he goes with her to her hometown, but wallows in self-pity up until he lands there.

As far as Chyna goes, I’m glad she is gaining in notoriety. I love that she’s on the E! network having conversations about unseasoned chicken, referring to Kris Jenner as “Ms. Kris” as so many of us Black folks were raised to address our elders, and showing off more Black women than the Kardashians ever have (despite consistently playing off Black vernacular, Black woman’s aesthetic, and so on). I’m elated to see that her mom, Tokyo Toni, and all that energy will be a fixture on the show. For her, this show—already a ratings winner—is an unabashed win.

Rob’s fate is far less certain.

Read the rest at Complex.

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Who knew one neck roll had so much power?

Earlier in the week, various outlets were speculating that The Real might be on the verge of cancellation in light of declining ratings—purportedly sparked by the absence of Tamar Braxton, who was abruptly fired from the show earlier this year.

Well, to be fair to the show, some of these outlets were citing a bad-ratings story published by The Wrap in September 2014. True enough, the show started to sag a bit in 2014, but just a month later, it was being celebrated for besting the likes of Meredith Vieira’s now canceled show in ratings.

However, there is a more recent story about how the show is once again suffering from a ratings drop that has it matching its series low. It remains to be seen whether the show will bounce back as it has in the past—although, if you’ve followed the new season thus far, it might not be surprising to see this show remain in struggle mode.

While the remaining four co-hosts—Tamera Mowry-Housley, Jeannie Mai, Adrienne Bailon and Loni Love—are all lovely people, there is something noticeably missing from the show. That something is the former co-host who sat farther to the left and who continues to be what I feel is the real-life version of that old BET-made animation known as Cita.

Whatever one makes of the youngest Braxton sister, she’s certainly never been dull. Now more than ever, I miss her interjecting her opinion whenever the mood suited her. The same goes for her beginning statements with, “I mean … ” and “Welll … ” and “Tuh, girl … ” Ditto for her rolling her eyes and sucking her teeth.

Wait. I cannot forget my favorite: the very high-pitched, “You tried it!”

Thing is, if you’re going to copy The View, which birthed the basis of this show, as well as The Talk and others, you’ve got to be committed. What both The View and even The Talk understood is that when you create a winning formula, you have to commit to it. For The Real, it’s five different types of women on one panel.

Mowry-Housley is the nice, polite Christian woman who married that nice man from Fox News. Mai is that spunky person with the mom who could easily do her job and everyone else’s, TBH. Bailon is loud, no longer a Cheetah Girl from 3LW, and does a great job emulating Beyoncé’s “Crazy In Love” strut at the beginning of the show. Love is loud, cracks jokes and will, I guess, fuss at you when necessary to spread viral content online.

Well, they’re all loud—except for Mowry-Housley—but with Braxton’s absence, now more than ever, we can tell that not all loud people are created equal. Who remembers when 702 sisters Irish and Orish Grinstead tried to continue on with the group without Meelah, replacing her with a singer named Cree Le’More? They recorded the lead single “Pootie Tangin’” for the Chris Rock film Pootie Tang, which flopped, and then Meelah ultimately came back.

The Real without Tamar Braxton is basically the song “Pootie Tangin’.”

Read the rest at The Root.

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Have you ever felt pangs of jealousy while reading Baller Alert, Lipstick Alley, or The Shade Room? During Van’s awkward and (somewhat) contentious dinner with an old friend, I certainly felt that way. In this world of wage stagnation and student loans, who wouldn’t want to be like Teairra Mari and boast about having a sponsor?

We learn a lot about Van through Jayde, a friend she’s known since childhood. As “Value” makes clear, these women have taken entirely different directions with their lives. For Van, it was making a baby with the Princeton dropout who manages a guy who’s the Coke Zero equivalent of Rick Ross. As for Jayde, she’s pretty much guaranteed to land a spot on WAGS or Basketball Wives L.A. She only does two things: date rich athletes and enjoy the perks that such a life entails.

We meet Jayde at an upscale Thai restaurant — presumably of her choosing — as Van arrives late. When Van sits down, Jayde compliments her hair before asking if she got it did at Fernando’s, as per her recommendation. Van did not, noting that Fernando’s is probably too expensive anyway. While the two settle into small talk, we learn that Jayde flew into town on a private jet. “Not like the nice PJ,” she adds. “One of those rent-a-PJs.” How humble of her to play down the fact that she flew private, but not the premiere way to fly private.

Jayde is in town to see a special NBA friend, but no, not that last NBA guy she mentioned to Van. This is new booty, a new line of credit. After she leaves Atlanta, she’ll be heading to London, though she hates London because the rainy weather makes her hair frizzy. She loves Paris, though.

Beginning to get the idea? The waiter comes by, and Jayde orders a bottle of wine rather than drink by the glass. Van rolls her eyes as soon as the words leave her friend’s mouth, but, girl, if she’s paying, enjoy that free liquor. That said, Jayde is quite snooty. When Van requests chopsticks, she snickers and explains that Thai people don’t use chopsticks — only Americans think such a silly thing. The condescension practically drips from her voice. Van should’ve told Jayde to shut her black ass up then and there.

Van’s patience does wear thin when the subject of Earn comes up. Shady or not, I was with the homegirl when she quipped, “Y’all are funny. You two are funny.” Sorry, but it’s true. Van and Earn are funny because they aren’t together, but they sleep and live together. It would seem wise to honor the “no sex in the champagne room” rule for such a situation, but different strokes, I suppose.

As Van gets defensive, Jayde gets a bit more lethal. “You used to make fun of girls like you,” she says. Then comes the sermon: “Women need to be valuable. Black women have to be valuable.” Bring it home, Janye! “Why are you messing around with this broke-ass nigga?” In this moment, she sounds like so many Kandi Burruss songs penned for TLC and Destiny’s Child.

Jayde also flips her bang and gets cocky as she defends her way of life. Van seems skeptical, so she lays it all out. “The NBA players I fuck with fuck with me because I provide a service and I am worth it,” Jayde says. “I am cultured, intelligent, and beautiful and that is hard to come by.”

Okay, now she sounds like the woman who Jazmine Sullivan was singing about on “Mascara.”

Van pops back, reminding Jayde that not everyone shares her values. It is like watching a Kardashian group chat try to take on Solange’s new album. An awkward silence follows, as Jayde carefully takes her phone, checks for good lighting, and snaps a photo of the meal for Instagram. Earlier, she pulled up her IG account to show off photos from all the places she’s visited. Girl, you know damn well Van saw them already.

Anyhow, Van dips after the NBA friend and his not-so-cute buddy show up. (“He’s like a lawyer or something, I think,” Jayde offers.) As she walks through the parking lot, Jayde rolls up and tries to convince her to stay. Van reminds her that she would always fix her up with the ugly one. Yeah, she seems like the type. Why are these two people even friends?

Read the rest at Vulture.

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trump-kfcDonald Trump is fat. If Dennis the Menace grew up to be a racist, real estate tycoon with a bad tan and a huge stomach, he would look exactly like Donald Trump. Trump hasn’t been anywhere close to thin since Disney’s Adventures of the Gummi Bears ended in 1991. Yet, one of Trump’s favorite hobbies is mocking the weight of other people.

During Monday’s Real Housewives-reunion-themed presidential debate, Hillary Clinton called out Trump for his bad habit of belittling women like former Miss Universe Alicia Machado. Trump should have let that story die Monday, but as we’ve learned over time, Trump just can’t help himself—especially when it comes to anyone he finds fat.

To wit, the next morning, Trump called into Fox & Friends to dig himself into a deeper hole by claiming that Machado “gained a massive amount of weight, and it was a real problem.” Some, like Newt Gingrich, have come to Trump’s defense. “You’re not supposed to gain 60 pounds during the year that you’re Miss Universe,” Gingrich explained at an event staged by the Log Cabin Republicans, a group for LGBTQ conservatives.

Please note that Gingrich, like Trump, is fat. Meanwhile, on Wednesday night, Trump continued to advocate for himself in an interview with Fox News’ Bill O’Reilly. According to Trump, when it comes to Machado, he “saved her job because they wanted to fire her for putting on so much weight.”

So in 1996, when Trump referred to Machado as “an eating machine,” he was helping her. Well, that didn’t seem to do much for her. Since Monday, another former Miss Universe contestant, Jodie Seal, who was Miss Australia in the 1996 event, has shared similar accounts of Trump’s weight-centered line of antagonism. Seal told Inside Edition, “He said to me, ‘Suck your stomach in, or suck your gut in.’” Seal added that Trump “put a lot of the girls down.”

But if he was helping them, what about all the other times he’s insulted people over their weight? Trump complained to Howard Stern in a 2003 interview that he thought Jennifer Lopez’s butt was too big. A decade later, Trump told Stern that Kim Kardashian has “a fat ass.”

Then there is Barbara Res, an executive who supervised the construction of his headquarters, recalling Trump telling her, “You like your candy.” Res also noted that Trump only referred to a city official as “the fat [f–k].”

But, yo, Trump is fat his damn self. How has he managed to get away with this for so long? Trump’s obsession with fast food is notorious. Trump loves KFC, which further explains his poor showing with black voters besides the whole unabashed racism thing. Trump loves a Filet-O-Fish moment from McDonald’s. Actually, Trump just loves the menu.

During a CNN town hall held in February, Trump declared: “The Big Macs are great. The Quarter Pounder. It’s great stuff.” In a New York Times profile of Trump, fast food junkie, Kellyanne Conway, now his campaign manager but then senior adviser, quipped, “I don’t think Hillary Clinton would be eating Popeyes biscuits and fried chicken.”

That’s because Trump’s fat ass would be calling HRC fat if she snuggled up with the Tuesday two-piece special the way he’s prone to. Trump gets away with many things, including his shady business dealings, racist statements, xenophobic statements, and so on. By “get away,” I mean not being denounced as the bigot that he is (we collectively instead argue about the term racist and how it hurts people’s feelings or whatever).

He should not get away with this, though. Now is the time to call out Trump on his hypocrisy. It’s also the time to call Trump “fat boy” for the rest of the campaign.

Is it nice to call people fat? As a former heavyweight lover myself, no. However, special times and hypocritical hefty jackasses call for special measures. When you’re fat like Donald Trump, you shouldn’t be going around talking about other people’s weight.

Read the rest at The Root.

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In creating her latest album, A Seat at the Table, Solange Knowles set a simple, but ambitious goal. Solange was asked to describe A Seat at the Table (out today), in a fan Q&A on Twitter. While her last release, 2012’s the True EP was intended to “provoke joy” and “to challenge what we know as Pop.” On this new album, however, Solange intended to “provoke healing” and lead the listener on a “journey of self-empowerment.”

After just one day, it’s clear that she succeeded. A Seat at the Table is an incredible album.

Opener “Rise” directs the audience to “fall in your ways so you can’t crumble,” and then the makes good on its own command. ASATT is an insider’s conversation in the form of a gorgeously sung, perfectly sequenced, and well produced album, an LP made in the spirit of Aretha Franklin’s Young, Gifted and Black.

ASATT’s lyrics often read like the Twitter timeline of a smart Black person. There’s so much being said here that’s voiced, day in and day out, by anyone who is Black, aware, and trying to maintain sanity and a positive sense of self in a society that constantly tries to strip us of both. If the visual component of Beyoncé’s LEMONADE is a celebration of Black womanhood, A Seat at the Table is an album addressing the Black community at large. ASATT speaks to the angst and frustration shared by all of us—and doesn’t shy away from the root of the struggle.

This album was made to heal and encourage Black people, not explain to white people why Black people need healing and encouragement.

For the first time, it looks like we’ll have both Knowles sisters with albums worthy of year-end top ten lists. LEMONADE and ASATT complement each other, a one-two punch from the most powerful family in music. We deserve our Michael and Janet and, in 2016, Beyoncé and Solange have indisputably ascended to the thrones.

A third voice guides the album. Master P recounts the tale of his New Orleans empire, No Limit Records, across many of the interludes on ASATT. In particular, his recollection of a fight with his brother over an offer of $1 million from a white executive for his label and label on “For Us By Us” stands out. Master P explains he rejected the money because he knew he was worth much more than that.

Percy Miller remains an icon to many because of what he accomplished with No Limit and beyond (Foot Locker stores, gas station, real estate, and sports management company)—all while maintaining ownership and without pursuing a mainstream audience. He made music for his people, and now there are southern Black artists like Solange to follow his lead, as well as document the oral history of one of the most storied Black entrepreneurial icons.

ASATT chronicles many facets of the Black experience in its interludes alone. As Master P puts it, “Black kids have to figure [it] out—we don’t have a rehab to go to. You gotta rehab yourself.” Her father, Mathew Knowles, describes the anger created by segregation and his experience as one of the first young students to deal with integration efforts in the South on “Dad Was Mad.” Her mother and Queen of Instagram, Tina Knowles, elegantly explains why celebrating Blackness and Black culture is not anti-white. White fragility often interrupts Black affirmation. But, just like her mama, Solange won’t coddle white feelings.

On “Mad,” Solange and Lil’ Wayne articulate Black folks’ righteous indignation. Solange explores it further, and more pointedly, on “Don’t Touch My Hair.” And again on “Junie.” On “F.U.B.U.,” Solange takes a moment to address her white listeners directly: “Don’t feel bad you can’t sing along/Just be glad you got the whole wild world.” My heathen ass wanted to shout.

Read the rest at Complex.

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