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I should have known last night’s episode was going to be especially frustrating given it opened with Nikki, aka Barbie Kardashian, wiggling around in those yeast infection-inducing pants to listen to her on-again, off-again boyfriend,Mally Mall, lie to her again about his dealings with Masika. Mally Mal swears that they didn’t have sex if you don’t include the fellatio Masika allegedly performed on him. Could Mally Mal have just stood idle as Masika showed “what that mouth do?” Sure, but this man is clearly a liar so he’s probably had sex with her at least 52.5 times.

Mally Mal wanted to show Nikki what life was like without her so he presented her with an empty box–confirming our suspicion that he is corny as hell. After that, he gave her keys to his house (as if that will stop him from cheating). When Nikki took that as a sign of the two moving in together, Mally Mal went with the bro version of, “Whoa dere daddy-daddy.” Bless this sucker’s heart. Nikki’s got an empty refrigerator where her self-esteem’s supposed to be so she is willing to fall for anything.

She did have one request during their non-eating dinner, though: She wantedMally Mal to let Masika know whom the real bae ‘round these parts is and she wanted to be there when it went down. When the time came, Masika tried to have a sincere, adult conversation about all of it at the home she helped Mallypick. Masika wanted to make one thing clear: this man was playing both she and Nikki. So reasonable, yet so wrong for the reality show she elected to be apart of. Moments later, Nikki wiggled in and started clucking only for Masika to escort herself out. Masika was right when she described the entire ordeal as “clown shit.”

Nikki felt froggy with another cast member last night, too.

After hanging out with Teairra Mari, Nikki was informed that Morgan was showing off her pre-plastic surgery photos to mutual acquaintances for shits and giggles. Vexed, she confronted Morgan about it at a Ray J video shoot. Nikki is fake as hell, but game peeped game as she called out Morgan for being phony. When confronted, Morgan denied mocking Nikki’s before and after photos. In other words, she’s a lying ass liar on top of being messy as hell.

Here’s the thing about Nikki: Her new ass is nice if not hella Betty Boopish (re: unrealistic) in appearance. Now, when it comes to her breasts, it looks like you need to chart a cross-country flight to go from nipple to nipple because they look as far apart as NY and LA. But hey, whatever works for you, beloved.

Meanwhile, Morgan has issues with Ray J not appreciating her. However, Ray J feels she’s not particularly professional. You know, fighting on his video set and all. Based on the footage last night, I’m inclined to agree with Ray J, but then again, this is the same person who had women fighting over purses and Vagisil at his website launch party, so perhaps she’s just following your lead, Willie Jr.?

In related toxic relationship news, Hazel-E continues to serve as the poster child for clueless women. After finding out that Yung Berg reached out to Teairra Mari to record music, she throws several fits. Who told her? Masika. Yes, while at some dance class, Masika sat with Hazel-E and Moniece and proceeded to fill her in. She did this while explaining her own issue with Teairra. She didn’t, however, touch on her random fight with Nikki over the dude screwing both of them at the same damn time.

Read the rest at Complex.

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1. Why So Hostile To The Gay, GOP?: House Speaker John Boehner (R-OH) is many things: Orange, conservative, and awful at his job, and consistent victim of unnecessary scolding from the kookiest sect of his party. We’ll never know what Boehner might’ve been able to accomplish had he not been so willing to bend to the whim of the House hooligans, but I will give him a solitary cool point for deciding to help fundraise for openly gay Republican California congressional candidate Carl DeMaio. Yes, despite my prejudicial belief that gay Republicans are more times than not, just like Black Republicans: useless as a can of greens.

In any event, Boehner’s decision has reportedly drawn the ire of social conservatives in the party. You know, those people who just can’t get over the fact that some people don’t want to spend their lives having boring missionary sex with someone of the opposite gender the way their distorted view of Jesus intended. It’s a shame that even when presented with a chance to win and make further gains in their corporatist agenda (the real God of the GOP, FYI), these geniuses would actively campaign against someone of their own party ‘cause he makes the sex with another man. Get help, idiots, or better yet, get over it already.

2. Paula, Please: Like a few of you, I caught the premiere of TV One’s latest reality series, Hollywood Divas.  The show made me sad for a few reasons, but I did get quite the chuckle out of Paula Jai Parker who claims that she was blackballed by the industry because she married and procreated with an “outsider.” Now, I don’t like to put fellow Howard University alum on blast, but c’mon nah Bison. Sandra Bullock, among, many, many others have dated outside the Hollywood pool and managed to keep booking gigs. Yes, I know you’re not a White woman, but who do you know who is gullible enough to fall for that excuse? Elise Neal called her out on that in the premiere, too, so there’s something else there. Like, I don’t know, you being combative and taking random shots at your peers mere moments into casual conversation. Or that your acting thus far in the confessionals gives Cruella de Vil after one too many well drinks at happy hour realness. Try again, girl.

3. No New NeNe, No, No, NO:  Even if she’s not my favorite Atlanta housewife anymore, I salute NeNe Leakes for being able to take the popularity she gained from her persona on the show – a dash of Shirley from What’s Happening!!, Black gay slang sprinkles mixed with any evil queen from a Disney movie you can think – and flipping that to other opportunities i.e. acting gigs on network TV and Broadway, but I really hope she doesn’t become the new host of Fashion Police.

On the rumors, she recently said: “I have to say Joan is unreplacable, we all love her, she’s fantastic, she’s given me some amazing advice about my career, I love Joan…If the opportunity comes it’s a possibility I might, I might not…I’m a fashion designer, love fashion and I’ll give you a good read every now and then so it may not be a bad place for me to be.”

A who, what, and how? No thank you. I imagine she can find some other vehicle to threw her shade, but not in Joan Rivers’ chair.

Read more at EBONY.

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White people ‘discovering’ things that everyone else with a mightier melanin count had long already known about is as much of an American tradition as apple pie, racism, and gluttony all are. Black folks know this, though now more than ever are we being reminded of this disgusting practice thanks to the Internet. In the last year white people have discovered and therefore invented (‘cause they’re white so bow down, bitches) the following: cornrows; baby hair; Bantu knots; trap music; big booties. Since we’re approaching Columbus Day, we might as well acknowledge the clueless White people who continue to “create” trends that have already existed and lay claim to other people’s cultures with no receipt in sight.

A year before it was twerking and the doobie wrap, thanks to lackadaisical effort’s BFF fo’ life and eternal bae, Princess Rihanna.

They even now lay claim to rocking rough and stuff with the biggest afro puff, though I refuse to let Alan Labbe rock on with his bad self ‘cause this white dude holding the Guinness world record for having the largest measured afro reminds me of the reality that I have never met a Negro with a Nielsen box. Nice try, whites, but that ain’t it.

Equally wrong are articles like “Fashion Words To Die For,” where a White girl basically writes up a bunch of Black gay slang and sells it as that new-new she’s putting other people on. You didn’t build that, sis. Gon’ somewhere stat.

And then there is the recent ELLE trend piece about “Timberlands” being all the rage thanks to the likes of Gwen Stefani. Like clockwork, the Blacks of Twitter clapped back at Elle (present company included), only for them to go, “Wait! Wait! Wait. A Black wrote that!”

Read more at EBONY.

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If a man says “I don’t want to commit to you” and you continue to ask him how he feels about starting a formal relationship, there are only three explanations for your lingering confusion: You suffer from hearing loss, you have a learning disability that makes it difficult for you to decipher basic-ass statements, or you’re just stubbornly stuck on stupid. Hazel E doesn’t strike me as someone suffering from the Helen Keller or the Theo Huxtable so one can only assume she’s in need of a dunce cap.

Hazel invites Yung Berg over to her new apartment where she reflects on her rift with Teairra Mari. Berg really doesn’t care, but like many men, makes just enough facial expressions and offers the right amount of mumbling to suggest he’s actually invested in the conversation. This is happening while they’re passing a bottle of Ciroc back and forth which ends how one might expect to: Hazel heading to the bed to bend over as Berg in turns follows the leader. The next morning, Hazel hits Berg with chatter about commitment and Berg makes it plain: I’m not committing to you. I don’t want a title. I’m not going to stop screwing around with other women.

Yet, Hazel says in the confessional, “We have an amazing night like last night and I’m back to being the jump off of the day. Make up your mind, dude.” He’s mind has already been made up, beloved. You just refuse to take him at his word because whenever you open your legs to him, he dives into the express lane. But that shouldn’t be surprising because Berg has admitted to being a ho, bird brain.

Suffice to say, Hazel, there is no point in asking Berg, “Don’t you think it’s time to rock with a down-ass chick or no?” when the answer is clear. By the way, who still talks like a Murder Inc. single from 2002? When Hazel said, “I can fall all the way back,” Berg instantly wrote back, “Do what you gotta do.”

I really hope this is just for additional camera time, but even then there are more respectable ways of getting shine than debasing yourself for Yung Berg. Like, say, throwing liquor bottles.

In related “This Is Not How You Handle a Relationship” news, grownup Fizz wants his girlfriend, Amanda, to move-in with him for two reasons: He wants a stepmom for his son, and it will “allow me to trust her more.” The trust issue is rooted in Amanda cheating on him in the past. Yeah, you move in with someone because you already have trust; shacking up should not be a trust-building exercise.

The same goes for Soulja Boy, who wants Niki and her son to move in to prove that he is ready to be a different kind of man. I find Soulja Boy wanting to take in someone else’s child and assist in the childrearing admirable, only Soulja Boy ought to stop being a kid himself before he tackling that responsibility. That said, I was somewhat shocked to see him astutely note that Niki’s trust issues are rooted in her dad, Teddy Riley, having nine kids with six different women. Listen, when Soulja Boy calls you out on your trust issues, you need to go sit on somebody’s couch and work your issues out.

Read the rest at Complex.

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When Oprah tries to spare you from Twitter rage and ridicule, you’d best listen. Alas, Raven-Symoné did not heed Oprah’s warning during her appearance on OWN’s Where Are They Now, opting instead to drill two points down even further: That she is an American—as opposed to an African American—and that she may be in a relationship with a woman, but she is not gay—just a “human who loves humans.” Never mind the fact that “American” is, obviously, a label.

People who say they “hate labels” irritate me because it’s a disingenuous sentiment. More often than not, it’s not that the person hates all labels; rather, it’s that they loathe some connotation that they believe comes with a particular label. It’s fair to resent being boxed in or being generalized and stereotyped based on things beyond your control, i.e. your race and/or sexuality.

However, you have to be an idealist, at best, or a gullible sucker to think that living a “label-less” life precludes you from being seen as a Black woman or a woman who loves other women. Such a line of thinking also requires a great deal of delusion. Fortunately, for Raven-Symoné, who has been in the public eye for two decades now, she is provided with that mindstate by way of celebrity and wealth.

Ultimately, though, she will get her wake-up call. No matter how high one imagines they fly above, the world will knock you down a peg one way or another. This never fails.

In the meantime, I can’t help but be disappointed in hearing yet another rich and famous Black person place distance between herself and her race. It’s also ironic to hear Raven-Symoné position herself as so evolved, while also describing her “interesting grade of hair.”

As “one of them Creoles,” I know firsthand that the minute you hear a person of color pick apart their hair texture, simplicity and self-loathing often follow.

Then there was this comment: “I don’t know where my roots go to. I don’t know what country in Africa I’m from, but I do know I have roots in Louisiana. I’m an American, and that’s a colorless person. We are all people. I have lots of thingsrunning through my veins. I connect with each culture.”

This is Raven-Symoné. If she wanted to trace her roots, I’m sure Henry Louis Gates would assist her in such endeavors. And if not him, someone else—after all, she’s Raven-Symoné.

As Black Americans, we have had to contend with certain attitudes about whether or not we can claim “African American,” given how many of us cannot directly trace our lineage. And, you know, technically Charlize Theron is an “African American.” But ultimately, the term is a more politically correct way of saying Black and no matter what part of the Diaspora you hail from, you have African lineage. A lineage that is pronounced up and down your body. A lineage that should be celebrated—not condemned, even if indirectly and in faux-progressive language.

There is nothing wrong with identifying as African American, Black, Negro, or whatever other term has been used to describe who we are. That has never been the problem. The issue is not race, but racism. And yes, race is a social construct, but this country repeatedly makes it painfully clear how fantastical the idea of a “colorblind society” really is—from the treatment of the First Black president to Black youth like Trayvon Martin and Renisha McBride, down to the lack of representation of Black people in mass media.

Read the rest at Complex.

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Tinashe is, to my mind, a thought experiment: “What if Christina Milian knew what she was doing?” Of course, the same could be said of the many song-dance hybrids who have had Janet Jackson or Aaliyah-like career aspirations, to disappointing results. For too long now the genre has been deprived of that female artist who sings, dances, and entertains with well-produced albums full of interludes, breathy yet enthralling vocals about love, sex, and party anthems.

If only going by “2 On,” the infectious yet unimaginative track produced by DJ Mustard, hitmaker of the moment, we might easily dismiss Tinashe as a one-hit wonder; at the very least, another so-so singer adept at the eight-count but not quite sustaining your attention. She is, however, far more interesting vocally, sonically, and subjectively than her Top 40 hit single might suggest, and her debut album, Aquarius, makes that apparent.

For those who have long followed the teen actress turned girl group singer and now solo act, Aquarius is a well-executed progression from the sounds we heard on Tinashe’s previous mixtapes, In Case We Die, Reverie, and Black Water. Like those collections, Aquarius is an amalgamation of various moods and influences. Her emotions are just as rabid as her libido, and she works them all out through her love of R&B, hip-hop, and alternative music, and list of influences, which include Michael Jackson, Janet, Sade, and Christina Aguilera.

Yes, in terms of production and vibe, Tinashe is heavily influenced by Drake and the Weeknd’s love of all things moody, but it’s Janet Jackson and Sade who helped her understand how to coo and seduce. While Tinashe did indeed work with Sade band member Stuart Matthewman, here we find even louder echoes of Damita Jo.

The debt to Janet is most apparent. There are five interludes plus an outro that all hark to Janet’s albums, but the loudest proclamation is “How Many Times,” her duet with Future that samples the seventh and final single from the youngest Jackson’s breakout album, Control. Tinashe’s contemporary take on the pop juggernaut is far more sexually straightforward—a good thing—​and Future’s addition is yet another win in the duet column for the Atlanta-based-rapper. Future cannot sing, and many of his raps are discernible, but he always manages to convey connection with the artist he shares a space with, not an easy feat considering how useless so many rap/sung collaborations are nowadays.

That connection is missing between Tinashe and A$AP Rocky on “Pretend,” the second single from Aquarius. Many of the Tinashe’s songs feel rather bare, but they work nonetheless, only not so much here; “Perhaps” conveys a vulnerability that’s better achieved on tracks like “Far Side of the Moon” and “Thug Cry.”

A more worthy follow-up to “2 On” and a better introduction to the “real Tinashe” might’ve been “Bet,” featuring Devonté Hynes or “Feels Like Vegas.” There’s a very alluring quality to Tinashe’s voice, and it’s evident whenever she’s singing, or in some cases, simply whispering feverishly about her sexual prowess and overall appeal. “Cold Sweat” is a hauntingly sexy song that is a graduation from similar songs in her catalog like “Ecstasy.”

Read the rest at Complex.

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As far as sitcoms go, blackish is as innocuous as any other family show featured on ABC. The father, played by Anthony Anderson, is more post-rapping and hood movie-making Ice Cube than pre-Law & Order: SVU Ice T. The mama, played by Tracee Ellis Ross, is pretty much the sweet, medicine-practicing daughter that Cliff Huxtable always envisioned Sandra to be. The kids are well mannered and a typical level of adorable. Even the pop-pop is relatively harmless, serving as comic-relief thanks to the talent of Laurence Fishburne.

Sure, they tackle issues like race, but not in any way that ought to make White folks afraid. It’s not a show tackling the shooting deaths of Jordan Davis, Trayvon Martin, or Renisha McBride nor is it engaging in the kind of conversations on class that made Roseanne such a standout in the 1990s. Even when talking about masturbation in its most recent episode, Dré the dad refers to it as “hand-to-gland combat,” which is clever and cutesy, but not especially controversial. Needless to say, this is not the sort of show that will rile up the Vice President the way Murphy Brown did decades ago when it tackled single motherhood.

Still, some people are offended, and more specifically, some White people are oh so mad about the title of the show.

Now, Donald Trump is the court jester of civilized conversation. He is unserious man who clamors for the respect that a serious man actually bothers to earn. Trump will never get such an honor, but he damn sure tries to by blabbering out any and everything with the megaphone the news cycle has unfortunately handed him. I do my best to ignore him as much as humanly possible, however, what he says in this tweet about blackish cannot be completely ignored as I’ve seen other White people echo the same sentiment via social media.

The complaint is on par with other ones in comparable situations that all boil down to one thing: cries of “reverse racism.” Yes, it is a crock, and no, we should never let people who pimp out this useless term get away with it, but damn, is it ever tiring.

Never mind that up until very, very recently, Black people have been widely missing from television. We’re only now seeing Black women have leading roles on various TV shows (after decades of nothing) and even with slight improvement comes the reality that in terms of television reflecting the country its wide array of diversity, we have a long ways to go.

Case in point, in 2014, there are only two Latina women who exist on daytime television – Rosie Perez on The View and Adrienne Bailon on The Real, respectively. When Wendy Williams noted this in an interview with Perez on her talk show on Thursday, Rosie called it a “disgrace.” It is. As is the other examples of TV’s lack of diversity with respect to race, gender, and class.

But those like Trump can only think of one thing: their lily-white selves.

Read more at EBONY.

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A photo posted by Amber Rose (@amberrose) on

1. I’m Not Saying You’re Stupid, But You Sound Simple: In response to criticism over this illustration featured in the Boston Herald, cartoonist Jerry Holbert offered the tried and true response that he had “no intention at all of offending anyone” and that he does not “think along the lines of racial jokes.” Well, you don’t have to because you’re a white male, which absolves you from such burdens. In any event, Holbert says, “I was thinking of myself. I really like watermelon.”

Meanwhile, in Holbert’s GoComics archive, the toothpaste was initially flavored as raspberry. Moreover, The Boston Herald, said of the illustration, “Contributors to our Editorial and Opinion pages have the right to express their views, and satire is clearly used in Jerry Holbert’s cartoon today.”

I’m having a finger in the air. Guess which one.

2. Leave Amber Rose Alone: Mere seconds after TMZ reported that Amber Rose filed for divorce from Wiz Khalifa, my social media feeds were immediately soaked and subsequently marinated in a mix of messages each echoing the sentiment “You can’t turn a ho into a housewife.” As fate would have it, Hot 97 personality and admitted friend to Amber Rose, Peter Rosenberg, revealed (without her knowledge) that it was actually Wiz who cheated on Amber – allegedly in a threesome with a pair of twins. Insert an ick here.

It truly does not matter who cheated on whom and why the marriage didn’t work. Most marriages don’t work regardless of what either spouse used to do for a living. And as far as Amber Rose selling sexual fantasies go, where’s the contempt for these rapper men who often do the same thing?  Meanwhile, no one is calling Wiz a “ho” nor is anyone throwing out these daggers in Amber’s direction admitting their own respective body counts. But that would be too much like right.

3. I See Your Chris Brown and Raise You A Montgomery Burns and Ebenezer Scrooge: In true troll fashion, the Wisconsin GOP announced that they filed a Freedom of Information Act request with the White House Office of Management and Administration seeking records related to “the inappropriate and violent soundtrack” that played during the event. The song in question is “Forever” and the lyrics that upset them so very much are, “So grab me by the neck and don’t you ever let go, mess me up so good until I’m begging for more.”

Heavens to Murgatroyd, a line about sex in aggressive fashion: impeach POTUS. What I hate about this stunt is that it further perpetuates this silly notion that we have to look at everything so saintly. Meanwhile, the voter suppression promoting union-busting Gov. Walker (and so many other GOP cronies) are in bed with the Koch Bros., who want to eliminate the minimum wage, advance voter suppression, cut Pell Grants, decimate Obamacare, privatize social security while making certain that the ultra rich get to keep even more in their pockets by way of unneeded tax cuts. And yet, we’re supposed to all be concerned about Chris Brown’s lil’ EDM bop. The whole lot of them can fall through a trash chute.

Read more at EBONY.

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My initial thought going into the third episode of Love & Hip Hop Hollywood was “Who will Teairra Mari terrorize this week?” I immediately wondered whether or not I was being too harsh. Yeah, I wasn’t. She’s Michigan’s answer to the Tasmanian Devil and can be a whole lot to deal with depending on her alcohol level.

To be fair, though, bitches do provoke her.

Enter Ray J, who stormed into the tattoo parlor with a box full of clothes and feminine products and proceeded to dump them in her face and in front of her friends. You can tell by the childish smirk on his face that he was all too pleased with his attempt at publicly embarrassing her. After making the quip about her badly needing her case of Monistat, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Teairra mushed the shit out of Brandy’s brother and was ready to knock him smooth out for trying to humiliate her. I don’t condone Teairra’s violence, but why would a 33-year-old man carry on like this?

Ray J claims he’s “so upset” because Teairra Mari “disrespected his party.” In real life, his equally clownish girlfriend walked up to Teairra with the sole intention of provoking her to act out.

In the midst of their altercation, Hazel-E, intervened to get Ray J out of the tattoo shop despite Teairra insulting her mere moments prior. As she explained in the confessional, “Me and Te-Te got into it tonight, but that don’t mean I’mma let some dumb ass hasbeen come up in here and turn up on my girl.” This is the kind of friendship Mila J describes in her new single “My Main,” y’all.

It can be a beautiful thing, but the problem with Teairra Mari and Hazel-E’s relationship is that it is like so many other industry friendships: Their asses really don’t like each other. That’s why it wasn’t long before Teairra and Hazel almost came to blows, too.

Teairra is upset that Hazel tried to take her moment away from her—i.e. the let’s replace this stupid Ray J tat under my tit with another that’s just as senseless moment—by bringing up her situation with Yung Berg, which Teairra finds irrelevant and incomparable. Meanwhile, Hazel feels Teairra is a narcissist who only wants to talk about Ray J despite her dumping him several months ago.

Let’s unravel this.

Hazel on her thing with Berg: “I’m his bitch for real. Like… I’m his bitch. It’s everything. It’s no title on it. Because me and him, like…”

Translation: My legs have opened for him and now my heart has, too, which has since clouded my brain to the point where I cannot accept that this man only wants me for one thing—and I hate that Teairra Mari reminds me of this.

As for Teairra, she could stand to be more sympathetic, but when you’re carrying that much hate in your heart, it’s difficult to provide that—especially towards someone you don’t appear to like that much. And whew, mama is vicious with the verbiage. She tried to scalp Hazel-E bald when she sarcastically said she salutes her for being a 34-year-old rapper who can’t rap but is still trying.

Read the rest at Complex.

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I have come to appreciate Shonda Rhimes‘ romance with the ridiculous. She is sort of like “What if Tyler Perry actually studied screenwriting and filmmaking?” or if that sounds backhanded, my generation’s Aaron Spelling. Rhimes, along with her team of writers, knows how to carefully construct a story that includes both crazy and camp—​a skill set not as common as in television as it should be. If the pilot episode of How to Get Away With Murder is any indication, those of us who have been sucked into the web of Scandal will be just as dedicated to the new legal drama starring Academy Award nominated actor, Viola Davis.

Davis plays Annalise Keating, a practicing defense attorney with her own firm who doubles as a professor at a prestigious Philadelphia-area law school. Minutes into the premiere episode, she is described by her students in menacing ways. She is deemed “the shooter” and categorized as a “ball buster” for her straightforward way of communication. Case in point, her shutting down excuses from even one of her most promising first-year law students by snipping, “The way you’re whining at me makes me think I’m your mother.” Likewise, Keating slams another student for “taking a learning opportunity away from another student.”

Though Keating’s tone may not be the sweetest, her means of teaching are no less substantive, and ultimately, more helpful. As Keating explains mere moments into the first day of class, she is not teaching her students how to theorize the law, but how to actually practice it. If only most college students were given such a chance perhaps those loans would at least feel more worth it.

Each year, she chooses four students to work her law firm, thus they are immediately thrown into the throngs of competition by way of assisting her on a widely publicized murder trail. Because it’s a ShondaLand affair, there is a captivating twist that will play out during the season.

Among those chosen, we are provided with the typical law student caricatures: the one who wants to be just like Annalise Keating; the idealist law student hoping to change the world; the student that seems a little behind the curve but is no less beaming with promise. But, because this is a ShondaLand affair, there are little tweaks to the tried and true TV archetypes.

There is one student, gay, who employs the “use what you got to get what you want” notion of getting things done. Enter the sex scene that resulted in one impressive nod from Professor Keating. It’s nice to see a man exploit his sexuality as a means for a come up; in the end, many of us are opportunistic whores and the small screen should reflect that more often.

And like all of her other shows, there is a sea of diversity in terms of both aesthetic and story arcs on How to Get Away With Murder. In the fictitious worlds Shonda Rhimes either creates or at least helps steer, anyone can be anything no matter the hue, gender, or sexual orientation. Real-life barriers are still addressed, but in a way that speaks to Rhimes’ progressive vision.

Unfortunately, not everyone fully grasps the subtle but meaningful messages conveyed in those works, even when they think they are. No matter what New York Times writer Alessandra Stanley thought s she was doing in her Rhimes profile, it is, was, and forever shall be offensive. You cannot champion someone for breaking stereotypes if you spend hundreds of words perpetuating them.

Read the rest at Complex.

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