The Perils of Flying Greyhound

I know what you're thinking: Greyhound isn't an airline, its a bus company. However, you're wrong. If you're a big fan of Greyhound, and just can't imagine your life without it, trying flying Southwest this holiday season! I swore of the bus years ago, and was none too pleased to learn that I was back on it again, this time in the air.

The similarities are really quite astounding. Let's start with the boarding process. You see, Southwest thinks they're on to something, and has abandoned the traditional boarding process of giving you an assigned seat and boarding passengers in relevant groups. On Southwest, you get a lovely little primary letter on the corner of your boarding pass, and when the trashy flight attendant calls your letter, you get to rush to the door, shove a fat midwestern guy aside, trample a girl with bad highlights and Uggs, and rush on the plane to try to find a seat. Lots of fun, I tell you. I actually had a connection in Baltimore on my way home for Christmas, so I got to do this twice in one day! Both times, I handed the stewardess my boarding pass, and waited for her to give it back to me before I boarded. That is, until the person in the Hell's Angels jacket behind me told me to "hurry up", and I realized that I didn't need my boarding pass, because on Greyhound, you don't have an assigned seat.

Then there is the crowd. Honestly, it was embarrassing to sit in the Southwest section. All the Delta, US Air and American Airlines passengers were walking by, holding their noses, and telling their kids not to stare. There I was, with Leroy from down-the-way, with his hood-clean sneakers, Philly beard and big white T-shirt. Leroy was REALLY excited to have a laptop, and kept yelling at Yolanda about how convenient his life was with it. Yolanda was too busy telling anyone that would listen that she just didn't understand how to board the plane in these little letter groups. They looked at me for a little racial solidarity, but I just went back to my book and pretended I didn't see them. Leroy and Yolanda were next to Gary and Sharon, who seemed just a step above the trailer park. Sharon kept playing with her anorexic ponytail, adjusting the dirty pink eighties scrunchie in her head, reinforcing her red Lee press-on nails, and complaining about all the security at the airport. Gary would roll his eyes, and mumble something about "those security people" who had the audacity (he clearly didn't use 'audacity' though) to ask him to take off his shoes.

Fast-forward to the plane. Southwest employees really don't take the whole safety business of flying very seriously. They're laughing and joking during the presentation about how to buckle your safety belt and what to do in the event of an emergency. Not so funny, Southwest. Please keep in mind that the majority of your passengers haven't flown before, so maybe you should spell out the rules a little more seriously.

But alas, I made it home, and for that I'm thankful. Special shout out to my rowmates, Ticia and Mark, who argued over who got to watch 45 minutes of Antwone Fisher on their portable dvd player, and had me smelling like hot sauce and fried chicken by the end of the flight. At the end of a particularly disturbing landing, during which I said my final prayers, the flight attendants recommended that we "give the pilots a hand." Umm, for what? For almost killing us? Do better, Greyhound.

She's got a hustler's spirit, period.

Tracy Edmonds is the hustler of the year. She and Babyface divorced earlier this year, and Tracy was on her game like a true hustler is. Sure, she has plenty of her own money as a result of various entertainment companies she’s started, but like a true workaholic and overachiever, Tracy wasn’t going to take the loss of Babyface’s assets sitting down. After seemingly no time after the announcement of her divorce, Tracy started up showing to events with Eddie Murphy.

I know they’ve been together for almost a year now, and the shock has worn off, but think about it: Tracy Edmonds is dating Eddie Murphy. Babyface’s ex-wife started dating Eddie Murphy as soon as she signed those divorce papers. Now, Eddie is a talented actor whose heyday was in the 80s, but he too is a hustler—never to be out of work, Eddie does voiceovers for animation (Shrek), classic black films (Dreamgirls and Boomerang), and even more questionable films like Norbit. Keep in mind though, that Eddie has about a thousand kids to feed. So he’s gonna do movies until the day he dies, no matter how tragic or embarrassing they may be.

But Tracy isn’t worried about all the kids. Or that pesky little transvestite rumour. Or the fact that Charlie Murphy says God-knows-what at family dinners. But what she does need to worry about is the one thing that Eddie’s done that I just can’t get over.

My sister and I are fond of breaking out in song, and one of our favorite songs to sing is the 80s classic, “Party all the time”, which can be seen here: http://youtube.com/watch?v=m5LX16zia2k. Could you ever look your husband in the eyes if he had written and sung this song? And was so serious? At any rate, Tracy doesn’t care. The two are allegedly getting married sometime early in the new year, and I respect Tracy’s gangsta. Not to be outhustled, within a year, she’s gotten a divorce, decided to be Eddie Murphy’s beard, and shook all the haters off. Congrats Tracy.

What's wrong with Pepa?

It saddens me to once again have to question the current state of a fallen legend. Oh Pepa, why dost thou act a fool?

Salt and Pepa have a reality show on VH1. Not quite sure why, but hey, its not blaxploitation like Flavor of Love, I Love New York, Nelly’s search for Miss Apple Bottoms or The Life and times of a Video Vixen, so I’ll take it. Salt seems well adjusted to life post prior-millennium stardom. She has a house, a husband, some kids, a nice, grown-up hairstyle, appropriate décor, and seemingly no interest in pretending like she’s still 25. Most importantly, she has no visible plastic surgery, no twisted face, and no denial.

Pepa, on the other hand, has all of the above. I can’t watch their reality show, not only because it doesn’t hold my attention, but because I can’t handle when Pepa faces the camera full-on. Though she admits nothing, either Pepa had some work done on her face or I’m going to burn in hell, because she has some sort of disease. In the event that the latter is true, I’ll focus on the more obvious choices that Pepa makes that make her problematic. Pepa dresses like a 19 year-old with an unlimited Rave credit card. Sure, she may be proud of her body, but its time to grow up. I don’t wear the things I used to when I was 17, and I sincerely hope I don’t revert in 20 years and start hitting up Forever 21 and showing my midriff.

Her attire isn’t the only thing that worries me about good ole Pep’. In general, she seems to have trouble dealing with the fact that shes 42. While Salt has a nice suburban abode, Pepa clearly Coach-bagged her way to the middle class, and doesn’t seem to have much to show for the money she’s made. Additionally, she’s always trying to stay in the club ‘till like 5 am, long after Salt has gone home (to her grown up life), claiming that she’ll be in the studio on time, but in true unprofessional fashion, doesn’t make it. She argues with Spinderella, talking down to her, and telling her that she’s not a true part of the group. I won’t talk about the fact that there is no longer a group, but you know, when you hold on like that, you fail to realize these things.


Get it together, Pepa. You’re 42! FORTY TWO! You’ve been alive 4 decades and change! People, if I ever act/look/dress/live like Pepa at 42, just kill me. I’ll forgive you.

Baby Spears

As cynical as I may be, I didn't see this one coming. By now, everyone knows that Britney Spears’ little sister is pregnant. And while I didn’t necessarily expect this, I’m confused as to why people are so shocked. I mean, Britney’s shenanigans didn’t come from nowhere. Lets think about it:

Brit started off in a trailer park. Okay, I don’t know that for sure, but I think she came from something similar, if not an actual park full of trailers. She fooled us all for a little bit, assuming the role of a wholesome little down-home girl, and even was even on the Mickey Mouse club. I don’t think I ever saw her in action on the Mickey Mouse club, since I only got to watch the Disney Channel during those free preview weeks they used to have, which would basically cause brats like myself and my sister to beg our parents to purchase a subscription to the channel. That never worked out well for us, as my Dad would ask us why we were watching TV in the first place, and threaten to cancel the cable. I'm still a little bitter that the DC comes as part of a regular cable package, but I'm trying to get over it.

Anyway, Britney started exhibiting some symptoms of a problematic upbringing right around the “I’m a slave for you” days. What type of wholesome girl writhes on stage with a python slithering over her body? And, sadly enough, we all know what happened next. The break up with Justin, marriage #1, marriage #2, the two kids, the divorce, the drugs, and complete loss of sense. In just a few years, Britney has become a weave-plug visible, drugged-up has-been. Don’t get me wrong, I actually feel really bad for her. Lord knows that if the world knew all the crazy things I do, I’d never get a job/home/restaurant reservation again. But, such is life as a public figure. I always advocate going with the “I’m just a robot, I never talk, just smile” tactic a la Beyonce.

So anyway, Jamie Lynn is 16 years old, and pregnant. Unfortunately, not that rare of an occurrence these days. Her poor mom. She was quoted as saying that her daughter is pregnant with her ‘long-term boyfriend’. Uhhh, 16 year olds don’t have ‘long-term boyfriends’, but if that makes you feel better, then fine. Things should get pretty interesting in about 6 months, when there is yet another Spears’ offspring. Let’s pray that Jamie Lynn can discontinue the dysfunction and raise the next great American superstar. Or at least, not do things like her sister, that will make her kids suicidal once they learn how to use google.

When I told a friend of mine that Jamie Lynn was pregnant, she was like “WHAT?! Her little sister? The one who is supposed to be the next Britney?”. To which I said, “but don’t you see? She already is!”

So somebody explain this to me . . .

This chick sluts it up on myspace like every other common whore, and ends up getting a reality show on MTV. And they could actually find people to date her?

I cannot and will not do Tila Tequila. And not because she is talentless, vapid, has a preemie forehead, or even because her show is stupid. But because she’s encouraging myspace coonery in the masses. I have a myspace account for the sole purpose of looking at the tomfoolery that is some desperate folks’ pages. Yes, if you have a promiscuous profile picture, a profile survey that reveals any of your sluttery, or even too many glittery-looking appliqués, then I’m talking about you. Yes, if you take pictures with your friends in your trampwear, posing like a porn star and mentioning that this will be a great myspace picture (which i've hear far too many times), then I'm talking to you. Actually, if you actively use a myspace account period, I’m talking about you. Get with the times and get on facebook.

But I digress. Tila’s inability to properly enunciate a word, let alone a sentence, it evidence that instead of building her page and amassing millions of friends, she should have been studying for her GED. Now look at where she is: on a reality TV show on MTV, “dating” a bunch of losers/stalkers, and (I think) seriously hoping that she finds “true love”. I mean, that has to be all shes doing, because if she gets a second show, then I’ll know that MTV is in more trouble that I originally though. The real issue is that America is in trouble. Tila Tequila, Flavor of Love, Soul Plane, Fox News . . . where is this country headed?

If you have any sense, boycott Tila Tequila and Myspace. You also may want to boycott Tila Tequila because there is one scene when she gets out of the pool and all her make up has rubbed off. All I can say is that someone in production has it out for her, because that shot right there might have ruined what little “career” she had left. I guess its back to Sonic for Tila. See ya in the trailer park, love.

The Scott Storch Sunglasses Fund

Scott Storch is having some financial problems. Although reportedly worth $70 million in 2006, by August of this year, he only had $17 million. Quite the loss, Scotty.

But I don't really care about his money. What I do care about is making sure that he never takes those sunglasses off. Now, I'm not sure why Scott started wearing those glasses, but I'm eternally thankful that he does. Can you imagine that face without them? While I usually find sunglasses in the club, on the street at night, or anywhere else inappropriate like say, dinner, highly offensive, Scott gets a lifetime pass.

But let's move on the the money. Something about Scott just screams "cokehead" to me, and being that he hangs around people like Linsday Lohan and Lil' Wayne, I don't doubt that most of the money he lost went up his nose. Probably that and some negrodian spending characteristics, not to mentioning paying for all the women he dates (because I'm pretty sure he has to pay them-- again, look at that face). I know how to spend money, but even I would have trouble going through $53 million that fast.

Which leads me to my main point. We've got to keep an eye on Scott's cash. Don't worry, I'll take the lead. If his assets dwindle to less than $5 million, I'm starting the Scott Storch Sunglasses Fund, and will do my best to make it tax deductible. Because Michael Jackson already gives me enough nightmares. I don't need to lose any sleep after seeing Scott Storch's full frontal facial nudity.

And the winner is . . .

As 2007 comes to a close, I’m reflecting on a lot of the things I’ve seen and done, as well as some of the decisions I’ve made. With only about two more weeks left in the year, I plan on being out and about, doing some partying and socializing, but I doubt that I’ll ever see anything like this again. For that reason, I feel comfortable awarding the coon of the year award to the unnamed gentleman above.

I happened upon this poor bloke at a party last weekend in lower Manhattan. He was gracious enough to invite one of my friends up to his table, and didn’t kick us out when about 10 people proceeded to join her and down a bottle of Grey Goose without so much as asking his name. For that reason, I feel slightly guilty outing him like this, but his accessories were so unacceptable that I have no other choice. Please look closely at the picture above. Do you see something wrong?

Well, you might be able to see a few things wrong. But most of them are rather subjective. I don’t particularly like his shirt, and I’m not necessarily feeling his chain, but keep looking. Look at his earlobes. What does this man have on? WHAT DOES THIS MAN HAVE IN HIS EARS?

Sadly enough, I don’t know either. Stunned upon looking up at his leering face and seeing those heavy, gaudy, gold-plated earrings assaulting my vision, I never ended up talking to him. I think he may have asked if I wanted a drink, and with wide eyes focused on his ears, and a mouth hanging open in shock, I reached down, and without looking, got a glass, and handed it to him. He smiled, handed me the drink, and all the while I never closed my mouth. As more of my friends came over and I pointed out his earrings, I watched their reactions, from shock to disgust, and even in some cases, fear. I believe that one of my friends actually threw herself on the couch when she saw them.

As I said, even in person, after many, many minutes of staring from all different angles, I still was unable to decipher what, exactly, his earrings were supposed to be. My best guess was strawberries. Yes, I think this man had two gigantic, gold-plated strawberries hanging off his earlobes. And he KNEW he was doing it big, with his busy shirt, chain, crowded teeth and bottles of Goose. He was dancing all up on one of my friends, smiling like he had just won the lotto, and shaking those earrings for the whole club to see. And just for having the audacity to not only buy, but actually wear some foolishness like that, I’ve awarded him the Coon of the Year award.

Strawberry Shortcake, congratulations.

Please Arrest

Montell’s delivery man. Nope, I’m not talking about his paperboy, florist, or any restaurants that may deliver to him. I’m talking about whoever it is that supplies Montell with his ‘medicinal’ marijuana. You see, Montell’s been toking on that oooh-wee a bit too much, and starting to act rather irrationally.

It can be argued that Montell has acted irrationally for a very long time. I know, because I used to watch his show when I was in middle school (don’t ask why, there really is no explanation). I really felt like he was about helping people, except of course, when he brought that eccentric psychic, Sylvia Browne on, and she used to bite her thumb, look at people really sadly, and say things like “oh, honey, I’m sorry. You’re going to have some really traumatic deaths in the family next year”. Thanks Sylvia, but I’d rather not know, you know? Like, can I just come to New York, go see the tree in Roc center, go to Montell’s show, and then return to Iowa without you telling me that my son is going to die?

Anyway, Montell recently traveled to Savannah, Georgia, to promote a pharmaceutical company, or something. Probably to promote his dealer as the leading source of ‘medicinal’ marijuana. But I digress. Some high school journalist had the nerve to question Montell about the ethical lines that are consistently blurred by pharmaceutical companies when it comes to profiting off of medicine taken by very sick people. Montell, probably sober at the time, brushed the question off and kept it moving. Later on, in the lobby of the hotel, and clearly after taking a few hits of that good stuff, and feeling like he was on top of the world, he let the poor little girl know how he really felt. This is what he said: “Don't look at me like that. Do you know who I am? I'm a big star, and I can look you up, find where you live and blow you up.”

Oh really, Montell. Really? I have a few questions:

(1) You’re a big star? I’m not sure about that Montell. If you’re a ‘big star’, you wouldn’t have to say it. Its kind of like the women who wear the “I’m sexy” t-shirts. 99% of the time, they’re not. Monty, do you think that Beyonce walks around saying “I’m a big star”? Not so much.

(2) Montell, all of us can look people up. All it takes is fingers, half a brain, and either the internet or a phone book. Are you alluding to having special powers? Try harder.

(3) Are you really going to blow her up, Montell? How, pray tell, would you do that? Would you go out like a champ and just throw some dynamite in her window? Or would you hire someone? You know, being that you’re a ‘big star’ and all. Maybe one of your fans will just do it for you, being that you’re such a ‘big star’. And your fans aren’t lonely housewives in middle America, right? They’re people with expertise in bomb-building and assassinations, right?

But you know, Montell’s PR people got their minds right, and forced him to publically apologize. He claims he thought the girl was at the hotel to harass him, and he just lost his temper.

Montell, we don’t believe you, you need more people. You know you were snacking passing a bowl around up in your room, and came downstairs trying to stunt.

Do better.

Who Killed Michael Jackson?

Yesterday, when I was checking my email, I looked up and saw this ad. and then I realized: I couldn't answer the question. Who IS that little brown cherub? It sure isn't this dude, who I'm pretty sure would scare my 4 year-old-niece if she ever saw him in person.




To be honest, he'd scare me too. One night, after enjoying a few spiked beverages and other goodies, I turned to my friend on the couch, and posed a very serious question. "What would you do if Michael Jackson burst in the room right now?"

He looked at me, then the door, then me again. Suddenly, he seemed really nervous. "I'd probably jump out the window".

I happen to live on the fifth floor, so what my friend was essentially saying, was that he would commit suicide if Michael Jackson came in. And the more I thought about it, the more nervous I got. In fact, I actually got up, and dead bolted my front door, just in case The King of Pop was pressing his ear against the door, listening to our conversation, and ready to make his entrance.

So I want to ask: what the hell happened to Michael Jackson? I mean, I know Joe was crazy, he was forced to be a child star, Mr. Rat got killed, etc. But none of this would explain his skin lightening a thousand shades, his hair implants/wig/whatever is on his head, the extensive plastic surgery, or the unforgivable loss of bass in his voice.

I have a theory. Someone either killed the real Michael Jackson, or they entered into an agreement: the real Mike went into hiding, and this lunatic has his riches at his disposal to do whatever he desires. I'm gonna have to go with the latter, and as I say that, I realize that this dude is really living it up: Adopting nordic babies, naming them Blanket and Prince Michael while claiming, against all genetic possibilities, that they're his. Talking in a falsetto 24/7. Living on Never Never Land and having sleepovers will random little boys. Touching fans in Croatia and acting all humble as they pass out.

I think the real Michael Jackson is chillin' in Detroit. He's probably a mechanic with really heavy sideburns and perpetual toothpick in his mouth. He probably smashes the radio with a bat every time a Jackson 5 oldie comes on, and does the moonwalk in the shower. I don't care what you say, that monster above is not the original King of Pop.

Somebody needs to lock this man up. And find the real Michael Jackson.

Pop Culture PSA

Psssst! Unknowing pop culture consumers, I have something to tell you. Now, some of you may have caught on by now, but clearly, most of you are confused. Queen Latifah is not relevant. Queen Latifah is not relevant in a way that is kind of unbelievable given the amount of attention she receives from 'popular culture' (read: those who don't know any better and/or non-black people taking hegemony's word for it, even though you don't really get it either).

You see, Queen Latifah has become the go-to big, beautiful black woman. She's safe, and jolly, even models for Cover Girl, and to add to her street cred, used to be a rapper! She even used to be on one of my favorite shows, Living Single. Please note that all these notable accomplishments occured in the past. Yeah, yeah, she did Beauty Shop, Barbershop, and voice overs in Ice Age 2, but let's face it: Its 2007, Queen is almost 40, and its time for pop culture to replace her with a new big, beautiful black woman. I nominate Toccara. Sure she's done a few unsavory spreads in men's magazines, and host(s/)ed a pretty horrible show on BET, but she's young, she's fresh, she's cute, and most importantly, she's not Queen Latifah. Also, she actually appeared in a hit show that aired in the last decade, and she's relevant to children and young adults alike. And men in jail.

I'm not trying to knock QL, or downplay her contributions to music/television/film. I'm just saying, Queen was hot when I was like 10, and that was a long time ago. Yeah, I was bumpin "U.N.I.T.Y" real hard in my tape player, but opening gossip magazines a la Star and seeing paparazzi shots of QL leaving the gym with her rumored girlfriend is akin to showing shots of Ronnie Devoe stepping off an American Eagle flight in the Memphis airport . . . ummm, who cares?

But I guess Ms. Dana Owens will ride this wave as long as possible. I'm just going to sit back and see how long it takes for the truth to be revealed. Because, let's face it: if she were an overweight, 40-year-old, white singer/actress who hadn't had a mainstream hit in like 15 years, would People Magazine be running pics of her on the red carpet?

Me thinks not.

Oh, you don't wear lotion?

I have to post on this topic because, as of late, I've been shocked by the things I've been hearing come out of people's mouths. Usually I'm too busy trying to talk myself off the ledge as the elevator approaches my floor at work, but in the event that I focus on what's going on around me, I overhear some choice conversations.

One of my favorites:

guy: "hey, uh, what happened to your thumb?" (looking at the band aid on girl's hand)
girl: (staring at her thumb with perplexed expression) "I'm not sure . . . you know when your skin gets so dry that it cracks and bleeds?"
guy: "ugh, i hate that!"
girl: "i mean, me too. so now I'm, like, using this moisturizer, but, like, its like so sticky"
guy: "really? yeah, so, you like put it all over your body?"

At this point, I almost die. Literally. I forgo any sort of home training and unabashedly stare at these two fools. Excuse me? EXCUSE ME? You mean to tell me that your skin is so dry that it cracks and bleeds? And you accept that? And lotion is sticky? No homie, lotion is not sticky. Lotion is a God-send. Lotion makes my world go round. Honestly, I can't imagine life without it.

And before you think that this is an isolated incident, its not. Yes, black people, I know that we will always have lotion in our homes, even before we have toilet paper, or even electricity. Quietly, I think that we are fueling the lotion industry singlehandedly (black women are actually the number 1 consumers of baby oil, which leads to my next story). I remember once in college, strolling down to the commissary in high rise north, freshly bathed and oiled, looking as shiny as I wanted to look. I walk by these two typical Penn girls, with their Herve Chapelier bags and Northface fleeces. As I pass, one of them freezes, and sniffs the air. "Omigod, Amy, do you like, smell a baby or something?" No, Amy, you don't smell a baby. You smell the comfort of freshly lotioned skin. Doesn't it smell comfortable?

Another time, I'm sitting in a meeting with the faculty advisor to a group that I led. In the middle of talking about relevant ish, this woman stops and is like "Your skin always looks so soft. Can I touch it?" So even though I felt like a zoo animal, I let her run her hand over the silky goodness that is my arm. "Wow, what do you do to it?", she asks. "Umm, put on lotion" I reply. "What, like every day?" I nod. "All over your body?". I nod again, and look at her like shes crazy. Her final question, which went unanswered by yours truly: "I mean, doesn't it like leave grease marks on your clothes?"

When people say things like that, or talk about how their skin is cracked and bleeding, or talk about how today they put "moisturizer" (always the telltale sign of a non-lotioner-- non-ashys refer to it as 'lotion') all over their body today, and how sticky it feels, I want to lean in and whisper "hey, I have a secret . . ."

Actually, no, I don't want to tell them anything. I want to be like "oh, you don't use lotion?", then pause, give them the 'stop playing' look and be like, "oh, you don't use lotion? You don't need lotion? You just pull your pants up over your ashy legs and keep it moving?"

Well okay then. Peace be with you.

Help a Blonde Sister Out Day

This picture makes me want to cry. Actually, no it doesn't, it just makes me shake my head and try to fight the feeling of hopelessness. Look at these three brown women, as happy as they want to be, livin' the good life, with their blonde, straight hair and colored contacts. I won't even start on Lil' Kim's face, but I'll just hope that someone in her life loves her enough to enroll her in some intense therapy. Remy, as I already discussed, is a lost cause, and as far as Puffy's mom, all I can say is, 'Jesus, take the wheel'.

I know you're probably desensitized by the ridiculousness you see on a daily basis, but stop and really think about what is going on with our people. I mean, you would do a double-take if you saw a white person with a afro wig, brown contacts and collagen lips walking down the street, right? Is this any different?

I happen to be strongly opposed to blonde hair on 99.9% of all black people. Honestly, I'm pretty much offended by it on any black person on whom it doesn't naturally occur, but for fear of offending you, if you happen to have blonde hair, I'm allowing you to think you're in that excused .1%. I mean, I just don't get it. I RARELY see a blonde-haired non-black person who is stunningly beautiful, or really, even good-looking, in my opinion. I can't for the life of me figure out why the three fashion victims above, and everyone else who follows suit, feel any differently. But I guess I've just been unaffected by the European standards of beauty that assault and misguide us on a daily basis . . . and I'm thankful for that.

I've now declared December 7th the official Help a Blonde Sister out day. When you see one, tap her on the shoulder, give her a black power fist, and tell her she's in your prayers.

Let's Talk About . . .

The unfortunate LP (little person) known to pop-culture consumers as Midget Mac.

Before I begin, let me say that I really don't watch I Love New York. I won't try to pretend that I didn't watch both seasons of Flavor of Love, but for some reason-- maybe its guilt, but more likely disgust-- I refuse to waste precious hours of my life watching random losers try to "date" New York. I mean, I can't be mad at her though-- with those chipmunk cheeks and my-mom-drank-while-pregnant eyes, Flavor of Love/I Love New York is probably the only way she'd ever be on TV. Plus, she's already shot down her credibility after chasing after Flavor Flav, so she might as well make all the money she can now. However, I have seen a few episodes of the show, usually because other people in my house are watching it, or it just happens to be on in the background when I'm doing something else.

Back to Midget Mac. I guess what I have a problem with is the fact that he allows himself to be called that. Okay, that's not the only thing I have a problem with. I also have a SERIOUS problem with his clothes. Its really the same issue I have on normal sized grown men who wear baggy jeans, shirts three sizes too big and fitted hats (basically men who dress like preteens), but on Midget Mac, the ridiculousness of it all is exaggerated by the fact that he's like 3'5". Why on Earth would you wear a striped Nautica polo shirt that drags on the ground when you walk, and where, exactly, does he get those jeans? Baby Gap?

Anyway, I didn't find it funny when Midget Mac was talking in the confessional, and all you saw was his little red fitted hat in the bottom left-hand corner of the screen. I didn't see this, but if I had, I wouldn't have found it funny that New York's mom screamed and ran away from him when she saw him, and I have a huge problem with the fact that he allows himself to be called 'Midget Mac'. I mean, its kind of like someone being called 'Nigg** Nate' (not exactly, but you get my point) or 'Fat Frank'. Who would allow that?

Now, if you think I'm being crazy, and overreacting, no, I don't have any LPs in my family or anything, and I'm not one myself. But, peep this:

"I do not see an end to the use of midget. What I hope is that people's understanding evolves so that they realize the word is considered by many little people as a slur on their humanity. It shouldn't be a throwaway line in a comedy routine. It shouldn't be hurled out a car window. And it shouldn't be the only form of insensitivity toward other human beings that doesn't deserve an apology from the Hollywood stars, or ordinary people, who utter it either thoughtlessly or with malice. "

That's from the Bay Area Chapter of Little People of America, and being that I know nothing about being an LP, I won't argue with what he says.

Anyway, this all leads me to my real point, and sorry if this offends you. This is all I know: When I was little, there were a couple LPs in my school. You were NOT allowed to make fun of them, and I really don't think administration would have taken too kindly to them being nicknamed 'dwarf danny' or 'tiny tina'. This is my theory. LP Mac, as I'll now call him, didn't go to a nice, suburban school where the teachers actually care about the students like I did. He must have gone to a crowded, chaotic school with teachers who didn't give a fu*k, and would let their students get made fun of for things outside of their control, like their height. LP Mac, essentially, is an oppressed ghetto LP, who probably never was taken aside and told that he shouldn't be treated badly because of his stature.

And for that reason, I feel for LP Mac, and I urge him to get his life together and force people to respect him. I mean, he must be crying inside, right?

Sometimes I worry about the future of Black people

Well, actually, oftentimes I do. Case in point: I started my morning as I usually do, pretty much refusing to do any work, and surfing the pages of my favorite gossip blogs instead. And yes, before you ask, sometimes I worry about my future as well, but I'm addicted to gossip blogs, and like any good addict, refuse to give them up.

Anyway, moving on. Rewind to a few months ago, when I was again, pretty much refusing to do any work, and sitting in my office listening to the woman who makes my afternoons tolerable, Ms. Wendy Williams. Remy Ma, the blond-bang wielding shemale rapstress was on. Eager to hear what this degenerate would have to say, I turned the radio up, and sat back, ready to spew classist rants. Surprisingly, she sounded pretty normal. Aside from a few threats of violence aimed at all the haters who try to bring her down when she visits her old neighborhood and her concurrent mentions of her love for her son and marijuana in the same sentence, Remy seemed rather grounded. She talked about how she tried to tell her friends back in the projects that it wasn't normal to have babies before getting married, and it wasn't a good idea to have kids that you can't financially support. She pretty much won me over. I mean, I was ready to overlook her stunningly revolting fashion choices, and even pat her on the back for confining the blonde weave on her head to her bangs. She even visually displayed her progress, showing up to court in (almost) appropriate attire and a weave that was all black and all beautiful.

So then I logged onto bossip.com today, and started to hum Paula Abdul's mark-of-genius line, "we take two steps forward, we take two steps back". There are some quotes from the new issue of XXL magazine, which bossip thankfully posted, because Lord knows I would never encounter them on my own accord. Ms. Remy, who I had such high hopes for-- I mean, I envisioned a nerdy, private-school, albeit weed-smoking son, a ghetto-fabulous wedding album, and packages of premium yaky stacked in the walk-in closet-- clearly hasn't made it as far as I had hoped.

The interviewer asked her "What do you want to do"? Now, I don't know the context, and I won't speculate, because I haven't read the whole article, but let me give you some ideas of what I consider appropriate responses:

(1) "travel the world, smoke my trees, shop in italy . . . you know, see the world, 'main'!"
(2) "keep it hood, you know, keep it hood. uplift my people" (similar to something she said on Wendy)

and even, you know, if she was slackin' on her pimpin' a lil' bit:

(3) "destroy all these rap bi*ches. win grammys, pimp hard, stunt, give my son the best of everything!".


But noooo . . . Remy had to really go there and represent for successful black women (I hate to say it, but she is a successful black woman in some regard. sorry snobs). Her response?

“I want to do nothing. I wanna go fu*king shopping like every other bitch and get my pu*sy ate. I don’t give a fu*k. What do you mean, What do I wanna do? I don’t wanna do nothing! I wanna shop and look fly and fu*k my man.”


Well, thanks Remy.

Merry Christmas, Happy Kwanzaa, and Black Power!