In light of the possibility of a John Edwards sex tape, this post from June ’07 seemed appropriate.
So, one of the more odd things about yours truly is my peculiar interest in and ability to retain information pertaining to pop culture. Perhaps it’s a sad commentary on society in the post-modern era (whatever the fuck that means), but I would feel infinitely more confident entering a pop culture show than I would a history one. It’s not to say I can’t fucks with some Jeopardy!, but it is to say I remember a lot of worthless information.
What’s particularly weird is, though I semi-actively seek to stay hip to the game, unless a pop topic is brought up, I don’t really discuss it with other people. More often than not, it is unlikely I’ll open up a conversation with, “Did you see what so and so was wearing at the Emmy Awards?”, but I’ll absolutely know what so and so was wearing. I just generally keep the information to myself. Is it out of shame? I don’t think so. I suppose it’s just one of those quirks about your boy.
Anyway, I was perusing one of my favorite website, thesuperficial.com, and the most recent post on the site was devoted to pictures of Kim Kardashian living her life. To bring up to speed those of you who have better things to do with your lives than know who she is, Kardashian is the daughter of Robert–one of the lawyers who proved O.J. was innocent, friend to Paris Hilton (though I’m not sure they’re peoples anymore) and the vagina of Ray J’s sex tape. In these pictures on the website, Kardashian’s booty looks other-worldly. Literally, it just looks so good that it’s not to be believed. Now I don’t know how half-Armenians get down, but this was just absurd. I needed a consultation.
Talking to my home girl Ms. Thomas-Littleton, I sent the link to her for her perusal. I tend to believe girls have a better eye for certain things than dudes, mainly because the straight ones don’t want to have sex with what they’re looking at. Upon inspection, MTL thought her ass was a cosmetic fakery, noting that the thigh to butt ratio just didn’t add up.
I’m no one’s doctor, so I can’t really tell you if you can fake a donkey butt. What I do know is happening across these photos piqued my curiosity about her sex tape with Raymond Norwood (which is something of a porny name when you think about it), brother of Brandy. After searching the world wide web for a bit (Sidebar 1: Sometimes, the internet is utterly unhelpful) I discovered the tape in full. Eager to see what the sex tape gods had wrought, I clicked on the link. My date with destiny had begun. Read the rest of this entry »
Twitterin’ (heeey) sing-le
Oooh, In a 1-0 kind of world
I’m glad I’ve got Twit-ter!
Confession: My Twitter feed is fairly one-note. There’s a spectrum certainly, but even that spectrum falls under the category of “Stuff I’ll tolerate reading 140-characters at a time.” Thus, I don’t have too many people who are, in my opinion, batshit crazy and perpetually insufferable. I once referred to Twitter as the college dining hall for grown-ups and that still applies. The people whom I follow are people who I would sit at a table and shoot the shit with. Read the rest of this entry »
Christopher Brown, please take the time to shut you mouth about anything and everything related to possible domestic violence scenarios.
If you all aren’t aware, Breezy has taken exception with the Florida Highway Patrol closing the Tiger Woods case. He feels everything’s so “one-sided”.
I could maybe see how Chris felt he’s been done dirty until I recalled a few things he should take into consideration:
- The Unfair Breaks: Tiger was possibly beaten by his wife in their home and Tiger crashed his SUV on their property as a result of that possible beating. You definitely punched up your girlfriend in a rented Lamborghini on the street of a residential neighborhood.
- 911 was called by Tiger’s neighbors as a result of hearing a car crash and being asked by his wife to do so. 911 was called in your case because people heard a young woman screaming at the top of her lungs and the authorities on the scene found a perfectly intact Lamborghini with a lumped-up pop star inside.
- Tiger, like your girlfriend, has not and will not press charges. Since there’s the plausible (however unlikely) whole car crash scenario and since domestic violence laws being what they are, lots of times, cops have their hands tied when it comes to spousal abuse. You beat your girlfriend in a public place and fled the scene. Even if she wanted to sweep it under the rug–which she did–she was SOL, especially after the photo of your handiwork was leaked to the entire world.
- We know you (and Rihanna) haven’t been completely forthcoming on the matter. You have careers and such to think about so…we get it. You’re protecting each other in your own way. But if things are so unfair and one-sided, you should just come clean. You’ve had every opportunity to set the record straight. And though it may do you no good, if there was something crucial to know–like her laying hands on you first–you might want to mention that fact.
I know you want to feel like comrades-in-arms with Tiger and feel like some justice should be done with regard to the abuse he may have endured. You’re kinda right. Domestic violence laws should go both ways and I’ve long felt Rihanna’s physical part in your altercation has been under-investigated, but that’s where the trail goes absolutely cold.
He didn’t beat the hell out of his wife and then flee the scene. Ass.
Some things are beyond my ability to understand. Like, I get them…but I don’t.
1. I don’t get how the Church is holding the government hostage on abortion. If Church and State are supposed to be separated, how is the State getting its ass handed to it? Reform hangs in the balance because the Church doesn’t like something? Why is the discussion even going there? It’s not like the State would ever even consider telling the Church what to do with regard to church business.
1A. Since we’re supposed to be a secular nation and our laws are set up as such but we don’t really make a point of conducting ourselves like a secular nation, why don’t we just drop the charade and say that we’re a Christian nation and get it over with?
2. Some guys can pump and pump and pump and pump and not come. I’m sure there’s an explanation, but I don’t get it.
3. People get really mad at politicians for not doing the right thing–which is reasonable–but neglect to remember that politicians are people with power just trying to keep their jobs.*
4. Why people cry in court after being caught committing a crime. I’m especially puzzled by the gun-toting knuckleheads who swore they were nice before they got the cuffs slapped on them.
5. I don’t get how you could rape a five-year-old girl. Believe me, I’m not an advocate of raping any-year-old anybody, but a five year old girl, dude? Like, who are the people that are going to sit across from you and think, “You know what? I totally get it”?
6. I don’t get Beyonce’s life, namely, the way she inexplicably makes the same song and video with impunity for mysterious reasons. Jagged Edge never got such breaks. She’s super duper made it, why can’t she venture out just a little bit?
7. Women in R&B seem to all have traded pants for thigh-high boots. Maybe pants aren’t edgy?
*This probably answers #1 rather nicely.
As I consider the issue of gay marriage, I find myself mulling over the definition of “law.” I understand that doing such a thing is nearly a study in psychopathy considering the fact that laws are defined by dominant culture, customs, beliefs, hope, fear, etc. Still, I mull.
In the case of gay marriage, I puzzle over why this matter is up for a vote at all.
Legally, marriage is a contract with the State–a State which allegedly separates itself from church matters. While the existence of God can be argued forever, what can’t be argued is that, in America, you have to get a license to get hitched. Just like you need one to drive a car.
Now, in order to get a drivers’ license–a State contract–you need to pass certain tests–providing a birth certificate, social security card, knowing the laws of the road, an eye exam. If you screw up, you can get your license revoked.
All of these measure are taken in the interest of public safety, which is reasonable. Improper use of a car can kill people. If someone wanted the necessity of drivers’ license placed on a ballot, they’d be laughed out of town.
So what of marriage? Do two men or two women getting married pose a threat? Is there a fear that they’ll take their marriage careening into a flea market while not producing children? Read the rest of this entry »
Since the good people of Stuy Town have not seen fit to turn on the heat yet, I found myself having added socks to my customary bedroom attire which is drawers. I generally dislike sleeping in socks unless I’m deathly ill, but having cold feet is just not a reality I care to deal with when I know I could do something about it. Besides, The Feath is Queen of the Chilly Feet and two people in bed with chilly feet is like two junkies sharing a rock: united in destruction. Or something.
Anyway, as I jumped into bed last night, I found myself puzzling over various things; the sort of puzzling one is wont to do when they are trying to get warm in bed and aren’t yet at the point where their brain has volunteered to shut itself down for the evening. Sitting there, I stumbled upon a question:
How come guys in porno don’t take their socks off? Read the rest of this entry »
The Feath is apparently not Black.
Sometimes, while icing her dodgy knee or getting her toes done, I look at her extremities, her odds and ends, and puzzle over how different we look. We do not look the same. The above confuses me to no end and, after the time we’ve spent together, I still don’t quite get it.
The Feath is Native American. I tell her many Native Americans in our neck of the woods owe the continuation of their existence to Black men. She denies this not but still insists on being called Native American.
While this musing is generally light in nature, something about it is rather weighty. As a person who, on paper and principle is “You love who you love,” I’m beginning to wonder if I ever really imagined myself with someone who was Not-Black.
The Feath falls in line with what my folks call my “type”–athletic light-skinned girls (and while you can chalk a certain degree of acculturation to that, there is a much more personal explanation which I offer when asked politely). But she is different in that she culturally attributes her lightskinnededness to being a Not-Black person; To being a member of a tribe, people who go to harvest festivals and wear buckskin and own more than a few carved things and really are on tribal rolls and really do get casino money. A tribe. Of Not-Black people.
More importantly, she’s different because I am, somehow, older than I once was and choice in partner has taken on a different complexion. The stakes no longer hinge on The Game weekend or Spring Break plans. Suddenly, for the first time, the reality of my choice has been thrown into stark relief; not because of The Feath’s personhood–her character is maddeningly beyond reproach–but because she not only looks different than I do, she also identifies differently than I do. And suddenly it seems to matter.
This contradiction, though subtle, continues to give me pause because I do not understand.
In that part of me that is small and not progressive, the fact that I cannot place her in a category that I “understand” drives me up a wall. She’s not “White”; she’s not “Latino and or Hispanic”; she’s not “Asian”; she’s…Almost-Black?
The Feath has many “Black” markers–some in the stereotypical ways; others in the ‘Black folks do that’ way. Yet when she talks about Black people, the tone is ‘you all’ rather than ‘we.’
I tell her she sings like a Black person. She shrugs.
I tell her she directs the gospel choir at my dad’s theatre. She says “So?”
I ask her what Native American things consist of. She’s not really sure. She asks me what some Black things are, what are some intrinsic markers of Blackness. I can’t answer quickly.
It’s not because I didn’t think I could call up examples, but because so much of Blackness is nothing less than an indescribable feeling for whom cultural signifiers are limiting and inaccurate; so much of Blackness is between the notes for those with the ears to hear.
I tell The Feath she is Black. She says she is not.
I don’t know what Native Americans from our neck of the woods do differently. That is my struggle. I understand it in practice but, upon observation, I just don’t see the difference. But The Feath insists it is there, insists that there are things done differently.
I just don’t get it. And maybe that’s the blessing.
A lotta brothas feel themselves way, way, way too much.
For lots of reason, the lives of homosexuals do not concern me as I have noted both recently and in the halcyon days of tweed. Still, recent comments regarding gays in the military have filled me with enough vim and vigor to address this yet again.
I understand if a person does not actively support homosexuality; if you have particular feelings in that regard, my only real concern is that you don’t allow your point of view to infringe on the rights of others. If gayness gives you the willies, so be it.
Again, I’m not into that particular point of view, but I get it. Personally, I’m pretty much not allowed to go hard in the negative direction because I know too many people who I like who happen to be gay. In fact, by virtue of theatre being my family’s business, I’m friendly with so many people who I later found out were gay that I’m just too lazy to reverse field now.
So in short, you feel how you feel, but I can’t help but believe some of that feeling needs a good degree of tempering.
Lots of guys in general and Black dudes in particular, are so worried about these faceless gay predators lurking in the detergent aisle at Walgreens or possibly sending a lingering gaze in their directions while they get their goatees shaped just right and I’m just not sure why that is. A truth that I must reveal, not for the gays but really for those palpitating hearts so worried about losing their manhood to a cunning and seductive gay arch-villain:
You’re probably not that attractive and your dick is probably not magical.
Since I feel like some of you may, in fact, be in a semi-catatonic state, I’ll revert to bullet points for easy reading.
- FACT: Gay men like what hetero women like.
- FACT: Every hetero woman on earth is not into you.
- FACT: Most hetero women are likely not into you.
- FACT: You’re probably (hopefully) of average attractiveness
- FACT: Your penis is likely of average size
- FACT: You are likely of average swerve (if you’re lucky)
- FACT: Gay men like what hetero women like.
I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but if women who like men don’t like every man they see, it stands to reason that men who like men don’t like every man they see. It likely breaks down pretty evenly.
Actually, I take that back.
The average man–of average looks and unmagical penis–has an exponentially greater chance with a heterosexual woman than with a gay man. I’m sorry if I just shattered anyone’s “I hate gays because I don’t understand men liking men and I just know they think I’m cute and that bothers me tremendously” universe, but it’s true.
Call me what you will, but I’m flattered when a gay man is into me in a reasonable and respectful way, just like I appreciate when a woman does so. If a woman skanks herself out, I bristle. If a dude were to get inappropriate, we’d probably have a misunderstanding. Why? because my people boundary had been crossed.
In short fellas, you can rest easy. You’re probably not that great.