Beauty, Fat and Lena Dunham

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but I'm rich now, so fuck your eyes."

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but I’m rich now, so fuck your eyes.”

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Everyone is NOT beautiful.  No amount of sensitivity training or cultural relativism can erase that fact…but it doesn’t seem to stop some of us from trying.  The questionable Dove “Campaign for Real Beauty” from a few years ago comes to mind.  Meanwhile, it should have been dubbed the Campaign to Ignore Excess Body Fat.  The good folks behind that hit campaign certainly had a valid point, in that women of all shapes deserve to be represented in media, but they didn’t fool anyone into believing that an extra 30 pounds of flab was the beauty equivalent of say, knobby knees or a widow’s peak.  Still, I’m all for realism and the projection of realistic body images for women and girls, and one woman is undoubtedly the champion du jour of said cause: Lena Dunham.

Ms. Dunham writes, directs, and stars in HBO’s “Girls,” a show about spoiled and/or sociopathic white 20-somethings in Greenpoint, Brooklyn.  Not to overgeneralize and imply that all young, psychologically disordered Caucasians have tons of sex, but as you might have guessed, they get down a lot.  This basically translates into Dunham getting nude like every episode.

And here’s why that’s apparently interesting: Lena Dunham is not beautiful. She’s not ugly, either.  In fact, everything about her physical appearance screams “average at best.”  Her face is nondescript, she looks to be about a size 10, and she jiggles in all the wrong places.  Read: wobbly arms, thighs, and back, but no real breasticular tissue of which to speak and an ass as flat as day-old champagne.  (If you’re not black or you’re the type of Latino that pretends not to be black, you can strike the last phrase since it probably just confused you.)

Like I said, she’s not beautiful.  But she is normal.  That hasn’t stopped some people from complaining with vitriol about Dunham blessing us with glimpses of her soft, pasty flesh though.  Reading their commentary, it would seem that only gorgeous women should be allowed to expose themselves on national television.  I can’t agree with them.  Art imitates life, and good art does it well, so I’ll add my voice to those who applaud Dunham’s brazenness.  Real life isn’t perfect and it’s a treat to see an artist who’s willing to reflect this imperfection in her work so nonchalantly.  The show is so much more genuine as a result, and I’m sure that she’s given every mostly average woman out there a confidence boost that they can use the next time they have hungover, daytime sex.

With that said, I’m gonna stop like 100 miles short of saying that Dunham is somehow a shining example of “real beauty.”  That’s absolute jollytime fuckery, and the people selling that dream are just as guilty of distorting reality as those who would have us believe that the only women of aesthetic worth wear a size 2 and have C-cups sculpted by Michelangelo himself.

I don't think this is what Rihanna had in mind.

I don’t think this is what Rihanna had in mind.

Hey, no one can claim that their standard of beauty is absolute.  It’s all up for debate, and we all know that the current Western ideal has been unequivocally weighted towards an unrealistic aesthetic.  That fact has negatively impacted those who don’t fit within the wraithlike Western standard in ways that are as malicious as they are profound.  I would never advance that distorted view of beauty.  What I’m promoting instead is the simple, yet somehow controversial notion that a body that is toned and proportional is more appealing than one that is flabby and asymmetric.

There’s plenty of room in this world for a diversity of sizes and shapes.  I for one have been known to appreciate a variety myself, and am certainly not a fan of stick-figures.  But there are limits, people.  If your torso sags like the jowls on a British bulldog when you remove your clothes, you’re fucking up.  If your ass looks like it’s stuffed with two Virginia Hams, but your stomach does too, you’re still fucking up.  If your back evokes images of piles of deli meat at a Super Bowl party, you’re fucking up and you’re making me hungry.  And for you so-called skinny girls, if your arms and legs are twigs but that gut of yours has you looking 11 months pregnant, guess what?  You.  Are.  Fucking.  Up.

No sane person expects perfection.  But I do expect you to strive for it.  When it comes to body composition, this means health-conscious eating and consistent, serious exercise, including the use of some frickin’ WEIGHTS, gods damn you not just running, jumping, or stretching on some glorified rubber rug called a yoga mat.  Unless you’ve been cursed with the physiology of a sloth, you will see results.  Promise.  Or, don’t do anything and just let it all hang out.  After all, you’ve got every right to do you.  Just don’t expect me to want to do you, too.

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Boomerang Booty: Is Ex-Sex The Right Move?

I woulda done it too, Marcus.  I woulda done it, too.

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It’s been said that nothing beats vagina except new vagina, although the language used is generally rawer than that.  I don’t know whether it’s the mystery of the unknown, appreciation for subtle variances in individual lovemaking styles, or the ego rush from the idea that one more woman let us play genital peek-a-boo, but all things being equal men adore that new-new.  But there is an exception.  Sometimes, we get a yearning for something more familiar.  Sometimes, we want some ex-sex.

Fellas, we’ve all been there.  You’re between relationships, or maybe you’re dating but there’s nothing serious going on, or maybe you’re pretty deep into something new, but you haven’t had “The Talk” yet.  Whatever the case, you’re out and about having a few drinks and up pops one of your ex-girlfriends.  She’s rocking a black leather bustier with lace around the top, some skintight, lavender leggings with white polka-dots, and those studded black stilettos with the gold heels that you made her leave on that time y’all got creative.  Juicy.  When you roll over to greet her, she lets her right arm hang around your waist for at least 10 seconds after you hug hello. Shit is real, son.  Operation Booty Reclamation is in full muthaphuckin’ effizect.

“Lately I thought back,
When we made good love.
Listening to some Marvin Gaye,
All night long.
Now I want that old thing back…”

– H-Town, “Knockin’ Da Boots”

Like I said, we’ve all gone there, so I can’t blame you.  What I can do however, is equip you with a framework for analyzing whether your next trip down memory lane will lead to blissful nostalgia or to searing regret.  To that end, here are five factors to consider before next engaging in ex-sex:

  1. The Common Sense Factor: Was it good in the first place? If not, why expect a miracle now?  You still can’t polish a sexy-looking turd, gentlemen.  Spandex ain’t gonna help her throw it back in the sack…although if she keeps on the studded heels it might do a little something.  Seriously though, sexual chemistry can’t be manufactured, so don’t waste time barking up the same boring ass tree.
  2. The Rihanna Factor: Has the good girl finally gone bad?  If the answer is yes, then this calls for an exception to the conclusion reached via factor one.  One’s sexual expressiveness and appetites can improve, after all.  For women, this might happen during those experimental days in college, after their first surge of real independence in their mid-20s, or in their 30s when they finally get comfortable with their own sexual engine and learn to really let that baby open up.  If you happen to re-encounter your ex at one of these crucial times, then congrats!  You just hit the Pum-Pum Jackpot!
  3. The Suicide Factor: Are you over her?  Be honest.  We may not like to admit it, but men can have just as much trouble moving on as women.  If you’ve still got internal bleeding from the breakup, tread carefully the path to the boudoir.  You’ll likely find yourself hunched over in the shower, babbling incoherently, and crying your accursed eyes out faster than you can say, “pussy-whipped.”
  4.  The Douchebag Factor: Is she over you?  Don’t be an asshole.  If you know that she’s still got major love for you, please reconsider using her as practice for the Jackhammer position.  Look, for every two women who can handle sex with no strings attached there are like 327 who can’t.  Chances are that every one of your bourbon-empowered pelvic thrusts will serve as a battering ram, demolishing her already crumbling psyche. I don’t care if she begs like an unholy clone of James Brown and Mars Blackmon, DO NOT dance the mattress jig with this woman or you might push her over the edge.  And that brings us to…
  5. The Homicide Factor: Is she crazy?   Sure, unbalanced types are some of the sexiest creatures walking the planet.  Why?  Perhaps they arouse the same thrill-seeking drive that makes little boys jump off one story roofs onto pissy mattresses. But just like pissy mattresses, these women are dangerous, which is probably why you broke it off with her in the first place.  Now you’ve got the itch to get scratched again, but I implore you to back away from her Mouth That Cannot Bite…unless of course you’re not terribly fond of your nipples and testicles.  ‘Cause she’ll cut them off…and FEED THEM TO YOU IN A PÂTÉ.

Hey, when done responsibly, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with a visit to the booty archives.  Pick that shit up off the shelf, knock the dust off, and enjoy.  Before you do it though, take a second to think about the risks that go along with those 15.4 minutes of pleasure.  You may be better off hooking up with somebody new.  Or here’s an idea: how about some action with your current girlfriend?

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Stand Up!

“I’ve got your good old days RIGHT HERE.”

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There are some topics for which controversy is entirely expected and perhaps even suitable due to their very nature. Abortion is one, and this makes sense when one reflects on the fact that a human life is arguably at stake. Universal health care is another in that it forces us to question the limits of government authority and responsibility. One topic that is absolutely undeserving of any controversy whatsoever in the 21st century is the value of chivalry, however. Anyone who tells you otherwise is either benighted, sexist, or both.

This brings me to a discussion I had on Facebook earlier this week.

Lawrence Adjah, a Facebook friend, was riding a Bay Area commuter train and noticed that there were women standing while male passengers sat. This grated against his sensibilities and as a man of action, he set about campaigning to get every last standing woman on that train a seat…which he did. Excited about the fruit of his efforts, he posted a picture of the results on everyone’s favorite social network.

All aboard! Next stop, gender subjugation!

The electronic ticker-tape parade began in earnest. Accolades from his female friends poured in, and one woman even invited him to come to Boston to “do work.” Well, I couldn’t take it. So I didn’t.

I posted a forceful reply, and although I used highly informal language since I was talking to a group of peers, my point was substantive. The next thing I knew, I was engulfed in a 24-hour, emotionally charged conversation with Lawrence, one other man (who sided with me), and several women (who definitely did not). Although things got pretty heated, I’m used to such scraps, so I walked away no worse for wear…until I saw that my comments had been utterly misconstrued and decontextualized on the Huffington Post.

It turns out that one of the many chivalry-loving women who had seen Lawrence’s post was Ms. Nancy Redd. As a writer and host for HuffPost, I suppose that this little skirmish in the Battle of the Sexes was too good for her to pass up. I mean, you’ve got Sir Lawrence, the White Knight in Shining Armor, multiple damsels in commuter distress, and even a readymade villain, yours truly. This is the stuff of which romantic reactionary dreams are made!

Nancy (and I call her by her first name because, believe it or not, I know this woman personally) proceeded to take isolated statements that I made and present them as fully independent thoughts, without including my milder supporting comments or the often insulting words of those who I’ll dub The Defenders of Feminine Virtue. For example, one woman implied that my comrade-in-arms and I were “diva dudes” who thought that we were too good for women, and another suggested that our beliefs were the result of (drumroll, please) our mothers’ failures. None of these women’s comments made it into Nancy’s piece…yet all of my Black English did. But who can blame her? Nothing says inarticulate and therefore worthless like Black English, right?

What bothered me most about Nancy’s post however, was not her tactless attempt to paint me as a buffoon. Instead, my real anger stemmed from the fact that she reduced my sentiments to “negativity and hate,” when at their core they were actually about equity. Notice that I wrote equity, as in fairness. Women and men are not the same (a truth that is often wonderful), but our differences do not necessitate a return to the bad old days of sexist claptrap like men walking on the outside of the sidewalk, arbitrarily giving up their seats, or I don’t know…keeping women shut in at home.

No. Caption. Needed.

Be not deceived. The idea that chivalry’s origins lie in the chauvinistic past are incontrovertible. I’ve discussed this idea before, so I won’t beat a dead horse, but suffice it to say that men treating women as if they are childish dependents, mental dwarves, or hapless semi-invalids is a very bad thing…for us all. The gender-based niceties that many enjoy so much are the beguiling flowers of a sinister tree with pernicious roots. Until these vestiges of societally supported sexism are purged, women will remain just shy of being men’s recognized equals. As Gloria Steinem said, “A pedestal is as much a prison as any small, confined space.”

Ladies, I invite you to hop off of that pedestal prison and stand up for what’s right. You’ll find plenty of good men ready to stand proudly right alongside you.

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The Thirst for Closure

“Why don’t U want me? Is it cuz I’m always following U? U look good in green, BTW.”

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I need closure like Republicans need scapegoats.  In all likelihood, it’s a manifestation of my overall obsessive-compulsive tendencies (I need to finish things). Or maybe it’s a control thing.  Whatever the case, my response to failed relationships is a prime example of this phenomenon.

Here’s a case in point.

I’d been dating this woman for a couple of months.  We’ll call her Shortstuff.  Our Date Quality Score averaged at least a 7.5 out of 10, and although we hadn’t done the do yet, by the fifth date the sexual tension was as thick as a Georgia stripper’s…accent.  I had high hopes that this one might go the distance.  I’m talking at least four months here, maybe even five.

One week, we saw each other two days in a row, then didn’t speak for about four days.  Then, as luck would have it, I was standing on the subway platform with one of my best female friends when I saw Shortstuff emerge from an arriving train.  In a matter of nanoseconds, I went from excited to shocked because I noticed that babygirl wasn’t alone.  To my chagrin there was a big, black, 7′ 15″, oak tree muscle bearing dude behind her.  Mind you, Shortstuff is like a 5′ 4″ Asian woman, so the juxtaposition of those two bodies was not at all ego-affirming.

With that said, after emitting an audible gasp (some of my manhood may have left my body with it), I managed to smile and say, “Hi.”  She hesitated on the stairs, awkwardly greeted me in return, and then got swept up in the steady forward march of Terry Crews‘ understudy.  I ain’t like that shit at all.

I let a day pass before reaching out.  Not that I was playing games, but I thought that it would be in poor taste to hit her up so soon after seeing her with another guy.  I might as well scream, “You’re not banging him, ARE YOU?!”  Nah, son.  The kid can’t be going out like that.  Word to Rob Pattinson.

I hit her on email first.  Nothing.  Waited another day, then called.  Voicemail.  I was down to my third and final card: text messaging.  See, it’s only after the third time that you’ve been ignored that you know for sure that the party’s done.  That’s the Rule of Three.  If somebody reaches out to you three times, you’ll get back to them if you really want to do it. I don’t give a fuck if you’re in a coma, you’ll telepathically contact a muphuckin’ psychic or some shit.  Feel me?

Finally, she responded.  Supposedly, she’d been so busy at work that she’d just been exhausted over the last few days.  After washing down the bullshit with pig urine, I told her that it was fine and that she could just hit me when things got less stressful.

If Shortstuff got in touch with me, Rihanna did.  And since I haven’t been spotted on a beach somewhere in the Mediterranean eating euphemistic Barbadian birthday cake, you know that didn’t happen.  This is when my need for closure kicked in hard.

I knew that she was done with me, but I didn’t know why, and that info was just as crucial to my sanity.  Was it because there was a four day, contactless gap between our last awesome date and our meeting on the platform? Was it because when she saw me, she saw me with a girl?  Or, horror of horrors, perhaps it was because she’d decided that she’d have a better chance of creating her long-desired branch of the Blasian master race with a black man who looked like he was bred for…breeding?  I.  HAD.  TO.  KNOW.

I exercised the nuclear option.  (Don’t worry, I can write that ’cause she’s not Japanese.)  I sent her one more text message, informing her that I’d really liked getting to know her and hoped that we could keep in touch.  Yes, I used the past tense to infer that I knew it was over, hoping to spur a counter-reaction if I’d assumed incorrectly.  And yes, I included a smiley emoticon to let her know that the note was written in a wistful mood, tinged with optimism.  In short, I pulled out all stops in the final thrust for answers.

She didn’t respond.

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Bitches Still Ain’t Shit

Bad bitch or not, somebody tell me when they start making lifesize Nicki dolls.

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This just in.  Though bitches have been around since before the days of Delilah and Salome, they’ve recently evolved into a higher, more refined form.  These creatures are reverentially known as bad bitches (canis femina superior).

Whether geneticists recognize this phenomenon or not, we’ve got Nicki Minaj self-describing as a “bad bitch…a cunt” down to “kick that ho, punt,” newcomer Azealia Banks serving notice that she’s a “bad bitch…that supply what your girlfriend can’t supply,” and Iggy Azalea proclaiming that she’s a “white girl [with] a team full of bad bitches.”  Hell, Rick Ross has a bad bitch that resembles a tote filled with currency.  (She’s a shapeshifter, too!)  In short, there’s a lot of bad bitches runnin’ around.  I wonder if all the hoes are scared that they’re gonna get crowded outta the market.

Enter Lupe Fiasco’s “Bitch Bad.”  If you haven’t seen the video yet, check it out below.

Lupe Fiasco – Bitch Bad from Gil Green on Vimeo.

The thrust of the song is that when “bitch” is used as a compliment, especially when combined with the contronym “bad,” it undermines emotional understanding between men and women.  Seems pretty uncontroversial to me, but after reading a couple of articles where cats took Lupe to task on his position, especially this one, I had to speak on this a little bit.

In the aforementioned critique, Brandon Soderberg of SPIN goes the extra mile to tell us that this song and video are “moronic” attempts at preaching to the choir.  According to him, we don’t need Lupe to inform us that bitch is bad and that lady is better, because hip-hop has sufficiently addressed that question and is already yawning. We’re on to “cunt” now, thanks to Azealia Banks.  And besides, he writes, “does any female want to be called ‘a lady’?”

Bitch, please.

Soderberg’s argument that this song is evidence of Lupe’s severed connection with the heart of current rap music is patently laughable.  I’ve already given multiple examples of the exact term “bad bitch” being (over)used by some of the most influential names in the genre, and if I’d had the chance to hit the strip club before writing this I would’ve been able to come back with like, a hot 97 more.  No lie.  I ain’t never told no lie, I ain’t never told no lie.

So, it’s Soderberg that seems out of touch. He points to Jay-Z’s “99 Problems” as an example of a track that “sensitively deconstructed” the use of the word “bitch,” but unless a sensitive deconstruction consists of using the word umpteen times, I don’t have a muthaeffin’ clue what he means.  But, in the spirit of generosity, I’ll assume that he meant to reference Jay’s “Bitches & Sisters” off The Blueprint 2.  “Unless you fucked a dude on his own merit and not the way he dribble a ball or draw lyrics you’re a BITCH!”  Preach.

Anyway, Hova in fact does a great job of contrasting sisters and bitches there. And yes, others have broached the topic over the years, too.  But what makes Lupe’s take interesting is the fact that he doesn’t explicitly tell us why being a bitch is bad, he shows us, via a nicely packaged fairy tale, that being a bitch must necessarily be a negative thing.  No matter how much attractiveness, independence and self-determination being a “bad bitch” might imply on a good day, it’s still associated with vampiric women possessed by a thirst for cash and attention.  That inherent dissonance is why the cats hollerin’ about bad bitches are the same ones screamin’ that they don’t love them.

When you tell a woman that a bad bitch essentially does all that a “basic” bitch does except maybe have sex with your homeys (unless you want her to do so, in which case she might be extra “bad”), you’re begging for a problem.  So, y’all keep sending and accepting those mixed signals.  Meanwhile, a generation of women are growing up believing that bad bitches are the shit…when they’re really just shitty.

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Nut Check: Why Nagging Doesn’t Work

The double team dance from Precious and Innocence was TOTALLY worth it though.

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Men need help keeping it all together.  We can be disorganized, forgetful, and self-centered, and the women in our lives often serve as a welcome counter to those tendencies.  There’s no question that we appreciate our girlfriends and wives for providing a helpful hand, but what we hate is when that hand’s graceful nudge transforms into a fist that beats us swollen until we throw up our arms, spit out the blood pooling in our toothless mouths, and quietly mumble, “No más.”  Telling us something twice should be enough.  Three times is pushing it.  If you tell us more than three times, then you better have early onset Alzheimer’s.  If not, you deserve to be ignored more than Mitt Romney ignores the working class ‘cause you’re violating a basic principle: THOU SHALL NOT NAG.  Now, before your neck starts working overtime, gimme a chance to explain.

Your home is not in imminent danger of a category seven biohazard just because there’s been a full bag of trash waiting at the door for two hours.  As surprising as it may be to you, the theory of spontaneous generation was disproved in the 19th century: no mutant roaches or rats will suddenly emerge from that Hefty bag to recreate the biome of the New York City subway system in your kitchen.  The shit can wait 30 minutes until AFTER I finish watching “Wild Things”…for the 33rd time. (I never get tired of Denise Richards in that movie.  Never.)

Still, at least there’s an identifiable reason for the nagging in that context.  There’s a task that needs to be accomplished, the gender gods have assigned said task to men (I’m not even going there now), and you, dear lady, are ensuring that the necessary occurs.  Got it.  But there’s a whole class of nagging that consists solely of behaviors firmly rooted in tomfuckery.

For example, what exactly do you think will be accomplished by calling me four times in rapid succession when I don’t pick up the first time?  Will I suddenly have a change of heart somewhere between calls three and four, throw Saccharin off my lap at Shakealot’s, leave my boys sitting in the VIP, and run outside to pick up your call?  Sorry to break it to you, babygirl, but the answer is no.  In fact, the more you keep callin’, the more I’m likely to ignore you.

See, unless a dude is seriously whipped, he has an innate aversion to feeling like a little punk ass bitch and will instinctively react to threats of this nature.  This reaction is known as Sudden Scrotal Enlargement Response.  And when you nag the holy hell out of us by calling incessantly, scrotal enlargement seriously kicks the fuck in.  Now, instead of coming right home at 1:30 AM, we’re staying out until 3 AM, drinking way more than we planned, and we MAY even sneak a little tongue onto a wayward nipple as it passes our face.  Yep.  The worst part of this is that it’s all your fault.

If you hadn’t been hammering away at his testicles all night, he probably wouldn’t have been getting them messaged in the Rozay Room, diverting good money away from your red bottom fund.  So, ladies, my question for you is a simple one.  Now that you know the true impact of your actions, will you become the dependable right hand that your man needs by his side, or will you continue allowing your nurturing instincts to overrun their boundaries, turning you into a cackling harpy in t?  Consider your answer carefully: your relationship and the fate of millions of balls hang in the balance.

Hit me up on Facebook and Twitter to continue the convo: facebook.com/scissorspeaks and @scissorspeaks.

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A Dream Come True: Robyn’s Song

We’re never all good…or all bad.

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Rihanna’s been on my mind a lot lately.  I mean, it’s been kinda hard to escape her during these last couple of months and…OK, it’s been hard to escape her during these last couple of YEARS, but lately it seems as if Robyn Fenty is one of only five celebrities that any media outlet wants to talk about.  And matter of fact, her name is still all up in the muphuckin’ mix when they’re talking about two of the other godsdamned four.  So yeah, currently 60% of all pop culture news (read: garbage) is about Rihanna.  Shit, a lot of regular news is about Rihanna right now.  On the real, I heard on NPR that if the Supreme Court had struck down the Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act that the president was gonna talk that talk, repackage the shit as RihannaCare, and push it right on through Congress.  Yep.

Now properly contextualized, it certainly should not come as a shock that the woman who dominates any media vehicle capable of showcasing an image would also be occupying a lot of real estate in my brain, even without me knowing it.  I mean, that’s the only explanation that I can think of for why she would show up in my dreams, engaged in a loving, committed, and playfully affectionate romance with yours truly.  Well, there’s the fact that she’s a terrifyingly fine ass woman with more sex appeal in her left nostril than most women have in the midst of their most powerful, self-induced orgasms (yep, I’m on to THAT shit), but that’s beside the point.  I am absolutely not a Rihanna stan.  I appreciate her as an artist, as a personality, and as a beauty, but I in no way suffer from the illusion that I possess some kind of personal relationship with Ms. Fenty.

Still, the mental experience of having said relationship felt AMAZESAUCE.  It seemed so real in fact that I decided to write a song about it…kinda.  Actually, “Robyn’s Song” is really a dedication to Rihanna from a dude who has the same experience that I did, but ends up affected in a fundamentally different way.  Instead of saying, “Wow, that was fantastic.  How sad that my real dating life is somewhat less interesting, but I should really get out of bed now,” he wakes up with a heavy heart and a profound longing for a lost love that never was.  He feels deeply for her, wishes nothing but the best for her, and in his heart and mind, he’s truly linked to this unattainable star.  Meanwhile, she’ll remain the object of his unrequited affection from now until Rihanna turns good again, AKA forever.  Ahhh, love: you gorgeous, horrible, heartbreaking thing.

Here’s hoping that you listen to this with the object of your stalking in mind.  Enjoy, and devil fingers salute!

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Thug Love: Your Girl’s Favorite Oxymoron

Money over bitches. How romantic!

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The other day, I was having a conversation with a few female friends over drinks.  This was our second stop on the libation train, so we were all sufficiently lubricated enough to engage in free-flowing discourse.  (Being only an armchair psychologist and therefore not subject to APA guidelines, that’s just how I like my subjects.)  Anyway, maybe the barkeep dropped a glass, maybe a few fellow patrons suddenly caused a ruckus, but whatever it was lead me to jokingly blurt out something like, “Sheeeit!  I thought I was ‘bout to have to throw them thangs!”  One of the ladies then replied, “Oh, please.  When’s the last time you got into a fight?”  Smelling the kind of controversy that births great posts such as this, I egged them on.  “Oh, so you think if something popped off I would just scream like a little girl and run?” Another took up the opportunity to wave the Bitchass Banner all up in my face: “Nah, maybe not quite like that, but I just don’t think you’ve got much thug in you, and I like my men to have that.  See, I’ve got this friend.  He’s a blood…”

Unfortunately, the rest of the conversation is a bit spotty for me, seeing as though I started throwing up in my brain at that point.  Still, I knew what kind of fuckery she was talking because I’d heard it before.  Babygirl likes to sip on that Thug Passion, and she’s not alone.  It turns out that a not insignificant proportion of women actually have a soft spot for hard men…in psycho-emotional terms, I mean.

See, there’s a special species of bourgeois women that fetishize the icon of the Bad Boy or Thug.  In their minds, and in a romantic context, this character is something akin to what the Noble Savage was to pre-20th century white people in a cultural context.  In the eyes of the settlers, Native Americans led fundamentally alien lives, were strikingly unrefined, and also unquestionably dangerous.  In a classic demonstration of the human mind’s capacity to bend and twist on itself more adroitly than a Magic City dancer, those aforementioned scary traits are simultaneously perceived as their mirror images: alien becomes exotic, unrefined becomes pure, and dangerous becomes potent.  Asked the pioneer woman to the young brave who found her trembling in the corner of her home after his tribe’s raid of her town, “Are you gonna ravage me and kill me, Mr. Injun?  If so, do I get to pick the order?”

Look, it’s cool to have fantasies.  Everybody’s got ‘em, and they’re healthy.  But the thing about fantasies is that a lot of them would leave you transcontinentally fucked if you ever actually tried to realize them.  “My Girlfriend’s Hot Sister Wants to Get It” is one of mine, but I know that even I ain’t smooth enough to get out of THAT stunt without some serious scars…probably from hot grits.

Check it though.  It may not be as obvious, but those enchanted by the “Thug Love” fantasy are cruising for a big bruising, too.  I mean, res ipsa loquitur, kids: the thing speaks for itself.  Thugs love neither ho nor bitch, and contrary to what they may say, if they’re a thug, any woman can morph into a ho or a bitch at the drop of a muphuckin’ pimp hat.  Yes, that means you, Ms. Spelman.  Just like the former Indian cult (red dot, not feather) from whence cometh their name, thugs are killers.  And if they’re not yet killers, then they have the potential to be.  And if they don’t have the potential to be, then they’re not thugs: they’re pretenders.  Any woman that would prefer a thug or worse, a pretender, over a level-headed, fight-avoiding, job-protecting, (mostly) responsible cat like me and my homeys is playing with fire and just itching to get that ass lit up.

So ladies, the next time you feel that urge to go out and get yourself a bad boy, do yourself a favor and call that nice dude you met while volunteering for Obama instead.  Tell him to throw on a bandana (pick whichever gangsterific color gets you goin’) and make him do all kinds of naughty/disrespectful shit to you, depending on how mental you in fact are.  You’ll feel better about yourself in the long run, and you’ll probably end up avoiding annoying stuff like FBI surveillance and wet towel beatings.

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Niggas Embarrassed: Gwyneth Gets the People Goin’

Don’t make me get in my zone…

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By now, you’ve heard how Gwyneth Paltrow tweeted a picture of herself with Jay-Z and Kanye West on stage at the “Watch the Throne” concert in Paris with the caption, N**gas in Paris, for real…”  And you probably also know that said tweet ignited a firestorm of fuckery all over the internet regarding her right to use that word.  Basically, the anti-Gwyn squad’s well-trod argument goes like this: nigga is a word that has been at least partially rescued from its racist past and co-opted by certain black people for use as a self-referential noun.  There is a law governing said use.  In its strong form, only those who self-identify as black can access the word.  In its weak form, those who don’t necessarily identify as black but who possess sufficient African ancestry can use it also, e.g. Puerto Ricans, Dominicans, and other Latinos.  White people don’t make the cut though, not even white rappers, unless they’re given a special dispensation by their local chapter of the NAACP personal circle of black friends.

Look, I’m just gonna put it out there and say that this line of thinking is naïve at best and hypocritical at worst.  It’s naïve because white people are presented with instances of black people using nigga on the daily.  The word is everywhere.  It’s on the lips of comedians, definitely in your favorite rapper’s lyrics (even the so-called conscious ones), and most importantly, it’s firmly embedded in the public conversations of everyday black folk on the train, on the bus, in the line at McDonald’s, and at school.  Why in the name of Strom Thurmond should any white person feel like they shouldn’t be able to utter that word when black people have made it seem as regular a part of speech as the slightly more common but only somewhat less annoying use of “um”?  The aural evidence suggests that they just shouldn’t care since we as black people apparently don’t either.

Nigga, nigga, nigga, nigga, nigga,

Damn fool.

Monkey see, monkey do.

— Da Lench Mob, “Ankle Blues”

Right about now, some of you are saying, “Oh, hell no.  Just because WE can say it, that doesn’t mean that all of a sudden Whitey has carte blanche to say it.  That word is OURS.”  And see, this is where I start going gorillas, ‘cause that’s just hypocrisy, and hypocrisy can get the fucking…Balzac.  Excuse my French (but I’m in France).  Either the godsdamned word is unfailingly vile and only holds one meaning in every situation, thus it should never be used by anyone, or it’s a word like any other, meaning it has a significance that can vary across time and context and as such its use should be evaluated on a case by case basis.  What you cannot do is mix both of these views on the act of using the word nigger – let’s call it niggerating – into one pot and serve that shit up like it’s some kind of indignity flavored gumbo.  If the word is hateful in all places and times, then it’s always wrong, no matter who says it.  Jay-Z and Kanye: wrong.  The kids in the fried chicken joint: wrong.  Me and you, your momma and your cousin, too: wrong.  And yes, Gwyneth Paltrow: wrong.  On the other hand, if the word may or may not be offensive depending on the circumstances, then we must evaluate each instance on its own.

I think it’s safe to say that only the most sensitive among us would accuse Ms. Paltrow of being any more of a racist than your average person.  She certainly doesn’t seem like a bigot, and she’s never shown any signs of hating black people, to my knowledge at least.  In fact, she seems genuinely happy whenever she’s photographed with her black friends, if that counts for anything.  If you agree with this admittedly superficial personality reading, then based on what I’ve written above there’s no reason to tar and feather her for niggerating.  Babygirl was just expressing her excitement about participating in a very meta experience with some folks who she really enjoys and who in turn apparently really enjoy being niggas in posh European capitals.  If you don’t like that they like it, then maybe you should get outraged at them.

I’m definitely in my zone…

Oh, and black people do not “own” that word.  If anything, we borrowed it from some really mean people who used to shoot it at us like so many bullets.  In reality, no one can own any word, but since they created it, I’d say that white racists are the ones with the biggest claim to it.  Fortunately, I believe in the mutability of words and language, so I support the notion that black people reshaped the word “nigger” into something new.  In addition to serving as a vessel of hatred, now it’s also one for love and laughter, as well as a simple synonym for “person.”

The fact that we were able to accomplish this transformation is either a testament to our resilience and ingenuity or to the deep internalization of someone else’s hatred.  Since we’re human, it’s probably both.  With that said, “nigga” is an undeniable part of African-American culture, and since African-American culture forms the basis of modern pop culture worldwide, “nigga” is now a piece of world culture.  Trying to mandate that black folks should be the only ones who can niggerate is therefore futile, dude.

But besides being useless, that stance is also lazy.  After all, the real problem that Paltrow’s critics have with her isn’t her niggerating.  Whether they know it or not, what they’re actually upset about is the idea that black people around the world can never really know the extent to which racism is rooted in the heart of any given white person.  Instead of addressing that fundamental concern though, they take a shortcut via censorship, fooling themselves into thinking that it will solve the problem.  “Hey!  Maybe if they don’t say it, then they won’t think it!”

There’s only one worthy response to that.  Nigga, please!

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You Say Azealia, I Say Azalea: Part II

You missed a spot…

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OK, so I’m assuming that you read my last post, which served to introduce you to the actors in the drama known as the Azealia-Azalea War.  If you didn’t, catch up here.  I’ll wait.  (Next time, read that shit when I post it and stop playin’ so damn much.)

We all up to speed now?  Brilliant.

Now there are those who would say that this disagreement is all about Iggy being some kind of hipster racist.  They say that because, well, young Amethyst (her government name) had the gall to refer to herself as a “runaway slave…master” in a reshaping of a Kendrick Lamar lyric.  OK.  Shit, I’ll admit that was foul.  Foul like, you might get invited to speak at the Republican National Convention foul — but Iggs later admitted as much.  As she said in her apology, she was trying to walk the line, but ended up linecrossing like a muphucka.

Well, our friend Ms. Azealia Banks wasn’t trying to hear Iggy apologin’ though, and she let it be known via Twitter…but only AFTER Iggy made the 2012 XXL Freshman Class cover.  That brings us to the second theory about the origin of this here catfight: envy.  Here’s an in-depth look at Azealia Banks’ opening salvos:

“Iggy Azalea on the XXL freshman list is all wrong…How can you endorse a white woman who called herself a ‘runaway slave master’?
Sorry guys. But I’m pro black girl…I’m not anti white girl, but I’m also not here for any1 outside of my culture trying to trivialize very serious aspects of it. In any capacity. *kanye shrug*”

— @AZEALIABANKS

Look, I can’t say what the truth actually is.  I don’t know these women personally, and Banks is totally right about the slavemaster lyric.  No doubt about that.  But why did it take an industry tip of the hat to your fellow newcomer for you to open your exquisitely fashioned mouth and say something, love?  When you couple this with the fact that Banks has also been vocal about her issues with Nicki Minaj, and most recently Lil’ Kim, her credibility starts to falter.

Then throw in the fact that her most publicized fracas before the one with Iggy was with white, female rapper Kreayshawn, John the Baptist to Iggy’s Jesus.  From where I sit, Banks was just itchin’ for an excuse to throw some verbal bullets Kreay’s way — homegirl did absolutely nothing to deserve the Twitter poison that Banks poured all over her mentions.  After all of that, Azealia Banks starts to look an awful lot like a highly talented, beautiful, potentially groundbreaking woman with some serious bitch tendencies.

It’s hard being blonde and famous.

Meanwhile, almost everything Iggy says off-stage seems level-headed and wise.  For example:

“People expect me to drag [Kreayshawn] through the mud.  I don’t need to and I don’t want to do that.  I think there aren’t enough girls in hip-hop…I want to be the number-one person, but I don’t want to drag people through the mud when I know how hard it is to be a female rapper.  I want there to be other people out there.  I don’t want to win by default because there is no one else.”

— Iggy Azalea

On the real, it makes my ass itch to see a white woman reach that higher plane while the sister seems to still be stuck at the gate.  (I know that’s a different kinda plane, but I like the metaphor.  Sue me.)

I mean, black women have it hard, y’all.  Blah, blah, overblown stat about proportionately more young American sisters being single.  Blah, blah, stat about filling in the shoes of black men who are overly incarcerated, gay or no damned good.  And finally, blah, blah, blah, stat about the overall detrimental psychological, economic, and social implications of being a double minority.  Seriously, even if some of the above has been exaggerated to the extent of borderline stereotyping, they deal with a lot.  And I don’t think that possessing some of the world’s greatest asses assets makes up for the shortfall.

In a strange twist though, the rap world itself is like a parallel universe of our own.  It’s a grotesque distortion, with white women occupying the place usually reserved for black women, i.e. the bottom rung.  In that world, it is THEY who are the double minority, trying to find a voice, then yell loud enough so that they can be heard over the din of the doubts and suspicions pumpin’ out their neighbors’ ovaries speakers.

Don’t get me wrong, I ain’t worried about Iggy.  Regardless of whether she’s better than her contemporaries or not — and for the record I have to say that although Iggy’s certainly got some skills, Azealia Banks simply has a tighter flow — Iggy is gon’ be more than aight.  Why?  Because she’s got something that pop culture has been dying to see: the looks of a hyper-European runway model (I’ve seen glass doors darker than her), street cred courtesy of Grand Hustle and (her man?) A$AP Rocky, plus some undeniable talent thrown in for good measure.

So, while she’s endured the trials of double minority status thus far, I predict that she’ll break through rap’s obsidian ceiling very, very soon.  Finally, the man from 8 Mile will have a queen with whom to share the Throne of the Great White Hope.

And where does that leave Ms. Banks?  She’ll be fine, too.  Even if she stays on her Euro shit and drops an album with hella EDM tendencies, she’ll blow up in Europe and make some noise with cosmopolitan white folks in the States.  If she scales it back just a little, she’ll be massive here, too.  Hey, Nicki could use some company, and Banks has way too much potential to be ignored.

But don’t take my word for it. Read what one of Banks’ fans had to say in a comment they left about her “212” video on YouTube:

“this may sound stupid but you heard it from me first – she’s like a black, female, Eminem, what a GREAT track…”

— 79effo

Parallel universes, indeed.

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