STREET WRITER

the best of MDW

 

 

don't need a man

I've come to a realization. I don’t want a man. But I want someone strong. I don’t want a man who is trying to be a man. I don’t need to be conquered. I know myself. Why conquer something when you don’t understand it. Men have been ignorant, just trying to get their egos fed. I’ve come to the conclusion, I don’t want a man. I want a partner. And I’m not trying to be masculine anymore for sex. To attract sex. I want someone who understands the illusion. I don’t want a man. I want my boi. I want my confidant. I want my best friend. I want someone who gets my jokes. So tired of the game. I don’t want a man. I don’t want to uphold that bullshit anymore. Maybe I never did. Maybe i never did. In the beginning i was such a fool. I thought that was happiness, i was wrong. It was just sex. It was just STDS. It was just me hurting myself. I don't want a man, i want a human being.

So if you’re about your dick, step off

So if you’re about your money, I got my own

So if you’re about your body, I don’t care

I don’t need a dick that disrespects me. I don’t care how big. I got bigger toys

So if you need your ego to make you a man, step off. I subscribe to Clik, I will read about you and hopefully someone will help you exist. I exist on my own.

I don’t need a man. Gay men, understand that. Black gay men understand that. I know how to get me off. I sucked your dick at the glory hole, u still a boy. I don’t need a man, I need reality.

this is the upgrade!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1

Headshots

well i'm going back to my orginal dream, that is becoming an actor. So i did my own headshots, i think they are on fire!

GIRL FIGHT

My first major ass whipping came from a girl. It was the first day of kindergarten. I was six years old. Even at that age, I was known to have the filthiest mouth on a little kid. They would’ve never cast me on that show “Kids say the darnest thing.” I would’ve given Bill Cosby a heart attack. I think my first words were “step off, motherfucker!” I was one of those cartoonist ghetto kids walking around the ghetto with my diaper full of shit and cursing anyone out who didn’t like the smell. My mother was terribly irresponsible. I was a wild animal. But elementary school would be a different playground. I wasn’t afraid on the first day of school like the cliché. I was actually happy to get out of the house. My mother was sober that day and took me to school. I was more surprise that she was sober.

The girl that kicked my ass, her name was Penny, but she looked more like a stack of quarters. She was Jurassic park. She was a World Wide Federal Wrestler. We were standing in line for lunch when our kindergarten teacher who was this earth-loving-hippie decided to leave us alone for just a couple of minutes while she got high behind the school’s dumpster. I went to a very irresponsible elementary. Penny found her opportunity to initiate the “newbies.” Penny went through our kindergarten line threatening our lives for whatever change we had in our pockets. When it was my turn, of course me being the smartass kid that I was, I was not giving her my food stamp dollar. So Penny in her Ogre breath that smelled like a tic tac that got caught in the crack of ass demanded I give her my food stamp. I demanded that she see a doctor for her breath. I mean she was like twenty five years old in second grade. The entire kindergarten class burst into laughter and I being a natural whore for attention found my audience. I didn’t stop with the insults. I think I told her that she was so fat that her farts were the cause of global warming. I told her she was so ugly that she scared the boogey man. I told her that her breath smelled like Death Valley. And everyone gathered and laughed. But Penny wasn’t laughing. Her big fat lips drooled pit bull slobber. She showed her bear-like teeth. She said she was going to kill me after school. I being the smartass that I was, told her that the only thing she was going to do after school was suck my dick. I gave her the finger and kept my food stamp dollar.

Well the day past. I ate lunch. I had desert. We took a nap. We finger-painted. We learned the alphabet. So when the bell rung for us to go home, I had forgotten all about Penny “the not so jolly giant.” My two other sisters were at the same elementary. My middle sister was in second grade and my older sister was in fifth grade. I was to walk home with them. But as I stood in front of the school waiting for my two sisters to stop gabbing to their friends, Penny walked up to me and hit me in my mouth instantly splitting my lip. And then she hit me in my stomach. I didn’t even see her coming. I just felt a black cloud. She grabbed me by my neck and slammed me to the ground and commence to pitching me in the sides. I screamed for help. I kicked her. I clawed at her greasy fat face. I bit the hanging fat on her stomach. It just made her hit harder. I screamed for my two older sisters, hoping one of them would be brave enough to come to my rescue. I think I saw my older sister run towards me and then stop when she saw it was Penny who was murdering her only little brother. Somehow, I kicked Penny in her nuts. I was for sure she was a man dressed up like a second grade girl. I kicked her hard between her legs and when she reacted to the pain, I slithered my small little body from underneath her suffocating weight. And I ran like hell. I ran like a bullet was chasing me. I ran like I’d just bitch slapped a cop. I ran passed my two sisters, who decided to run after me. I ran all the way home. When I got home, my mother was on the porch drinking her afternoon malt liquor and smoking a cigarette. My brand new kindergarten clothes were all disheveled, my nose bled all over my shirt and my upper lip was swollen. I was breathing like I just robbed a bank. My two sisters showed up two minutes later after me. They would be the ones to tell my mother what happened. They made me look like a coward. They told my mama some girl at school had beat me up and I was crying like a bitch and then ran away like I stole something. They didn’t tell my mama that Penny was a fucking violent Orangutan. My mother grabbed me by my neck and told me I was going back to the school to finish my fight. She said there weren’t any cowards in our family. However, when I reminded her how she hid under the kitchen sink when her pimp was looking for her that day, she said that was different. I couldn’t understand why my mother was punishing me. I had gotten away from that hefty bitch. My mother dragged me back to the school kicking and screaming. Just my luck, we only lived about five blocks from my elementary. I’d hoped Penny hadn’t gotten hungry and went to rob a liqour store or something. But just because god hated me, she was there collecting her bully money. My mother made my middle sister point out Penny, and when she saw her, she started laughing. She understood why I ran. But she still had to prove her point that there were no cowards in our family. She dragged me over to Penny and pushed me into her fat gut and demanded me to fight. It wasn’t enough that I hadn’t almost gotten killed the first time. Penny towered over me with an evil grin. I grabbed a handful of dirt and threw it in her eyes. I then clawed her face with my nails. But it wasn’t enough. She grabbed me by my throat again, slammed me to the ground and started working my kidneys with her sledgehammer fists. I called out for my mother but all she could say, “boy be a man!” I wanted to pimp slap her. I was fucking six years old!!! Penny blackened both of my eyes. She fattened both of my lips. I looked like a bruised marshmallow after that beating. My mother had to carry me home crying. I never understood that lesson. I had fucking gotten away the first time. I didn’t want to be a man. I wanted to be safe.

Until the time I was eight years old, I was raised by women. My father was never around. It was my butch lesbian aunt who would teach me how to box. It was my sister who would teach me how to play basketball and football. It was my mother that would teach me not to run away from a fight. It was always a woman trying to teach me how to be a man. It was a woman who taught me how to shave. It was a woman who taught me how to tie a tie. I learned very little from men. I spent the first half of my childhood and adolescent surrounded by women and the second half surrounded by men. When I went to live with my father’s mother, I inherited 42 male cousins and six uncles. It was a very testosterone driven family. With my male upbringing, I indirectly learned to mistrust women. I learned that women were objects. I learned that I was the hunter. I learned to worship my dick.

I became very confused when I accepted that I was gay. I had to quickly figure my role in society. I just knew I didn’t want to be the girl. And just because I was gay, didn’t mean I understood women. And just because the first part of my life I was surrounded by women didn’t make me more sensitive. To be honest, I didn’t start to understand women until I allowed myself to be penetrated. I felt as if I lost power. And I didn’t want to be the girl.

He was my fantasy. He was my perfect ten. He was tall, dark and very good looking. He was young. He had a fantastic gym obsessed body. He was cocky and I liked it. He had ten inches of hard flesh. He was masculine: deep voice, baggy pants, wife beater, baseball cap to the side, timberlands. He was the hip hop gay fantasy. Black gay life is so based on masculinity. I didn’t mind being submissive. We had been dating but it all seemed one sided. At first, I liked his bravado. I liked when I showed up at his apartment after the gym, he would put all his friends out, so that we could have sex. And the sex was so good. But there was one problem, he never reciprocated. He never wanted to touch my dick. He never sucked it. He never ate my ass. He never touched my nipples. He would just get undress and I would bend over like some bitch, and we’d go at it. And after he was done, he’d walk out of the room so that I could finish off myself. He never wanted to see me get off. He didn’t care. And that would bother me. And when we were fucking, if I was to touch myself, he’d slap my hand. But he was so damn phine. And I put up with it. And then he would do stupid shit like, ask me to wash his clothes or braid his hair. I didn’t wash my own clothes. He would ask me to fix dinner. I burned everything I cooked. And if I was to mention me fucking him, he would get an attitude. He would be like, “Dawg, I aint into that. I aint like that.” And it would make me think how he saw me. Was I just some ass? Was I not a human-being? Was I the girl?

My friend Sha called me one day crying. She was heading back from Detroit to Chicago. She had gone to visit her boyfriend but he didn’t want to have sex with her. He said he didn’t like it when she initiated sex. She said it made him think of her as a slut. She called me crying asking me why men were so damn inconsiderate and arrogant. But then again, she was dating a football player. Her boyfriend would tell her that he didn’t like it when she drank, cursed or smoked. That he was looking for a wife, not a hood rat. Her boyfriend told her that he could easily replace her with a white girl. She left Detroit with her feelings hurt. She said she hated being the girl. She said she wished that she was a gay man. I laughed. We were no different. If she only knew half of the “down low” bullshit I had to put up with over the years. They always say they want a bitch in bed but a man in the streets. What the hell does that mean?

When do the penetrated give up their power? Is it the first boy crush? Is it society? It was my mother who taught me how to fight, how to be a man, but all the men in her life dominated her. It was my sister who taught me how to play basketball and football, but she always plays dumb when her husband is watching sports.

I ended up breaking up with my perfect “10.” The last straw for me was when he demanded that I go to bed and it was only midnight on a Saturday. And when I turned off the television and got in the bed with him, he wasn’t so sexy anymore. I didn’t want to have sex. I started feeling like a slave. I started feeling like a sexual slave. I didn’t want to be a trashcan or receptacle. I wanted to be a human-being. I didn’t want to be a girl. I didn’t want a man. I wanted a partner.

Even as a gay man, I had such a difficult time accepting my femininity. Homosexuality is Heterosexual. It still has the power roles. Even if I grew up with very strong women who had weak moments, I never wanted to be the girl. I didn’t want to be possessive. I didn’t want to be clingy. I didn’t want to be weak for a man. I didn’t want to be silent. I didn’t want to give up my identity. I didn’t want to do all the things I saw women do as I got older.

But what was it that I was really afraid of? Why did I see femininity as weak? I guess as a man I figured weakness meant vulnerability to rape, unsolicited violence or harassment. And then add sex to the mix, it was the same fear. I was afraid, if I allowed myself to be to submissive in bed, I believed that made me weak in real life. That was a lie.

And then I had to ask myself, what was wrong with being the girl. I used to hate when guys called my bootyhole a “pussy” because I wanted nothing to do with women as a gay man. But what was wrong with being the girl? I thought because I was gay, that I should uphold everything considered masculine. But I don’t care how you slice it; getting fucked there’s nothing masculine about being fucked. Penetration is an effeminate act. In prison they use penetration to castrate other men’s egos. A man thinks there is nothing worse than being penetrated. Why? What is the fear? Maybe men can’t deal with pain. Maybe being a man is just an illusion. Maybe women are the stronger sex.

I saw Penny years later after I graduated high school and college. She had three kids and a minivan. She was packing groceries into her car. She was still huge. Her husband was so skinny. She didn’t recognize me. I didn’t speak. But I knew she hadn’t lost her power. I always thought she would grow up to be some butch lesbian. Instead, she was effeminate and strong. She was a mother and a wife. She could still kick any man’s ass. I was still afraid of her. Am I somebody yet?

Sasha: Ring Da alarms

Why is it that I love her when she’s angry? It’s because I want to calm her ass down. Why is it that I love her when she has so much damn attitude? It’s because I have a need to prove myself. Why is it that’s she’s more sexy to me when I think she’s trying to kill me? It’s because I know I’m not living. I love you Sasha…

When Destiny child first came out, they told Beyonce specifically that she didn’t have a personality. They said she had the look but no presence. So Beyonce created Sasha. It was a confrontation, I’m going to take what I want and fuck everybody type of alter-ego. There have been glimpses of Sasha in Beyonce’s first videos. But it was mostly on stage. It was that look. It was that I would kick your ass look. It’s that look at the beginning of “Crazy in love.” It’s that look at the end of “Baby Boy” where she dares you to “stop fighting it.” Honestly, when Beyonce is trying to be pretty, I don’t like her. She’s already a gorgeous girl. She doesn’t have to try to be pretty. But when she’s trying to be real, I love her.

But mostly Beyonce has built her career on being the Diva next door. But it’s the Sasha her fans love on stage. Finally, Sasha has her own video. “Ring Da Alarm” has Sasha all over it. It’s not the Colgate smiles Beyonce or I’m selling you L’Oreal hair products or Pepsi. It’s motherfucker if you leave me, you might have to call the cops. AND I LOVE IT!!!

Of course I wanted more from this video. I wanted a better treatment. I wanted a rougher edge. I immediately thought of Left Eye when she burned down her man’s house after he shot at her in the grocery store parking lot the day previous. I immediately thought of Angela Bassett in Waiting to Exhale, the infamous “take you shit, take your shit, and get out!” I wanted her to push the envelope. I wanted middle America to write her angry letters. But to a default, Beyonce constantly plays the good Negro, even when she’s trying to play angry.

The song itself is confrontational and aggressive, the lyrics are brilliant. It’s every pissed off girl’s anthem. It reminds me of Kelis “I hate you so much right now!” But more independent. I love that “you ain’t never seen a fire like the one I’m going to cause.”

You see, I’ve been going through a very difficult break up and I was documenting the best break up songs. My #1 will always be Eamon “Fuck you bitch, I don’t want you back” Ring Da Alarms I think can be in my top ten. It’s one of those songs you don’t want to hear if you had a few too many. It’s the "I’m going to throw a brick threw your car window." It’s I’m going to call all your co-workers and tell them you a child molester. hehehehe.

My only disappointment is her approach. Beyonce being the white girl she tries to be sometimes of course had to pick the overplayed Sharon Stone scene from “Basic Instinct.” If she wanted to play a pissed off woman, she would’ve done better with gong back. There is a long history of black women who’ve been pissed off. Because there’s nothing worse than pissing off a black woman.

Here’s a list

Harriet Tubman – She built an underground railroad after being pissed off from being a slave.

Al Green’s wife – She poured a hot pot of grits on him after she was pissed off for the last time.

Shakur’s Mom – She fought herself out of the system and jail while pregnant.

Every single mom out there.

Left Eye – She burned her man’s million dollar house down and never apologized.

Anita Hill – I’m not going to touch that

Terri McMillan – We all know how crazy she went when she found out her man wanted men.

Jada Pinkett Smith – I can’t wait until they break up, lol

Janet Jackson – Her ex is still in court.

A real black woman gets even with her man, not the next girl. Fighting the next girl it’s like plucking out a grey hair, once you pull one, ten more will come to the funeral. You will be fighting your entire life. Fight the man. But overall, I know the video will be a success because it’s Sasha. Beyonce is not trying to be pretty. There’s noting pretty about Sahsa. She’s hardcore. She doesn’t give a damn if you like her or not. But she is going clown. LONG LIVE SAHSA!!!!!!

Ten things i hate about being black and gay

I admit, I once dreamed of becoming “legendary.” It was a term us southern black gays used to describe a person who had made his or her mark in the black gay scene. It was mostly the drag queens like Tommie Ross or an infamous parti boy like David Blade, or the club promoters or the club owners like Big Yo. To become legendary was the closest a black gay street kid could come to being a celebrity. I didn’t care about success outside the club scene. The “scene” was my home. The “scene” was my family. A lot of us black gay kids had been kicked out or run away or couldn’t go home again because we were gay. So I built my self-esteem in the club. I built my identity. It was my foundation. The outside world had already betrayed me. I felt safe at the club. I felt real. I figured “outside” success would mean nothing to me if it took me away from my black gay brothers and sisters. I dreamed of walking into the club and the DJ announcing my name or judging a drag queen contest or being part of that spotlight where the legends performed. I dreamed of being on the cover of the “it” black gay rag. I dreamed of all the kids knowing my name or wanting to be me. So what happened? Maybe I was thinking to local. The world was bigger than Houston, TX. The world was bigger than just being black and gay.

I’ll be honest, I never thought of the entire black gay community or the white gay community or any of the connected circles until I self-published my book and wanted to sell it. I had to figure out how I could reach “my” people. I immediately thought of Clik magazine. I immediately thought of popular ezines like Rod 2.0 and Keith Boykin. I immediately thought of black gay organizations like POCC and US helping US. I immediately thought of the bars, clubs and black gay prides. There was the blood. There was the connection. I then found out it’s not so easy to connect to the black gay community. I had to have AIDS for the black gay organizations. Popular Ezines like Keith Boykin and Rod 2.0 weren’t looking for new talent; they were more vehicles for their own ambition and agenda and promoting friends and the established. I did get a response back from Clik but it fell through due to politics and business. Actually I started to feel shut out of the so called black gay community. I didn’t graduate from a fancy college. I was self-published. I was a street kid. I worked a regular job. I was just too damn average. I had nothing to really boast about. I didn’t wear fancy clothes, have a perfect body, and I wasn’t into kissing ass to get a shout out on their website or magazine. I felt shut out. I felt more shut out than I did with the white gay kids.

And then to add salt to injury one day, I was reading Clik magazine and in it, was an article on Frank Leon Robert. His only claim to fame is that he’s 23 and a NYU PhD candidate. But what disturbed me was when it said “most 23 year olds are in the clubs when FLR is in grad school” it was saying I wasted my life. It was saying that I paid Clik magazine 4 of my average hard working dollars to tell me I was wasting my life. And once again, I felt shut out of the black gay community. Clik magazine didn’t care about me. Rod and Keith Boykin didn’t care about me. I was nobody. I was just another fan. I was just another overpriced club fee. I was just another face in the thousands of black gay men who save up their money and go to the prides. It didn’t care about me.
I was self-published. I started to notice if I didn’t graduate from some fancy college, held down some fancy job, if I didn’t make a lot of money, if the white community had already accepted me, I didn’t mean anything to them.

They were all about the materialism and vanity. They were all about the talented tenth. I have nothing against success, because we should strive to do better, but I thought those people were my people. Keith Boykin doesn’t give a damn about me; neither does Rod 2.0 or Clik magazine, because I’m too average. I’m just another fan, club fee, or subscription. They are too high and mighty up in their cloud to realize that most of us who support them are just average. It’s beginning to piss me off. I want balance. If they are suppose to represent the community, then represent the entire damn community not just your shady friends. I don’t mind seeing pics of Keith Boykin in Puerto Rico or St. Antigua. Shit you know how long I would have to save up to go there. You know how long an average black gay brotha saves up just to go to one of those damn black gay prides. It’s cost like 1000-1500 a trip. The majority of us only make 30000-40000 a year. And the majority of us who go, are young, between 20-30 years old. So where are these kids getting all that money? They are stealing. They are mopping. They are doing the credit card schemes. They are charging. They are going into debt trying to be a fabulous black fag. And for what? Just so they can be told they aren’t good enough by elitist representatives. That’s some bullshit.

It ain’t easy when you’re poor, black and gay. It aint easy. I’m beginning to realize I have to go outside the circle to get back into the circle. I’m never going to be accepted the way I am. I’m just average. I have to get white success first. I have to get financial success first. It’s a shame but it’s the truth. Those who supposedly represent us try to tell us that the Black gay community doesn’t value integrity, loyalty or itself. We only value master degrees, designer clothes, exotic vacations and all that bullshit. But it’s a lie. We need to elect better representatives.

TEN THINGS I HATE ABOUT BEING BLACK AND GAY

Freedom of speech

In the black gay community, forget about it. We can’t have an honest conversation to save our lives, literally. Everybody is perfect. Nobody is a bottom. We all have safe sex. We are all fabulous. Nobody is over 30 years old. The minute someone disagrees with anything, they are called a hater or “stupid.” It’s a one trick pony. Every time there’s a chance for a real conversation everybody becomes all Mary Poppins. Everybody is doing the right thing. And I’m like, if we’re all so damn perfect, why is HIV increasing. If we all are so damn perfect, why are there the controversial topics? Somebody is attending the unsafe sex party otherwise they wouldn’t exist. We got so many secrets. And everybody is lying. Why can’t we just have an honest conversation. It’s because we don’t’ feel safe with each other. We feel as if the government or some AIDS worker is in the crowd writing down information so that he or she could get their new grant. We feel used by the system. Of course we can’t be honest.

Hero worshipping

I don’t like my Heroes spoon fed to me. I don’t like anyone just assuming they represent me. Of course, I am grateful that there are my black gay brothas out there representing, but that doesn’t mean I have to worship them. It doesn’t mean I can’t disagree. Just because there are few choices, I still have a choice and that’s not to choose anything.

Clik magazine

To be honest, I don’t get it. I mean, I understand its premise: America’s #1 Black Gay Lifestyle, Entertainment, Fashion & Travel magazine. When I flip through the pages of Clik magazine, it’s not only that it makes me feel unattractive, broke, and like a failure, I also don’t see anything that I wouldn’t see in a local white gay rag for free or Esquire or Details magazine. I mean it has a few good articles on HIV and a few celebrity black gay folks, but I don’t get it. I’ve tried. Where are the drag queens? Where are the clubs? Where are the black gay people? I mean they show a couple of pictures from black gay prides, but that’s the ones they hosted. As I flip through the pages, I can’t help but ask myself, where’s the community. I mean it’s pretty, but barely have any substance. And I hate to criticize. Where is it that they are telling me how to do ATL pride on a budget? Where is it that they are telling me about all the hotspots I wouldn’t normally know about? It’s cool they have pictures of the latest collection of Prada or whatever, but where is it that they are telling me something I can actually use.

Keith Boykin

I found it funny that Keith Boykin actually censored me on one of his postings. It was about safe sex parties. I said that I’ve actually been to one, and he deleted my comment. Hmmmmm. I guess I was supposed to condemn them. Has anyone noticed how Keith Boykin’s comments are sort of redundant? He is not democratic. You must worship Keith Boykin or not exist. I keep the posting of the people who hate me posted. It’s a balance. Sometimes I am full of bullshit. Sometimes I am brilliant. I let the public decide.

Frank Leon Roberts

Actually I like him. I liked his article on gay marriage. I think he’s a forward thinker but I don’t think he’s a prophet. I like what he’s done for the ball scene. I used to have a friend before he went to jail for mopping (credit card fraud) who was very into the ball scene. He was fierce. But my initial rejection of FLR was because I don’t like my Heroes spoon fed to me. But at first I misjudged him as an elitist part of that “I’m better than you” crowd. But I think he is a victim who should fight back for his identity. He is more than even what he’s advertising. Let your words speak not your titles.

Black gay literature

I remember back in the day it was about translating your invisible soul to the invisible. Now it’s about reproducing someone else’s financial success. It’s a travesty. Without me insulting anyone, let me just say, I hated Fred Smith’s book. I hated Rashid’s book. I hate the lasted E. Lynn Harris book. There, I said it.

Clubs
Most black gay clubs will always be hole in the walls, because that’s the appeal. But most black gay clubs are homophobic. They are only gay on certain nights and the promoters don’t change the club staff, therefore you get homophobic door people snickering, and don’t complain, because you’ll quickly get put out. And we give so much of our money to that which hates us.

HIV
I don’t believe black gay men spread HIV. I believe we find what we are looking for. I also don’t like the process. I wouldn’t get tested at a clinic. That’s a set up. I wouldn’t get tested unless I had all the information. We do have choices. And they just treat you like a number. You are a statistic. And black gay men have been demonize. Of course we don’t trust. We don’t feel safe not even in our own community. We still can’t be honest. And whose fault is that we promotions like “don’t be the next drive by.” Who are they really saving? And why are they so damn bitter. It’s a numbers game. It’s all corporate.

White gay men
I don’t mind the black guys who like only white men; I just don’t like their attitude. They are worse than slave overseers. I mean, come one, there are plenty of white gay men that a nigga don’t have to be all rude about it. I also don’t like black gay men who don’t like black gay men who like white gay men. It shouldn’t be so black and white. We can all still be brothas. They are still black and gay. Some of my coolest friends are black and only date white. I don’t care. I’m not going to stop being their friend as long as they don’t insult me.

Myself
I think I gave too much of myself to the black gay lifestyle I still want to honor it. I just thought others would care more. What I’m finding is that black gay life is so scattered and dysfunctional. So many of us have our own agendas. So many of us are not about the whole but ourselves. I don’t want to be legendary anymore. It was a superficial title. I don’t want to be separate. I’m happy to be average.

When the pretty fades: Diva Dont

What makes a diva? The word itself suggests superficiality and bitchiness. And if an artist is referred to as a Diva, does it minimizes their talent and glorify their ego? Before I could begin with Beyonce, I had to first ask myself, what happened to Jennifer Lopez? For a good second she was America’s most favorite past time diva doll. She had the hair, make-up, attitude and clothes. Every man wanted to be with her. Women liked her because she rocked her curves and didn’t apologize. Drag Queens idolized her. But what happened? It seemed her ego started to outshine her minimum talent. It was her many marriages. It was the high profile romances and Bennifer. It was releasing her album, perfume, clothing line and movie the same weekend. It was overkill. It was her redundant music videos where you knew she was going to shake her ass, pout into the camera, swing her hair and wear fantastic clothes. Was she just another fade? The problem with toys and fades is that we often get bored. Superstar Barbie may have been fun to play with for a couple of weeks before we diverted our attention to a newer entertainment. I find it’s a problem with labeling female artist “Divas,” because it suggests superficiality and minimizes their talent. It objectifies talented females as objects, hollow egos who only care about their presentation and not their art. It’s one more sexist connotation, that women she be “seen” and not “heard.” A female artist by default, if she’s beautiful and sexy, is almost force by the industry to be a pretty bird in a cage. She is just there to entertain us until we get bored and suspend her back to the dark. She’s just new pussy until another girl turns 18 years old. And what happens after the pretty fades?

Now that I’ve stepped down from my diamond studded soapbox let’s begin the second argument. Is Beyonce a diva or talented artist? For instance, take away the straighten and blonde flowing weave, the short skirts, the booty dancing, the “I’m so pretty” music videos and magazine covers, what do we have left? Is she as insightful and soulful as India Arie; timeless as Sade; can reinvent like Madonna or resilient as Tina Turner? Can the real Beyonce please stand up! We know that she’s ambitious. We know that she is aggressive. We know that she’s an excellent performer and an extraordinary visual illusionist. But we also know that we’re getting bored. There, I said it.

It’s superficial on the American audience part. We idolize you one day and hate you the next. There are the Beyonce Pepsi and L’Oreal commercials, there is Beyonce selling me make-up when I walk into CVS, and there is Beyonce performing with Prince. There is Beyonce performing three times at the Grammy Awards, there is Beyonce at the movie theater, there is Beyonce selling me her mother’s ugly clothes, there is Beyonce selling me perfume, what’s next, the Beyonce cereal and tampons. I’m not hating, but it’s like damn does she have enough money yet or is Beyonce stalking me because she is everywhere? Should I get a restraining order?

Beyonce’s latest musical project, Déjà vu, is obviously crazy in love, the sequel. The problem with sequels, they are never as good as the original. The audience can’t help but compare and complain. Beyonce’s people probably thought they were being clever since the song is called “Déjà vu” which is French for “already seen." They thought they could just re-do her first success. The lazy bastards just basically wanted to kill two birds with one stone, make a music video and promote Beyonce’s mother Tina Knowles hideous clothing line.

It’s creepy. On the opening page of the House of Dereon’s website, Beyonce and her mother relax on a peach one-cushion sofa. Beyonce in her slenderness casually seduces the camera like southern ice tea on a hot day. Her mother stares at her with a hungry grin. She reaches out to touch her daughter’s youthful face like the evil witch in Snow White, as if to hand her a poison apple so that she could fall into a deep sleep and rob her of her youth and beauty. It’s creepy. There’s a reason we stop letting our mother dress us in middle school. Wasn’t it enough she kept putting Destiny’s Child on the worse dress lists with mustard colored evening dresses and girls scout inspired ball gowns? I’m just saying the woman needs to be stopped. The problem with people with a lot of money is they don’t have to struggle. Tina Knowles never had to go to a designer school. She was a hairstylist most of her life. She didn’t have to get rejected. If she was on Project Runway, she would’ve gotten the boot a long time ago. She didn’t have to study fashion. All she needed was a blank check from Beyonce. I don’t understand why it isn’t anyone telling her that her clothes are awful.

It’s the clothes that ruins Beyonce’s new video, Déjà vu. There I said it. It’s those awful ugly ass clothes she’s wearing.

Beyonce made her debut with her high fashion, high concept music videos that looked like glamorous photo shoots. It changed the direction of R&B videos. It reenergized the industry. The problem with déjà vu isn’t that it’s the same concept as her first video “crazy in love” which is basically Beyonce prancing around looking fabulous as if she’s on a virtual runway. The problem with déjà vu isn’t that Beyonce isn’t still beautiful, she looks great, and she’s in the best shape of her life. The problem with déjà vu is Beyonce looks like she broke into her grandmother’s wardrobe. The clothes are hideous and distracting. It brings her down. Not even Beyonce Knowles can pull off white hot pants with a pirate inspired ruffle jacket to match.

As I watched the déjà vu video, all I could think, why the hell is Beyonce running through the fields in her grandmother’s nightgown and white lace gloves. Did she get drunk? And that dance scene with jay Z, what the hell were those sleeves about. Was that supposed to be couture? It’s fitted wrong. It makes her look like a Russian acrobatic circus freak. It’s just wrong. And the last scene, she looks as if she’s wearing a one-piece black girdle that’s lost its elasticity. Beyonce has the best body but and in that outfit she looks like a 90 retired chorus girl, every thing was heading south.

I’m not trying to be a bitchy queen. That’s why I originally asked the question, what makes a Diva? An artist could get away with such insanities. For god sakes, Beyork wore a swan dress to the Grammy Awards and only became more popular. An artist is constantly pushing him or her self and the industry they harass. An artist grows by the day, constantly searching and reusing their life experience as art. How has Beyonce grown in the last ten years? How has she changed from “crazy in love” to now?

Personally, I fucking love Beyonce. Yet, after watching the Déjà vu video, I had to examine why I really loved her. It was her image. It was her presentation. It was her “you will not deny me” attitude. It was my ego. I loved that she was my new superstar Barbie doll. Ergo, the problem. I’m getting bored. There, I said it.

I fear, in another year or two we are going to be asking ourselves whatever happened to Beyonce like we now ask about Lil Kim, Foxy Brown, Deborah Cox, Toni Braxton, Jennifer Lopez, Whitney Houston, Diana Ross, Donna Summers, or even Jody Watley.

If I had it my way, this is how I would change Beyonce’s career.

First, she needs to stop doing those blockbuster movies. She needs some depth in her life. If she really wanted to be an actor, she would take on an edgier role. I also think she should stop worrying about being pretty and test her real talent. I think she should do a music video with a paper-bag over her face. I think she should start making fun of herself. Kill off that “Sasha” image. I think she should start being ungrateful. I think she should take off for a year or two. It’s funny when your career is just beginning; you already have to start planning your comeback. I’ve said it before, controversy made Beyonce, and it will make her again. Then again, there is always Las Vegas.

Soulfully confused. A critique of "SexyBack"

Where’s the sex! The nipplegate bandit arrogantly boasts that he was bringing sexy back! However, as I watched Timberlake’s newest music video I felt like Clara Peller from the infamous Wendy’s commercials looking down at her hamburger buns and yelling “where’s the sex!” There is nothing remotely sexy about the music video “Sexyback.” There, I said it.
I don’t mind that he is stealing Robbie Williams’s image without the joke. I don’t mind that I’m finding him annoying. And I’m not a Justin Timberlake hater. I loved his first album. What I do mind is that when you promise a horny freak like myself sex, I expect nakedness. I want to see some sex.

Justin Timberlake was hotter as a bitter scorned boyfriend trying to get back at his pop princess ex by sleeping with some high class hooker in her bed in the “cry me a river” music video. He was hotter when he was imitating Michael Jackson. He was sexy with his shirt off on the cover of Rolling Stone magazine. Now he claims he does drugs and drinks too much. Now he claims he is a bad boy, but I don’t buy it. Now that his new album is coming out, he’s suddenly breaking up with Cameron Diaz. I don’t buy it.

Let’s get back to the video. It’s a typical cliché. It’s a James bond adolescent boy fantasy gone “bye bye bye!” It’s the (insert yawing) hot chick trying to kill the uncover agent, so he must bang her before she bangs him. It’s a redundant assassin ala “Mr. and Mrs. Smith” without the seduction of Angelina Jolie. That woman can make paint drying look sexy. But Timberlake hardly looks at the camera and he keeps his clothes on. In the end it’s a tired “we knocking over the furniture” basic instinct less parody. The playful frolicking with the main “hot chick” character was like watching my grandparents have sex. It was uninspired. It was choreographed and mechanical as his dance moves. It was as painful as watching a grown man getting circumcised. So not sexy. No wonder Britney cheated on him with a background dancer.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not racially or culturally territorial, but we all had our feel of supposedly soulful white people. It used to be so much more entertaining back in the good ole minstrel days when they just painted their faces black and did the watermelon dance. It was less rude. There’s nothing organic about Joss Stone, Christina Aguilera or Justine Timberlake. It’s manufactured urban regurgitation. It’s “acting black.” During the 1920s and 1930s, many white Americans enjoyed seeing and listening to African-American jazz and blues performed by white musicians. They often objected to experiencing the music as performed by the original black artists, but found it acceptable when the music was performed by whites. It sold more. I’m not saying Justin Timberlake is a “gold-digger” but he does like playing nigga for pay.

I admit “Sexyback” is a well produced song. It’s clever. Timberlake doesn’t even sound like himself but reminiscent of a playful Rick James in his glory days or Sly Stone. Given how the vocals in the song sexually slithers, the low deep voice, the cockiness of the lyrics, one would think if would be Mr. Timberlake’s chance to be a little more masculine. I imagined a sexy dominatrix, spiked stilettos, whips, handcuffs or some really 70s porn kinky shit. I imagined he would man up. But what we got was him walking around a club like he lost his car keys. It’s obvious he’s still a mama’s boy. And we all cannot forget the Superbowl incident. We all can not forget how he punked out when the pressure got to hot. The wonder-bread boy got to do what every young male in America would love to do, ripped Janet’s bra off and expose how succulent breasts. He got bragging rights, but what did he do with it? He went on national television and cried and apologized for it. I so lost respect for him. What’s sexy about the minute he got into trouble that he quickly dropped that fake black accent he boasts and became all middle class and Midwestern? I guess he just wanted to use all the benefits of “black for pay” but suffer none of the consequences. But I’m not a hater. If people are idiots to buy it, so be it. There are worse things like police brutality, high gas prices and the war in Iraq.

I don’t hate the player. It’s the game. Black artists become more blonde when they try to cross over. White artist become blacker when they try to change their squeaky clean image. It’s fraudulent. Just like the video and song, I don’t believe it. In the end Mr. Timberlake says “dirty babe, I let you whip me if I misbehave.” I bet if one of Justin Timberlake’s eyelashes fell out he’d cry like a bitch. I saw him on “Punked.” He is like dressing up your cute house pet. It's still a house pet. And Justin Timberlake is still a mouseketeer. He is a virgin long island ice tea. What’s the point? “SexyBack” is a joke.

Beautiful Tyler as shot by MDW

he's a maneater

For Miss Diva Mita R.I.P

My soul mate

This is the second to last poem I will write about you

Not many people will know us

The secrets we kept

The vodka and waterbed moments

The way I felt I was your man

How I thought I could protect you even from death

The way I thought you were my woman because I could be weak around you

Not many people could know us

The kisses in back of cars

The jealousy

The confusion with that Olive Garden moment

I was still gay

But we held each other down

You taught me to let go of my depression

I taught you to let go of your pretension

But I’m not even going to front

in the end

We were trying to grow without each other

But we kept coming back to love

I ignored you all that summer

Remember that night you got kicked out of my room for being too loud

Remember how I beat up Derrick when we found him

Those secrets baby that you took to your grave

Those secrets that you knew I was your man to the end

We met because your best friend liked me and thought I was gay

We met because I wore red fingernail polish

I told you were a bitch and we were friends since then

Remember 18

Remember 19

Remember being co-resident assistants

Remember 20

Remember 21, that’s when I took you to café adobe and you bought me a gift also

Remember 22, that was the nine inch nail concert

Remember my 21, that was the Alanis concert, I was the only black person there

Remember 23

Remember 24

Then September of 1999

This is second to last poem, I'm still holding you down baby girl. I still know our secrets.

I carried you to your father the day you fell.

I was there for your last breath.

No one knew you better than me.

I got pictures I will never show.