Monday, July 25, 2005
The Poolside Diaries
So while I'll be snoozing on my way to destination paradise, there's no time better than the present to catch up on my fix of fictional fantasy, true crime mysteries and the world according to the voices of sanity who continue to put things in proper perspective.
Care to take a peek inside my beach tote? C'mon, you know you wanna...
Bliss by Danyel Smith. Of course I had to show love for my fellow blog diva holdin' it down! I'm bringing this back without drink spills because I want my copy signed and posed like an Urban Outfitters window piece on my nightstand for ambiance.
The Interruption of Everything by Terry McMillan. I'm so ovah the "pink elephant in the room was ignored" pity party she's been throwing in the press as of late, but I've gotten good word-of-mouth buzz on this.
Genevieve by Eric Jerome Dickey. What's the point of going away if you don't have the obligatory trashy camp read?
Remains Silent by Michael Baden & Linda Kenney. I'm absolutely hooked on HBO's Autopsy series, so it's only fitting that Baden's first foray into novels would be worth a look see. It hits the shelves mid-August, but having a hookup has its perks, dahlings.
Post-Soul Nation: The Explosive, Contradictory, Triumphant, and Tragic 1980's as Experienced by African Americans (Previously Known as Blacks and Before That Negroes) by Nelson George. The shot of intellectual musings I need to keep me grounded on the way back while mentally preparing to return to the corporate plantation.
So, it's time to bid my fellow bloggers farewell for the next few days while I soak up some rays and get even more scrumptiously Hershey-fied. See ya'll on the flip side of another rant soon. Peace.
Friday, July 22, 2005
Mass Transit Annoyance
In a post 9/11-world, it's the obvious loophole to use "it's a sign of the times and drastic measures like this are now a necessary evil" as the logical explanation. But here's the 60,000 burning question: is this applicable to ALL commuters or just the black and brown ones that look "suspicious"? Commissioner Ray Kelly claims that straphangers have the option to "turn around and leave" as a decline from being searched – but what's the likelihood of that happening when the cameras are off and Farhoud or Rajib strolls past the turnstile with turban in full view?
At a time when the MTA was supposed to have pledged $600 million to beef up transit security, only $30 million has actually gone towards that cause as of March 2005.
Instead of holding up everyone's work route during rush hour, I'm more concerned about these fool ass High Entrance/Exit Turnstiles (HEETs) replacing conventional token booths like wildfire. Many of the traditional passages are locked after the early morning herd and you're forced to squeeze through a cross between a torture device and steel cage courtesy of Vince McMahon. If push came to shove (and it literally would) during terrorist attacks underground, how the hell would passengers escape quickly? The elderly, the parents juggling children in one hand, strollers in the other while a growing impatient mob jockeys take their cues from Ludacris to throw 'dem bows at the front of the pack... to say that chaos would ensue is putting it mildly. But, alas Chairman Peter Kalikow & Co. would rather give sanctioned profiling the green light rather than actually taking steps to make the city safer. Chalk one more up for homeland security.
Guard your grill and keep your eyes and ears open, people. Our civil rights are rapidly going the way of the 8-track. The USA Patriot Act has made privacy fair game and opened up a Pandora's box for Big Brother.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Health goes haute chocolate
Now it seems that not only do berries of a deeper hue have the sweeter juice, now comes word that dark chocolate actually has healthier proponents than its more popular, sugary counterparts. The benefits have been shown in clinical studies to help lower high blood pressure.
It's the headline a raving sweet tooth fanatic just waits with baited breath for. Bring on the bonbons, truffles & venti Chanticos, 'cause I'm game!
Why you can't turn Bartles & Jaymes into beaujolais
Exhibit A: The Hand That Rocks The Cradle
With apologies to Argentina, please save your tears for Sienna Miller. News broke earlier this week that her fiancé and Sexiest Man In Da Wurrrrrrrrld (at least, according to PEOPLE) Jude Law issued a public apology for getting caught playing naked Twister in bed by his son with nanny Daisy Wright. I suppose this is the part where the studio audience is supposed to go "awwww" in unison. But hold the box of Kleenex! This C-list blonde began her relationship with Law while he was still married to first wife, Sadie Frost. Now I don't know about you, but if *I* met a movie star that had more baggage than Samsonite on the set of a remake that's a how-to guide of Pimping Hoes 101 (a.k.a. Alfie for those in the dark) while knowing that it's a bit too easy for him to get in character for the Brit cad role, the danger signs would be blinking like paparazzi flashes at first hellos. Then again, it's better to be an "almost was" rather than a "no-name" in Hollyweird. Now she's gone from couture-wearin' ingenue on the verge to hiding out in sweats at her parents' flat in London. Turnabout's a bitch, ain't it? Somewhere Sadie's snickering hard at these turn of events...perusing Harrod's with a smirk that says "This young tramp had to learn the hard way. Told your ass so."
Exhibit B: Motor City Madness
The nomad also known as Larry Brown has reverted back to his carpetbagging ways and wriggled out of his contract with the Detroit Pistons. The season-long handwringing is over and a settlement's been reached. I know all about his insistent denials about leaving his head coach post to bolt yet AGAIN and how much he professed to want to stay in the D. So firing or buyout? Guess we can file this one as another unsolved mystery for Robert Stack & Co. to sort out, but either way it serves Joe Dumars and Bill Davidson right. Rick Carlisle wound up the sacrificial lamb in '03 to place their bets on a man notorious for coming down with the 2nd/3rd season itch before it's time to pull up stakes. Has it been forgotten how they swooped down like Superhead on a married rap star and poached him from Philly?
Why is it now we're supposed to be surprised at the outcome and question Brown's allegiance? What the hell were they expecting? Okay, so Knicks fans become the eager customers waiting for their lapdance with 10-15 more wins as the carrot on the golden stick. The patsy just willing to leap at the chance for a legend with a big name and an equally big resume. Exactly how my fellow Jets fans felt after we pulled a heist to land Bill Parcells at the Meadowlands only to sob in our draft brews once Bill Belichick gave Gang Green the finger with one day clocked in on the job. But I digress...
Is it really worth pretending that the roster's not a logjam of 20 guards that haven't learned how to pass the rock, no real big man in the middle and a salary cap so clogged, Liquid Drano would be about as effective as Evian? Rebuilding's a profane word in a city that's so expectant, we get the Sunday paper on Saturday – (yep, we're THAT impatient), so investing more funds on someone with more commitment issues than a playboy facing reform is a step in the wrong direction. We've got a better chance at drafting a decent lottery pick than rolling the dice on Brown sticking around for the 5+ years it'll take to right this sinking ship. I know you wanna make a splash on the back pages, Zeke...but let's revive Nancy Reagan's feel-good 80's slogan. Just say NO.
A foolproof guide to Bush's brain
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
What's cooler than cool? ICE COLD!
Praise God, Jehovah, Allah and the three stooges for Starbucks. What beats an overpriced chilled latte to keep you sane during the dog days of summer? You must try the new Green Tea frappuccino...it's sweet without the need for an insulin drip afterwards like the caramel tends to do and tastes super yummy. If they uncovered crack as a hidden ingredient, I wouldn't be surprised. It's that good. I'm in the throes of Robert Downey, Jr.-like addiction already. The spin on the tazo tea lemonade is another tasty thirst quencher. Que deeelish.
Guess who's back atop the AL East, bitches?! Now that's what I call one helluva birthday gift to Joe Torre. Through all the turmoil, the lineup changes, the blows to our patchy rotation, the flareups from the Boss...we're still here. Pinstriped pessimists, be afraid. Be VERY afraid.
My beloved Yankees were written off faster than UPN's fall schedule by the oh-so-eager scribes that couldn't wait to signal the death knell. (Holla back, Dan Shaughnessy!) Having a $200 million payroll will keep the haters' claws sharp at all times. They were over. Left for dead. Silly wabbits. Tricks are for kids and the boys of summer are cookin' like Zatarain's fresh out the box. Is there any duo more lethal than the tandem of A-Rod & Sheff right now? Jeter (a.k.a my baby daddy in my head) is slumping a bit, but he's still hovering around .300. Hell, 5 out of our 11 batters are hitting .300 or better while 2 more are flirting with .280. The Bronx Bombers are BACK. I'm a little worried about the O's & Red Sux maneuvering for the first blockbuster trade before the deadline with A.J. Burnett being dangled as the bait... it may be time to break out the trusty rosary beads so Jason Schmidt becomes available by the Giants by month's end.
Can't seem to get any work done today because my mind's like a thousand miles away. Gotta get my Saumur strap fixed. Plot to catch Nordstrom's open while cursing not-so-subtly through the usual traffic slowed to a crawl on the Southern State. Reschedule dinner with my homegirl before I'm banished to the isle of bad friends. Have these fuzzy caterpillars doubling as eyebrows weedwacked back into proper arches (it's my homage to Brooke Shields, so bite me). I keep trying to focus only to wind up having my thoughts float off into "shit I gotta get done before week's out" land like 5 minutes later. I have the attention span of a firefly lately. Must... not... have... a... Newport.
Sunday, July 17, 2005
There's a goddamn glitch in the matrix
There was my mom jammin' at the stop light after turning onto Flatbush Ave as Wait (The Whisper Song) by the blasted Ying Yang Twins blared from the midday mix on Power 105. The look of horror that spread across my face was undeniable. It took almost a full 5 minutes to pick my jaw up off the dashboard.
I wondered to myself how appealing the not-ready-for-radio hook of "beat the pussy up" would become if she only knew what these fools were really saying. Being an excommunicated preacher's kid, I've strayed a bit from the kneel and pray routine over the years. However, desperate times require desperate measures.
Hail Mary full of grace
The Lord is with thee.
Blessed art thou amongst women,
and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
Holy Mary, Mother of God,
pray for us sinners,
now and at the hour of our death.
Friday, July 15, 2005
It wasn't too long ago that I teetered on the edge of two steps past precocious as a Bubbalicious-smackin' young'un myself. Still sheltered and sweet masquerading as sophisticated n' sassy, ready to push the envelope with off-the-shoulder tops and hemlines that zoomed higher than a cherry bomb on the Fourth of July. Nowadays, the bar has been raised with an open market of bared midriffs, legs, arms, backs, asses and every crevice in between at a street corner near you.
Seeing toddlers walk hand-in-hand with their moms for a mani/pedi isn't just a novelty anymore. The most jarring aspect to the sluttification in teenage girls is now the mothers are becoming willing participants in allowing their daughters walk around like potential video hoes.
Picture this, downtown Brooklyn, strolling down Fulton Street. Sashaying out of Jimmy Jazz was a mother and daughter duo in almost matching outfits. Lycra capris that were tight enough to show the imprint of a fart, tube tops which resembled a sausage casing straining to keep the cleavage intact and rhinestoned wedges. The little girl appeared no older than 12. Is it any wonder why it's the most wonderful time of year for pedophiles everywhere? R. Kelly's parked in front of a McDonaldland playground, trapped in a wet dream right about now.
In a post-Britney world, it's hard to just let kids be kids when pop culture celebrates the nymphet that walks the delicate tightrope of sexuality as exploitation. As much as the media gets blamed for beaming in negative imagery, they aren't the only ones who a finger should be pointed at. It isn't Viacom whose taking these tweens to the nearest Wet Seal or G&G to dress up like their favorite TRL star. Women have to take responsibility for setting boundaries for their children. I put the onus squarely on the mothers in particular because just as a female can't adequately teach a boy to be a man the same way a father could – the same rules apply vice versa.
We can't sit idly by and send them out in a whore's uniform then play dumb, deaf and blind when they begin falling in with "the wrong crowd" and suffer the consequences of being equipped with a PG-13 mindset in a rated-R game geared to adults.
Let's not only focus our efforts to wage campaigns about taking back the music. Let's take back our innocence at the grassroots level with the errant cousin, the sister, the niece, the goddaughter, best friend's child — before it's too late.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Gather the tykes around, hereeeee's R. Kiddy!
The most mind boggling aspect of the second act of Kelly's career is that his most ardent fans and supporters are Black women. Sisters who will absolve the actions of a man whose multiple transgressions with minors are well-documented. Sisters who will argue in his defense with the fervor of Johnnie Cochran reincarnated. Sisters who will lay blame not with a grown ass man who knows the difference between right and wrong — but with the victims themselves.
"Their fast asses were asking for it."Set up? Are you fucking kidding me? The only thing he set up was the zoom lens feature while filming his sexcapades with a cornucopia of schoolgirls. Never mind the fact that the old Negro spiritual route was his "get out of jail and collect more record residuals" card. Funny how quickly you can go from being saved and sanctified to having sex in the kitchen by the buttered rolls.
"He could have any woman he wants, what could a little girl do for him?"
"It's all a conspiracy... ya'll know he was set up."
Never mind the fact that Kelly adopted the moniker "The Pied Piper" during promotion for his previous album, Chocolate Factory while making public appearances looking like a Darkwing Duck impersonator. Don't know the history behind that fictional alias?
As described in an old German folktale, the Pied Piper is a mysterious wanderer who agrees to rid the town of Hamelin of a plague of rats. He enchants the rats by playing a magical flute and then leads them into the nearby river Weser, where they drown. But when the city fathers go back on their promise to pay him handsomely for his work, the piper exacts revenge by playing his flute for the town's children and leading them away into a mountain cavern, where they disappear forever.Can we all say disturbing? Alas, this red flag clearly is not a deterrent to the masses. We turned the other cheek when it was revealed that Aaliyah became his child bride at 15, so this is merely par for the course now. I mean, who cares if the Pied Pisser likes to urinate on young Black females? As long as the remix is blazin' while stepping in the name of love on the dance floor and feelin' on someone's booty because we gon' have a fiesta – clearly, a soundtrack for the bold and beautiful while living young & scandalous is more important to us as a people.
Chris Rock quipped it best: "If the beat's alright, she'll dance all night."
We shall overcome... someday.
Boob tube bitching
One of the few times you'll ever see stars of the small-screen up before 9 a.m. EST....of course, it's that time of year again: the 57th annual Emmy award nominations were revealed this morning. The big winner? Freshman dramedy Desperate Housewives racked up an impressive 15 nods. The divas of Wisteria Lane capped off an impressive season by being richly rewarded for a potent mix of a gay man's wet dream balanced with film-noir quirkiness. Well deserved! Color me happy that the tragically overexposed Eva Longoria was snubbed. Yeah, I'll be a hater...but she can't hold Marcia Cross' apron strings. Her portrayal of the quintessential Stepford wife on crack, Bree Van De Kamp is brilliant. Act like you know!
Overall, NATAS made much needed strides in the right direction (a virtual West Wing shutout, hallelujah!), but there's still more than a few glaring omissions that must be addressed.
Why the hell has the Academy been sleeping on The Wire for THREE LONG YEARS?! The omission of the most engrossing drama on TV is a slap in the face. Don't even get me started on the criminally overlooked cast which coaxed riveting performances this season again from Idris Elba, Dominic West & Sonja Sohn. A gritty look at the mean streets of Baltimore is just a bit too real for them to handle in one dose, I suppose. Hmph.
Another "what the fuck?!" is in order for the blatant snub of Lauren Graham of Gilmore Girls. Who does this woman have to blow for a nomination, goddamnit!
15 nods for the "been there, done that, is it still around?" Will & Grace? Give me a break. Even the magic of Sean Hayes & Megan Mullally has grown about as stale as week-old Chinese. NEXT!
A fluff nod for lead actress in a miniseries/TV movie to Halle Berry? Let's be real...Their Eyes Were Watching God was one lushly shot Revlon commercial in the Florida everglades masquerading as a competent adaptation. Oprah made us all fall for the okeydoke in the hype machine. Ruben Santiago-Hudson or Michael Ealy were far more deserving cast members. And speaking of miniseries noms, again...why wasn't Idris Elba's name not called for Sometimes In April?! It would've been a tough category to break, but how many more times do we need to see a retread on the life and times of Elvis? A total travesty.
Now that the bad's out the way, three cheers for recognition to the consistently compelling CCH Pounder of The Shield, the hilarious Jeremy Piven of Entourage, Naveen Andrews of Lost and Sandra Oh of Grey's Anatomy. Nice to see a greater kaleidoscope of minority faces in contention. It still ain't perfect, but we've come a long way from the distance in the rearview mirror.
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Kiss from a Rove on the grey...
"Have you talked to Karl and do you have confidence in him?" a reporter asked President Bush on Sept. 30, 2003. "Listen, I know of nobody," he replied. "I don't know of anybody in my administration who leaked classified information. If somebody did leak classified information, I'd like to know it, and we'll take the appropriate action."
What a tangled web we weave when an administration's secret weapon is to deceive. The Bush crime family find themselves embroiled in the heat of controversy amid an incumbent term marred by slumping approval ratings, the battle for Iraq following the coming attractions script of Vietnam 2: Weapons of Mass Distraction and the fallout of the roundly criticized overhaul of Social Security. Poor Dumbya. At a time like this, the last thing needed is another scandal.
Enter Valerie Wilson.
Wife of former Ambassador to Gabon & São Tomé and Príncipe , Wilson (née Plame) was leaked as a CIA operative in an article written by conservative columnist, Bob Novak. The what and why's of the identity reveal was clear from the outset. Joseph C. Wilson IV penned the now infamous New York Times op-ed in July 2003 accusing key players at the White House for lashing out as payback for his reasonings that no link was to be found between Iraq and Niger in uranium purchases and the facts were being manipulated as cause for war. Now the who and how's have come starkly into full focus...and to Team Bush's dismay, it lands right at the feet of the Head Henchman In Charge: Karl Rove. Some coincidence that a mere 3 days before speaking with Time reporter Matt Cooper, Plame's name was in lights – completely exposed.
Tactics like this come naturally for the man generally known as the brain behind the Oval Office. Just ask Sen. John McCain (R-Arizona) who was alleged to have an illegitimate Black child and wife was painted as a druggie right up to the 2000 South Carolina primary. Or ask Ann Richards, who had her sexual orientation called into question during the 1994 Texas gubnatorial race.
Could you imagine if Bill Clinton had protected James Carville from the line of fire for committing the same act? Conservative pundits would scream treason faster than Ann Coulter with a front-row seat at the Democratic National Convention. Funny how these same right-wing apologists basically trump up Rove's waning integrity (an oxymoron if there ever was one) as evidence of whistle blowing to the benefit of good ol' Uncle Sam.
The notion that the someone in question who could wind up falling into their own trap of sabotage would be the very architect of Bush's campaign to humiliate, defame and utterly trash the credibility of his opponents doesn't only seem the height of irony, but poetic justice indeed. Equally vindicating is the silence broken by nonpartisan media in finally having the balls to publicize what a slumbering public needs to hear. The Teflon coating that's surrounded them is starting to show chinks in the armor. Historically, the second time around for a sitting president has always been a stumbling block and this has the potential for sparking the brush fire of downfalls.
Tom Teepen of the Sarasota Herald-Tribune crystallizes a seething resentment that is ready to emerge from the political backrooms into the white-hot spotlight of national headlines:
"Criminally liable or not, Rove's nasty and anonymous tattling reveals a spiteful and unhesitatingly vicious presidency, willing to destroy the sound reputations of two federal officials who have devoted their careers to working for this country. And all that just to punish and blunt a defensible dissent. That, in my book, is worse than criminal."
Friday, July 08, 2005
An exercise in futility
Just when I thought it wasn't possible for Barely Entertaining Television to sink lower than the cesspool of current programming allowed, they found a new way to aim pellets squarely at their nonexistent credibility. Today of course was the funeral of Luther Vandross here in NYC and his homegoing service at Riverside Church warranted coverage locally on NY1. WBLS (107.5) & WRKS (98.7) also countered with live broadcasts of the farewell on air. Where was BET's contribution in all this? A 5-minute blurb had to suffice in leading the Nightly Negro News with our favorite club-attired anchorwoman, Jacque Reid providing the highlights before seguing into the break.
You mean to tell me that ANOTHER banal repeat of 106 & Park was more important than rightfully airing the sendoff to the definitive voice of a generation? A man that was the cornerstone of their programming was only worth a quick cut summary? Commercials airing every 10 minutes for the latest behind-the-cliché Access Granted takes precedence over giving respect when its due?! And we wonder why mainstream media is dismissive of the legends whose mark was planted firmly in our community. Charity begins at home and its absolutely unacceptable that the network who made Vandross a core artist for over two decades couldn't fit the celebration of his life into their schedule.
Way to go, BET...I tip my hat to you for always reinventing the wheel when it comes to dropping the ball.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
They shoot single people, don't they?
I spoke with a friend of my mom's yesterday who we had lost contact with for some time. Recently out of the 9-to-5 rat race, she gave us a buzz last night to extend an invite to her retirement party in Atlanta next month. Inevitably, I got hit with the question all singletons (particularly women who've crept their way into the mid 20's age range and up) dread served up in an unerringly perky Southern accent...
When I told her that marriage was one of the last things on my mind at this point and I had no serious prospects on the horizon, she reacted as if I broke the news of a terminal disease."So why aren't you married, girl?! I thought you would be hitched with a baby or two by now!"
Considering my mother was already a married woman at my age and many of my girlfriends have begun their own walks down the aisle, I felt a momentary twinge of inadequacy.
Then I took a step back after mulling it over in my head hours later and it hit me like a Krylon pan to the dome. Why should I feel guilty that I'm not a bride at 25?! This isn't Bedrock, this is 2000-fucking-5, people. We as females face enough societal pressures as it is when it comes to bridging the gap from girl to woman....turning a serious decision into a race against time doesn't only reek of the Donna Reed era, it's inherently sexist. (Pardon me, while I do the full-court Helen Reddy press for a sec...) Why is it that men are allowed to "sow their wild oats" and still be considered a swinging bachelor well into their 40's, but if a woman hasn't mated by the time her 30's pass by, she's destined to be a bitter spinster with nothing to look forward to but eating out of cans and accruing a house full of cats for companionship?
I look at women like my great-aunt as an inspiration. Never married nor with children, she went from humble beginnings in Trinidad to higher education at Oxford to thrive professionally in her years at Johns Hopkins once she emigrated to the U.S. Self-reliant to the bone, she never had to ask for anything from anyone. As an inquisitive busybody, I wanted to know why she didn't want a man around. (I was one bold young'un, I know...) She responded by telling me that having a man was a bonus not a requirement....either way, she was going to enjoy every day whether it happened or not. I didn't understand then, but it makes perfect sense to me now.
Whether I choose to settle into a life of domesticity doesn't define me nor does it lessen my womanhood should I decide not to take that route. I like to dub it "the créme brulee analogy"...while it's something I look forward to and hope is awaiting me later down the line, slitting my wrists isn't an option if that doesn't come to fruition. I'm just thankful I live in a time that offers the kind of options those before me wished they could've had. That isn't something to be embarrased about, it's cause for celebration. I'm living my life on my terms. PERIOD. To my fellow single ladies out there, raise your martini glasses and middle fingers high to anyone who tells you otherwise. The only expiration date that counts is when other people's timetables end and your life begins.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
The outpouring of sympathy to the missing girl's family took a sour turn on the Caribbean isle of Aruba when Holloway's mother, Beth Holloway Twitty publicly condemned the release of Deepak and Satish Kalpoe – the Surinamese brothers suspected in connection with Natalee's May 30th disappearance. According to Twitty, the Kalpoes are guilty and had no right to be freed.
I suppose we can now call off the investigation since not only is she a grieving mother, but she's been able to jump to conclusions the Dutch authorities are ill-equipped to handle.
Pardon the facetiousness of the open and shut nature of this case's current status, but who the hell made her judge, jury and executioner? What gives her the unmitigated audacity to use a captive, quote-hungry audience as the arena to slander two men who obviously didn't have enough probable cause to still be detained? Is it any surprise when Americans are branded the boorish eyesores of the Western world whenever we're guests in a foreign land? Instead of channeling unresolved anguish through frequent press conferences, Mrs. Twitty would be better served to allow the Aruban government do their job. It hasn't been established for sure whether the Kalpoe brothers were directly connected to her daughter's missing whereabouts, so continuing to point the finger their way is a reckless rush to a resolution.
Am I cold-hearted and unsympathetic to the delicate nature of the situation? Of course not, I can't imagine what it must feel like knowing your child has disappeared without a trace. She is understandably distraught, but a witchhunt can't be undertaken to appease national outcry.
I'm even more disturbed by the fact that her "honor student" status is repeatedly flashed across the newswires as if that wipes clean the facts, which are these: Natalee engaged in a night of alcohol-fueled celebration and agreed to leave a club with complete strangers to no objection from the "friends" she was supposedly in the company of. Let's not pretend as if she was abducted against her will by a 3-headed monster. Whatever the circumstances were, she did not deserve to have any harm inflicted, but let's call a spade a spade and stop trying to rewrite history with a E! True Hollywood Story subplot.
Two articles which explore the flipside of the love affair America has with their self appointed "damsels in distress" thoroughly in both the Washington Post and USA Today. The common link in the ignored bylines which slip through the cracks is the perpetual pink elephant in the room media pundits selectively choose to deflect attention from. Care to guess which shade the forgotten faces are? Must reads: Missing Minorities & (White) Women We Love.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
• "It was devastating to discover that a relationship I had publicized to the world as life-affirming and built on mutual love was actually based on deceit. I was humiliated."– Terry McMillan, in divorce papers. The How Stella Got Her Groove Back author is seeking an annulment of her six-year marriage after learning that her husband is gay. (So does this mean How Stella's Husband Got His Boyfriend Back will be hitting the shelves soon? Hell, Ray Charles could've seen that man was gayer than pink suede, my dear. Think Angela & Taye would sign on for the sequel?)
• "If I found someone messing with him, I would cut them. It's not even a question of how much I would f--- them up. That's the ghetto side of me."– Fantastic Four's Jessica Alba, on being protective of her boyfriend, director's assistant Cash Warren (You let a broad from Hollyweird make one flop flick geared to the "hood" and they think their ghetto pass is a lifetime achievement award. You couldn't even convince folks you could dance, so the street cred angle is more contrived than Honey's screenplay. Quit while you're behind.)
Saturday, July 02, 2005
Don't call it a comeback...
Friday, July 01, 2005
Forever, for always, for love
And today the inimitable voice of one of the greatest artists of our generation has been silenced. That silky tenor was as fluid as a peaceful stream... equal parts pure romance and technically genius. He was a staple throughout every frame of this screenplay we call Life. Whether we did the Electric Slide to "The Glow Of Love," cried over a broken heart to "A House Is Not A Home," scatted through "Never Too Much" during a family get-together or walked down the aisle to "Here And Now"...we believed in the power of love because his delivery was timeless. And he provided the score through it all. Goodbye to the incomparable Luther Vandross... he will be truly missed.
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