Category Archives: pop culture

Danny Brown Got Head On Stage And All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt

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Chicks dig this guy.

Chicks dig this guy.

So a couple of weeks ago, indy-alt-ratchet rapper Danny Brown allegedly got some head from a which while he was performing in Minneapolis. Not only did he get head in the whip without crashing it on stage, he FINISHED his verse AT THE SAME DAMN TIME!

I don’t care who you are, that’s talent. I remember one time at band camp, I was performing Michael Jackson’s “Speed Demon” on stage and some chick yelled out “you suck” and I totally forgot the words and stood there doing the same ole two step while the instrumental played in the background. Totes embarassing.

Since I’m a dude, you’re a dude, she’s a dude, we’re some dudes my first thought was how crazy that is and also how cool that is. I mean, you can’t see that type of thing coming can you? No pun intended. But he’s just on stage doing his thing and some chick just can’t wait for the hotel room and not only grabs his crotch but yanks his chain and domes him off. That is some rock start sh*t.

But of cousre, I have the Internets. And the Internets told me that Danny Brown was sexually assaulted. Tour mate and friend Kitty Pryde penned (or typed since I don’t know if you can pen something if you don’t actually use a pen) a letter where she mentioned both Ricky Smiley and To Kill A Mockingbird within 200 words of each other. That, my friends, is a some amazing command of the written word. I remember once I used the words Barack Obama and new Bugatti pretty close to one another. That was a good day.

Champ wrote a post some time ago about a time when he got drunk and woke up to some sexxing that he didn’t even remember til the next day. He immediately felt like he got a happy ending while being able to realize that had something like that happened to a woman it’s rape, thru and thru. But for some reason, when situations like Danny Brown or a man waking up to some woman humping him to high hell just don’t seem…bad, per se. I realize this makes no sense. But I also realize that double standards exist.

Back in 2005, I was out in the mean streets of NYC with a gang of folks for New Year’s Eve. Long story short, a friend of mine pulled out my johnson at the bar. No dome, just freedom. Why she did it is unimportant because it happened. I was too drunk to immediately react but I’m fairly sure that had I just grabbed some woman’s boobs and pulled them out I’d potentially be on my way to jail. And that would be fair.

Kitty Pryde brings up a good point via her letter though. Men aren’t well equipped to handle these situations either. When my homegirl pulled out my wang, I just laughed it off and waited for her to return him to my Hammer pants. In school, and actually out and about, I’ve had women walk up to me and grab my wang. Never once did I feel compelled to say something to an authority. I guess it’s because I had no idea what to say. It happened and after the shock wore off – face it, we’re taught that women just aren’t generally that foreward – I just laugh it off and tell my boys that some chick grabbed my sh*t, to which they usually want to know which chick so hopefully she’ll do the same to them.

Men and women view sexual contact differently. It’s clear that the same interactions can elicit wholly different outcomes depending on who is doing the initial contact. Which is probably why Danny Brown wouldn’t punch the chick in the fore head when she domes him off. Can you imagine if Rihanna is on stage and some dude jumps up there and puts his mouth on her vajayjay? He’s going to jail, the concert is going to stop, and news media would explode from all of the articles about how dangerous men are getting and how prevalent rape culture is nowadays. This Danny Brown story barely got any traction anywhere outside of rap blogs. It doesn’t matter as much. It’s the same reason why people shrug off the idea that men can get raped.

Men are bigger and usually stronger – though Wendy Williams pisses all over that theory – so a man should be able to stop some sh*t from going down. If he doesn’t he must want it and since all men are all sex all the time its hard to fathom the idea of a man being sexually assaulted.

Was Danny Brown sexually assaulted? Yes he was. But do most of us view it along those lines? Hell does he? Probably not. And if you aren’t upset that you got assaulted, is it still assault?

Overall, I just find it curious that this happened, and even if it wasn’t to an A-list superstar artist, there’s really not much coverage of it all. I think we can all agree that male sexual assault isn’t getting as much face time, no pun intended, at the sex crime table. I wonder why that is?

Or do we all, men and women, truly subscribe to the boys will be boys mantra and as long as its happening to him and not by him then he’ll be alright? I don’t know.

But I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t punch any chick in the forehead for doming me off on stage either.

Help me.

-VSB P aka THE ARSONIST aka MR. DON’T STAGE ME aka GIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIRL HE A 3

That’s That Sh*t I Do Like…Even Though No One Else Does

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The Cruel Summer album

So what if no one—not even the biggest, most diehard Ye fans—loved this album. (Some people liked it. But, no one loved it) So what if it was titled Cruel Summer even though it was released two weeks before the first day of fall. So what if I still kinda think this album was just a very elaborate 401k for Pusha T. So what if my two favorite songs on it (Higher and Sin City) happen to be the two songs that the seven people who actually like it always skip through. So what if one of these songs (Sin City) features two verses from my least favorite rapper. And, so what if one of those verses happens to be my favorite verse on the album. For reasons I’ll probably address sometime later this year, no album is more connected to a year to me than Cruel Summer is to 2012. (I realize that last sentence was unnecessarily cryptic, but it’s Friday and, well, f*ck you, it’s Friday.)

Derrick Rose sitting out until he feels ready to come back and play

If you disagree, if you think that since he was “cleared” to play a couple months ago, Rose is basically just being a spoiled little bitch who needs to put away those big-ass Coogi neckties and get back on the court, you are an intentional idiot, and since intentional idiots need to die, you need to die.

Tyler The Creator doing the things Tyler The Creator does when he’s not making music

(If only because “Proud of that nigga cause I know that shit is difficult or whatever. Anyway. I’m a toilet.” is, all things considered, the best tweet I’ve ever seen.)

Cheese-less sandwiches

***My reaction to the next person to ask me if I’m sure when I tell them I don’t want any cheese on my sandwich***

Standardized tests

I have nothing particularly witty or insightful to say about this. I liked taking them while in school. I like the fact that students still have to take them. I even like the fact that while the rest of the world embraces technological advancement, standardized test results are somehow rendered completely obsolete if not completed with a number two pencil. (BTW, has anyone ever used or even seen a number one pencil? How about number three? Or four?)

***Spoiler Alert!!!***

The way Omar was killed on The Wire

For a series that prided itself on its stark realness, Omar’s character just got progressively more fantastical and contrived as the seasons passed, and although it seems like everyone was waiting for a showdown between him and Marlo, getting got by a 10 year old restored the natural order of the show.

That’s it for me today. People of VSB, I’m curious: Name some sh*t you do like even though no one else seems to share your opinion. 

—Damon Young (aka “The Champ”)

On Black People And “Our” Homophobia

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1. As I listened to Jason Collins and Oprah discuss the extra “stigma” of being gay and Black, I couldn’t help but wonder how true the “Blacks are more homophobic than everyone else” sentiment truly is. I think many of us—myself included—have said it so much that we’ve accepted it to be true, and since we’ve accepted it to be true, we don’t bother challenging or even testing that theory. And, over time, this widely-held theory is repeated as fact.

I’m not here to argue whether it’s true or false (at least not yet), but how do we really know? Sure, we can cite a few rap lyrics or some loosely connected vagaries about Black people and Christianity, but all that might prove is that a certain type of Black person might be more likely to be homophobic. But, once you control for education, class, location, and any other environmental factors, how would we (Black people) fare?

This phenomenon sort of reminds of me of the theory that Black people are the worst tippers. Whether or not the theory might be true is inconsequential (And yes, I believe it to be true). It’s so ingrained into so many people’s minds that they don’t even bother challenging it, they use confirmation bias to strengthen their beliefs, and after enough circular thinking it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.

2. I think that when people say that Black people are more homophobic than everyone else, what they’re really saying is that Black men are more homophobic than everyone else. Black women generally get a pass, and I think that pass is undeserved.

Generally speaking, I think straight Black women are more superficially accepting of homosexuals—more likely to have gay male or lesbian friends, more “comfortable” around gays, more likely to participate in the fight for gay rights, etc. But, when it comes to actual beliefs about what constitutes male homosexuality, they’re no different than the typical Black male, as both the typical Black male and the “gay-friendly” Black woman tend to believe that there’s no such thing as a bisexual male. Basically, if a man has ever participated in any type of non-straight activity—a one-time act, a thought, a recurring dream, anything—he’s gay now, and gay forever. This is homophobic.

3. I think quite a few women are going to read those last couple sentences and tell me that I’m wrong, that they and most of the Black women they know don’t have any homophobic bones in their bodies. I think that before they leave any comments today, they should ask themselves two questions: Would you date a man who had one gay experience fifteen years ago? If no, would your answer change if you were 100% certain he wouldn’t do that again? If the answer is still no, I’d like to know why. What is it about that one-time act that would completely eliminate a man from your consideration?

4. I think I’m anxiously waiting for the day some prominent person just stops the denials, double-talk, and mealymouthedness and just comes out and says “Yes, I’m homophobic.” I think I’ll be waiting a while for that to happen. I don’t mind that, though. I’ve been waiting a couple decades now for a public figure to just say “Yes, I’m racist. Can you stop asking me whether or not I’m racist now?” so if anything it proves I’m patient.

5. I think I don’t like it when certain people (and by “certain people” I mean “certain Black Christians”) are asked about their views concerning homosexuality, and are criticized for responding honestly. But, I also think that socially abhorrent views are meant to be criticized. I think my problem isn’t necessarily with the criticism but with the ambush tactics—ask someone a question even though you already know how they’re going to answer just so you can make an example out of them—especially from other “progressive” Black Christians.

6. I think you can ask a million Christians about the Bible and what they take from it and get a million different variations. I mean, we (Christians) all believe that, to paraphrase Bill Maher, there’s a “magic genie in the sky that’ll grant our wishes if we ask really hard,” so is it really that bad when one of us also believes homosexuality is a sin or that you can legitimately pray your gay away?

7. Speaking of progressive people and homosexuality, I think there’s a bit of a disconnect when it comes to what people are willing to admit. To wit, many people (myself included) believe that human sexuality exists on a continuum. Basically, there’s a sexuality scale that we all fit somewhere on. Most of us are gathered either at the gay end or the straight end, but the rest of us are somewhere in the middle.

But, if a scale exists, I think it also stands to reason that a person in the middle can consciously choose to be gay or straight. Yet, I think you’re unlikely to find a liberal/progressive person publicly admit that people who can actually make that type of choice exist because it opens a Pandora’s Box for “less enlightened” people to say “See, I told you that all gay people are only gay because they chose to be.”

8. I know I’m far from the first person to say this, but I think someone needs to invent another word to use to describe someone being uneasy around, unaccepting of, or hateful towards homosexuals. “Homophobic” just doesn’t seem comprehensive enough to capture all of that. Feel free to list any suggestions.

—Damon Young (aka “The Champ”)

Where’s The Love Jones?

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***After watching Love Jones again last weekend, I was urged to revisit and revise something I wrote about the film for the Loop21 a few years ago***

Approximately halfway through Love Jones, the iconic 1997 romantic drama centered around a Chicago-area couple, protagonists Darius Lovehall (Larenz Tate) and Nina Mosley (Nia Long) attend a dance together—their first real “date” since a few somewhat contrived situations caused them to momentarily break away from each other. Predictably, the date goes extremely well. The otherworldly connection and chemistry Darius and Nina share is palpable, and, despite any romantic roadblocks (contrived or otherwise or just named “Bill Bellamy”), you know that things are going to work for them.

But, while this date night dance scene’s main purpose was to give the audience a visual segue from Darius and Nina’s short-term separation to their impending romance, writer/director Ted Witcher does something else, something a bit subtler and a bit more poignant. With the vibrant music, colorfully coordinated dance steps, and equally colorful (and equally coordinated) attire, Witcher introduces the audience to the world of Chicago steppin’—a derivative of swing dancing popular in the South and Midwest. Although the scene is only a couple minutes long, Witcher presents this dance phenomenon and the anonymous steppers to us with the same regard, enchantment, and love exhibited when the lens is focused on any of the main characters.

Says the late Roger Ebert:

“There’s electricity when they go on a date to the weekly steppers’ ball hosted by Herb Kent the Cool Gent, who plays himself. Steppin’ is a Chicago dance style that comes out of jitterbug, cooled down, and as we watch this scene we get that interesting feeling when a fiction film edges toward documentary and shows us something we haven’t seen before.”

In the 16 years since its release (damn, just typing that made me feel old as f*ck) Love Jones has gone from underappreciated romantic drama with a banging soundtrack to the cinematic standard for realistic black romance. (Well, “realistic” other than the fact that it featured a bunch of underemployed negros living in lofts…with exposed brick…in Chicago. But, who’s nitpicking?)

And, while the story and the chemistry between Tate and Long are the most memorable aspects of the film, Love Jones is held in such high regard because Ted Witcher was so obviously in love with everything he put into this movie. More than just a drama, it was an ode to Black culture, to Chicago, to music, to movies, to love, to words, to sex; a paean to the possibilities of people not constrained to 140 characters or less. It’s loved and appreciated because it loved and appreciated both its characters and its audience, a trait also found in Soul Food—a movie that, although not necessarily a romantic drama and not as universally praised as Love Jones, shared Love Jones’ love for its characters and their customs.

These movies, and the level of love and exuberance they were shot with, stand in stark contrast to much of today’s Black romantic fare—both at the theater and on the small screen—which seems to be content with browbeating the audience with messages so heavy-handed it feels like you’re being kicked. (Before this devolves into another angst-ridden conversation about all things wrong with Tyler Perry, I do think that Perry loves his characters. But, Ike loved Tina too, didn’t he?) Instead of a peek into a world we may not have been completely familiar with, we’re left with 60 to 120 minute long psychotherapy sessions and self-help pamphlets featuring people who have never existed on Earth, After Earth, or any other planet humans have ever lived on—movies where writers and directors use the screen as a palate to work out their own issues instead of allowing the audience a chance to be vicarious.

Maybe this cinematic shift is our doing. Maybe our expectations have devolved to the point that we wouldn’t be able to handle a Black movie with more love and nuance than ill will and temple knocking. Still, after watching Love Jones again last weekend, I think we’re ready for another one. We just need to find the love needed to pull it off.

—Damon Young (aka “The Champ”)

On How To Play A Woman And Have Everyone Ok With It (Hint: Be Gay And Be “First”)

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jason collins

A little over two weeks ago, as my entire family was gathered at Sunday dinner, discussing the plans and preparations for my sister’s upcoming (June) wedding, she (my sister) unexpectantly broke down in tears and rushed out of the room, running upstairs. My parents and I looked at each other baffled, each of our faces simultaneously stuck on “Was it something I said?” mode. After the shock wore off, my mom went after my still hysterical sister, whose cries could be heard downstairs.

After a few minutes, my mom returned to the dinner table, alone.

“The wedding is off”

“Wait! What? What happened?”

“Rick broke up with her this morning. Said he didn’t want to marry her. Apparently didn’t give any reason for it.”

This news, while shocking, wasn’t necessarily surprising. They (Rick and my sister) met in college, and dated for eight years, and eight years is a hell of a long relationship gestation period. I know there are exceptions to every rule, but it’s been my experience that “eight years of dating” = “yeah, he doesn’t really want to marry your ass.”

I think my sister sensed this as well, but she still tried her damnedest to believe in their future together. She’d invested so much energy, so much time, sweat, love, and tears into this relationship she wouldn’t allow herself to think otherwise. Also, she wanted to have children—multiple children—and she was aware that as she got older (she’s 33), she honestly didn’t have much more time to be able to do that. Quite frankly, she needed this relationship with Rick to work.

As I mentioned earlier, I had an idea that this was coming. But, there was no urge to remind her or anyone of this. Instead, I was filled with rage. I thought about all the pre and post-wedding preparations my parents made, and the stress that put them through. My dad even developed an ulcer. I thought of all the people—friends and family—who’d saved up and altered their schedules to attend the June wedding. I thought about all the awkward conversations my sister was going to have to have for the next several months when co-workers and acquaintances who haven’t heard the news yet will ask her about Rick and the wedding. I thought of how she always wanted to be a wife and a mother. Even as a kid, she’d joke about wanting to have enough kids to field her own basketball team. Yes, she can still get married and yes, she can still have kids—despite what the media might tell you, a 30-something woman breaking up with a man isn’t a death sentence—but realistically, the chances of that happening are much lower now than they were even five years ago.

I wasn’t the only one filled with rage, either. Since hearing the news, my parents and I have both struggled to juggle the surreal ambivalence of wanting to be supportive for my sister and wanting to shed Rick’s blood. Some days, I’m so consumed with antipathy that I think about what I’d do to Rick if he ever had the misfortune of crossing paths with me. I know these feelings will eventually pass, but right now it’s all I can think about.

I imagine most people would also feel that strange combination of feelings—anger, confusion, disgust–if their loved one was hurt in a similar way. I’m sure you’d feel even more strange if the man who broke up with your sister so suddenly was being celebrated nationally—hailed everywhere as a hero—for basically the same reason he broke up with your sister so suddenly. Perhaps this reason makes him a pioneer, a vanguard, a spearhead to newer, better, and more progressive America. But, while bravery and a willingness to stand alone, to do what others haven’t done are part of its definition, “heroism” also implies a certain selflessness, a benevolent altruisticness, and knowing what this man did to your sister and your family, you’ll never be able to call him a hero.

I’m sure by now you’ve deduced that my story about my sister was a bit of an allegory. If you hadn’t figured it out, well, my story about my sister was a bit of an allegory. I wrote this from an hypothetical perspective of a hypothetical family member of Carolyn Moos—the woman who Jason Collins dated for eight years, proposed to, and broke up with a month before their wedding.

I didn’t write this to discredit or dismiss the bravery it took for Collins to make his recent admission, nor am I so myopic that I can’t see how an act like that has the potential to make a positive impact on thousands, even millions of lives. I also am fully aware that I have absolutely no idea about the inner workings of Collins’ and Moos’ relationship, and I couldn’t even begin the fathom how it must feel to spend decades trapped inside of a box, forced by societal constraints to live a lie.

I am, though, aware of how much of an influence perspective has on perception, and the Collins’ case—and the prevailing reaction to it—is an perfect example of that. A big part of the reason why Collins is being lauded as a hero is because he told his story first. Think of how much different everything would be if our first news about Collins’ sexuality was told by a scorned ex-fiancee who wanted to set the record straight after being led on for a decade.

There also lies the uncomfortable fact that his “heroism” is predicated on the fact that he very likely deceived and even hurt people—people very close to him—for a very long time. Lemme put it this way: If Collins was “Rick the civil engineer who just broke up with your sister a month before her wedding” instead of a guy who’s really, really, really good at playing basketball, and the story of Rick finally coming out was told from your sister’s perspective, I doubt you’d throw many positive-sounding nouns and adjectives in Rick’s direction.

Yet, Collins’ position as a professional athlete has made us assign a heroism to an act—publicly admitting that you’ve been living a lie—that isn’t really all that heroic. Yes, you cannot discount the role societal expectations played in Collins’ life, as I’m sure he did not set out to delude or hurt anyone. And yes, what Collins’ did—either intentionally or unintentionally lead a woman to believe their relationship was something that it wasn’t—has been done by men everywhere (me included). My eyes are filled with planks. This is exactly my point. If you take away the “firstness” and the homosexuality and just look at it as a “man spends decade deceiving woman who was in love with him” perspective, what separates him from the thousands of men (and women) reading this today? Obviously, being shitty at relationships doesn’t mean that you can’t be a hero. Just not when the heroism is directly linked to the shitty behavior.

You could argue that since Collins himself wasn’t completely sure of his sexuality—in his own words, this realization was “baking” for 33 years—it doesn’t really count as deception. Basically, deception isn’t truly deception if you’re genuinely deluding yourself. This is a valid argument. I don’t agree—a person unsure of their sexual preference telling someone they want to get married sounds like true deception to me—but it is valid. You can also argue that anyone hurt by Collins’ lie is America’s fault for forcing a man to think that he had to live that way, not Collins’. This is also a valid argument. I don’t agree—while America may have made it very difficult to come out as gay, America doesn’t force you to get into long relationships with women (What’s wrong with just not seriously dating anyone?)—but it is valid. But, the argument that context makes Collins a hero, that the impact of his admission supersedes any possible collateral damage caused by him living a lie, isn’t.

I applaud Collins for being real with himself, for having the courage to be free, for being the first active male athlete in one of our major sports to stand up and tell the world that he will no longer pretend to be something he isn’t, for having the balls to be the first member of a club that will likely grow much sooner and much larger than we think, for “outing” himself when he apparently didn’t have to.

But, as we rush to praise him for being first, we can’t forget that it came with a very human cost. If this still makes him a “hero” to you, fine. I understand. We all have our own definitions of the word, I guess. For now, though, I’ll be safe and just call him a “man.”


—Damon Young (aka “The Champ”)