I published something at Ebony yesterday about the peculiar infatuation many white-collar young black guys seem to have with Rick Ross. Titled “Strange Love: Black Men and Rick Ross,” I tried to come up with a few reasons to explain this phenomenon, but I didn’t really buy any of them. There were no “Voila!” moments, just a couple theories that didn’t hold as much water as I would have liked them to.

Anyway, after I saw that the article was live, I posted a link to it on Twitter. It got a few replies/retweets, but none more interesting than the responses I got from Demetria Lucas. 

@VerySmartBros@EBONYMag there’s a quality essay to be written abt why bourgie women like Ross too. Totally diff reasons than you mentioned.

@VerySmartBros LOL. I might be one of his biggest fans.

@VerySmartBros@EBONYMag i enjoy the themes of hustle/ambition. and also the shameless arrogance. similar reasons to why I like Kanye.

 

As I said in a reply to her, I remember how floored I was a few years ago the first time I heard a female friend of mine express that she was infatuated with Rick Ross. As variable and unpredictable and arbitrary and contradictory and occasionally dependent on time, weather, location, vocation, and how many of her girlfriends want to sleep (or have already slept) with him as “what the hell women are attracted to” tends to be, I thought I had a pretty good idea of the type of guy that would get multiple women all Brazilian Rainforesty down there. Basically, it’s easy to see how and why women would be very attracted to guys like Idris Elba and Dwyane Wade and Common, and you assume that most women would go gaga over those guys.

But, that same instant recognition didn’t immediately apply to Ross, and I had trouble “getting” how a life-threateningly obese guy who looks like he smells like a Black & Mild factory managed to, to quote my homegirl, get her “all tingly inside” when he speaks.

Yet, as more and more and more and more women I knew would sing his praises, it began to dawn on me. His appeal isn’t necessarily about his music or his voice or his larger-than-life stature or even his (presumed) riches as much as it’s about the fact that he is an unfalteringly, unflinchingly, unflappably, and, to be quite honest, irrationally confident motherf*cker. His steadfast belief in his own “I’m the sh*t”-ness — even when the shaky merits of his status are publicly questioned and exposed — is infectious, causing others to believe “Well, if he’s so certain, he must be the sh*t” by osmosis.

Obviously, this doesn’t affect everyone. There are many women who are, for lack of a better term, disgusted by him, and even more disgusted that everyone isn’t disgusted.

Ross is just one example, though, of the fact that there is no other quality a man can possess that will “raise his sexual stock” better than a belief in himself so strong it almost borders on insanity. Irrational self-confidence — not height, not status, not intelligence, not handsomeness, not a Bentley coupe — is the ultimate panty-dropper. 

This doesn’t mean that this level of confidence won’t immediately repel many women too. It most certainly will. In fact, it will immediately repel far more women than it immediately attracts. But, the fact that it does repel actually adds to the aura, as knowing that this irrationally confident motherf*cker doesn’t give a damn if his irrational confidence offends anyone, hurts any feelings, or even makes any logical sense has a way of turning women all the way on.

Also, it’s important to note that I keep repeating terms like “panty-dropping” and “turned on” and “tingly” and “Brazilian Rainforesty.” That’s intentional. By and large, women usually do not want to seriously date and/or marry irrationally confident men. No one aside from the WorldStarHipHop “model” of the week actually wants to marry Rick Ross.

But, white-collar brothers, be warned. Why? Well, let’s just say that if your girl is sitting beside you smirking to herself while you’re blasting “MC Hammer” in the whip on the way to brunch, she’s probably not thinking about bottomless mimosas.

—Damon Young (aka “The Champ”)

What a difference a month makes

As any NFL fan (and most New Yorkers) undoubtedly know, there’s an annual ritual that occurs somewhere between the 3rd and 8th weeks of the NFL season each year. The New York Giants will be struggling, a few anonymous sources from the team will leak quotes to the media about how much the entire team hates head coach Tom Coughlin, and a few prominent beat writers and reporters will pen articles about how the team has tired of Coughlin’s rigid ways and that it’s time to make a change.¹

Seriously, if you were to look up the term “hot seat” in the dictionary, you’d see a picture of a red-faced and exasperated Coughlin in the middle of the same exaggerated head shake/eye roll combo an assistant principal at a high school would make after hearing that the gym locker room toilets were clogged again.

He’s never won (and never will win) coach of the year. Whenever Sports Illustrated or ESPN.com does one of those anonymous player surveys, he’s always the choice as “the coach I’d least like to play for.” He’s not regarded as an evil genius like Bill Belichick, a guru like Jon Gruden, a master motivator/player’s coach like Mike Tomlin or Pete Carroll, or even an “old guy whose best days are behind him but still has something in the tank” like (the extremely overrated) Mike Shanahan. He is actually a stereotypically bad assistant principal — a micro-manager whose obsession with mind-numbing routine and authoritarianism ends up undermining the power he already has².

But, as of Sunday night, Coughlin is the head coach of two Super Bowl champions, a feat matched by few others. A man many wouldn’t consider a great (or even good) NFL coach has twice bested the man thought of as the best football coach of his generation.

Today, the Coughlin narrative is that he’s an underappreciated motivator and technician. The end results (two championships) have justified any means, and 50 years from now, no one will remember that he came within a hair of getting fired every year. All they’ll see is “Tom Coughlin = two-time Super Bowl champion” and they’ll assume that he was a great coach.

Now, there’s an obvious parallel between coaching and parenting (and teaching, even), and I brought up Tom Coughlin’s career because it ties directly into a question I’ve always had about parenting.

What exactly makes a “good” or “great” parent?

This seems like it should be an easy question to answer. A good parent is a selfless individual who loves their children unconditionally, stops at nothing to provide for and protect them, teaches them whatever needs taught, and models good behavior.

But, if the ultimate goal of a parent is to make sure their offspring are productive, capable, and well-adjusted members of society, what’s to make of “good” parents who were, to put it bluntly, failures?

How do you gauge the parental merits of loving, selfless, and upstanding individuals who’ve raised kids who grew up to be liars, deadbeats, thieves, rapists, murders, and Laker fans? Would you consider a parent “good” if they were successful and happy and well-adjusted, but their children were the exact opposite?

Perhaps, like a “good” coach who just wasn’t able to find a way to motivate his team, maybe a good parent with sh*tty offspring has all the proper parental tools but just didn’t apply them properly…making them bad at being a parent

On the flipside, what do you make of people who’ve managed to succeed in spite of what looked to be lackluster and/or deficient parenting? The man who’s managed to become a renowned surgeon despite his overbearing and still hard to please alcoholic father? The woman who never received a single compliment from her ruthless and manipulative mother but ended up being a caring, successful, and well-adjusted lawyer and mom herself? The kid from the projects who, after seeing how heroin tore apart his family, got a PhD. in neuroscience to study addiction and help make sure what happened to his family doesn’t happen to any others?

On the surface, no one would say that any of these people had good parents, but you can’t deny the fact that their relationships with their parents helped motivate and inspire them to become who they are today. Again, if parental merits depend on the offspring you send out into the world, the “sh*tty” parents definitely succeeded. Perhaps these parents, bad as they may have seemed, were only doing what they thought it took to ensure their children’s success as adults.

And, just as you probably won’t hear any Giants complain about Coughlin’s rigidity or out-of-touchness today, you’re probably not going to hear any of the people from the last paragraph complain too much about how they were raised.

If the Giants don’t make the playoffs this year, Coughlin gets fired. Now, though, each of his negative characteristics become pluses through euphemism. (i.e.: “he’s a micro-manager” turns into “he’s steadfastly committed to excellence”)

If these people don’t turn out successful, the drunk dad is an asshole, the manipulative mom is a bitch, and the kid with the addicts in his family just had too much on his plate to overcome. If successful, though, the asshole dad becomes “a guy who believed in tough love,” the bitchy mom is just a “perfectionist who wanted the best for me,” and the kids from the projects reflects on all the sacrifices his people made to help him make it.

I guess I’m trying to say that whether a person is a good parent or not is completely arbitrary, completely variable, and completely dependent on the quality of kid they produce. But, to be honest, I don’t even really believe that. A part of me still thinks that, despite what I’ve tried to prove today, good parenting is like pornography — you can’t really define it, but you know it when you see it. 

Hmm. I forget which Gladwell book it was (actually, it might have been “Freakonomics.” I really have no idea), but I remember a passage in it that basically stated that the best parenting is done before a kid is even born. The genes you pass on to him and the financial situation he’s born in do waaaaay more to help (or hurt) him succeed than anything you can do as a parent.

If this is true, perhaps coaching and parenting are more intertwined than I thought. As any Giants fan will surely tell you today, “good coach” is just another way of saying “he was lucky enough to have some good ass players.”

¹There’s an article at Slate.com that goes much more in-depth on this “ritual.” I remember reading it there, and I know it’s somewhere in here, but I couldn’t find it yesterday.

 

²No shots at any assistant principals reading this

—Damon Young (aka “The Champ”)

Decisions, Decisions

While teasing a few Patriots fans on Facebook yesterday (Even though it may be blasphemous for me to admit this as a Steeler fan, I dislike the Pats more than I dislike the Ravens. To repeat something I said on Twitter a couple weeks ago, if the Ravens are beets — a food I thoroughly dislike, but respect — the Pats are beets…covered in sh*t), I saw something in my news feed that caught my eye.

I happen to be friends with Anslem of Naked With Socks On fame, and if you’re familiar with him at all you probably know that he’s recently married and just launched a joint blog with his wife — who’s also a writer. Anyway, the thing that caught my eye was a new post on their blog titled “My Mama or My Wife: Who’s the No. 1 Woman in a Man’s Life?” — a piece where Anslem wonders exactly how his marriage has affected the decades-old dynamic he has with his mother.

It’s funny how there are certain questions in life that you never think about until you have to. I found myself faced with one of those questions the other day: Who do I love more my mama or my wife?

At any other point in my life if I were posed with a question that pitted my mother against any other person, place or thing in the world and the woman who gave me life would win hands down every time. No questions asked. None needed. But recently my ability to answer such a question with absolute and immediate conviction began to waver a bit. Don’t get me wrong, I love my mother unconditionally and with all my heart but I can say similar things about my wife. Unlike the latter, though, the Mrs. is someone I chose to love. Somehow that makes this different.

Hmmm.

Now, because the loves are so drastically different, attempting to categorize the love one has for a husband or wife and the love one has for parents doesn’t seem to be possible. It’s like asking someone “Which do you need more? Water or your heart?” — both extremely vital, but both serving completely different functions.

But, the more you think about, the more you realize your answer has to be your spouse. They’re the ones you’re choosing to start a life with, the ones you vow to be with until death, the “top spot on any beneficiary form.” Basically, if your spouse doesn’t supersede all, you shouldn’t be getting married. Everything and everyone else should become secondary…including your children.

I imagine that most of you all were with me until those last three words. “Yeah, Champ. You’re right. As much as I love Mom Dukes, my wife has to be number one. Really, what’s the point of marrying someone if they don’t automatically get that number one spot, and…what? Wait? What? Kids? My wife should take priority over the people we bring into this Earth??? Can’t roll with you on this one, man”

Lemme explain.

I think that the best families operate through a hierarchical matrix that goes something like this:

Parents, as a collective unit and as individual people, should value their kids lives over their own. Their primary duty as parents is to protect and provide for the people they’ve created, and if they were forced to make a choice between their lives — individually or as a collective parental unit — or their children’s lives, it should be a no-brainer.

But, the parents as individuals should love and value each other more than they do their children.

You know I can’t make a point without including some contrived analogy that actually ends up confusing more than it clarifies, so…

Let’s imagine a four person family (two parents, two kids) was on the Titanic. The ship is sinking, and there’s only room on the lifeboat for two people. In this situation, the parents should definitely put the kids in the lifeboat — sacrificing their collective lives for the lives of their children.

Now, let’s say you’re on that same sinking ship, and you were knocked off the boat, but the sea current miraculously led you to the shore. Once you get out the water, you glance off the shore and see that your spouse and your young child are in the water behind you, struggling to stay afloat. You can only save one, though. In this situation, as heart-wrenching and devastating as this decision may be, you reach down and save your spouse…even if your spouse doesn’t want to be the one to be saved.

The (somewhat morbid) rationale behind this? If you believe your spouse was put on Earth to be your spouse, they’re irreplaceable. (And, if you don’t believe this, you probably shouldn’t be getting married…but that’s another topic for another day.) Your kids, as precious as they are, aren’t as irreplaceable. (I hate the way that sentence sounds, but there’s really no other way to put it.)

Heh. I just had a vision that, years (YEARS, I TELL YOU. YEARS!!!¹) from now, some precocious little big-headed boy that (hopefully) looks more like his mother than me will be googling his daddy’s name, searching for any information he can find on me. He’ll come across this article, read the entire thing (because he’s a smart motherf*cker just like his dad), frown, find me sitting on the couch, and ask “Is it true that you’d let me die.”

Me: “Ummm…well…ummm”

Champ Jr (CJ): “That’s ok Dad. I understand. That’s what you’re supposed to do. When I get a wife someday, I’ll let you die too.”

Me: “I taught you well and sh*t, son. I taught you well and sh*t.” 

¹Knocking on wood

—Damon Young (aka “The Champ”)

Black History Month: Home to the weirdest and worst collages ever made

Whether it’s feeling a certain way about the fact that it’s the shortest month of the year, becoming annoyed with the underlying message that Black American history isn’t necessarily American and needs to be segregated, or being forced to remember the time in middle school when, since you were the only black kid in your class, your teacher — a well-intentioned 37 year old Irish-Catholic woman who thought it was appropriate to rock dashikis to school each Feburary — asked you to read a few pages from Jet Magazine aloud in front of the class each day for a month, there are few subjects that inspire the type of collective angst among a population that Black History Month does for Black Americans.

It’s the proverbial perpetually drunk uncle at Thanksgiving: You know he’s coming and you can’t not invite him, so you just hope and pray that he doesn’t get wasted and face-plant into the greens during grace like he did last year.

But, like the drunk uncle, we do actually love and appreciate Black History Month, and we’d miss it if it didn’t show up. Our angst comes from us just wanting it to do…better.

Here’s three possible ways we can make that happen.

1. Move it to May

Boom. In one fell swoop, one of the most common complaints about Black History Month — it’s the shortest month of the year — is rectified.

Why May? Well, two reasons:

A) Aside from the NBA playoffs and Memorial Day (which, for all intents and purposes, is a June holiday anyway), nothing that actually matters happens in May. I’d even go as far as to say that no one born in May has ever mattered¹. (There’s a reason you’re never going to see a coffee table book titled “A Look At The World’s Most Famous Tauruses Taureans“) Since this is true, why not just hijack the entire month? No one is going to feel bad about it. And, even if they do, they were born in May so their opinion doesn’t f*cking matter anyway.

B) Pushing it to the end of the school year will act as a drop-out deterrent for the tens of thousands of black kids who drop out of school every year. Many of these drop outs occur during the end of the school year (Why? The warm weather and the fact that, by that point, knowing they’re going to have to repeat the year makes it easier to chuck the deuces to school²), and putting Black History Month in May will allow black teachers to give em the ultimate guilt trips. You just can’t learn about Marcus Garvey and Sojourner Truth on Tuesday and decide to drop out of school Wednesday.

“So, Harriet Tubman ran barefoot and hungry through five states to escape slavery and your black ass can’t even walk three blocks to school???”

2. Add “Honorary Negros” to the Black History books

Look, I don’t want to minimize the contributions of any African-American who made their mark on history, but there are some things and people celebrated during Black History Month that have a way of making you think “Umm. I know he’s black and all, but does the guy who invented red Kool-Aid really need his own postage stamp?”

So, instead of grasping for historical straws, why not just add a few people who technically aren’t black but have a strong connection to the black community? How cool would it be to have days devoted to white men who date nothing but black women (i.e.: Roger Ebert, Robert De Niro, “Hesh” from The Sopranos, etc), people who invented things that black people love…even though they weren’t actually invented with that purpose in mind (i.e.: James Naismith, whoever invented the button that allows you to lean the driver’s seat back, the angel who convinced God to invent the ass, etc), and Shelia E.?

3. Pressure Congress To Enact “National Piece of The Pie Day”

While it’s great to recognize and honor those who’ve set the foundation for us, part of the Black History month angst has to do with the fact that, while things aren’t all peachy for us now, they’re much,much better then they were in the past. And, hearing about all the great things some of our ancestors did in legitimately sh*tty situations can make us feel like we aint sh*t right now (Which may be true — there’s a likelihood that we collectively aint sh*t — but that’s a different topic for a different day). 

So, to combat this feeling, why not have a day during Black History Month where the national script is flipped and it’s legally mandated that we have to be allowed to do certain things (i.e.: get bank loans, hail cabs, get great service at restaurants, point fingers in police officer’s and president’s faces, etc) that seem to be reserved for non-blacks?

And, as a way to appease the millions of non-blacks who definitely will have an issue with “Piece of The Pie” day, your special privileges will get revoked if you get caught doing certain “black” things the week before. Not going into detail on what exactly I mean by “black” things, but let’s just say that you may want to pick another time of the year to take a 75 minute lunch break or give a waitress a $2 tip on a $37 bill.

Anyway, that’s it for me today, but I’m sure I’m forgetting a few. People of VSB, can you think of any other additions/changes to Black History Month that would make it better?

¹I know Malcolm X was born in May, but why let facts get in the way of a perfectly good point?

²This could actually be true, but I’m totally making this up right now.

—Damon Young aka “The Champ”

…we got 21 more days to complain that America doesn’t do enough to celebrate Black achievements and accomplishments!

BAZINGA!

Anyway, being as its Black people month, and being as that I’m Black, I see it only fitting that I dedicate some posts in February to Black topics. Its gonna be on and poppin’. As well it should be since Black folks often get it on and poppin’ with things such as the bottle formerly known as Cristal, thongs, pills, and basketball. One could say we are a poppalicious people, though I prefer the bootylicious nature of Black women. And I don’t care how much you hate Beyonce, “Bootylicious” (written and produced/co-produced/conceived by Beyonce) was a great moment in Black history. Honestly…with lyrics like, “I don’t think you’re ready/for this jelly”, how could it not progress Black society. Kids everywhere were running around embarassing the sh*t out of us folks that can read talking about being bootylicious. Hell, even WHITE girls got into the act, further making me want to kill myself.

Okay, I swear that there is a point in there somewhere.

Ah yes, Black America’s secret shame. There are different kinds of Black folks out there. I know, shocker. Many have tried to paint Black people with one brush and say that we are all one and the burdens of my brother are my burdens. And I used to believe that until a strange thing happened one day. Can you guess what it was? Go ahead, take a gander.

*singing “I’m sexy and I know it”*

Done guessing?? Good. What happened to me was that I learned how to read.

*gasp*

That might sound messed up, but fret not, it gets worse. When I learned to read, a whole new world opened up to me. Butterfly’s in the sky, hell, I could fly twice as high like Aladdin and Jasmine! The older I’ve gotten and the more I’ve read, the more things have changed. Over time, I learned to not be afraid of information and actually seek it out causing me to do things that other Black men didn’t do like…go to college. Or even graduate. No Kanye.

So it was in this new world with new knowledge I obtained from reading new sh*t that I started to notice the differences between Black people. And just to be purposefully offensive, I’ll state some of the differences I noticed:

Some Black folks worked, some didn’t.

Some lived in suburbs, some lived in projects.

Some tried to assimilate into white society, some acted like assholes in public…almost seeming to be on purpose.

Some were reserved, some are just loud.

These are just a few of the differences. But that last one is the one that stands out to me. It brought to my attention and epiphanized a strange phenomenon in the Black community. It would seem that Black America’s Secret Shame is…

…hold on…

…it’s coming…

…wait for it…

…Black people.

Yes. Black people. Black American’s are secretly ashamed of other Black people. I know. It’s one of the most fucked up things you’ve ever heard. I hear you looking at me crazy. But it’s true. Black people that can read and write, and have gardens to tend, and garages that actually house cars, and have the OPTION to live amongst white people are ashamed of other Black people.

[***DISCLAIMER: These are fun, I swear. Which Black people am I talking about that are ashamed of other Black people??? You ninja. Yes you, the Black person that is reading this right now instead of in the projects affectionately known as WorldStarHipHop. The Black person who reads and writes. F*ck that, the Black person who ENJOYS reading. Yes, you. Does it sound elitist? Yes it does...but here's the test: if you have at any point in your existence, been somewhere, and an unruly group of Black youth have come into your presence and you cringed and/or uttered the word "n*ggas" under your breath...then this means you. Mmkay pumpkin?***]

Believe you me, it’s true. It’s a sad reality yet one that exists. Take for instance young Black folks on subway systems across America. Now those youth don’t care about being loud and obnoxious. Hell, it’s what kids do. However, you care. You wonder to yourself , why the hell they won’t shut up. Then you do scan the audience the kids have attracted. You scan the white faces for disapproval, and then you scan the Black faces for disgust.

For some reason, both the Black and white people are upset at the ungodly display of the youths. White folks will just have their notions reinforced, and Black folks will be afraid that the white folks are having their notions reinforced. And somewhere shame comes into the picture. Black folks start to think, “dammit, why won’t they just act right, they are making us all look bad. F*ckin’ cockaroaches!”

You have experienced…honest to goodness…

…shame.

Shame for fear that those Black folks who aren’t like you are setting us normal Black folks back years and years. It is that same shame that occurs when you take a ghetto member of your family out with you who then proceeds to act a damn fool on purpose, proving why they are the ghetto member of your family.

But you know what, they are ashamed of you too.

Sometimes they are trying to prove a point, too. The point may be that you aren’t any better than they are. And they are just as ashamed because they feel like you sold out when they remember when you all used to sleep three to a bed. They are ashamed, and thus shaming your bougie ass into realizing that you aren’t any better than they are. Hmm, ironic isn’t it. The better off we are, the more reminders we get from folks who aren’t so well off that we ain’t sh*t and didn’t come from sh*t.

Differences.

I’m not judging nor looking down on anybody. I’ve done more than my fair share in both worlds. As far as I’m concerned we all came from nothing. Essentially, I love all my Black peoples. EXCEPT those ignant somebodies who feel the need to make me look bad so that they don’t look bad by themselves. Crabs in a barrel are a b*tch. And it is those Black folks who draw my ire time and time again. The ones who are ashamed but secretly jealous of the Black folks who are doing well because those Black folks are sellouts and have no place in the hood. Those Black folks who are ashamed of other Black folks success because they don’t have it.

But it goes the other way too. Those Black folks who are educated and well to do, who are ashamed of their lower income brothers and sisters who may not have had the same opportunities that they’ve had. The ones who turn their noses up at less privileged Blacks with no provocation. The ones who talk about the ghetto without ever having been to the ghetto or lived there. The ones who laugh when some of us drink Kool-Aid. Hell, the ones who don’t realize that “red” is a flavor, and judge Black folks who know that it indeed is a flavor. Basically, Black folks who have the time to castigate other Black folks because they’ve made it and refuse to accept that making it where you’ve made it wasn’t solely on your own merit. Sometimes, folks believed in you enough to not let you fail. And it’s those folks that refuse to recognize or accept that, who are ashamed of lower income Black folks and their lot in life. Those Black folks piss me off too.

And there you have it. Black America’s secret shame is other Black people. From rich to poor, we are all ashamed of one another for reasons that are beyond me that will continue to keep us down. Sometimes we show out for white folks by showing them how comfortable they should be around us. We have a term for that…selling out. And sometimes we show out for white folks to show them that we don’t give a sh*t about them, except what we’re doing is furthering their own beliefs that Black folks have no damn sense anyway and are all useless. We have a term for this too…being a dbag. And they all lead to the same end…shame from some other member of the Black race.

And this is why we won’t make it as a people…and you know what…

…it’s a damn shame.

Ain’t it?

What say you?

-VSB P aka THE ARSONIST aka MR. SUPER B.A.S.S. aka GIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIRL HE A 3

For the DC heads, its time again for another edition of REMINISCE! at Liv Nightclub this Saturday, February 4th, 2012 from 930pm til 3am. It’s all 90s everything and anybody who has been will tell you this party is a motherf*cking monster. It’s FREE BEFORE 11PM WITH RSVP ($10 after) (click the link to RSVP), OPEN BAR FROM 930-1030PM (doors open earlier b/c people keep showing up MAD early) and no dress code. Supa Qool DJ Quartermaine on the 1s and 2s. Come on out and we’ll see you on Saturday night! Peep the FB event here!

The future of Black music.

Happy Black History Month.

And since we’re talking about Black history, you ever notice how disposable R&B is nowadays? It’s no secret that one of my favorite songs of like for-f*ckin-ever is Rihanna’s “We Found Love”, a song about absolutely nothing and everything at the same time. It’s like there’s a party in my mouth and everyone’s invited…but then the police show up. Aww.

Well I haven’t heard this song in probably two weeks now and I don’t miss it at all. You know what I do miss? That snake playing the bongos I saw down by the riverside. And this is a song that is still a Top 5 song on Billboard’s Hot 100 chart. And yet, it’s completely disposable. So is Rihanna for that matter. In fact, you could take every song that Rihanna has made and put somebody else on them and there’s a good chance the song would be as good if not better. Would they be as successful? Probably not. When you’ve got a trainwreck wrapped in a pretty package leading the charge people are going to lineup to contribute to her downfall. Hell, I bought two copies of Loud for that reason. I’m convinced she’s a lesbian skydiving future rehab recidivist waiting to happen. America, f*ck yeah.

What’s my point again? Ah.

Ever since R&B gave way to this merger between pop and club music artists have been making more and more music that sounds good for a week in the club and then pretty much loses all steam once it fades from the charts, and by default, pop radio. Two of my favorite songs of last year were Chris Brown’s “Beautiful People” and Black Eyed Peas “Just Can’t Get Enough”. Do you know that I had to look up the name of the B.E.P. song?

Think about that, I couldn’t remember the name of my favorite song from last year and the group performing it features a white woman, a Black man who dresses like a white woman who dresses like a gay astronaut, a Mexican and something called Apl.de.Ap. At best, ONE of them actually eats black eyed peas. If that’s not memorable I don’t know what is. But it isn’t. Hold me. Pop music has long been moment music and short-term fix sh*t. But now that every damn R&B song has the same format and features a random assortment of various artists, nobody will be caring about this music years from now. Or weeks for that matter.

Now, I know I sound like an old grandpa complaining that music has lost its way blah blah blah. So what, f*ck your couch. Eat the pound cake n*gga. But I do kind of wonder what the hell folks will be listening to a few years from now. Granted music tends to be cyclical, but it really has been a while since any artist made a contribution to R&B that might actually be listenable a few years from now.

Nope. Now I’ve got nothing but fistpump soul. You know what that is. You ever been to a party with a bunch of white people and everybody just keeps jumping up and down and pumping their fists in the air. Real spit, white people are some real athletes. They do that sh*t for hours on end. It’s actually pretty impressive if you think about it. Black folks get it in for a minute then we all take breaks so the guys can regain their composure and the women can do the weave-pat.

And since “neo-soul” tends to suck as a rule – including Jill Scott’s later output, yeah I said it – its no wonder Black people keep losing our stronghold on all of our music. Let me be clear though, I love most pop music and listen to it with reckless abandon in my car. I’m the Black guy in the d-boy car that’s confusing you at the light because he looks like he may rob you but he’s singing what sounds like a Taylor Swift song.

Oh who am I kidding, its totally a Taylor Swift song.

But pop music is not R&B, and its not soul. But when all of your R&B artist and “soul” artists abandon ship in order to attempt to keep up with the Jones who are making songs at 185 BPP with the exact same drum pattern but a different melody, then the entire genre is going to lose itself like Eminem in a movie with Mekhi Phifer wearing a mop.

So what’s the point of all this randomness that you just read? Glad you asked. It’s this, what the f*ck happened to R&B? When D’Angelo lost his sh*t did the entire genre lose it? Usher’s Confessions is the last album that I can remember that was both a blockbuster AND was a really good R&B album. And that was in 2004.

So I ask you the same thing that Kanye asks himself after he lifts weights: does anybody make real sh*t anymore? Or is mainstream R&B a thing of the past? Is anybody making music that we’ll be listening to a few years from now?

Inquiring minds would like to know.

Poor Freddie Jackson. RIP Don Cornelius.

-VSB P aka THE ARSONST aka MR. OLD FOGEY MOTHERF*CKER aka GIIIIIIIIIIRL HE A 3

Now that's some good dome.

One of the most common myths in the Black community (yes, the whole entire Black community) is that Black women aren’t brain surgeons. And I don’t mean the types with M.D. after their names either, though I’m sure for the women with M.D. after their name the double entendre has to be hilarious. I’ve heard for years that oral sex was a white woman sport, even being immortalized by poet laureate Plies in his now famous song, “Becky”.

By the way, please don’t ever listen to Plies. Listen to me now; believe me later on.

Well, the myth, along with the devil, is a lie. On “Braxton Family Values”, WEtv’s show about the lives of Toni Braxton and her sisters, Trina admitted that she gave some dome to a band mate of hers causing Tamar, the loud-mouthed, often wrong, and absolutely most extra woman on the planet, to claim that Black women didn’t do that.

Scrrrrreeeeech.

Say what? Oh no she didn’t. I can personally say that I’ve only known two Black women ever who “claimed” to have never “done that.” And honestly, I don’t believe them. At all. Both of them protest that the act itself is too nasty to do with anybody outside of their husbands, of which neither has one. Coincidentally, neither is engaged or married OR opposed to any man giving her special kisses where the “sun don’t shine”. And to complete the murder, they’re not smart enough, fine enough, or funny enough to NOT do it. And yes, I wrote that out loud.

I can honestly say that aside from those two women, every other woman I know not only engages in the act, they actually enjoy it. Hell, some women are to the point where they enjoy it so much that they offer tips to their wayward friends who either don’t know, don’t show, or just don’t care to learn what’s going on in Mr. Roger’s neighborhood. At this point in our collective sexual histories, very little is taboo or even off limits. Sex is everywhere you want to be. It’s like Visa. Not to say that anybody should be acting reckless with their sexual exploits and yes, you should use protection and preventative measures if you’re going to casually engage in any type of sex.

But real talk, a Black woman – or any woman for that matter – giving a man head is so not a big deal. Trina was right to say that. It’s a part of the sexual experience that most men and women share with one another. And very few men are really going to look at a woman with disgust after she’s dropped down and got her seagull on. If she’s any good at it, he just might propose. Take note.

Now of course, as a man you can’t go expecting every woman to top you off just because. And maybe that’s where it all gets lost in translation because a lot of men view it as an entitlement as opposed to a privilege, like we do with sex. And yes, that is a problem. So maybe Black women just like to teach their men a lesson about entitlements and I suppose that’s fair.

But that has NOTHING to do with the fact that women actually enjoy the act of giving some of that good ole kneepad love.

So Tamar is again, as with so many other things in life, wrong. Plus she’s married. You can’t convince me that she’s not topping off Vince. She’s WAY too annoying to stay married to if you aren’t being satisfied in the bedroom.

Word.Life.

Anyway, the larger point is, where the hell did this myth even come from? And why does it persist? Does it even persist? Are there any women out there who really believe this to be true?

Inquiring minds would like to know.

Civil rights, y’all. Civil rights.

-VSB P aka THE ARSONIST aka MR. GEORGIA DOME aka GIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIRL HE A 3

For the DC heads, its time again for another edition of REMINISCE! at Liv Nightclub this Saturday, February 4th, 2012 from 930pm til 3am. It’s all 90s everything and anybody who has been will tell you this party is a motherf*cking monster. It’s FREE BEFORE 11PM WITH RSVP ($10 after) (click the link to RSVP), OPEN BAR FROM 930-1030PM (doors open earlier b/c people keep showing up MAD early) and no dress code. Supa Qool DJ Quartermaine on the 1s and 2s. Come on out and we’ll see you on Saturday night! Peep the FB event here!

That rabbit is not happy.

I have no clue how or why women come up with the terms they come up with for the various random instances of affection and attention.

Boo.

Boobear.

Love muffin.

Skeetskeetmookmook.

Cuddle bunny.

It’s no wonder why our kids in the Black community have the most random first names or are named after medical conditions like Rosacea. Or Excema. Or Herpesia. But motherf*cking cuddle bunny takes the cake. I remember the first time a chick used that term while telling me she’d met a guy that she might be willing to make her cuddle bunny. I was like…whaaaaa? Cuddle what? Did you call that ninja a bunny????

Real spit, calling a man a cuddle bunny is another in the long line of male emasculating terms. Just like calling him harmless or weak or limp-d*ck noodle slanger. If a woman were to actively refer to me as a bunny I might be forced to commit a felony just to keep my own esteem up.

But what is a cuddle bunny? Women all know that its the male equivalent of what happens during cuffin’ season. It’s that guy that women call over to…cuddle. Nothing more, nothing less. Sure the possibility for smangage exists. If you put enough air and opportunity between a man and a woman with an attraction for one another, there’s a strong likelihood that the woodpecker will take care of the morning wood, if you know what I mean, heheheheh.

But that’s not the goal. For many women, having a man be willing to just spoon and cuddle shows her that this man views her in such a light where he’s willing to not have sex with her. He actually just wants to be there with her. Holding her. Wrapping her body tight. My my my. And I think we can all agree that’s the highest form of glory for many women. This man values her as a person, not just a piece of meat. And that’s lovely.

Wonderful even.

But I kind of wonder how many men know they’re being cuddle…bunnied? It’s kind of like the infamous term that we all know and love, jumpoff (as was pointed out to me recently). Men turn chicks into jumpoffs all willy nilly. Or something like that. Except I reject that deposit. No pr0n swallow. Actually…yeah. See, any chick who’s been turned into a jumpoff more or less knows it. Short of pure unadulterated delusion, women know when a man wants nothing more than the snappy nappy dugout. Remember, men suck. We disappear. We only call when its that time. Most chicks who are afraid of being jumpedoff ask a million and one questions to ascertain their status pissing us off in the process but hey, we get it.

A cuddle bunny on the other hand…

[...quick aside...did anybody think Jumping The Broom was a good movie? Do you remember that this movie ever came out? Me neither...]

…is a man who’s trying to get in there – and the chick knows this – who is willing to do what it takes to get there. And ye olde women are exploiting that man’s god nature and heart for personal satisfaction and affection.

Disgusting. Just terrible. That poor sap is over here with balls bluer than Cookie Monster on the 27th ring of Saturn but he’s putting in his work because he’s hoping he’ll get to the promised land, which doesn’t just mean smangage, it could also mean relationship. Basically, any man willing to put up with spooning on multiple occasions actually likes the chick. Except she’s likely not decided what she wants from this dude, ya know, aside from the temporary foot warmer he’s become.

Most women will say that by being the cuddle bunny he’s gaining access to a slot…well not a slot per se but a position…well not a position per se…but a connection that a lot of other men either would love to be in or just wouldn’t have a chance to see. He gets to come to her place and lay up next to her and watch a movie…with her. The lucky guy!

*leprechaun heel click*

Except, she hasn’t decided if this will last past her options or her attention span. And she’s calling the motherf*cker a bunny. So dude’s putting in the simp work, being emasculated, and paying for carry out from Pei Wei Express all for the chance to hopefully get some drawz that actually are on 50/50 status. And yes, I know that sex is a privelege and not a right. Woopty woop woopty woop woop.

All I know is that for all the women out there who feel like they get played by men, if you’ve ever had a “cuddle bunny” then you are just as bad and you should get a stern talking too and finger wag. Let the bunny go. Figuratively and metaphorically.

And stop calling men bunnies. It’s not right. It hurts. It might be provocative and it might get the people going. But it just not right…okay! You can’t just leave cuzzin’ Harold in the street to die.

Real talk.

Ladies, do you believe in having a cuddle bunny? Do you think it’s part of a man’s work to show you he’s worth it? And what’s up with the damn “bunny”? Men…how do you feel about being a cuddle bunny? You’re probably one right now and don’t even know it.

Sad.

-VSB P aka THE ARSONIST aka MR. CUDDLE DEEZ aka GIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIRL HE A 3

Also, check out Panama’s article at Ebony entitled “Motivation: Daddy’s Little Girl” and Champ’s article, also at Ebony entitled “Don’t Be Like Mike”. Ball so hard.

My buddy! Where ever I go!

Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me.

You may have heard that somewhere. It’s popular on schoolyards everywhere as future millionaires fend off the numerous taunts of usually bigger, cooler, or more assholish kids who make fun of each other during Act One of the omnipresent stage play, Life.

I know I’ve said it before to somebody. Probably to some girl who called me a name when I was six or seven. I’m guessing it was my best rebuttal. Either that or the similarly popular, “I’m rubber, you’re glue, whatever you say bounces off of me and sticks to you.” It’s funny how ridiculously ridiculous these statements are but how clear they are to children. I swear, there isn’t a kid alive who doesn’t know how to turn that statement around on another kid.

The main notion behind these statements is that words are just that, words. That they don’t necessarily hold much Oprah sometimes, and that short of being bludgeoned with a Louisville Slugger, for the most part, you can just get up and move on past something someone has just said that you don’t necessarily agree with.

Well, me…I’m calling bullsh*t, especially the older you get. I don’t know which is a bigger lie: actions speak louder than words or Kim Kardashian loved Kris Humphries.

And for the record, I do think actions speak loud. But I think that words carry just as much weight.

Now, I won’t be focusing on that “actions speak louder than words” segment, but more on how certain words really can get you in an assblender of trouble.

[Another aside: This post has nothing to do with the posts from last week. While I still have a lot to say about the fallout from my vantage, today I’m not going to address it.]

One specific word actually.

Question, question: what’s the worst word you can call a woman who’s got any sort of interest in you?

Or a man for that matter?

Buddy.

Yes. It’s buddy.

(You thought it was going to be b*tch didn’t you?)

Oh, you don’t believe me? You can case study this sh*t if you want to. Allow me to offer a situation from my own life as fodder for discussion.

Once upon a blue moon, I was a lovestruck idiot in college. I’d managed to find a woman who for whatever reason got me all in a tizzy. Now, despite my constant attempts to woo this woman, she managed to fend off my advances like she was practicing for the National DisANinja Time Trials. But she didn’t exactly want me to not continue to woo her since my woo-age was neither stalkerish nor annoying. My woo-age included flowers, poetry, and trips to cheap dinners. Basically, I had your all around being a nice guy who really likes a girl thing going on. I’d do dumb sh*t hoping she’d take notice despite the fact that she’d made it clear she wasn’t really trying to be with me, though clearly she was interested but it might have just been in the way I treated her.

Figure out if she’s worth it, then treat her like a Queen. I had that little equation backwards.

But one fine day, as we were on the phone, me in my nonchalant manner innocently said to her, “hey buddy…”

STOP.

Have you seen I’m Gonna Get You Sucka? Do you remember the part where the mother who is on her period turns into the monsterish thing who is doing back flips and sh*t when folks come into her house looking for Jack Spade? Yeah, that was this chick.

I felt like I had just shot her grandmother with a rusty barnacle. She went off on me. Now remember, this was a chick who didn’t want to be with me, but apparently she for damn sure didn’t like the connotation that comes along with being called a buddy.

“I am NOT your buddy.”

Sheesh.

I left that alone after that and had learned my lesson.

That was until the next time I used that term and the exact same thing occurred.

And you know what, I didn’t get it at first. Why would these women who seemingly don’t want to be with me get so offended at the use of the term “buddy”. Then it dawned on me.

Women f*cking HATE that word because it makes them feel less special. “No he didn’t call me his buddy. What I look like? His boy Jim that he plays ball with!!! Shiiiiiiiiiiiiit…he better had get right in his mind!”

And in some ways I can kind of understand. Maybe its unintentionally intentional, but words like “buddy” tend to pop up when people are dating and they’re in that limbo, where-are-we-going stage. Maybe we’re all just playing mind games with one another.

The dude is thinking that if he calls her buddy and he gets a reaction then he knows she’s feeling him definitely. Kind of like forcing the green light. On that stupid a** Love Jones sh*t.

I need to say this here…I f*ckin’ HATE when people try to passively aggressively bait me into stuff. I know some folks who go out of their way to force an issue by total beat-around-the bushage. I want those people to get hit by lightning.

Most people I know hate passive-agressive bastards too. It’s one thing if two dating people are passive-aggressively feeling each other out in hopes of, you know, feeling each other out later. It’s something altogether different when people say this:

“We might need to talk about something later on.”

Umm…the f*ck does that mean? What do you mean might? If we might need to talk about it later on then we probably DO need to talk about it now.

What was I talking about?

Ah yes, women hate feeling less than special. Especially if they like you. Even more especially than the past especially if questions are lingering about the direction two people are heading.

Which is why a term like “buddy” is so loaded.

In some ways I don’t even think its deeper than that. An interested woman wants to know that you feel that she’s more special than other random folks in your life, whether its true or not. Even if she’s not interested.

Which makes total sense to at least 90 percent of the women reading this right now.

Got it, buddy?

Good.

Ladies, how do you feel about being called his “buddy”? And what words send men over the edge? Fellas, what say you? You ever referred to a woman in a friendship manner only to get your head chopped off?

Talk to me.

-VSB P aka THE ARSONIST aka MR. B.U.D.D.Y. aka GIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIRL HE A 3

For the DC heads, its time again for another edition of REMINISCE! at Liv Nightclub this Saturday, February 4th, 2012 from 930pm til 3am. It’s all 90s everything and anybody who has been will tell you this party is a motherf*cking monster. It’s FREE BEFORE 11PM WITH RSVP ($10 after) (click the link to RSVP), OPEN BAR FROM 930-1030PM (doors open earlier b/c people keep showing up MAD early) and no dress code. Supa Qool DJ Quartermaine on the 1s and 2s. Come on out and we’ll see you on Saturday night! Peep the FB event here!

From young Wallace’s bewilderment when venturing outside of the city and hearing crickets for the first time to Chris informing Snoop that people from outside of the Baltimore/D.C. area probably wouldn’t be very familiar with go-go music, a constant theme from the HBO series The Wire was how isolated inner city Baltimore’s inhabitants were from the rest of the world. Although — if the atlas application on my phone is correct — they’re neighbors with Towson, Essex, Silver Spring, and others, they might as well have been stuck on the island from Lost, aware of their star-crossed fate but completely unequipped, unable, and ultimately unwilling to change it.

No character embodied this mindset more than Old Face Andre — a mid-level dealer who happened to fall out of favor with the ruthless and reptilian drug kingpin Marlo Stanfield. In a subplot so sad and predictable that it’s actually funny, instead of just packing up and leaving town, Andre thinks that moving from West Baltimore to East Baltimore will save him from Marlo’s wrath.

He was wrong.

I’ve watched the full series (at least) three times. (I watched it “live,” and I’ve also re-watched the entire series with each of my last two girlfriends; at times even delaying sex to continue debates about Bodie Broadus’ motivations and Bill Rawls closet homosexuality.) I also developed an appetite for any and all things The Wire, engulfing and devouring every message board post, interview, article, profile, and conversation I could. At this point, I’d confidently bet a day’s pay that unless David Simon happens to be your cousin, you don’t know anyone who knows more about The Wire than I do.

I always assumed that my infatuation with The Wire was somewhat due to my unique personal background. While the show may have been a bit too real for some who grew up in similar circumstances and too foreign for those who lived galaxies away from that world, I grew up in a gang-infested East Liberty but was shielded from most real adversity by my (married) parents, my private school education, and my basketball. This combination of familiarity and distance allowed me to recognize some of the characters and themes while staying (relatively) emotionally detached from it. I had friends who grew up in households as toxic as the teenage characters on the show, but the fact that none of that stuff went on in my house made it easier for me to adopt a bit of a sober, deconstructionist view when watching and speaking about it.

But, as I’ve come to learn, this was all bullshit. It’s definitely still true that my upbringing protected me from harm and implanted a certain appreciation for many of the themes present in the series, but the connection I had with the show had nothing to do that. It came down to one hard to swallow fact: I am Old Face Andre.

While every single one of my closest childhood friends have left Pittsburgh for “greener” pastures, I’m still here; leaving only for college and returning as soon as my degree and my basketball eligibility had been completed. I wish I could say that I made the decision to come back because I had a plan, a promising job opportunity, or even a girl I was smitten with, but I’d be lying. In reality, I always considered it to be an inevitability; a concretized step on a pre-destined path. I came back because I just couldn’t fathom being anywhere else.

I imagine you think I’m being hyperbolic, that comparing myself to a drug dealer so short-sighted and ignorant that he basically chose certain death over leaving Baltimore is a stretch, and you’re probably be right. With a limited education and an extensive rap sheet, Old Face Andre’s options were limited by a series of decisions — decisions either made by him or completely out of his control. Maybe he wasn’t actually in prison, but he was far from free, and considering his circumstances, moving to East Baltimore may have actually been his most feasible choice.

But while my situation is far from as dire as Andre’s, I can’t help but note the similarities between us. My choice to blog/write/edit full-time gives me real incentive to leave Pittsburgh, as most of the career-making new media opportunities that would best suit the type of work I do are found in New York City and Washington, D.C. Yes, it’s true that I don’t necessarily have to leave the Burgh to build the career I want to build, but staying would be like to deciding to walk to Cincinnati the next time I visit my family there. Sure, it can be done, but driving or flying (or, well, not going to Cincinnati at all) would probably be a better plan.

Mind you, this is no anti-Pittsburgh rant. While the tone of the last couple paragraphs may have implied that I think I’m somehow “better” than the Burgh, this couldn’t be further from the truth. In fact, the city is undoubtedly better than me — talented, unpretentious, unflappable, and blessed with understated beauty. If the Burgh was a random babe at The Shadow Lounge or Savoy, she’d be out of my league, and I’d probably have a better chance with one of her less attractive cousins (Cleveland) or her extremely glamorous and extremely self-esteem deficient co-worker (Atlanta).

It’s just that…I don’t know. I don’t know what’s keeping me here. I don’t know why I didn’t even consider staying in Buffalo when done with school. I don’t know why I feel like I need to somehow be validated by Pittsburgh, like being successful somewhere else just wouldn’t matter the same way. I don’t know why this city means so gotdamn much to me, and I don’t even know if I want this feeling to change.

Despite my love for “The Wire,” I’ve always been ambivalent about Old Face Andre’s last appearance on screen. Captured by Marlo’s henchman and destined for certain death, he asks his soon to be murderers not to shoot him in the face so that he can have an open casket funeral. The request itself isn’t what stirs the ambivalence, though, as much as the tone he used when asking. He pleas the same merry familiarity that a person would adopt when asking the kid working the register at Giant Eagle to double bag his groceries. Not only is he completely resigned to his fate, it seems like he’s almost welcoming it; like he knows he doesn’t matter enough to even attempt to fight for his life.

I never quite felt that this particular scene worked as well as the rest of the show. I just couldn’t buy that a man in that situation would still be so casual, so jocular. But, perhaps he was just tired. Tired of living in fear. Tired of being haunted by Baltimore. Tired of the pathos. Tired of the self-imposed shackles. Tired of allowing himself to be manipulated by nostalgia. And perhaps his subconscious recognized that he was just ready for a change; something…anything not Baltimore.

If this is true, I understand.

—Damon Young (aka “The Champ”)