First, let me tell you: I was knocked on my behind with the flu last week. Lost five days at work – luckily, two were holidays – and felt the worst I’ve ever felt in a long time. Chills, fever, body aches, congestion in my lungs, coughing all night long, headaches, diarrhea, you name it. If you know anyone who looks even vaguely contagious with the flu, run from them like your hair was on fire. Trust me, you do NOT want to get what I had. I told my husband, Black Man Not Blogging (BMNB), that if this is what pneumonia is like, if I ever get pneumonia when I’m old, don’t let me suffer – just shoot me. Take a semi-automatic gun, roll up to my hospital room, and just shoot me at point-blank range, but please, PLEASE don’t let me suffer like I was suffering with that flu.
That said, like most folks, I had made many commitments this month – I had an artist friend coming in from out of town to celebrate her 40th and not celebrate the fact that she, like many folks, is unemployed (luckily, I still have my job – for now). I agreed to speak at a Black History Month program at my old junior high school, which is now a middle school. I told my best friend Sheila that I would draft a business plan for a business she’s thinking of buying. My dog needs flea medicine and vaccinations. The interior of my car looks like a dog grooming parlor. And my novel’s been going nowhere fast, and I paid to attend a writer’s conference next month.
But I had had the flu. I basically lost a week of my life. And just when I was coming out of it, I had all these commitments to meet with no energy to meet them with. I was basically giving from an empty cup. I wasn’t feeling 100%, and I just wanted to say “no” to everything and everyone and curl up in my bed and drink tea for another week. But I didn’t.
So, my friend came into town, and we traveled up and down the coast so she could see the shore and clear her mind(she’s from the Midwest). And at the end of her stay, she hooked up with an aspiring children’s book author friend of mine who is also unemployed and who needed an illustrator for the draft of a children’s book she’d written about a little black girl searching for God. They hit it off – both are faithful Christians -- and now they’ll begin collaborating on getting the book ready for publication and other projects.
I dragged myself out of bed today and spoke to over 400 middle school kids at my former middle school with the message, in accordance with their Black History Month theme, that “Yes, You Can,” with the caveat of one word: “If.” The “if” was, yes, they can accomplish their dreams IF they work hard, study hard, prepare themselves for an education, get an education, leave sex and drugs alone, and not make excuses, especially as students of color. Now that we have a black president, I told them, the day when they could ascribe their failures to “the system” and “the Man” are gone, even if that is the truth. It was a hard truth, but they needed to hear it. Needless to say, the teachers were very pleased with my message, since it’s the same message they’ve been trying to get across.
And now, I’ll write that business plan with what energy I have left. Next month, the dog gets her day at the vet, and my car gets its day at the auto detailer.
Mind you, I’m still not giving from a full cup, but it’s not quite empty either. If I had said “no” to the commitments I had already made, my artist friend might not have hooked up with my writer friend to not only write a series of Christian children’s books but plan a business empire based on the main character of the book – I’m talking dolls, clothing, etc. Black kids from my middle school might not have heard from an independent and ostensibly “successful” (as I was defined) black woman lawyer what their teachers have been telling them all along or see that someone like them could grow up to be a lawyer, doctor, president, or whatever they dream of being.
That said, I will be taking on fewer commitments. My cup is still not full. My energy is still low. But once I’ve said “yes,” I will do my utmost not to say “no” later, no matter how bad I feel, because I don’t want to think about what would have happened – or not happened, for that matter – if I had said “no” after having said “yes.”
Showing posts with label Sheila. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sheila. Show all posts
A Little 'Tang at the 'Stang
“You’re a phenomenal woman. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” These kind words from BMNB this morning as I was dragging my tail and my spirit to work meant the world to me. He could see that my heart was heavy and my eyes were sad. “Keep your head up,” he advised.
This morning we discussed our future. Or rather, he told me in no uncertain terms what he was willing to do to secure our future, financially and otherwise. To make joy a regular part of our lives, not an occasional treat. To put our little family first. In other words, he assured me that in no uncertain terms he had my back.
For all of that, I would have willingly allowed him the pleasure of a little “‘tang at the ‘stang.”
You see, BMNB just returned from three days on the road driving most of our worldly possessions from a storage space in Aurora, Colorado to Elk Grove. He was tired beyond measure when he called me from Winnemucca, Nevada.
“You know,” I started slyly, “you’re in Nevada, where prostitution is legal in some counties. I wouldn’t be mad at you if you took in a little “ ‘tang at the ‘stang,” I laughed.
He laughed right back. “You mean the Mustang Ranch? Are they even still in business?” I could visualize his arched right eyebrow, which he arches when he’s curious or doubtful about something.
“I don’t know, but if they are, hey, it’s legal there and the IRS is probably running it to pay for back taxes. Won’t mess with your security clearance.”
He chuckled. “Nah, that’s okay. I’m good.”
You see, I’ve changed my position about marital infidelity. Back when I started college, I told my freshman roommate Sheila that if a husband of mine cheated on me, we’d be through. Cheating meant there was no trust; if there was no trust, there was no marriage.
“You mean you’d throw away a marriage behind some ass?” Sheila was wise beyond her years, even at 18.
Now, at the age of 45, I get it. Especially where BMNB is concerned.
You see, BMNB doesn’t have any real vices. He doesn’t smoke, doesn’t drink, doesn’t do drugs, doesn’t gamble, and doesn’t chase women (or at least I have no reason to believe he does.) He’s cheap to a fault and won’t do anything that might remotely endanger his security clearance. He doesn’t even have a golf jones – he only goes out to the links to socialize with his friends who are golfing. He has no anger management issues, he’s never raised his hand to a woman, he’s never been arrested or done time, and he has no deep-seated therapy-worthy issues. For the most part, he’s as close to perfect a mate as I will ever come.
So if BMNB got a wild hair and decided to chase some tail, I ain’t mad at him, as long as he doesn’t violate the ground rules: 1) No souvenirs (e.g., crab lice, STD’s or children); 2) No emotional attachment; 3) No lying; 4) No cheating recidivism; and 5) No messing with my financial assets if you violate Rule Number 2 and decide you want a divorce. There’s love and then there’s money. Don’t mess with my money.
Long story short, I’m 45 years of age. I don’t want to start over. I don’t want to date again. I don’t want to divide up my assets, and I sure as hell don’t want to sell the Google stock in my 401k, especially behind some tail. We’ve worked too hard to build this life together to let it run adrift behind a stupid indiscretion from a man who’s been far too perfect for far too long. No person, male or female, is this good, and even BMNB should be allowed to fail just once.
So, BMNB, the offer still stands. But knowing you, you’re too good to take it.
That’s why I love you.
This morning we discussed our future. Or rather, he told me in no uncertain terms what he was willing to do to secure our future, financially and otherwise. To make joy a regular part of our lives, not an occasional treat. To put our little family first. In other words, he assured me that in no uncertain terms he had my back.
For all of that, I would have willingly allowed him the pleasure of a little “‘tang at the ‘stang.”
You see, BMNB just returned from three days on the road driving most of our worldly possessions from a storage space in Aurora, Colorado to Elk Grove. He was tired beyond measure when he called me from Winnemucca, Nevada.
“You know,” I started slyly, “you’re in Nevada, where prostitution is legal in some counties. I wouldn’t be mad at you if you took in a little “ ‘tang at the ‘stang,” I laughed.
He laughed right back. “You mean the Mustang Ranch? Are they even still in business?” I could visualize his arched right eyebrow, which he arches when he’s curious or doubtful about something.
“I don’t know, but if they are, hey, it’s legal there and the IRS is probably running it to pay for back taxes. Won’t mess with your security clearance.”
He chuckled. “Nah, that’s okay. I’m good.”
You see, I’ve changed my position about marital infidelity. Back when I started college, I told my freshman roommate Sheila that if a husband of mine cheated on me, we’d be through. Cheating meant there was no trust; if there was no trust, there was no marriage.
“You mean you’d throw away a marriage behind some ass?” Sheila was wise beyond her years, even at 18.
Now, at the age of 45, I get it. Especially where BMNB is concerned.
You see, BMNB doesn’t have any real vices. He doesn’t smoke, doesn’t drink, doesn’t do drugs, doesn’t gamble, and doesn’t chase women (or at least I have no reason to believe he does.) He’s cheap to a fault and won’t do anything that might remotely endanger his security clearance. He doesn’t even have a golf jones – he only goes out to the links to socialize with his friends who are golfing. He has no anger management issues, he’s never raised his hand to a woman, he’s never been arrested or done time, and he has no deep-seated therapy-worthy issues. For the most part, he’s as close to perfect a mate as I will ever come.
So if BMNB got a wild hair and decided to chase some tail, I ain’t mad at him, as long as he doesn’t violate the ground rules: 1) No souvenirs (e.g., crab lice, STD’s or children); 2) No emotional attachment; 3) No lying; 4) No cheating recidivism; and 5) No messing with my financial assets if you violate Rule Number 2 and decide you want a divorce. There’s love and then there’s money. Don’t mess with my money.
Long story short, I’m 45 years of age. I don’t want to start over. I don’t want to date again. I don’t want to divide up my assets, and I sure as hell don’t want to sell the Google stock in my 401k, especially behind some tail. We’ve worked too hard to build this life together to let it run adrift behind a stupid indiscretion from a man who’s been far too perfect for far too long. No person, male or female, is this good, and even BMNB should be allowed to fail just once.
So, BMNB, the offer still stands. But knowing you, you’re too good to take it.
That’s why I love you.
ISO BFSH
It hit me when I was in KB Toys in a nearby mall shopping for kites for my great-nephews and great-nieces. I promised them that BMNB and I would hold a kite-flying picnic for them in a park near our home that they’ve become quite fond of. I saw Transformer kites, Finding Nemo kites, Buzz Lightyear kites, and then when I looked for something a bit girl-friendly, all I found were . . . you guessed it: Barbie kites.
Although many of my great-nieces are bi-racial or multi-racial, none of them are blond with blue eyes. I refuse to buy them Barbie kites.
Which lead me to think: Why aren’t there any black female super heroines? I started asking around, and the only one anyone could think of was Storm from the X-Men. And as my niece pointed out, “She was only black in the movies. In the comic book, she’s mostly gray.”
That’s it. We need our own Black Female Super Heroine. I’ve already put my friend and artist Sheila in Denver to work on drawing her. She will be unequivocally black – with dreads, twists, or locs – and she will be a crime fighter. I won’t give away too much, but she’ll be an everyday thirty-something sister: someone who is single, trying to do the right thing and avoid the wrong men; someone who attends church with her mother and deals with the challenges of aging parents, dysfunctional family members (don’t we all have at least one cousin on lockdown?), and dwindling hopes of having a child in a marital relationship. That is, when she’s not fighting crime with her super heroine powers. Or shopping for shoes. She’s the kind of super heroine who would lay an evildoing woman out and then, standing over her, ask, “Girl, where did you get those shoes? They’re slammin’!” Hey, she’s superhuman, but she’s human, too.
Her name is . . . well, I won’t tell you just yet. But she’ll be coming to a KB Toys near you. You’ll find her in the kite section.
Although many of my great-nieces are bi-racial or multi-racial, none of them are blond with blue eyes. I refuse to buy them Barbie kites.
Which lead me to think: Why aren’t there any black female super heroines? I started asking around, and the only one anyone could think of was Storm from the X-Men. And as my niece pointed out, “She was only black in the movies. In the comic book, she’s mostly gray.”
That’s it. We need our own Black Female Super Heroine. I’ve already put my friend and artist Sheila in Denver to work on drawing her. She will be unequivocally black – with dreads, twists, or locs – and she will be a crime fighter. I won’t give away too much, but she’ll be an everyday thirty-something sister: someone who is single, trying to do the right thing and avoid the wrong men; someone who attends church with her mother and deals with the challenges of aging parents, dysfunctional family members (don’t we all have at least one cousin on lockdown?), and dwindling hopes of having a child in a marital relationship. That is, when she’s not fighting crime with her super heroine powers. Or shopping for shoes. She’s the kind of super heroine who would lay an evildoing woman out and then, standing over her, ask, “Girl, where did you get those shoes? They’re slammin’!” Hey, she’s superhuman, but she’s human, too.
Her name is . . . well, I won’t tell you just yet. But she’ll be coming to a KB Toys near you. You’ll find her in the kite section.
Oh No She Didn't! Now I'm Hotter Than Fish Grease!
"I think they have decided to run a relentlessly negative campaign, and I don’t think anybody who’s watching would deny that . . . . I gather that she’s determined that instead of trying to sell herself on why she would be the best president, she’s trying to convince folks that I wouldn’t be a good one.”
Sen. Barack Obama, N.Y. Times, January 14, 2008
And so it goes -- against my wise counsel (see my January 11 post), Hillary has decided to go negative on Barack Obama. Again. Based on events that happened in the past -- who was most responsible for the gains of the Civil Rights Movement. And she's even got the chief peddler of Black Cultural Porn, former BET President Robert Johnson, joining in the chorus, with a less-than-oblique reference to Obama's drug-using past.
And now, as my friend Sheila in Denver says, I'm hotter than fish grease. (Note: For those of you who lack Southern roots, black Southerners fry catfish in large quantities of peanut oil heated to extremely high temperatures. In fact, peanut oil is the oil of choice for frying fish because it is one of the few oils that can withstand being heated to extremely high temperatures without bursting into flames. Hence the term, "hotter than fish grease." Sheila's family is from Virginia.) What this Democratic primary is turning into is what I perceive to be a generational divide between the older Civil Rights Generation of blacks versus my generation and younger, and, IMHO, Hillary is trying to go negative on Obama to shore up her Civil Rights Generation support. At the risk of speaking out of turn, I know that as far as I'm concerned, enough is enough. I'm tired of the negative campaigning from the Hillary campaign. This little tiff seems to be much ado about nothing, yet another war of words to distract us from the record Hillary ought to be running on -- her own.
And I don't think I'm alone. I'm tired of the whole "politics as Washington bloodsport" approach to political campaigning. I don't care who said what about things in the past -- what I want to know is why each candidate should be President of the United States. Make your own damn case for your own damn candidacy. This time around, you don't get to win by default by trying to detract from and destroy all the other candidates. Not this time around. IMHO, this is a different kind of primary, primarily because of Obama.
Despite the fact that my political jinx status is still in play, now I'm hotter than fish grease and might just have to get involved. I just might have to make another donation to the Obama campaign. And buy an Obama lawn sign. And walk precincts, like I did for Gore and Kerry. I might just have to go all out because I'm tired of the negativity and the lack of fair gamesmanship (gameswomanship?). Enough is enough. I'm hotter than fish grease, and I'm not going to take it anymore.
Sen. Barack Obama, N.Y. Times, January 14, 2008
And so it goes -- against my wise counsel (see my January 11 post), Hillary has decided to go negative on Barack Obama. Again. Based on events that happened in the past -- who was most responsible for the gains of the Civil Rights Movement. And she's even got the chief peddler of Black Cultural Porn, former BET President Robert Johnson, joining in the chorus, with a less-than-oblique reference to Obama's drug-using past.
And now, as my friend Sheila in Denver says, I'm hotter than fish grease. (Note: For those of you who lack Southern roots, black Southerners fry catfish in large quantities of peanut oil heated to extremely high temperatures. In fact, peanut oil is the oil of choice for frying fish because it is one of the few oils that can withstand being heated to extremely high temperatures without bursting into flames. Hence the term, "hotter than fish grease." Sheila's family is from Virginia.) What this Democratic primary is turning into is what I perceive to be a generational divide between the older Civil Rights Generation of blacks versus my generation and younger, and, IMHO, Hillary is trying to go negative on Obama to shore up her Civil Rights Generation support. At the risk of speaking out of turn, I know that as far as I'm concerned, enough is enough. I'm tired of the negative campaigning from the Hillary campaign. This little tiff seems to be much ado about nothing, yet another war of words to distract us from the record Hillary ought to be running on -- her own.
And I don't think I'm alone. I'm tired of the whole "politics as Washington bloodsport" approach to political campaigning. I don't care who said what about things in the past -- what I want to know is why each candidate should be President of the United States. Make your own damn case for your own damn candidacy. This time around, you don't get to win by default by trying to detract from and destroy all the other candidates. Not this time around. IMHO, this is a different kind of primary, primarily because of Obama.
Despite the fact that my political jinx status is still in play, now I'm hotter than fish grease and might just have to get involved. I just might have to make another donation to the Obama campaign. And buy an Obama lawn sign. And walk precincts, like I did for Gore and Kerry. I might just have to go all out because I'm tired of the negativity and the lack of fair gamesmanship (gameswomanship?). Enough is enough. I'm hotter than fish grease, and I'm not going to take it anymore.
What's Your Mojo Song?
Everybody has what I would call a "mojo song." You know -- that song that, when it comes on the radio, you greet it with a heartfelt "Hey!" like you're reuniting with an old friend. You start bobbin' your head and doing a little booty shaking (not to be confused with booty poppin', which is best left to professionals -- strippers and Beyonce). Your mojo song is what gets your mojo (or your inner spirit, your chi, or whatever you'd like to call it) going. It's the song you sing at the top of your lungs, no matter how bad you sound. I have a lot of mojo songs, and today is as good a day as any to reflect on them. Today is International No Music Day (nomusicday.com), during which we are supposed to abandon music and contemplate our relation to it. Well, I can definitely contemplate my relationship to music, but asking me to abandon it for even a day is like asking me to hold my breath for a day. Can't do it, wouldn't want to.
For me, I have different categories of mojo songs. I even have guilty pleasure mojo songs, songs I'm a bit ashamed to admit get my mojo going. One thing most of my mojo songs have in common is a funky bass line. I have this thing for bass -- I like it loud and lots of it. Throw in some horns -- and I mean funky Tower of Power/Earth Wind and Fire/Average White Band/Fred Wesley and the Horny Horns kind of horns, and you really get my mojo going.
Some of my mojo songs are kinda cultish. For example, I think Tina Weymouth, the bassist for the Talking Heads, is one of the best bassists ever. If ever I were allowed to play in any band of any kind, I'd want to be the bass player. I even have a weakness for male bass players. But don't tell BMNB.
So, in the spirit of contemplating my relationship with music, here's my list of mojo songs, by category:
Women Empowerment Mojo Songs
These are the songs that just make me proud to be a woman, not necessarily because of the lyrics, but because of the powerful women singing the songs:
"I'm Every Woman," Chaka Khan. No, not Whitney Houston's version. I said Chaka Khan and I meant it.
"Respect," Aretha Franklin. For obvious reasons. And let me digress: If I had my way, there'd be a law that no one -- and I mean no one -- could remake or publicly perform an Aretha Franklin song, especially this one, without getting a license, and they'd have to sing before a panel of soul music experts in order to get that license . What many of our young black female singers don't get when it comes to Aretha's songs is this: Aretha did it right the first time. And you can't make it any better. So just back away from the microphone and leave it along. That means you, Mary J. Blige. I love you, girl, but you can't improve perfection.
"Since You've Been Gone, "Aretha Franklin. If the bass and the horns added to Aretha's powerhouse vocals don't get you, you're just deaf. Get a hearing aid.
"To Be Real," Cheryl Lynn. And not the short version, either. "Swoo hoo, Swoo hoo, Swoo hoo, I gotta have ya, baby . . . " Ever since the movie "Paris is Burning," I tend to associate this song with drag queens. That makes it all the more fun. You don't have to be a woman to be empowered to want to dress like them. Throw in "Star Love," and it's the 70's all over again for me. Where are my Famolare's?
"My Love Don't Cost A Thing," Jennifer Lopez. The only J-Lo song I really like.
"Independent Woman, Part whatever," Destiny's Child. The shoes on my feet, I bought them. Don't you forget it, either, BMNB.
"Finally," CeCe Peniston. One of the best voices out there. She doesn't seem to get her due.
"Golden, " Jill Scott. BMNB says Jill Scott can do no wrong. I think he's right. I'm living my life like it's golden . . .
"I Am Not My Hair" and "There's Hope," India.Arie. India truly is Stevie Wonder's musical daughter. "I Am Not My Hair" is my cellphone ringtone. I think India's going to be around long after the Keyshia's and Rihanna's and all them are gone.
Songs So Funky That Your Computer Screen Will Stink After Reading This
Again, the bass line rules on these songs:
"One Nation Under a Groove, " "Freak of the Week," and "Flashlight," Parliament/Funkadelics
"Fire," Ohio Players
"The Big Payback," James Brown. I don't know karate, but I know ka-razor! This song brings back happy childhood memories of riding in the back of my cousin's red Buick Electra 225 (lovingly referred to as a "Deuce and a Quarter"), where I first heard this song on his eight-track player on the way to get ice cream with the 20 or so other cousins piled in the back seat. Yeah, it was that big, that Deuce and a Quarter. The folks at GM need to forget about the Lucerne; they need to bring back the Deuce and a Quarter. But I digress. This bass line, along with the wah-wah guitar strokes, is one of the most sampled pieces of music in hip-hop.
"Candy," by Cameo, although this song reminds me of strippers because of the movie "The Best Man." Still like it though, even if it makes me want to put a stipper pole in my bedroom. Again, don't telll BMNB.
"Funkin' for Jamaica" and "Thighs High," Tom Browne. Quite frankly, I don't know whether Tom Browne ever did anything else noteworthy, but it doesn't matter. If your wedding reception is starting to die down and go stale, run -- not walk -- to your DJ and have him put on "Funkin' for Jamaica." Only the arthritic will remain in their seats. Trust me.
"Bon Bon Vie," T.S. Monk. So what he's the son of THE Monk. Can't he funk, too?
"Jungle Boogie" and "Hollywood Swingin'," Kool and the Gang. I like how the trumpets in "Jungle Boogie" sound like elephants.
"Fantastic Voyage," Lakeside. Now this groove's so funky, hey, what do you think? What is it called, let's call it Lakeside stank!
My Rock Side
Good bassists come in all colors, to wit, Tina Weymouth of the Talking Heads.
"Once in a Lifetime," Talking Heads. Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down . . . . If Tina's bass on this one doesn't get you, well, you just need to have a lifetime of No Music days.
"Start Me Up," The Rolling Stones. Long before Microsoft ruined it for everyone. Plus, the Stones, unlike many American artists, are unabashed in their admission of admiration for, and thievery from, black soul artists. Rock on.
No Category -- I Just Like Them
"Freeway of Love," Aretha Franklin. Don't ask. My mom used to like it, and it makes me happy thinking of her doing her mojo dance to it.
"Shout" and "Do You Love Me (Now That I Can Dance)," The Isley Brothers. Before the whole Mr. Big persona. When they were fresh out of church and acted like it, too.
"Genius of Love," Tom Tom Club. What you gonna do when you get out of jail? I'm gonna have some fun. . . ." I guess Scooter Libby will never have to answer that question. Again, Tina Weymouth at her best, plus she does the vocals this time. Anyone who can fit Bohannon and James Brown into the same song is a genius.
"Square Biz," Teena Marie. A funky bass beat and vocals that introduced legions of young folks to Sassy Sarah Vaughn's vocal style via synthesizer. Add to that "Behind The Groove" and "I Need Your Lovin'." One of my friends, Sheila, said the best concert she'd ever seen was Teena Marie and Rick James at the Orange Bowl. Lightening in a bottle, y'all. Won't ever happen again.
"Crazy in Love," Beyonce. What I didn't get when I first heard this song was that there was little to it that was original. The horns I fell in love with? Sampled from a Chi-Lites song. See, this is what happens when you haven't lived long enough. My older sister had to tell me that those horns were sampled. Similarly, I've had to point out all the funk samples in hip-hop for my nephew, who is too young to know his favorite hip-hop artists sample heavily. However, the way this song was produced -- with the layers upon layers of Beyonce's own vocals that blend seemlessly into the sampled horns, along with the fact that the verse parts have very little instumentals with them -- is just magic, pure magic. This is why Jay-Z makes the big bucks.
"Working Day and Night" "Starting Something," and "Remember the Time," Michael Jackson. I like Michael best when he sings dance songs. I especially like "Remember the Time" because of the video. You will never see Iman, Eddie Murphy, Magic Johnson and Michael Jackson together in a video ever again. And I know Michael gets mad props for the choreography in "Thriller," but for me, the Egyptian dancers in this video worked it out! Plus, when Michael wails, "What about us? What about us?," you feel it like you did back in the seventies when he hit that high note in "Who's Lovin' You." I miss the old Michael. America's loss, the U.A.E.'s gain.
"Control," Janet Jackson. I used to run Lake Merritt in Oakland listening to this song. That was forty pounds ago . . . .
"One Love" and "Three Little Birds," Bob Marley. I'm from the Central Valley, which means I'm real late to the whole reggae thing.
"This Is How We Do It, " Montel Jordan. Hey, I'm from California. Which leads to my next choice:
Guilty Pleasures -- I Know I Shouldn't Love These Songs, But Tell That To My Butt
"California Love," Dr. Dre and Tupac. Singing about hoochies alone should have been enough to turn me off. But who can resist Roger?
"I Get Around," Tupac. The Underground just don't stop for . . . you know the rest. And you should be ashamed, too.
"Miss You," The Rolling Stones. To Puerto Rican girls everywhere, I apologize. Lo siento mucho.
Just Plain Nasty
"Nasty Girl," Vanity Six. What real woman needs seven inches or more, or has the cojones to sing about it?
"Give It To Me Baby," Rick James. Now, as the old folks say, he needed to have his mouth washed out for singing about "that sweet, funky stuff." That's just nasty, which leads me to my last song:
"Head," Prince. This song's so nasty, Prince won't even sing it in concert anymore. Definitely not for the under-35 crowd. But perhaps I'm being naive in the post-Monica Lewinsky era. If you get past the lyrics, the fact that he plays all the instruments and that the synthesizer, not any real bass, carries the bass line, is worthy of reluctant admiration.
Happy No Music Day, everyone. Now, where's my IPod? (Just kidding)
And Happy Thanksgiving. This Black Woman is taking the rest of the week off. :-)
PS And how could I forget? "It Takes Two," Rob Base and D.J. E-Z Rock. When this song comes on, I get like Randy from the sitcom, "My Name is Earl": Oh no they didn't!!!!
For me, I have different categories of mojo songs. I even have guilty pleasure mojo songs, songs I'm a bit ashamed to admit get my mojo going. One thing most of my mojo songs have in common is a funky bass line. I have this thing for bass -- I like it loud and lots of it. Throw in some horns -- and I mean funky Tower of Power/Earth Wind and Fire/Average White Band/Fred Wesley and the Horny Horns kind of horns, and you really get my mojo going.
Some of my mojo songs are kinda cultish. For example, I think Tina Weymouth, the bassist for the Talking Heads, is one of the best bassists ever. If ever I were allowed to play in any band of any kind, I'd want to be the bass player. I even have a weakness for male bass players. But don't tell BMNB.
So, in the spirit of contemplating my relationship with music, here's my list of mojo songs, by category:
Women Empowerment Mojo Songs
These are the songs that just make me proud to be a woman, not necessarily because of the lyrics, but because of the powerful women singing the songs:
"I'm Every Woman," Chaka Khan. No, not Whitney Houston's version. I said Chaka Khan and I meant it.
"Respect," Aretha Franklin. For obvious reasons. And let me digress: If I had my way, there'd be a law that no one -- and I mean no one -- could remake or publicly perform an Aretha Franklin song, especially this one, without getting a license, and they'd have to sing before a panel of soul music experts in order to get that license . What many of our young black female singers don't get when it comes to Aretha's songs is this: Aretha did it right the first time. And you can't make it any better. So just back away from the microphone and leave it along. That means you, Mary J. Blige. I love you, girl, but you can't improve perfection.
"Since You've Been Gone, "Aretha Franklin. If the bass and the horns added to Aretha's powerhouse vocals don't get you, you're just deaf. Get a hearing aid.
"To Be Real," Cheryl Lynn. And not the short version, either. "Swoo hoo, Swoo hoo, Swoo hoo, I gotta have ya, baby . . . " Ever since the movie "Paris is Burning," I tend to associate this song with drag queens. That makes it all the more fun. You don't have to be a woman to be empowered to want to dress like them. Throw in "Star Love," and it's the 70's all over again for me. Where are my Famolare's?
"My Love Don't Cost A Thing," Jennifer Lopez. The only J-Lo song I really like.
"Independent Woman, Part whatever," Destiny's Child. The shoes on my feet, I bought them. Don't you forget it, either, BMNB.
"Finally," CeCe Peniston. One of the best voices out there. She doesn't seem to get her due.
"Golden, " Jill Scott. BMNB says Jill Scott can do no wrong. I think he's right. I'm living my life like it's golden . . .
"I Am Not My Hair" and "There's Hope," India.Arie. India truly is Stevie Wonder's musical daughter. "I Am Not My Hair" is my cellphone ringtone. I think India's going to be around long after the Keyshia's and Rihanna's and all them are gone.
Songs So Funky That Your Computer Screen Will Stink After Reading This
Again, the bass line rules on these songs:
"One Nation Under a Groove, " "Freak of the Week," and "Flashlight," Parliament/Funkadelics
"Fire," Ohio Players
"The Big Payback," James Brown. I don't know karate, but I know ka-razor! This song brings back happy childhood memories of riding in the back of my cousin's red Buick Electra 225 (lovingly referred to as a "Deuce and a Quarter"), where I first heard this song on his eight-track player on the way to get ice cream with the 20 or so other cousins piled in the back seat. Yeah, it was that big, that Deuce and a Quarter. The folks at GM need to forget about the Lucerne; they need to bring back the Deuce and a Quarter. But I digress. This bass line, along with the wah-wah guitar strokes, is one of the most sampled pieces of music in hip-hop.
"Candy," by Cameo, although this song reminds me of strippers because of the movie "The Best Man." Still like it though, even if it makes me want to put a stipper pole in my bedroom. Again, don't telll BMNB.
"Funkin' for Jamaica" and "Thighs High," Tom Browne. Quite frankly, I don't know whether Tom Browne ever did anything else noteworthy, but it doesn't matter. If your wedding reception is starting to die down and go stale, run -- not walk -- to your DJ and have him put on "Funkin' for Jamaica." Only the arthritic will remain in their seats. Trust me.
"Bon Bon Vie," T.S. Monk. So what he's the son of THE Monk. Can't he funk, too?
"Jungle Boogie" and "Hollywood Swingin'," Kool and the Gang. I like how the trumpets in "Jungle Boogie" sound like elephants.
"Fantastic Voyage," Lakeside. Now this groove's so funky, hey, what do you think? What is it called, let's call it Lakeside stank!
My Rock Side
Good bassists come in all colors, to wit, Tina Weymouth of the Talking Heads.
"Once in a Lifetime," Talking Heads. Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down . . . . If Tina's bass on this one doesn't get you, well, you just need to have a lifetime of No Music days.
"Start Me Up," The Rolling Stones. Long before Microsoft ruined it for everyone. Plus, the Stones, unlike many American artists, are unabashed in their admission of admiration for, and thievery from, black soul artists. Rock on.
No Category -- I Just Like Them
"Freeway of Love," Aretha Franklin. Don't ask. My mom used to like it, and it makes me happy thinking of her doing her mojo dance to it.
"Shout" and "Do You Love Me (Now That I Can Dance)," The Isley Brothers. Before the whole Mr. Big persona. When they were fresh out of church and acted like it, too.
"Genius of Love," Tom Tom Club. What you gonna do when you get out of jail? I'm gonna have some fun. . . ." I guess Scooter Libby will never have to answer that question. Again, Tina Weymouth at her best, plus she does the vocals this time. Anyone who can fit Bohannon and James Brown into the same song is a genius.
"Square Biz," Teena Marie. A funky bass beat and vocals that introduced legions of young folks to Sassy Sarah Vaughn's vocal style via synthesizer. Add to that "Behind The Groove" and "I Need Your Lovin'." One of my friends, Sheila, said the best concert she'd ever seen was Teena Marie and Rick James at the Orange Bowl. Lightening in a bottle, y'all. Won't ever happen again.
"Crazy in Love," Beyonce. What I didn't get when I first heard this song was that there was little to it that was original. The horns I fell in love with? Sampled from a Chi-Lites song. See, this is what happens when you haven't lived long enough. My older sister had to tell me that those horns were sampled. Similarly, I've had to point out all the funk samples in hip-hop for my nephew, who is too young to know his favorite hip-hop artists sample heavily. However, the way this song was produced -- with the layers upon layers of Beyonce's own vocals that blend seemlessly into the sampled horns, along with the fact that the verse parts have very little instumentals with them -- is just magic, pure magic. This is why Jay-Z makes the big bucks.
"Working Day and Night" "Starting Something," and "Remember the Time," Michael Jackson. I like Michael best when he sings dance songs. I especially like "Remember the Time" because of the video. You will never see Iman, Eddie Murphy, Magic Johnson and Michael Jackson together in a video ever again. And I know Michael gets mad props for the choreography in "Thriller," but for me, the Egyptian dancers in this video worked it out! Plus, when Michael wails, "What about us? What about us?," you feel it like you did back in the seventies when he hit that high note in "Who's Lovin' You." I miss the old Michael. America's loss, the U.A.E.'s gain.
"Control," Janet Jackson. I used to run Lake Merritt in Oakland listening to this song. That was forty pounds ago . . . .
"One Love" and "Three Little Birds," Bob Marley. I'm from the Central Valley, which means I'm real late to the whole reggae thing.
"This Is How We Do It, " Montel Jordan. Hey, I'm from California. Which leads to my next choice:
Guilty Pleasures -- I Know I Shouldn't Love These Songs, But Tell That To My Butt
"California Love," Dr. Dre and Tupac. Singing about hoochies alone should have been enough to turn me off. But who can resist Roger?
"I Get Around," Tupac. The Underground just don't stop for . . . you know the rest. And you should be ashamed, too.
"Miss You," The Rolling Stones. To Puerto Rican girls everywhere, I apologize. Lo siento mucho.
Just Plain Nasty
"Nasty Girl," Vanity Six. What real woman needs seven inches or more, or has the cojones to sing about it?
"Give It To Me Baby," Rick James. Now, as the old folks say, he needed to have his mouth washed out for singing about "that sweet, funky stuff." That's just nasty, which leads me to my last song:
"Head," Prince. This song's so nasty, Prince won't even sing it in concert anymore. Definitely not for the under-35 crowd. But perhaps I'm being naive in the post-Monica Lewinsky era. If you get past the lyrics, the fact that he plays all the instruments and that the synthesizer, not any real bass, carries the bass line, is worthy of reluctant admiration.
Happy No Music Day, everyone. Now, where's my IPod? (Just kidding)
And Happy Thanksgiving. This Black Woman is taking the rest of the week off. :-)
PS And how could I forget? "It Takes Two," Rob Base and D.J. E-Z Rock. When this song comes on, I get like Randy from the sitcom, "My Name is Earl": Oh no they didn't!!!!
Divide Over Values Splitting Black Identity -- Ethnicity, Anyone?
From the Washington Post:
Conventional wisdom about black America is being turned on its head. Nearly two out of five black people (37 percent) surveyed in a new Pew poll, done in association with NPR, said that blacks "can no longer be thought of as a single race."
Only half of all black people in the country (53 percent) say it is possible to think of blacks as one race. And young black Americans -- ages 18 to 29 -- are more likely than older blacks to say that blacks are no longer a single race.
The growing perception of two races is really a divide over values.
More than half of all Americans -- people of all colors -- believe that the values of poor and middle class blacks are becoming more different. When the question is limited to black people, the answer is even more definitive: 61 percent say values are now more different between middle-class and poor blacks. The perception of a class divide in black America has increased nearly 20 points since a similar question was asked of black people in 1986.
This poll, conducted by the Pew Research Center in consultation with NPR political analyst Juan Williams, as reported in the mainstream media, doesn't address one significant variable: ethnicity.
Black america does not share one ethnicity. And with differences in ethnicity come differences in values.
The idea that all American blacks are descendants of slaves imported to the American south no longer holds. In large cities and in the east, American blacks are very likely to have roots in Jamaica, Haiti, the Bahamas, Cape Verde, Panama, Guyana, Nigeria, Ghana, Puerto Rico, Cuba, The Dominican Republic, you name it. Since I am not a demographer, I can only speak anecdotally. Perhaps what the poll captured as middle-class values are in fact recent immigrant values?
In order to maintain the privacy and anonymity of my friends, for purposes of this blog, I will refer to all my male friends as "Trevor" and all my female friends as "Sheila." (Thank you, Jill Connor Browne, for this literary device).
I have a friend, Trevor, whose parents are from Jamaica. He doesn't consider himself Jamaican because he wasn't born there, but he does consider himself West Indian. My friend Sheila considers herself Bahamian because her father was born there and her mother's family is from there.
When Trevor and I were young, just-out-of-law-school attorneys in the Bay Area, one thing I noticed was that Trevor took great pride in being West Indian, and he would always point out to me which African Americans, dead or alive, had Jamaican roots. Colin Powell -- Jamaican. Patrick Ewing -- Jamaican. Biggie -- Jamaican. Marcus Garvey -- Jamaican. I think he once tried to claim Michael Jordan as Jamaican, but I had to put my foot down. And when he would introduce me to one of his friends, if the friend was Jamaican, he would say, "He's good people. He's a Yardie."
A Yardie?
Basically, a Jamaican homeboy.
Trevor was sent to the U.S. to be educated, and he succeeded wildly. But to this day I can't say he considers himself African American as we think of the term. He often said that one of the worst things you could say about a Jamaican was to call him or her "lazy." Hard work and self-sufficiency were their ethic, and Trevor despises laziness.
A value difference based on ethnicity instead of class? Perhaps.
Then there's Sheila. Her father was born in the Bahamas, and he worked four jobs -- yes, four -- to put his three children through private k-12 schools and private universities. Despite his successes, Sheila said that, in the Bahamas, her father would not have been considered successful because he didn't own his own business. Entrepreneurship was the hallmark of success among Bahamians, not how many jobs you worked to educate your children.
A value difference based on ethnicity instead of class? Perhaps.
It took me a while after I arrived at college to realize that not all of my black friends were rooted in the South as I am (on one side of my family; my mother's people go back four generations in California, but that's an entry for another day). Many were only one to two generations removed from -- you guessed it -- Jamaica or the Bahamas. But you wouldn't have know it from looking at them. They wore the same jeans (Jordache -- it was 1981, y'all), the same hair styles, etc. Unless you got to know them, you wouldn't have known. And I would have never met black people like them but for leaving the California Central Valley for college. I can attest to never having attended elementary, junior or high school with blacks whose family had recent roots in the West Indies, Cape Verde, Africa, or South America. But my experience isn't the experience of most blacks my age who grew up in New York, Los Angeles, Miami, Boston, D.C. or Philly. IMHO, at my college, blacks with recent roots in other countries were probably overrepresented relative to their numbers among all blacks and, if I may be so bold as to hypothesize, they may be overrepresented now in the black American middle class. Again, I'm not a demographer, but that's my hunch.
It would have been nice if the Pew/NPR folks had addressed whether ethnicity played any role in the values difference. And I would have expected a little more analysis of ethnicity from a black man whose first name is Juan.
Conventional wisdom about black America is being turned on its head. Nearly two out of five black people (37 percent) surveyed in a new Pew poll, done in association with NPR, said that blacks "can no longer be thought of as a single race."
Only half of all black people in the country (53 percent) say it is possible to think of blacks as one race. And young black Americans -- ages 18 to 29 -- are more likely than older blacks to say that blacks are no longer a single race.
The growing perception of two races is really a divide over values.
More than half of all Americans -- people of all colors -- believe that the values of poor and middle class blacks are becoming more different. When the question is limited to black people, the answer is even more definitive: 61 percent say values are now more different between middle-class and poor blacks. The perception of a class divide in black America has increased nearly 20 points since a similar question was asked of black people in 1986.
This poll, conducted by the Pew Research Center in consultation with NPR political analyst Juan Williams, as reported in the mainstream media, doesn't address one significant variable: ethnicity.
Black america does not share one ethnicity. And with differences in ethnicity come differences in values.
The idea that all American blacks are descendants of slaves imported to the American south no longer holds. In large cities and in the east, American blacks are very likely to have roots in Jamaica, Haiti, the Bahamas, Cape Verde, Panama, Guyana, Nigeria, Ghana, Puerto Rico, Cuba, The Dominican Republic, you name it. Since I am not a demographer, I can only speak anecdotally. Perhaps what the poll captured as middle-class values are in fact recent immigrant values?
In order to maintain the privacy and anonymity of my friends, for purposes of this blog, I will refer to all my male friends as "Trevor" and all my female friends as "Sheila." (Thank you, Jill Connor Browne, for this literary device).
I have a friend, Trevor, whose parents are from Jamaica. He doesn't consider himself Jamaican because he wasn't born there, but he does consider himself West Indian. My friend Sheila considers herself Bahamian because her father was born there and her mother's family is from there.
When Trevor and I were young, just-out-of-law-school attorneys in the Bay Area, one thing I noticed was that Trevor took great pride in being West Indian, and he would always point out to me which African Americans, dead or alive, had Jamaican roots. Colin Powell -- Jamaican. Patrick Ewing -- Jamaican. Biggie -- Jamaican. Marcus Garvey -- Jamaican. I think he once tried to claim Michael Jordan as Jamaican, but I had to put my foot down. And when he would introduce me to one of his friends, if the friend was Jamaican, he would say, "He's good people. He's a Yardie."
A Yardie?
Basically, a Jamaican homeboy.
Trevor was sent to the U.S. to be educated, and he succeeded wildly. But to this day I can't say he considers himself African American as we think of the term. He often said that one of the worst things you could say about a Jamaican was to call him or her "lazy." Hard work and self-sufficiency were their ethic, and Trevor despises laziness.
A value difference based on ethnicity instead of class? Perhaps.
Then there's Sheila. Her father was born in the Bahamas, and he worked four jobs -- yes, four -- to put his three children through private k-12 schools and private universities. Despite his successes, Sheila said that, in the Bahamas, her father would not have been considered successful because he didn't own his own business. Entrepreneurship was the hallmark of success among Bahamians, not how many jobs you worked to educate your children.
A value difference based on ethnicity instead of class? Perhaps.
It took me a while after I arrived at college to realize that not all of my black friends were rooted in the South as I am (on one side of my family; my mother's people go back four generations in California, but that's an entry for another day). Many were only one to two generations removed from -- you guessed it -- Jamaica or the Bahamas. But you wouldn't have know it from looking at them. They wore the same jeans (Jordache -- it was 1981, y'all), the same hair styles, etc. Unless you got to know them, you wouldn't have known. And I would have never met black people like them but for leaving the California Central Valley for college. I can attest to never having attended elementary, junior or high school with blacks whose family had recent roots in the West Indies, Cape Verde, Africa, or South America. But my experience isn't the experience of most blacks my age who grew up in New York, Los Angeles, Miami, Boston, D.C. or Philly. IMHO, at my college, blacks with recent roots in other countries were probably overrepresented relative to their numbers among all blacks and, if I may be so bold as to hypothesize, they may be overrepresented now in the black American middle class. Again, I'm not a demographer, but that's my hunch.
It would have been nice if the Pew/NPR folks had addressed whether ethnicity played any role in the values difference. And I would have expected a little more analysis of ethnicity from a black man whose first name is Juan.
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