Happy Birthday, Nannie

Dear Nannie,

I'm not sure that there's anybody in this universe who could make me smile the way you did.

I miss you.

Love,
Summie

Schadenfreude for Dummies

Today is my birthday. [Golf clap.]  Moving on.

Consider this my obligatory, quite random and uninspired response to the Tiger Woods' apology: It was boring, about as interesting as watching golf on television.  Like, seriously.  How can I take voyeuristic pleasure in something so...um, vanilla [talking about the speech, not Woods' taste in women]?  For a guy who sends such racy text messages, I was expecting a much more electrifying statement.  If Tiger Woods had read from his Blackberry I assure you all that his apology would have actually been worth talking about.  Maybe he should've used Autotune.  Is there an App for animating an otherwise mundane statement by a professional athlete?

How much more satisfying would it have been if Woods had just walked up to the podium and said, "My wife made me do this..."?

Today in Post-Race History: Dear John

Dear John Mayer,

Dude, wtf?  I was in New Mexico off grid for a few days; I get back home to the Chi, and every straight black girl with a blog now hates you.  I had a message in my Facebook inbox with a link to your Playboy interview, so I figured it out.  Note to self: friends don't let friends interview drunk.

Normally, John, I wouldn't be paying much attention to you.  My homegirl, Maegs swears by you, and insists on torturing me at work by playing your albums.  I don't quite understand the allure.  You're kind of like Corinne Bailey Rae to me: people love you, but you bore me to pieces.  Don't get me wrong.  I love my sensitive white boys.  I dig Damien Rice.  Josh Rouse's 1972 is my album.  Amos Lee's "Skipping Stone"?  My jam.  Yet for whatever reason, whenever I hear Maegs humming "Daughters," I start hitting the snooze button.  However, you woke me up with your Playboy interview.  You infuriated others.  You made me shrug.  Then again it's kind of my moral obligation as a blogger on this thing we call pop life to say something, right?  So here's my "something."  Pay attention.

More than a Game

My fellow Boilermaker, Drew Brees with the Lombardi trophy

Dang.  So I had this long post-Super Bowl entry ready about sports and how I don't enjoy trophy presentations after the game and the plantation model in professional sports and everything, but I just can't post something like that right now.  Not this morning.  Not when there are people still partying in the French Quarter.

Instant Vintage: Beyonce Brings Sassiness to Nuptials

It looks as if Sasha's empire is about to get even fiercer. In an unprecedented celebrity branding move, Beyonce Knowles will be unveiling a new twist on an old favorite. Recharged by her infectious and socially conscious lyrics, Knowles has set her empty sights towards ameliorating a serious blight in the African-American community: lack of marital commitment.

On February 8, just in time for Valentine’s Day, Knowles is set to unleash her latest branding endeavor onto the world: a line of engagement and wedding rings. The ring line, not subtly though cleverly called, "Put A Ring On It by Beyonce Knowles," was inspired by Knowles' smash hit, "Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It)." The legendary jeweler, Tiffany and Co. will carry the line; a less expensive version of the rings will be available at Kay Jewelers, under the similar, but more urban appellation "Put a Rang on It by Bey."

Today in Post-Race History: Super Bowl, Super Conundrum

I just don't know how Chris Matthews does it!  My experience at last year's inauguration--a.k.a. the second biggest event in black history, just one acre and half a mule behind freedom--left me cold, irritable, hungry, and so over the large crowds only hours of attending rap concerts with my homegirl, Maegs helped me successfully navigate.  I lost Hope at the Silver Spring metro station, but, encouraged by the sight of all those black folks draped in American flag-inspired fashions, I did stash a little post-race elixir in the glove compartment of my car, only to freak out when I got pulled over by a Pennsylvania state trooper, and demand that Maegs toss it out into the darkness of the Keystone State night.  Since then, I've become even more obsessed with blackness.  So much so that I can't shake this feeling that somehow I must have mistakenly taken the red, black, and green pill instead of the blue one like I had intended.  (Morpheus is such a trickster!)  As a result, I've spent the last year haunted by race, becoming more racially paranoid than an octaroon at a Mississippi Klan rally.