Burger Queen of Hip-Hop Soul

Wow, Mary J. Blige! Way to attempt to throw Burger King under the proverbial bus. The only thing more laughable than your people's move to distance you from the role you played in Burger King's celebrity-laden rebranding effort was the actual commercial.
And yes, I laughed. Hard. Hysterically. More than once.

Let's take another look:



God, that's funny. 

For My Players in the(ir) Hood(ies)

The support for Trayvon Martin has been rather remarkable. The public has gone into their protest toolkit and hashtagged, blogged, marched, sent Skittles, and updated Facebook pictures accordingly. Even the POTUS, notoriously mum and/or known to toe borders on issues that concern race, went as far as to suggest that his male offspring would have perhaps resembled Trayvon Martin.

The most popular method of expressing dissatisfaction with the way that the Sanford, Florida, police department has handled the Martin case has been the donning--and therefore Facebook picturing--of people wearing hoodies. Martin had been wearing a hoodie when Zimmerman killed him; in fact, he had put the hood on his head to protect himself from Zimmerman, whose gaze he found worrisome, to say the least. An act, ironically, that exacerbated Zimmeran's presumably prejudicial determination that Martin was suspicious. 

Today in Post-Race History: A Modest Proposal

To: President Barack Obama
cc: Attorney General Eric Holder
cc: GOP Presidential Candidates 

Dear Mr. President:

I hope this letter finds you well. With the Republican race looking more and more like the Real Housewives of something and March Madness in full swing (sorry about your bracket), I imagine that your spirits are rather high. I hope a note from one of your crankiest constituents doesn't ruin that.

Perhaps you are surprised that I would be writing to you. After all, as my gmail chats and (protected) tweets suggest (maybe you've seen them?), I'm not your biggest fan. Nonetheless, I feel compelled to reach out to you, as the concerns of this letter demand the kind of help only the most powerful person in the world can provide. Should my request be granted, I promise to vote for you in the fall. (I know Illinois is already blue for you, but sometimes it's the act that counts.)

On the Inevitable #Fail of the Whitney Houston Biopic

As much as I'd like to stop publicly mourning the death of a person I never met, I'm not ready. Tweeting #shoopforjesus, randomly saying "'Re ain't here!?" to whomever will listen, and concluding that Whitney wasn't that bad of a dancer after watching the "I Wanna Dance with Somebody" video are clear indicators that I'm: 1. my mother's child and 2. not quite ready to let go. So, (un)fortunately, I must write about Whitney again. (I'm sure you can find a pundit sounding off on Rush Limbaugh somewhere on the internet.)

It makes sense, then, that I went in on my friend Maegs when she mentioned news of a Houston biopic and tried to defend why Jennifer Hudson was a legitimate option. My profanity-laced diatribe not only included the "J.Hud's not pretty enough" angle, but also featured a rather long-winded digression about how much I hate her Weight Watchers commercials and thus would not stand for her playing my mama's favorite singer.

Spilling Whitney's Tea Redux

Since I have done nothing but act like my mother's child and mourn the passing of Whitney Houston for the last 10 days, I knew today's post would be a return, in some way, to The Voice. Early last week, I had resolved to write a fun, lighter post, tentatively titled, "Whitney: Anatomy of a Diva," where I post videos of Whitney singing with other, clearly lesser singers and offer commentary.

But that will have to wait.

After last Monday's post, I got a really thoughtful and thought-provoking email asking about whether or not it was too soon discuss the nature of Whitney's relationship with her former assistant, Robyn Crawford. It took me a few days to respond, because I thought I was deeply ambivalent about the matter. In reply, I questioned the impulse to posthumously out folks, and wondered if we had not found other ways to validate our own sexuality. I made that last claim with a little trepidation, because although I don't find being able to identify with a celebrity in such a way helpful to my own self-esteem, I must acknowledge that others feel differently. (Moreover, I must readily confess that my addiction to poorly produced webseries starring lesbians of color does not stem solely from my thirst for things to hate on.)

The Voice: Remembering Whitney Houston (1963 -- 2012)

The Voice. When one is colloquially known as such, it becomes easy to forget that such sound emanates from inside a human being. The Voice. A disembodied moniker. So spectacularly general, simply an article and noun sans the dressing of more instructive, clarifying wording: "of reason" or "of God" or "of an angel." The Voice. So intangible, yet generating a viewable response that cannot be contained within the body, that must express itself in paroxysms of applause, spontaneous standing, or dimmed eyes, mouths agape, heads nodding in utter disbelief of what their ears have witnessed. The Voice. An appellation, like air or magic, that implies an ethereal otherworldliness, an omnipresence so unique that the one to which it refers can never be confused with another.

This weekend, The Voice lost its vessel. 

The Real Housewives of The Help Go to Africa

Hollywood is so full of liberal do-gooders always on the cutting edge. As such, in advance of Black History Month, they have bestowed many acting awards upon members of the cast of The Help, namely Viola Davis and Octavia Spencer, who both won SAG Awards last night.

Perhaps it was because the embarrassingly entertaining Real Housewives of Atlanta happened to be arguing about how to properly acknowledge one another at the mall at the same time the SAG Awards aired, but Twitter responses to Marlo's desire to eat some African (it's a country, you know) food like fish (what she order?/fish filet?) were briefly interrupted by folks going on and on about the greatness of Viola Davis' acceptance speech. My allegiances are to RHOA, so I googled the speech. Davis looked really nice (those Bassett-esque arms!). Her professional community gave her a standing ovation. She talked about dreams. Shouted out Cicely Tyson and Meryl Streep.

Toure's Northern State of Mind*

A few weeks ago, writer slash (cultural) critic slash Twitter all-star, Toure published a piece in the The New York Times about the allegedly recent flurry of white women rappers. From rehashing black respectability in an article about Michael Vick, to considering the black middle class in a discussion of the Obamas' vacationing tendencies, Toure is no stranger to writing incendiary and ill-conceived articles. And this latest work is no different. Like the ones before them, this story generated a considerable amount of discussion on Twitter and other social media outlets where anyone with an internet connection can articulate her beef.


In the piece, Toure argues that even within a genre considered so hypermasculine and black, the combination of the largely white male demographic that listens to rap music and Americans' overall obsession with blondes indicates that eventually--perhaps even soon and very soon--a white woman rapper or several will garner mainstream attention. Toure then goes on to list a small group of white women emcees who have gained some notoriety on the web. 

Pariah's Pariah: A Review, a Critique

*Spoiler Alert*

On Friday, Dee Rees' much lauded independent film, Pariah will expand its release from four theaters to eleven, increasing the opportunity for many to view this incredibly important Focus Features picture. Rees' debut work has deservedly generated a deluge of critical praise, and should at the very least garner a few nominations come award season.

The coming of age story centers on Alike (pronounced uh-LEE-kay), played pitch perfectly by Adepero Oduye as a somewhat awkward 17-year-old high school student and aspiring poet. On the cusp of fully coming into her sexuality, Alike dons herself in boy's clothing at school and as she explores the gay nightlife of New York City with her friend Laura (Pernell Walker). At home, however, Alike dresses in a more traditionally feminine costume to throw her mother, Audrey (Kim Wayans) off of her increasingly difficult to mask scent. This, of course, is the core tension in the film, and the viewer's stomach tightens as the stakes get increasingly higher. As this central narrative unfolds, Alike smartly navigates her way through personal discovery, experiencing first love and a gut-wrenchingly painful heartbreak, all the while preparing for that ever difficult task of leaving the (parents') nest.