Earlie
r this summer, I’d gone to my local Walgreens to satisfy a craving for peanut M&Ms. As I stood in the candy aisle deciding just how big of a bag I should purchase, a woman and her two small children joined me in the aisle. The mother stood there looking over the sale items as her two kids, a girl and a boy, argued over candy. Then, the young one, the boy, suddenly walked towards the magazine rack, and pointed to a picture of Michael Jackson. He screamed, “Michael Jackson! Michael Jackson,” then pursed his lips, started loudly breathing through his mouth, and began what must have been his version of dancing like Mike.
Now, this little boy couldn’t have been more than three. There’s no way that he could remember Michael the way that you and I remember Michael. Yet he shared such a pure enthusiasm for the MJJ, such a love that I couldn’t do anything but smile at him and think about the ways that Michael continues to live and touch lives. Little boys rocking out at the sight of Michael Jackson on a magazine cover is exactly what legends are made of. Read more »
One of the first memories I have of my first year in college is Jell-O wrestling. I have absolutely no idea how, on the last Saturday night before classes started, my new roommates and I — perhaps on our way to some black(er?) social event — ended up amongst a crowd of fellow co-eds, standing on the dusty lawn of some random frat house watching students wrestle in a pool of mud and The Cos’ favorite dessert, but there we were, equally befuddle and alarmed by the spectacle. Whitley and Dwayne were not my classmates, but witnessing Jell-O wresting informed me that I was, indeed, in a different world.
I’ll readily admit that, The Golden Girls (greatest sitcom ever!) notwithstanding, I have rather asinine taste in television and film. Seriously, my undying love for the good-n-terrible movie, Hav Plenty is well beyond absurd. Still, I am compelled to temporarily cease from railing against the news and pop culture of the day (
Since I only write here at BYP on Mondays, the blogging silence of the other six days often results in hateration build up. Fortunately, I take notes. What follows is a rather desultory dose of scathing haterade for your Monday morning. Who needs caffeine?
Several weeks ago, I had planned on writing the NAACP in an effort to convince them to ceremoniously bury the term post-race the way they did the word nigger a.k.a “the n-word” a few years ago. Then the whole Shirley Sherrod debacle happened, and I decided that obviously the NAACP’s race card had been suspended, therefore making them barely qualified to issue brown paper bag tests let alone march around some midwestern city long abandoned by industry, singing dirges for problematic words that are just impolite to use. On Friday, I was glad I put the brakes on becoming pen pals with the NAACP. I may need to use the term post-race–and not just to be a sarcastic bastard.
The other day, I was talking to my so-not-a-sports fan friend, rrrr about the LeBron James situation. I mentioned how people took real issue with the slavery as analogy aspect of the whole debate. I know I said something about the plantation model in my previous 
Last week, the folks over at 
Sometimes, I make myself sick. I waited for the LeBron James ESPN special, “The Decision,” like it was a Michael Jackson music video premiere. (Remember the time?) I sat in front of the television and waited for LBJ to moonwalk, spin, grab his crotch, and scream “Shamon,” at Jim Gray. But, alas, that never happened. Instead, LBJ broke northeast Ohio’s heart, and told the viewing public that he planned to take his talents to [W]ade County, Florida, thereby turning the Miami Heat into some kind of NBA version of the United States circa the middle of the 20th century: young, rich, and with world domination on their minds. Of course, the analogy probably doesn’t hold all that well, but still, if I may borrow my friend jmscott’s hashtag, it’s #nbaimperialism if there ever was. I guess that makes the Boston Celtics England or something. I don’t know. I digress.
It’s a federal holiday. Which probably means most of you have not just settled into your cubicle to read my Monday morning message. Not that anyone would actually be reading this if they were at work this morning, but at least I have a legitimate reason–and a federally recognized one–to be ignored. Initially, I had planned on using this morning’s blog to declare my independence from a variety of things: the NBA free agency conversation, graduate school, Blizzards. But I realized that recently I’ve been taking this space to 
I save up all my BET watching minutes for one night: the BET Awards. During the telecast, I’m generally underwhelmed and embarrassed for black people. That last part is a lie. Still, the BET Awards is how I up my hater stamina. If I can sit through the entire show and say at least 50 snarky things, then I still deserve the appellation hater. I call the whole process brandishing my hate game.