Where do I start? The cousins are still angry and it's been one helluva summer. Been missing this blog and my rants. I'll just go in.

So, I couldn't write or voice my anger and outrage over the systematic removal of Black books written prior to 2007 from the shelves of a certain NYC neighborhood library, because it would compromise my position at a certain government agency for which I found myself working. But, I will say that I am still outraged by this move and folks, our folks, thinking all we want to read is Thong On Fire and Thugalicious (actual titles), and the senseless banter and repetitive nature of my, albeit temporary yet, cathartic job. As I sat on that bench doling out advice and answers to a myriad of unrelated-to-my-work questions, all I could see was a wall of images and none of them looked like me. Aside from the occasional Oprah or Beyonce cover, I stared in disbelief and grew sadder. Not sad for me as much as I am sad for young girls and women who are made to believe they aren't beautiful, or have some twisted, if not non-existent, self-image. So, I vowed to make a difference. Don't talk about it, be about it. Ain't that what Percy said? Starting my own imprint.

Nothing Uber stank happened on the cousin front this summer. Obama is still catchin' it, but any fool could have seen that coming. Michelle chilled in Europe. Tiny and T.I got busted for drug possession. Shame. Like Tip and the movie Takers was a good dude flick. Drake shut the NYC waterfront down. DMX called Plies out for being the "worst rapper EVER"! Harsh from a cat who grunted his way to the top of the charts. King James pulled a fast one on Cleveland and solidified his role as Shameless Self-Promoter. Ricky Ross and Freeway Ricky Ross had it out. Weezy's in jail and folks are gettin' fired over eyeballin' him and showing favoritism. Alicia was called a man-eater and launched a piece of software which another rapper could have launched had he not been afraid of his own success. Concerts are just OK. Went to a House jam in the park that made me feel like there was some hope for music--still.

Watched too much TV. Housewives are out of control. Hair Spectacular is extra. Bad Girls have real issues. Ochocinco and T.O are a bore. Omarosa needs to stick to her day job (what would that be exactly?), and the Black girl got booted week two on Big Brother.

Had some good FB discussions over the usage of the N-word and came to realize that we still have not gotten over our issues with hair and color.

Fall's around the corner and maybe there is some hope for the grape soda lovin' clan this season.

May(hem)

So, been busy doing civic duty and no time to whine about affairs of Black importance, but I will say this--folks we're in big trouble. Government workers are an interesting bunch and out of work folks just happy to have a job, may not always be the best choice of go-to help. I'm just sayin'...

So speaking of work and working together, lending a hand, looking in your own 'hood for quality work and vendors--what's with "us" and our innate inability to work together, for each other and help each other out? What's with folks wanting you to take a chance on them only to turn into the worst nightmare of a paid relationship EVER?! The cousins are just a mess. And they say women can't get along?! Bullshit! We as a group trying to do business can't get along to save our lives. But let other folks offer us work, then we're bending over backwards to help, skinnin' and grinnin' and in full coon mode to prove we're Super Negro on the case. Sad, just sad. Take a lesson from our other colored clans who stick together, will live 14 deep in a 350 square foot apartment just so they can share resources and build a village that all can prosper from. We get greedy, start hatin' on each other and why the person in the hiring position has more than we do, bring all our issues to the project, cryin' broke, have every excuse in the book and can't complete the job on time-if, at all! I'm done. Niggerance and Negronomics are killing us softly, if not swiftly. No doubt, I'll continue to help and hold out hope for a Afrocentric partnership of any kind, but until then--I'm done with the cousins. See you at the reunion and I'll be that uppity recluse of a cousin who found a new and more inviting extended family.

Ah, hot weather is almost here again and the heat ushers the return of winter bodies in tight clothes. Make that big booties in shiny stretch pants. Make that muffin top in jeans meant for Anorexic Annie. And we're talking wife beaters and more plaid boxers and butt cracks than I care to see. Walked the dog last night before the fight and under the glow of the street lamp was the biggest butt and widest hips and perched on cankles and poured into glistening, purple leggings and shiny, cheap white shoes than my eyes have ever seen. Shirt tucked in, lip gloss shining, wig in place and damn-if-I-don't-look-good attitude. Again, not mad at your self-confidence, but you have to know that there's voluptuous, there's ample, there's curvy and then there's just freakish. I will never complain about my shape, again. Ever. Washed my eyes and I was good to go.

And speaking of fights--last night's Sugar Shane vs. Money Mayweather farce was a waste of my PPV money. The under card bouts were more entertaining and, I suppose, made up for Mayweather's not wanting to fight anyone that could remotely challenge him; He's no great fighter, just methodical, fit, fast and strategic in the sense that he picks his battles--literally and figuratively. I loved the fight-corner banter and the commentators (Larry) are a hoot. What I found ironic-- Chris Brown chosen to sing the national anthem at a boxing match, by a fight team who's trainer is going away for allegedly assaulting a woman, a fighter with multiple baby-mamas who dates a woman who had a hit called "No Scrubs". Oh the irony. And then they were all just hanging around the ring pre-fight. Sing and get on with your business. Scrubs get on with your business. Money get on with your life. Poor Shane, maybe there's a hint of sugar in your tank, but you're done.

And then we get Basketball Wives...Oy.

The Tax Man Cometh

Whew, took care of my taxes weeks ago like a good little citizen and I ain't mad at the breaks and the little $63 check I'll get back on a day when I least expect it and no doubt, welcome it. Eating's a good thing. But speaking of the man and tax time, the big O- (not Winfrey--more on her later)- and his wife made $3.5 million dollars last year?! When? How? In between stressing over the Tea Party or pushing for Health Care Reform? Or was he Tiger's secret attorney on a fat ass retainer? And is Michelle working? Is she the Green Grocer or some paid celeb stylist? Must be the insider investment pool. I need to in be in on that deal.

Now back to Madame O. So, bio author Kitty Kelly writes some unauthorized Oprah biography that no media outlet or talk show wants to have her on talking about details of the book for fear O will pimp slap them all- (she learned the move when she was a teen prostitute--allegedly). And her daddy that's been saying he's her daddy is not the father?! Show pitch--maybe Kitty can have Oprah's dads on Maury and she can appear as the disgruntled wife and possible step mama to O and plug the book that way. Or maybe Wendy Williams will have hr on. I don't even think she wants to suffer the wrath of O. Either way, that book is going to sell like hotcakes. My thing is this: have we not had enough bashing of Black celebs in the past year? Tiger, Kanye, Whitney, Tavis and Obama? Let's not forget Tiki and Danger and Usher and Stacy Dash and...Let's just move on. Let's bash Michael Steele and that kinky old bastard, Larry King...you effing stud, you! Divorce numero ocho. Who saw that one coming?

And speaking of Whitney--WTF? Sounding like a dying cat in a thunderstorm. Whoa--little Japanese cat is giving her a run for her money. Just a hot desperate mess. Let it go and retire with some dignity. Must have torn her vocal chords hollering for Bobby (who lost a little post-crack-fried-chicken-eating-binges weight on Celeb Fit Club)--because crack is wack, right?

And what's with those trifling Basketball Wives on VH1? More wifey than wife, hyphee than classy. Just a frickin' train wreck. And then we have Chilli and the list and the requirements. Grow up, ditch the list, quit looking for something you aren't: educated, self-assured and doing big things. You attract what you are and reject what you know you can't handle (unless they're just some icky stalker with a big gut and butt and no teeth like that cat who...I digress). She needs to go on Tough Love and get schooled, then try her show again. Or just get a dog, it's easier.

Time for more mindless boob tube watching. Back to whining later.

Livestream - Rude Girl Presents: REVOLUTION Live!

Livestream - Rude Girl Presents: REVOLUTION Live!

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Let Me Show You the Way To Go

Goodbye, Michael. You will be missed and not soon forgotten. Had a brief crush on him as a young girl, that lasted maybe a month, and I soon realized the chances of us hooking up, were slim to none. I had my own love affair with music and dancing and my own journey to take in the biz. Won a contest on "Dancing Machine" and can still keep up on the dance floor. Did hook up with MJ and family, but years later on a professional level. Interesting how things happen. He won't be replaced. The music biz doesn't have that depth of talent or one who would be king. We have a Prince. Long live the King.

My people, there is a lesson in all this: reading, writing and arithmetic are the branches to the learning tree. Heed those words and you won't end up $400 million in debt, lonely, surrounded by enablers, self-loathing and too fragile to face a cruel world. And if you aspire to make it beyond that one little weak tune you call a hit, be on your game. Rise above. Have a strong work ethic, perfect your craft, remember that you're only as big as your last hit and cream rises to the top. Don't believe the hype, don't screw people, build solid relationships and to thine own self be true.

Been busy checking for news for the digest. Loads of peculiar things going on. It's a weird time-- Usher files for divorce amidst allegations of his wife cheating, his kid not being his kid and looking to another to be his queen. Hmmm...I say the skeletons are yet to be fully out the closet.

BET continues to be the worst excuse for a network--EVER! Do I blame Viacom for jackin' it up or Bob Johnson for not having the balls to be a cut above when he had it and sold it off? Yes! Tradition of lousy craptastic shows just keeps rolling on. Jeez. BET awards should be interesting with folks scrambling to pay tribute to Michael Jackson. Please let it be a retrospective in video, I don't think I can take 3 hours of off key singing, lousy dancing and crotch grabbing.

PETA attempts to swat at Obama for killing a fly. WTF?! Please. Flies are annoying, pesky creatures that eat shit. Shoo, be gone PETA.

Summer's here, school's out and kids are going wild. What happened to the Summer Mayor Youth Programs of the past that gave young folks jobs and something to do? What's up with kids beefin' and killin' each other over ownership of a crackhead? What's wrong with kids not having any respect for life or death, so much so they'll barnstorm a funeral, fight in the parlor and overturn the casket for the body to fall at the deceased boy's mother's feet, only to declare: "It ain't over" ??? My people, have you no shame? Cue music: "Who's bad?"

Tiny and what's her face get a reality show. What's up with that? And what's with I Love New York's show? Is her 15 not up? If it wasn't, then her wack show should have sealed that fate. And since when did Justin become our spokesperson? He's cool and funny, but don't we have some other folks we could call on to rep at Black award shows or to speak for us? They don't call Kanye to speak at the Country Awards on behalf of white folks, so why do we need someone to speak for us at our shows? Just an observation.

Michael--you gave us great moments, memories, hope, aspiration, laughs, conversation starters, controversy, reflection, lessons and for me--a passion for performance and production. Thanks.

Just curious

Yet another uneventful week in the land of Black folk. Obama continues to wow and do his thing. I still get misty-eyed when I see anything that covers that eventful day back in November 2008.

So I just have some observations as I go about life in the hood.

Again, why did Wendy Williams get a TV talk show? And who the hell is the fan base that the TV exec is banking on to make this a hit? And why do I want to watch it? Please refresh my memory.

And why can't we have another Black male supermodel? Tyson was too much? We can only have one? I'm done with Make Me a Supermodel--until next season (!)

And who the hell told Kanye he was special, intelligent and our poster child for all things hip and cool? Go Pink on declaring him: " a waste of skin"! Do they not have a censor for Hip Hop artists? I need to deploy the dumb-ass -rapper-need-to- put'em-in-check police squad. Jeez, watch your mouth. And don't believe your own hype. Your lyrics ain't that tight or deep, so what makes you think anything else you'd have to say would be worth listening to?

And what happened to summer jams? We need an anthem.

And when did toothless thugs start rockin' pink? Not mad at a brotha in touch with his feminine side, but thugged out and saggin' in pink ain't cute. Hold a fool up with a pink water pistol? Powder-puff slap a fool in the face? What? I don't get it. And then try to get at a woman? Oy.

And where have all the Black folks gone on TV? VH1's Charm School? And why are we still asking the same old tired questions: "Can Black women and white women communicate"? Of course any intelligent woman can communicate with another regardless of ethnicity or race. Skanks and trailer trash can't talk to anyone. Case closed. Next topic.

ESSENCE Music Fest-- who goes to this and do we not have any artists other than the same ole tired ones that keep singing the same ole tired songs to pick from? Time to bring Tea Dances and rooftop parties back. Cruisin' around the park and backyard BBQs.

Black People: We're just not cool anymore. We've been swaggerjacked.

It's BBQ Time

The unofficial start to summer was this week and just in time came the roasts of all roasts: Spike Lee skewered Tyler Perry. Opinions deferred on Spikes assessment of Tyler's body of work, who likens it to coonin' and buffoonery. Can't say I don't agree on many levels. Others would argue Tyler is simply entertaining folks and who are we to call into play the taste of millions of our good sistas and brothas who find his brand of down-home comedy appealing. Not my taste and certainly not what makes me laugh, but can't say I haven't chuckled at Madea. I can separate coonin' from Uncle Tommin', shuckin' and jivin' from get-over-yourself- lighten-up- and-laugh-at-our- differences-and selves-itain't-that-serious-type stuff. Secretly been waiting for someone to sock it to Madea, whom I liken to a modern day Aunt Jemima, and her alter-ego and creator Tyler Perry, whom we've heralded as the new King of Black Hollywood, the one to save the genre. Not mad at Tyler's grind, just think there are other movies I'd like to see that don't star a man in a dress, a non-acting Pop Tart, same-performance-every-time Denzel or Will Smith, who stopped being a regular Black cat years ago. So Spike, I give it to you for having the courage to say what others have been whispering for years but were too scared to make waves and talk about other Black folks openly--wouldn't. Like the folks who destroyed Hip Hop whom I liken to modern day minstrels, Tyler's Meet the Browns and other characters are setting us back just a tad and relegating those of us with good script ideas and talent to what we've always been forced to do in Hollywood--comedy. Oy.

Now on to roasting of another kind. Wendy Williams Queen Roast a Bitch had her TV talkshow picked up and will be on daily beginning July. This after the critics and viewing audience roasted her ass for setting daytime talk shows back to the days of Robert Downey Jr.. I do have to say she has handed it to a few well deserving egomaniacs, but damn can she learn to read the prompter and not be so mean? Has she looked in the mirror lately? Makes Madea look good and could have been a real contender on RuPaul's Drag Race. I'm just sayin'...How you doin'?!

And speaking of my turn to roast someone, what's up with Kelly I -can't-find-my-lane-since-I left-Destiny's-Child Rowland, co-hosting Bravo's Project Runway pales in comparison replacement The Fashion Show? When did she become a fashion expert? Because she sits on the front row at a few runway shows, now she's a host and giving advice to retail aspiring designers??? Might want to start with your former girl group partner and that crap of a clothing line she calls high fashion--House of Dereon. Like the line goes when a contestant is booted off: "We're just not buying it".

And because, I had to carry the BBQ/roasting folks theme to the end, check out what has to be the funniest roast of a comedian trying to roast someone--ever http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fpmu6efVRk4

That's it. Back to the vineyard

The heat is on

I, like most of my grape soda connoisseurs, love the heat and summer--BBQs, rooftop parties, warm nights, frizzy hair, stick-to- your-back-from-the-sweat-linen 'fits, flip flops and a better disposition. Winter sucks and gray skies are depressing. One good thing about the winter, the clothes and kick-ass leather boots and the fact that folks cover up all that winter weight. My people, my people. I love the way Black women flaunt their curves and embrace their bodies with confidence and pride. And I love how Black men (and the brothers with the lighter/other mothers) seem to take pride in looking (until it's a gawk and a stare and an inappropriate comment to someone young enough to be your grandchild, then it's a problem). But my people, my people--it's time to step away from the Popeye's, the mac and cheese and Mickie D's and step to a gym, treadmill or walk around the block before you shed those winter frocks and trade them for minimal coverage. And while you're at it--get a pedi or two.

And hot weather brings out hot heads. Kinda miss the crisp, cool silence of a winter's night when I can open my window, let in the fresh air and not hear gunshots echoing through the hood. Sad. Try to be a Renaissance woman and embrace the historical characteristics and vibe of one of our more renown urban meccas (not to mention the cost of real estate is far more reasonable if you call $850K for a closet reasonable)--but the youngins are making it hard. Just reminds you of what effects crack has had on our communities. And what's with gang-bangin"? Didn't that play out in the 80's when Hip Hop reigned? My bad, Hip Hop is dead so back to being on the block being billy bad ass. Jeez.

Enough griping and groaning, time to break out the bubbly grape and enjoy the first day of the BBQ season.

Happy Memorial Day, y'all. Here's to a long, hot summer.

Gigs and gripes

I got gripes my Grape Soda Digest readers. Unlike my friends at White Whine, my belly-aching is rooted in some real deep seeded and angry girl shit.

It starts with the Arizona State University's snub of our esteemed Pres.
So they ask him to speak but failed to confer an honorary degree upon his greatness (or what I like to think of his Grapeness--he's our king), citing that he had not accomplished enough for such a gesture. WTF??!! Some clown can go and make a speech who never set foot within anyone's 4 academic walls, has nothing more than a jailhouse/shade tree degree/made the cover of a movie magazine and Obama is not worthy of your fake-couldn't-get-a-job-let-alone-start-a-fire-with-it-number-17Th-ranked-on-the-party-school-list diploma??!! Can you say Columbia and Harvard law grad? Pardon me--too drunk to spell g-r-a-d-u-a-t-e. Or is the fact that he's the first Black president of the United States and will always have that distinction, not enough for you? Then again this is the state that refused to honor Martin Luther King's birthday as a national holiday. But enough about those losers. I'm sure the grads that managed to stumble in in flip flops and get out with a semblance of a higher education, were thrilled to hear him speak. That's if they remember. Hard to do when you have a 4-year hangover.

Nothing newsworthy on the industry front to gripe about, other than Jay Z making some school's student activities fund go into default when he demanded $750,000 to appear in concert, didn't sell out or come even close to filling a small venue. Wonder if the students who booked this show took math and business classes at Arizona State University? Humm?
Concert Promotions 101: old irrelevant overpriced rapper equals concert promoter disaster. Now the school will have no more activities, ever! Rappers--get your egos and spending habits in check. Who does this??

On the personal gripe front--went to what I will call the Geritol Geriatric Grape Soda Lovers B-day Gig, this past Friday.

So, we get there, and there's a line, but we've been told that since we are guest-listed VIP, we can go to the front. So of course, some of us have no regard for protocol and order, and simply bump our way past us (more like PIs-- persons of interest-- as we would soon find out), as if we weren't standing there, only to get their rude behinds sent to the end of the paying customer line. Oops, must have been that Jeri Curl juice in your eye that wouldn't allow you to see the sign that clearly said: "THIS LINE FOR GUEST LIST PATRONS ONLY". Maybe it was the word "patron" that threw them off. Maybe if it had read: "IF YOU DIDN'T GET FREE TICKETS ON THE RADIO, YOU CHEAPSKATE, TAKE YOUR BROKE, BORROWED MONEY FROM YOUR BABY MAMA,AIN'T GOT A POT TO PISS IN, SLEEPIN' ON YOUR MOM'S COUCH BEHIND TO THE BACK OF THE PAYING LINE"

Name on list. Check. This way to the full-on purse and body search. WTF?? Do I look like I want to start a fight, stab that bitch who's been calling my deadbeat baby-daddy, or can fit a .22 in my Chanel? I thought pat downs were for hard-leg young bucks and 21 and under clubs? Last I checked, most of these cats in line were younger than the Pope but not by much. What do they plan to do, hold a fool up for his Viagra supply and EBT card? (I'm going to hell)

We're in. What a dump. My friend has not arrived for his celebration or I'd be tempted to leave. We check out the VIP lounge and back to the dance floor. Old school jam mix. No worries. I can take a round of Whoppin', Smurfin' and two steppin'. It Takes Two and time to turn it up. Here come the leisure suit wearin, original Soul Glo, ain't been on beat since the 70's crew. Folks fresh out (and you know who I'm talking about), trying to get their grind on, spittin' no type of gentlemanly game-- (note: do not refer to any woman's seemingly tight appearing genitals by 6 letters used to call a cat a kitten to her face, in a public place, and think you won't get smacked or she won't think you're just out of prison with your trash mouth), and sweatin' like runaway slaves in all that polyester gold suit, fake gator shoe wearin', big gut manliness! Just a hot mess. Fool stepped to me, or I should say rolled to me, in a wheel chair. Normally I'd have empathy, but this cat was no doubt Lil' Willy Bobo who took one back in the 70's and ain't been right since. Sad then, and pitiful now. Cats trying to old-school grind and back you up on the dance floor. "Step off, fool". That was not going down in the basement of Ms. Jones' house, so you know I was not going for it in Midtown Manhattan.

Long in the tooth, tired looking crew. Dateless and desperate cougars with visible tracks. Confused young girls looking for sugar daddies, and old dudes looking for a good time. Simply atrosh. This was the party and the folks that time forgot. And here we were gathered to celebrate our friend and life, his life and the richness of his journey. Instead, I'm having flashbacks to old gripes, because sadly, the same folks who gave me trouble back in the day when I was clearly headed somewhere and trying to take them with me, were the same trifling grown folks trying to shimmy their way back in time on a Friday night at The Shadow. Happy birthday, my friend. Glad you made it out and made something grand of yourself.

Not griping about folks wanting to have a good time, but my gripe is with folks trying to hold some of us back, put us down and still mad because some of us chose to keep it moving despite the odds and the gripes. That kind of attitude got you where you are: nowhere; trying to get your mack on at some trifling bucket o' blood club. Get a grip and let it go. Like you need to let go of my ass; Homie don't play that!

On Mamas

"I'll always love my Mama, she's my favorite girl...you only get one" Respect your mothers today and everyday. And mothers: love yourself first.

Going to take a break today from raggin' on tired mofos and drama best reserved for your mama, in honor of this day. After all , I am someone's Mom and I deserve a break from the madness. Shame folks don't stop and think about what they do. What would your mother say? Like when you step out in some ill fitting, inappropriate, I can see the crack of your pimply behind type outfit, did you not stop and think: "My mother would tell me to get my behind back in the house and change" or does what she thinks not matter? Or maybe you have one of those mothers who's trying to borrow your credit card slot baring pants? I digress. I promised to let it go today in honor of the coolest mother EVER--drum roll please--mine!

So enjoy your Mom and even the baby mamas with major drama, the mother of your children, the woman who is like a mother to you and all the other women who should be honored on this day. Who else to buy you grape soda?

The First 100

So, while the country and pundits pontificated about our illustrious pres' first 100, there was a whole lot of mess going on in the world of those who partake of the bubbly grape!

Damn if that predictable Obsessed did not score more than a few million at the box office, despite my review. I knew it would manage to get a few women folk and their somewhat reluctant male companions to cough up some dough. Oh well. Not mad, just would like to see some better Afro chick flicks is all. Speaking of chick centric flicks or shows, what's with the Chronicles of Zane on Showtime? Sorry, for I digress. But that show is wack.

So, Nas and Kelis have called it quits. Humm...didn't take Madame Cleo to figure that one out. Cheating. Sex tapes. Ill behavior. Verbal abuse. Talk of taking folks to the cleaners. Oh well. Next.

Popeye's runs out of chicken and the blogosphere goes into overdrive. My people, my people. Have you not learned from the hundreds of other Black folks gone wild, that someone is watching you and therefore, you should watch what comes from between your lips??!! Mad because Popeye's is out of chicken and they don't understand you have kids to feed???!!! Get your behind down to the Heart Attack Grill, they'll happily clog your arteries with a Coke and a smile.

VH1 has been accused of exploiting Black women. OK. So, someone twisted the arms of all those women who willingly swapped spit and other DNA with Flav, Chance, Real and Ray J. for free, without a dental dam, insurance plan, doctor in the house or an attendant from the CDC? Not saying that VH1 is not milking a good thing, but before we place all the blame on them, let's be honest and shoulder some of the responsibility.

Celtics and Bulls. Yeeeesss! Hotness. Still miss Jordan, and no matter the new faces of the Celtics, I will always root for the other team.

Hip Hop still sucks. Let's bring talent back.

Deuces. I'm out.

Hip Soul Chic goes to the movies

Single-woman-goes-after-married-man-meets-her-match-and-her-maker plot line, circa 2009; and so the story goes for new release Obsessed—starring Idris Elba, Beyonce Knowles and Ali Larter, in theaters nationwide.

So, my expectations were not very high as I headed to the theater on preview night. I remember the thrill and novelty of the now classic, Fatal Attraction (having seen it opening night, neck craned from the front row of a hot and crowded theater); The roommate background check frenzy that Single White Female caused; And the nanny cam-keep-an-eye-on-your -man stir The Hand That Rocks The Cradle whipped up. These movies are a tough act to follow, as chick flicks go. But here we have a twist: the race card (white woman after married Black man), and otherwise sweet and seemingly passive Beyonce, thrust into a “kick-ass” role. Never mind, that the screening was in Harlem at the Magic Johnson Theater, where the audience would be largely female, anti white-girl-dating-a-brotha comprised, and Beyonce loving. All those factors were not going to sway me. My mind was made up. I was not going to be thrilled or impressed.

Plopped down, some 6 rows back from the front (this time), sandwiched between a bold, yet somewhat sheepish young Black man and his white date, two older Black gentlemen, and some folks who fancy Idris Elba (apparently both sexes fancy him, could be his swagger, tight body or Wire role, take your pick!)

Credits roll, and so our story begins--slowly and somewhat awkwardly, with little warning and character development, back-story and the like. Derek Charles (Idris Elba), is happily married (or so it would seem), has a young boy (who was oddly quiet and lifeless), a great job and an attractive, new, eager to please the boss and somewhat off her rocker temp. His wife, Sharon (Beyonce) has her suspicions after meeting her, but not for obvious reasons. She was once the temp and Derek hit on her. Jealousy and suspicion rears its ugly head and not, as one would assume, sista sixth sense when it comes to our men and someone slinking around him. Her fear was that of any man or woman who may wonder about those people you spend the better part of your day with. All this, I might add, I gathered not from the depth of plot development, but from my own theories about love, life and the dynamics of relationships.
And like most men, Derek doesn’t see that Temp Girl (as she calls herself) has a wild eye for him, until he’s had one too many at the employees only Christmas party, and our somewhat aggressive seductress follows him into the restroom, with mistletoe in tow for some extra holiday cheer. And so the obsession begins.

I won’t spoil it for you, but I will say that Beyonce delivers some of the best lines of the movie and puts new meaning to her song “Sound The Alarm”, although her acting is as flat as that southern drawl she fights to hide.

The producers and director, may welcome the obvious comparisons to Fatal Attraction, and seemingly borrowed from the film, but they could have taken a page from the script, in particular the one that required depth of character, range and raw emotion, timing, surprise, production design, acting skill and nail biting suspense. They failed to draw you in until the very end, and that does not a thriller make. Although you root for Beyonce’s character toward the end, you don’t have much compassion for her to begin with. Idris’ character is flat, and his actions and motives not so plausible. He puts himself in jeopardy more than he is the victim of tainted love. I found myself wanting to see more of Ali Larter’s villainous character, Lisa; her bad-girl- gone-over-the-edge portrayal of the fixated seductress was worth the price of (free) admission. She added excitement to an otherwise predictable, and less than thrilling, 90 minutes.

Go see it, if you’re longing for a chick flick and you simply want to support Black filmmakers. But my bet would be on renting Fatal Attraction and a Sunday spent on a Lifetime channel movie marathon. Call me crazy.

The Juice is Goosed

Back when OJ was playing and setting the gridiron on fire, sports announcers would cry out: "The Juice is loose!" And boy could that brotha go. Big head and all. Flash forward 2008, and the courtroom cry is: "The Juice is goosed". What the hell were you thinking OJ?
Ego, drugs, greed and believing one's own hype can lead one to do some mighty stupid things. I know it's hard to let go of the past and glory days, when you had juice and everyone called your name. Now that that fame has been turned into sideshow freak status, I'm sure it's harder to hold that big head up. But for the love of Pete, did you have to go and get all Old Rotten Scoundrels on their butts, and try and get some memorabilia back? Could you not have asked someone to buy it back for you? Did you have to go and pull a gun on someone? Kidnapping?! For some trading cards and old footballs? How sad is that?
The court of public opinion will never find him innocent and the system has been looking for any excuse to lock OJ up. Didn't need an excuse, OJ squeezed every ounce of dignity, pride and good sense left in him out on this last caper and fumbled big time. Oh well. Maybe he'll organize the prison team and he'll star in the Longest Yard 2008 remake.

On to Tyler Perry. What a week he's had. New ATL studios open and details of his firing his Black writers surface. I don't know where to start with this one. Not mad at a brotha for following his dream and making a fortune off of his craft. He's got a niche and he delivers to his audience well. Told someone a long time ago, that was the way to go, but he beat me to it. I might have used a real Black queen at birth to portray Madea, but that's just me being fair to out of work and talented actors. Not that a man can't pretend to be a woman, some of my best friends are queens, and I do love Shakespeare. And having ones own studio is cool, although I know some other brothas and sistas with their own production studios who didn't get TMZ and US Weekly coverage, and not nearly the amount of butt kissing that I'm sure went on at that event. Come on folks. Be real. Folks talk about this man and his movies, under their breath and behind his back about the wackness, but they all are trying to get on and be down with his studio and get their wack ass movies made. Call a spade a spade. Just do us all a favor, and don't be the benchmark by which studios measure us by when the rest of us go out and make movies or try and get a like-type deal. I like my men dressed like men and my gays to be openly gay. I like my movies to be funny and I like women to be strong and not looking for validation from a man. I like wit and intrigue, a good plot and solid acting. And don't need to pretend like I have class and money, because I have both. And could you up the production quality of your movies, please? I could go on, but I'm starting to feel like a hater and I'm not. Just want us to recognized for our differences. probably why I write this blog. We all don't love grape soda...

Hip Hop Awards tonight. Watched the 100 best Hip Hop songs countdown and The Jacksons: An America Dream for the umpteenth time. Fight The Power. Number 1. Appropriate song and an appropriate time in our history. Would love to see this special on a Black network and the awards there too. But I'm not mad at someone seizing the moment, taking the ball and running with it. Hey OJ-- maybe you should have asked Viacom to retrieve your things. They seem to have a knack for picking up our stuff.

And the Soul Glo Award gos to...drum machine roll, please...Chanel, for providing great foundation in all tonalities so a sista can look like a movie star and glow!

Carry on and register to vote. Do you know that many of us are still unregistered?

Purple Reign

It rained for the better part of the week, here in NYC. And after, what seemed like a pretty soulless week, in which I would not have much to rant and rave about, I've found some topics to touch on. The cousins never fail to come through.

Parade report: The Baltimore crews worked it as they do every year, and without seeing them, this would have been the wackest parade EVER; even more wackadocious than the one last year. Again, this is the only parade in the nation that allows you to cross the street in the middle of folks marching (or aptly put--parading about). The only parade that has such huge gaps that you can literally go home, go about your business, leave and come back and not miss a beat! And all the random folks. Just sad. Have you no pride my people? Oh well. Maybe next year.

On the week in soulfulness. Hum. The debates; clearly we know who's angry and carries a huge chip on his tortured-soul shoulders, and would have us fight every person on earth who remotely reminded him of his prisoner of war days; who thinks Wall Street is greedy and that smirking your way through a debate and avoiding eye contact is the way to win friends and votes. And they say Michelle and Barack are angry! Soul Brother numero uno is eloquent, poised and clearly prepared to lead us to the semi promised land. Let's see how Palin and Bidden fare. Big knuckle pound to Brotha Barack.

R.Kelly--O brotha where art thou good sense? and did you not pick up one of those teenage girls you were dealing with's biology books to tell you what age range a teenager falls in? Toure asked an ill prepared Robert (if not clearly one french fry short of a Happy Meal),to answer the question on everyone's mind: "So you like teenage girls?" only to have Robert ask the question: "How old is a teenager?" WTF? I'm done. And in true let's give the brotha the benefit of the doubt because the white man is always trying to beat a brotha down fashion, we'll continue to support and applaud his child-molestin' behind. Come on out that closet bro and maybe instead of making bad porn tapes you'd consider going back to school with one of your under-aged love interests. So not soul brotha cool-like.

Vivica Fox- Glam God? When did she become an expert on style and fashion? Since she covered Lisa Raye's lingerie line coming out party 3 years ago? And who styles her for the show? and who scripted her lines? Why do sistas always have to be sassy? Speaking of sisters: bring back Jackie Blue, ousted contestant Joaquin's alter ego. VH1 you get a soul slap.

And while were on VH1, when did it move from Adult Contemporary/Pop Chart video countdown and Behind The Music channel, to mostly Black Reality TV and Hip Hop has-been wasteland? Can't Black folks produce some of these shows or have some treatments worth picking up? Season 3 of I Love NY is what I have to look forward to? I'll give Diddy credit for his I Want to Work for Diddy show. Well done and Tivo worthy, although Laverne should be offered a job just on the strength of her great attitude and diplomacy. How she managed not to take one her size 12 (men's) stilletoed feet and firmly wedge it up Poprah's --I'm too old to be working for Diddy as an assistant's-- behind for calling her a joke, is more than my size 7 1/2 foot having behind could have done. Kudos.

Speaking of Old School soul shows- Keith Sweat, Bobby Brown , Rakim, KRS1 and some other once was relevant artist, are performing together in what is being billed as the Retro Jam. Now, I'm a huge Rakim fan and Bobby can bring it (or at least he used to) and Keith whines like no other (although I can't stand a whining, begging brotha) and KRS still is dynamic--who the hell thought that this would make a good show? We're talking Jeri curl crew vs. fist pumpin' rebels; the ultimate rhyme master sharin' a stage with the blast master and the bump and grind king. Folks won't know whether to throw the panties or burn their bras in protest over the man's oppression. Do I wear my throw back hammer pants, fat gold chain, Gumby cut or dashiki and combat boots? So not fair folks. I got soul and love for all these cats, but this was on some-- brotha trying to come up on a few dollars that this got put together-- tip! Promoting ain't easy, people. Do not attempt on your own.

Soul Glo award of the week? David Allen Grier who returns to TV with his Comedy Central series. Looking forward to some funny moments and memorable character who got soul.

Until next week: I got soul and I'm super bad.

I love a parade

In honor of the African American Day parade, here in Harlem, I've decided to officially launch this digest-- In honor of the accomplishments, musings, failings and moments of Black folks and those who have soul's best or worst week ever. It will be a weekly recap of sorts; a colored folks' twist on "Stuff White People Like" (I love that blog...) and I'll issue a weekly award to those, who in my opinion, demonstrate the most soul for the week. Or just should get it because they deserve a shout-out. And for that up to the moment tidbit: The Cheese Doodle Daily. Long overdue.

And I was supposed to launch this digest weeks ago. It's late. I know. But so is the Cotton Comes to Harlem parade start-time every year. Every other ethnic, social and group of varying sexual orientations has a parade here in NYC. Parades hosted by a multitude of groups and celebrating ones pride in ones heritage, beliefs, food items and the like, are celebrated in various parts of the country. That is our American right. To parade around and be happy. To rejoice and to let folks know we're comfortable with our choices. It even makes the news or someone's local pub's Datebook or PSA. But not the parade up in Harlem. You never know it's coming. It always starts late and ends when the street lights go on. (Actually quite funny to see errant marching bands and purple-thonged-plastic-suit-clad members running down the street trying to be seen in the dark of night!)
The one big annual moment for the good folks of Harlem USA has to start late. And I'll go one better--it never is on the same day every year! In fact, I came up on the parade by accident 2 years ago trying to make it to the bank. 125Th seemed more alive than usual. The vendors and bootleggers were out in droves. I figured it was a final effort after Labor Day to end the summer on a high note; When all you'll be looking for in coming colder-than-hell months is a good umbrella, some magic-grow gloves and a hat from that savvy street hustler. To my surprise the street was blocked off and I find myself smack in the middle of the parade. Prime barricade view; right at the intersection of 125th and Adam Clayton Powell Blvd.

Wow...and what a view. Not mad at Black people, just mad at the organizers. Not mad at the little girls and boys who worked all year to be in the parade; just mad at their mamas and daddies who told them it was okay to shake it like a salt shaker , have their butts hangin' out and work it down the block for the whole world to see. Not mad at artists who want to connect with their fans; just mad that they didn't think enough of me to have a decent sound system, better decorated float and their hair did (female rapper with the horrible weave who's now locked up for losing her cool over $2000); Not mad at the legions of Masons from every lodge this side of the Mississippi in their creepy hats and pasted on smiles (as little kids innocently ask if they are doormen); just mad that you couldn't find some more relevant and colorful participants or corporate folks with their over the top floats to throw me samples of mints, gum and passes to the gym. I guess I'm not really mad at Black folks who come out and rejoice in the streets and have some positive attention cast on a community that is still seen as Frank Lucas' Harlem of old. A community who's face has changed and yet remains the same. Not mad at a beautiful sunny day in Harlem. Just mad that they can't all be like this.

So my first Soul Glo' award this season will go to....drum roll please....The good folks of Harlem for having the wackest parade ever, but I wouldn't miss it for the world. Congratulations.

And now for this week's moments in Black folks' history: What the hell is Jennifer Hudson thinking getting betrothed to Punk of I Love New York reality-show fame? He was a punk on the show and no doubt a world class scene f'er. I give it 2 years and predict a Star Jones, Terry McMillan type revelation . And Ocho Cinco. WTF? Like you couldn't get some more acceptable and commonly used Black folks' spelling of your new name? Is there something remotely disturbing about Bow Wow's mother who was featured on Top spoiled mothers of the stars? (I love those countdowns about the excess of stars) and lastly (I've got to get to the parade) --why do our cousins insist on acting like crabs in a barrel? That might be a weekly question until I get some satisfactory answers.

Until next time: pop it!