August 2008 Archives

.Black Moses has moved on, and I wrote about it for The Root. He was such a great musician, that's it's a shake that'll he'll mainly just be remembered for Shaft and not as a ground-breaking song-writer and producer. People are even connecting him to disco, calling him one of the progenitors of the genre, when that just isn't accurate. He was one of the few artists that made the transition from soul to and disco and back without losing any dignity.

The joint on The Root says I did my master's thesis on the 70's film Shaft, which isn't exactly true. My critical thesis was an examination of the three Shaft screenplays: the original, as written by Ernest Tidyman, the re-write by John D.F. Black and then the remake 90s era written bv Richard Price. I was going to include the novel, but decided to focus on the screen portrayals. In a nutshell, I said John Shaft was curiously black in Tidyman's version, accurately Black in D.F. Black's version and had been neutered in Price's version, really devoid of any black maleness at all.

One thing jumped out and bit me in my research that isn't widely known. In Tidyman's version, late in the first act, Shaft casually solicits an anonymous blow job... from another man. It's a really curious, intentional emasculating of an alpha male character, one we had never seen attributed to white pulp-fiction detectives of the same era, like Mike Hammer. Today, I can look back at that and think that homosexuality was cool and counter-culture progressive in the late 60's, and he was trying to capture the essence of this change of mores in John Shaft. But I doubt very seriously if, on the tail end of civil rights, of Martin, Malcolm and The Black Panthers, black audiences were ready for a strong black male protagonist soliciting sex from another man. It's crazy, because the scene is almost dropped in from left field, and never brought up again in Tidyman's piece. Any thoughts out there on why Tidyman, a white cops reporter turned monster author and screenwriter from Cleveland, may have thought it was cool to have Shaft getting head from a dude?

I think Gordon Parks tried to capture the idea behind what Tidyman may have intended by having Shaft be unphased by an ass-pat from the gay bartender at the No Name Bar in The Village: that Shaft was so far progressed, so confident in his maleness, that it didn't register, it didn't have to. It's a great scene, for that reason, because it flew in the face of conventional thought: black man as angry sexual monster, as histrionic, violent homophobe. Here, he's just man enough. That's something Park's added, with his NYC sensibilities. D.F. Black brought the real sound of black people. And Isaac Hayes, of course, brought the funk. There was alot of controversy among Hayes' band members and even scholars, ala, James Brown, about who actually conceived and composed the classic riffs in Shaft.  Sad, that Hayes is gone.


Uncle Bernie passed on to, and I wrote about that as well. Bernie Mac had to grow on me, because he looked too much like a Jolly Nigger Bank for my liking, and he borrowed too heavily from the Robin Harris, Rudy Moore tradition of signifying, to the point where it was more take-off than homage. His stand-up was funny, but he found his beat as Frank Katton in the Ocean's Eleven films. That's the Bernie Mac i wanted to see more of. I also enjoyed his TV show, if off-put by the notion that I'd heard it employed mainly white writers.

 

So before I go much further, some photos that may help illuminate the previous entry

 
This is the oft-mentioned Joeski Love, preparing to do a headspin and/or bust a rhyme for the delight of all the ladies.

 This is me and Michel.  I need coffee.

 
This is in the engineer's room, just before we went live in Chicago. Rueben is coming in. Michel is in the far studio.

 

 
Okay, so jumping back before jumping forward, after doing Michel's show, I took in the breakfast buffet downstairs at the Hyatt. As a rule, I avoid buffets because--let's face it--they suck. There is often no sneeze guard over the food, the eggs are powdered and the sausage meat is questionable. But I was broke, so I didn't have a lot of options. I figured to fill up on breakfast food and not have to eat the rest of the day, until dinner. Ultimately, this plan worked. The buffet was kind of on point, and they had the nice chef making omelettes to order, a decent spread of meats, pancakes, waffles--I could complain, but for $22.00, all you could eat, I don't know how I could knock it. I ended up rolling with the heavy protein breakfast: sausage, eggs, raw tomatoes and croissant. Twice, I filled my plate. The other big problem  with buffets is, there never seems to be enough tongs, so you either use your fingers or your fork, and I don't know which is nastier. In this case, there was a nice black woman with an Ipod on redoing the buffet, and the set-up was like, a tong short. So she took the sausage tong and put in it the waffle bin, leaving a fork of unknown orgin in the sausage bucket. So if you were a vegan, or allergic to pork, trying to get your waffle-on >shrugs< sucks for you. She didn't care, and I didn't care either. That sausage was good as a muthafucka.

I had a hot sauce accident on my LJ shirt but I needed to do a Diana Ross anyways, so I pearled back to the room, threw on a nice pastel button-up joint and some sandals and caught a shuttle to the convention, which was a few miles away, I guess. It was there that I would run into folk and do this panel thing I was there to do.

I'd been trying to catch up with Sherri since I was there, and I did. She was wonderful, her and her friends. We took pictures, but none I am sharing. Not like that, but whatever. She liked my sandals, and I said they were from Israel. Upon examining my feet she said "The sandals may be from Israel, but that ash is straight from Cleveland." NICE.

We laughed at the folks walking around with sweaty resumes in their hands, applying for jobs that do not exist. I mentioned earlier that there was some good swag to be had, and far and away, NPR had the best, most practical stuff. They had a keychain shaped like a microphone and some kind of apparatus to wipe your cellphone screen off with. Yeah, I know! But in the grand scheme of things, they won out, right behind The Root, what, with the t-shirt/hat combo. My opinion having nothing to do that I am currently contracted to both companies.

I went to the Harpo table, and any convention I go to, when I approach this table: They seem like they have an ATTITUDE. I don't know if they have my picture on file or what. Anyways, this time was no different. I noticed they were giving something away that looked suspect. "Is this a suppository?" I asked. "We don't go there," responded the plump-ish white woman manning the table, as she rolled her eyes. Apparently, she doesn't watch Oprah, who has recurring segments about the size, shape, smell and beauty of bowel movements, so she didn't actually know how plausible it was that Harpo Inc. might be giving out Oprah-brand suppositories. Turns out, the suppository? Was an ink pen. I took it and kept it moving.

Everyone gave good pen this year, and this is a sign of good things. You can always tell how the economy is doing by the quality of swag being dispensed. This year was slightly better than last year, when companies were just handing out stick-ems with hand-drawn company logos on them. But, like Bello, who was serving hunks of meat on a biscuit at their reception a few years back? They laid off 14% of their staff the day after Unity. Anytime your company is giving out soup kitchen food at their reception, this bodes badly for your future. The writing is on the wall. But, as I recall, that year, they had one of the best receptions going, which is how I knew shit was really getting deep.  Who knows what kind of meat that was but it was a good-ass biscuit.

I digress.

I took a nap at the Job Fair and woke up just in time to find my way to where I was doing this panel thingy. I got lost, but eventually made it to the room when who do I run into, but Left Coast Niki. Which means, it's on and cracking. The session before my panel isn't done, so I dip into the bathroom and do a Clark Kent, switching out my button up for my t-shirt from The Root, because although I ride for at least three different shops right now, I was on the panel riding for The Root. The session ended, so me and Left Coast ran up in that piece, her by my side. "Who's this?" asked one of the organizers, as most people were suppose to come through another door. "She's my entourage," I said. Left Coast got a premium seat up close to the action. That's what rolling with The Iz will get you.

So.

 Michel was on the panel, Diggy too. Also, Father Flager, aka the white Jeremiah Wright and the HARDest working man in radio, Tom Joyner filled out the forum. NPR's Michelle Norris (inexplicably, WITHOUT Robert Seigel) stood in for Suzanne Malveux as the moderator. For reasons that allude me, there was buzz about this panel. I know this, because people told me. And soon, the rather large-ish room we occupied filled up, and the walls filled up, and there was a line to get in from the outside. The topic was "Jena 6, Jeremiah Wright--who got it right?" or something like that. Father Flager wasn't slated to be there, as far as I know--he was a late addition. But it was nice to meet him and be up there with all these hitters. I mean, I was really out of my league.  So, there we were, getting ready to do our thing.

And it's a lot of fun. I almost dump water on Michel, trying to help. Then comes the moment that people seem to be talking about, so I guess I'll talk about it too.

Tom Joyner is kind of the King of All Blacks, radio, and he wears this crown with the kind of humility you might expect from someone who would essentially coronate himself as such in a room full of storied media professionals. I didn't dig that--as I thought it was kind of gauche--but whatever. I'm not known for my humility either. The disconnect for me came when he purported to singlehandedly rile Black America to march on Jena, that black radio was at the vanguard of this mainly misguided, media-manufactured kerfluffle. I had a problem with his assertion because it was factually inaccurate. I had a hard time listening to him lay out his case, and an even harder time not understanding how a room full of reporters could let him get away with it. So, at my first opportunity, I said something like this:

 

"Respect Tom to you and your 8 million listeners.  But most of us here know that Jena  was born on the Internet, and radio eventually picked it up. The problem with your kind of activism is, yes, you have 8 million listeners, and you get Al Sharpton and all the rest to come on the show, but if you have it wrong, and Al has it wrong, then all you have in the end are 8 million people who have it wrong."

Or something like that. And there as an audible gasp, with a smattering of applause. I guess you're not suppose to disagree with Tom Joyner. Some people didn't take it as a disagreement: some people read it as a hard chin-check. I didn't see it that way.  I saw it as a clarification of the facts in a room full of people who ostensibly broker in fact. I mean, c'mon. There's keeping it real, and then there's keeping in right. I prefer the latter. From where I was sitting I couldn't really see Tom, but I understand he made a face. But he didn't dispute my statement. And we kept it moving.

Then, it was QnA time, and someone asked how we--as in the panel--can help improve the character of the misguided youth of today, and this flummoxed the panel until I grabbed the mike and said something like "I'm just trying to raise MY kids," which is my stock line for that. No one ever asked William R. Morrow, Buddy Holly or Fatty Arbuckle to help raise their kids--that, of course, was back when there were two-parent families. Now, Mom's at work and Snoop Dog or Cousin Jeff is baby-sitting. I think depending on anyone who works in the media to bestow character on your rugrat is asking too much. People can really only be held accountable to do their job. I mean, I pay taxes so your kid can go to school with the lights and water on---you want me to tuck him in too? Seriously?  

The session ended with some nut asking some question from far afield, and that was that. I stood up, steadied myself, glad-handed a few people and made my way over to Tom.

"Hey Man," I said "I'm not fan, but my grandmother loves you." He shook my hand and gave me a hug.

"Well, I'm glad somebody in your family loves me," he said, "Why not let's take a picture for Grandma?"

And we did.

Tom was good peeps, a real pro in the game, obviously. All this, except for the last part, is apparently on C-SPAN, where you can basically view the whole thing for free or buy it for 30 bucks. I only know this because my phone starting ringing late last evening amd I got a bit of email from people that saw it. Me? I'll wait for the bootleg.

I got lost and later ended up at the goofy dance thing they have at every convention of every year on Friday nights. I hate going, because these parties are always over-priced and the smell of desperation--something between Ladies' Speed Stick and MagicShave--wafts through the room like fart cloud. You hear and see unspeakable things from people that should, by all rights, no better.  Tom Joyner hosted last year, and he hosted this year. The Dj was obviously someone's cousin, because he sucked. But I'll tell you this: many of the same women you read writing about the "misogyny" in rap music and such. Well, they were on the dancefloor in miniskirts and four-inch stilettos singing "skeet skeet skeet!" My hand to God. I'm not gonna front anybody, but you know who you are, man. The good news is that women probably outnumber men a good 4 to one at these conventions, and three of the four of them are just banging. Those three? decided to skip the party, and that one is almost always front and center on the dancefloor, doing The Dog in her girlfriend's outfit. True Story. I stayed, but let after a few minutes. The truly beautiful people prefer to hang at the bar.

This is where I ran into Roland Martin. Roland looked fresh from his vacation in "Da Motherland" and has dropped a few pounds. His Cesar has officially been overthrown, with his hairline hauling ass for the nape of his neck.  He wore this wonderful white suit, with a pink and white tie.

 

I could not get his head in the picture. Sorry Roland.

Roland and I, while not on the same team politically, get along pretty well. We're kind of like, Malcolm X and Martin Luther King Jr., if Martin was say, Barney. From his perspective, it's probably closer to MLK and JJ Walker. I'll take that knock. That's fine with me. The worst thing I can say about Roland is that he is living his dream, the same dream he was dreaming when I met him all those years ago trying to sell me a hunk of beef jerky, some bushwick and a self-published book in a deal he called the "Black Power Pack" (true story). I don't like what he does, but hey! It's not my dream. People ask me for my take all the time on Rolly, and I only dispense as much criticism as necessary, the same I give any meatball in the media, and  then I say: "He's living his dream. How's your dream doing?" They get quiet then. It's true: he's a trip. But let that brother live his dream. I'm living mines (lightweight) let him live his. I hope he dreams himself a better tailor, though. Seriously.

My trip ended where it started: at that damn bar@the Sheraton, hugging and kissing, telling tales out of school, lying magnificently, getting my hair pulled, leg humped (there are pictures somewhere), fielding marriage proposals (no ma'am) and celebrating the rest of my life. Left Coast walked me to the lobby, and I vowed to stay in touch better, because I sincerely love her as a quality person in my life.

Marriage is like playing hacky-sack: if you are not good at it, you look like a fool trying to do it over and over again. People laugh at you and your sack of beans, convulsing wildly, trying to manage this fucking wild thing with your knees, your ankles, your head. You stupid fuck. Try hacky-sack twice, max. If you aren't good at it, leave it to white folks, the experts, or the poor saps too stupid to know they aren't as good as they think they are. That's my thought of the night, and it goes over big: got me a lot of free drinks. But that was then.

So, it' s just me in the Chicago night, here in search of large, angry prawn, only to find myself walking the bridge back to the hotel, in a place where I've lost time, in a sky I don't know, buildings I haven't conquered, wearing shoes I adore, on my way forward, one foot after the other.

 

                                                                                       From the screenplay Pulp Fiction

                                                                               By Quentin Tarantino and Robert Wray

(WHERE'S CITA?)

My grandmother thinks it's cool, but the truth? I hate to travel. I hate being away from people I care about, my Xbox and my tennis shoes. Coffee I can trust. I travel to lecture, do panels and stuff, but unless there is money involved, it's hard to get me on a plane. Conventions don't interest me. So when I got asked to be a on a panel for UNITY this year, I wasn't crazy about it, because I hadn't planned on going. I went to the last one, and it was just ok. No shrimp, but a few mis-adventures, which I'm always up for. But money and time are two things I don't have a lot of these days. But when Michel told me she'd be doing her show live from Chi and Rueben Navarrette was going to be there and everything, well... I couldn't really pass it up. I mean, I could, but I didn't.

Not much else besides the panel and the show interested me, so I made some arrangements to just be at the convention for two days, and I have to say, it's really the way to handle these things.  Nothing is happening on the first day, and nothing is happening as they wind down. Best to go smack dab in the middle, and chirp out as the action flows downhill. So that's what I did.

I hate airport food, because when I end up paying 7 dollars for a ham on rye, I'm always looking for Ashton Kusher, because I can't shake the sensation of being punk'd. Like, this could not be fucking for real, this sandwich. And it's worst imaginable sandwich, except, when you're hungry, it's the best imaginable sandwich. But then it lays in your stomach like a tumor until you land and search the O'Hare for a good bathroom and a clean cup of coffee. This, as it turns out, is about when the adventure begins.

I hopped an airport shuttle to the Hyatt Regency, only to find out that there are 6 Hyatt regencies, and my Pakistani driver named Buck told me he was taking me to The Right One, only to be dead fucking wrong, only to miss it by 22 miles or better.

So. I ended up on an El train, and it was a long, rocky ride. There was this older couple sitting cattywampus from my seat, and they were both ugly like oatmeal, he needing a style coach and a wetnap her, in need of a make-over--stat!--but they held onto each other as that train rocked, man. Like they were on an Italian gondola. He loved him some her. I just don't think I'm programmed that way anymore, so for the entire ride, I tried to mask my envy. That whole thing about love, in any parcel, is absolutely true. Trust me.

I made it off and out at Washington(?) and got a cab, as My Hyatt was only 6 dollars away. My cab driver, black, was chatty without subtitles. I only knew that I was his good friend and to have a nice day. In between, I took in the streets. And tried to imagine what people were thinking.

Later, at the bar, I don't know how I got there. Who's there, but Left Coast Nikki.

Left Coast Nikki, who famously locked me in the hug of death after screaming my name across a bar in Milwauki(SP?) at the NABJ there... I'm standing next to Omar, far more luminescent than I, and then I am in her clutch of luhv. Left Coast Nikki. Before I could stop breathing, we became friends. And I would see her at every one of these useless confabs, and this, in my mind would mark the beginning of Big Fun™ and some grand adventure.  Everything changes, after Left Coast Nikki. And she was rapping to Joeski Love, he who introduced Jason Blair to me as "this kid who's changing the game." Indeed. I wasn't planning on drinking-- I feel like, it's just not me--but the two of them together, my newfound freedom, and the siren call of Maker's Mark conspired to plot my dissent into drunkdom. 

So, with a toast from Nikki, it all began, my convention adventure, this "hunt for prawn."  Me, Joeski and Left Coast Nikki are like a Bermuda Fucking Triangle of Mayhem. No good can come of this trifecta. We only have to alighn for a few minutes, then Hang On Elizabeth. Having immediately secured libation, I took to the task at hand: I am here in Chicago, so where is the fucking shrimp? There was something called a President's Reception a few floors up from the bar, and I was sent to scout it out. And I know what your thinking, and yes, shrimp are quite presidential. But not this night. This night, the layout was like a large variety of small deserts--purse-fillers, I heard a woman call them--pastry, but nothing that looked like much.  I walked around and got the stink eye from many gathered, them, adorned in Lane Bryant and Men's Wearhouse, sporting the poor man's tummy, from a life lived on spaghetti and rice. These be hard times for journos, and everyone is here looking for a free meal. I just didn't have the good sense to dress for the occasion. These deserts did not deserve me. So. I chirped out.

I returned to the bar only to find a cast of thousands--or maybe it was the double vision, as the Maker's kicked in--many of whom I recognized, or inexplicably recognized me. Bernzie was at the bar, and I think I bought her a drink. I say "I think" because somewhere in this area is where the cocktails start running together, and the evening starts going black. Blackity Black. Not that I passed out, but there are tales told at the bar that shouldn't be told in other places. I am a veteran of bar tales--even if my beloved Whatley's has been long since closed because of rampant shootings and short-pouring--and I know the code. There was some thought I would not be well for Michel's show. But I think fear of Michel's wrath tempered my intake a bit, and I hit the sack.

The next morning, I am doing Michel's show, where I moderate a segment. Rueben Navarrette is there, in the flesh. Rueben is a rock star, and I can't believe it. We took a picture, Lee Hill, him and me.  Nick Charles and Diggy were in the house. Maybe you heard it. A good time was had by all.

Later, I ran through the job fair looking for people I knew. And trying to get a line on the shrimp. And here's the thing: I'm told there WAS shrimp to be had, but I'd missed it. Receptions were bountiful and resplendent with crab meat, free wine and prawn, from what I'm told. But nigga's lie, man. Niggas lie, but swag always tells the tale, and let me say that this year, in my bag, there was quite the selection of doo-dadds. There use to be a time when you could go through the job fair and take home a whole outfit: BET hot-pants, NYT t-shirts, flip-flops from the Washington Times, or whatever. Those days are over. But I got a nice bag, nice key chains, plus, the bomb-ass Root T-Shirt. And I saw all my Root people, which was cool. Omar was missing.

I went over to the BET booth and asked "Where's Cita?" They couldn't tell me anything about Cita or "Hey Monie" but said Cita was bringing down the network, and proceeded to tell me about the new show starring Cousin Jeff Johnson in the offing. Again, me, missing Cita. Cita was the bomb. I'd take Cita over Cousin fucking Jeff any day. Gina MacCauley is always crying about What About Our DAUGHTERS. What About Cita, Gina? What. About. Cita.

So, A few people came to this panel was on. This picture was taken before it filled up.