Between 1996-1998, this song played on my Walkman EVERY DAY. Enjoi!
Posted tagged ‘YouTube Stuff’
As some of you know, I kinda hate country music. Haaaaaaaate. Like a preacher hates the dingdang devil. I have called country music “the soundtrack to lynching.” And that’s not historically inaccurate! Growing up in the South, when I’d hear country music in an establishment, I would make the hastiest departure that I could. There’s something about the twang of a banjo that gets a lotta rednecks amped – better safe than sorry.
That said…I like these songs. Very, VERY much. And I can sing the SHIT out of every single one of ‘em. So, once again, I get to wear the hypocrite cap. Fine, whatever. Come through here and take my Black card if you want to, ahown care. If Aretha Franklin had stopped smoking thirty years ago I wouldn’t even be looking in country music’s damn direction. Have you heard her recently? Her voice sounds like a rusty Buick tryna crank up. Anyway…here’s my songs. Don’t judge me.
Fellow buxom, bubbly Capricorn, Mizz Dolly Parton…
And, of course, my unofficial relationship anthem (I sang this in the shower once, to the endless amusement of a certain former lover, LOL), Shania’s best. Her twang continues to baffle me – she’s from Canada – but apparently being gorgeous covers a multitude of sins because to my knowledge no one’s ever questioned her about it. Enjoy!
This remains my favorite song by her. “All Woman” is a close second, though. Enjoi!
BWAAAAHAHAHAHA! Ahhhh, it’s funny ’cause it’s true.
Before I get this video on, two things I wish everyone knew about Ms. Larrieux:
1.) She’s not Creole. She’s the biracial child of an African-American mother and a White American father with a gotdambed French last name. And for the record, can we STOP with the whole “Creole” exoticization/Blackness-dodging grossness? And by “we” I mean Black people. Who should know better. The shit is embarrassing! /end rant
2.) She’s living proof - if one needed it – that not all Black people can dance. That side-to-side thing she does is…whoo, it’s sad.
Alright. Please enjoy one of my favorite songs and videos.
FULL DISCLOSURE: I am not a John Mayer fan. To me, he’s indistinguishable from every other suburban White dude who grew up wanting to be a musician because it looked like it might lead him to some pussy. I mean, a guitar and a garage do NOT a musician make. That whole song about body wonderlanding did not make my heart melt. What can I say? I hear words like “porcelain” and “alabaster” and just tune the fuck out; you’re CLEARLY not talking to my sexy brown self, so all we are is in each other’s way. Don’t even get me started on that ridiculous and vaguely creepy song about daughters. ::: shudders :::
Ah, but Johnny, being the jackhole that he is, felt it necessary to elaborate in a recent interview with Playboy, where he basically dropped the n-bomb with abandon and said he wasn’t really interested in experiencing the joys of the cocoa honeypot. (Because, ya know, that’s all Black women are good for. SIGH.) Now, since Strom Thurmond basically used to say the same thing, I’m giving the statement full-on side-eye. The lovely Thembi covered this (hilariously) already*, so no need for me to waste time on it. Because this whole mess feels familiar, I thought it might be a good idea to cross-post Jay Smooth’s take on the Asher “Nappy Headed Hos” Roth and the dangers of becoming too comfortable. LORD.
(*Mayer refers to himself as a “douche” in this interview. I think he has function envy. But that’s just me.)
Happy New Year, dear readers! I’ve got a lot to chat about that really wouldn’t add up to much by itself, sooooo as promised in the last scraps post, here’s another hodgepodge piece. Enjoi!
My first New Year’s Eve alone was extraordinary. I walked down to the beach (three miles – oy!) at about 10 p.m. and arrived fifteen minutes to midnight. There, under the light of the full, blue moon, I swam and watched the fireworks from the nearby pier, meditating on my life: all that I had been granted in the last year, and all that I wanted in the new one. It was amazing. The only thing that would’ve made it better would have been if Rush Limbaugh had died. Ah, well.
January 10, 2010 is my Golden Birfday! I am super excited about it because I have been waiting for 01/10/10 since I was a kid. You see, dorks loooooove binary. Not everybody gets a binary code birthday. It’s just further evidence that I’m special. The original plan was to have a faaaaabulous brunch with Mama here and then spend the rest of my day on the beach. Seeing as how we’re expecting SNOW in parts of my county this evening, that’s kinda not happening. SIGH. The winter loves me so much it followed me. That’s okay. I can still have some cake.
Sci-fi rill life bullshit. The year long siege of Gaza has been shamefully absent from the national headlines. (Not like, “brutal and repeated rape and terrorization of women in the Congo” absent, but definitely absent for a cause that most Americans are purportedly concerned about. I wonder what it takes to stir compassion for women raped so viciously that they lose control of their excretory function for life? Maybe if they were just a smidge more White Bosnian? Anywhooo…) Just when I thought that the racist, fascist face of absolutist Zionism couldn’t GET any uglier, here comes this horrifying story of ILLEGAL organ-harvesting of Palestinians by the Israeli government. Special thanks to Joe for bringing this to my attention. I have NO IDEA why this shit isn’t on 60 Minutes. No, wait. I know why. Stupid ole mainstream media. o_O
Whitney and Bobby laced their weed with rock cocaine.
Ya know, because that’s classier. SIGH. Y’all, this had me stuck in side-eye for a WEEK.
ENVY ME!!! I own this bag, the beautiful and “green” Michelle Obama shopper. Neener neener NEEner!
If one more person compares my lips to Angelina Fekking Jolie’s, I’m gonna vomit. Like a lotta Black girls who grew up before Naomi made “beestung” lips acceptable to the mainstream, I got a lotta self-esteem levelling crap growing up for having a very, VERY full mouth. I don’t consider the lauding of a feature that I was ruthlessly made to feel ashamed of because some White chick a celeb has it a “win.” And I never will. My lips were lovely before White folks decided to openly covet them, and they will ALWAYS be. Comparing them to Jolie’s is some vurry nasty, backhanded-complimen-type appropriation, and it is what Kyriarchy uses it to conquer the self-esteems of little girls of color everyday. Soooo, if you’re gonna compare my lips to anyone’s, please refer to Chrisette Michele. I love her.
Junot Diaz needs a nut punch and/or corrective therapy for literary Tourette’s Syndrome. Like everyone and their mother, I read this book in the summer of 2007 and looooved it. Seriously, in spite of its RIDONKULOUS later popularity and the somewhat condescending tone of some of its critical accolades (“voice from the gutter”? Fucking REALLY?) it remains one of the Best Books I Have Ever Read. SIGH. Having said all that, throughout this exquisitely woven tale, Diaz dropped the n-bomb with an alacrity that was inexcusable. Seriously, Diaz tossed The Word That Wouldn’t Die out like a nine-year-old throws pellet firecrackers on a hot sidewalk in summer. Fuck that “he writes like he talks” nonsense. As a writer, I know what a lack of narrative restraint looks like. However, because every person of color in my life adored this novel, I was seriously loathe to bring it up or engage in critical discussion of the novel, particularly with regard to race (which was explored really well and sensitively – with that one glaring exception). It won the Pulitzer. I think I can be gently critical without getting any static about it now.
I will be writing in “Black Black Blackity Black” on the U.S. Census form this year. Either that or “Knights-Who-Say-KNEEgro”. Tee. Oh, and er-uhm, speaking of “Negro”…
This is one of those moments where I roll my eyes, exhale loudly, and mutter, “WHITE people…” I recommend that y’all do the same. I have to say the ruckus around Harry Reid’s ignorant-assed comments amused me more than anything else. Code-switching is a survival technique that many Black fokes (including yours truly) employ on a day-to-day basis in order to simply LIVE. Some amphibians breathe air and water their whole lives. Plenty of PoC occupy dual worlds in the same manner.
And while one’s ability to effectively code-switch does help ensure survival, it is NOT necessarily a reflection of any aspect of one’s character, nor does it necessarily reflect one’s talents, intelligence or abilities. I am always amused at just how much some White people – who never have to code-switch and always carry Whiteness and its accompanying privileges with them – have to say about the “Negro dialect.” I also like to say some real Black shit in all-White settings, just to see White people squirm. Seriously, next time you’re talking with a group of oh-so-liberal White fokes, throw something like, “One monkey don’t stop no show!” into the middle of the conversation, and see if the mofos don’t stare at you like you whipped a tampon outta your purse and used it to stir some sugar into your glass of shiraz.
I am hesitant to publish the Black hurr post because of all the crap Black women are getting from MSM recently. It’s like Chris Rock took over a major network or some shit.
And my jaw-drop moment of the New Year. Flava Flav’s “music” video. In Autotone. I don’t think I ever laughed so hard. Oh, Flava Flav. You wear the late crown. You rilly, rilly do.
Okay, so I looooooooove Ebony Bones. Aside from the fact that the lead singer is wacky and awesome in that way that Lady Gaga keeps TRYNA be (yeah, I said it), their music is really unlike anything else out there right now.
I first heard this song last year and fell all the way in love. You should totally download listen to their album – I did! As always, my darlin’ dears, enjoi, et Bonne Année!
Over here at Possum Stew, we smile through our tears. It’s Christmas, dagnabbit!
Alvin Lau, my Imaginary Poet Husband, thought you could have, anyway. At least back in 2006, in spite of yourself.
As for me? Pffftttt. I never trust rodent-like muhfuggers with big ass rat teefs.* I’m glad Lau mentioned those fucking awful racist jokes that you thought were off the record. I was done with you then. Ugh.
(*Tiger Woods’ teefs are also too big for any sane and rational woman to allow him near her delicate lady bits with his face. Yeah, damnit. I said it. )
I spent this Columbus Day pretty much like I spend every one: with a bad case of twistmouth and side-eye. Seriously. A “holiday”? C’mon, nah. I’ve also been vocally anti-Pilgrim-fairytale bullshizzle since middle school, soooo this is one of my least favorite holidays. Not too keen on turkey. Wretchedly foul-tempered creatures, and not especially good-tasting, either. Seriously, turkeys are irritatingly faux-defensive in that way that the unattractive chick at the club who loudly upbraids you for “tryna holla at her” – when you really, really, REALLY weren’t – is.
Anyway, all that was to say that this made me very, very happy. Oh, and to sign the petition for a nationally recognized indigenous holiday (and it is SO time for that!) click here.
You know how you can eat an avocado, fresh off the tree, out-of-hand, with no additional embellishments necessary? This song is like that. So I’m gonna keep it short, and just let you…well, enjoy it. (And yes, I am aware of Celine Dion’s cover of this song. Fuck her.)