Mama I made it... in the paper again! This time, not for my hard-hitting reporting or world-class research but my pretty lips. The photo editor recruited yours truly for an action shot of a person yapping on their iPhone and well, he captured me in mid-sentence.
Ahhhhhhhhh, I can finally breathe again. Nearly a decade has passed since Sade released her last album Lovers Rock and she is finally back to grace us with new music. Her forthcoming album Soldier of Love will debut February 8th and I can't get passed the alluring cover design. I love, love, LOVE this woman! Her music matches my moods and takes me places. I've reigned as King of Sorrow, I've cherished the day and sat on Lovers rock. It's been too long.
I've never been one for shopping. Don't get me wrong, I adore clothes just as much as any other woman, but malls I can not do. My heart begins to race, sweat glands go into overtime and I get flushed with fever. It's a taxing experience and if I never step into a mall again, I wouldn't mind at all.
Anywhooooo, in a recent assignment, I caught a glimpse into members-only shopping clubs, such as Rue La La, Gilt.com, HauteLook, Popsy and other sites that sell high-end designer items at the lowest prices ever. Think Manhattan sample-sale meets the online world of shopaholics.
If you're addicted to Gucci bags, Prada shoes and the likes, an esoteric online shopping community will be an exciting and social way to shop. I spent weeks conducting research and drawing price comparisons against products sold at private online clubs and other websites.You can easily buy a Lauren Merkin clutch for $100 rather than its original $225 price tag. Don't believe me?
It’s funny how a song can make you revisit a scene in life, causing you to dig up the pits from your past. While delving through my memory’s museum, I toppled onto an incident that occurred sometime last summer.
As my roommate and I sat in boredom one afternoon, we retreated to a celebrity gossip site to spice up our day. Somehow in our quest to find the latest and juiciest gossip, we stumbled across a radio snippet featuring an ignoramus rapper named Young Berg.
My blood boiled with anger, my eyes bubbled in disbelief as he aired his distaste for dark skinned women, in favor of those with light skin and even lighter eyes.You mean, all this time I thought the most unique aspect of “blackness” was our assortment of skin tones ― ranging from honey hues, almond toasted toffee to velvety chocolate?
I couldn’t believe this man denounced an entire spectrum of women and referred to us as dark butts. I reeled the interview back several times to make sure his comments resonated and this wasn’t a mental trick. He then proceeded to share his spin on the antiquated brown paper bag test of the early 1900s.
He coined it “the pool test” and outlined the precise criteria for distinguishing the good-haired from the nappy-headed: If a woman waltzed out of a pool with perfectly coiffed ringlets, she was fine, fair-skinned and for him. For any reason, if her hair morphed into a kinky afro ― she was deemed dark and undesirable.
After the first five minutes of his despicable remarks, I weaved together my thoughts in a heated editorial. I assumed every chocolate girl in America would lock arms and burn down his home, slaughter his dog or commit some other act of cruelty. I guess I was the only one that held such vengeance and disgust over his comments. Day after day, his one hit saturated the airwaves and continuously topped 106 & Park’s video countdown.
Sorry for the personal anecdote.
I’m not attempting to feed you more jargon about the woes of dark skinned women nor is it my desire to cross examine the psyche of a color struck rapper. I will, however, tip my hat off to an extraordinary lyricist named Wale. In his song “Shades,” he tackles his struggle with self-acceptance, an insecurity stemming from the jiggaboo vs. wannabe paradox.
I know all rappers don’t rhyme about copping candy painted cars, chasing model chicks and stacking cake. Some rhyme about delinquent fathers, domestic violence and political issues plaguing society. [It’s categorized as conscious rap] But never in the history of rap music have I heard any rap artist address colorism from a male perspective — if it wasn’t to defend a casting call featuring vanilla crème girls with hair touching their ankles.
I digress…
Despite Wale’s highly anticipated debut, I didn’t know much about his personal life before I listened to “Shades.” Besides his strong Nigerian roots and hometown allegiance to D.C., I knew little else…
Little did I know, colorism crippled his self-esteem for years as he harbored resentment towards the “light-skins.” When the khaki-colored guys snagged the pretty girls, he cursed his soiled ebony skin for not availing similar advantages.
For some reason, society’s typical depiction of colorism never fails to reference a black girl [named Pecola, preferably ] who picked up a mirror as a child and balked at her licorice skin and course matted hair. By conditioning, we cast colorism as a “black women’s thang” and never acknowledge the scores of black men suffering from the divisive mindset. And for that reason, I commend you, Wale.
So, you think you're on the cutting edge of fashion or just one of the cool kids, well then you should already have the latest fashion accessory this fall. No, it's not an imitation of Michael Jackson's sequined military jacket circa the 1984 Grammys, but designer hand sanitizer.
I'm not joking.
If you have no idea what I'm talking about, well your cool points have already been tossed. Sadly, I never thought I'd see the day when hand sanitizer would be deemed as fashionable. While the swine flu spreads like cancer throughout the nation, retailers are rolling out "designer" hand sanitizer to prevent germs from reaching the fashion majors and trend setters of the world. These days, everyone's fleeing from the cooties and that's cool, however, when did Victoria Secrets, Ed Hardy and a host of other retailers get the notion to market customize bottles of antibacterial gel into a compelling fashion statement?
Victoria Secrets already sells a wide collection of fragrances and body products and that prompts me to question this new line up. The slogan, perhaps: What's fashion without clean hands? A freak? Apparently if you don't upgrade your germ repellent than you're a fashion reject. Are chemists in the lab right now concocting specialized scents to sell? Are they placed near top selling lotions such as Love spell and Enchanted Apple to stir competition? Or are they cater-corner to the laced bra and panty set to entice impulse buyers like myself?
Who's really buying this stuff?
And Ed Hardy, one of the trendiest brands in fashion history has gone designer? This brand alone will bring droves of pretentious, high-end shoppers to the mall in search of the latest fashion scoop. To culminate their shopping excursion of Gucci and gold, they'll gladly stop at Ed Hardy ― even if it is just for hand gel. I can see these shoppers totting around their flashy tattoo-inspired bottles while snickering at the cash-strapped girl who can barely afford a knockoff from Target ― Targèt rather.
And my heart bleeds for the impressionable school children that are obvious targets of this scheme to bully them out of their chump change. Pleading for access into the A-list cliques on the playground or the chance to fraternize with jocks and cheerleaders during lunch, they'll do anything to boost their cool points. So, if you're going to hang with the cool crowd, now you need to have a key chain with hand sanitizer dangling from your backpack. This kind of peer pressure lurks around playgrounds and erodes the minds of our youth ― the most powerful consumers-to-be that have the ability to revolutionize retail.
I'm only drawing from my own desperate pursuit of "the cool" in my heyday. For some reason, I sought validation through pricey labels that had less to do with personal style and more to do with blind adoration for visible designer labels. But kids will no longer beg mom and dad for fifty bucks for a designer shirt because now they'll use their lunch money to buy the fanciest bottle of hand sanitizer they can find. I pray that feeble adolescent minds aren't susceptible to such silly marketing tactics. I know, I'm making a mountain out of a mole hill and kids, well they just wanna be cool, right?
My point precisely.
The hidden social message encourages a life of conspicuous consumption and materialism for the sake of “the cool” and that aspect alone makes me worrisome. I can foresee the psychological damage that will ensue in months to come.
I won't bore you any longer with my incessant chatter. Just know that the cool kids can rush to the cool stores to get the coolest hand sanitizer; and I'll continue to use the drab off-brand bottle at my desk. It kills germs just as well.
After racing to the theater to catch the highly anticipated release of “This Is It” last night, I woke up this morning to an upsetting and utterly appalling critique of the film, written by New York Times writer Chris Richards.
Chris, I can only conclude that every morning you wake up on the wrong side of the bed and perhaps, this is a mere reflection of your discerning disposition on any given day. But as a zealous fan of the King of Pop, I cringed and clinched as I digested your chilling thoughts this morning. [along with my granola bar for breakfast]
It’s painfully obvious that you're short sighted and lack depth to appreciate the biggest artist in music history. I mean, it's rare for mere mortals to materialize the vision of a musical genius and you're a prime example. During the 111 minute film, I'm going to assume that you were too busy jotting down your preconceived perceptions that you paid little attention to the actual footage. There's no way that we saw the same concert.
Last night, I saw the magic behind a well-woven production in the making, while you saw nothing more than a string of dress rehearsals? I caught a glimpse of Michael's peerless voice ringing in full throttle. And at age 50, he easily upstaged his dancers while shuffling through his signature moves to say: “At least you get a feel of it.”
And you consider that half-singing and half-dancing?
Sure, during rehearsal he baby sat every aspect of production just as anyone with a superior inclination for music would do. To us, he bickered with his music producer over 808s and voice infliction, when in fact; his bionic ears deciphered every vibration and sound pattern of the song.
We did, however, agree on one thing and one thing only. The dry run of “I Can't Stop Loving You” was undeniably the film’s highlight. My heart melted instantly as Michael crooned his hit and poured out bits and pieces of his raw soul.
Don’t worry, I won’t spill anymore details ― just go see it yourself. I don't know what you were watching Chris, but I caught a glimpse of someone whose passion for music left little room for disappointment. Everyone's entitled to an opinion I guess. So, in the words of Michael last night... let it burn and the lights out.
A pair of retro Air Jordans meshed into an obscure foreign object or an intriguing mosaic piecing together the fabric of mainstream urban culture? Either you're the twenty-something die hard Jordan fanatic, or you know someone with an immaculate collection.
For bragging rights, every now and then you [or them] will carefully pull out your most prized possessions and marvel at the vast empire you've earnestly built since boyhood.
Hardly worn [if ever] and preserved in the original shoe box, these made your heart melt before it fluttered for any girl.
Ironically, that same delicate treatment is being shown right now at the National Museum of the American Indian, where Indian artist Brian Jungen's Air Jordan sculpture is showcased at his newest exhibit.
Rightfully so, the Air Jordan mask is displayed behind premium plexiglass and theatrical spotlighting ― the same treatment given to any sacred artifact at a museum.
Those aren't just any sneakers though, but the most prized of them all. The ones that cause stampedes at local malls whenever a new model debuts. The ones that single-handedly transformed the fashion of athletic shoe design when the line launched in 1985.
Yes, the ones that the G.O.A.T Michael Jordan himself wore when he was fined $5,000 per game for playing ball in his own shoes ― which were banned from the NBA's footwear policy.
Surprisingly, Jungen merges popular culture and art with his latest masterpiece, showing that "Indian-ness" exceeds the skewed perception of head beads and cultural carvings.
His unconventional approach to contemporary artwork will make you rethink what the actual object really is and ponder any underlying meaning behind what it could be.
From high-end shoes to sports jerseys, golf bags and plastic chairs, Jungen uses everyday objects laying around the house to disband stereotypes of Indian art on a regular basis.
It's the strangest comfort to know that those red, black and white Jordans can no longer be worn as shoes, but more so as a cultural mask.
And how the deconstruction of the well-designed shoe can make you ponder its global impact on popular culture.
Or maybe it's just me, I guess I find comfort in the strangest things.
Visit Brian Jungen's exhibit, "Strange Comfort" from October 16, 2009–August 8, 2010 at the National Museum of American Indian on the National Mall, Washington, DC
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