Come for me, bitches.

25 02 2010

I am pleased (and flattered) to announce that this here post has been cross-posted over at Justine Larbalestier’s blog.

If you are not yet aware of Justine’s awesomeness, hop to it.  You are missing out.

It is Black History Month and boy am I feeling the love.

Just yesterday Rush Limbaugh (or as I like to think of him, the Phantom Menace)  derisively referred to the health care reform bill which is swimming its way upstream through Congress as a “civil rights bill” and “reparations.” To be clear, what he means by using “civil rights bill” and “reparations” as a pejorative is “this health care bill is another attempt by the lowly, lazy, complaining Black folk to take bread from the mouths of hard-working honest White Americans.  First they took February, what’s next?  March?.”

Last week the fine gentlemen of Pi Kappa Alpha decided to throw a party to “honor” Black History Month which included a very helpful how-to for the ladies so that they might properly comport themselves as “Ghetto chicks.”
 

“Ghetto chicks usually have gold teeth, start fights and drama, and wear cheap clothes – they consider Baby Phat to be high class and expensive couture. They also have short, nappy hair, and usually wear cheap weave, usually in bad colors, such as purple or bright red. They look and act similar to Shenaynay, and speak very loudly, while rolling their neck, and waving their finger in your face. Ghetto chicks have a very limited vocabulary, and attempt to make up for it, by forming new words, such as “constipulated”, or simply cursing persistently, or using other types of vulgarities, and making noises, such as “hmmg!”, or smacking their lips, and making other angry noises,grunts, and faces.”

But it was John Mayer (singer, songwriter, Poor Man’s Stevie Ray Vaughn) that got the month started off right with an interview that he did for Playboy where he proved that he doesn’t have the good sense (or graces) that God gave Kanye West.

MAYER: Star magazine at one point said I was writing a tell-all book for $10 million. On Star’s cover it said what a rat! My entire life I’ve tried to be a nice guy.

PLAYBOY: Do black women throw themselves at you?

MAYER: I don’t think I open myself to it. My dick is sort of like a white supremacist. I’ve got a Benetton heart and a fuckin’ David Duke cock. I’m going to start dating separately from my dick.

PLAYBOY: Let’s put some names out there. Let’s get specific.

MAYER: I always thought Holly Robinson Peete was gorgeous. Every white dude loved Hilary from The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. And Kerry Washington. She’s superhot, and she’s also white-girl crazy. Kerry Washington would break your heart like a white girl. Just all of a sudden she’d be like, “Yeah, I sucked his dick. Whatever.” And you’d be like, “What? We weren’t talking about that.”

That’s an official Nice Guy FAIL.

These harbingers of Black History Month can get a girl a little down.
But not me. I am thankful that I have a partner who loves and cherishes me for the supreme delight that I am.

I am also thankful for the amazing strong black women that I have in my life as role-models.
Without my mother, Oprah Winfrey and Barbra Streisand, my confidence in my smokingness (both intellectual and physical)  might have been dimmed by that young-man whose mother must be really ashamed of him right now and who is actually making me sympathize with that Jennifer Aniston person.

But lately I realize that I’ve been leaving out one deserving woman in my SBW list of might:  RuPaul.

Nownownow, I know what you’re saying, “But BPD, RuPaul’s been around since forever how come it’s taken you so long?”   Really, I have no excuse.

From the revelatory, Super Model, with its clarion cry that got me through many a grueling show choir rehearsal (damn you mirrored gym) to the present RuPaul’s Drag Race – which is not about cars [but just… can we all agree that if RuPaul hosted a muscle car show with say Joan Rivers or Tina Turner {that pair would be a mother-fucking wig-off} that show would be ridiculously awesome] – RuPaul has given me the balls to get through the tough times.  RuPaul has made me the man I am today.  And by man, I mean small black lesbian gay-dandy. (2010 is the year of the bow-tie.  Look out people!)

When I’m about to do something that seems super important, I think, “You better work, bitch!”
I chant, “It’s time to lip-synch for your life!” when it’s time for me to move mountains.

Vodpod videos no longer available.            ……….Minute 37 is where the real magic happens.

RuPaul is about knowing who you are and owning your fabulousness.  RuPaul is about ripping people’s faces off with your fierceness and leaping in your stilettos over the shit.  Most importantly RuPaul is not about some trifling mess of a boy that even Ghandi would slap.

With Ru and the other SBW in my life, I know my worth.  I’m not even going to sweat it.  Because I know, that despite how hurtful and how hateful what John Mayer said is, it’s not about me.  It’s not about any other woman of color (or woman, frankly) in the world.  It’s about him and the dick-shrivel that he is.  I’m not waiting for the world to change.  I am the change that I seek in the world.  I am the light that I want to see.  I am fabulous.  I am fierce. I am magnificent.

Come for me bitches.

.

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Olympics. Like Leap Year, but better.

24 02 2010

I am sure that you will be surprised to learn that I am very competitive.
I will take a minute for you to stop chuckling.

…Anyhoods, I’m competitive.  With me there is no such thing as a friendly game.

I am ashamed admit that I have ruined a New Year’s Eve celebration by accusing the opposing team of cheating during Cranium (a game, that I’d only just that night started playing again after a 5 year hiatus following a very bitter win over some other friends in another state over their gamesmanship) and yelling about the game being the cause of all of the wrongs in the world.
In 1994 I was banned from playing Taboo with my family after I threw the buzzer at my mother and it hit her squarely in the forehead and made the buzzing sound of doom as she – narrowly –resisted killing me.
I believe that the way one play’s Monopoly is a litmus taste by which you can measure how they play the game of life (and not that silly game with the pink and blue cars).  To be clear, I don’t play to Monopolize, I play so that you can’t.
The last time I played kickball, I sent a boy on the opposing team home in tears (he should not have taunted my kicking power without accounting for my superior stratagem and my speed.  Ah, to be seven again.).
I don’t believe in flag football.
I don’t believe that everybody wins.  If everybody won, there’d be no need for trophies.

I dunno, maybe it’s because I’m an Aries.  Maybe it’s because I like to see people crumpled in defeat.  Who knows… what I do know is that my competitive nature is really gratified by sport and there is no greater collection of sport than the Olympics.

I am an Olympics nerd.  This weekend alone, I watched 20 hours of Olympics.

RHS: That’s distressing hunny.
BPD: I love it!
RHS: Hunny, that’s what the kids call overkill.
BPD: That’s what you said about the cheese.
RHS:  And hunny, you had an eczema flair up after you ate that half pound of cheese.
BPD: Ah ha!  Olympics doesn’t give me eczema.

The Olympics takes precedence over all other TV watching.  I like to think of what I do is athletic Olympic watching.
I cried when Shen Xue and Zaho Hongbo finally won gold after skating together for 18 years.
I was on my feet when Shaun White won gold and unveiled the new Double McTwist 1260.

I cheered when Canada got its first gold medal on home turf.
And I introduced RHS to the wonder that is curling.
I love it.

And aside from cheering and crying and criticizing the the judges scores what I really love about the Olympics is imagining the internal monologue of the athletes.

Biathlon: We’re skiing with guns!

Alpine Skiing: Uhm, guys, why are they skiing with guns?

Cross-Country: Dudes, we are not sticking around long enough to find out.

Ski Jumping: Flying Squirrel!  Flying Squirrel!

Speed Skating: We’re prepared to throw our skates at them in a pinch.

Skeleton & Luge: Puh-lease we’re hurtling down ice-y tubes of doom on our back and stomach.  We don’t even flinch at guns.

Snowboard Cross: Ice-y tubes of doom – awesome!  Do y’all race four at a time like we do?

Bobsled: Hey, we’ve got tubes too!

Snowboard Halfpipe: Whatever brah, it’s not like they’re doing awesome aerials with the guns.

Hockey: Body check!

Ice-Dancing: The brutes.

Figure Skating: Biathlon has guns and Ice-Dancing has Twizzles.   If those two sports got married and had a kid it’d be Johnny Weir.

Curling: Yeahyeahyeah, Johnny Weir.  We’ve got the bigger stones.

I love it.

And also, those commercials that Morgan Freeman narrates make me cry.





Super Beauxwl XLIV

6 02 2010

I could not be more excited about the Super Bowl tomorrow.

[Well, perhaps that’s not entirely true… I would be more excited if my Cowboys hadn’t pissed it away and were playing tomorrow.  I would be more excited if I had any confidence in that wanker Tony Romo.  No kind of heart.  And if you don’t have any kind of raw talent or natural intelligence on the field, heart is really want you need to carry you through.  Which is why I am happy, nay, honored even, to shift my Super Bowl XLIV  love to Dem Saints and the members of the mightymighty Who Dat Nation.]

I have selected a black and gold t-shirt to wear; I have my growler of Six Point Sweet Action cooling in the refrigerator and I have my beloved stoner food (White Castle Cheeseburgers, Tostino’s Pizza Rolls, Buffalo Chicken Wings [mmmm… food-like product] and Ben & Jerry’s Vanilla Caramel Fudge ice-cream) in the freezer.

It's like Black & Gold ice-cream.

I am psyched.

And I am not alone… Melissa Harris-Lacewell is jazzed (and Dr. Maddow is on a contact high).

Vodpod videos no longer available.

Mamie Van Doren is a fan.  And so is Joan Jett (she don’t give a damn about their bad reputation).

Black

+

Gold

= Winning combination.

Other than watching a good game (or, when my Cowboys were in the Super Bowl, a game in which my team humiliated their opposition [see: Super Bowl, XXVII, XXVIII, XXX] [We miss you Troy!]) I look forward to watching the commercials.

This year, CBS has done an outstanding job of ruining that for me by running a (deeply offensive) anti-choice commercial featuring Tim Tebow and funded by Focus on the Family.  Not only has CBS made the decision to run this advertisement for limiting choice, they’ve also quite pointedly decided not to run an ad for a gay dating site.

Perhaps CBS actually stands for Complete BullShit.

Anyhoods, choice and two-dudes kissing advocates are all up in arms and are suggesting that we boycott CBS and the Super Bowl.  I say, Dem Saints have come too far to let Tim Tebow and his mama steal their thunder.  Plus, Scott Fujita would be totally pissed.  What I’m going to do is simply change the channel whenever the commercials come on (and I’m going to change to LOGO).

The companies that have paid money to have their spots shown on CBS are hoping to recoup some of that money by converting viewers to consumers.  They are counting on me to watch their commercials on CBS during the Super Bowl and buy their product.  If I don’t watch their commercials they don’t get to me.  Their expensive ploy fails.  I mean, this would work better if millions of viewers boycotted the commercials – then those companies would be super-pissed (at CBS) for not getting the boost that they wanted.  Then they might think twice about paying CBS money to hawk their wares next year.  Then CBS loses.

And, if all goes well, Dem Saints win.