Come for me, bitches.

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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Super Beauxwl XLIV

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).

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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.

Hostile Takeover.

It turns out that adding Justice Sotomayor to the Supreme Court really does make for a radical activist bench.

‘Course this is not exactly the radical that I had in mind.

As usual, Dr. Maddow does a fine job of breaking down how the ruling on Citizens [insert derisive chortle here] United v. Federal Election Commission is a giant crock of step-on-the-little-guy shit and I will pretty much use any excuse to link to her Doctorate of Awesomeness here.  She’s all smart like and I’m all: This totally sucks y’all.

But there’s something even more than just the Oh, Great, Now Coca Cola will have not only my soul but my vote too that’s getting to me.   It’s that suddenly, Coca Cola is a person now.  It has taken me nearly thirty years to become a person.   And yet in ten months with some clever legal maneuvering Coca Cola is a person now too.  Only, more of a person than me.
I’m not fantastically wealthy (yet).  I’m not international (yet).  I don’t rot your teeth right out of your head.  I’m not locked in a bitter battle against Pepsi Co. for the wallets and gullets of the world.  [yet]
But more than that.  Coca Cola (and that bastard Pepsi Co.) is a regular first class citizen.  Unlike the gays.  Coca Cola’s rights are protected and upheld under the law.  Unlike the gays.   Hell, Coca Cola and Pepsi Co. Can even marry if they’d like.  Corporations do it all of the time.  Unlike the gays.

That’s some kind of justice.

Masshole

Thanks Massachusetts for giving me one more reason (other than the sinkhole that is Boston) to hate you (sorry Dr. Maddow.  I’m from Connecticut and everyone in Connecticut knows that Massachusetts sucks).

Oh well, as least this guy didn’t make a name for himself by implying that the POTUS is a bastard.

Oh… wait.

Nice going.  I hope Teddy Kennedy haunts the crap out of you.

PAThological

God doesn’t like ugly.  Pat Robertson continues his tradition of not getting that memo.

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There’s not much that I have to add to Ambassador Raymond Joseph’s complete schooling¹ of Pat Robertson on Dr. Rachel Maddow’s show.  It was glorious.

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But what really struck me – apart from the blunt force blow of his insensitivity – was the extension of Pat Robertson’s “logic”.  If we follow his statement to its natural conclusion we find that he is making the argument that we should not be moved to great sorrow over the tragedy in Haiti because they brought it on themselves (what with their slave ancestors rising up from brutal bondage to free themselves and defend their freedom against empires) – staying in bondage would have been the Christian thing to do.

This is a despicable thing to believe.
This is a despicable thing to say.
This is an especially despicable thing to say to and about the descendants of a people who were stolen from their home land, language and religion and were forced into conditions and status lower than that of chattal.  Who were, in fact, exhibited, and bought and sold like so much livestock.

The idea that Haitian slaves rejected Pat Robertson’s God and that their descendants are paying for it now wounds me in a place that I didn’t even know existed.

Pat Robertson’s God is almost as dirty a bastard as Pat Robertson is I reject him too.  Wouldn’t you?

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¹Honestly, I don’t think that anyone has been schooled this hard since they stopped putting dunce caps on children and making them sit in the middle of the class room while everyone else in the class recited the lesson to the offending idiot.

Mad World

Ah, Tears for Fears… when have you ever been wrong?

Last night Doctor Rachel Maddow who errs in now way (except for the way that her teenyteenytiny section in the NBC Store in Rockefeller Center does not carry Mind Over Chatter shirts that fit me) was all over Sloppy Joe Lieberman last night like herpes on a Hilton (I said it and I stand by it).

Vodpod videos no longer available. Vodpod videos no longer available.

I cannot compete.  But I can sum it up with a little help from my friends Roland and Curt.

I can’t stand this indecision
married with a lack of vision
Everybody wants to rule the world.

All of these presents and I don’t even have my tree yet.

Kwannukahmas time is here.

Time for Christmas trees, Unity and awesome menorahs.

AWESOME!

The tree in Rockefeller Center is looking fantastic and my prune-dried soul is filling with Seasonal Feelings of goodwill.

I dedicate this tree to a certain Mr. Charles Brown

After-all, it is the time of giving.

And boy, has the Universe provided.

Yesterday, OOMFPAWWIHFOAMFOY, told me about Glenn Beck’s Christmas Sweater.  The “Glen Beck Experience” in which how he recounts how he was an ungrateful, hateful little asshat of a boy and crushed his poor mother’s heart (on Christmas no less) and then she died.  Now he’s telling his story to illustrate his redemption and his faith and to show us, the great man that he’s become.

This story…

Created this man…

Seems about right.

Last night though, my girlfriend, Rachel Maddow, Ph.D. (Doctor Maddow to you), gave me the best gift of the season.  [Wow, that sounds kind of dirty when you re-read it.  Go ahead, re-read it.  I will wait.]

Anyhoods, there was dancing with shades and a disco ball.  There was insightful news making and there was the sheer and utter delight that is Rachel Maddow.  The whole episode is genius.  But what really brought it home for me was the “I guess I’m racist” ad.

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Thank you anti-health reform wingnuts for building this beautiful new toy in your workshops of terror.

You should watch Doctor Maddow’s clip for some very incisive commentary from (my other girlfriend who’s not Ana Marie Cox) Professor Melissa Harris-Lacewell.  [Another gift.]

The whole add for your chortling pleasure.

Here’s the thing.  If I was watching the television, as I am want to do, and I looked up and saw a majority of white faces¹ telling me that they were racist, I’d say, “Of course you are.  Now how do I get back to that other channel, I need to see if the Cowboys are going to win this game?”  “Or.  Okay, I hope you’re not interrupting my Fringe with this mess.  Because if you’re interfering in my deep and meaningful relationship with Olivia Dunham we are going to have words.”

What I mean is that I wouldn’t be surprised.  I’d be annoyed that you were using your white-privilege to disturb my sacred TV time to tell me, but… you’re a racist, you obviously don’t care about the wants and desires of little ol’ X-Files missing me.

In words of my very astute friends: If someone tells you about themselves, believe them.
I believe  you racists.

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¹And seriously, two black dudes and dude of Asian Pacific Islander decent.  I know it’s hard finding work as an actor and all, but… did you know what you were signing up for?  I mean, we’ve done our share of bad shows/movies/plays what have you.  But seriously?  We have all done things that are going to get us kicked out of our respective clubs.

I’m just saying… Black Dudes… be on the look out for operatives from SCAN.

Déjà BOOO

It looks like it’s 2001 all over again.

1. New Jersey and Virginia have Republican Governors¹ 
2. Mike Bloomberg has used-car salesmanned himself into the NYC Mayor’s seat²
3. Maine has second-class citizens³

 

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Same you can believe in.

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¹In 2001 Donald DiFrancesco succeeded Christine Todd Whitman as governor of New Jersey.  In 2001 Jim Gilmore was the governor of Virginia.

²In 2001 Mike Bloomberg switched his registration from Democrat to Republican before switching his registration to Independent in 2007 and then hoodwinking NYC citizens so that he could be eligible for a third term.

³In 2001 Maine’s partnered gay citizens were not afforded the same rights under the law as their married heterosexual counterparts.  For a brief shining moment this year that wrong was righted.  Last night citizens and neighbors in Maine voted to disenfranchise and relegate second class status to other citizens and neighbors in Maine.  Those voters chose to protect marriage at the cost of their dignity and integrity. 
That seems like too heavy a price to pay to me.

Oh Joe he didn’t!

I’ve been sitting here, dithering, if you will, for the past couple of days trying to think of a clever play on Joe Lieberman’s name.

So far I’ve come up with:

Joe Blows
Joe Diddly
Say it ain’t Joe
Not Joe Senator
Joe Shit
Joe-berwokky
No way Joe-se
Sloppy Joe

My favourite, however, is Cock Block.  It’s not a play on words so much as an accurate description of Joe Lieberman’s time in Senate.
He’s the “friend” telling the hot girl that you’ve just gotten to talk to you about that weird infection you had last week.

In this case the hot girl that’s just deigned to grace you with her witty repartee is health care reform with an anemic public option and the Republican filibuster power is the infection that we thought we’d finally rid ourselves of when we finally got Al Franken his seat.

Joe Lieberman is the fucker that finagles it so that all three of you to go home alone and then get all offended when you shoot him a dirty look and a dirty finger when he’s all, “Dude.  Couldn’t close that deal, huh?  Sucks.  She was alright, though.”

But don’t take my word for.  Dr. Rachel Maddow has had her blazers in a bunch over it for the past two nights.  And I don’t blame her.  In the whole history of the Senate no one (NO ONE) has voted with the opposition to prevent cloture for the party they caucus with.  I understand wanting to make a name for yourself, but Benedict Arnold doesn’t seem like the wisest of choices.

In real life, such masterful cock-blockery often results in a five-finger salute to face.  I’m not advocating violence, but I am advocating a swift and decisive response to such disregard for the leadership of the party with which you caucus.  I am advocating that the Democratic party strip him of his leadership, run someone against him and censure him and then call that pretty girl up, beg her pardon and see if you can get her to talk to you again now that your douche-y “friend” is gone.

Democrats, don’t let her get away.

I was blind but now I see.

I am not a movie person.

The actor part of me gets really frustrated when I watch them because they are so clearly the director’s and the cinematographer’s medium.
I am neither.

But I do see a movie now and then.  And when I saw Where the Wild Things Are I paid close attention to the trailers while I was waiting for RHS to come back from the bathroom so that I could guilt her into buying me concession.
Trailers can be teaching moments.

What I learned when I watched the trailer for The Blind Side, the new Sandra Bullock vehicle was very eye-opening.

1. White people are so good and trusting and kind.
2. Black people are so big and dumb and slow and poor.
3. White people have beautiful homes.
4. Black people don’t have homes.
5. White people are stable.
6. Black people are unpredictable.
7. White people coach football.
8. Black people play football.
9. White people are the best thing to ever happen to black people.
10. Black people are the best pets white people can have.

That trailer has been all over the place lately… teaching.
And when you’ve received the lesson, it’s not that hard to make the leap from black people to people of color in general.

And seems that there are certain boys and girls who are eager to lead the class.  Larry Whitten gets a gold star this week for learning the lesson so well.
Forbidding your employees to speak Spanish in your presence – not, mind you, when they’re dealing with customers, but when they are in the same room as you talking to their co-workers – because you don’t trust them.  A+
[Let’s not get it twisted, the fact that Whitten thought they might be talking about him – and who doesn’t talk about their boss? – directly implies that he doesn’t trust that they’re not.  And he doesn’t trust what they are saying about him.  He doesn’t trust them if he can’t understand them.]

Making  your employees change their names for “the satisfaction of [your] guests because people calling from all over America don’t know the Spanish accents or the Spanish culture or Spanish anything.”  A++
I mean, except for the fact that nearly everyone in the Taos knows something of the OUTLANDISHLY FOREIGN Spanish accents, culture and language.  Also, except for the fact that Martin is pronounced exactly in Spanish as it is in French and the American pronunciation of Martin is a nasty-garish derivative.
Asking someone to whiten up their name while simultaneously belittling their language and culture and ignoring the millions of people in America who are a part of that language an culture earns you this nice, pretty dunce cap Mr. Whitten.

Firing your employees because they didn’t kowtow to your white superiority.  Well that just takes the cape.  You get to graduate Grand Dragon Class Valedictorian.

Bravo.
I hope that you thank Sandra Bullock, Warner Bros. Pictures and Alcon Entertainment in your acceptance speech.