Viqi French Fever

Miss Patti: (Not) On My Own

noreply@blogger.com (Viqi French) — Wed, 29 Mar 2006 05:13:40 PST

It seems peculiar, some of the media coverage Patti LaBelle's receiving surrounding a meltdown she had on-stage at a jazz fest in Riviera Beach, Florida. It's unfortunate that poor weather and scheduling broke the diva's voice -- and therefore, her spirit. But it happened, she'll rest up, not a big deal, right?

Wrong. Now a new, surprising angle has cropped up with this seeming non-issue... Now the mayor of the town is freaking out about what his people "did" to Patti.

"It's a black-eye for the city," Mayor Michael Brown rants, putting the organizers on full blast. City Council's coordinating a big meeting to analyze what went wrong with the show to trigger Patti's break-down.

Is this the sort of thing your elected officials usually get involved in? Personally, I like a mayor who can fix a school system or a tight job market. But a jazz concert? I don't know.

After Project Runway: 'Inner Ahhhndraes' unleashed

noreply@blogger.com (Viqi French) — Tue, 21 Mar 2006 09:39:27 PST

Some would call it a "Make it work" attitude, but I'm going to start considering it one's inner Ahhhndrae. As in the magical personality of Andrae Gonzalo from Project Runway.

Inner Ahhhndre is the Say Whuuuut? quality that oozes from two of the Project Runway faves -- up-and-coming designer Santino Rice and the show's mentor/co-host Tim Gunn -- in these interviews. If you too "are addicted," get your fix -- that fashion dope -- here:

From Tim's two Q&A interviews:

Famous people love the show, too. I recently interviewed Beyoncé and she’s a fan.
I heard about Meryl Streep through Bravo, and I’ve had dinner with Sarah Jessica Parker twice.
Tim Gunn's in The Advocate

Name one thing you have in your house from your childhood?
Mr. Wee, a floppy stuffed animal [giraffe-like] covered in the upholstery of our living room couch at that time. Considering that he's my age, it's remarkable that he's only missing a leg.
Tim Gunn in the Chicago Tribune.

From Santino's riotous Q&A interview:
What's up between you and Jay from last season? Do you consider yourself a much better designer? And much funnier. On every level, just more. And that'll come across really nice, I'm sure. Hahaha.
Santino in the Village Voice.

Project Runway had such a colorful cast of characters last season. Every personality somehow engaging, many of them quirky.

I have an idea for a reality show, but I'll never tell! It's not anything I'm about to pursue. But someday I'm sure I'll see it TV and I'll delight in the fact that I had the same vision and could have made millions. But I was busy blogging about it, instead of "Making it work"...

Want more? Project Runway

Bonita. Bonita. Bonita.

noreply@blogger.com (Viqi French) — Fri, 17 Mar 2006 13:43:08 PST

I try not to do too much of this, as it can be dangerous. But: I've been thinking... Yup. It started with a post the other day where I mentioned that ominous line by George Clinton, who asked in the party anthem of the seventies, "Are you hip to Easter Island?"

So today when I saw that Easter Island was in the news, I went in search of a Mothership Connection.

I read a couple stories about Easter Island, first about scientific theories for why its original inhabitants -- the makers of these statues -- became extinct. But one article in particular made me think of two friends from the past. Both of these guys had confided that they were from another planet.

Now, don't ROFL. I'm not saying these people were 100% locked and loaded; both were quite, umm, unconventional. Both happen to be from Philly. (Maybe that's the epicenter of this ET invasion.) They didn't know each other, and I met them years apart.

Anyway, here's what gave me the flashback about these guys. It's from explorer Francis Maziére's book, chronicling his 1963 stay on Easter Island. Maziere studied the island, its history and people and may have inspired George Clinton and others by writing this:

When we were in camp we used to have long, anxious conversations by night as we gazed not only at the blazing stars but also at the artificial satellites that often passed overhead. We were told certain things ... that seem to me to be of terrible importance. I write them in the order that I [was told them by the Easter Islanders]:

The inhabitants of Jupiter have settled the concordance of the planets.
The first planet that men will come to know is Venus.
Our bodies cannot withstand more than two months on the planets.
All the planets worship the Sun.
Not many stars are inhabited.
Among us there are people whom we cannot see….
The current and the light of Venus are produced by the air.
Two planets, Jupiter and Mars, have no natural electricity: they are like the Earth.
There are no winds.
Only our Earth has men of different colours.
There is only one Sun, and no-one can live on it.
There are people living on the Moon.
There is one planet that has no vegetation and no earth; it is made up of water and rocks alone.
The sort of human beings who live there are different, and they are born in the water.

Are the people who tell us such things certifiable? Stoned? Or really looking for our leader?

I don't land squarely on either side of the question. I just like tripping off the fact that no one seems to have indisputably figured out extraterrestials. Really, we're all like A Tribe Called Quest. You know, in the intro for Bonita Applebaum? Where Q-Tip begs in that frail, helium-ish voice, "Can you let me know? Right now, please?"

Space, the final frontier. Not just knee-deep.

Isaac Hayes: 'Chef' has left the kitchen

noreply@blogger.com (Viqi French) — Tue, 14 Mar 2006 07:08:57 PST

Holy Hamburger! Soul music legend Isaac Hayes is putting away his beloved pots 'n' pans. That's right: Ike is done with the animated series South Park, on which he's voiced the character 'Chef' for so long. He cites frustration with religious insensitivity for his departure.

A devout Scientologist, the hot-buttered Oscar Award winner for the Theme From Shaft says "growing insensitivity toward personal spiritual beliefs" in the media has his ire, including the recent controversy over cartoons depicting the Prophet Mohammad. He doesn't specifically criticize South Park's content, but part of the show's charm is its penchant to "go there" on just about any subject.

Ike has taken a thought-provoking stance. We really do need a paradigm shift -- or something -- on our religious outlook in America. We seem increasingly at odds with the notion of religious tolerance on which the nation was founded. We too easily make light of others' beliefs. But the reality is, warring between those of differing religious ethos is not at all a new phenomenon.

Other bloggers say: South Park Black Music Black Blogs

Chuuch: Bush Policy Pimp Busted for Boosting

noreply@blogger.com (Viqi French) — Tue, 14 Mar 2006 05:44:06 PST

Another Sunday, another sermon. So sorry, but this hymn bares repeating: You know it's hard out here for a pimp. Because I recall seeing this Republican one

Claude Allen

swagging on camera at the White House with President Bush and Karl Rove. I didn't know his name or role with the Bush administration then, but we all know more about Allen now than I'm sure he'd like: Mack Daddy was busted in a suburban D.C. department store for alleged theft.

The store says that Allen, owner of a million-dollar home in Maryland, boosted merchandise valued at $5,000, then tried to return it for the dough.

{{{ Can you say mortgage in Neverland? }}}

But I could be wrong. Could have just been gear for putting hoes down.

Until this scandal unravelled over the past few weeks and he resigned, Mr. Allen was an Assistant to the President for Domestic Policy. A legal eagle/strategist who helped craft and promote a couple little policies we -- the Hoes of America -- don't care for, such as anti-safe sex and anti-abortion.

Little wonder, though. I've read about Mr. Allen's church. At his Covenent Life Church, they get down speaking in tongues, make up all of their own songs, and like for women to stay in their place. Like a pimp.

Wait: They make up all their own songs?! No "Ship of Zion"? Not even an Eye On the Sparrow? Well, I bet they know this one -- er'body does:

You know it's hard out here for a pimp

When he tryin to get this money for the rent

For the Cadillacs and gas money spent

Because a whole lot of bitches talkin' shit

First Cheney's shot heard round the world; now this. Er'body just gangsta.

Other bloggers speak: Claude Allen Democrats Black blogs

Another World

noreply@blogger.com (Viqi French) — Sun, 12 Mar 2006 06:27:22 PST

It's a different world, for sure.... The other day, I heard a radio DJ ask his listeners a question that really sparked my imagination. This was the question: Which Hip-hop artist do you feel has the absolute worst endorsement package? You might think the clothes are wack. You might feel the product's too commercial. Or maybe you consider the corporate sponsor too low profile for that particular artist.

Lord, times sure have changed. I remember when endorsement packages were as foreign a concept to African American artists as the need for heat in hell. But that's hardly the case today.

Now here's where the concept got deep: I started imagining some of the old school artists who missed out on "endorsement opportunities." Wouldn't you have loved these lucrative mega-deals showcased by big-azz billboards in the 'hood?

Don't just DO it. Let's get it ON!

Make ya' wanna do right. Make ya' wanna do wrong...

If there's a cure for this, I don't want it.

I'm Chiquita Banana and I'm here to say...

Lip-syncing to Paula Abdul: "Girl you know it's true..."

So Stay In School, Bitch!

Are you hip to Easter Island?

Good morning, Heartache.

Look like-a, like-a Sex Machine. Hair movin'. Groovin.

It's hard out here for a shrimp

noreply@blogger.com (Viqi French) — Mon, 06 Mar 2006 06:55:02 PST

Why is The Establishment so aghast about "It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp" winning the Oscar for Song of the Year? As Jay-Z says, "Ladies is pimps, too. Gone pop ya' collar." In other words, why are some taking the message of the song so literally? Everyone with a little something going on in their lives is a pimp, and it's never easy. For further explanation of modern day pimpin', see the White House. See the oil industry. See Hollywood. See, Donald Trump. See Lil' Kim and Martha Stewart. See, if you ain't pimpin', you shrimpin'. This is just the American way.

Hezekiah Walker speaks...

noreply@blogger.com (Viqi French) — Fri, 03 Mar 2006 05:25:01 PST

Internet rumors can be so vicious, spreading destruction worse than wild fire. Which is why, when I received all of those emails about watching Jamie Foxx's special to spite NBC, I didn't forward them. Mere hours later, NBC and Jamie's publicist were quoted putting that divisive story to rest.

Now, the rumor mill is spinning out of control about Hezekiah Walker. It's taken him a while, but finally he has spoken in an attempt to combat what's being spread around the Internet (and elsewhere) regarding his sexuality.

I don't know the man, but want to believe him when he wrote this in a letter to the people of his church:

... The Satanic E-Mail and rumor is a sure sign that this is our Year of
Increase. If the enemy is going to get me, he must come better than a
transvestite and a blonde wig. As for all of the haters, I'm not taking a step down, but a step up. I refuse to let this distract me so don’t you become distracted. Always remember: never chase a lie, because the truth will prevail...

Well, the letter doesn't deny everything. But at least he's trying to clear up the type of attire his alleged lover wears...

Had no clue Katrina would be huge...

noreply@blogger.com (Viqi French) — Thu, 02 Mar 2006 05:42:48 PST

Trick, get off me

noreply@blogger.com (Viqi French) — Mon, 27 Feb 2006 15:23:17 PST

2000 zero zero party over, oops, out of time!

You go, New Orleans. Party like it's 1999, pre-Katrina. Get your King Cake on. Catch you some throws. Do it Big Willy style. Mardi Gras is headline news like never before. I've never seen so many of the neighborhood parades on TV.

I'm waiting, though, for glimpses of the legendary Zulu Parade.

So here's a shout to all the people of New Orleans. You've been through a lot and still have quite a haul to go. Hope you're enjoying the spirit of your beautiful celebration wherever you may be.

A special holla at the 504 Hip-hop community. Master P. Juvenile. Lil Wayne. Hot Boys. Chopper. Mystical... Many of y'all showed up in the aftermath of Kat. Hope the city lifts a light for your contributions and support in ways that make you feel real special.

Madea's Family Reunion: All finger-lickin' good

noreply@blogger.com (Viqi French) — Sat, 25 Feb 2006 10:21:40 PST

You've gotta love Tyler Perry, whose Madea franchise just keeps blossoming as remarkably as a rose through cracked concrete. His Madea's Family Reunion, which opened yesterday, does not disappoint. Perry dialed up the casting and writing several notches in this one, and the soulful soundtrack is a must-have for my money, with lush cuts by Rachelle Farrell, Chaka Khan, Bill Withers, Al Green and others who can really sang.

Family Reunion strikes an awsome balance of comedic Madea moments versus, this time, a scandalously thought-provoking story line. Well, it's really the same story line, but there are dark, new underpinnings notably presented by Lynn Whitfield's character. (If you loved her Fatal Attraction persona in Thin Line Between Love and Hate, do not miss her in Family Reunion.) I felt a little like Dr. Lechter watching Lynn in this movie. Each time she appeared anew on screen, I'd mutter, "Love your suit." (Should've checked the fashion credits. Lynn's apparel was stunning.)

The film delivered on the dramatic tension that made Showtime's Soul Food series so compelling. (It didn't hurt that delicious looking Boris Kodjoe from the series is in Madea.) And the two fresh-faced central characters who played sisters delivered rich performances.

Blair Underwood takes it to the bank as well. He keeps playing these psycho man roles, and I just love it. I can never recall the titles of these indie movies he shines in -- the one where he plays the devil and that other one where he plays the crazed hubby -- but he's got his own Denzel in Training Day repetoire going on in a way that hopefully will win him an Oscar some day.

A well-deserved shout-out also goes to Jenifer Lewis, whom many best remember for playing Tina Turner's mother in What's Love Got to Do With It. Ms. Lewis, with whom I proudly share St. Louis roots, drops hot moments with a bit of a Strange' flair.

Last but not least, I was pleasantly surprised to see the faces of two legendary women in Madea's Family Reunion. I won't say their names so that you might enjoy the surprise, too. But their strong presence pretty much makes this film a treasure for the time capsule.

Bottom line on Madea's Family Reunion? Divas, divas everywhere and not a moment to think. Why? Because you'll be too busy laughing at Tyler Perry and his trifecta of zany characters. This time, surrounded by some of the best African American dramatists around.

Read more: Movies Reviews Tyler Perry Black blogs

Shani Davis: The Father, Son and O.J. Ghost

noreply@blogger.com (Viqi French) — Thu, 23 Feb 2006 14:27:49 PST

Okay, I admit it: I've largely ignored the 2006 Winter Olympics. (Surprised, right?) I've only monitored the Games at low speed and from a distance, catching up only for a handful of the athletes. Primarily, African American speedskater Shani Davis who is from my neck of the woods, the South Side of Chicago.

Universal congrats to Shani, who's made history as the first black to win an individual gold medal at the Winter Games. But what's drawing me into Davis's story more than his achievements are the rumbling subplots that have risen above the cheers.

From my detached seat waaaaay over here in a corner -- as far away from Torino, Italy, as one could possibly be -- it seems that one day, the world heralded Shani the Man for his historic first win. Now, just three or four days later, I'm smelling vilification... Shani didn't run the race that could have helped a teammate break a five-gold-medals record... Shani didn't grin friendly for the NBC interviewer...

Is it my imagination, or is there always some massive hater party thrown for blacks in the spotlight on TV? Oooh: bitchy Omarosa and selfish Randall from The Apprentice. Ewww: Starr Jones this, Starr Jones that. Awww: that no B.S. hunk from Big Brother, or the kid from Real World who slapped the girl...

Now it's Shani Davis's turn in the limelight. So on your mark, get set. Let the Electronic Lynch Game begin. It's as if random black people are paying for the sins of O.J.

Dayum, it's been 10 years since that trial.

Well, if this isn't a throwback to O.J., it's clear that certain African Americans have the Zen ability to morph before the eye of a camera lens. You'd think there was a big uppity green Hulk lurking in each and every one of us, just waiting for our moment in the spotlight.

Hats off, though, to the the PR geniuses who know how to work these Evil Black Person angles. They deserve fat bonuses for so cleverly plussing-up viewership and ad dollars that are sagging.

E.v.e. ruff rydes with African royalty

noreply@blogger.com (Viqi French) — Tue, 21 Feb 2006 09:37:34 PST

This is mind-blowing. I've got a thing for the machinations of African dictators, and apparently so does rap star Eve of the Ruff Ryders. My twisted fascination with these elite power mongers led me to write a manuscript for a suspense novel years ago. In my story, the maniacal son of an African official enters the U.S. rap game as head of a record label. He is evil incarnate to everyone who does business with him, with the exception of a new female artist who has her very scandalous way with him. People suspect that something of the rap diva's Caribbean roots may be at play...

Fast-forward to the here and now. It's as if Eve Jeffries picked up the signal of my story and is living the real la vida loco. She reportedly has been dating Teodorin Nguema Obiang, the son of Equitorial Guinea's wealthy, oil-fueled president.

A 2004 U.S. Senate report found that Washington's Riggs Bank allowed Obiang and his associates to move millions out of government accounts into personal ones, reports the New York Daily News. The American-educated Teodorin holds the position of minister of state for forestry, environment and housing in his country, but reportedly spends most of the time at his mansions in Cape Town, London, Paris and Los Angeles. He also owns TNO Records, which, to date, hasn't produced many records, according to the Daily News.

People say "you can't make this stuff up." But I did -- complete with money laundering through the record label... Not that Mr. Obiang would ever do anything like that with his label. My characters aren't from Guinea, but otherwise, interesting similarities exist.

This news might encourage me to dust off the old manuscript and try to get it out. I don't know what the First Lady of the Ruff Ryder camp has been up to with her international playboy, Teodorin. But if she needs any ideas for how to work her connection to this intriguing family, I've got about 350 double-spaced pages of killer [*wink*] ideas to sell her. Good thing I did the copyright long before reading about this romance today.

I see freaky people

noreply@blogger.com (Viqi French) — Sun, 19 Feb 2006 11:50:32 PST

Ever trip off of your introduction to sex? Did your parents give it to you straight? Or did they send you deviant signals by making up ish like this?

I was about six when I overheard my mother and the lady next door discussing a rape that had occured in a nearby alley. All in their business and trying to keep up, I asked what "rape" meant. This was my mother's way of explaining the concept: "It means a man took a rake and raked leaves off a woman's body." And she demonstrated it -- raking -- so I could really get the picture.
Another time, when the neighbor's son and I rummaged through shopping bags tucked in the back seat of my mother's car, we found some big old, spongy cone-shaped underwearish things. Sort of like this: When she returned to the car, I sat in the back seat waving both of her white, cone-thingys in the air. "Mama. What are these for?" I asked coyly. She broke it down Like a Virgin. "I use 'em to bake cakes," she said, not really making eye contact. My boy and I knew what was up with the bra cups. But why? She hadn't exactly missed the bosom boat. I let her off the hook though.
My friend D's story was whack, too. Her mother warned her about letting a boy stick his "raw meat" inside her. So D. feared any boy who might try to get at her like this: I wonder where D thought the boys hid the ham, say during Geography.
Another childhood friend, R., jogged my memory a few months ago about the hysteria that gripped the girls at our grade school: people we called charm molesters. Heard of them?

...And you wonder why everyone seems uniquely throwed. At least medium-rare.

It's not over till it's ooooo-vah

noreply@blogger.com (Viqi French) — Fri, 17 Feb 2006 14:42:13 PST

You know what Lenny Kravitz said about things not really being over. Which is why false endings are top of mind this morning. For example, the deliciously seasoned pork chops I ate last night have taken on a horrifying life of their own... Similarly, Dick Cheney may be suffering digestive issues, too. 'Cause the veep keeps saying fini about the Harry Whittington shooting incident, but the reality is that some shit just won't go away. You see, journalists with inquiring minds still want to know:

"Were they worried about Whittington's condition? What were the chain of events after the shooting? What exactly happened that night?" Such unknowns have already sparked somewhat far-reaching speculation. While unproven and in some cases unlikely, lack of an official version allows such ideas to gain traction. Several journalists also point to the victim, Whittington, noting that he has not been interviewed by reporters or even released his account of the incident.

Reporters polled by Editor & Publisher still have a million questions, despite Cheney declaring this "case closed."

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Ever have a favorite artist who just can't put out a new album fast enough? Then when finally something new is released, you cop it and feel high unwrapping the CD to give that long-awaited music a listen?

One of the few artists who lift me with anticipation this way is Lewis Taylor, London's #1 neo-soul brother, whose latest work is titled Stoned. And as usual, the music is ooooo-vah! For me, Lewis is a funk-rock-soul combination of Prince, D'Angelo and Mary J. Blige (whom I'd love to hear him burn a duet with). Check out his NPR interview.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Last but definitely not least, it's getting down to the wire on one of my favorite TV shows, Project Runway. The up-and-coming designer on the far right -- Santino Rice -- is still standing to the astonishment of many viewers, and has got to be singing that Lenny Kravitz song out loud.

If you're into this hot mess of a fashionista drama-rama, too, click this photo:

New Orleans: Bring rubber boots to Mardi Gras

noreply@blogger.com (Viqi French) — Fri, 17 Feb 2006 05:18:03 PST

Like Uncle Sam, New Orleans wants YOU... to come and roll up your sleeves between Mardi Gras parades and sips from those cute little go cups. Writer Debra Cotton filed this entertaining but wholly enlightening piece at EURweb about le bon ton rolle that's about to go down. But she also makes a serious plea for Mardi Gras visitors to help clean up the Ninth Ward.

Silence of the Quails

noreply@blogger.com (Viqi French) — Wed, 15 Feb 2006 08:25:49 PST

Hello, Clarice... Various Republicans are peeling from Cheney like translucent skins from fava beans. According to this Washington Post article, several are openly and unapologetically criticizing the poor judgment Cheney's exercising in the shooting incident of attorney Harry Whittington. It seems increasingly clear that ties to Cheney may cost many GOP re-elections across the country.

With so many finally jumping out of the line of Cheney's fire, I'm starting to feel a bit sorry for the president, who must be tossing and turning at night due to this Silence of the Quails thriller going on around him. Perhaps it's time to clean house. No one likes to admit a mistake or show disloyalty, but the POTUS might consider these perspectives:

Women in disappointing relationships often come to this conclusion: "I can do bad by myself." Men frequently express the sentiment of being dragged down this way: "With friends like this, who needs enemies?"
Drug counselors might admonish Bush for being an enabler, something of an equally culpable party in keeping an addict free to drug.
Even foreign policy guru Brent Scowcroft, who served with Cheney under George Bush, Sr., has said that he doesn't recognize the man who now occupies the vice presidency.

I don't know. But if I were Mr. Bush, I'd consider it time to quit playing "the great big fat person" in this movie. It's getting late and it's just not wise to keep helping those with a habit of lurking on dark and secretive roads.

A Quail in the Bush (aka Fugget about Bush's brain. What about Cheyney's?)

noreply@blogger.com (Viqi French) — Tue, 14 Feb 2006 09:03:15 PST

Naturally, the late night talk show hosts had a field day with Vice President Cheyney's gangsta move, having allegedly shot a hunting companion named Harry Whittington. Hey wait... That tricky little word -- "allegedly" -- hasn't been attached by anyone to this story. What gives? Really. What does the absence of "alleged" mean?

Does it mean, "Yeah I shot dude. What about it? Now get outta my face 'cause many men wish death 'pon me"?

Does this mean that, with the end of his term in sight, Cheyney grew upset when someone shouted "Quail!" Perhaps he assumed that darned Whittington jerk was making a joke about his impending lame duck status, calling him "Quayle" -- as in the legendarily dissed Bush Sr. veep Dan Quayle.

Did Cheyney, all true man, feel threatened in a Brokeback Mountain way? As they'd say in Hustle and Flow land, You know it's hard outdoors for a pimp.

Whatever triggered this shocking tragedy, one thing is apparent: There was a mighty confusion going down. And I don't just mean in them there woods.

Dick Cheyney - The Late Night punch lines

noreply@blogger.com (Viqi French) — Mon, 13 Feb 2006 07:38:20 PST

Just sharing a few snatched thoughts about Sly Stone, Dick Cheyney and the body guard of Busta Rhymes. Nothing very serious. Just stuff...

I haven't read the memoir by Carlos Santana's wife, Deborah, titled The Space Between the Stars. But just read a blurb about her having dated the man of the moment, Sly Stewart of Sly and The Family Stone. I learned of this in the context of a story that said Carlos had not been himself in the days prior to last week's Grammy Awards. Probably because he and Deborah would see her old flame, Sly, there. Even after many years of marriage, some insecurities just never completely go away. Well, Carlos... after seeing Sly on stage in all his lizardry, we doubt you should worry about your beautiful woman slithering away.

The death of Busta Rhyme's body guard is quite disturbing. Another senseless murder in the rap world, and the costly dragging through the mud of another rap star and producer, Busta and Swizz Beats. Sounds like there was an outbreak of hatorade over Swizz's beats. I mean, dude's tracks are killer but dayum. I guess Swizz's beats really are worth their weight in gold, so someone felt robbed of potential riches. Or simply bruised of ego, not having been given one of the man's brilliant tracks. And for this, another widow and fatherless child are made.

Now we know for sure Vice President Cheyney's aim is shot. And so is his friend, lawyer Harry Whittington. How the veep mistaked his bud wearing neon orange gear for a little brown quail is unexplicable. Except my imagination runs wild with possible explanations, as life is so often stranger than fiction. This begs lots of questions. Including, for me, the supposition that this was no accident. Maybe Whittington is the owner of some coveted "beat" that political rock stars would kill to get their war monging hands on... After Googling the victim's name, I learned that Harry Whittington, an old friend of Dubya's, is head of a Texas funeral services organization, S.C.I. And Mr. Bush and S.C.I. are implicated in some questionable FEMA contracts to handle the bodies of Katrina victims. Hmmm, perhaps the plot thickens.

Monday Morning Super-back: An ADD re-cap

noreply@blogger.com (Viqi French) — Mon, 06 Feb 2006 06:27:24 PST

There was a time when I could follow a football season all the way through. But those days are long gone. Now, I only watch the Super Bowl. And even that, I just can't stay properly focused on.

So I enjoyed watching my one, big game of the year last night. And here's why, as enjoyed in my own Adult ADD way:

5. For the first time in a long time, the game was actually better than the commercials. A nice enough number of interceptions and touch downs vs. generally lackluster ads tipped the scale this time, making me watch the old-fashioned way... I stayed put for an entire 60% the game, and for a change, dashed away from the TV for 60% of the commercials.

4. Best commercial I caught was for the Hummer H3, with Godzilla and the Gilla Monster (or whomever those Japanese monsters were). These enemy gigantors came together to duke it out, but wound up dating, doing the nasty, getting pregnant and ultimately giving birth to that Little Monster of a truck, the H3. Isn't love grand, a real gas guzzler... Me love 'em long time!

I also liked the Sprint (phone as dangerous, head-clunking weapon) and Burger King (Buzby Berkley fifties choreography) joints. But let me just say, that Burger King 'King' is the grossest looking character ever. Why would anyone eat anything from the platter of that creepy looking mascot? The Burger King looks like something vying for a starring role in the next horror movie franchise. Move over Freddie Krugger and Jason, the papier macher zombie King has come, looking like Mick Jagger in drag.

The worst ads I caught? The two Ameriquest spots. It's not that they were "horrible." Both were entertaining enough. But as a marketing person, I didn't feel the elaborate set up scenarios were strongly summarized by the ending copy points. I had to think too long about what it was that Ameriquest wanted me, a potential customer, to know about their services. In commercial land, you've got 30 seconds to sell the viewer. So at $2.4 million per Super Bowl spot, it should behoove a marketer to leave a fast and clear understanding of your benefits before the next guy comes up to punt.

3. In the absence of Janet Jackson and her star-spangled mams, I found other sexy tidbits to amuse me. A female announcer talked about a damaged player, that someone was pulling down his pants to tape up his groin. Yummy freaky stuff!!! Now I'm all for women sportscasters, but... this chick almost sounded as if she'd crunch a linebacker for the honor of ripping off that poor man's injury tape. Yeeeeoouuuuch!

2. The Star Spangled Horror. The Saturday Night Live skit predicting this mess was far more entertaining. (Keenan portraying an attitudinal Aretha: You betta think THINK! Think about gittin' me some biscuits!)

The highlight of the actual Star Spangled Banner? Condi Rice in the stands, happily grappling with the notion of whether to do a Janet Jackson. Yes sports fans, Conda-Sheezy was toying with her boob. Oh wait: she was just being patriotic, hand over heart for her country? Well, why didn't the camera show another soul in the stadium with hand-to-heart? Guess that sort of thing has become passe.

1. When I saw Mick Jagger toss what appeared to be a pair of panties back into the crowd -- gasp! -- I realized that a certain, craggly Rolling Stone was no longer equipped to gather moss. But what else would one expect from a 63-year-old, emaciated rock man running an Olympics-sized stage in geriatric Reeboks? And that heebie-jeebie prancing? The English (Burger) King moved like his Depends were besieged by crickets.

Chuuch: Aretha's Super Bowl Boulder Holders

noreply@blogger.com (Viqi French) — Mon, 06 Feb 2006 03:43:07 PST

As they say in Jersey, "Allz I can say is, 'Ree-Ree, please keep your monumental footballs tucked tonight!'" This would be my plea to my all-time favorite singer -- Aretha Franklin, The Queen of Soul -- regarding her complaint about tonight's Super Bowl entertainment line up not adequately showcasing Detroit talent.

Um, Aretha, you're about the biggest thing to ever come out of Detroit (next to the SUV)... So why's your boob all twisted in a silver knot? Isn't there a pre-Game Motown-a-thon or something. (gag!)

I'm sorry, but I long ago OD'd on Motown. I mean, I respect the music of that era -- I'm so glad it existed and influenced the pop culture landscape. But dang:

At some point, we must put down the needle and stop screeching on Cloud Nine.

At some point, we just can't keep putting Mary Wilson in the position of having to catfight Dirty Diana.

And at some point, we must turn Smokey's relentless cooing of the words "Baby, Baby" over to , whose yawn-inspiring writing is filled with more "Baby, Babys" than even Smokey's.

In other words, these people are tired of singing these 40-year-old songs. Almost as tired as some of us are of hearing them.

This is precisely why I was the only person in America who missed the most memorable moment ever in Super Bowl history. I missed Janet Jackson's star-spangled nipple. I'm still numb from the oversight. (Or was it an undersight?)

See, Janet was singing a medley of OLD SONGS right before she and Justin Timberlake popped that infamous !! Because when these same old singers start digging too deeply in the old vault, I take it as a cue to start doing more interesting things. Like monitoring my toenails for evidence of toe jam. Bored stiff and annoyed that old-ass Control was being lip-synched at me, I looked away from the TV for just a moment and -- bloop! I missed tit. I mean, "it!"

So dearest Aretha, do not have an on-air hissy tonight. Try to keep them big ol' Mamma Jammaz outta sight. Unlike with little Janet, the boys on the field do not have helmets hard enough to survive a release of your Over the Shoulder Boulder Holders.

And please do not go all Kanye on us, going off script with shocking statements like, "The NFL president doesn't like ". Or old people. Or whatever. This just couldn't be true.

You're there. And they don't get much older than the blue-eyed soulful Rolling Stones.

So Aretha, recognize:
You're All We Need to Get By!

Note to Mick: Don't you dare unzip your pants! Flashing your wrinkled weeny will not boost your sagging album sales. Don't believe it? Awww , just ask Janet.

PS -- Go Bears!!! (Or whomever.)

The G.O.A.T.

noreply@blogger.com (Viqi French) — Sat, 04 Feb 2006 07:05:49 PST

I attended a wonderful Black History Month event last night. It was a movie screening for a new documentary called "Will to Survive - The Gullah and Geechee Nation." It'll broadcast nationally this month, so check your local TV listing if you'd like to see it.

I'm really quite surprised that so many black folk have never heard of the Gullah or Geechee. Like my family, they are descendants of slaves. But unlike the folk in my 'hood, their communities have retained many of the original African traditions. They're sort of like the Native Americans, but from West Africa.

The land they occupy stretches from the Charleston, SC area to Jacksonville, Florida -- including lots of little islands off the coasts of the Carolinas, Georgia and Florida. The fabulous resort town of Hilton Head was historically Gullah. That is, until real estate developers moved in and turned it into a tourist hot spot. Losing their quaint, coastal land and nearby islands is, indeed, what the Gullah and Geechee expressed concerns about in the "Will to Survive" documentary. They also fear extinction, as their population has dwindled so over the years.

Before attending this event, I mentioned to a number of friends that I'd be seeing this film about the Gullah and Geechee. Two of my friends asked, "The WHO people??"

I found myself lapsing into song to help explain what the heck I was talking about. "You remember that LaBelle song, right? Geechee, Geechee ya-ya nah nah... Creole lady marmalade?"

"Oh!" one cried. "Is that what the hell Patti was talking about? I never knew."

Another said, "Okay. Like the Maroons in Jamaica?"

"Um... yeah," I replied. "Kinda. The Gullah and Geechee do still speak a tongue that has lots of African dialect in it. A pidgin English."

I half expected this one to say, "The Pigeons?! Now I definitely haven't heard of them. Where exactly do they live?"

"Right outside my house, crapping all over on my dang car!" I would have informed her. "Wanna come check 'em out?!"

Anyway, the chieftess of the Gullah and Geechee Nations was in the house. Her name is Queen Quet. What an awesome sister, a well-educated historian and traditional performer who remains committed to advocating for her people. She entered the auditorium singing an old spiritual, then talked a while on-stage in the native tongue (which most couldn't understand) before landing on regular English and telling us about her beautiful people. Queen Quet talked about how they still basket weave and live off the land, net fishing daily for their meals in the Atlantic. I loved the name of one of their charming fishing spots, Nanny Goat Beach.

Somewhere along the line, I realized that an ex-boyfriend, C., from long ago was probably from a Gullah family. His grandmother still lives in Charleston, and I could never understand a single word the gentle old woman uttered. Like the people shown in the documentary, C.'s family was addicted to eating tons of sticky rice with every meal. C.'s momma would freak OUT when her Hummer-sized sack of rice became only one-third full.

So now I feel a little guilty. I blew my chance to help save an entire nation. I should have given this man lots and lots of Gullah babies. Then one of the boys could have grown up and become a rapper. A sensational cross between Sean Paul and Mos Def -- two of the G.O.A.T. (Greatest Of All Time) who no one can ever decipher. He'd a been called Lil' Geechee, the gansta rascal.

Coretta Scott King: At last, there's peace for the Queen

noreply@blogger.com (Viqi French) — Tue, 31 Jan 2006 06:11:20 PST

My heart is quite heavy this morning from news that Coretta Scott King, widow of slain civil rights leader Martin Luther King, Jr., passed away last night in her sleep. What a peaceful, gentle transition to make. After having suffered a stroke last year, Mrs. King recovered enough to attend an annual celebration in her late husband's honor just two weeks ago. She was said to have looked absolutely beautiful at the event, which must have been her final public bow.

There are few more powerful historical images captured on film than a stoic Mrs. King at her husband's funeral. Such a brave face masking so much sorrow. She showed us how to mourn.

Yet she stayed with us; she didn't retreat or wallow. She intensified her march, carrying the torch of equality for which her husband Martin was known. She became a civil rights force in her own right and took a stand for causes such as AIDS and curbing gun violence. In fact, Mrs. King worked on the international front over the decades, inspiring positive change in Latin America, South Africa and beyond.

Today, we wear the mask for you, Mrs. King. In some way, you were a mother and grandmother to us all. We loved the upstanding freedom fighter and astute business woman that you became, establishing and heading The King Center and working for nonviolence. Let the world remember you always, our First Lady of the Civil Rights Movement.

Chuuch: The Naked Truth

noreply@blogger.com (Viqi French) — Sun, 29 Jan 2006 13:27:32 PST

From the Paris riots aftermath and the politically outspoken Ann Coulter to the meltdown of Planet Rock and the eerie rise of New Orleans's once buried saints, today's Chuuch service explores The Naked Truth as Lil' Kim would say, in all its untold glory.

In follow-up to the disturbing riots that racked Paris and other French cities recently, here's a story that touches on the next steps. They call them "colorblind resumes," and as you might expect, there's a bit of anxiety on the part of some employers about this new hiring practice leading to -- gasp -- affirmative action.

Typically, in France, "they throw away the résumés of people who are from bad parts of town which are supposed to have Arabs or blacks," Bebear, 70, said in an interview. "When you have somebody whose name is Mohammed and he lives in St. Denis," a low-income community outside Paris, "you say, 'I won't bother with that one,' and so they don't even answer them."

Hey Bat Fans and manuscript tossers! Did I mention my new pen name: Vicki Vail?

* * * * * * * * * *

Right-wing gangsta chick Ann Coulter "lectures" African American students at Philander Smith College, giving them her version of what Lil Kim would call The Naked Truth...

Coulter provoked boos, especially after she stopped two black men during questions, telling them, "I'm not gonna be lectured to," according to the newspaper account. She also was booed when she said that the crack cocaine epidemic "has pretty much gone away."

* * * * * * * * * *

Put'cha lighters up! It's almost 50 degrees in Chicago today, and it's only January!!!! Never mind, because Houston says this is a really big problem...

One paper (The Washington Post) reports a NASA scientist's alarming research conclusions that the end of the world as we know it is closer than anyone realized. The big clap back that's being caused by global warming must be checked now, the researcher says.

Earth's average temperature has risen nearly 1 degree Fahrenheit over the past 30 years, he noted, and another increase of about 4 degrees over the next century would "imply changes that constitute practically a different planet."

Meanwhile, another paper (The New York Times) reports the Bush administration has asked NASA to silence the above doomsayer. Why? Here's The Naked Truth behind both stories.

* * * * * * * * * *

I wondered about this when Katrina hit, having known about the curious New Orleans custom of burying the dead in above ground tombs. According to this NPR audio file, keeping the saints from marching has, indeed, been a huge problem since the levees broke. Cemetery workers say they haven't come close to rounding up all of the float-away remains and split tombstones.

"It's very emotional," one NOLA resident said. "It's like having to bury your loved ones all over again."

It's unbelievable, the enormity of the untold truths and tragedies that are only now coming to the fore, five whole months after this disaster.

Madea Goes to Jail, but Oprah goes scot free

noreply@blogger.com (Viqi French) — Sun, 29 Jan 2006 01:54:16 PST

Tyler Perry's second outrageous flick, Madea Goes to Jail, is scheduled to put America on lock down in February, and I'm going to be among the guilty doing time in a theater, getting my hee-haw on. But after seeing Tyler on Oprah today, I got an idea. He should call the next one Oprah Goes to Jail. Why? Because she insisted that he close her show by showing the audience how to do that thing. You know, that thing that assaults the senses worse than the smell of tar. That damned dance, the Electric Slide.

Of course, Tyler Perry obliged and led a dozen giddy women in an on-stage Electric Slide-a-thon. It was like "Showtime Over at Harpo." And you know who played Kiki Shephard.

So look out, y'all. There's about to be a tsunami of daytime ladies reinvigorating this maddningly uneventful dance that's obviously beloved by The Big O. She even told the world that whenever black folk get together, the event culminates in the Electric Slide. "Even after funerals," she added.

Huh?! This simply is not true. Makes me wonder who Oprah's hanging out with these days. Is this what she and her friend Gail do when they get bored in her deee-luxe apartment in the sky-y-yie? Move on up off the $30,000 sofa and start sliding across her Italian marble floors?

Lawd, let's hope not! So don't believe the hype, folks. You're being hoodwinked.

Bamboozled.

Isn't this a bit like perpetuating A Million Little Lies?

I think Oprah should devote an entire show to addressing this gross err in judgment. For endorsing this weathered zombie march. She should bring back Tyler Perry and grill him about his ghastly decision to end both of his Madea movies with this square dance. He deserves an electric zap on the wrist for misleading Oprah and her loyal flock of sheep about black life.

I can see Oprah now, having been advised by the NAACP to do damage control. A few weeks from now, she'll have Madea seated beside her and looking upset. (Tyler was too fearful to face the cameras after that Larry King disaster. So he pushed big, bad Madea out the dressing room to hit the sofa this time.) Oprah and Madea are already sweating; the public scrutiny and stage lights are too intense.

"Madea," Oprah will say, "I feel duped. But more importantly, I feel you've betrayed millions of couch potatoes. Those who relie on me to tell them what to read, who to like, and how to dance."

"Looka here, girl, I made one lil' ol' mistake," gray-haired Madea will utter. "But the next movie we make, I'll end with a dance that shows the world what black folks are really doing behind closed doors."

"For real? Which dance?!" Oprah will insist, with eyes wide and sparkling. "The Smurf? Bankhead Bounce? No, I know: The Harlem Shake, right?"

Madea will wave a dismissive hand at the idea of those equally passe (but at least of a recent decade) dances, and rise to her feet. "Get up off of that couch, chile," she'll roar as her bullet-bosom shutters against her wide belly. "Let Madea show you -- and everybody -- the dance we doin' now. We call it the Snap!"

On comes Laffy Taffy, and that big sixties wig flops from the body shocks...

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Article on the Atlanta-originated dance craze: Snapping
D4L's music video, Betcha Can't Do It Like Me, spotlights Snapping.