Thursday, June 21, 2012
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Ok, Here's Why it Sucked...
For a change of pace, how about a movie review.
I just went to see “Rock of Ages”, and it was predictably not-great. The movie itself is so slipshod it’s not really worth a review, however the nature of the cinematic missteps do bear consideration. Let’s start at the beginning.
I was actually extremely hopeful at the beginning when the distribution logo opened with Guns and Roses. Any movie set in this area of American pop-culture history MUST open with Guns and Roses, so the filmmakers definitely got this point right. They score more points for their song choice: Paradise City. There simply is no song of the hair-metal era that so perfectly captures the fantasy, the promise, and the harsh reality of L.A. strip circa 1984 like “Paradise City”. The familiar drumbeat captured the crowd immediately, and heads were nodding in reverent unison...for all of 15seconds. Then, the rock glory is inexplicably faded out in favor of a close up Julianna Hough. Julianna’s character, Sherry, is the prototypical small town farm girl headed to wonderful L.A. in the hopes of making it big or at least getting a good case of the herp from a roady or two. As she rides in contemplation on her bus-like chariot toward destiny, she mentally regards her grandmother’s well wishes and croons out the opening line of “Sister Christian”. The bus driver takes the bait, a little girl shows her potential, and soon the whole bus is rapt in the strains; and so is the audience...for all of 10seconds. Then, Sister Christian inexplicably fades out in favor of another useless character intro. And, so the movie goes on and on this way.
They kept teasing us with our memories of glamorous rock’n roll decadence only to fade it out, chop it up, mash it together, and ultimately pussify it until we literally lost interest in listening. It’s like the filmmakers were relying on our nostalgia of the music to sustain us without them having to actually perform any of it with any sort of authenticity. If you’re looking to relive or rehear any of the classics, this ain’t your flick, which is very unfortunate since the movie offers you zero value anywhere else.
Julianna Hough is an excellent dancer, a better than average vocalist, but a lousy actress. She’s one of the worst actresses ever put on screen. Her presence invariably sucks all the genuine emotion out of any scene she’s in from the moment she’s introduced. No matter the situation, you just don't believe her performance. Her lack of talent in this area becomes even more apparent when Malin Akermin's hammy portrayal of Constance Sack explodes with chemistry against Tom Cruise' Stacy Jaxx. The juxtaposition between the two actresses performance is startling. It’s not Hough's fault really. She’s used to playing to a live crowd. The lack of feedback from an audience neutered her emotions, and it shows in EVERY scene. The rest of the cast did not fare any better. The lead actor is too busy trying to actually connect with Hough to pay attention to his less than stellar stage presence and non-existent character development. Russell Brand and Alec Baldwin are obviously in this for the lulz and are way too busy entertaining themselves to be bothered to salvage the floundering new comers. The truly excellent Paul Giamatti just can’t bear to phone it in and works double-time as both a secondary antagonist and long suffering straight-man to Tom Cruise in an effort to save this thing. His efforts to bolster the plot do not go unnoticed or unappreciated, but it’s a lost cause as the movie has no real plot. The main “love” story takes place over the course of a week. That’s one week, movie-time. So, you have to believe that these two people meet, fall genuinely madly in love and break-up in five days even though one of them is a barback on the L.A. Strip during the mid‘80s. A barback on the L.A. Strip in the mid‘80‘s would have been swimming in discarded groupy ass every night. The idea that he would see this girl from Oklahoma and just fall for her instantly is just preposterous. This lack of suspension-of-disbelief is complicated by the utter lack of chemistry between the two leads. It’s basically just a long running badly paced music video set around the chorus of an ancient rock ballad that everyone has heard but no one really liked. Think Air Supply.
Then there’s the performances. They are bad. Everyone tries there had at being a rock-god at one point or another with the exception of Paul G., but they all sound like bad backup singers. The problem here is the filmmaker kept wanting to showcase the lyrics when these were never about the lyrics. These songs are about the ROCK! The driving drumlines, the guitar riffs you can’t forget, and the singer that screams out sounds rather than words. Mary J. Blige does her lever best to bolster the noise halfway through, but she’s ill-used. Her character has no development, no purpose, and maybe 10 lines of dialogue, yet she appears in every song in the movie after her introduction with no effort made to justify her presence. It feels disingenuous, transparent, and disrespectful to her talents. Catherine Zeta Jones suffers a similar fate. She’s a vet of the musical-to-movie biz and knows what she’s doing but is never given a chance to strut. She is allowed to dance somewhat but isn’t allowed to take the center and claim the stage and this is huge detriment to the film. They just never give her anything to do. Her antagonism never generates any real drama, so she's left singing and dancing in a vacuum. The audience caught on to this quickly and lost interest. Think how it would feel to go to nightclub excited to see Velma Kelley only to be stuck with Roxy Hart. Yep, that bad.
When it comes down to it, these songs are the music of the Rock-Gods. They should grab you by the throat and other places and make you stand-up in reverence. They are sexual power incarnate and mortals aren’t able to resist, but you have to follow certain rules. Here is a short incomplete list of them that are relevant to this movie: If your main character is named Sherrie play “Oh, Sherrie” at some point, If you have well known rockers from the era together to perform a song DON’T make that song “We Built This City”, In fact if you collect vintage rockers for a song for a movie titled “Rock of Ages, they should sing ROCK OF FUCKING AGES, In that collection of rocker royalty DON’T include Debbie Gibson (WTF?), and finally, as a test, play Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” to close the show and if the audience isn’t on its feet and fist-pumping (they weren’t) you have failed.
In the future, all makers of rock-musical movies need to first start by watching “Purple Rain” let’s say...two-dozen times or so. By the end of that you should have a good idea of how it’s done.
I just went to see “Rock of Ages”, and it was predictably not-great. The movie itself is so slipshod it’s not really worth a review, however the nature of the cinematic missteps do bear consideration. Let’s start at the beginning.
I was actually extremely hopeful at the beginning when the distribution logo opened with Guns and Roses. Any movie set in this area of American pop-culture history MUST open with Guns and Roses, so the filmmakers definitely got this point right. They score more points for their song choice: Paradise City. There simply is no song of the hair-metal era that so perfectly captures the fantasy, the promise, and the harsh reality of L.A. strip circa 1984 like “Paradise City”. The familiar drumbeat captured the crowd immediately, and heads were nodding in reverent unison...for all of 15seconds. Then, the rock glory is inexplicably faded out in favor of a close up Julianna Hough. Julianna’s character, Sherry, is the prototypical small town farm girl headed to wonderful L.A. in the hopes of making it big or at least getting a good case of the herp from a roady or two. As she rides in contemplation on her bus-like chariot toward destiny, she mentally regards her grandmother’s well wishes and croons out the opening line of “Sister Christian”. The bus driver takes the bait, a little girl shows her potential, and soon the whole bus is rapt in the strains; and so is the audience...for all of 10seconds. Then, Sister Christian inexplicably fades out in favor of another useless character intro. And, so the movie goes on and on this way.
They kept teasing us with our memories of glamorous rock’n roll decadence only to fade it out, chop it up, mash it together, and ultimately pussify it until we literally lost interest in listening. It’s like the filmmakers were relying on our nostalgia of the music to sustain us without them having to actually perform any of it with any sort of authenticity. If you’re looking to relive or rehear any of the classics, this ain’t your flick, which is very unfortunate since the movie offers you zero value anywhere else.
Julianna Hough is an excellent dancer, a better than average vocalist, but a lousy actress. She’s one of the worst actresses ever put on screen. Her presence invariably sucks all the genuine emotion out of any scene she’s in from the moment she’s introduced. No matter the situation, you just don't believe her performance. Her lack of talent in this area becomes even more apparent when Malin Akermin's hammy portrayal of Constance Sack explodes with chemistry against Tom Cruise' Stacy Jaxx. The juxtaposition between the two actresses performance is startling. It’s not Hough's fault really. She’s used to playing to a live crowd. The lack of feedback from an audience neutered her emotions, and it shows in EVERY scene. The rest of the cast did not fare any better. The lead actor is too busy trying to actually connect with Hough to pay attention to his less than stellar stage presence and non-existent character development. Russell Brand and Alec Baldwin are obviously in this for the lulz and are way too busy entertaining themselves to be bothered to salvage the floundering new comers. The truly excellent Paul Giamatti just can’t bear to phone it in and works double-time as both a secondary antagonist and long suffering straight-man to Tom Cruise in an effort to save this thing. His efforts to bolster the plot do not go unnoticed or unappreciated, but it’s a lost cause as the movie has no real plot. The main “love” story takes place over the course of a week. That’s one week, movie-time. So, you have to believe that these two people meet, fall genuinely madly in love and break-up in five days even though one of them is a barback on the L.A. Strip during the mid‘80s. A barback on the L.A. Strip in the mid‘80‘s would have been swimming in discarded groupy ass every night. The idea that he would see this girl from Oklahoma and just fall for her instantly is just preposterous. This lack of suspension-of-disbelief is complicated by the utter lack of chemistry between the two leads. It’s basically just a long running badly paced music video set around the chorus of an ancient rock ballad that everyone has heard but no one really liked. Think Air Supply.
Then there’s the performances. They are bad. Everyone tries there had at being a rock-god at one point or another with the exception of Paul G., but they all sound like bad backup singers. The problem here is the filmmaker kept wanting to showcase the lyrics when these were never about the lyrics. These songs are about the ROCK! The driving drumlines, the guitar riffs you can’t forget, and the singer that screams out sounds rather than words. Mary J. Blige does her lever best to bolster the noise halfway through, but she’s ill-used. Her character has no development, no purpose, and maybe 10 lines of dialogue, yet she appears in every song in the movie after her introduction with no effort made to justify her presence. It feels disingenuous, transparent, and disrespectful to her talents. Catherine Zeta Jones suffers a similar fate. She’s a vet of the musical-to-movie biz and knows what she’s doing but is never given a chance to strut. She is allowed to dance somewhat but isn’t allowed to take the center and claim the stage and this is huge detriment to the film. They just never give her anything to do. Her antagonism never generates any real drama, so she's left singing and dancing in a vacuum. The audience caught on to this quickly and lost interest. Think how it would feel to go to nightclub excited to see Velma Kelley only to be stuck with Roxy Hart. Yep, that bad.
When it comes down to it, these songs are the music of the Rock-Gods. They should grab you by the throat and other places and make you stand-up in reverence. They are sexual power incarnate and mortals aren’t able to resist, but you have to follow certain rules. Here is a short incomplete list of them that are relevant to this movie: If your main character is named Sherrie play “Oh, Sherrie” at some point, If you have well known rockers from the era together to perform a song DON’T make that song “We Built This City”, In fact if you collect vintage rockers for a song for a movie titled “Rock of Ages, they should sing ROCK OF FUCKING AGES, In that collection of rocker royalty DON’T include Debbie Gibson (WTF?), and finally, as a test, play Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” to close the show and if the audience isn’t on its feet and fist-pumping (they weren’t) you have failed.
In the future, all makers of rock-musical movies need to first start by watching “Purple Rain” let’s say...two-dozen times or so. By the end of that you should have a good idea of how it’s done.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
The "N-Word" and You
I don’t want to just to fill this blog-space with racial stuff, but lately I haven’t filled it with anything at all so...
Here’s the deal: I really don’t care if you call me a nigger. Is the word offensive? Yes. If you tweet it at me, will I block you? Yes. If you say it to my daughter, will I END YOU in retaliation for compromising her innocence? Fuck yes. However, the word itself can’t hurt me.
Like all black people in America, I’m conditioned to respond automatically to the word nigger when said by a white person with incredulous indignation. When I hear it, I feel a completely reflexive stab of anger that is the product of my father’s tales of racial strife in the 60s. This is a feeling rooted essentially in hearsay and largely disingenuous. However that initial white-hot sensation is always quickly replaced by my genuine feelings, fatigue. That’s it. It just makes me feel tired. I’m just tired of racism, all it represents, and all the problems it causes, but there’s no real anger there. My inability to drum up any real vitriol in response to this particular racial trigger is a constant annoyance to bigots who toss the word around trying to illicit a response, and for that, I apologize. I mean how is a “self-respecting” bigot supposed start the conflicts upon which he feeds if his primary weapon is useless? Well, there is way, but I’ll save that for the end.
The problem with “nigger” is that it says nothing about me. I’m not a nigger. I have never been a nigger. In fact, I CAN’T be a nigger even if I was so inclined. I wasn’t raised to think of myself as anything but my best self. I received the best education possible in my rather small town and have largely made good on that potential. The willful ignorance that is the stock and trade of the nigger just isn’t present in me. How can I get mad at a word that literally has nothing to do with me? I can’t. I’m just too logical for that.
But the word “nigger” does still serve a purpose in The Great American Race War. Anytime you see a white person and hear them say “nigger”, you know immediately you’re dealing with a bigot. Notice I didn’t say “racist”. If you live in America, you’re racist regardless of your race. I know, I know; you have friends of every color, you’re fourth cousin is a quarter Native American, and your uncle marched on Selma. You’re still racist. You can’t help it. Racism is just a part of our character as Americans, and we will have to accept that if we are going to get passed it. Sorry, digressing...coming back...The word “nigger” is like a billboard over the head of the white person that says it that reads, “Hi, I’m a fucked-up backwards thinking bigot! Don’t bother listening to me as I my thoughts are not worth your consideration.” This can be a real time-saver. Rather than me sitting through long minutes of conversation trying to figure out if you’re a bigot, I can just acknowledge you as a bigot and move on. When you think about the situation this way, a bigot calling you a nigger is almost like a public service announcement.
So how can the well-meaning bigot hope to get a rise out of me if the big-gun is impotent? Simple, call me African-American. I will get angry immediately. To me there is literally nothing more offensive than to be called African-American. Why? Because, the only reason the term exists is so white bigots can call black people something besides “nigger” in public. It’s a whitewash term of insidious power. It allows bigots to hide behind a paper-thin veil of political correctness while simultaneously robbing me of my primary identity. I am not African-American. I am American, and I am black. Black describes my background, because being black in America is a distinct and unique experience that shapes my everyday life. It is my identity, my support, and my pride. I have no connection what-so-fucking-ever to Africa and don’t want any. I’ve met African men in my travels, and we don’t get along. African women and I get along famously, but I’m married so that can only cause trouble. I have no truck with The Dark Continent, and that’s exactly how I like it. So, how can a term like African-American have anything to do with me? It’s not like Italian-American or Native-American because those terms actually describe the people to which they are attached. Italian-Americans are proud of their connection to Italy, and the culture they grew up with reflects that fact, same with Native-Americans. African-American has no value at all as a descriptor of blacks in America and the culture that shapes us. It fact it seeks to essentially strip us of that culture. When you call someone African-American you are saying,” I’m using this term instead of nigger, because that’s offensive. I can’t call you black, but that’s is of course inherently shameful, and I don’t want you to feel embarrassed. So, I’ll just call you something that means absolutely nothing. This way you can’t get mad, but I still get to be superior to you. This is a win-win for me!”
Fuck you. Take your “African-American” and shove it right up your own ass, because I have no use for it.
So, there you have it. Confused? Don’t be. If you have to refer to a black person’s race, calling them black is more than acceptable; all other terms are fraught with troubles.
Here’s the deal: I really don’t care if you call me a nigger. Is the word offensive? Yes. If you tweet it at me, will I block you? Yes. If you say it to my daughter, will I END YOU in retaliation for compromising her innocence? Fuck yes. However, the word itself can’t hurt me.
Like all black people in America, I’m conditioned to respond automatically to the word nigger when said by a white person with incredulous indignation. When I hear it, I feel a completely reflexive stab of anger that is the product of my father’s tales of racial strife in the 60s. This is a feeling rooted essentially in hearsay and largely disingenuous. However that initial white-hot sensation is always quickly replaced by my genuine feelings, fatigue. That’s it. It just makes me feel tired. I’m just tired of racism, all it represents, and all the problems it causes, but there’s no real anger there. My inability to drum up any real vitriol in response to this particular racial trigger is a constant annoyance to bigots who toss the word around trying to illicit a response, and for that, I apologize. I mean how is a “self-respecting” bigot supposed start the conflicts upon which he feeds if his primary weapon is useless? Well, there is way, but I’ll save that for the end.
The problem with “nigger” is that it says nothing about me. I’m not a nigger. I have never been a nigger. In fact, I CAN’T be a nigger even if I was so inclined. I wasn’t raised to think of myself as anything but my best self. I received the best education possible in my rather small town and have largely made good on that potential. The willful ignorance that is the stock and trade of the nigger just isn’t present in me. How can I get mad at a word that literally has nothing to do with me? I can’t. I’m just too logical for that.
But the word “nigger” does still serve a purpose in The Great American Race War. Anytime you see a white person and hear them say “nigger”, you know immediately you’re dealing with a bigot. Notice I didn’t say “racist”. If you live in America, you’re racist regardless of your race. I know, I know; you have friends of every color, you’re fourth cousin is a quarter Native American, and your uncle marched on Selma. You’re still racist. You can’t help it. Racism is just a part of our character as Americans, and we will have to accept that if we are going to get passed it. Sorry, digressing...coming back...The word “nigger” is like a billboard over the head of the white person that says it that reads, “Hi, I’m a fucked-up backwards thinking bigot! Don’t bother listening to me as I my thoughts are not worth your consideration.” This can be a real time-saver. Rather than me sitting through long minutes of conversation trying to figure out if you’re a bigot, I can just acknowledge you as a bigot and move on. When you think about the situation this way, a bigot calling you a nigger is almost like a public service announcement.
So how can the well-meaning bigot hope to get a rise out of me if the big-gun is impotent? Simple, call me African-American. I will get angry immediately. To me there is literally nothing more offensive than to be called African-American. Why? Because, the only reason the term exists is so white bigots can call black people something besides “nigger” in public. It’s a whitewash term of insidious power. It allows bigots to hide behind a paper-thin veil of political correctness while simultaneously robbing me of my primary identity. I am not African-American. I am American, and I am black. Black describes my background, because being black in America is a distinct and unique experience that shapes my everyday life. It is my identity, my support, and my pride. I have no connection what-so-fucking-ever to Africa and don’t want any. I’ve met African men in my travels, and we don’t get along. African women and I get along famously, but I’m married so that can only cause trouble. I have no truck with The Dark Continent, and that’s exactly how I like it. So, how can a term like African-American have anything to do with me? It’s not like Italian-American or Native-American because those terms actually describe the people to which they are attached. Italian-Americans are proud of their connection to Italy, and the culture they grew up with reflects that fact, same with Native-Americans. African-American has no value at all as a descriptor of blacks in America and the culture that shapes us. It fact it seeks to essentially strip us of that culture. When you call someone African-American you are saying,” I’m using this term instead of nigger, because that’s offensive. I can’t call you black, but that’s is of course inherently shameful, and I don’t want you to feel embarrassed. So, I’ll just call you something that means absolutely nothing. This way you can’t get mad, but I still get to be superior to you. This is a win-win for me!”
Fuck you. Take your “African-American” and shove it right up your own ass, because I have no use for it.
So, there you have it. Confused? Don’t be. If you have to refer to a black person’s race, calling them black is more than acceptable; all other terms are fraught with troubles.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Our Wild Hopes
I’ve been trying to write this blog for days now. I haven’t because I actually have at least a dozen blog post I need to finish and put up, but this one is gnawing at me. Plus the timing is perfect as it concerns both the death of Whitney Houston and everyone’s new favorite Chinese flavor of the season Jeremy Lin. I’ll start at the beginning.
I was shocked when I heard Whitney Houston had died. I wasn’t shocked about the fact that she died. I’m cynical and no stranger to addiction so, in all honesty in the back of mind, I half-expect all addicts to die suddenly. What shocked me was how deeply affected I was. As soon as the news broke, I felt heavier. I’ve been busy lately which is normally a good way to stave off depression for me, but this news floored me. I didn’t smile for over 12 hours, and if you knew my daughter, you would know how incredible that is. I was sad and profoundly so. Why? I didn’t know Whitney Houston in any real sense. I was and am a huge fan of her music, but I’ve never been a fan of her personal choices. I’ve even been known to partake of the odd ‘crack is cheap’ easy swing chuckle ever so often. Why after the story’s told and the verdict is in did I suddenly care so much? I couldn’t put my finger on it; so I went out for Chinese food. I put my Sirius radio on the new temporary Whitney Houston Tribute station, listened to "Exhale (shoop shoop)" for the first time in a long time, and had to pull over so I could cry and not crash.
I live in a small town and for the past, oh, twenty-odd years or so I’ve gone to the same place in town for Chinese take out. I know the owners personally, as I went to school with their son, and the food is truly tremendous. I’ve been to nearly every state in the union and lived in Washington D.C. for three cognac soaked years, so I’ve tried American Chinese food of every stripe. This place is good. It’s the kind of place that is filled with Chinese people ordering take-out, ya dig? Anyway I slumped through the doors and was greeted enthusiastically by the wonder woman who owns the place with her equally affable husband. They both sat me down as per our established custom and offered me various appetizers and tidbits for free while I waited. I turned down all politely as I tend not to eat when truly sad. Then ESPN blared out of the mounted flat-screen something about Jeremy Lin, and everyone focused on the screen. When the story ended my friends turned to me and another customer and began regaling us with the tale of Lin. How he slept on his brother’s coach and had an inadequate contract and...Of course we both knew the story as it was the biggest sports story of the week, but I was willing to indulge their excited ramblings. The other customer, a white man, quickly made an excuse and left the premises. I immediately thought he was rude, and then just as quickly wondered why I thought so. In fact, why was I bothering to listen to all this myself? But as I looked in those shining Chinese eyes, I understood why. They were on actually on the same emotional spectrum as me, just at the opposite end. Both their excitement and my misery were both rooted in racism.
It’s hard to be a minority in America, largely due to racism. I don’t mean the stupid overt racism like some mouth-breathing redneck shouting “Nigger” from the bed of a truck. That shit just makes you feel tired. I’m talking about the institutional racism; racism with the force of law. What laws? Start with most redistricting laws and go from there. I have a whole ‘nother blog post to dedicate to the subject; for now, just trust me that it’s hard on us. But to tell you the truth, racism is so much a part of our America, we don’t really hope to get rid of it. We can’t afford to hope for fairness, but we can’t help but hope for understanding. Even if we can’t get reparations, it would be nice to know White America can at least see that point of view. It is this hope that keeps us struggling against the tide even as Newt Gingrich calls for “Black people to demand paychecks not handouts”. Side note: Republicans are disgusting.
The personification of this hope for black people, at least THIS black person, was Whitney Houston. There have been other candidates. I suppose Michael Jordan and Tiger woods came close, but they inspired jealousy where Whitney established a connection. When Whitney first came out she was an instant sensation, and it wasn’t just because of her amazing voice. She sang pop music which really doesn’t require a good singer in order to be successful, but Whitney’s songs made people feel differently about her music. You heard her sing and wanted to dance, to shout, to hug your neighbor, etc... It was feeling many in White America had never felt before, but Black America knew very well. Whitney was actually singing a blend of pop and gospel. Gospel had been inspiring us to sing, dance, shout, convulse, etc...for two centuries. We already knew it’s power, but it had never been given such a wide ranging appeal on a massive stage before. Whitney brought that feeling to the masses, and we instinctually understood the significance. They were feeling how we feel. They were understanding us, just a little bit. If we could come together on the fact that we all loved Whitney Houston, we could find common ground elsewhere. After all back in the 60’s music with it’s roots in Black culture helped spark the civil rights movement. It could be done, but it was a wild hope and not a conscience one. I never thought of the music of Whitney Houston as some sort of cultural turning point in my conscious mind, but I believed in my soul. I wanted it to be true, and performance after amazing performance, be it lifting us all with the definitive version of our national anthem or turning a little known country song into her own signature showcase, she made the wild hope more real, tangible. Even when she proclaimed her addictions in front of the world, I felt sure she would bounce back and unite us. Again, this isn’t a conscious thought, just a feeling. A hope.
Jeremy Lin is something akin to Whitney Houston to my Chinese friends right now. He has come from obscurity and captured the imagination of the nation, and he’s one of theirs. They too have the subconscious powerful hope that by understanding him, America can begin to understand them as well. In the restaurant that day I saw that hope clearly on their faces. Two days ago I went back to the restaurant and the aforementioned restaurant owner, asked me if I had seen that ridiculous scandalous ESPN headline. I said I had and it was terrible. She looked at me and I understood that the hope and been dimmed. Whitney Houston is dead, and my wild hope has died with her. I mourned that death and cried days before, so I understood that my friend understood that her hope was likely to land alongside mine eventually. But that’s the magic isn’t it. She understood me and I understood her, and we both could stand there not saying anything and share our thoughts. Together. United. So, I shook my head in a helpless fashion and smiled, and she shook her head and smiled back. I took my food home, sat down at the computer and wrote this post. More to come.
I was shocked when I heard Whitney Houston had died. I wasn’t shocked about the fact that she died. I’m cynical and no stranger to addiction so, in all honesty in the back of mind, I half-expect all addicts to die suddenly. What shocked me was how deeply affected I was. As soon as the news broke, I felt heavier. I’ve been busy lately which is normally a good way to stave off depression for me, but this news floored me. I didn’t smile for over 12 hours, and if you knew my daughter, you would know how incredible that is. I was sad and profoundly so. Why? I didn’t know Whitney Houston in any real sense. I was and am a huge fan of her music, but I’ve never been a fan of her personal choices. I’ve even been known to partake of the odd ‘crack is cheap’ easy swing chuckle ever so often. Why after the story’s told and the verdict is in did I suddenly care so much? I couldn’t put my finger on it; so I went out for Chinese food. I put my Sirius radio on the new temporary Whitney Houston Tribute station, listened to "Exhale (shoop shoop)" for the first time in a long time, and had to pull over so I could cry and not crash.
I live in a small town and for the past, oh, twenty-odd years or so I’ve gone to the same place in town for Chinese take out. I know the owners personally, as I went to school with their son, and the food is truly tremendous. I’ve been to nearly every state in the union and lived in Washington D.C. for three cognac soaked years, so I’ve tried American Chinese food of every stripe. This place is good. It’s the kind of place that is filled with Chinese people ordering take-out, ya dig? Anyway I slumped through the doors and was greeted enthusiastically by the wonder woman who owns the place with her equally affable husband. They both sat me down as per our established custom and offered me various appetizers and tidbits for free while I waited. I turned down all politely as I tend not to eat when truly sad. Then ESPN blared out of the mounted flat-screen something about Jeremy Lin, and everyone focused on the screen. When the story ended my friends turned to me and another customer and began regaling us with the tale of Lin. How he slept on his brother’s coach and had an inadequate contract and...Of course we both knew the story as it was the biggest sports story of the week, but I was willing to indulge their excited ramblings. The other customer, a white man, quickly made an excuse and left the premises. I immediately thought he was rude, and then just as quickly wondered why I thought so. In fact, why was I bothering to listen to all this myself? But as I looked in those shining Chinese eyes, I understood why. They were on actually on the same emotional spectrum as me, just at the opposite end. Both their excitement and my misery were both rooted in racism.
It’s hard to be a minority in America, largely due to racism. I don’t mean the stupid overt racism like some mouth-breathing redneck shouting “Nigger” from the bed of a truck. That shit just makes you feel tired. I’m talking about the institutional racism; racism with the force of law. What laws? Start with most redistricting laws and go from there. I have a whole ‘nother blog post to dedicate to the subject; for now, just trust me that it’s hard on us. But to tell you the truth, racism is so much a part of our America, we don’t really hope to get rid of it. We can’t afford to hope for fairness, but we can’t help but hope for understanding. Even if we can’t get reparations, it would be nice to know White America can at least see that point of view. It is this hope that keeps us struggling against the tide even as Newt Gingrich calls for “Black people to demand paychecks not handouts”. Side note: Republicans are disgusting.
The personification of this hope for black people, at least THIS black person, was Whitney Houston. There have been other candidates. I suppose Michael Jordan and Tiger woods came close, but they inspired jealousy where Whitney established a connection. When Whitney first came out she was an instant sensation, and it wasn’t just because of her amazing voice. She sang pop music which really doesn’t require a good singer in order to be successful, but Whitney’s songs made people feel differently about her music. You heard her sing and wanted to dance, to shout, to hug your neighbor, etc... It was feeling many in White America had never felt before, but Black America knew very well. Whitney was actually singing a blend of pop and gospel. Gospel had been inspiring us to sing, dance, shout, convulse, etc...for two centuries. We already knew it’s power, but it had never been given such a wide ranging appeal on a massive stage before. Whitney brought that feeling to the masses, and we instinctually understood the significance. They were feeling how we feel. They were understanding us, just a little bit. If we could come together on the fact that we all loved Whitney Houston, we could find common ground elsewhere. After all back in the 60’s music with it’s roots in Black culture helped spark the civil rights movement. It could be done, but it was a wild hope and not a conscience one. I never thought of the music of Whitney Houston as some sort of cultural turning point in my conscious mind, but I believed in my soul. I wanted it to be true, and performance after amazing performance, be it lifting us all with the definitive version of our national anthem or turning a little known country song into her own signature showcase, she made the wild hope more real, tangible. Even when she proclaimed her addictions in front of the world, I felt sure she would bounce back and unite us. Again, this isn’t a conscious thought, just a feeling. A hope.
Jeremy Lin is something akin to Whitney Houston to my Chinese friends right now. He has come from obscurity and captured the imagination of the nation, and he’s one of theirs. They too have the subconscious powerful hope that by understanding him, America can begin to understand them as well. In the restaurant that day I saw that hope clearly on their faces. Two days ago I went back to the restaurant and the aforementioned restaurant owner, asked me if I had seen that ridiculous scandalous ESPN headline. I said I had and it was terrible. She looked at me and I understood that the hope and been dimmed. Whitney Houston is dead, and my wild hope has died with her. I mourned that death and cried days before, so I understood that my friend understood that her hope was likely to land alongside mine eventually. But that’s the magic isn’t it. She understood me and I understood her, and we both could stand there not saying anything and share our thoughts. Together. United. So, I shook my head in a helpless fashion and smiled, and she shook her head and smiled back. I took my food home, sat down at the computer and wrote this post. More to come.
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