Friday, May 28, 2010

"Quit It With The Cosmos!" - 5 Ways SATC Has You Acting Plum Crazy

I may be burned at the altar of Louboutin for this one, but I can't hold it in anymore. Ladies...

Sex And The City is making you act plum-dumb crazy.

*ducks stilettos*

I know, I know, some of you are going to demand to revoke my woman card, but this is America and I have my second first amendment rights, so back up. Let me speak.

Let's look at the celluloid life led by Samantha, Miranda, Charlotte, and Carrie: The clothes. The parties. The seemingly endless flow of disposable income. Oh, and of course the men. Yes, it certainly is delicious. It's also fake. Phony. Pure Hollywood. The Sex And The City franchise, while highly entertaining, is an elaborate color-by-numbers venture which has average American women of average means reaching for their fantasy glitter crayons. It's one thing to lose yourself in the fantasy. It's another to try to live it.

It's kinda nutty, to be honest. But since you're too busy J'adoring Dior, let me point out a few of the ways Sex and The City has you acting a little silly:

1.) SATC is making you dress up for the Magic Johnson 7. It's cool to get cute and put on your hottest frock for social gatherings. You'll be mixing, mingling, and you'll definitely be seen, so why not put your best stiletto-strapped foot forward. But for a movie theater viewing (read: not the actual premiere avec celebs), where the oldest person on staff is a 20-year-old humanities major and the selection of fine food includes overpriced jumbo dogs? Are you really gonna put on your best Baby Phat Calvin Klein, sit in a dark theater for two hours and then strike a pose next to the life-size cut-out for Marmaduke? I'm with my boys on this one -- it don't make no got-damb sense. Or as Roger Ebert puts it, "Do women wear their lowest-cut frocks for each other?" Which brings me to my next point...

2.) SATC has you dating your girls. Thanks to the girlfriend-power directive of SATC, women are going everywhere... with other women. To happy hour. To brunch. To the grocery store. To the laundromat. To Jiffy Lube. To the gynocologist. It's like every outing has turned into a field trip with no less than three but no more than five grown, female participants. ("Does everyone have their permission slip? Okay, now find your line buddy!") And then there's the inevitable wondering why you can't seem to attract the same kind of male attention you got when you spent solitary nights in the library during undergrad. Simple: y'all are cockblocking each other. A male acquaintance ended up on the wrong end of a side-eye last summer when he quipped, "Single women keep each other single." But now I'm seeing his point. It won't kill you to venture into the outside world on your own. If you're sitting in a lounge, flanked by two to four other women, all holding Cosmos wearing your best I'm-being-sexy-in-the-city faces, don't be surprised when everyone else leaves you in your dim corner. It doesn't look like you're out to meet people, it looks like you're taking your four best friends on that crucial third date. Who's going to insert themselves into that? (Other than this guy, I mean.) A perfect segue into #3....

3.) SATC has you looking for Mr. Big. I know. He was tall, dark, rich, handsome and irresistible. He was also flaky, arrogant, noncommittal and a bit of a narcissist. Why do you want Carrie Bradshaw's man again? Are you looking forward spending a decade hoping for a proposal? Do you like the idea of him marrying a sour-faced model in the meantime? Or will it all be worth the Manolos at the end of the rainbow? Not judging, just asking. Speaking of shoes, though...

4.) SATC is enabling Jimmy Choo dreams in a JC Penney reality. Let's talk. I know one of the biggest draws of SATC is the fashion. It's decadent and delirious and delicioso. (And I, personally, am a huge fan of Patricia Field.) But trying to re-create these looks in real life? Like, rent-is-due-the-toilet's-backed-up-and-I-got-hella-parking-tickets real life? Fail. As KP has seen first-hand, that will have you looking more crazy than couture. Either you'll mess up your credit score buying designer pieces that the general populace couldn't give two Greek dollars about, or you'll be raiding Filene's Basement looking for irregular duds to cobble together a Carrie Bradshaw "look" that could be better described as a "loss." Learn how to look good in jeans and a tee. Simple really is chic.

5.) Lastly... SATC is making you think you're Carrie Bradshaw. You're not -- let me say it again... you're not -- Carrie Bradshaw. Sarah Jessica Parker isn't even Carrie Bradshaw -- she's Sarah Jessica Parker in a Halston dress. The concept of proclaiming yourself to be the Black, Asian, or Aleutian Carrie Bradshaw has, quite honestly, always befuddled me. Mostly because Carrie Bradshaw is a character -- a fictional person with limited depth and complexity created to be used as a vehicle for a story. Aside from liking clothes and shoes and men, how much do you really have in common with Carrie (or Charlotte, or Miranda, or Samantha, or whoever the Facebook quiz says you are this week)? You are a real person, with real depth, quirks and complexities, and I shudder to think you'd want to sum up the whole of your being by taking on the name of a fictional character and sticking it on yourself like a shirt label. Be you. Ain't nothing wrong with being THE LeKeisha Marisela McFadden. Just own it. Nothing is more fashionable than that.


*Author's Note: I will go see SATC2 this week -- mostly to check out the clothes and find out whether Carrie bones Aidan. However, it'll likely be a matinee, and I'll be wearing Uggs, swigging beer and shouting obscenities at the screen. Gotta keep it gully.

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Thursday, May 27, 2010

The Inherent #Fail-ness of the Street Holla

If you're a woman living in just about any major metropolitan area, you can always feel it coming. The intent stare. The sudden interruption in speech. The instant onset of Swivel-Head syndrome, with his head swiveling precisely in your direction.

Once you see these three things happen, you already know -- you're about to be subject to the Street Holla.

For the uninitiated, the Street Holla happens when a complete stranger ambushes you on the street and roughly demands politely asks for a moment of time, whether you have a man, or, if he's in a particular rush, just your phone number (your name, he figures, he can always ask about later). The line of reasoning behind a Street Holla-er is always, "Hey, this woman is walking down THIS particular street at THIS particular moment minding her own damn particular business... so she MUST want someone to be completely inconsiderate of her space and time and aggressively insert themselves into her day! Well if someone has to do it, I guess it'll be me!"

The thing about the Street Holla is that it should NEVER. EVER. WORK. The variable elements are too volatile to warrant even thinking that the intended interaction will yield any positive results. In fact, in the entire history of mankind, there's only one "successful" Street Holla on record, and that took place on Bryant Street Northwest in March of 2003. A young man approached a young lady, smiled, politely complimented her on her beauty, and then asked a few questions to garner pertinent information. (You know, her name, her hometown, whether or not she had three baby daddies or was a closeted axe murderer.) After a short but pleasant conversation, the young man then asked the young lady if he could call her sometime, so they could continue getting to know each other. She obliged.

It would eventually turn into the most-incompatible, ill-advised relationship I'd ever, EVER have, and teach me that I'd need to have more in common with a potential suitor than a sidewalk.

Ergo, the chances of a Street Holla actually succeeding with a woman that has some sense of dignity are slimmer than Gary Coleman's credit score. And yet, dudes keep trying. Why, I ask. Why? Your luck is highly unlikely to change, because there are several reasons why the Street Holla is inherently full of #fail.

1.) You don't know me. This is the most obvious reason the street holla is one big-ass roll of the dice. Yeah, I might be cute, but when you walk up to me, do you really know what you're getting into? I could have a stalker problem, an arrest warrant or a collection of shrunken-head dolls. I could be an identity thief or a master of check fraud. I could have a colorful assortment of communicative diseases. The point is, you have no idea. And yet, here you are, trying to establish a relationship with someone who just happens to have on her "good" pair of jeans today. I just might be doing you a favor by turning down your advances. Don't be mad.

2.) You ain't doin' shit. Clearly I'm going somewhere. Hence why I'm walking down the street. And I'm walking fast, which means I'm probably late. So how is it that you have the time to not only just stand there, but to also stop me and try to begin a conversation? Do you not have some business to attend to? Are you off today? Did you call out sick? Are you waiting for a bus? A jitney? What's going on? Why are you standing here? Oh, 'cause you ain't doin' shit. Which brings me to number 3...

3.) You're causing an inconvience. As stated before, most women aren't walking down a street secretly wishing, "Talk to me! Please, someone, stop me mid-gait and interrupt my day!" We're walking down a street because we have a destination to get to, and when you decide to insert yourself in our path, you've just created an obstacle between Point A and Point B. On top of that, since you lack a consideration for others, you have most likely chosen not be polite, but rather to be quite abrasive in your approach. Now not only are we annoyed, but we also have to figure out how to get rid of you.  Quickly, but as carefully as possible, because we don't know whether you might be that one crazy dude to throw bottles or fire shots when we reject your advances. All of this becomes one large inconvenience, and its even more irritating because we have to be fake, smile and be polite to you -- because we'd like to make it to our next destination, and because we're advocates of self-preservation.

4.) Ain't nuttin' going on but the asphalt. I mean seriously. Even if I do choose to be cordial toward you, Strange Stranger Man, the only thing we have in common is that we're both on 14th and S Streets at 4:32 on a Tuesday afternoon. You have no context on me, and I certainly have none on you. And yet you want my number so you can call me and talk about... what? What will we discuss? Your non-productive day or my penchant for Ginsu knives? You pick. Go ahead, I'll wait....

Those are just a few of the reasons why street hollas almost never, eva work. Can you think of any others?

Sunday, May 23, 2010

What's on Your Resume? Typing, Dictation, Wang-Slanging...?

The title of this one comes courtesy of @basseyworld.

We were discussing the ridiculousness known as Trey Songz lyrics, on, of course, Twitter. (Bassey: "'Your body is a problem, they call me the problem solver.' Is this song about sex or math?") I mean, all this guy sings about now since his previous efforts couldn't sell a can of beans is getting it in. Seriously, peep the song titles:

I Invented Sex
Scratchin' Me Up
Neighbors Know My Name


While I'm slightly impressed that he's managed to take individual hallmarks of intercouse (screaming, scratching) and make entire songs out of them, I can't help but wonder if sexing is the only thing Trey finds himself qualified to sing about. Hence Bassey's musing over what he would list as "Skills" on his resume -- "Typing 75wpm, taking dictation, inventing sex..."

Basically, I'm wondering if Trey thinks his penis is the best thing he has to offer the world.

Because I'm seeing a lot of that lately. Guys distilling their value down to how well they can thrust. (Honestly... how hard is to thrust?) I mean, there once was a time where almost every male R&B artist sang about loving, honoring and adoring their women, and even -- perish the thought -- making love to them. Now we have dudes that simply want to "clap clap clap from tha back back back" and "beat your body like the Congo."

Not only does that not make sense, it also sounds a little violent.

(And potentionally offensive to the people of the Democratic Republic of the Congo.)

But this is not limited to Trey. All kinds of guys -- singers, celebs, reg'lah-ass dudes, are jumping on the wang-slanging train. And not just figuratively.





...

No, I will not attempt to comprehend.

And it wouldn't be nearly as disturbing if I didn't experience this in real life. Well, not ^this^ exactly, but as in otherwise seemingly-normal guys resorting to verbal dick-slanging as a last-ditch effort to sell themselves as "a catch." In one case, a male acquaintance used it to try to convince me (for the umpteenth time) to visit him -- after I'd already said no.

"Seriously, Veronica... just one weekend. We'll have a great time."

"I've already given you my answer. You're really gonna have to convince me."

"Well... you'll get some good dick."

....

That was supposed to make me pack my bags.

iCan't. iCannot. I can no longer with dudes using their penis as their prime selling point. Is that all you got? Is that all you have to offer? Of all the qualities boast and brag about (ambition, talent, leadership, possession of an actual moral compass, hell, even money at this point) you choose to sum up your value as a man with your peen? Women needed an entire movement to start seeing themselves as more than sexual vehicles, and now you're willingly submitting yourself to that sort of exploitation? Like, "Fuck it, all I need is my piece (and I don't mean gun... heh)"?  Not to mention there's a whole history of white supremacist efforts to paint black men as sexual beasts who need to be controlled and contained in order to protect society from their "savagery"? It. Does not. Compute. I want you to think more of yourself.

So, even though it's trendy, and the songs sell well on the radio and in the clubs, following the example of Trey (and a few others) and putting your pride on your penis is the quickest way to get yourself NOT taken seriously. Sure, you may come across a girl or two who's intrigued (and a few misguided souls who may actually think that's the measure of a man), but if all you have to offer is your peen, that's all anyone will be interested in.

Revise your resume. Just sayin.

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Friday, May 21, 2010

VeroniiVault: An Unsolicited Analysis of Black Women and Pop Culture Over the Span of a Decade

Thanks to everyone who's stopped by Veroniiblog this first week. You guys rock. As a lot of you know (and therefore, tease me about) Veroniiblog isn't my first crack at writing on the web. It's just the latest in a string of Veronica-Marché blogs that have graced the interwebs since I first started blogging in 2003.

I've written about a lot of things over these past seven years -- life, relationships, dance, hair, some of my highly scandalous escapades that I should probably erase from the Internet but I can't because I don't remember passwords. And a lot of times, going through those vintage posts makes me smile -- or cringe, depending on how obvious my neurosis was at the time.

Anywhoo, remembering the old stuff is always fun. So on Fridays, I'm going to share some classic VeroniiPosts here on the blog. Granted, I may no longer agree with some of the stuff I wrote back in the day, but as long as it's entertaining... who cares, right? *veronicashrug* Enjoy.





Friday, August 22, 2008

Veronica's Completely Unsolicited Analysis of Black Women and Pop Culture Over the Span of a Decade

You can learn a lot from pop culture past.

Thanks to The Mack, we know that pimps were the definition of cool back in the '70s.

Thanks to Michael Jackson, we know that red leather jackets and and sequins were all the rage in the '80s.

And thanks to Terry McMillan and scores of R&B girl group anthems, we know that a lot women in the '90s were, well... desperate.

*ducks*

You done throwing stuff? Okay, now follow me here.

Exhibit A: En Vogue. The hottest group on the scene when they came out. And yes, "Hold On" is a venerable classic. But let's take a closer at the little gems in their discography...

They told us you've got "sacrifice and show how much you care" to keep your dude around ("Hold On")...

They asked, "What must I do to make you stay?" ("Don't Go")...

And then there's the first verse of "Don't Let Go," (different song, they added the "Let") where they declare: "I live in misery when you're not around... and I won't be satisfied 'till we're taking those vows..."

Says Errin: "Did we miss something? Was this the stalker group? These chicks had a lot of issues with keeping a dude, didn't they?"

But I don't think it was just them. At work today, some of us took a well-earned break to reminisce with some music, and "He's Mine" came on.



"MoKenStef?!" I exclaimed. "Really?!" I hadn't heard the song in years.

Then she drops the opening line...

"He might be doing you but he's thinking about me...."


Whoa. Wait. This is problematic. Sweetie? We need to talk.

And the last example almost explains itself: Waiting to Exhale.

I've seen the movie a fair number of times, and every time, I could only be sympathetic to Bernadine (Angela Bassett) and Gloria (Loretta Divine). Robin (Lela Rochon) just didn't know what to do with herself. And Savannah (Whitney) was only eclipsed by her mom...

"He's a good man, Savannah. A good man."

A good... married... man....

Whatever.

Fast forward about a decade or so. Ain't nothing wrong with a little "Cater 2 U". But if dude is being less-than? "To the left, to the left," says Beyonce.

And Janet? (She gets counted here because she's ahead of her time.) She'll flirt with a cute guy and tell him what she'd do if she was his girl... but she's not... so she can't... and she won't.

So... sorry. *shrug*

And as hood as Keyshia Cole can be, "I Changed My Mind" fueled me through The Break-Up of 2006. Particularly the bridge:

"I'm so over you,
got no more to give
I gave it all to you
and you couldn't handle it
and I don't care
if you come back to me on your knees
I just don't love you no more
I changed my mind...."

Suffice it to say, I think I'm glad I came of age later, rather than sooner. Folks can dismiss music and culture all they want, but you gotta be honest... the messages they send are internalized. And we're influenced, to a degree, by what we see or hear.

In fact, I was influenced to write this post this morning, after hearing the Russ Parr Show play its '90s mix.

They spun SWV's "You're the One for Me"...

...followed by New Edition... "Sorry, You're Not My Kind Of Girl."

Ouch.

It only makes me love Beyonce's "Green Light" even more.

"You're holding up traffic, green means GO."

Seriously... you can go.

--

Thursday, May 20, 2010

Seriously... We Truly, Honestly and Completely Don't Care If You Date A White Girl

A curious thing happened recently when my buddy KP and I were out terrorizing the neighborhood taking a stroll around U Street . As we stood outside a small Mexican establishment, debating the merits of nachos versus McChickens, another group of young professionals moseyed on up to the restaurant. It was a lively bunch, a couple of white guys, three white girls and one black dude to mix up, no doubt excited about grabbing some drinks after a long day of work. But after a moment, KP and I  couldn't help but notice...

The black guy was staring at us.

Like, just....staring at us. Hard.

He would not look away.

"Oh, I get it," KP finally said. "He's wondering if we noticed he's with a white girl."

Aha! So THAT'S why he had an I-just-ate-a-Double-Down-and-I-think-I'm-gonna-shit-myself look on his face! Poor thing. He saw two black women and expected some shenanigans to pop off. Maybe he thought we'd give him a lip-smack and a good side-eye. Or maybe he expected us to talk REALLY LOUDLY about how these WACK ASS BROTHAS AIN'T SHIT. (Don't act like you haven't heard that conversation on Georgia Avenue.) Or maybe he feared we go retro, haul off and slap his petite brunette girlfriend in the face, a la Angela Bassett in "Waiting To Exhale."

We laughed. We're only worried about our nachos, homie.

It would be funnier if it were the first time such a thing happened, but it's not. Roughly 33.7 % percent of black men in interracial relationships contract Shit-Face Sherrod Syndrome when they cross paths with black women. Symptoms include shifty eyes, nervous fidgeting, and a instinctive impulse to grab the white girlfriend closer, or maybe push her down an escalator.

"But Veronica!" you may say. "Black women DO have a problem with guys who date white chicks! I mean, look at what happened over the Reggie Bush Essence cover!"

And you may have a point. But you have to remember, when discussing the Essence-Reggie Bush debacle, we're talking about a select group of red-blooded American women who saw a picture of a fine-ass, shirtless, oiled up football player and managed to find a reason to get upset. So consider the source.

The rest of us, honestly, don't care that much. And here's why:

1) You're a stranger. We don't know you or anything about you. Ergo, we don't really care what's going on in your life, and we don't suddenly want you because you picked up a Caucasian chick. So... As you were.

2.) Your girl's a stranger too. For all we know, your strawberry-blonde girlfriend could be the bee's knees. She could have a killer sense of humor. She could have a nurturing personality. She could be a master chef who sings opera and writes pen pal letters to little orphans in Cambodia. Point is, we don't know. we only assume that you're dating her because you like her and because she's a nice person with good qualities, not because you have inferiority issues with black women.

3.) We're not offended. I'd have to be a pretty self-absorbed person to think that every black guy who picked a non-black girlfriend did so with the sole purpose of pissing me off (#jillscott). What kind of inner dialouge is that? -- "You know what? I'm gonna offend Veronica today! I'm going get up, get dressed, put on my Vans and hit the town with my white chick! Yeah! Veronica's gonna be SO. MAD. It will be AWESOME." It just doesn't make sense....

4.) We don't think our options are limited to you. Do you know how many fine-ass Latin men there are in this city? And how many young foreign embassy staffers are running the streets too? C'mon son.

5.) We feel bad for your girl. Now that you're so busy worrying about us, you're paying close to no attention to your girlfriend -- who, because she likely doesn't share the same faulty point-of-reference, probably won't understand why you're suddenly so distracted or why you're shoving her into an umbrella closet. You brought her out to have a good time, not to prepare for battle with the imaginary Black Woman Brigade. Stop being a bad boyfriend. Pay attention to your girl.

6.) And... We feel bad for you. You're a grown ass man who's still concerned about what someone will say about your relationship. We stopped looking for peer approval in 10th grade. Man up and stand proudly by your girl... before we tell her you're insecure as hell and introduce her to our cousin Rashad.

Thanks for listening. :o)

--

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Six Completely Valid Reasons Why Justin Beiber Should Have a BET Nomination

I know, I know. The Beibs got nominated for a BET Award. Best New Artist to be exact. Depending on where you stand on the issue, you either collapsed into a fit of giggles or into a fit of seizures when you heard the news. But when you think about it, Justin Beiber getting a nod from BET really isn't all that crazy. Seriously, it's not. Here's why:


1) It's an end to racial profiling. Historically, BET has only offered stereotypical depictions of people of Caucasia -- they're either tattoed Dr. Dre proteges or Michael Jackson impersonators. And only the rappers are given any real shine on the network. Ergo, white artists have been extremely frustrated by the limited roles they can play on BET -- especially since the '90s, when Color Me Badd met BET's "white folk" quota for the entire decade. Justin Beiber is finally breaking down barriers. He's like Harry Belafonte, but in reverse.

2) Black kids like him. Since the schools are all new-fangled and integrated now, there's going to be a fair amount of cultural exchange. It may have been unthinkable in the last millennium, but nowadays, blonde girls do the dutty whine, mini-ballerinas do Single Ladies and brown girls (including my 15-year-old sister) scream when Justin Beiber hits the White House stage with his multiculti dance crew.

3) Speaking of which... President Obama likes him. Self-explanatory.

4.) Also... We get to have a black president in the first place. Collateral damage.

5) And on the flip side... Justin Beiber likes black girls. He's been trying to get at Rihanna since forever, and the love interest in his latest video is a cute little brown girl who actually just might be Latina. Suffice it to say, Justin Beiber has offered the most positive, wholesome, and affirming depiction of a black woman in a music video since "You Are My Lady." For that, I'd nominate him for the BET award, an NAACP Image Award and the Nobel Prize. Besides... liking black girls is the only reason why Alan Thicke's kid is getting any airplay.

>

And if you're still not convinced, I can only offer this:

6) It's not like they nominated Lady Antebellum.

Let the Beibs have his nomination. It's not like we pay attention to BET anyway.

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