So I listened to the new Wyclef song, If I Was President. If you ain't heard it, you gotta peep it. Wyclef is a genius--truly an artist after my own heart. In the blingfilled climate of today's music industry and in the face of this 1st Amendment-less administration, he records a political anti-anthem which is not only blingless, but also misogyny-less, Cristal-less, 45-less, blunt-less, and less every other awful stereotype which has come to define "hip hop" music. He creates controversy not by illuminating big asses, but by illuminating big issues:
If I was President,
I'd get elected on Friday
Assassinated on Saturday
Buried on Sunday
Go back to work on Monday
If I was President
I gotta admit, I slept on Clef when the Fugees came out. (Hold your stones, hold your stones.) But the brotha is a leader. Go on, brotha. Go on.
Speaking of the Fugees...
Laaaaaaaaauryn! Oh, Laaaaaaaauryn, where are you? Is anybody home?
Come on now, I know we all got problems, but this is getting ridiculous. That MTV Unplugged project was atrocious. You sounded like destruction--self-destruction. You played three chords for 30 songs with no accompaniment. Lyrically, it may have been on point, but you would never know from the sound of the tires screeching.
I'm saying this as your number one fan. I don't know who or what's got a hold on you, but it ain't Jesus. Jesus wouldn't do that to you. Have you looked at yourself in the mirror? I'm saying this because I'm on your side. You're one of the most beautiful women in the world, a talent beyond time. And what you're confusing as "all natural" is much worse than any perm. You are brain washed. Seriously, I understand none of us is perfect, but you gotta represent for your Creator; you gotta be accountable for your talent. "Zion," "X-Factor"--you gotta bless the world with the blessing He gave you. Bump all of your baggage. No one doubts your skills. Collaboration is not evil. You have nothing to prove! If you ever read this (yeah right), know that there's a brotha here who can't wait for you to come back. I'm holding my breath.
A co-worker just told me (oops, now you know I'm writing this at work)--a co-worker just told me that today I look like I should be in a Puffy video. I looked at my short-sleeved silk/acrylic ivory top, my eggshell not-quite-linen pants.
Then my eyebrows switched places.
"A Puffy video?"
"Yeah, you look like you belong in a Puffy video. I mean it as a compliment."
But she could tell that's not how I took it.
"What's wrong?" she asked as I checked my pants.
"Well, I was just checking to see if there were sparkles falling from my pockets."
Seriously, Puffy? I will admit. There were times in my past, when I wore my hair a certain length, and when I wore certain shades, that people would say: Do you know who you look like? And the name Puff Daddy would make its way into the conversation. But this had to do with my complexion and facial features--not my wardrobe.
So, it caught me a little off-guard when she told me that I was dressed like him. Even worse, not at a nightclub but at work. I have a corporate job!
Have you ever seen Puffy's music videos? I bet he used to secretly watch Jem & the Holograms as a child.
(In his defense, I must say that I'm proud of Puffy's entreprenuership. In fact, I patronized his restaurant for Mother's Day brunch. My Moms really enjoyed it--a Black-run establishment with some class. One of the things which make living in Atlanta such a wonderful experience.)
This past Sunday, after brunch at Thumbs Up with C______, we went on a walk around the corner to Martin Luther King's burial site, which was not such a great experience. On our stroll, we came across a house for sale. If you ever visited Atlanta and the King Center pre-Olympics, you know the Sweet Auburn corridor was a dump. Well, it ain't now. I tell you, this is the neighborhood where I wanna live. But Lord knows I can't afford it. I can't even spare a G to spell gentrification.
Anyway, we came to the Reflecting Pool--serene and blue as sky--when we noticed a crowd of children gathered in a circle. As we drew closer, we noticed they were dropping leaves and sticks in a hole. A hole that was the Eternal Flame!
My heart started to race. Where were the parents who were allowing their children to throw trash into the Eternal Flame at the King Historic site? Then, it seemed that they were trying to resurrect the fire--that the flame was out! Where was CNN? Where was Oprah! As we came up behind them, we saw wave patterns in the air above the opening. So, there was heat. And then the children began to disperse. But it was still alarming. How weak it was--that flame.
Which brings me to the King Center. For those of you not from here, let me fill you in on the drama. The grounds are a dump. It's embarrassing. People come from as far away as India and Japan to experience King's dream in real life. It's straight up nightmarish. Corretta and company have fought tooth and nail against the Federal government and other organizations coming in to run the center.
Hello, Coretta! It is not a crime for you to get the hell out of the way so that someone who has the means to bring the King Center to its full glory can bring the King Center to its full glory. You've had 35 years--THIRTY FIVE YEARS! Clearly, you ain't doing it. There's no excuse for that wretched bookstore, the rust, the rickety railing around the Eternal flame. Look across the street. The National Parks site has a state of the art Civil Rights museum, a garden of painted murals and rosebushes--something worthy of the great man your husband was. As a resident, I feel ashamed showing the grounds to out-of-town guests. Thirty-five years, Coretta. Thirty-five.