Making the Best of a Bad Situation

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: White folk are crazy, but they make being crazy look like a lot of fun.

Monday Kickstart: Can You Dig It?

This will make you simultaneously happy and sad. The crew from The Warriors got together for one last ride home to Coney Island.



The fact that they're all in their 50s and 60s now es no bueno. And in today's Hollywood, where every old film is being remade, how has Warriors been overlooked? It's a seminal piece of pop culture.

Maybe, then, the fact that it hasn't been remade is a good thing. Maybe it's the last sacred piece of film art on the planet. Maybe it should serve as an enduring inspiration, a shimmering monument to originality and creativity.

...But we'll probably hear about them shooting a remake starring Justin Bieber in a month or two. *sigh* Let's go.

Monday Kickstart (Part 1): Start Spreading the News

This makes my balls hurt, but I'm sharing it anyways.

From Tastefully Offensive:

Logan Paul takes manspreading to a whole knew level in this funny compilation of the Vine star randomly doing splits at various locations around New York City.

I'm not sure there's much more to add here.

Throwback Thursday: "Shook Ones" — Mobb Deep

If you don't know this one, there's no hope for you youngin'. "You're all up in the game and don't deserve to be a player."

No Justice, No Peace

I’m struggling to put together my thoughts. I’ve been processing this for days—really, for months. My conscience tells me there’s something I should be saying. My brain tells me there’s nothing I can say that hasn’t already been said—that hasn’t already been ignored.

I’ve been impassioned by the measures of the minority acting on behalf of a minority, those protesting peacefully-but-forcefully in Ferguson, MO and the glittering metropolises like New York City, Los Angeles, and London. I’ve been horrified, in turn, by their counterparts, a much more minor minority, that has attempted to lay siege to the former’s legitimacy by burning buildings and looting livelihoods that never truly stood in their way.

I’ve been intrigued by the intelligent study of the few, men and women of education and understanding who’ve lent their thoughtful analysis to the evidence put forward. And I’ve been haunted by the words of fewer still: my fellow members of this odd first-and-a-half-person-perspective citizenship. Like them, my flesh didn’t absorb the bullets and my neck didn’t get squeezed free of air, but my soul has nevertheless felt the weight of hopelessness and sorrow.

I can only speak on behalf of those with whom I share this bond, this feeling of disenfranchisement. And for us, the emotion of it all is an important factor. It’s what’s missing for those who coldly deny our right to anger, our right to express outrage. For them, the topic has nothing to do with emotion. It’s a police officer using his standard-issue weapon or training to bring down an aggressive suspect. For these people, the situation is cause and effect. It’s black and white.

It’s black and white for us, too.

As a black member of American society, you feel eyes on you with every moment that you live in public domain. I’ve often wondered what it must be like to be a white face in an American crowd, moving unnoticed amongst a sea of similarity. To walk one city block without feeling like the people walking past, the people driving by, and the people looking out of their windows are looking directly and most specifically at you. I’ve had white friends spend a couple of hours in a nightclub or a part of town that is predominantly black, and express to me how out of place they felt. How they felt like everyone was staring at them. And they’ve told me this without a slightest twinge of irony, and with no insinuation that maybe it felt so weird for them because our roles had reversed. Not once did they manage to observe the greater truth: That this minor inconvenience, this brief moment of uncomfortableness that might have accounted for 0.05% of their day, was the feeling that I had throughout the other 99.95% of it.

For white Americans, a police uniform is a symbol of safety, honor, and protection. When trapped in an uncomfortable situation, whether race-related or not, a white person—I assume—would gravitate toward that uniform, no matter the skin color of the person wearing it. To a white American, a cop’s uniform is a knight’s armor striding towards them.

For black Americans, a police uniform is a symbol of absolutism, oppression, and tyranny. When at peace in a comfortable situation, whether in a black neighborhood or a white one, a black person—there’s no assumption here—will feel a cold chill at sight of that uniform, no matter the skin color of the person wearing it. To a black American, a cop’s uniform is a menacing storm cloud advancing upon us.

So often, in the past several weeks, I’ve seen white men and women argue that this trepidation, this fear of the police is entirely our own fault. Why surely, if you’re not doing anything wrong, if you’re not acting like a “thug,” if you’re not committing a crime, then you have nothing to be afraid of. Until you understand that this line of thinking has no bearing when you’re black in America, you will never understand our fear.

Obeying the law does not guarantee your safety when you’re black in America. Until you’ve been pulled out of car and searched, while your friends—who are all white—sit in that same car, unmolested; until you’ve been stopped on a sidewalk and questioned, for no other reason than you were there; until you’ve been handcuffed and sat on the curb in front of the house you earned with years of blood, sweat and tears because you “look suspicious,” you will never understand our fear.

Tamir Rice was playing with a toy. Eric Garner was standing outside a store (and, though he was allegedly selling loosies, that deed is a misdemeanor that rarely attracts the attention of one patrolman, let alone six). Akai Gurley was walking down a stairwell with his girlfriend. These are not thuggish, menacing acts. Absent of race, these behaviors would barely register a raised eyebrow. Yet each has resulted in a loss of life. These are not hardened criminals taking their lives into their own hands. These are people going about their own business, just as white Americans do every day, without fear of losing everything that the Rice, Garner, Gurley, and Brown families, and countless others like them, have lost.

In these days, these hours, these nights, these lifetimes, we’ve found ourselves tied to the victims’ families by an unfathomable blood bond, one that goes deeper than last names and family trees. We feel one with them and their pain, if only because we know that they understand.

Monday Kickstart: Booty Had 'Em

Since some of you us are going through a painful bout of withdrawal after three days of turkey, cranberry sauce, and lots of shots (*raises hand* guilty of all three!) on this first day of December, here's something to put a smile on your face (and maybe teach you something in the process)...



I haven't been to NYC in 25 years, and I was seriously concerned that I was going to make a guest appearance in that video. *double checks YouTube for versions filmed in Pittsburgh*

And for the final splash of cold water across your face, here's this week's inspiration, Ms. Lara Cole:

Guess now you need the cold water splashed elsewhere. You'll have to take care of that on your own, sinner.

Let's go.

Deep Breath

It's 2014, and we still haven't solved the problem of the Blu Klux Klan.

From YouTube:

In the YouTube video 100 people wearing black T-shirts harmonized in a solemn hum while poet Daniel J. Watts recited a fiery poem entitled I Can’t Breathe — a reference to Garner’s fateful encounter with police.

On July 17th, Garner, a 43-year-old Staten Island man was confronted by police for allegedly selling untaxed cigarettes. The police tried to handcuff Garner but when he refused they placed him in a chokehold. The incident was captured by an onlooker’s cell phone camera. The father of six can be heard telling police repeatedly that he could not breathe. However, the police officers ignored his plea. Garner died on the scene.

Deep Relief

Improv Everywhere decided to bring some relaxation to the NYC underground. If they ever decide to do this in Pittsburgh, I'm in.

From Tastefully Offensive:

Improv Everywhere's creator, Charlie Todd, explains: "For our latest mission, we turned a New York City subway platform into an unauthorized luxury spa. NYC’s un-air-conditioned platforms can feel like a sauna in the summer, so we figured we might as well embrace the heat."

In Why See

Everything I expect when I finally get to visit my homegirl Steph in Astoria.



Found by my homie Profound.

Built for Pleasure

Normally, if you're describing a video to someone, and three of the words you use are "big," "boobs," and "bouncing," you might as well shut up at that point and just take my money. But this...

From 96.1 Kiss in Pittsburgh:

There is such a thing as the Museum Of Sex in New York City. The MOS will open an exhibit this week featuring a unique bouncy house. A giant bouncy-booby castle in fact...

Found by girl Alex.

Throwback Thursday Bonus

Tupac and John Singleton once had a footrace in NYC. Pac smoked him.



TJ with the assist.

Throwback Thursday: "Incarcerated Scarfaces" -- Raekwon

Back in '95, every kid living outside of NYC wished he grew up in NYC. Videos like this one were a big part of it. Seeing the raw, rough-around-the-edges swagger that videos like this depicted made you just a little jealous that you weren't a native of the streets of Shaolin.

"N***a I seen it,
like a 27 in. Zenith, believe it"

Lyrical Exercise

This is brilliant.

From Gothamist:

Previously, street artist Jay Shells has taken on etiquette of all kinds, from human behavior to animal behavior to subway behavior. But now he's back with something totally different, albeit still in his signature sign form: Rap Quotes. The idea is simple, and the result is sort of amazing: he has taken rap lyrics that mention specific locations around New York City, created signs with those lyrics, and has installed them at their appropriate locations. Animal has video of the installation process of the signs, which feature lyrics from Kanye, Jay-Z, GZA, Mos Def, Nas, and more.

Speaking as someone who hasn't spent much of any time in New York, there have been many occasions when I've tried to visualize the settings of the stories my favorite lyricists were telling through my speakers. Shells' art project satisfies that craving in a beautiful way. I've included a few pictures here, and Gothamist has another four on their page. You can also go to The Rap Quotes Twitter feed for even more.

Throwback Thursday: "Everything is Everything" -- Lauryn Hill

Lauryn was bad back in the day. There isn't a straight man my age who didn't fall in love with her in the late '90s. It's a damn shame she dropped out the game at her peak.

(F' you, Clef.)

Frosty the SnowmaaaaaoootherFUCKER!

Thoughts as I watched this:

1. I love New York women.
2. I love yoga pants (admittedly, those two thoughts came from the same scene...).
3. Guys in New York are light on their feet.
4. Seeing complete strangers getting the piss scared out of them has to get old eventually, but I have absolutely no idea when that day will come. It doesn't even feel like it's anywhere near being within shouting distance.

Respect My Gangsta: Robert De Niro

Who knows more about the importance of respect than Vito Corleone?

From the New York Post:

A spy then overheard De Niro complaining to the rapper, a fellow TriBeCa resident, about a song Jay-Z agreed to record for the Tribeca Film Festival. De Niro had reached out to discuss further details, but Jay never returned his calls.

“Bob wasn’t in any mood to make polite conversation,” the spy says. “He told Jay that if somebody calls you six times, you call them back. It doesn’t matter who you are, that is just rude.”

When Jay-Z tried to make a joke of it, saying he is terrible on the phone, a source says, “De Niro kept telling him that he thinks he’s the man, but that he was disrespectful.’ ”

“Beyoncé came over, but that didn’t calm Bob down,” the source said, adding that afterward, “It was the talk of the party. Everyone was saying there’s only one star in New York bigger and badder than Jay-Z, and that’s Robert De Niro. He can be quite scary when he’s angry.”

Leave it to De Niro to turn Jay-Hova into "Spider".

TJ with the assist.

F.O.H.: Nana Gouvêa

If you know me, you know I've got nothing but love for beautiful women, Brazil, and Playboy bunnies. So, as you might guess, a beautiful Brazilian woman who's posed for Playboy would have to do something pretty fucked up to earn a "Fuck Outta Here" post.

From Yahoo! News:

Here's one way to get noticed: After Hurricane Sandy left New York City in utter chaos, a former Brazilian Playboy model used the devastation as a backdrop for a series of glamour shots, enraging many people in the process.

In a long-sleeved black top, leggings, and black ankle boots, Nana Gouvêa can be seen striking a dramatic wide-legged pose -- think Angelina Jolie at the Oscars -- in front of a gigantic toppled tree and a stranded moving truck. In another image, Gouvêa uses broken branches to balance herself on the hood of a smashed silver BMW.

Really?

Gouvêa's excuse (for, you know, posing for glamour shots in the same disaster zone where people are injured and suffering)? She and her husband, the photographer, had been in their apartment with no power, and had become bored.

Hey, Nana: Next time, maybe you and your hubby should try lending a helping hand to those human props in the background of your impromptu photoshoot, who are struggling to repair their damaged lives?

Fuck outta here...

Frisky Business

Fantastic work by Kamau Bell on this piece.


[Sidenote: That woman he interviewed was a straight up freak. And, sadly, it looks like her daughter (?) will be headed down the same path, eventually.]

Flashing Lights

In America, celebrity is everything. Watch as a few hundred New Yorkers get thoroughly owned. Brett Cohen, you're my hero.


My boy Serge with the assist.

Drizzy vs. Breezy

*sigh*

By now you've likely heard the news (from TMZ):

Chris Brown sustained a nasty gash on his chin -- apparently a wound from a bottle

attack -- after his entourage allegedly clashed with Drake's crew in a NYC nightclub brawl.

TMZ has confirmed with the NYPD that the two singers' crews got into a fight at WIP nightclub -- 5 people were injured in the melee.

NYPD arrived on the scene after receiving a call between 4 and 5am. Chris and Drake were not present when cops arrived.

We're told there were no critical injuries ... just bumps, bruises and lacerations. No arrests were made.

After the fight, Brown tweeted a photo of his injury ... along with the message, "How u party wit rich n**** that hate? Lol... Throwing bottles like girls? #shameonya!."

The article goes on to cite rumors that the fight broke out over Rihanna. While I think Ri-Ri is worth fighting for, I think you're a damn fool if you fight over someone you aren't with. Only acceptable scenario where she's the center of the beef: Drake (or someone in his crew) was talking shit on Rihanna, and Chris stood up for her honor as a friend, in return for her having had his back over the last few years. No other combination works here.

By the way... Not to sound like I'm taking sides here, but looking at the facts: Their entourages were obviously heavily involved in this fight, so you have to ask just how active either artist was when shit went down. Since Brown has shown us the cut on his chin, it's reasonable to assume he was in the thick of things (and didn't just, say, get hit by flying glass while standing on the sideline—though we can't entirely rule that out either). In the only glimpse of Drake that we've seen following all of this, though, he (1.) Doesn't have a mark on him, and (2.) is walking with some big burly motherfuckers. So...did Drake play the sidelines while his security crew went to war?