5 Things I Think

[stealing Justin's idea from last year...]

• Watching Sarah Tiana vs. Earl Skakel in the semi-finals of the Roast Battle last weekend is the closest I'll ever come to being someone in the audience when B. Rabbit obliterates Poppa Doc in the final battle of 8 Mile.
  
  
• There are three categories of Trump supporters: (1.) The willfully ignorant. These are the cretans being led by their noses, susceptible to the the fear-mongering his campaign has hosed them down with . (2.) The white nationalists. These are the political racists, all too happy that someone on so grand a stage has given their extremist views a voice. (3.) The greedy capitalists. These are the 1%ers, who are willing to turn a blind eye to the ignorance and overt racism, because Trump being in power will mean they can enjoy more tax cuts and more absurdity of wealth without having to contribute anything back to society.
  
  
• Trump didn't invent GOP fearmongering. Let's not kid ourselves--we're witnessing the evolutionary byproduct of Karl Rove's political strategies, the blueprint that led to eight years of Dubya sitting in the oval office, repeatedly embarrassing our country.
  
  
• I miss writing. I really do. The past few days I've found myself wistfully reading through old On the Rocks posts. Though the feelings of longing that those tales bring about have as much to do with missing my youth as much as missing my keyboard.
  
  
• Parties should never have structure. Some people have a hard time with that. They want parties to have themes, and each guest to have an all-in mentality. You can't structure fun. Just let people get together, pour a drink, and relax.

Senseless

I'm trying to gather my thoughts. I just watched a murder.

But please don't think I'm in shock. I'm neither shaken up nor am I confused. And I'm much too numb to be horrified—that one might say the most.

The video was footage from the body camera of a University of Cincinnati police officer, Ray Tensing, as he shot an unarmed black civilian, Sam DuBose, in the head. At point blank range. You may have heard of the case. Then again you may not have; these things have a way of eluding some people's radars. Blissful ignorance will always have an appeal.

But, being black, I don’t have the luxury of ignorance. So instead, I’m trying to gather my thoughts.

I want to point to the blatancy of Tensing’s act. Here is a law enforcement officer plainly ignoring standard written procedure; procedure that’s taught and drilled into police officers around the country every day. Procedure that far too many police officers choose to forgo when the face they encounter is African American. But pointing out the obvious inevitably feels empty, especially when we’ve seen it all before.

Over the past 354 days since Michael Brown’s murder at the hands of Officer Darren Wilson in Ferguson, MO we’ve seen what seems like 354 unarmed, presumably innocent black men and women die at the hands of police officers across the country. An endless, devastating crawl of hashtagged names have crossed social media timelines. Tamir Rice. Akai Gurley. Sandra Bland. Freddie Gray. Trayvon Martin.

It’s not even the first time we’ve seen an act of brazen murder on video. The chokehold that suffocated Eric Garner and the gunshots to the back that felled Walter Scott were replayed on endless loops by news programs. Rice’s murder should have trumped all in the world of infotainment, as surveillance cameras focused directly on the scene captured a Cleveland police officer, without warning or cause, firing bullets into a 12-year-old boy who was playing in a park. What more can be said, what more naiveté can be clenched onto when the brutal murder of a child is videotaped, watched, replayed, digested, and forgotten by the mass populace?

I remember being horrified when Rice’s story broke, and the video was released. Eight months and one week later, I’m numb.

I have the strange, at times surreal perspective of being half white. The majority of people who surround me on a daily basis, both professionally and personally, are white. Most are open-minded, understanding, and sympathetic. Some are even outraged. But not all of them. And that’s when this entire dynamic gets awkward. Because that’s when I have to engage in, oversee, or willfully ignore the conversations. The latter doesn’t happen all that often, because I don’t have the luxury of ignorance.

I have one friend, a white male under 30, who met the Baltimore protests over Freddie Gray’s murder with an unyielding refrain of, “You have to respect the police.” No amount of reasoning would move him from this point.

No sensible black man, woman, or child doesn’t know and practice this. The irony is we often have no choice but to practice this. Fear of what would happen, if the mere impression of disrespect was even inferred, keeps us heel-toeing with sweat on our brows the second a police officer pulls us over. But it doesn’t work. Sam DuBose was anything but disrespectful. I dare you to even say he was confrontational. And yet he lost his life.

What’s more, for every case of a docile, respectful black citizen being killed by someone in a police uniform, there are five cases of belligerent, threatening white people unflinchingly attacking police officers and living to make bail.

The flaw in the “You have to respect the police” philosophy is that it’s predicated on a fairytale. It relies on the gullible belief that the police are always, and without exception, offering respect in return. But there are exceptions—thousands of them. And if you’re a person of color, you have to treat those exceptions as the rule.

I have respect for the police. But I also have rights as a human being. And while my friend can rely on his rights being recognized whether he is or isn’t being respectful, I cannot. Instead I have to deal with an armed individual who may very well let his or her thoroughly-uninformed expectations of who I am override the training that he or she has received, and the respect that he or she should instinctively maintain.

I’m not in shock. I’m afraid.

I’m afraid I’ll be Sam DuBose. Or Freddie Gray. Or one of the hundreds of other innocent black men and women murdered by police officers. I’m afraid one or more of my friends will die in a jail cell when all he or she did was change lanes without signaling. I’m even more afraid that a member of my family will suffer that fate. I’m afraid I’ll experience both the joy of having children, and the unimaginable sorrow of someday watching video of a police officer shooting them dead on a playground without provocation or thought. I’m afraid those who defend the police officers will never come to understand why I’m afraid. I’m afraid it’s never going to change.

I don’t have the luxury of not being afraid.

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.

The Most Powerful Weapon

I've been... I've been better. These last few days have been a strange mixture of nostalgia and regret, connection and loss, hopelessness and resolve. I can hear 18-year-old versions of Otis and I laughing like ghosts on a fall breeze. And as difficult as I've found this week on a personal level, the world is seemingly falling apart around all of us, from Ferguson to Iraq to everywhere in between. I think I'm ready for a restart. I think I'm ready for the world to begin again, like Prince EA talks about here. Even if it doesn't mean seeing O again, at least it would mean creating a world that would do justice to the short time he got to spend here.

Love is Love

I had a dear friend. Someone killed him.

I suppose that, in and of itself, doesn’t make me much different than a large portion of people on this planet. And, at 35, it’s certainly not the first time I have dealt with death. But this feels different. Maybe the shock hasn’t worn off yet. Maybe it never will.

Otis, for several years of my life, was like a brother to me. We hung out at family barbecues, we cracked jokes and wasted away days, we chased girls at the mall and drank St. Ides Special Brew at graduation parties. We knew each other in middle school, became friends in high school, and then were half of a strong crew of friends through our college years. No two members of that foursome went to the same school after high school, mind you. But we didn’t even consider the thought of not kicking it with each other when two or more of us were home for a weekend or a holiday.

We worked on music together. E and Chris were masterful emcees with brilliant flows. I was the apprentice of sorts; skillful with a pen and a pad, but still raw when it came to making it all sound right on a mic. O, though, was probably the most naturally gifted of all of us. The brother’s pipes were legit, and he could stop a room with one note. He even sang at our high school graduation, something I had somehow forgotten until talking to my mother on the phone today.

Life happens, of course. You can try to fight it, but time eventually pulls each of you in a different direction. Guys get jobs, guys get girlfriends and wives, guys move. In the last ten years or so I hadn’t seen Otis—not in person. I hadn’t talked to him frequently, though the odd Facebook conversation, often centering around one or both of our birthdays (mine fell just two weeks after his on the calendar) was known to happen. Maybe we weren’t still brothers, but the mutual love never wavered. Maybe we were still brothers.

I was there when O brought home his first car, a used ‘97 Mitsubishi Gallant in pristine condition. He was there when Shanti ended my first summer romance. And he was there when subsequent summer romances with Jen and Julie came and went. I wasn’t there when he finally came out to someone in our crew, though. It was something that ate at me. I knew it was up to him to do it when he was ready, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say it hurt just a twinge that I wasn’t one of the first people he confided in about it. But no matter what, that love between us was never in jeopardy. We were brothers.

Otis never really liked it in Pittsburgh. None of us professed to, though the rest of us are still here. But O got out, having moved to Florida not long after college. Talking to him after that felt like talking to a new man.

He grew up in a deeply Christian family and background, and I can only guess that it contributed to him feeling at odds with who he truly was. We tend not to think of our world as a very tolerant one today for gay men and women because more than half the states in America won’t let them marry. But when you compare that to what things were like just 15 years ago, when a young man had to pretend he was something he wasn’t simply out of fear that his closest friends and family would disown him, it gives you hope. Florida seemed to give O hope. He was free from the burden he’d lived with for most of his life in Pennsylvania, and was ready to embrace his new life in the Sunshine State.

For reasons I’ll never understand, that new life ended at 35.

People, especially those speaking in Christian rhetoric, talk about loving everyone. Loving your neighbor and your common man, even loving your enemies. Otis had one of those rare souls that was truly full of love. Love for everything and everyone. I’m not a religious man, and have often found it naïve at best when hearing those who practice the Christian faith speak of this blind love for all that surrounds you. But Otis was the light that stopped me from totally shutting the door on that philosophy.

Even if he didn’t like you, he didn’t truly hate you. And if he did like you, he showed you no mercy when jokes started flying. He cut up with the best of us, and wouldn’t hesitate to clown you when an opportunity presented itself. But somehow he was always laughing with you and not at you, his eyes shut tight and two big rows of teeth flashing as he convulsed with laughter. There was always laughter.

I had a dear friend brother. Someone killed him.

The laughter, though? That will always live on. Rest in peace, homie. Be there with pound and a hug when I join you.

Violence is Violence

There's a women's movement going on in the US right now, and in many ways it's righteous, necessary, and frankly overdue. One of the problems with this and most other waves of "pro-woman" social activism, though, is that the tone quickly shifts from "Men who abuse/rape/marginalize women are wrong" to "All men are evil." A hypocrisy takes over, wherein all women are absolved of wrong because they're women, and all men are charged with crimes of inhumanity because they're men.

If you've been keeping up with the #YesAllWomen tag on Twitter today, you've seen the evil that some men can do. But the world is much too complicated of a place to to trace the line between the genders and claim it to also be the dividing line between wrong and right. Not all men are rapists. Not all women are innocent. Just as there are evil, asshole men out there that make life that much more difficult for the good guys, there are evil, asshole women out there who make life that much more difficult for the good gals.

From BuzzFeed:

DareLondon set up a hidden camera experiment to see how strangers would react to seeing domestic abuse for ManKind’s #ViolenceIsViolence campaign.

A couple (portrayed by actors) in a London park get into a heated argument and things begin to get out of hand. The man begins to physically abuse his “girlfriend.” Onlookers immediately notice and take action. One woman even walks up to the guy yelling, “What’s wrong with you?”

...Then the situation changes. The actors recreate the same scenario, except this time the woman is abusing the man.

I never have hit a woman, nor could I ever envision myself doing so. And most of the guys I know are of the same mold. But I've seen women take advantage of that, and get away with murder in return. I once saw a woman throw heavy, glass objects at the head of her boyfriend—knowing he'd had severe head injuries in the past—and show zero remorse for it. She wasn't in danger or defending herself in any way when she decided to risk maiming/killing the man she claimed to love; they were having an argument and he, a small guy only slightly bigger than her, was 10 feet away, making no physically threatening movements.

By all definitions of justice, she should have gotten her ass kicked that night. But she was dating a good guy, and she knew there would be no physical retribution for her actions. So he dodged the ashtray and candlestick, and kept himself 10 feet away from her. And when the police arrived, he was the one who had to leave the home they shared, and he was threatened with a night in jail.

Despite having witnessed this episode, I know better than to identify all women as crazy bitches who will try to escalate an altercation from verbal to physical, all because they have the upperhand in the court of public opinion. It's unfair to those who strive to act right when you paint them with the same brush as those who've failed to live up to that standard. For years now we've striven to eradicate stereotypes and profiling techniques that characterize someone as lazy, criminal, or uneducated solely because of his or her skin color. So why doesn't the same moderation and reasoning get applied when the issue is one of gender?

Is abuse wrong because the person getting hit is innocent, or because the person getting hit is a woman? This is 2014, when old-fashioned gender roles are steadily being rewritten. Does this mean that if a lesbian beats her partner to within an inch of her life, the whole thing doesn't merit a 911 call? And if a gay man shoves his husband, does he get thrown in jail? Maybe action should be the balancing point for the scales of justice, not gender? Maybe, we should just refer to the wisdom of Chris Rock:

N Danger

By now, you've heard it. Or at least heard about it. Riley Cooper, a wide receiver for the Philadelphia Eagles, got caught on camera saying, "n****r" while at a Kenny Chesney concert. There are a few different responses that this story has brought about in me, so I'll try to elaborate upon each of them.


(1.) Comedy

There's an overly-abundant amount of humor to be found in the fact that Cooper drops this word at the one place in Philadelphia where you're not very likely to spot a black person: a Kenny Chesney concert. [I said Philly, not Pittsburgh...shut up.]

In the now infamous video, we never see exactly who Cooper's talking about, or why he's so mad. It actually feels unlikely that the people he's calling "n****rs" are even of color, simply because of the circumstances. [NOTE: If the people and/or reason have been revealed by now, I apologize for my lack of research here. I've been waiting to hear something about this; but as of writing this, no one seems to have mentioned it. I admit, though, that I've been short on free time the last couple of days, and could easily have missed something.] And if Cooper really did use the word on someone who isn't black, then maybe he's just a Donald Glover disciple?

Comedy Central

(.2) Indifference

If, indeed, Cooper used the word on people who weren't black, I'm not sure I care. I actually agree 200% with the point Glover is making in that clip. Words are only words, and only have as much power as you appropriate to them. Do I like the n word? No, of course not; the fact that I say "n word" instead of the actual word is, in part, evidence of that. But it's also a product of 30+ years of being conditioned to hate it. There are, in actuality, no "bad words." There are only words that people have been told by other people that they're not supposed to say or hear. A word is only as powerful as the intentions of the person using it.

If, while walking down the street, I turn to an approaching stranger and say, "Fuck off," there's an intent to harm and/or offend that justifies anger on the stranger's part. But what if, instead, I drop my beer at the bar and say, "Fuck!" as a stranger walks past. What harm has been inflicted upon the stranger? Has blood started pouring from his ears? Has a demon sprang forth from the earth and started raping his parents? Of course not. It's a silly, outdated concept to have words you can't say.

So if Cooper used the word specifically because the people at whom he was angry were black, then this is a story. If he simply used it because he was angry at people, regardless of their race, then...so what? It's a word, and that's all.


(3.) Fear

This aspect may not be as readily apparent to the "third parties" of this story. I put that term in quotation marks because I'm being a bit abstract with it. By third party, I'm not talking only about everyone on the scene outside of Cooper and his invisible foe. I mean...anyone, anywhere, who isn't Riley Cooper and who isn't black.

Though, speaking scientifically, I'm only half black, I have always identified myself as black, without any fractional qualifiers. When you're mulatto, white people see you as "half black", and black people see you as "black*". There's an unwillingness by a white person to see you as fitting into their category. Now, the vast majority of the time, it's not a malicious attempt at ostracizing you. But its subtlety belies its power. "You're not exactly like me, so you're not equal to me."

So speaking as a black* man, I'll let all of you third parties in on our biggest fear in "post racial America": The wolf in sheep's clothing.

Look, the guys in the sheets burning crosses in the backwoods of Alabama are scary. But they are scary to me in the same way that the Taliban fighter in the mountains of Afghanistan is scary to the average person in small town America. They are extremists, living a primitive reality, and I will probably never be within their reach. And, odds are, if I ever am, I'll know that I'm putting myself in harm's way long before I'm ever actually there.

No, when it comes to terrorism, the guys who inspire the most paranoia and Hollywood storylines are the sleeper cells. The guys who live next door, that you play cards with once a month, whose kids play little league with your kids. The guys that terrify me, and who shake me to my core, are the hidden racists. The guys you work with and hang out at the bar with, who you would vouch for in a heartbeat. And, from all evidence available for review at the moment, that is Riley Cooper.

Cooper works in a profession dominated by black men. He plays a position in football where 91% of the top players last year were black. His coworkers, some of his best friends, are/were black. And none of them saw this coming. They thought they knew him, and they trusted him. And now they don't know what to make of him.

I have a lot of white friends. Some I would go to war with; an even smaller number I would die for. But, a social situation doesn't pass where there isn't a little man with a rifle standing guard in my temple, sights trained on the line, waiting for someone—anyone—to cross it. It's something I live with, that I can't imagine not living with. Every room I walk into, every smiling stranger I shake hands with, I brace myself against the unknown threat that could be lying beneath the surface. The knife you don't see cuts deeper than the one you do. And those who would be your enemies understand this better than those who only wish to be your friend.

If Riley Cooper truly harbors racist attitudes, leanings, and thoughts; if he's full of bigoted feelings that he's kept closeted until now, for the sake of his professional advancement; then let the legacy of his story be the education of those who don't live with the fear that I carry with me, everywhere I go. The fear that every black person—standing in plain sight—carries with them, everywhere they go.

Big Girls Don't Cry Wolf

I was uncomfortable. I was outraged. I was…jealous.

Some undeserving clown was kissing Bar Rafaeli, and it wasn’t me. I should be that undeserving clown!

A lot of people have had a lot to say about the Go Daddy ad that aired during the Super Bowl, which featured an international supermodel (Miss Rafaeli) doing tongue-jujitsu with a nerdy, overweight guy (Jesse Heiman). Very little of what was said was positive. Scratch that; none of it was positive.

And while—at first—those disapproving voices seemed only to be agreeing with me, I began to see things differently once my own selfish ire wore off. If my initial disdain for a meaningless television commercial was born from my desire to be the one lip-lockin’ with Bar, what was fueling the wave of criticisms from everyone else? Over the years, Go Daddy’s sexually-charged stunts have slowly desensitized us to each new ad they’ve released. Why should this one suddenly awaken new disgust? Were Entertainment Weekly writers, newspaper columnists, and talk show hosts only chiming in because they were jealous, too? Perhaps, in some cases. But more and more, it now feels like something far worse: bigotry.

Let’s imagine, for just a second, that the man swirling tongues with Bar in that ad had been Channing Tatum. Just what would the public response have been? I, and other gents such as myself, would likely still be outraged for a good minute or two, simply because it wasn’t us. Tatum’s wife, Jenna Dewan, might also be a little peeved (also due to jealousy). But would the mass public’s sentiment have been as harsh? Would "backlash" have been an accurate term to describe the entertainment media’s reaction to watching two hot, consenting adults get mouth-friendly to promote a web domain service that no one knows is a web domain service? Highly unlikely. That’s not to say no media mouthpiece would speak against the ad. But you’re fooling yourself if you think he or she would spend more than 140 Twitter characters on the subject.

Quite simply, the objection towards this Go Daddy ad exists solely because the male lead is unattractive. He was chubby. He was nerdy. He was ginger! *shivers* How dare they force such lechery upon our chaste eyes!

Now, for the sake of argument, let’s look at this story from another angle: How would all of this have been treated if the model had been male, and the nerd had been female? If…some guy [admittedly, the only male model’s name that I know of is Derek Zoolander], some Adonis whose jaw line was chiseled from a marble slab and whose abs could stop a bullet, was passionately kissing an overweight and unappealing woman in glasses, would we hear those same judgmental voices crying out in the name of decency? Hell, not only would those people be silent, at this very moment they’re probably a click away from attacking me for suggesting a hypothetical woman is “overweight and unappealing”.

And there you have it, the double-standard. Attractive man + attractive woman? Stamp of approval. Attractive man + unattractive, chubby woman? The next Rebel Wilson. Unattractive, chubby man + attractive woman? Not on MY television!

Why is it okay for everyone to be repulsed when a male romantic lead bears the deficit in physical beauty? The audacity that it takes to perpetuate this fraud of social mores is staggering. And yet it seems to have slipped past almost all of us without so much as a second thought on our parts. When a woman doesn’t fit the Hollywood norm, she’s an inspiration; when a man doesn’t, he’s a punchline.

Now, to be fair, for years Hollywood has enforced much stricter physical requirements on women than on men. While everyone from Jackie Gleason to Steve Buscemi have played leading men who’ve gotten the girl, it’s only been more recently that the door has cracked open for “regular gals”. [Sidenote: This is a term that’s ridiculously misused; Melissa McCarthy and Adele are both extremely talented women, but they’re not “regular” when it comes to body types. Let’s just be honest, here. I am far from the Channing Tatum end of the spectrum. But I’m also not delusional enough to think that being out-of-shape makes me as big as Billy Gardell. And I wouldn’t refer to Gardell as a “regular guy” just because we both need to cut back on carbs.] Lena Dunham is proving, one uncomfortable-for-everyone-but-her nude scene at a time, that women don’t have to be off-duty swimsuit models to be stars. We’re in the dawn of a girl-power era, and the result is “unlikely” leading ladies such as Wilson and McCarthy. But, if it’s wrong for society to be offended when one of these ladies kisses her hot male costar, why isn’t this true when genders are reversed and it’s Go Daddy’s nerd lothario? For all of the pro-curves, equality-for-big-gals cheerleading that occurs today in pop culture and social media, where’s all of the support when the person in question is male?

The move towards less-unrealistic standards for leading ladies is certainly refreshing. But centuries of misogyny won’t be erased by a sudden overcompensation in the opposite—yet equally unfair—direction.

*puts on pair of glasses* Now, Bar: About a follow-up ad…

The Hard Sell

In case you missed it: Lolo Jones had a bit of a Twitter gaffe last week.

I don't think Miss Jones is as insensitive as this incident may, at first glance, make her appear to be. But I do find two things troubling about the tweet.

1. The tone of her response.

Jones' excuse for her bawdy reply—she was reacting to being "challenged" by an athlete—is telling. And it's an indictment of us, as a voyeuristic society. After all, we created her.

Lolo Jones isn't a slacker. She holds the US record in the 60M hurdles. She's qualified for the Summer Olympics twice. She has won NCAA championships. And she's won many lesser-known races that sound like background noise to those of us who only remember once every four years that track and field exists. But in the whole wide world of sports, hurdles are the equivalent of Denmark. The average person on an American street knows hurdling exists, but good luck getting them to point it out on a map.

In the U.S., popularity and glory as an athlete traditionally come from winning on your sport's biggest stage. This is especially true when you compete in a more obscure sport, like hurdling. For a track and field athlete, that stage is the Summer Olympics. At the very least, you should be dominant in the lead-up events. But Lolo Jones has never won at the Olympics; she barely qualified for the 2012 games, finishing third in the trials. She came home from London with a fourth-place pat on the back. There are hundreds of also-rans every four years; each is an impressive athlete in his or her own right. But being an impressive athlete doesn't get you booked to appear on The Tonight Show.

No, Jones' popularity—the very reason she's receiving tweets from Eric LeGrand, why her flub is getting attention, and why I'm even writing this blog—is all based on her looks. Many consider her to be a very attractive woman, and the result has been magazines, TV, and the internet placing her on a pedestal. She's been compared to Anna Kournikova, which she says is unfair. I agree, but not for the same reason that she cites*.

[*Note: I've had many a heated debate with TJ and Jay Swag over this, but I simply do not find Jones to be hot. I'm not saying that she's ugly, not by any means. But if you were to name five hundred famous women and task me with ranking them based on attractiveness—#1 being the hottest—Jones is in the 20th percentile. The irony of the Kournikova comparison is that Kournikova is legitimately hot—90th-percentile-hot.]

To help bolster this superficial fame, Jones has very smartly crafted an image that is designed to maximize her "assets". She's taken to being flamboyant on Twitter, displaying a playful ego that seems to be as much a result of her popularity as a tool for increasing it. She's appeared on Leno, and in countless magazines and news articles. And, most notably, she has "come out" as being a virgin. I don't parenthesize this because I think a virgin doesn't face embarrassment and/or negative attention by going public with such an admission; I do it because I don't believe she's a virgin. (Call me the E of the crew; I'm fine with it—he ended up with Emmanuelle Chriqui.) In fact, instead of comparing Jones to Anna Kournikova, the more fitting comparison is actually Tim Tebow:

• Both were very successful as SEC athletes (Jones went to LSU) but have only found moderate success as pros (at best).
• Both proclaim their virginity, despite being very successful SEC athletes (I mean, come on...I'd be much less surprised if they boned each other in college than I would if either was abstinent).
• Both are media-darling athletes who, although considered by many to be attractive, I would not have sex with. (Sorry Tim.)

2. Why was she so unaware of who had tweeted her?

To a large extent, Jones was done in by the very Twitter presence she has cultivated. Quick wit wins followers, but slow-and-steady wins the race (which, for someone who competes in sprints, may not be the easiest concept to comprehend). The reality is that she was all-too-eager to not only respond to LeGrand’s question, but to do so publicly; she just as easily could have sent him a DM, or addressed her reply so that only people who follow both of them would have seen it. If Jones doesn’t have someone with social media expertise in her management team, she should hire one by the end of this sentence (I’m sure my girl at Socialminded Media Group can help her out).

Jones wants to blame LeGrand’s profile information for misleading her; that’s a bit like blaming the gun in your hand for putting a hole in your foot. If she took the time to look at his profile before responding, and if she didn’t recognize him after doing so, then why did her research stop there? The truly sound strategy would have been to see that he’s “verified”—which assures you that he’s someone of public note—and to do a quick Google search on his name. The tactic (some might call it common sense) might have cost her another 90 seconds of time, but would surely have saved her untold amounts of embarrassment.

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Jones has milked her celebrity standing out of the public’s attraction to her. It’s a fleeting “It Girl” status that belies her actual accomplishments as an athlete. And, in truth, it’s hard to fault her for doing so. She didn’t ask to be judged purely on her looks; but if we as a society are going to do it anyway, she might as well profit from it while she can. Nevertheless, if she’s going to play the role of a superstar sports personality, she needs to learn to handle herself while in the public eye. Any intern at a public relations firm can tell you that discretion is key if you’re going to successfully market your brand. That's especially true in Lolo's case, since marketing will be all she’ll have to keep her brand relevant until Rio in 2016.

Never Give Up

Baltimore has always been a second home to me. When I was young I regularly visited my grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins who lived there. But the Bmore that once felt as warm and familiar to me as a motherly embrace has since grown dark and distant. Today it bares little resemblance to the Bmore of my memories, a paradise that has been long since lost. Most of you—especially those who have never been there—likely picture the city as it was cast through the harsh lens of “The Wire”. And you’re right; that’s exactly how it looks today. But that’s not the Baltimore that raised me.

As a child it was Camelot, where my cousins and I would run unrestrained with neighborhood kids, playing hide & seek and walking to the corner store for snacks. There were family dinners, Orioles games at Memorial Stadium (only a relatively short walk from my grandmother’s house), and Easter Sundays. In my teenage years it was Sonny LoSpecchio, teaching me street smarts and the importance of every move I made; and it built in me a deep appreciation for the grimier side of the American Dream. Long nights on porch steps, flashing police lights, gunshots, and the antics of random crackheads were priceless required reading for a course taught in a one-of-a-kind classroom. But the progression of my character as a man underscored my Eden’s regression. By the time I had reached my early 20s, Bmore was Krakatoa, erupting with violence, cracking at the seams with crime, sinking under its own self-destructive weight.

I last visited in 2009, after a five year absence. The tailspin that had started when I was a teenager was evidenced by the shell of a great city that I found that May weekend. I drove through lifeless canyons of abandoned buildings and ignored potential. I felt something I’d never felt in previous trips to Bmore: sorrow. It came from deep within; from the child that once played freeze tag in the back alleys, and the adolescent who laughed and joked with friends while in line at Tyrone’s Chicken. The spirit and vibrancy of the past was just that—past. The paradise of my youth laid quietly on a deathbed of unemployment, poverty, and aimless bureaucracy.

Enter Carlmichael “Stokey” Cannady, a former drug kingpin and child of my Baltimore. After serving time, Stokey set out to change both his direction and that of his home, this once-glittering diamond on the Chesapeake that had him “addicted” at an early age.

From Life + Times:

After spending almost a decade in prison for leading an organized drug ring in his native Baltimore, Carlmichael “Stokey” Cannady has turned over a new leaf through the efforts of his non-profit organization Never Give Up and as an author, filmmaker, and father. Here, Stokey leads Life + Times around Baltimore as we bear witness to some of the city’s revitalization efforts as it looks to move beyond its crime-riddled history.

So maybe my Baltimore isn't dead. Maybe the seed of hope can spark renewal; maybe the warm charm and honest prosperity can return to raise a new generation, one that reclaims their birthright and makes “The Wire” look like a science fiction vision of an unknown world.

The wide-eyed child deep inside my heart, sitting on my grandmother’s porch, can only dream it so.

The Crying Game

Jimmy Dugan: Are you crying? Are you crying? ARE YOU CRYING? There's no crying! THERE'S NO CRYING IN BASEBALL!
Doris Murphy: Why don't you give her a break, Jimmy...
Jimmy Dugan: Oh, you zip it, Doris! Rogers Hornsby was my manager, and he called me a talking pile of pigshit. And that was when my parents drove all the way down from Michigan to see me play the game. And did I cry?
Evelyn Gardner: No, no, no…
Jimmy Dugan: Yeah! NO. And do you know why?
Evelyn Gardner: No...
Jimmy Dugan: Because there's no crying in baseball. THERE'S NO CRYING IN BASEBALL! No crying!

Thank god baseball’s not a real sport. Because in sports, especially those still predominately owned, operated, coached, played, and televised by men, there’s a dirty little secret that our preening machismo normally won’t let see the light of day: We cry.

I should qualify that statement. We cry…sometimes. Sometimes it’s perfectly acceptable. For all of the male gender’s overwrought playground codes, “Respect the player whose love of the game makes him shed a tear” is one of our most guarded. We protect it to the point that, for the sake of appearances, we often appear to violate it, casting aspersions and hardhearted jokes in the direction of any man with a wet cheek. See: “Vermeil, Dick”. But if you think this unwritten law exonerates LeBron James for Sunday’s news that Heat players—right or wrong, most of us have just accepted that at least one of the players in question was Bron-Bron—were crying after their loss to the Bulls, think again.

Timing is everything. Those tears have to be earned, through the stress of years spent shoulder-to-shoulder in battles that have created a sense of brotherhood amongst teammates. What men find questionable about another man crying isn’t necessarily that he cries, but that he’s openly doing it in front of other men. We understand that men, as human beings, cry. It’s a science thing that we know we can’t control, no matter how much we wish we could (Onetrik over at "Us, Bottles, and Friends" wrote a very accurate—and funny—piece on male crying and those occasions when it’s sanctioned). We’d just prefer that it only happen in private moments. Public waterworks displays are better left to mall fountains. But we know that it’s unavoidable…sometimes. If that man has poured every ounce of his heart and soul into the group effort, for the cause of the brotherhood’s survival and glory, then as males in the sports world we absolve his “sin”. We identify with that pain.

For all of the fond anecdotes from my high school football years, including victories over rivals, improbable touchdowns, and last second heroics, the one memory that probably resonates more than any other is of the final few minutes of my “career”. Our team, undersized—and, frankly, often out-manned—had fought our way into the playoffs. In the first round, though, we ran into a team that exposed all of our flaws and capitalized on our mental mistakes, and who quickly turned the game into a rout. As the final minutes ticked off the clock, the coaches removed the starters, and we sat on the sideline as a collective of conquered soldiers. Battered, beaten, and bruised, I sat side-by-side with my fellow seniors, guys I had played alongside since we were freshmen. We watched from the bench, a place that none of us had known existed since our first days as sophomores on the varsity squad. I dropped my head into my hands, unable to bear the weight of the moment. And I cried. But before I could even begin to wonder if I was doing my image a disfavor, our quarterback, only a junior, was kneeling next to me. With his arm slung over my shoulder and his head lowered next to mine, he said, “Thank you for all you’ve given us, man. You played your ass off out there. I love ya, man.”

That’s how it works for guys: When you’ve earned each other’s love and respect, your teammates are your brothers, and every man is his brother’s keeper. LeBron has been a member of the Heat for all of about eight months now. People have been known to bond in less time than that, sure; but it does make me question just how close he is with those teammates not named “Wade” and “Bosh”.

The timing of the tears, though, is even more suspect. LeBron’s never been considered the most expressively passionate player on the court. But now he’s reduced to tears following a regular season loss? Really? Keep in mind that this is the same LeBron James who barely seemed to care as his Cleveland Cavaliers team died slow deaths in Games 5 and 6 of last summer’s Eastern Conference Semifinals. The postseason is typically the one time in sports when a man’s tears are not questioned. Had James fought to the last minute against Boston, fallen to his knees as the buzzer sounded on Cleveland’s season—and on what he more than likely already knew was his final game in a Cavs uniform—and began sobbing at midcourt, very few would have criticized him for it. In fact, I think it’s safe to assume his Cleveland teammates would have embraced him and supported him in that moment of emotional exhaustion.

Of course, less than a month later that very same Cavs brotherhood was publicly humiliated by “The Decision,” as was the team’s entire fanbase. So LeBron playing his heart out for them may never really have been an option.

I wonder how they feel about his sob story?

Fair Play

These days it’s rare (maybe too rare) that either Kev or I (or, heaven-forbid, TJ) do a pure opinion piece on Crooked Straight. Lately we’ve stuck to just sharing videos, stories, and pictures of beautiful women, occasionally adding a thought or two behind why we feel you need to make those things a part of your pop culture consciousness. But as I’m bored and short on funny videos at the moment, I thought I’d take this time to share some levelheaded thought with those out there who need it most: NFL Columnists (fellow bloggers are being lumped into this demographic).

The end of yesterday’s Eagles/Giants game was mesmerizing, to say the least. Michael Vick took control of the game and, for the first time, put his stamp on the Eagles as his team. But soon after DeSean Jackson’s improbable walk-off punt return touchdown brought the New Meadowlands Stadium crowd to its knees, a grumble began emanating from sports columnists and bloggers. It was a whine best exemplified by that of Chris Chase at Shutdown Corner:

But let's say the Giants did walk off without shaking hands. How is that any worse sportsmanship than DeSean Jackson tauntingly holding the ball aloft at the 30-yard line and running parallel to the goal line before scoring?

Several times in the past, I have found many an argument against common sense in Chase’s views on the NFL world. Despite that, I agree with most of what he’s said in this blog about Vick’s riff on the Giants’ sportsmanship. What I disagree with, though, is the vilification of DeSean’s act of trotting parallel to the goal line to run out the clock.

Chase is hardly alone in his unfair castigation of DJax’s clock-killing trot. Even Jason Whitlock, who I more often than not view as the gold standard for truthfulness in sports analysis, tweeted that the act was a taunt. But, as the guy who Whitlock was responding to correctly stated, there is a sad double standard taking place here. Brandon Stokely made a very similar move to erode time from the clock before scoring against Cincinnati last year. Where were the cries from detractors and accusations of taunting from columnists and bloggers after that play?

Now, before anyone mistakenly accuses me of fanning the flames of racism here, let me state that the difference in reaction to these two plays is not in any way based on the fact that Stokely is white and Jackson is black. Skin color has very little, if anything, to do with the unfair criticism of DJax’s actions. No, the reason behind this animosity towards his play is that DJax is, in fact, a taunter.

He always has been. From his days as a star at the University of California, to just last week when he did a trust fall into the end zone following a 91 yard catch-and-run. Jackson even taunts on the very punt return in question. As Chase observes, he holds the ball up in the air in triump as he begins to realize that no one will catch him. But Chase himself correctly asserts, “This sportsmanship thing goes too far sometimes.” And in this case it has gone so far as to allow an incredibly intelligent play be besmirched by onlookers as typical DJax audacity.

You see, Jackson’s not just a bold, taunting, in-your-face talent, he’s also a very young player who, until now, had been prone to acts of stupidity. Moments like the one he had in a game against Dallas in his rookie year, when he dropped the football in celebration before reaching the end zone. But while the bravado of Jackson’s game has only slightly diminished, the mindless actions of a standout rookie have now been replaced by the savvy of a star 3rd year veteran.

This play was a watermark in his career, a heady play that showed his desire to win the day for his team weighed heavier on his mind than any urge to showboat and self-promote. Watch Jackson’s body language as he crosses the 20 yard line. His demeanor visibly goes from celebration to game management. He begins moving away from the sideline, and as he nears the 5 he accelerates past a Giants defender—who could easily have ruined everything had Jackson begun slacking—cutting across the field while scanning the mayhem around him for (1.) a game clock, to try and assure that not a second remained on it, and (2.) other Giants who might seize the opportunity to keep him from crossing into the end zone. And as for Jackson’s postgame claim that he did it for excitement? I’m not buying it. That statement itself is the materialization of Jackson’s showboating nature; the body language coming from the man as he ran laterally across the field spoke more truth than any Willie Beamon-esque self-aggrandizing he wanted to do for the DJax brand. It’s clear in his demeanor that he wasn’t looking to run the goal line in some attempt to attract attention. He doesn’t do jumping jacks or strike a Heisman pose. Instead he keeps his head on a swivel, and keeps the ball and the final seconds away from the Giants.

And even his initial taunt of raising the ball in the air isn’t so arrogant as to warrant condemnation. He didn’t point at any Giants’ player, or at their bench or fans. He simply showed genuine exuberance; and, more than likely, it was probably only a 100th of what he was feeling in that split second Remember, up until that afternoon it wasn’t even certain whether or not Jackson would be playing in the game, as a foot injury had kept him limited in practice for most of the week. Now, at the end of the day, he had helped his team complete one of the most thrilling comebacks in NFL history. I’d say that moment deserved a high step, or a celebratory dive into the end zone. But that clever veteran DeSean realized that over-the-top embellishment wasn’t what would win the game.

Maybe more NFL columnists should realize that, too.

LeBron -- "Rise"?

For all of the criticism LeBron James has incurred this year, at least one ally is still standing in his corner: Nike—and their slick admen.



I give credit where credit is due, and it’s all due to the men and women behind this new commercial. It’s a creative, tongue-in-cheek response to those in the media and general public (yours truly included) who have tagged LeBron as everything from a coward to a delusional kid who’s too quick to play the race card. The literal and figurative wink to Charles Barkley, the Miami Vice parody (complete with a Don Johnson cameo), and even the calculated, reserved tone of an affected and besieged man all play skillfully against the stream of vitriol that has quieted only slightly since July’s “Decision”. The commercial will surely win back the approval of many who, prior to his PR downfall, could already be described politely as "fair-weather fans" (though, being an impolite guy, I think the term "dick riders" is a much more appropriate term). And since these fickle individuals are often the first in line at Foot Locker, the marketing people at Nike are on their game; they'll be selling more shoes and sweatbands in no time.

The problem with the ad, though, is this: In the end, all of its polished bravado serves to only amplify the more legitimate criticisms of James. Is he too quick to follow the advice of friends and an entourage who may not be the most talented PR people in the industry? His retort in the ad of, “They’re my friends” is thin, to say the least. (No, LeBron, you shouldn’t listen to them; being your friend doesn’t equal knowing what’s best for you professionally, or what’s best for your image. I love my mother, but I’m not going to rely on her for stock market advice.) Is he too egotistical? Nothing in this ad suggests any true humility on LeBron’s part; in fact, the defiant overtones instead edge the needle towards arrogance.

He starts the ad by asking if he should “admit that [he’s] made mistakes”. In a word: Yes. The poor choices and course of action at the heart of his public relations tailspin over the summer are what I (and I suspect my fellow dissenters) most want to see him show penance over. Has he made mistakes? Absolutely. Should he be forever crucified for them? Of course he shouldn’t. But what he should be able to do is accept his errors; to learn from them, and make himself a better person in the process. And this is where this marketing-friendly “response” to his critics fails. Instead of being humbled by his missteps and vowing to grow from the experience, he remains unapologetic and naively defensive of his decisions.

Nike’s commentary accompanying the ad reads:

This isn't about what LeBron James has done, or hasn't done. This is about the difference between the expectations others may have of him versus the expectations he has of himself. What should he do? The answer is a question.

Despite this explanation being as subversive and haughty as it gets, I offer the following as the definitive question to their answer:

Shouldn’t LeBron expect better of himself?

In the Heat of the Night

At approximately 9:25 PM EST, the world got its answer: Lebron James is going to Miami. Whew, thank god THAT’s over.

Well, not exactly. As one city celebrates without actually having won anything, another city mourns yet one more moment of ruinous heartbreak in a generation of sports tragedy. But tomorrow, when the GHB-laced mojitos give way to the queasy unnerve of an uncertain future, the fans in Miami may find themselves dealing with a bit of remorse.

Miami is now the “other woman.” It’s the amoral hussy who stole away Cleveland’s one true love. See that wounded, mascara-streaked, wailing woman on the banks of the Cuyahoga River? The man that did that to her, the man she thought she would live the rest of her days beside, who would take her to a glorious future; the man who, after seven years, tore her heart from her chest on live, primetime television without ever giving her the ring she so badly wanted? He’s the man standing beside you, promising you all of those same forevers, all of the same glories.

And sure, you can tell yourself that no two relationships are the same. You can even choose to believe him when he tells you that what you and he have is nothing like what he had with his ex. But somewhere, back in the damp, quiet, haunted corners of your mind, will always be the question you desperately want to know but don’t dare ask: If he did it to her, will he do it to me, too?

At Last

The 2008 presidential election was often stripped down to a spitball battle fought across our nation’s racial divide. Rural whites wouldn’t vote for Barack Obama; urban Blacks (if they did vote) wouldn’t vote for John McCain. Generalizations—both unfair and inaccurate—were cast long before the first votes were, including the assertion that Black voters were only backing Obama because of the shared ethnicity. McCain supporters, Independents, and members of the press at times belittled a vote for Obama as being founded on nothing but the color of his skin.

This was not true in my case, though I know that I certainly cannot speak for all of my fellow African-American voters; it is an inescapable truth that there were those who did, indeed, base their votes solely on the racial makeup of the man. But Barack Obama’s dynamic ability to inspire, pragmatic leadership, and progressive views were what solidified my belief in him. And I am sure that I’m not the only one. My decision was formed by qualifications, not melanin; by character, not a selfish desire to “help a brotha out.” I was guided by issues, and race was not one of them…

…Until it was all over. I sat on my couch last night, soaking in the realization. I’m far from what one might consider an “emotional” person; but suddenly I found myself trembling as it all hit home. All of the difficulties and struggles endured by so many for so many years. My eyes watered. Without being prompted by any crowd or by Sen. Obama himself, I found myself breathlessly mouthing the words that were a fervent war cry for the campaign. “Yes, we can.”

The questionable run-ins with police. The slurs—some “accidental,” some blatant. The awkward stares when amongst a predominantly white crowd. The paranoid feeling that I’m being devalued behind the eyes focused on me. Tears trickled down my cheeks.

“Yes we can.”

My father’s seventy-plus years of working to make a better life for himself and for all those that he loves, from a North Carolina farm to the United States Navy to corporate America. Him telling me, from my earliest days, that I can be anyone I want to be, and do anything that I put heart and soul into doing. Family who’ve lost friends to violence; friends who’ve lost family to violence. I wiped my face futilely, as the tears became a stream of spent stress and pain being released.

“Yes, we can.”

My grandparents, who were born and raised in a South that reverberated with the overt discrimination and danger that is often no more than a haunting apparition in 2008. The resiliency they showed, never letting a hellish societal structure prevent them from raising seven children—many of whom would go on to see successes that they themselves wouldn’t. I thought of the wonder and disbelief that would be overcoming them, had they lived to see this day. I sobbed.

“Yes, we can.”

I have many white friends. So often I get asked for perspective on racial tension, for a side to the story that they can never know for themselves. If I could put them into that moment, sitting on a couch crying uncontrollably at “McCain 145, Obama 283,” feeling like maybe, just maybe, I belong too. I think they would all finally understand. They could then, at last, see it all; feel it all.

Yes, we can.