We Won’t Stop? Notes on Miley Cyrus and her return to the mainstream…

Was I the only one, who reacted to Miley Cyrus’ highly nuanced and informed perspectives on the genre we call Hip Hop, with nothing more than a lethargic eye roll and a non-committal shrug of the shoulders?  For those of you who thought the best response to the non-story, would be to carry on with your own lives; wordsmith Miley had the following to say:

‘… I love that Kendrick [Lamar] song [“Humble”]…because it’s not ‘Come sit on my d**k, suck on my c**k.’ I can’t listen to that anymore,” said she.

Okay, so valley girl, so good…“That’s what pushed me out of the hip-hop scene… It was too much ‘Lamborghini, got my Rolex, got a girl on my c**k’ — I am so not that.”  Nope, still don’t care, in fact let me go hang my ‘drag a culture vulture cape’ right back up.

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Miley’s comments should neither provoke outrage or surprise; Cyrus was merely copying the musical motif of Disney Star’s past.  Mickey Mouse eared popstar with large fan base but corny image needs cool factor and credibility (cue black people).  After attaining said desired level of success, said popstar throws said black people under, said bus.  That’s how America was built right?

Despite the bitter history of the continual cultural and musical exploitation of African Americans, many of my people oddly enough chose to believe that Miley really was ‘ ’bout that life’.  While those of us with brains knew all too well that the only thing Miss Cyrus was ’bout, was that paper, and of course that fame.

We should also take care not to forget those who took it upon themselves to hand Miley an access all areas pass to the ‘Museum of African American Life’ along with the illusive and proverbial ‘black card’. Yes, black people men I’m talking to you.  More specifically Mike Will Made It, Juicy J and Pharrell Williams.  I must also give a dishonourable mention to J Hov himself ‘twerk Miley twerk’ and to Migos who delivered the gift of hope to no ass having white women everywhere in their 2014 classic ‘Hannah Montana’.

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For a former all smiles, no cerebrals child star, Cyrus certainly knows how to play a winning hand.  Luckily for Miley, dignity among black men is pretty thin on the ground.  Those around her were all too happy to contort and twist themselves into a human pedestal on which to raise a white, female popstar, remarkable only in mediocrity.

Our ire might well find a convenient target in ‘The Climb’ singer, but unless it can be proved Mr ‘Ear Drummers’ himself collaborated with Cyrus, as an AK47 was pointed at his head, it is certainly miss placed.

And now, Miley has abandoned the Hip Hop ship (and all who sailed in her) running back into the safe, beneficent and patriarchal arms of white society.  They in turn have welcomed her de-grilled, de-twerked and de-ratchet self home.  Cyrus celebrates her prodigal return with an ode to the blonde and the vacuous, entitled ‘Malibu’.  My people, on the other hand, find themselves commiserating with a performance of the ‘white people done robbed me’ soft shoe shuffle for the 500th year running…

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Young East African Gurl…

I watched the strangest and saddest little YouTube video the other night; entitled ‘I’m African, He’s Jamaican’.  A more apt name for the disconcerting post would have been ‘Random crap on your feed, which you can’t unsee, but wish you could’.  (Although I don’t suppose that has much of a ring to it.)  Having seen close to a billion of this type before; ‘I’m black, He’s Jewish’, ‘I’m Muslim, He’s Hindu’, ‘I’m a Martian, She’s TransDimentional’ (you get the drill), I waited for the anthem of the love-sick and the deluded:   ‘I got mushy with someone across the border.  Let’s throw Racism a leaving party.’ What eventually transpired though, would turn out to be something of a far more dark and troubling nature…

 

Beating King Kanye, in order to be crowned ‘The World’s Most Psychologically Disturbed Black Man’ is a great feat indeed, close contenders Gilbert Arenas and Kodak Black fought an admirable battle, but I believe this year’s victor to be YouTuber Shakeel Romero.  Throwing his audience a curve ball, Romero’s video was not in fact an informal chit chat about the slings and arrows of cross cultural relationships, as his title suggested; but more an impromptu and unsolicited rendition of the Beyonce hit ‘Why don’t you love me’ (sort of). Viewers quickly learned that the beautiful Somalian woman sitting beside Mr Romero, had so far resisted the ‘charms’ and clutches of the Muslim convert, much to his chagrin.

 

Any avid connoisseur of YouTube dross knows that you try your absolute damnedest not to make snap judgments in the opening moments of an upload; and Reader I tried, I really did.  But, the mere act of witnessing  Romero’s laboured interactions with Somali Muslim, Somaha, (don’t know if I spelled that right) was something akin to the sound of frayed fingernails dragged across a school room blackboard. Somaha, having spotted a band of rogue hairs deciding  to make a break for it, noted the ‘frizzy’ appearance of her tresses on screen.  Dim witted Shakeel’s antidote was one of enlightenment. On the off chance that Somaha had been absent from any small part of her existence, or never met her own parents, Romero reminded her that she was after all ‘East African’.  And thus the riddle of the frizzy hair was solved.   Embarrassingly for the YouTuber he had mistaken the word ‘frizzy’ as a synonym for the word ‘curly’ (It’s hard for some people).   Romero unwittingly revealed himself to be hair brained, but like literally hair brained. His confusion was an example of the Freudian Slip if ever there was one.   Somaha to him was not a woman, but a headful of loose curls upon which to hang his distorted and disturbed projections of beauty.

 

Readers will be happy to know that there was to be more horrifying hairbrainery; Shakky in all his wisdom thought it necessary to let the lovely Somaha know that Somalian women were of the kind, that men wanted to date because (and I quote) ‘ you have long beautiful hair, your skin is dark, but it’s still smooth’.  Yes, I nearly dropped dead on the floor too.  You’ll be alarmed to know that this is not the worst of it; Romero’s desire to visit the country (though it is a region to those of us who possess brain cells) named ‘East Africa’, was tempered by his fear that his hair, being of a courser texture, would make him stand out in the newly formed Republic.  So much so that  in his own words he tried to get ‘waves going’.  Feel free to breath when ready.  The crescendo of the monomaniac’s hair raising performance saw Romero dreaming of a future starring himself, Somaha and some ‘crinkly haired kids.’ A plate of hand rolled dysfunction to table seven please.

 

 

I wish I could say that dear old Shakeey improved on further watching,  but like a prospective boyfriend who shows up late on a first date; he didn’t. In fact he began to err on the side of desperate, and dare I say it; creepy.  With the uncomfortable spectacle taking on all the appearance of a silent and prolonged tango. Somaha attempted to explain the fundamentals of Somali parental expectations.  Romero wanted to know why their expectations couldn’t be reconfigured to encompass a Jamaican shaped son-in-law. Somaha attempted to explain the intricate nature of Somali familial ties.  Romero like a child of six, asked why said ties could not be loosened.  Somaha explained that for Somalis being Muslim alone was not necessarily the only qualification needed to get the green light for a marriage to a beloved daughter.  To which Romero replied ‘why won’t you accept us Revert Muslims?’.

 

And there it was!  The apex of this excruciating dance.  Romero could not bring himself to ask Somaha to reverse the curse of his West African heritage.  Nor did he have the courage to admit his need for the love and validation of women opposite to his own image.  He, like so many black men, desired a Beauty; in order to erase the stain of the Beast.  I feel for my sisters descended from Africa’s Horn, admired and despised in equal measure for their perceived proximity to the European aesthetic.  No woman wants to be fetishised and worse reduced to nothing more than a hair type.  The ‘hair type’ that opens old wounds and rifts within African communities.

 

Of course Romero ended on a finale of deprecation, referring to long suffering Somaha as ‘Little East African girl’.  Let us all hope that when he finally does take a trip to the small non-existent country of ‘East Africa’, a good pilot might be kindly employed to lose his way.  If not; ladies you have been warned…

Eww My God Becky!

What in the name of Doctor Miami is going on with Kim Ks posterior?  Unretouched photos of the shape-shifting star surfaced last week, in which Kimmy emerged from the Mexican sea, looking remarkably like an unidentified creature; thrown up from the bowls of the ocean.  That was rather unkind of me, I’m sure if you squint Kim could pass for a nappy wearing, alternate life form, who took a wrong exit on to planet Earth.

You’ve most likely surmised that I will not be attempting to rouse furious and wrathful feminists everywhere into the sacred act of shielding the Good Sisters Kardashian; and my friend, you would be right! Kimberly will have to look elsewhere for a shoulder on which to pour her tan streaked tears.

Coverage surrounding the exposition of Kim’s lumpy and malformed bottom has been schizophrenic at best and patronizing at its absolute worst. The ‘We should all be feminists, or womanists or whatever’ camp in their bid to prop up the plastic surgery addict, sang to the tune of faux and fowl cries of ‘body shaming’.  While the disingenuous, pot-stirring hacks seemed hopelessly concerned with asking us civilians to wrap our pea-sized brains around the riddle of Kardashian’s rapidly south heading rump.

I don’t mean to saddle us mortals with the brutal and honest truth, but let’s face it kids, anyone with two eyes and a couple of brain cells knocking about could draw their own accurate conclusions, given this horror- story picture show.  Pockets of the mainstream (and I mean you Susanna Reid) seem hell bent on railroading us into the belief that our outrage over Kim’s dimpled and puckered rear stems from a societal dislike of female imperfection.  Got that children?  The problem here is us.   As a people we just haven’t evolved sufficiently enough to embrace voluntary female bodily mutilation cellulite. Thanks Susanna.

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What we were all in fact gawping at was obvi Kardashian West’s foray into the world of freak show attraction.  She is now nothing short of being a human cut-and-shut job, having copied and pasted, African inspired curves onto her own tiny Armenian frame.  What the star didn’t account for, was the incompatibility of the two distinct formats.  (There is a donk to thigh ratio, you know?)

Kimmy has learned the short and hard way, that inflating your behind more times than a balloon artist at a child’s party, does apparently have its draw backs.  With even the Michelin man raising an eyebrow at Kim’s blow-up backside.  Perhaps matching your ass to your man, isn’t the same as matching your purse to you dress, Kimberley.  Just a thought.

It’s rather fitting that K Dash has now become a curiosity for disgusted and excitable consumption. The age old adage of ‘being careful for what you wish for’ has come back around to sinks its sharp teeth into her pneumatic not so juicy doubles. Kardashian’s desperation to acquire the physical trappings of black womanhood, has landed her a king sized helping of unwanted extras.  For Blackness, unlike her famed salads, does not come with a choice of sides.  If it did, I’m sure that Kim would have plumped for something a little more palatable than, the bitter tasting; jest and ridicule.