ROCK WITH JANET

© Harold Jacobs

After seeing Janet Jackson perform at the Staple Center, I decided to call her hot line to leave a message saying how much I enjoyed the show. In the message I made the comment that I couldn’t believe how anyone could pull off doing such an elaborate show like that, night after night when in fact I was tired from just watching it! Weeks later, Janet cancelled a number of shows due to illness. Subsequentially, this illness became the fodder of many gossip rags and media outlets proclaiming, once again, that she is pregnant. There are even reports that insinuate that Janet is faking her illness in an effort to avoid shows that have “poor ticket sales” when the truth of the matter is that not only has Billboard and Live Nation reported that nearly every show Janet has performed over the past month has nearly sold out (both Los Angles and Vegas were sold out shows) but she has also gotten rave reviews from both the fans and critics alike. No one outside of Janet herself and her medical team can decry with any level of certainty about her health status and frankly, I just don’t think it’s anybody’s business. Janet has been known to be very passionate, very professional and a workaholic who cares very deeply for her fans. I don’t think she would cancel her shows for any frivolous reasons.

I definitely think there is a mutual respect that Janet shares with her fans. She has been there for us in song and dance for over two decades and as evidenced by the sold out show I attended, we most definitely will always be there for her. From when the lights first went out and L.L. Cool J hit the stage to the very end of Janet’s show, we all were on our feet, enjoying the music and loving every second.

There are many other female performers on the scene nowadays but I have yet to see any other female artist bring it the way Janet does. The woman still has “it” and she did not miss a beat! The Rock Witchu Tour is definitely Janet Jackson at her best. She started the show with “The Pleasure Principle” and from there she, her dancers, and her band kept hitting us hyped up with hit after classic hit. The highlight of the show for me was seeing Janet perform her old songs from Control, Rhythm Nation, and The Velvet Rope. I nearly died when I saw that she added the chair routine back to “I Miss You Much”… that was definitely one of the many high lights of the show for me.

I was also very much astounded by the show’s artistic directions. While the music was most definitely nostalgic, bringing up memories from when I was 14 and saw her perform for the first time with her Rhythm Nation Tour in 1990, the stage and costumes were lavishly designed with more futuristic textures and visuals, giving the whole show a gratifyingly unique experience. There were also large video screens that also projected beautiful visuals that went along with the performance as well as virtual appearances by recording artists such as Q-Tip, Dave Navarro, Nelly, and Jermaine Dupri. While the pyrotechnics were a bit frightening sometimes, I do have to say that it added quite a bit of excitement to the show‘s opening and songs like Black Cat, Rhythm Nation.

When the show ended, I was on cloud nine. On my way out I actually ran into her older brothers Jackie and Tito of Jackson Five fame. I actually had an opportunity to speak with them. Not only are they legends who contributed greatly to the success of both Janet and Michael, but they also are both very kind and down to earth guys. Tito even complimented me on the tee-shirt that I was wearing with Janet’s face airbrushed on the front.

Coincidentally, there was also a little blonde woman with a ton of security being escorted throughout the crowd. It was until much later when I discovered that it was indeed Britney Spears. From the performance Janet just gave I imagined she was front and center taking notes.

As Janet continues on from her illness and fulfill her other concert dates, I and countless other fans wish her nothing but the best and we thank her for giving us the opportunity to rock with her all these years.

BEARS WITH BROKEN HEARTS

© Lowe Thomas

The effects of failed relationships in the Big Boy community. As a promoter of Big Boy parties, it has come to my attention that some of us within the Big Boy community are somewhat scared to make that first approach, albeit in a club or any other social function. The communication that I have received is that there is a strong fear of rejection and shame. So I was pondering how would a Big Boy change the perception in this situation? So here's my suggestion: Walk out on faith and allow yourself the confidence to step up to the plate and make that approach in a club or any other social setting. 

And remember REJECTION often times is not about you, its the loss of the guy you were confident enough to approach. Always after making that approach pat yourself on the back as a job well done! And if he does not have the fortitude to know BIG BOYS is where its at, than move on to the next guy who peaks your interest, and try again. It's like fishing your the bait and your confidence is the hook. Just an opinion of a guy who has found luck in making the first approach, with undying confidence.

SOMETHING RAINBOW, SOMETHING UNIQUE

© Dale Guy Madison a.k.a. A Damn Good Man

Saw an old friend on the street
She said today’s your wedding
My heart stopped
The tears dropped
Saw my whole life pass me by

I never ran so fast before
I rushed inside the chapel door
You turned around and heard me call

Congratulations
"You know the California Supreme Court just ruled in our favor, declaring that each of us has the freedom to marry the person we love.
So now it can be me
Cause she’s not the person you love
And there he was, walking down the aisle
& as he passed me by, he turned & he stared
The preacher joined their hands
& all the people began to stand
When I shouted:

"You know the California Supreme Court just ruled in our favor, declaring that each of us has the freedom to marry the person we love.

I don’t have to scream in my pillow at night:
“It should have been me
Instead of her walking with you
Getting ready to marry you”

Then the preacher asked, "Will there be silence, please?
If any objections to this wedding
Speak now or forever, forever hold your peace"
Then I shouted, CAN”T YOU MOTHER FUCKERS HEAR ME?
The California Supreme Court just ruled in our favor, declaring that each of us has the freedom to marry the person we love.

We know those haters gonna try to fight
We can’t let injustice stop our right
So man/ man gal/gal tran/tran
We all can stand

So down the aisle I'll walk with you
Just to hear the words I do
All of our life we will be
Man & Man till eternity

Something fabulous, something chic
Something rainbow, something unique
I am yours to cherish and behold
With this little band of gold

So I do
Take you for the rest of my life
Through HIV tests and Starbucks addictions
Through good times and through bad
For richer or for poor
To cherish and to love
We kissed and then we became man and man

Baby
Years from now we'll never regret
Oh, how could we forget
All the prides we marched
All the petitions we signed
All the vows we made
Until death do we part

THE REDEFINITION OF WE

© Breeze Vincinz

In the story of my life, one of the most absolutely horrendous chapters would most definitely have to be my experiences with working at the House of Blues on the Sunset Strip. In retrospect I can see now that "disappointment" was a huge part of my ill feelings towards that experience. To me, the House of Blues was synonymous with everything young, hip, fresh and liberal. It was for me a den of profound hippies making an honest buck on their search for a higher truth and I was ever so honored to be elected to be a part of that trek.

However, it did not take long for me to see the little impotent men pulling the strings behind the great Wizard of Oz's paper mâché head. This was not left of center, alternative types staking a claim in mainstream society for the pursuit of individualism and culture, this was corporate America whoring out their own sanitized version of the cutting edge at prices just inflated enough to keep it out of reach of the working class it was exploiting and palatable enough for the upper class it was catering to.

Despite the exaggerated slogans, catchphrases and artwork that saturate the place, there was really no true regard for culture, ethnicity or multiculturalism. This was never as evident as in its (in)famous Foundation Room; a VIP room where the crème of the crème come to drink, mingle and hobnob. The Foundation Room has two private exclusive dining rooms; a Buddha Room and a Ganesh Room, the centerpiece of each room being a splendorous statue of Guatama Buddha and Ganesh in each room respectively. And throughout the House of Blues itself are various statues and depictions of Mexican gods, Hindu gods and Mayan gods; all under the auspice of an environment that is multicultural and forward thinking.

However, one glorious day, the Retail Store stocked little figurines that displayed Jesus Christ on a crucifix with an exaggerated afro. Offended customers complained so much that the Retail Store decided to not stock them; though patrons still bought coffee cups with Ganesh rocking out with a guitar, t-shirts with Shiva holding various cosmetics in each hand, piled themselves into the Ganesh and Buddha rooms, made out, drank alcohol and smoked weed in front of statues that represent God for millions of people… including some of the cleaning staff who used to leave tidings of dried flowers at the feet of the statues every morning after cleaning up the mess left behind the night before.

It really got me thinking about the true meaning of multiculturalism and can it be respected and understood in an environment that is monolithic or exist in an environment that is ruled by a monolithic state. A friend of mine had this same query back when Hilary Clinton was in the running to be the Democratic Nominee for the President of the United States. The media automatically reported that because she is a woman that she would automatically get the female vote. My friend was angered by this assumption as well as the assumption that the Feminist movement was to uplift womankind as a whole when in her mind, neither Hilary Clinton nor the Feminist movement even remotely addressed the specific needs of African American women. Because the majority of the women in America are Caucasian, the media always seems to trump their opinions over their African American counterparts.

The same way I feel the beliefs of the Christian patrons of the House of Blues trumped the belief systems of the multitude of other religions that are on display there. People smoke blunts and make out with random sketchy concert goers all the time up there right in front of Ganesh. The same way Matthew McConaughey asked a juror of all white men in the film A Time To Kill to imagine the crimes perpetrated on a little black being perpetrated on a little white girl in an effort for them to sympathize with the pain, I ask the House of Blues and Christianity as a whole, imagine people smoking blunts, drinking and making out with random sketchy concert goers in front of a statue of Jesus Christ on a crucifix in the "Jesus" room or Mary Magdalene in the "Magdalene" room.

I ask Caucasian women, would they feel comfortable with the idea of all media outlets claiming dark women with afros and hips to be the epitome of the classic American beauty? Would they begin to curl their hair in thick locks, wear dark brown contacts and eat carbohydrates the same our sisters dye (die) their hair blonde and wear blue contacts?

I experienced a multitude of other incongruities within the House of Blues in terms of mishandling issues dealing with age, gender, sexual orientation and sometimes even class. I think that they were trying to handle situations the best way that they could, however this meant that the solutions consistently came from a young, Caucasian, heterosexual, male paradigm. There was always this explanation that was some paraphrasing of the phrases, "This is what WE feel" or "This is what WE feel should happen" or "WE can't have you feeling that way about us Breeze." Really. Well… define WE. "We" couldn't be the Buddhist community who object to fucking in front of Buddha. "We" couldn't be the homosexuals who heavily patronize your establishment but yet you have never had a Gay Sunday Gospel Brunch despite the fact your establishment is in West Hollywood. "We" couldn't be the multitude of immigrants disproportionately employed there in minimum wage positions while their Caucasian counterparts are managers and supervisors. And "We" most definitely could not be the Black people whose music the place is named after despite the fact you could count on one hand the number times that music has been featured in your venue.

The upcoming election between Obama and McCain has reentered these questions into my world view. The platform for McCain is "America First." Really. Well… define America. Who's America do you plan to put first? The homosexuals with a desire for the basic civil right of marriage? The inner city whose education system is horribly flawed? The African Americans disproportionately underemployed? The immigrants in need of realistic immigration laws? The women who want to make their own decisions in regards to their own bodies? Because they're all Americans too.

I see a McCain run America as one big House of Blues; a state where "We're First"… and so many of us are not the "We" he has in mind. A state where our culture, our customs, our ethnicity are not respected, cultivated or appreciated but more or less… commoditized and used to filter money to the upper class. We'll never be on the main stage, but we'll clean the toilets, and sweep the floors and sell the tickets. Our sexuality will be acknowledged if it affects the greater fiscal picture. Our Gods will be nothing more than amusing fixtures in the background.

"We" would still be maligned.

I actually thought it was somewhat unwise for Oprah Winfrey for the first time in her career to make such a biased political opinion and fully support Barrack Obama. Once you make such a glaring endorsement for any political party you automatically alienate half of your supporters which could prove to be detrimental if your supporters are directly connected to your income. But I can now understand the decision. For one, for Oprah, to lose half of her audience would mean she would still have another billion or so left. But most importantly, this change has to happen. The idea of a McCain run America sends a chill up my spine. Just thinking about it makes me think of that little girl near the end of "Poltergeist" when the ghosts came back and she said wearily, "Oh no, not again!"

"We" are not the monolithic brood that saturated the Republican National Convention, "We" do not all worship the same God(s), "We" do not all have straight, blonde hair, "We" are not all heterosexual, "We" are not all young, "We" are not all men, "We" are not all American-born but… "We" all are Americans, and "We" all need to vote… before "We" all wind up living in a House of Blues.

THE SECOND COMING OUT

© Breeze Vincinz

 

I was a preteen when I first heard of AIDS. By this time I had already accumulated enough “evidence” to support the theory that “faggots” were the absolute scum of the earth whom were far removed from my plebian project surroundings and I could never be one. I remember when AIDS first hit my world view; it was a moral dilemma more so than a medical one. The news wasn’t that people were mysteriously dying but that gay men were mysteriously dying and the mystery that surrounded their death in my neighborhood was automatically tethered to those guys’ sexual proclivities.

Over twenty years has passed since Gaëtan Dugas was controversially found to be Patient Zero, the initial patient who was vilified as a “mass spreader” of HIV and the original source of the HIV epidemic among gay men. But even after all of the medical information that has been gathered, investigated and tested to explain HIV, and there are now tangible medical treatment options available, its umbilical cord is still very much attached to this womb of judgment, fear and derision.

Stepping back and looking at the whole picture, it is quite disarming to realize the universal disdain the world at large still has for the HIV+. Growing up I remember the newscasts of men who were critically injured in car crashes and the emergency medical units refusing to even touch them out of fear of contracting the disease and immediately dissolving into dust on contact. I remember the kids joking about which one of us had AIDS as if it were cooties or lice. I remember when Ryan White was shunned by his friends and expelled from school once it was discovered he had acquired the disease through a blood transfusion.

But this was the 80’s, Regan was in office, I had a carefree curl, The Color Purple lost all eleven nominations at the Oscars, LaToya Jackson released six albums… it was just a fucked up time for everybody. Though we could have predicted the pandemic that it has become, no one truly believed that it would actually get this far; and we most certainly didn’t have the spiritual accoutrements to deal with watching dozens of our closest friends, family and associates wither and die right before our eyes. Not in the 80’s, not when there was so much money to be made, legal or otherwise, and so many luxuries that could be bought. It was much easier to contain the disease within a group of people who have been so universally maligned anyway.

Well, it’s 2008; America has a real possibility of having our first Black president, Whoopi Goldberg went on to win two Oscars, Oprah Winfrey is one of the most powerful people in the world and I got cornrows now… things are looking up. Though not perfectly, Latoya released four more albums and people still look at HIV/AIDS as a moral judgment, a spiritual condemnation… a gay disease.

I recently watched “Coming Out Stories” on the Logo Network. Each show focuses on a “closet homosexual” and his/her journey to tell their closest family members that they are indeed gay. The premise of it to me always seemed really mundane to me, mainly because my own coming out story was about ten seconds.”

“Mama, you totally know I’m gay right.”

“Uh huh.”

“You got any questions?”

“Yeah, when are you going to clean your fucking room?”

But there were parts of certain episodes that I found truly endearing. However, I think in 2008, there is a second coming out that happens; when you tell your friends and family that you are HIV+. It’s a tremendous task, I would think even more so than telling people that you’re gay. As socially elevated and intellectual that we as a society would like to think that we are, we still hold on to that judgment of people who are HIV+. We still believe that they are less than, or less worthy or as a friend once told me, “damaged.”

Not too long ago I had a candid discussion with a group of friends about our collective sexual practices. One of my friends said that he doesn’t use a condom with one night stands all the time because he can usually tell if the person is HIV+ or not. I asked him to explain. He basically told me that people who are HIV+ look drawn in and emaciated, don’t really smile and you can kind of smell of them.

There’s a tone that exists between a primal scream and an atomic bomb exploding… that’s the sound you’re hearing right now… it came from me weeks ago when I screamed at the top of my lungs at him.

And the sad fact of the matter is that he’s not alone in that assumption. Despite the fact an estimated 33.2 million people are living with AIDS, surprisingly enough, there is a quantifiable number of people whose inner circle has not (yet) been effected by the disease and who get their notions about carriers of the disease from some bullshit “The Birth of a Nation”-esuqe film or television show where the only Black people are the main character’s best friend and anyone who happens to be physically ill is a balding drag queen with a lisp.

Those misjudgments are still out there, strong and proud. I remember when the brief rumor got out that Madonna had contracted AIDS, she went on the warpath defending herself saying in effect, “If I had AIDS, I would be more terrified at the judgments people would have against me than the disease itself.” It’s totally understandable. God forbid but if Lil’ Kim or Jenna Jameson by chance would contract breast cancer, I imagine this country would rally around their efforts for recovery despite their highly sexual histories. But if Lil’ Kim or Jenna Jameson by chance would contract HIV, I imagine this country would denigrate them as morality tales about the evils of sexual promiscuity to spite their highly sexual histories… as if they deserved the disease. No one deserves HIV more so than anybody deserves cancer, or lupus or sickle cell anemia (or Latoya Jackson’s eleventh album whose release date has been thankfully pushed back again).

Recently a friend of mine disclosed to me that he just received the news that he was HIV+. I do have to say that in my own personal inner circle no one has had their second “coming out” in quite some time. Emotion-wise, there is some overlap between the two events; there is a cathartic metamorphosis that takes place where everything you were before the conversation has a different glimmer to it after the conversation, your true family and friends stick by you and support you, and despite their support, you know in your heart of hearts that they are going to miss the person you were before you had the conversation because honestly… you do too.

I don’t think a cake or a party would be appropriate though with the second coming out. I don’t think it should be this dire funeral-like atmosphere but I also don’t think a Hallmark “Just-For-Laughs” card is appropriate either. With my friend’s second coming out, unfortunately, I broke down. It’s something I don’t suggest you do if someone confides their status to you but this cut threw me like a knife. It was around the anniversary of my husband’s death and also around the time where I had some post-coital worries from a recent tryst where I was just lucky enough to find a condom that exists in the 1% failure rate in the middle of intercourse… so… I was a little on edge and it was on my mind. But I eventually pulled it together and tried my best to be a rock for my friend.

Honestly speaking there was a time where a part of me believed that I was ahead of the game because I am HIV- but the truth of the matter is… it’s really fucking irrelevant in the big scheme of things. When I think about my husband, his diagnosis, his life and his death… I don’t feel… privileged. I feel sad, and angry and really pissed… because he’s not here… and my own existence is only a small consolation to help ease that pain. Sometimes, usually I after stop crying, I don’t see that line that separates the HIV+ from the HIV-… it’s all the same; we’re all in this together, and if some of us are in pain then all of us are in pain. I realized while holding my friend when they disclosed their status to me and the both of us were blubbering like two kids being sent to an orphanage that neither one of us was going to leave this moment unscathed; this… was going to hurt.

But we picked ourselves up, dusted ourselves off and did what two true friends always do when one comes out (about anything) to the other… we had dinner and drinks and tried to figure out how this new information was it going to affect their love life, sex life and hairdo.

When my husband passed away I remember my mom steadfastly insisted I get counseling afterwards which I never did. In fact it was suggested that I join some HIV- support group beforehand and I never agreed to that either. However, for some reason nowadays I don’t think it would be such a bad idea to run some of my thoughts past a professional. I would be interested to know what they felt about my thoughts of people “coming out for a second time.” I still don’t think Hallmark should make a card for the occasion but I was thinking of a card that said on the front, “I heard about your diagnosis…” and in the inside it said “… dude, it totally fucking sucks. Let’ go get drunk.” Not the most uplifting of sentiments but I think it’s quite inspirational and honest.

And yeah… I’m getting professional help.

PASSION FOR FASHION

(c) Breeze Vincinz

When I was younger I concocted a future for myself where I would wear some sort of all purpose uniform in my daily life that would deflect the possibility of scorn or comment from an otherwise overly fashion-obsessed public. I imagined myself to be this ghetto version of Jem and the Holograms whereas at any given moment I could touch my nipple ring and a hologram would appear over my body resembling whatever high end fashion garment just happened to be en vogue at that particular time. I never really wanted to own clothing that was particularly luxurious or trendy but I have always, even as a kid, had this insatiable need to get people to… shut the fuck up about what I happened to be wearing at the time. Holograms always seemed to be the best strategy; throw some light beams at people, have them think I have on Bugle Boy or Karl Kani, move past that immaculately-plastic-first-impression bullshit and get straight to an actual conversation while I remain the true person that I am underneath.

I have always just hated the scrutiny people go through in terms of their appearance and fashion. It probably started, or in the very least was consummated when my father uttered in my youth one of his most (in)famous dissertations, “You know son, judging by the way you dress, I can only see you [in a relationships] with white folks or weirdoes.”

And so began years upon years of therapy.

I don’t know how it happened, I even mused about it with my mom, but somehow I grew up to be this sort of anti-capitalistic anarchist of sorts. Like most African Americans I had pretty humble beginnings (as if the middle right now is any better). I grew up in the Ida B.Wells Projects in Chicago and though we were never particularly destitute… we were pretty broke most of the time. I never remember going without, but I did always have this feeling of “the rest of the world ain’t like this.” Even still, somehow the whole capitalism isotope that usually infects preteens like public hair and menstrual cycles just never happened with me. While my comrades looked at television shows like Dynasty and Dallas and maybe saw the drug dealers on the block with flashy clothes and cars and slowly began to convolute their dreams and agendas to include such extravagancies, it just never clicked with me. I was never jealous of the bourgeoisie and I never really found it to be a more amiable way of life; which in all honesty is a pretty odd way to think of things. The majority of people who have nothing… usually want everything. It was no surprise to me when Eazy-E and 50 Cent came out to be Republicans, or in the very least, Republican sympathizers. One of the major tenets of the Republican Party has always been “fiscal first” whereas everything in this country should be built around protecting the sanctity of money and all of the accoutrements that it affords… or… “Get Rich or Die Tryin’”.

And the truth of the matter is that a lot of the people that I grew up with have that mentality and I can’t necessarily stand in judgment of it but I have often wondered why was I never enticed by that weird looking eye in the pyramid on the back of a dollar bill the way so many other people have been… I don’t understand how the projects could have bore a hippie!

And somewhere along the lines, my idea of fashion became steadfastly serious. I never thought of it as an expression of personality or an art form where color and silhouette could be appreciated. I guess I have always thought of it as a reflection of its owner’s perceived status in society; particularly when it comes to the African American community whereas so many of us are going without yet have this intense need to look the lie of aristocracy. I absolutely don’t see a single thing wrong with someone who makes under $30,000 a year shopping at Payless Shoe Source or the Salvation Army or just wearing affordable clothes and when I see someone not only sporting a pair of $200 True Religion Designer Jeans but also has this need to inform everyone that they are indeed sporting $200 True Religion Designer Jeans, I can’t help but roll my eyes and think, “Jesus… we’ve lost another one.” And my world gets just a little smaller.

But alas, I will concede to the idea that one of my closest friends summated that I “think way too much about this stuff.” I understand that there is a good chance that the majority of people don’t do the mental gymnastics that I do when looking at someone’s clothing but I still don’t think I’m too off the mark here. Just the other day a colleague told me that when he first meets a guy the things he pays most attention to are his shoes, his watch and his car. And as much as I would like to thing of this colleague as a typical shallow, image-obsessed Hollywood starfucker, the truth of the matter is… I do the same thing; my judgment is just on the opposite end. While he might find someone wearing a smart pair of Stacy Adams and a Rolex who drives an Aston Martin the most prodigious man to have a romantic relationship with, I am similarly looking at the same man with such extravagant trappings and think that he has never been south of Wilshire Boulevard in his life and outside of us both being carbon based life forms we have nothing in common. And the truth of the matter is… my colleague and I would both be in the wrong for judging this guy solely based on his physical appearance and acquired paraphernalia.

For me, I have always seen fashion as something that gets in the way of getting to the marrow of a person’s character, spirit and moral fiber and because of that I have always rejected it. But as I was listening to my colleague describe the shoes, watch and car that a potential paramour must have, I began to make the most startling discovery that… rejecting fashion is a fashion within itself.

I remember writing a letter to my father after he made that curious little statement about my lot in life based on my clothing that said something to the fact of, “Do you think that I purposely dress bad? Who in their right mind would wear clothes to intentionally make themselves look unattractive?” This is usually what goes through my mind when someone makes some off color comments about my baggy jeans or my wrinkled shirt or my dirty gym shoes. I’m not trying to be unattractive; I just want it to be easier for people to get to what I’m about. It’s not a reflection of my mentality, or my income or even my hygiene… I just want to make it steadfastly clear that… I’m not trying to impress you… and what you have on your wrist, feet and garage will never impress me… so let’s just cut to the bullshit and really get to know each other. A friend of mine once asked what I imagine people think of me when I walk into a nightclub or a bar with my beard unruly and untamed. I replied, “Well, anybody that doesn’t want to talk to me because of a couple of stray hairs in my beard shouldn’t really be fucking with me anyway.”

So for me, there’s an effort being put forth where my outside does in certain ways reflect my own personal struggles, feelings and concepts and that effort in and of itself… makes it my fashion. And as I get older I am “loosening up” a bit, which in my case would mean dressing up just a little bit more. I’m wearing a lot more shirts with collars and I totally stopped ripping the arms off of my t-shirts and that has to count for something.

I imagine that one glorious day I’ll probably have an abundance of money to afford an extensive wardrobe but it would probably still consist of a ton of t-shirts, a ton of blue jeans and a couple of gym shoes. If they still haven’t perfected hologram technology at this point I’ll probably have a handful of really expensive and luxurious outfits on hand to wear at dinner parties or award shows… just so I can get people to shut the fuck up about what I’m wearing.

Though… I don’t really think I will ever stop listening to Tori Amos or Björk or having starfuckers for friends so… maybe my father was right after all.

BEAUTIFUL MAN LIST

(c) Breeze Vincinz

For those of you not in the know, every year around this time in celebration of all the black gay prides going on around the country, I post my top ten most beautiful man list. It was made to counteract the mostly Aryan flavor of equivalent lists posted by People or US magazine. Don’t get me wrong, cute is cute and there some white boys out there who most definitely turn my head… but let’s give a little love to brothers right about now...

10. Marcus Patrick
I first caught a glimpse of this dude on his MySpace page and I originally thought he was a computer generated avatar. Low and behold, those abs, that chest, that face… it’s actually real! And all of that more was on sale for $5.95 in the November 2007 issue of Playgirl!

9. David Blaine
Ok… he’s a little weird, a little obnoxious and could definitely use a good night’s sleep. But as far as melancholy goes, it couldn’t come in a more handsome package. Besides… I like a challenge…

8. Alex Castro
Before he was Militia on American Gladiators he was Alex Castro, the Florida based model and exotic dancer who fit perfectly into Cirque Due Soleil’s Zumanity… and to answers of why I kept running out of lotion after I saw him in Las Vegas. 

7. Lamonty Council
You might better know him as Pootie from season one of VH1’s I Love New York. There is no denying that this dude is crazy as a bed bug and more ghetto than a straw in a bottle of beer… but come on… that’s one cute motherfucker. And I’m pretty he’s remotely stable now that he’s on lithium.

6. David J. Malebranche, M.D., M.P.H.
This dude intimidates me. He’s smart, he’s a doctor, he’s got the face of a God and he’s a little on the short side which I always appreciate. I think he is the perfect catch and what everybody’s mom hopes you bring home to dinner. He’s a little too perfect. If I found out that he can tell a decent dirty joke… I’m going to hunt this dude down and marry him.

5. Timbaland
I think it is really funny how this guy has bulked up and gotten in shape only to unintentionally become one of the most sought after gay icons since Jeff Stryker. You would be pretty hard pressed to find a woman who would choose Timbaland over the litany of other overly buff and toned rappers out there but you can best believe that a nation of Black gay men would be quite satisfied to have him naked and oily under their Christmas tree… present company included.

4. ?uestlove
Last year’s number one and my doppelganger when I blow out my hair into an afro and stop shaving. Still have much love for this dude… but we got to give the other folks a chance like...

3. Kamal Gray
…?uestlove’s badmate in the Roots. He’s the quiet light skinned brother that plays the keyboards. I know absolutely nothing about this dude outside of the fact that he only wants women to be his friend on one of his MySpace pages… which I think is kind of funny! It’s always the cute on dude… it’s always the cute ones...

2. Tim Liggins
Another Black Gay Icon, though not so unintentionally. This dude has an ass that would put both Jennifer Lopez and Beyonce to shame, and he seems well aware of that fact as lounges around in painted on jeans and skimpy jock straps on YouTube.

1. Terrell Tilford
One of the main actors in the DL Chronicles. I saw this dude at the premier and he’s even more attractive close up. He is so cool and so fine and so masculine… he’s what every Black man should aspire to be, gay or straight.

FRIENDSHIPS

(c) Breeze Vincinz

Awhile back I wrote about a New Years’ resolution that I had devised for myself where I would restructure my inner circle of friends. Truth be told, it’s actually been one of the very few New Years’ resolutions in my life that I have ever fully completed. I tend to think that I am happier and better off for it. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that I don’t have residual bitterness and resentment over the restructuring. And while talking to my sister recently I began to honestly fear for my own future as I tried to truthfully imagine my life proceeding down the road that it’s going on in regards to friendships.

Not to say that I don’t love my friends because I honestly do. But there is a certain amount of censorship that is involved when talking to just about everybody in my inner circle. It’s a censorship that has literally taken years to perfect and allocate. There was a time in my life where I was an open book for whoever had an ear, and I believed that the people in my inner circle would respond, react and reply in accordance to that of a trusted ally. I think I got this idea via pop culture. Laverne & Shirley, Bert & Ernie, Mary & Rhoda, Bart & Milhouse, these were bonds that were unshakable in my mind. I laid my inconsistencies, incongruities and indiscretions out to my friends thinking, Larry would never consistently humiliate Balki if he told him he frequented bathhouses, Richie wouldn’t abandon Potsie if he started dating his ex-boyfriend again, Rachel would make an effort to go to a Tori Amos concert if Monica really wanted her to go with her. But in real life, it doesn’t work out like that.

I recently saw one piece of pop culture that has shoved the concept of Teflon strength relationships down the throats of American viewers like a teenage boy with Viagra and a blow-up doll… Sex and the City: The Movie. No matter what those gals go through, their commitment to each other remained unshakable. When one of the main characters breaks up with her fiancé, they all hate the fiancé. When she gets back with him, they all love him again. It fascinating really. I saw the film with one of my closest friends and after it was over I was in the most romantic of moods. I felt so emotional and full of hope and love, both passionate and platonic. Still tasting that sweet aftertaste in my mouth after the movie was over I decided to tell my friend that I had begun to talk to my ex-boyfriend again. Just talk, nothing more, nothing romantic. I told him that he has moved on and found another boyfriend and through our talks I have successfully put to rest the immense amount of pure hatred and rage I had towards that man. I said that we are good friends who shared some intimate moments in the past and we are finally working on a platonic relationship and that as of date, it’s working beautifully and we’re both happy. I wanted him to be happy for me, understand that this is a good thing and that we both know what we’re doing and that we’re just friends. I wanted him to welcome him back into my life as a friend as much as the gals welcomed Mr. Big back in Sex and the City. But in real life, it doesn’t work like that.

He thought we were both being delusional. He thought I was especially being delusional. He faulted my ex for even talking to me when he has a boyfriend. He basically made up a scandalous little adulterous scenario and stood in judgment of it that was the complete opposite of the cordial, platonic, daytime friendship that I had clearly described. I was disappointed and a little hurt, and that sweet aftertaste soured horribly. I spat it out and vowed to never let that taste venture back into my mouth again.

I was talking with my sister about the whole scenario and the more I talked, the more I was realizing that I am, in all actuality, turning into a bitter old man. I’m going to be that lonely old dude in a studio apartment with fifteen cats who the kids fuck with on Halloween. I told her that over the years that I have learned to play certain cards very close to my chest, there are certain aspects of my life that I rarely talk about with anyone and certain aspects I just don’t discuss at all, in print or in person, and that over the past year or so, the list has grown exponentially… because no one that I know has proven to be able to handle it with a certain level of respect or decorum.

I tell one friend that I went to the bathhouse and I’m hearing about it for the next year or five about how much of a desperate whore I am.

I tell one friend that I am talking with my ex and I am automatically this weak delusional adulterous little boy who can’t say no.

I tell one friend that I started to manage my weight and now every time I put Equal into my tea it’s a thirty minute discussion about how I’m too good for real sugar.

I tell one friend that I’m thinking of relocating to the West Coast and now every time we meet it’s a thirty minute discussion about how I’m not strong enough for Los Angeles.

I told my sister that I have no one in my life with whom I can present myself to and they not respond with a sense of intimidation, judgment and/or jealousy and how I’ve given up on expecting any level of understanding, compassion or (God forbid) support of any kind from any of my friends… or the world in general really. And that’s when I got that crystal clear picture of myself at seventy-five years old, in a cardigan sweater that I knitted for myself, anorexic and sitting alone with a cup of tea sweetened with Equal, my twenty cats swirling around my studio apartment as eggs are pelted on my front door by the local school children. And I actually began to rationalize that… I would so much rather have that scenario than to talk about my sex life to my friends and have them throw it in my face and call me a spineless whore when it’s convenient for them to do so.

Sex and the City boldly proclaims that it wants to shatter the myth of fairytale romances but I think that what it does in turn is enable the myth of fairytale adult friendships. I think you would be hard pressed to find a group of four non related people over 30 who are that consistently dedicated to each other (outside of maybe members of fraternities and sororities which is a whole other story because those motherfuckers are nuts). In real life, relationships come and go, but so do friendships really. The only things that are real are your family, your God and yourself. And if you have a couple of really good friends around to share those things with, I think you’re ahead of the curve. With that said, right now, I do think I have some absolutely excellent friends, flaws and all. They’re not perfect friendships but I dropped that little slice of delusional hell back in my twenties. What I do have are a couple of highly earnest people who are, in all actuality, there for me when I truly need them to be. The trick, for lack of a better term, is to determine when do you really need them, and can you be there for them when they really need you. In that, I got a couple of genuine people who would most definitely check to see if the cats have eaten my face off, will wipe my front door of splattered egg… tell tales about how I deserved my lot in life because I was a filthy whore who went to the bathhouse and started talking to his ex-boyfriend back in his thirties…

…and a sister with whom I can tell all this to and more and cry with when I miss my grandma something awful.

MY HOLLYWOOD

(c) Breeze Vincinz

 

The other day I caught a glimpse of the movie Pretty Woman on UPN and I just couldn’t help but laugh my ass off! The stupid “hooker-with-a-heart-of-gold” scenario not withstanding, it was a delight to see Hollywood’s version of Hollywood. Now as I hear, Hollywood has gone through quite a few transformations over the years and I am but a novice when it comes to the actual history of Hollywood and its origins, but I can tell you that modern Hollywood is something of an enigma that has never really been accurately captured in any film, television show or book. Much like Woody Allen’s consistently sanitized versions of New York with its offensively blatant removal of ethnic minorities; Hollywood is usually depicted as some PG-13 Technicolor version of urban decay... complete with whores that look like Julia Roberts who oddly enough aren’t on crack.

More than not, I am usually disappointed with the way movies depict their geographical locations, especially if I have lived there for a particular amount of time. I can only think of a handful of movies that actually did Chicago justice for example, The Blues Brothers and Adventures in Babysitting being the most true to the spirit of my hometown. I have yet to see that with Los Angeles or more specifically Hollywood. I will admit that “My” Hollywood is quite biased considering my demographic… I am African American, I am male, I am in my late thirties, I am homosexual, I am most definitely lowerclass as far as income, I am morbidly obese. I can see how my Hollywood would differ from that of… oh let’s say… Charlize Theron. But there are still aspects of our Hollywood that I think overlap and I think it is these attributes that should be acknowledged as the true flavor of Hollywood.

For me, Hollywood would not be Hollywood without those tireless workers on Hollywood and Highland dressed as your favorite movie character hustling their asses off to get a picture with you and/or your kid for a couple of bucks. To me they are the epitome of what Hollywood is… tragically funny, or is it comedically tragic? Whatever the case… those guys are a hoot. It could be 110 degrees outside but you will still see a gaggle of people in Shrek suits, Marilyn Monroe dresses and Michael Jackson pants smiling, prodding and dancing for your attention and for your buck. I knew that I had become an official “Hollywooder” when I went to the McDonalds on Hollywood and Highland and stood behind Captain Jack Sparrow who was slipping something from his flask into his supersize Coke and in front of Princess Ariel who was royally upset that the line was taking so long because she had to go take a dump. At any even given moment around here you’re bound to either bump into some celebrity or celebrity look-a-like. It happens so much that it doesn’t really matter if it is a real celebrity… I mean, after you catch a glimpse of Diana Ross adjusting his testicles in the Television DVD aisle of Virgin Megastore, having Anthony Kiedis come up and ask you if you know where the nearest Mrs. Fields is, is no big whoop.

The nightlife here is also something to be desired. I’m pretty sure that you could do some deep research as to why things close so early in this town but all inquires would lead to… everything closes early in this town. Usually around 2:00 a.m., 4:00 a.m. on Saturday but still… last call is at 2:00 a.m. This was a huge culture shock for me considering the fact that I usually didn’t leave the house until 1:00 a.m. back in Chicago. There is also no “Circuit Party” scene here in Los Angeles. Circuit Parties are when you go to club to club to club, drinking and partying all along the way. A good friend of mine explained the reason why. Clubs in Los Angeles are spread out pretty far… and as Missing Persons so eloquently chimed in the eighties…”No one walks in L.A.”, you drive everywhere, and you will have more of a chance in finding a gay guy not into oral sex than you would finding a parking space here. So you drive to a club and you drive around from anywhere from forty five minutes to an hour and a half before you find a spot or you just give up and pay $20 for valet parking. Once the car is taken care of, you wait for another hour behind the infamous velvet rope. After that wait is over, and it is determined that you won’t disrupt the guy/girl ratio within the club and that you are in the very least remotely fashionable and attractive enough to get in, you finally cross the threshold to realize that… there are only about twenty people in this joint. And you only got about thirty minutes before they call last call for alcohol. So… no… there is no Circuit Party scene, no human would intentionally inflect that kind of pain on themselves more than once a night.

Now West Hollywood is a little different. You actually could go club to club but unfortunately what you will find out is that they are all exactly the same and they all play exactly same the music and all of the men shop at exactly the same shops and workout at exactly the same gym and exercise the exact same muscles. Just think of the opening “Weeds” with really gay white men, “Little gay men on the hillside, Little gay men made of ticky-tacky, Little gay men on the hillside, Little gay men all the same. There's a white one and a white one and a white one and a white one, and they're all made out of ticky-tacky, and they all look just the same...”

In “My” movie of Hollywood I would definitely have to mention the residential areas. Most people think of Hollywood as that long strip of land on Hollywood Boulevard with the Star Walk of Fame. It is by far one of the worlds most famous landmarks and even though I have walked that thing a million times and have seen a countless number of both human and animal excrement slopped all over those golden stars, there is still a bit of awe walking past a star and realizing that once upon time Lucille Ball stood right there. It’s a little off putting to see some homeless dude scratching his nads over it but still… I do love Lucy, I really do. And the thing about the Hollywood Walk of Fame is that, while it is essentially the yellow brick road that leads you through Hollywood, it is also eclipsed by several residential units whose occupants predictably enough tire from the constant amusement park outside. Waking up on Monday morning and dragging yourself to work is bad enough. Waking up on Monday morning and having to walk behind a gaggle of I heart Los Angeles t-shirt clad tourists slowly dredging down the street to catch a glimpse of the Jon Edwards star that was adorned with the plumpest pile of dog shit you’ve ever seen in your life a day prior doesn’t do anything to help your commute.

My neighborhood in itself has always been very family oriented and somewhat quiet. As with the majority of Los Angeles it is heavily populated with Mexican Americans (I’m about the only Black person on my block) and everyone gets along quite well, although every once in awhile we do get infected by gangs… and infected is the right word… they’re like fucking roaches. Every one is getting along, kids are playing outside, the elderly are walking their dogs, it’s quite an idyllic scene, then the next morning you wake up and every flat surface in the neighborhood has been tagged with graffiti. The apartment owners paint over it only for the graffiti to return a couple of days later. This will go on for about a week or two until one morning you’ll wake up and go outside you’ll see a candle vigil at the place where someone was shot and killed the night before. The graffiti goes away, the kids come back out to play, the elderly walk their dogs again, there are barbeques and relay races in the streets… and then the fucking roaches come back and we’re hit with another bout of graffiti everywhere.

When I first moved here this happened about two or three times a year, usually during the summer months. That was until we experienced the wonderful world of gentrification. In no time flat, several homes that housed several Mexican families were razed in order to built these beautiful high rise condominiums for whi-, no, I can’t say that they built them specifically for white people (but it’s nothing but white folks up in there). Once they went up I can only remember one time I saw graffiti, some on my building and some on the ground in front of the condos. They were both covered up the next day never to be seen again, neither has the requisite post candle vigil returned.

I think that’s what’s missing from a lot of movies, television shows and books revolving around major cities, the gentrification, the replacement of homes for minority families with condos for the single upper class, the paving of paradise to put up a parking lot if you will. It always changes the face of a city. As I hear, Harlem as been going over quite the change in hue over the couple of years and the entire housing project that I was born and raised in back in Chicago has recently been completely razed from its roots leaving several acres of flat land in it’s wake with signs that portray happy Caucasian families that read, “Pershing Estates Coming Soon!” But this is nothing new, gentrification is a part of urban planning and as long a city needs income… they’re going to build for the young and the restles then pacify the old and the earnest and we all just sit back and hope that in the very least that the strongest aspects that old culture remain.

I wonder when they eventually tear down my building to accommodate the “new excellence of living” as detailed in Town & Country magazine, what of our stories would remain in those neatly manicured lawns. Would they remember the one legged guy who tirelessly cleans those stars on the walk of fame everyday, the skunks, raccoons and oversized cats that run rampart through the streets late at night, those corny inspirational sayings on the marquee of the Henry Ford Theater that are so syrupy sweet that sometimes I cry at the thought of something existing in this pin prick of a world that still has such pure amiable intentions, the since abandoned Vine movie theatre where you could catch two movies for $5 in a warm, funky, dimly lit catacomb of a theater. I wonder if anyone will look at those guys on Hollywood and Highland dressed as movie characters as guys looking to pay their rent and not some idle entertainment solely their to humiliate themselves for a couple bucks. Or that the prostitutes that have absconded to Sunset Boulevard aren’t walking the streets looking for the meaning of life or their one true love, they’re looking to pay their rent also.

I hope that when the next obviously oblivious movie director, producer, writer who wants to use Hollywood as a hip happening seedy backdrop for their “serious” PG-13 drug, murder, prostitute, crime, mystery love story that they at least get some of the flavor right. With gentrification going on here I know a lot of the taste is leaving but, maybe some of the aroma will remain and they can get some of it right. And I totally wouldn’t mind if they cast Charlize Theron to play me.

MADONNA AND THE GREAT CHASE

(c) Breeze Vincinz

Probably the most effeminate thing about my character, outside of my predilection to fellatio, is my undying affection towards all things Madonna. I would tend to believe that I am on a slightly higher phase of existence than those silly school girls who used to scream at Beatles concerts but the truth of the matter is that I have often thought about what I would truly do if I ever did meet her and truthfully speaking I’m almost positive that I would scream at the top of my lungs until my eyes welled up with tears and then faint soon after.

In the simplest of terms, I just admire her. I am one of the millions of people who truly found inspiration in the lowly-girl-from-Detroit-makes-it-big story and for her to do it with such a sense of artistry, independence and humor has always endeared a very special place in my heart… and in my life quite honestly.

It’s no surprise that I was most definitely one of the people who pre-ordered her latest incarnation Hard Candy and downloaded it the second it was available. It’s been in heavy rotation on my iPod ever since and Beat Goes On, her duet with Kanye West, is the single reason why I started going back to the gym.

Usually when I dig an album this much I begin to peruse what others may think of it on such sites like Amazon.com or the comments on iTunes or YouTube. I did the same thing when Erykah Badu, Tori Amos and Björk released New AmErykah – Part One (4th World War), American Girl Posse and Volta respectively. With all of these releases the comments have all been mostly positive but then there are those rogue one-star comments that always get me, particularly with Hard Candy. More often than not, the people who despise the album truthfully seem to be pretty ambivalent to the actual music on the album but truly despise the negative aspects of what they think Madonna represents.

I got this same feeling when I read Rich Cohen’s interview in the May issue of Vanity Fair whereas he spent a lot of page space theorizing the idea of Madonna as opposed to actually presenting these theories to the woman herself and having her speak for herself or even in the very least, asking her about her music… you know… the shit that got her here in the first place.

Soon after, I bumped into article after article by different journalists and critics about how Madonna is just a waste of space, how desperate she is, how decrepit and old she is, how she should just quit because she’s embarrassing herself. One critic wrote an extensive soliloquy carefully detailing the myriad of reasons why she is a boring, desperate has-been who has absolutely has no place in modern music.

Considering that I do hold Madonna in fairly high esteem I do admit that I have a biased against these writers, but even still, even if I were not such a fan I think I would still wonder if these guys truly felt that their anti-Madonna ascertainments were actually helping people or… are they fighting against the cool kids that never allowed them to sit at their lunch table or even still… making the comments that they feel they will receive once they hit 50 themselves and have the audacity to not just roll over and die.

These critics are a single pearl to a necklace of thought I started a long time ago about the role of teachers, journalists, critics and bloggers alike. It’s a question of intention, integrity and consequence. There are certain artists that I personally despise that I want to scream from the mountaintops in hopes of there demise (James Blunt, Soulja Boy… I’m lookin’ at you…), but I do wonder what significance it would have in the big scheme of things… and what would it say about me since I’m slowly learning that… what you despise defines you as much as what you admire.

There is overlap in the roles of teachers, journalists, critics and bloggers. The ultimate goal of all them is to communicate information to a group of people. I think the differences lie within their intentions. I think teachers communicate to enlighten. Journalists communicate for the sake of communication. Bloggers communicate to self medicate. And critics, well… I think critics communicate to self congratulate, because it’s not really about enlightening people, or enlightening themselves really… it’s more about finding the wittiest ways to frame the most vile of intentions in the most urbane language and being congratulated for it (Rex Reed… I’m lookin’ at you...)

And the truth of the matter is, as much as people bitch about opinions and their similarity to assholes (everybody’s got one), people are curious to know about them. It’s what makes journalists, bloggers and critics that much more colorful than teachers. They all can present the truth, but journalists, bloggers and critics can add the flavor of opinion and that’s what makes them much more palatable. And while a teacher can come off as an intelligent drone, journalists, critics and bloggers have their opinions which gives them personality… for better or for worse.

But it does make me pause to consider my own intentions, because I think I have slid across all four circles at one point or another and I just hope that no matter the ranting (and Lord knows I can rant…) that somebody, somewhere got something out of it… and it’s that hope that keeps me going.

Or as Rich Cohen finally got out of Madonna after several pages of processing the idea of her without any real dialogue from her, “You have to get to a point where you care as little about getting smoke blown up your ass as you do when you become a whipping boy… because ultimately they both add up to shit. You just have to keep doing your work, and hope and pray somebody’s dialing into your frequency… if your joy is derived from what society thinks of you, you’re always going to be disappointed.”

So as teachers, journalists, bloggers and critics alike rattle on with great fervor, anger and passion about the significant insignificance (or the insignificant significance as the case me be) of a little lady named Madonna, she just keeps going and going to her own beat. And I in turn keep going and going listening to her music every morning on the treadmill, on the exercise bikes on the lat pull machines. In my mind I imagine a brood of teachers, journalists, bloggers and critics chasing after her as fast as they can, and she is always in front of them running as fast as she can, but not to get away from them, she doesn’t even know they’re there. She’s just running because she likes running and she has her own goal to get to.

I keep that in mind every morning now on the track listening to Madonna’s duet with Kanye West “The Beat Goes On”... to just keep going, for my own sake, not for the multitude of people who have demeaned, emasculated and humiliated me over the years about my appearance, or for the family members who deemed my lot in life to resemble a wildebeest and not to achieve an acceptable weight to comfortably slide into gay culture’s anorexic-eque leanings. I run to my own goal for my own reasons. That doesn’t necessarily mean I’m not being chased… there are always going to be “playa haters” around trying to dismiss your successes because it’s not there’s, It’s always going to be someone around telling you you’re not running fast enough. You just can’t give in to it, because once you allow your run to become someone else’s chase… you’ll always lose.