Morning! Hope you don’t have a case of the Mondays, but if you do, I don’t blame you. Mondays are nothing more than a big pile of gorilla doo doo. Am I right?! Anyway, we are offish in the thick of spring, which means we’re all trying to get summer sex and luckily for you, I have plenty of the Blaria Podcast for you to listen while you’re sweating on the treadmill. Today, I’m chatting with fellow comedian George Gordon, who runs on of the best shows in NYC. In fact, it’s so dope that the Afterlife comedy show is moving to Union Hall starting in the summer. Pretty maj! So before the big monthly show kicks off, GG, came by the IAC office so we can chat about comedy and other fun shiz. Full disclosure: this episode quickly became one of my fav that I’ve done so far! So check it out after the jump! Whoop!
#TeamBlaria, it has come to my attention that country singer Brad Paisley and rapper/actor LL Cool J pressed the snooze button on their common sense by teaming up to do a song about race relations that has the intellectual complexity of grade school children. In short, Accidental Racist‘s message of “I’mma white dude from the South and golly gee, racism is kinda cray cuz I have to think about shit and instead of being ig’nant all the time. This. Is. Hard. For. Me,” is a steaming pile of gorilla doodoo. And for LL Cool J to co-sign this buffoonery like it’s a bank loan for his starter home makes ask the Lord to give me the strength of squirrel monkey holding onto a mango not to slap the shit out of LL Cool J’s dad’s balls for creating a person who would not only agree with Paisley’s sentiments, but also contribute an atrocious verse to the song. If you haven’t gotten a chance to peep the ridiculosity of Accidental Racist, don’t panic, because this lil negress is going to give you a Blaria-fied breakdown of the this five minutes and forty-two second song. Let’s get to it, shall we?
Rick Ross, The World Probably Would’ve Been Better Off If You Ended Up a Hanes Sock Instead of Being Born27 Mar
“Put molly all in her champagne/ She ain’t even know it/ I took her home and I enjoyed that/ She ain’t even know it,” ~ rapper Rick Ross boasting about date raping a woman during his guest verse on Rocko’s song U.O.E.N.O. (You Ain’t Even Know It).
#TeamBlaria, I literally don’t know where to begin. I’m bubbling over with rage and disheartenment: I wanna throw up dub (aka double) middle fingers in the sky like it’s the Batman signal in hopes that Ross will see it and know how truly I’m pissed off I am on behalf of all vagina havers, yet at the same time, I want to call his mom and have a heart-to-heart like the kind you see in a Dolly Parton movie where one conversation (infused with Southern wisdom) over a glass of lemonade and cheddar dill biscuits resolves everything. Unfortunately, we know that one conversation isn’t going to undo nor solve the problem that is illustrated in Ross’ verse. Several conversations need to happen – why is bragging about rape socially acceptable, why was this song even allowed to be released, what goes on in a person’s mind to think that bragging about rape is cool and not horrifying, why some people will listen to this song and not even blink an eye at Ross’ lyrics – and they need to happen constantly in order to fix the disturbing mindset that people like Rick Ross have. It’s a serious problem. So to those people who are like, “Take a chill pill! It’s just music,” I’m going to say to you what I say to my boyfriend when he tries to wake me up in morning via boner to my back:
This is not music. This is not hip hop. This is not acceptable. It’s trifling that people are listening to and buying U.O.E.N.O. because it’s message is packaged with a nice beat; therefore, it’s somehow okay. Um, no, it’s not okay.
While Justin Timberlake has never been an automatic panty dropper for me, I’d at least unbutton my shirt Eurotrash style, so one could see my chesticles and then I’d put some Vaseline on them, so they’d have a nice sheen like the glossy side of the poster board I’d use for my middle school science class presentations. Point is, even though I don’t want to go half on a baby with him, I’m into him. To clarify, just the musical and SNL sides of him; his acting in movies is pretty much “meh” for me. But his music, in particular his solo work, I’ve always enjoyed, so I must admit that when JT announced that he was ending his seven year long hiatus from music with the upcoming release of The 20/20 Experience, I reacted to that news the way I do when my seven day no-carb diet ends:
Straight up, listening to music for free is the closest I’ve gotten to dancing the Holy Ghost. Suffice it to say, I was in good spirits when I started listening to JT’s album. but when it was over, I was hella disappointed in it. #RealTalk, this album is nothing but JT reenacting every black mom in America when her chillrens mistake her pausing as a sign that she’s done reprimanding them when she was just momentarily distracted because she saw a 2-for-1 sale on bean pies at the neighborhood store. She immediately refocused when she saw her kiddies started to walk away from her and said:
aka all these songs are too damn long. Seven, eight minutes a pop is too much. Not that a song can’t be that length. Legendary artists and bands have released songs that long and they were well-received. But on 20/20, I feel like he’s holding the listener captive with his self-indulgence and the musical choices that were exciting on FutureSex/LoveSounds seem paint-by-the-numbers (maybe work with other producers than Timberland?) this time around. Furthermore, JT practically sings in non-stop falsetto on 20/20. Don’t get me wrong, like most peeps, I love it when a dude saaangs in falsetto, but by the time I reached the halfway mark of this album, I asked myself, “Did this mofo’s testicles not drop? I mean, why the hell is his voice high as the bouffant hairstyles at a southern beauty pageant all the damn time?” In short, it’s too much of a good thing. Anyway, I know a lot of people are ready to crown this album as his comeback to the music world, but I have to say this was a rather lukewarm effort. So let’s break down The 20/20 Experience track by track, shall we?
Yo, yo! Happy Thursday! Here’s a brand new epi of the Blaria Podcast. Hope y’all are doing well. Real quick before I continue: is anyone else annoyed that Scandal is on a long ass hiatus? I mean, it’s been almost three weeks since I’ve seen Kerry Washington’s lips quiver like she’s a runaway slave. That’s is unacceptable. Anyway, I love the show and I want it back in my life. You know what else I love? Having today’s guest, Rose Surnow, on the podcast. We had a blast hanging out and taking our relationship out of the world of Gchat and into the physical world as she dropped by my office to chat. So check out our convo after the jump!
Annnnnnnd I’m conflicted because R. Kelly is Trifling “R” Us, but TITC is pretty much amazeballs, y’all. Not “pee on me” amazeballs – let’s not get cray – but still balls chock full of ‘maze. Just to be clear, “pee on me” amazeballs is someone (who hasn’t eaten asparagus that day) telling me they paid off all my student loans AND negotiated with Cablevision to let me have Showtime for free, so I can watch Homeland. For reals, allowing me to watch Claire Danes cry face
in high definish for free is totes worth a golden shower. But only on my ankles and calves. Let’s keep this shit
gross classy, nah mean? Anyway, R. Kells’ TITC isn’t quite on that level of awesomeness, but it’s still dope enough that I’d let him pour yellow, room temperature Gatorade on me like we just won the Super Bowl. Yeah, I know: WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME?!
Seriously, I’ve never been on team R. Kells. Never got into his music except for I Believe I Can Fly, Contagious feat. The Isley Brothers, and half of the Bump N’ Grind intro, which is the ONLY part I heard of the song for months because my parents would immediately change the radio station because I was still a chillren. So since the intro was stuck in my brains, I had to apply it to my ten year old life and when kinda cute, but kinda rude boy at school would ask to borrow the built-in pencil sharpener on the back of my 64-count Crayola crayons box, in my head, I’d be like, “MY MIND’S TELLIN’ ME NOOOOO, BUT MY BODY, MY BODY IS TELLIN ME, YEEEEEESS” and I’d let him use my shiz. Still, when I got older, I made no attempt to check out much of his music or, at the very least, find out how the Bump N’ Grind intro ended. And when I finally decided to solve the intro mystery, the whole horrible scenario of R. Kells being accused peeing on an underage girl and videotape surfaced. Gross.
Hol to the ler, #TeamBlaria! I’m back in town after a nice vacay with my boo
and I have a multiple question for ya. What did my bf and I do while in Puerto Rico?: A) hiked in El Yunque, which is the only tropical rain forest in the U.S. National Forest System, B) frolicked on the beach and got minor sunburns, C) while Ginuwine’s Pony played in the background, I said to him:
or D) all of the above. If you guessed “C” then you, my friends, are wrong. Eddie Murphy’s Whatzupwitu was playing in the background. Kidding! “C” didn’t happen. You guys are gross.
Moving on. A lot happened during my hiatus last week. The BET Awards, Chris Rock pissed off a bunch of people with his racial 4th of July tweet and Malia Obama turned fourteen years old. Holy shit. Seemed like yesterday that she had Rudy Huxtable pigtails and now she’s probably begrudgingly sending President Obama (or more likely, someone in his camp) to the store to get her tampons like Lucy sent her dad Rev. Eric Camden on that episode of 7th Heaven…You know that awkward moment when you accidentally out yourself for watching 7th Heaven? Anyway, that awk moment doesn’t have anything on the most amazing thing that happened last week, which was rapper Frank Ocean intentionally outing himself in a letter entitled “Thank Yous” that he posted on his Tumblr.
BITCH, YOU ARE TOO OLD.
And I’m not saying this as some ageist hater who thinks she’s going to be forever 27, which is a lot like Forever 21 except forever 27 means that culottes aren’t an option anymore and never should’ve been, but since you were a teenager and your Mom liked to take you shopping at Sears, you quickly realized that fashion disaster was the best worst option at that damn store and now that you’re a grown ass woman, you can say S my D, culottes, ’cause I’m showing the world my knees. Anyway, Madonna, I’m also not saying you’re too old because I’m one of those people who’s over you because Lady Gaga is in the picture. No, girl, I’ll always be a fan of you, your L’Oreal because-I’m-worth-it blond hair color in a box, and your dance pop music. The fact of the matter is this, Madge: you’re FIFTY THREE YEARS OLD. Instead of popping your titties out, you should be at GNC, popping a One-A-Day multivitamin into your mouth to stave off osteoporosis.
Hey, y’all remember when country superstar, Garth Brooks lost his damn mind, created alter ego Chris Gaines, who basically looked like Harry Potter’s Professor Severus Snape/Alan Rickman’s emo cousin, and released a R&B song called Lost in You, which when you listened to it, decided it wasn’t half bad, so you tried to buy the full-length album on the low while you were shopping at the mall with your Mom, so you ditched her in the Misses section of J.C. Penney’s and headed to the now-defunct Sam Goody Music (because of simple biatches like you trying to Chris Gaines albums and nothing else) to purchase the Gaines album from the $5 dollar bin, but your Mom creeped up behind you, so to save face, you quickly dropped that CD and grabbed Keith Sweat’s Keith Sweat? Guys? Hey, guys? Where are you going? Okay, so maybe that scenario just happened to me. Point is, take that scenario and then add to it the following: ten years later, you’re still such a fan of Chris Gaines that you dressed as him for Halloween, but drunk mofos thought you were Earth Wind & Fire’s Verdine White with a haircut and they kept Ba-de-ya’ing you during the Halloween parade (thankfully, that didn’t happen to me, but if it had, I’d rather be mistaken for Verdine White than Black Chris Gaines. There’s no recovering from that):
Sadly, those two Chris Gaines scenarios don’t even compare to the hot mess that is now Brian McKnight’s music career.
I think it’s safe to say that this final performance episode will go down in history as one of the worst. No standout performances. No “wow” moments. Nevertheless, we still must crown an American Idol from the final two contestants: 21-year-old Phillip Phillips aka hot White dude who sounds like Dave Matthews and is what I call “a starter White” for Black women who want to try something different at liberal arts college and 16-year-old Jessica Sanchez who sounds like a Black soul singer without that whole pesky thing of, you know, being Black. I know I sound a little sassy, but I don’t mean to because I love, love, love American Idol. And not in some irony-filled, isn’t-this-show-ridiculous, winking fashion. No, I legitimately love AI. Ten minutes before the show starts, I’m like
aka I’m walking down an imaginary soul train in my living room while my boyfriend is like