Twitter

Blackface

I’ll get to Dear White People in a second, but in honor of Halloween, please peep what is quite possibly the greatest Twitter exchange EVER (read from the bottom up):

Freddie Gibbs

Okay, back to what I was saying.

Dear White People was supposed to be a brilliantly biting satire that held a mirror up to White America to let them know they could be kind of ugly at times. I really wanted to seek out the first white person in the theater, sit beside him, and cast knowing glances in their direction after each resonating scene. The movie was supposed to end with me standing directly in front of the screen at its conclusion and yelling ‘see?!? Do you get it now?’ with my arms crossed to everyone and no one at…the…same…damn…time. This was supposed to be a film that was ingenious in its creation and flawless in its presentation. Dear White People was supposed to be writer Justin Simien’s Tour de Force, and it is…in the previews. It’s not that Dear White People missed its mark; I’m just not sure what the hell they were even aiming at.

Without giving too much away, the story centers around a group of college students at a majority-white Ivy League school. The focus is on four in particular: Coco, a woman from the South Side of Chicago that eschews Black culture and has a myopic view on what it actually MEANS to be Black; Sam, a rebellious Mulatto woman entrenched in Pro-Black idealism; Troy, a well-to-do son of the school’s Dean of Students; and Lionel, who is just gay. Because gay is the new Black (insert blank stare emoji here). There are obviously white people as well, but we’ll get to them in a few.

Now that you know the characters, let’s look into their internal conflicts. Of course Sam has a white man on the side while dating a Black co-ed to maintain her ‘All Black Everything’ illusion. Of Course Troy has a white girlfriend. And OF COURSE Lionel and his struggle with being homosexual is the primary storyline. Because gay is the new Black and TOTALLY relevant when discussing race relations (insert blank stare emoji here). CoCo just doesn’t want to have anything to do with any of them because…Black. That’s all I gathered. Nobody ever explored what led to these feelings so…yeah. That’s all I got.

In what I thought was an excellent piece of character development by Mr. Simien, it becomes apparent that Sam, the Rebel and Troy, the Company Man, share an inherent understanding of Black culture while being at either extreme in regards to their personalities and interactions. Kudos for that. Even a trashcan gets a steak sometimes, apparently.

Maybe attending a Historically Black University sapped my understanding of on-campus race relations- I admit my base of knowledge is limited here- but each of these four characters has some romantic connection with someone outside of their race. I just wonder if this is realistic and question why every character needs to have this connection, either closeted or public. Addressing inter-race relations is all well and good, but why make it such a conflict with EVERY major character? But again, maybe that’s just me.

As I said before, the primary storyline is about Lionel and his struggle to find an identity and his place on campus. Lionel is gay and his sexual identity supersedes all of the other storylines that I thought the movie was SUPPOSED to be about. This post is neither the time nor the place to speak on why Gay Rights is important; the same is true about a film entitled Dear White People. Because white people can be gay; they can’t…do I really have to expl…man…moving on…

Now let’s get to those white people. I wanted ‘These White Folk Crazy’; instead I got ‘These Black Folk Really Want To Love These White Folks But We Have Trouble Loving Each Other’. Where were the figurative taps on their collective shoulders to remind them that some of the things they do need not be done? What are white moviegoers learning about their behavior? They damn sure learned about OUR behavior. Honestly, the only thing I imagine white people took away from Dear White People is ‘Dear White People…you might not want to wear Blackface on Halloween’. And that’s a shame.

I wanted so much more from Dear White People. I expected edge. I never got my ‘see, White People? See?!?’ moment. The writing suffers from tending to the wrong audience: Black people. It becomes apparent halfway through that Dear White People is for white people in title only. It’s much safer to point out Our collective identity crisis; God forbid tilting the conversation towards the white audience. We can’t risk having THEM in disillusionment and self-contemplation. This was supposed to be Our moment, solely because Our moment finally wouldn’t be about Us. Damn shame Justin and his team weren’t brave enough to fully follow through with it.

F–k ‘Dear White People’. I hope they make a re-boot like they did with ‘The Incredible Hulk’. Matter fact, I’ll do it. Let’s call it ‘Dear White People: For Real This Time’. A.J. Armstrong is the writer of ‘Dear White People: For Real This Time’. He is also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

Play Me Off

Media

“Daddy, do you think I don’t have a soul because of my wires?”

I froze; this little girl stared at me with those big hazel eyes and clutched a beat up brown teddy bear. At this moment, I knew she deserved the truth. I swallowed, knelt down and grabbed her shoulders.

“Baby, I love your wires. You don’t have a soul because of those; you don’t have a soul because…well…baby, you’re light-skinned…”

*RIMSHOT* PLAY ME OFF, JAMES!!!

Let’s talk about social media, James. Remember when sane people were the only ones allowed online? No? Neither do I. What I do remember, though, is when people didn’t take it to such extremes. My homeboy would ‘poke’ 5 females a night on Facebook in 2005 and we all arched our eyebrows and commended his boldness (Eds. Note: Facebook was created and originally intended for college kids; I know 2005 seems early to some of you). Today, girls hold roundtables to determine maximum selfie ‘like’ time and some Central Nigga sits and creates random memes that take hold of the Twittersphere within minutes of anything newsworthy occurring. That’s all cool, I guess, but let’s talk about some people that need to just chill. Like forever.

Remember that Instagram post we saw yesterday, James? The one with the ‘model’ bent over some community pool with heels on? Yeah…that THOT. THOT is here to stay, James; don’t look at me like that. That THOT…THOT…got 128 ‘likes’. I ain’t mad at all, but the comments section made me purse my lips a bit:

“Daimt lil mamaa…”

@ric_slick_thick

“You got twwwo migetts in yo bacc pokets”

@show…SomethingTheNameIsReallyLongAndStupidAndImNotRepeatingItBecause…Stupid

“U need some street D numba 980…”

@SomeGuyThatWasAboutToHaveHisNumberAllOnThisPostForTheSakeOfMyArgument

Hahahahahaha…and this is some girl that lives in suburban Detroit.

How about these Twitter clowns though, James? The ones that…what’s that? Steak them? Oh…you HATE them…I do too, man. I do too. The charm of Twitter is that you have to write words to express your point. The sad part of Twitter is that people can’t spell (even with a Smartphone), can’t form whole sentences and sound ridiculous. The Gucci Mane rant was probably the funniest thing I’ve ever seen but damn…why are there periods in random. ass places, Guc’? Instagram is why women have left Twitter in the dust though. You don’t need a personality when you’re taking pictures of yourself in a dirty bathroom mirror with water spots dotting the bottom of your filtered posts. James just pointed out something really poignant about Instagram women but I won’t repeat it because…it’s not like those girls can read it, right? Bunch of THOTs.

#FelonCrushFriday. Remember when that doofy shit happened? Women need to explain why that was ever a thing. Not to me, though; I saw how ridiculous most of you all were on Father’s Day. How did you convince yourselves this was okay? The worst part about it all is that it spread SO quickly. I mean, I’m sitting back watching my Twitter timeline and I see the same felon that was on my Instagram feed. Then I open Facebook and I see the same felon that was in my homegirl’s GroupMe conversation. What makes it even worse is that I watched the BET Awards and I saw the same felon being mentioned by a famous THOT that was…play me the hell off, James.

Facebook died when old people could get accounts. I hate everything about Facebook. I hate the women so in love and insecure about their relationships that every uploaded picture is of her and her man doing…stuff. Mundane, pointless, annoying, stupid stuff that only serves as a confirmation to themselves that their boyfriend is theirs and only theirs. Crazy THOTs. I hate every teenaged picture of me floating around that terrible place. I don’t want to play Slotomania Slot Machines, yet I get invited twice daily by weird old women that probably use their two index fingers to type Facebook chat messages to people that aren’t even logged on. I hate Facebook so much. I really do; my feed is filled with God and Worldstar fights. Dear Jeebus, can you just send BOTH of these people to Hell for being douches? That actually might be my next status. Just pray for the babies and the THOTs, please. Play me off, James.

A.J. Armstrong really doesn’t get you people. He’s also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities. He also understands the irony of sharing this with his Facebook friends so…shut up

My Last Post About Women Ever, Part III: Faded Pictures and Old Playlists

burning heart

Is it weird I still think about them? What about the fact they routinely pop up in my head in the form of wistful nostalgia? How about the fact I still have pictures of them in my phone, even though some of them were two or three cells ago? Would you judge me if I told you I still pull up those pictures from time to time? Or that I stare at them longingly, wishing I could somehow relive some of the moments that continue to play on in my dreams? And the damn songs. Those songs all of them ruined because they send those complex emotions rushing back to me and make me relive the memories so often. Sometimes I sift through those pictures and replay those songs in my mind silently, some more somber than others…

“As she turned through the pages, a tear rolled down her face/I could see her reminiscing…why her life had to be this way…”

I was in love with her at 12. By then, she lived 688 miles away in a city I had just left but loved just as much. I grew up with her and fell for her temper. We fought so damn fiercely, I knew that passion would eventually be channeled into something mature and timeless. I just KNEW it would. The song doesn’t really speak to what I felt and what I wanted her to feel; she just used to sing it off-key on the couch when I visited her. That picture of her smiling at me while an Ebony Magazine sits open in her lap always conjures up the love I have for the summer of ‘99…

This one loved the song “Like You” by Bow Wow and Ciara. I sit and look at my phone, amazed that somebody so pretty then could become more beautiful years after that youthfully ignorant pose that smiles back at me. I remember that song because it blared from her phone and I knew that someone she was more interested in was calling. The bridge is a run-on sentence that ended with what my heart screamed silently at her: IAin’tNeverHadNobodyShowMeAllTheThingsThatYouDoneShowedMeAndTheSpecialWayIFeelWhenYouHoldMeWeGon’AlwaysBeTogetherBabyThat’sWhatYouToldMe- and I believe it- cuz I ain’t never had nobody do me like you….

I still hate the man on the other end of those calls, even though I never formally met him. The fact my feelings were embodied in a song reserved for another dude pissed me off. Despite it (or because of it), that drove me harder to live out those lyrics during our aimless drives in my Ford Explorer…

Love can be either a continuous melody or a painful bookend, which is why Ms. “Like You” will forever be remembered by a Ghostface Killah song, too. Not even a song, actually; the instrumental to said song…I had some SHIT to say. Is love really being up late writing angry lyrics over a Ghostface track? If you’re angry enough…it makes sense to you, trust me. The “Back Like That” beat played in some shitty iPod headphones while I scribbled a message I desperately wanted to shout in her face…

Jay-Z’s “Dear Summer” made me a stalker. The copied-and-pasted Facebook pictures of her posing in her dorm room made me weird to the people that didn’t understand what love really is. If they knew, then they had to know why I wanted to stalk her. With that song playing over and over from an iPhone 3 perched in the bushes situated below her kitchen window. She would never notice my actual presence…but she would absolutely feel a certain discomfort at the amount of weird things happening around her. Simple things like me gluing the hair in her combs to her bathroom mirror in vague messages. Or weird, square-shaped patches missing from her beige pillow covers. Or her Twitter account being followed by @ImUp_IAmAlwaysUP_AndWatching_You. Thank God that’s not a long song, my Dear [Redacted]…

The next image is hard to look at; it’s harder to describe the impact such a passing moment continues to have. She stood in front of a fountain- one I walked by daily to a building that had professors that changed my life and women that made life hard and a department that dared me to be great- and held me like she was in love with it all without her really knowing so. My Little One.  The single mother that was both thirsty for knowledge and unaware of her immaturity. When somebody so young is the anchor of her entire family, her saying her ringtone for you is “No Better Love” is special. I couldn’t even come up with a decent quip for it; it’s awesome, period. I hear that song and just imagine she still smiles whenever it gets played. It’s my only bridge to a past that easily could have been my forever. Maybe it’s my ego whispering to me that I will always matter within those three or four minutes. Maybe I just like the damn song and misremember how special it really was to her. Whatever. I don’t miss her. Nope. I’m not trying to convince myself at all…

Man, she stole MY song and made it OURS. That motherfucker. That humble, pretty, stacked motherfucker. I played a song I loved and she loved the song and now we love the song. “Time of Your Life” went from being something that elevated my mood and made me smile at the ridiculous nature of day-to-day life to becoming a burgeoning couples’ mood music. Her pictures are explicit so I won’t describe them (but I damn sure will keep on looking) but what the hell…?

This last picture is always hard because I never know how to feel. She deserved better from both him and I. I never knew what she was telling him when she laid in his apartment and I’m sure he never knew about our conversations. The only picture is one I snuck while she was looking at the video to our song, too drunk to even notice the flash. Did she play our song for him? Did she introduce him to the music video with her head so perfectly nestled under his chin like she did with me on my couch? She was never mine; she was either under me or him and the influence. I wonder what that kind of tugging did to her psyche, but I never asked. I just kind of waited for her to blurt it out in her weaker moments…

“8 doobies to the face…fuck dat/12 bottles in a case…nigga, fuck dat/2 pills and a half-weight…nigga, fuck dat/Got a high tolerance when your age don’t exist…”

My Beautiful Mistake makes those words seem so surreal. Who gives a shit about growing old when living in the now is so much more pleasurable? She had no concern to even know she would forever be suspended in that nonchalant pose. I wonder so many things when I stare at it. It feels ominous and dark; it’s also telling and intimate…

“Got a high tolerance when your age don’t exist…”

Timeless photos…

A.J. Armstrong listens to a lot of Drake late at night and tends to reminisce hard; this post was supposed to come out two days earlier. He is also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities