Quotation for Monday

I still only travel by foot and by foot it's a slow climb
But I'm
Good at being uncomfortable
So I can't stop changing all the time

--Fiona Apple thinks little Cleb is an Extraordinary Machine

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Melanie The Incorrigible

MEET MY LATEST BESTIE, Melanie Fiona. She’s Guyanese-Canadian, because in the Obama era hybrid vigor is the new black.

Melanie says everyone recognizes the beat from her first single, “Give It To Me Right,” but can't place it, so I’m proud to proclaim that I called the sample—“Time Of The Season”!—right away.

“Give It To Me Right” could be mistaken for a standard radio skank track, and while I think it’s more than that, I also bear no grudge against skank tracks. “Ill Na Na” is way more *empowering* than any India.Arie kandy korn. Or try Cassie’s “Me & U,” which pulls off the ultimate coup of being slutty yet sweet. The trick is maintaining your charm and your halo; Kelis taught me that, and she only charged 99 cents.

I would say “GITMR” manages the same tightrope act, but Andrea Martin, who wrote the song for Mel, declares that it's not about sex. Yeah no of course not. It’s just about like wanting people to keep it real and stuff. (Don’t tell the guys, but such eyelash-batting innocence is part of the trick.)

This introduction may paint Melanie as a sexpot temptress, but that’s just her radio persona. The slightest scratch at the album’s surface reveals the hopeless romantic underneath. “You Stop My Heart” is pure malt shop swoon. It pairs well with my running favorite “Johnny,” a song that is girl groupy (= Cleb catnip) and makes heartbreak sound somehow fun.


SOUL SINGERS are practically the only ones who believe in love these days. We are meant to worship at the altar of the sensible, antiseptic Relationship; that full-cardio arduous, hideous, glorious thing called love is too sloppy and impractical for any adequately-analyzed modern citizen. We speak ruefully of 'partners,' of 'making it work,' and are so wise to the perils of infatuation as to damn near eschew its joys. As diligently as we lecture about the grinding labor a Relationship requires, the A-student could come to view cohabitational partnership as one more over-achiever's trophy, and love as mere irresponsible folly.

It can be jarring, then, to hear naive Melanie singing, I'll walk these streets all night until I bring my baby home. You can just picture her enlightened friends raising one eyebrow, like, Giiirlheainworthit. Because today’s faux-strong woman doesn’t deign lower herself to “Ain’t Misbehavin’” on the happy hand, nor “Black Coffee” on the sad. And then we have the audacity to whine from our impenetrable towers about where have all the Lloyd Doblers gone.

We are comfortable instead in the To the left to the left/Everything you own in a box to the left mold, in which despair curdles straight to vengeful stiletto anger—a move we presumably cribbed from old-fashioned faux-strong men, and the insipid Sex and the City. (And who but ventriloquist dummy Beyonce would sing a song called “Irreplaceable” that means “Replaceable.” Still, I do enjoy singing it with my garden class girls. It’s pretty cute when fifth-graders say, Baby you dropped them keys/Hurry up before your taxi leaves.)

Melanie is also under the woeful misapprehension that hotness and tender-heartedness need not be mutually exclusive. Sorry, Mel: if you're hot you must be an evil temptress. It’s just that simple.


EVEN WHEN THE impression is flawless, it’s boring to replicate the old. Sharon Jones may be good, but she just makes me think, Hey, I could be listening to Mary Wells right now. Melanie--like Amy, like Leela--knows how to engage the authenticity of the classic but make it new. Hence the album's title, The Bridge.

“Johnny” mixes scratching with an American Bandstand sound, and she's dialing on her cellphone begging Johnny to bring her back her heart. (Wow, how contemporary and high-tech!*) “Cry Baby” samples the Vandellas' “Jimmy Mack,” which makes me very happy. It also uses cool distorted vocals and so sounds rather like that old-timey Fergie song "Clumsy," but with the merciful excision of Fergie. And just to flaunt her hybrid vigor, Melanie throws in some reggaeish tracks, and breaks out her Debbie Harry swagger for "Bang Bang."

*That was my inner critic teasing me.

OF COURSE, poetic injustice, “Single Ladies” bested Melanie’s “It Kills Me” for Best Female R&B Vocal Performance at the Grammys. What kills me is that the former, despite its goddamn stupid lyrics, actually is the better song, although Melanie is by far the superior artist. (Or even merely deserves the word.) Factory-farmed crap is sometimes tasty, I suppose.

“It Kills Me” is now making the radio rounds, and while she delivers the song with heart, I think Melanie's nature is more joyful than mournful. For a badboy lament, I’d sooner recommend Keyshia’s classic “I Should’ve Cheated.” And when you really need dark depths, put Amy on. Melanie is more suited to making the best of things.


Beware the evil temptress.


Cute real Melanie. Equally a threat.

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Quotation for Wednesday

I got ice in my veins
Blood in my eyes
Hate in my heart
Love in my mind
I seen nights full of pain
Days of the same
You keep the sunshine
Save me the rain
I search but never find
Hurt but never cry
I work and forever try
But I’m cursed, so never mind
And it’s worse, but better times
Seem further and beyond
The top gets higher
The more that I climb

--my nominee for Poet Laureate, Lil Wayne

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2010: Pursuit of Happiness

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Men Necessary, Alas

I'VE BEEN THINKING about men a lot lately. This is not unusual. I don't mean that any untoward way. Just that I try to understand them, as I try in general to understand people who are different from me. You know--like it's a good mind exercise.

I quite like men. Sometimes they make more sense to me than women. Men like to verbally joust, roughhouse and trade quips, whereas many women seem so delicate and polite that I can't relate. I often imagine there is some soft sisterhood out there to which my application is yet outstanding.

And men usually seem to like me back. So all is swell, right? Alas, no. Because it's always fraught. Probably something to do with sex. Specifically, the conjoined twindom of desire and derision.

Ladies, you probably already figured out, consciously or un, that being an object of desire is a form of power. Conversely, to desire is powerless. So when some guy harasses you in the street, maybe what he's really shouting is that he hates you because he wants you. Come to think of it, how much of sexism is just men trying to reassert power over those who rob them of it? (My research thus far indicates that power is very important to men.)

I often get the vague impression that older men in particular want to think I'm at least a little stupid. And I wonder if that isn't because if I'm cute and younger and smart it's just going to piss them off. I'm thinking, for example, of a co-worker with whom I share undeniable mutual fondness (and respect, or so I thought) who, in venting about his job stress, once remarked that it must be nice to, as receptionist, "just sit there and look pretty."


IT'S EASY FOR heteros of both genders to team up against one another. Like Frenchy telling Sandy that men are amoebas on fleas on rats, or Rowlf singing to Kermit that you can neither live with nor without 'em. The generalized group wielding the power to hurt you makes a ready target. (Man, I guess that's one more way it's a challenge to be gay. Who do you scapegoat?)

I'll say it plain: I've had a lot of men treat me like shit. Enough to make me wonder if there isn't something about me that turns otherwise decent guys into hole-in-wall-punching, insult-yelling, heart-breaking assholes. Not a pleasant thing to wonder.

Surely there are many reasons for this, many of those to do with my own many faults (not least among those many, the fact I think it's my fault [thanks, Dad!]) and just as surely I am one of many, many women to wonder approximately the same thing. (Just for the hell of it, here's that word one more time: many.)

But to unabashedly side with my own sex for a moment...All too often when men treat us this way, it is, once again, a bid for power in a situation in which they find themselves lacking it. When, in addition to a body and a mind that attract them, you possess various skills (kitchen, bedroom, couch, &tc.) that would make them want to stick around...Well, that is power indeed. And it may piss them off. And make them want to cut you down to size by hook or crook--by objectification, by possessiveness, by cultivating dependence, by infidelity, or simply by rejecting you before you ever get the chance.

But ladies, if we're being honest with ourselves we will admit it goes both ways. That a man who attracts us also scares us. And our fear may become self-fulfilling.

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Haters Never Prosper and Obama Totally Deserves the Nobel

You see the hate
That they servin on a platter
So what we gon have
Dessert
Or disaster
--KW

I KNOW WHAT you're thinking. This post is worthlessly untimely; no one cares about a stale opinion. But the blogosphere (what an icky word) gets its parasitic bad rap from all the half-baked, loudly-shrieked opinions that are its burden to publish.

A mind as nimble as inhabits the skull of Frank Rich can dash out brilliant analysis on cue. Paulie's pundit crush, Sully, for another example, had these wise words on the subject of Obama's Nobel immediately. But we can't all be that quick smart.

Better, perhaps, for the rest of us, to think well and then say. Which is something op-ed writers get irritated at Obama for doing. (Maybe because they are deadline-stalked op-ed writers who lack the luxury.) But those radass speeches don't birth themselves overnight; insight requires time and meditation. We could probably stand, as a nation, to slow down and think a little.

The way Obama models this behavior itself qualifies him for a Nobel. I'm not even old enough to know when we became such a fidgety society, always thumbing our electronics, greedy for new inputs. We're unaccustomed and uncomfortable having to wait for anything. But Heinz teaches that the best things come to those who do.

I'll collectively insult us further (I love you all, individually, rest assured) and say we Americans tend to be lazy and only want the sure thing. Obama inspires us to instead reach for greatness. He defies, and makes us want to defy, the pull to spare ourselves the potential pain and humiliation of the whole risk-taking thing.

Haters say he hasn't *done anything*.

Yeah. Except make the whole world believe anything is possible. Slacka-ass-slacka. How much you wanna bet those same weenies saying, What were you thinking, Nobel Committee? were partying hard on election night.


HOW QUICKLY WE forget the unprecedented number of--in Wire terms--plates of shit this guy was handed. Our nation was more royally fucked than it has been in generations and we're peeved he hasn't fixed it in a year.

Sure, there is all-important Policy (see Gene for that), but there is also something intangible and arguably larger. It's called leadership. And he's got it. I have great confidence in Obama's ability to solve the world's problems, because he knows how to wield soft power. His biracial talent for straddling worlds makes him a peacemaker on a grander, subtler scale. I know Obama has made missteps, and he is a politician. But I fully believe he can achieve greatness if we just give the guy some time and a chance.

I would add to Gene's list of rookie year accomplishments the shift Obama has engendered in our national mood. Damned if black people aren't on average cheerier, even if they won't admit it. (And I can't think of an American population more deserving of cheer.) Everyone I know who worked seriously on the campaign was subsequently inspired to aim their lives more toward what Zora Neale Hurston called "far horizon." And when I say Obama makes everyone believe anything is possible--well, I might be projecting. If you doubt this mood shift theory, just try the following exercise: Close your eyes and say to yourself, Bush isn't president. Obama is president. Did your shoulders ease down a bit from that tense position around your neck? I thought they might.


FAIRY TALES ARE a gas to watch, but substantially less fun to live. Political fairy tales are especially hard on the actors, seeing as how they must play out on a huge public stage. Just ask Howard Dean and George McGovern how they feel re: this. Presidential politics is ripe for life-ruining humiliation.

In Protestant work ethic-y America, there is perhaps no greater humiliation than to be exposed as a hopeless dreamer--which is of course ironic considering the whole "American Dream" thing. We love dreams, so we hate them; desire and derision as conjoined twins. (On this see also black people's initial mass rejection of Obama. Note that he is black now.)

But he did it. He had the Nobel balls. He put his own life on the line for us. You know, like Jesus.


SOMETIMES YOU have to keep your own time. Which I think our president understands. He is wise enough to know that when you brood quietly and wait to speak, people listen when you finally do. And that when you stand your own firm ground, rather than swaying reedlike with the winds of polls and pundits, people believe in your leadership.* As well they should.

The truth behind the heaping criticism may be that we are so scarred--not only from the raw gash wounds of the Bush years, but from the thousand cuts inflicted by politicians who perennially abused our trust--that we would be suspicious of next man, good as he looks, no matter what.


*Triple mixed-metaphor word score.

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Who I'm Worshiping Now--THE FICKLE REVERSALS EDITION

I've oft been accused of fickle hero worship. Of course that's hogwash. Anyway, here's


WHO I'M NOT WORSHIPING ANYMORE

Ah, Boomers. Break my heart every time. I only wanted to admire you; is that so much to ask?





...and, to show I'm an optimist, with heart, here's

WHO I'M ONCE AGAIN WORSHIPING




Her freshly book-published essay on Their Eyes Were Watching God makes me say, "She is my sister, and I love her."

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