Guilty pleasure

Even though I am an old man with eight - yes, I counted - gray hairs, from time to time I still like my MTV.

Usually it's for that 10 minutes or so in a day that the channel plays music videos. But tonight I got my fix through the annual Video Music Awards show, broadcast live from the Palms Casino & Hotel in Las Vegas.

What can I tell you? A good vid reminds me of the good old days - the late '80s and early '90s when I wore a flat-top box hair cut and thought my Nissan Hardbody pick-up truck w/the deep dish chrome rims and bass tube behind the seats was the coolest vehicle on the road. That was when videos celebrated success a little more than excess. Those were the days when Red Hot Chili Peppers was the name of a band and not a tabloid headline the day after some singer got caught with his pants down. Those were the days when rockers had big hair and tried to look androgynous because it was cool, not to make a political statement. You knew in those days that rockers partied hard but performed just as hard to earn their keep. And rappers either rhymed about parties and cute girls or scary stuff. And you knew if a rapper rhymed about scary stuff he had either lived it or was offering a cautionary tale. Rockers weren't afraid to sing ballads. An you could play a rock record backwards and you might actually hear something wonky. You could tell country tunes from rock tunes. And if you played a country record backwards, all you got was your wife and your job back, your car started running again, and your favorite hunting dog came back to life. And even if you liked a cup of substance in your pop tunes, when no one was looking you could even bob your head and snap your fingers to a bubble gum beat or a silly lyric and justify doing so by telling yourself "Hey, it's catchy!"

But the funny thing about pop music is it grows up fast. It's like children. One day your kid is wearing Underoos (Do they still make those?). The next he's going commando or she's trying to sneak a thong by you.

And this leads me to Britney Spears. I can't lie. Like a lot of other folks, I'm sure, the main reason I tuned in tonight was to see how she performed.

When it was over, I wanted to laugh, especially after comedienne Sarah Silverman's snarky monologue. But I couldn't.

The performance was slow, the dance moves unsure, the lip-syncing a half second off pace. I'm no music critic. But I can tell you about popular culture. And from what I saw, the biggest problem with Britney's performance wasn't that she lip-synced or danced badly. It was that bubble gum pop, while no more substantive than its ever been, has grown up a little more since the last time Britney released new music. Didn't think it was possible, but in the four years since Britney smooched Madonna on stage at the 2003 VMAs, her genre of music really has passed her by. She's stuck on naughty schoolgirl. The music is somewhere around naughty college girl now.

I feel for Britney a little. Sure she's reportedly still worth more than $75 million, even after divorce settlements. And sure she's mother to two boys who haven't been dropped on their heads in public.

But to paraphrase and "enhance" Sarah Silverman, Britney's only 25 year's old. And, unless she goes to college, starts some religious or charitable ministry, becomes president of the P.T.A., or becomes a U.N. Goodwill Ambassador, she has already done every notable thing that she will ever do. Still, I suppose counting/spending tens of millions the rest of your life isn't the worst way to fade from the public eye.

In the meantime, tonight, I'm gonna log into my Web tunes account, watch some old videos, and reminisce about why in the world I ever thought "fresh" was a good way to describe anything "cool."

What do you call yourself?

I'm not talking your nickname or your last name. I mean your look.

I ask because of this fascinating article. In fact, I suggest you click the link and read the article (should take just a few minutes) before continuing.

In case you don't have time, it's a story done by one of my Herald colleagues as part of a series about the emergence of blacks in Latin America. The series basically suggests that in terms of progress blacks in Latin America they are where black Americans were decades ago. The article linked above though is about how black folks down there loathe the idea of being called black. Some, who had some distant white cousin many generations back, insist on calling themselves white as a matter of prestige. They so strongly believe that there is a negative connotation to "black," that they will call themselves anything else to avoid that label. People with my complexion may call themselves "coffee" or "mocha" colored. Seriously. Many spend big bucks straightening their hair because they believe it makes them look white, and thus prettier.

I have a Haitian friend here in Miami - he's not in the above article - who insists he's not black. His complexion is 3X darker than mine. His hair texture is the same as mine, maybe a little more coarse. But to him, "black" is an American thing. We once were riding along and he started talking to me about "you black people" being this way or that way. I had to make that cartoon screeching sound, interrupt, and ask him to look in a mirror. When I asked, "If you're not black what are you," he answered, "I'm Haitian!" My sarcastic retort was that next time he encountered a blatant racist he should quickly explain to them that in spite of his appearance he isn't black. And that bit of info should lower the walls and make them friends.

And then there's this quote from actress Jessica Alba made to Para Todos magazine, about her ambiguous light brown complexion and how she felt about it as a child: "[Before] I always felt like such an outcast and now I feel like people are more diverse ethnically. I was always self conscience of my puffy lips and darker skin when I was a kid, because I felt like I didn't fit in. And now its mainstream, and color isn't as big of a deal and if anything its better."

Anyway, my colleague's article, my Haitian friend, and Alba's comments made me think of my best friend growing up. I don't want to embarrass the guy, so I won't mention his name. But we attended elementary school together. Then my family moved to Italy. Later, after my family moved back to the States and I was wrapping up high school, we rekindled our friendship. This guy - let's give him the alias of "Joe," for the sake of discussion - was white, with blond hair and blue eyes.

I recall that when we would meet girls at the mall or at the beach, sometimes to mess with them I'd speak in an accent. Naturally, they would ask "what are you?" It wasn't an offensive thing. They were curious. I would drop the accent, to let them know I had been teasing, and I'd immediately answer "I'm black," or "I'm American." I happen to know - and I knew then - that my family's long-distance roots are in the Ivory Coast, in Africa. But it never once occurred to me to blurt out "I'm African!" It just didn't.

My buddy, on the other hand, had family roots in the UK and Australia. But one cousin somewhere down the line was from Northern Italy. So when the girls would ask, "Joe" would answer without hesitation "I'm Italian." He did it, because he thought "Italian" was exotic and the girls would be more impressed with "Italian" than whatever else he could come up with.

Over the years, other white friends of mine unhesitatingly ID'd themselves as "Irish" or "Swedish" or "German," because that's where their family roots lay, even if my friends had never even visited those countries themselves. It never occured to them to just say "I'm white" or I'm "German American" or "Irish American," etc.

I'm no head shrinker. But to this day, I can't explain why I instinctively answered the "what" question with my skin color first, while it never occurred to "Joe" to mention his skin color. He and I talked about this once, when we were grown. In his mind, his skin color was obvious. You could see it. So any questions about what/who he was were bettered answered by his ethnicity.

Makes sense to me.

I know I don't dislike myself, like some of the people in that article linked above. Just the opposite. I've got my faults, but I'm pretty damned comfortable with me. So what's the deal?

If you clicked the link above and read that story (you really should, if you haven't) then you know that there is a particular fixation on straight hair among some blacks in the Caribbean. I can recall growing up in Southeast Virginia my maternal grandmother complimenting the grandkids at weekend barbecues for having "good" hair. Know what that means in Southern vernacular? Straight hair, hair that resembles Caucasian hair. We all took it as a compliment. We were all like "Wow! Grandma says I have the good hair!" I remember laughing till I was crying and rolling on the floor in stitches, as my late grandfather, James Sr., would tell the story of how he and his friends in middle school got their hair "fried, died, and laid to the side," AKA heavily permed so that it would flow and wave like Elvis's mane - sorta like Sammy Davis Jr. did to match the 'dos of his Rat Pack buddies. My grandfather talked about how painful those lye perm jobs were and how he and his young/dumb buddies would practically burn their scalps to achieve this look.

Bananas. A set of clippers, a stiff bristle brush, the occasional dab of moisturizing gel, and my hair is as fancy as it'll ever get...though I admit, when I was in high school I used a couple of the permy concoctions too, to achieve a certain flowing look. I have since developed sense.

OK, at this point I'm just rambling.

But seriously, when someone asks you - if they ever ask you - "what" you are or "where" you're from, if you gather that they mean more than what neighborhood you live in, how do you answer them?

Sold out!

OK, I know I was supposed to post next about religion. But I need to carefully frame what I say in that post - more carefully than normal - so I'm putting that one on hold for another day or so.

Anywho, I walked into a drug store earlier today at the precise moment that an employee yelled to a customer about 30 feet away that the store was out of an item. "It's a sell-out," the employee hollered with a sympathetic smile.

I cringed. Seriously. For a black man, hearing those words is like hearing that you've been walking around with your fly open, or with a length of TP stuck to the bottom of your shoe, only not funny like those things.

"Sell out" is the label that for years has been slapped by pundits, community leaders, some of the cool kids, and underachievers on black men who allegedly have turned their backs on other black folks in the name of currying favor with the rich and powerful.

Lately, one of my favorite writers, Jason Whitlock, a sports columnist for the Kansas City Star, has come under fire from pundits, community leaders, and cool kids. Some have called him sell out. And all have been very, very wrong.

Now, Whitlock needs me to defend him the way Jet Li needs Kung Fu lessons. Not.

But he's getting jabbed by people who are angry with him for telling rappers to clean up their acts and for telling some folks to quit taking their cues for behavior from the entertainment industry.

Whitlock is being accused of being too much like Bill Cosby, as if that's a bad thing, for saying he wants to see black children take pride in their school work and black parents telling their kids that "Stop Snitching" is a T-shirt catch phrase being marketed by a group of punks and shouldn't be taken literally by anyone with good sense.

The anger is misplaced. Whitlock isn't the problem. He's smart enough to know that rowdy hip-hoppers (not all hip-hoppers) and their fans have fallen for the okey-doke. They have bought into the hype that says saggy trousers, shiny teeth, and a practiced snarl make you a man, a tough man to be feared. Whitlock knows that when these kids reach a certain age they won't be "cute" anymore. They'll get tsk-tsked by everyone - black, white, Asian, and Latino - around them. He knows that there isn't a fine line, there is a huuuuuuuuge gap between coming off as cool and coming off as shiftless. And he knows that American society, as a whole, while perfectly content with being entertained by pretend thugs is not yet ready to embrace pretend thugs as everyday people. Whitlock knows that carrying oneself with a little pride and dignity and straight-backed carriage is not a bad thing and has nothing to do with fakin' the funk or losing sight of "who we are."

The real sell outs here are the people - black, white, Asian, and Latino - who are giving mush-headed kids the impression that acting like a knucklehead is synonymous with keepin' it "real." The sell outs are the people who have accepted thug rappers (not all rappers) as icons and elevated them to hero status, while ignoring or scoffing at the young black man who starts a business, or earns a Ph.D, or becomes a teacher, or maybe he does rap or play pro sports, but does so without drama.

You know that line, "I am Spartacus?" Well, this ain't that dramatic. I won't pretend it is. But next time someone wants to call out the Jason Whitlocks of the world for simply saying act right and prioritize, then add me to the list of Whitlocks. It's called buying in, investing in future, not selling out.