A Single Beaded Glove At Jackson Memorial Proves God is in the Detail

A German architect, Mies, used to say of his buildings, "God is in the detail." That's what I thought when I realized watching Michael Jackson's public memorial on Tuesday that the singer's five surviving brothers, serving as pallbearers, each had donned a single, beaded glove.

Rituals and symbols can be so powerful: Broken glass everywhere at a Jewish wedding, the jumping of a broom at another; white-gloved debutantes at a coming-out ball, and veiled second-graders wearing the same on the occassion of a first communion.

Even more than some of the infinitely moving performances - Stevie's plea, John Mayer's instrumental - the sight of the brothers Jackson with their hands sheathed in MJ's signature sequins just seemed the perfect touch.

The Beautiful Life

It is the city that never sleeps, and because Gotham more than lives up to its reputation, every once in a while I find myself fleeing in search of some shut-eye. In South Florida, a slice of paradise, it's easy to become disenchanted with the NY.

The stench of sewage, discarded fast food, and sweaty bodies pressed for space can't compete with the scent of fresh cut grass, maturing fruit, salt water, and wide open spaces.

But on the last Wednesday in June, I skipped across town through Central Park, bypassing the bus, and stumbled upon a fashion shoot for what must have been either an advertisement for jewelry, high-end gloves, or both.

Just below a footpath, I spied a crew, each clad in a distinct industry uniform of black, guiding a very tall, blonde model who was elegantly turned out from the waist up.

A small group of onlookers gathered about them, at street level, as I snapped a few pics on my camera phone. Then, just as soon as they'd set up, they folded the large lighting apparatus, relieved the model of her accessories, and dispersed. In a New York minute, they'd vanished. A fleeting reminder of what makes the city so magical.

Someone's Gonna Love You on a Black Summers' Night

I'm almost afraid to download the entire Maxwell album. Frightened that the disc, BLACKsummers'night, out now after an 8-year respite, couldn't possibly live up to the large expectations set forth by the lingering lead single, "Pretty Wings."

I wish all men got better with time the way this neo-soul singer has. I've had two Maxwell sightings in the last half decade or so. The first was at an Urban Outfitters in the West Village and he was chatty with me when I went up to him giggling and giddy.

The second, last year, in TriBeCa, was just around the corner from the Cary Building where my newspaper's offices were situated.

He had shorn his thicket of locs by now so I had to give a second look, and as he unchained his bike from a railing, I looked again. He seemed serious, far off. I wanted to say something meaningful.

But what? Thank you for recreating Kate Bush's "This Woman's Work"? That Urban Hang Suite was the soundtrack to which I fell in love with a boy and "Reunion" played as it came to a halt?

I said nothing. I watched him mount his bike in dark cargo pants and a ratty black t-shirt, riding down West Broadway, perhaps a version of these lyrics forming in his mind: "If I can't have you/ Let love set you free / to let you flap your pretty wings around."

How to describe his face, every visible muscle? Mmm...he was heartbreakingly handsome, the stuff of sonnets and rambling soliloquies.

Off The Wall and Into Pop Music HIStory...Remembering Michael

Most of us will never know even fleeting fame firsthand. Michael Jackson knew uninterrupted fame, on a global scale, for more than 40 of his 50 years.

And it was a life that was chosen for him, and at an age so tender, that I still wasn't allowed to walk home alone from school at the age when Mike, 11, was fronting his five-man band on the "Ed Sullivan Show."

As a media circus worthy of MJ's Neverland Ranch unfolds in the wake of the death of the King Of Pop, I find that there those who would demonize him - and those who will lionize him.

For the former, Michael's transgressions, including an unpalatable affection for children and young boys, specifically, and a disregard for his own human anatomy, can't be overlooked. They overshadow his contributions and considerable innovation to the point of total eclipse.


To the latter, MJ is both a genius and a victim, as helpless as any child against the parasites who beset him in search of a payday. That he mutilated himself was only proof that The Gloved One was not one of us - he was larger than life. The child molestation charges? Unbelievable. Michael, they argue, was a eunuch, asexual, and thus incapable of anything as ordinary as sexual urges.

I hate to ride the middle, but MJ's legacy calls for perspective. Peter Pan, in his prolonged adolescence, might have withstood his morning wood. But a real-life, 50 year-old man (even bearing the scars of a sad, unusual childhood) would not have. It's "Human Nature."

I don't know for sure what went on during those reported sleepovers, but the singer was at least guilty of terrible judgement and a towering sense of invincibility. It's impossible to separate these acts from his biography.

That said, if Michael had stopped recording after 1982's Thriller, his impact on the pop landscape would still be immeasurable. But the hits kept coming: Bad. Dangerous. HIStory.

For those who complain that Mike hadn't created anything fresh in the last decade, I point to LPs by Usher, Ne-Yo, Chris Brown, Justin Timberlake, Keri Hilson, The-Dream. Should I go on? His imprint is pressed onto all of their projects.

So I'm choosing to focus on the discography, the songs too numerous to rank here: "The Way You Make Me Feel" "Rock With You" "Say, Say, Say"... . It's the one facet of Mike's life that'll remain untainted.



To any fans, who like my brother, E, and our after-school friends, once converged on a basement in red zippered jackets thinking we could make moonwalking magic of our own - I say "Remember the Time."

R.I.P. MJ

Catch a VIBE: For Millions of Readers, Urban Mag Was a 'Rolling Stone'

I don't remember what year it was, maybe 1994, '95, but I recall that this fairly new magazine, VIBE, was featuring an up-and-coming songstress from Yonkers, N.Y., on its cover. Mary J. Blige was a little bit R&B, a little bit hip hop, and all soul. She peered out from the cover that month in a floppy red apple jack hat and a red oversize hoodie. Maybe she even had shades on, that trademark scar flashing back to her hardscrabble roots.

What's the 411? had been certified classic, but My Life, which had just dropped, was truly groundbreaking. It was that issue of VIBE that cemented for me the power not only of music, but of music journalism. We now had our very own Rolling Stone.

I loved that issue (couldn't track it down though; Feb. 2008 pictured, here). It was a demonstration of how a thing could capture all of what you were feeling at a certain moment.

Blige, at the time, was considered a really difficult interview. I remember being in school reading about spats she had with writers, getting drunk with them. But she opened up to VIBE about her personal demons, including addictions to heroin, and her man, K-Ci of '90s R&B band Jodeci.

I read stories like this with relish, but also the reviews, clever sidebars, and gorgeous fashion spreads in the magazine's large-size format (which I often tore and saved).

There would be more iconic covers to come in the next decade and a half: Biggie and Faith coupled up in the back seat; 'Pac and the Death Row clan assuming menacing postures before a dark background; years later, a newly solo Beyonce, drenched, asserting her divadom.

VIBE was where you connected to your musical heroes, particularly at a time before the mediatakeouts made knowing what they were up to as simple as ordering in, and the nahrights made waiting a month for anything seem quaint. Still, even online, the publication proved there was something to be said for having a legacy to stand on.

Quincy Jones now says he wants to buy back the brand he founded and helped build before it succumbed to market forces, and reinvent it online. I had the opportunity to work for a time with the stellar staff at the mag; hope Jones makes good on that.

The Legend (1958-2009)

Brooklyn. Go Hard.

When you've been sick, flying your flag at half-staff, the right theme music can be crucial to getting your stars and stripes in alignment again. On repeat now is Jay and Santigold trading verses on "Brooklyn, We Go Hard." (Please tell me, wtf's harder than this?)

Could be because BK's Woody Allen is celebrating the 20th anniversary of his landmark "Do the Right Thing" this month. (Spike gets feted with a series of events, including an art exhibit devoted to his first feature-length film, "She's Gotta Have It," beginning on June 25.)

Or that Madewell is partnering with Brooklyn Flea this week, unearthing vintage finds and good eats, but I've been in a Brooklyn state of mind.

Now I don't condone chain-snatching, but that reckless mood once translated to bars puts fuel back in my tank and helps prep me for all that I need to accomplish. Go Hard.



Speaking of Jay, what was your take on his D.O.A.? Sour grapes that he didn't hop on the Auto-Tune early or a rap purist's jeremiad? A certain blogging little ant I know thinks the aging rapper is showing his grey;)

On Your Toes: Ballet's Subway Series

If you follow baseball and live in New York, you know that most fans can be divided into two camps: Bombers fans and Mets believers. It's like that with the ballet, too!

With two of the world's most renowned companies functioning mere steps from each other for most of the season at Lincoln Center, one usually pledges allegiance to either New York City Ballet or American Ballet Theatre.

Although I support both, I'm an NYCB girl at heart: Veteran prinicials like Wendy Whelan, Darci Kistler, Maria Kowroski (pictured), and company newcomers like Ashley Bouder are dance's A-Rod and Derek Jeter.

Yesterday, ostenibly the first day of summer although it rained nonstop, caught the final performance of New York City Ballet's spring season. They staged Balanchine's dreamy, comedic, Shakespearean piece, "A Midsummer Night's Dream." At intermission, I gazed at video feed of the costume studio where they stitch up all of those costumes (swoon).

See, it's not just that classical dance so seamlessly combines athleticism and technique, but that it does so with such beauty. Once, I went with my opera singer friend M to collect her paycheck and ended up in the bowels of NYCB's practice space.

Oh, I was a mess. I secretly fingered racks of elaborate tutus belonging to ballets ranging from "Swan Lake" to "Giselle." Soon, these tall, real-life swans began pouring out of rehearsal rooms dressed in equally graceful practice garb, buns plopped atop their heads.

If you want to see for yourself, the impressive ABT's summer season continues into July. Or discover and support your local company, whether you're in West Virginia or the West Indies. Come fall, my plan is to check the Miami City Ballet.

The Prototype

Remember when the prevailing argument was that the hershey-toned fellas got all the love, after years of playing second to their caramel counterparts? That line of thinking ushered in the Tyson (still the champ!)-Mekhi Phifer era.

Black folk have a long-running struggle with our complexions. In 2008, you could still catch an episode of "Tyra" during which panelists debated light-skin vs. dark-skin. There's a lot of (American) history and pain running through that discourse.

Remember Kanye famously announcing he only dates "mutts," his term of endearment for girls of mixed blood? The Yung Berg brouhaha, where he practically resurrected the brown paper bag test? So we haven't all transcended the colonial thinking but the culture is moving forward.



Look, my dating past is checkered with melanin-rich guys, well before it was in vogue. That might be more about some Freudian thing (my dad is a handsome man with skin the color of fudge).

But Black men are beautiful for real, in all their varied glory. I feel like these days there's a consensus on that and it's a good thing. Two of my most crush-worthy, Drake and Andre 3000, pictured here.

Emily Post Would Be Proud, Desiree Rogers

This past winter, I tore out a VOGUE article on Michelle Obama's social secretary, Desiree Rogers. With all of the firsts we were celebrating, this one filled me up more than it probably did the average person.

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood when the NOLA-born Mrs. Rogers is the one presiding over the White House social calendar.

She's generally fabulous and I think, at the risk of sounding traitorous, more naturally stylish in my opinion, than her boss. She's a Wellesly grad and Harvard MBA, but it's not even all about the schooling. I like that elegance and culture (she wants to expand the Obama W.H. modern art collection) can look like her.

Earlier this week, I found this image of her when I was catching up on some reading online. (I promised myself I'd post it today.)

That looks like crisp Mrs. John L. Strong stationary on her desk;)

PSA (Obama Just Signed a Massive Anti-Smoking Bill)

I had to interrupt my regularly scheduled blogging for a quick note: You call it a rant, I'll call it a PSA. I live in a neighborhood where the population has become increasingly dominated by smokers, but it's nearly unbearable when you're under-the-weather and your affliction sits in your throat.

Yes, I'm one of those annoying people who crosses the street, swatting, when I see a smoker approaching. Imagine my surprise when a good friend, who'll remain initial-less, recently ramped up her social smoking into a full-fledged habit.

Would you get up in the morning, fry two eggs and chase it with a glass of ammonia, formaldehyde, and at least 50 other cancer-causing chemicals? Then I don't get why anyone would willingly ingest that toxic combo, exposing everyone else to it in the process.

To say nothing of what it does to the orthodontia over time. It's just a bad, addictive habit, even if you're French rock royalty like Lou Doillon (above, right) or talented rapper Kid Cudi, who left me tossing and turning when I realized he sucks, too.

"The Hills" Are Alive With the Sound of Screeching Girls in TriBeCa

Trekked from my sick bed yesterday to B&N in TriBeCa, stifling a nagging cough and aches, to catch a glimpse of reality queen bee Lauren Conrad. It just seemed worth it after so many seasons of critiquing her.

Got there about 15 minutes before 7pm only to learn from a B&N clerk that 600 wristbands had been distributed. So I bought a copy of "L.A. Candy" and hoped L.C. would be willing to Jane Hancock it.

Got in line with everyone from hair-tossing college freshman and itty bitty tweens to Uptown-sounding Dominican girls and gum-smacking black girls. The queue snaked its way around rows and rows of shelves, from International Travel and Medicine to Diet, Relationships, and Study Aids.

Finally, after more than two hours (during which I nearly gave up several times only to be prodded back into place by a band of fans), we could see her. Seeing Conrad in person made it clear that all the fawning is probably about a veneer of perfection she projects. Not a hair out of place, two hours of scribbling her signature and she was just as seemingly sweet and cheery when I got up to her, #620 in line.

Where her co-stars and Hollywood peers often seem to be fucking up face-forward, she has a certain dignity and decorum. Her onscreen insistence that her friends follow suit can make her seem prissy and uptight, even cold, but in fact I think she's clear about where her personal boundaries are.

I know a guy who when we first met told me I looked like the kind of girl who walked around with a list in my pocket outlining the things I would and wouldn't do. Hated that assessment, but maybe it's accurate. L.C., with her flawless manicure and polished exterior, worked as the moral center of that show; and she probably has a list, too, lol.

So I told her she looked great, and she gave me a raspy "Uh! Thank You!" and quick chatter. I was going to rant about how she CLEARLY didn't write this book, how she has a BOOK DEAL, but ol' girl just seems charmed.

Adult Swim

I'm in love with the swimwear from designer Yodit Eklund's Bantu line. The collection of women's and men's pool apparel, created entirely in Ethiopia (to help sustain textile industry jobs), features bold patterns and prints that are fashioned in lycra but echoing Bamako wax cloth fabric designs. I'm several crunches away from rocking the bikinis, but the one-piece seen here (bantuwax.com) is fancy with an aura of a Capetown getaway.

The Ex-Factor

When I started this blog in 2005 (followed by a long-ass hiatus, lol), I had it subtitled as Black Girl Found. My first post was about Lauryn Hill, who I believed to be the ultimate Black Girl Lost. At the time, I speculated that Lauryn's problems went beyond heartbreak, but hearing this week that she'd canceled a slew of overseas shows scheduled for this summer, I paused to reconsider. I'm just not ready to give up on this icon.

If you're an artist and you and your bandmate prove to be the visionaries behind a disc that goes on to sell 18 million+ copies, no one should be surprised when you fall for him, no, surrender to him, and vice versa. Because the energy required to create things can be a heady force. Add that to love and romantic attraction, and well...

So does Lauryn's continued inability to handle the glare of the spotlight ultimately come down to the ex-factor? I was decimated when the relationship with the guy I'll call my Super ex-Boyfriend was terminated. When I met him, it was like Jay's "Moment of Clarity," I thought to myself, "Damn, that man's face [is] just like my face." Not literally, but in all the ways that seemed to matter.

There are always the rumors that L.Boogie's broken, clandestine affair with producer-bandmate Wyclef is not only the inspiration for her five-Grammy Award-winning "The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill" (2008) but also at the root of her undoing.

The end of that reportedly tumultuous relationship opened her up to meet Rohan Marley and, in effect, to gain entry into one of the most illustrious musical dynasties in the Marley clan. But still, more turmoil and no signs of a sophomore album.
Last year, on the 10-year anniversary of her seminal LP, Rohan gave an interview explaining that all was well with L, she was just feeding her maternal appetites.

But I think that what L allowed 'Clef to dismantle in her, might have been finished off by the way in which she gave herself over to Rohan. When creative people come together, it can either ignite a flame or it can unleash a beast that exposes mutual insecurities and demons. I learned in the years since that you have to take what you learn from men like that and let it bear fruit elsewhere. You build yourself back up and make room for someone who wants you whole and lets you come as you are. Until L learns that lesson in love, I doubt we'll hear from her.

Desperately Seeking a Roll of Rubber Bracelets

I was too little to see "Desperately Seeking Susan" (1985) when it came out and I never got around to seeing it on a Netflix/newtwork television type of occasion until last week. Never even knew what the plot was, only that Madonna was in it. But I could hardly pay attention to the action (bored housewife gets amnesia and wrongly thinks she's the free-spirited Downtown girl played by Madge), what with all the black rubber bracelets, oversize hair-bows, and lace bustiers. I don't know why 80s fashion, which is having a major resurgence, gets such a bad rap. It wasn't all shoulder pads and neon, people! Pre-Giuliani New York gets top billing here too for nostalgic New Yorkers.

The Bachelor

I figured I should round out this batch of wedding-themed posts and call it a trilogy of sorts. "The Hangover," from the director who brought you "Old School" is ridiculous. It's wrong for a movie about a bachelor party gone horribly wrong (or right?) to be that funny, down to the raunchy-ass closing credits.

And if you live in New York City, you've already come to terms with the sticker shock at your local cineplex: They're really charging $12.50 for a movie?

By this time, you've already seen the trailer, so I'll give a quick synop: Two days before his wedding day, "Doug"'s best friends and brother-in-law cook up a plan for him to have one anything-goes night in Vegas. So the four drive from L.A. to Vegas in Doug's father-in-law's Benz. Once there, they end up in a splashy villa, where they sneak onto the hotel roof for a (HILARIOUS!) toast over shots of Jager - and the plot works its way backward from there.

Bradley Cooper is sooo bad, yet so sexy (he plays the cad to perfection nearly every role), and chubby, bearded actor Zach Galifianakis needs his own movie.

In Other 'Wedding' News...The-Dream Proves He Doesn't Always Use the 'Right Side of His Brain'

In the old days, back when movies were so new, they were still tagged with the somewhat awestruck moniker "motion picture," Hollywood's Studio system ruled over its brightest superstars like a fiefdom. From about the 1920's to the 1950s, during what's commonly referred to as the Golden Age in filmmaking, studio heads at places like MGM were known to dabble in matchmaking for the benefit of bigger box office.

So, say, Marilyn Monroe and Tony Curtis are about to open Some Like It Hot (1959), the geniuses in the marketing department wouldn't be shy about pushing those two together, at least on the red carpet, and letting the public come to its own conclusions. What's more enticing than the possibility that the chemistry happening onscreen between a couple - is also happening offscreen?

When I heard the rumor that The-Dream and his so-called muse, Christina Milian (can she inspire anything but weak record sales?) were engaged, it made me think of the cynical Hollywood studio system practice of pairing for publicity. I don't care how many staged paparazzi pics (see them above, trying their best Jay-Z and Beyonce, awful blonde 'do and all) I see of these two, I just don't buy it. It's impossible to listen to The-Dream's five-star Love vs. Money and not read into it that this is a male songwriter in love with the idea of love.

My guess is that he can project a whole lot onto whoever he finds himself with and then work it back into hits for himself and others (Hear "Umbrella," "Single Ladies," "Right Side of My Brain"). In an interview he gave to VIBE this year, he talked about how he tried to massage a hunger for greatness from his first wife, singer Nivea. Maybe he thinks he'll win with Milian where he failed with Nivea in several respects, but this has a stench about it...

To Have and To Hold Onto

I know it'll sound like a cliche, the way celebrity stunners always cluck about their ugly duckling teen years, but I've never been one of those girls who spends a lot of time fantasizing about my wedding day. I haven't logged a zillion page views on The Knot, secretly cast my bridal party, and I can't tick off the various cuts of diamond engagement rings, in fact I had to be convinced by a friend that it isn't abusive to expect my future one-and-only to stash three months' of his hard-earned salary to buy me an icy ring.

Why not put that toward a reception for our families, particularly my vast extended? Or the down payment on our Brooklyn apartment? Why not even toward the furnishings, eliminating the need for a guest-funded registry. I basically thumbed my nose at bridal magazines, in favor of the $385 silk faille numbers from J.Crew.

My theory has been that practicality and self-sacrifice in wedding makes for endurance in marriage, like carbo-loading before a marathon instead of gorging on junk. Look at my maternal and paternal grandparents who were so exemplary, I thought - married, smart, and playful into their golden years and seemingly perfectly meshed and matched - and none had Four Seasons affairs. Just Supermen who'd found Superwomen.

But this doesn't mean that I haven't spent time dwelling on my future marriage. And with my friend G's wedding to her great hubby-to-be set to unfold in just a few hours on the Lower East Side, the subject is at the front today.

Like most people I've had the benefit of watching several, varied unions play themselves out over the course of my growing up. Some of them unfortunately flawed to the point of dysfunction, but nearly all I suppose, entered into through the same swarm of butterflies and uncooked rice that mark newly taken vows.

So along the way, I've tried to figure out what dooms some couplings. If only they'd focused on what was important, on connecting. My unconventional thinking had it that Bloomberg's spruced-up City Hall marriage bureau could be just as memorable, and maybe even imbue the proceedings with the necessary seriousness.

But in truth, there's no vaccine against a faltering marriage, no shots to take, no potions to imbibe. You watch your parents and build toward or against their blueprint. And the details matter less to me now: A 21-gun salute or 21 of your nearest and dearest, as long as there's love in the air. ... The secret to something enduring lies elsewhere. In the meantime, I'm very happily tossing rice.

'I Hope I Get It!'

We did what we had to do..won't forget, can't regret what I did for love.

My friend V, and so many others like her, is the embodiment of that Edward Kleban lyric from the musical A Chorus Line. And it was life imitating art when I went to see her onstage in Lynn Nottage's Pulitzer Prize-winning play set in the Congo, Ruined.

V is an understudy, covering the roles of Mama Nadi, a tempermental brothel owner with a weakness for Belgian chocolat and Josephine, one of Mama's gyrating working girls employed to service soldiers from the country's warring militias. On the night we saw her at the Manhattan Theatre Club at City Center, she was making her MTC stage debut in the role of Mama Nadi.

As a theatergoer, I had two simultaneous experiences happening: For one, I was seated next to actor John Lithgow watching my childhood friend give a compelling performance that mined humor to tell a story rife with brutality - in the same venue where I'd paid (okay, and a few press comps) to see countless New York City Ballet shows. But on another level, it was the full realization that my friend is a Fordham- and NYU- trained, working actress.

There are tables in restaurants all over Manhattan being bussed by aspiring actors who would give a year's worth of tips for the chance to give the performance she was giving.

Which brings me to life imitating art: A few weeks back, I caught a showing of Every Little Step at the Lincoln Plaza Cinemas on 62nd Street and Broadway. This must-see documentary for not only theater-buffs, but for anyone who's ever dreamed big, chronicles the near yearlong process of casting the 2006 revival of A Chorus Line. It opens with archival footage from the 1970s of the musical's wizard, choreographer and director Michael Bennett.

Bennett had this idea to gather the stories of the stage dancers who eke out a living on the stage, against all odds, and set them to a narrative. That of course became the long-running 1974 production. Bennett's co-coreographer, the charming Bob Avian, is still kicking and appears in the docu, overseeing the casting of the 2006 rendition. Not only do you you meet many of the players who originated the parts, but you follow their modern-day counterparts living in shitty walk-ups, FIGHTING for these roles, some in their 40s still waiting for that big break.

You watch auditions, call-backs, as well as the call-backs that never come. Every time "God, I Hope I Get It" starts to play, you get goosebumps. And you'll be mouth agape once you realize that the understudy is about to steal the role out from under one of the intended leads.

I was emotional and yet energized, not to mention determined to support the theater far more than I have been. I highly recommend both the play running until June 28 (V's back onstage June 5-7) and the documentary.

Black Girls Reign Supreme

Black Girls Rule. But then you knew that already, lol! Trace magazine's annual BGR! issue is always a triumph in magazine publishing to me. With Keri Hilson now fully hitting her mark, I went and downloaded the August 2008 issue when she covered. The issue is chock full of treats, including guest editor Spike Lee, whose Do the Right Thing celebrates its 20th anniversary this year, a piece on a pre-White House Michelle Obama, my man Nas! modeling, profiles on up-and-coming soul singers you oughta know, and crazy fashion spreads. This one's for my fellow mag junkies.

Roc (and Warner) Boys in the Building

Of course you've heard by now that Jay is officially a free agent, having given the salute to Def Jam Recordings, where he served briefly as president and released the bulk of his catalog under the Roc-A-Fella imprint. His Live Nation deal was historic, and now he's shopping for distribution homes for other projects, rumor has it.

It's amazing to me that Mr. Carter still gets the Joe Camel jokes. Hasn't he transcended that? I kinda like married Jay with his hair grown out, lol, and can even take the overdone-geek-goggles. Obviously, the MC isn't impervious to the jabs, as he's alluded to them in song (Used to tell they friends I was ugly, they wouldn't touch me/Then I showed up in that dubbed out Buggy...-"Song Cry" or All the wavy-light-skinnned girls is loving me now..."December 4th").

I always, always thought his talent and intellect trumped his lack of leading man looks. He's just interesting and soft-spoken (not quiet, which isn't an attractive quality for me in a guy) and curious. Strip away the franchise deals, the Hewlett Packard spots, the 40/40 clubs and so on, he'd still be a force just being that dude sitting behind you in an English lit class.

I like this 'power moves' flick of him with cigar-chomping Warner Music Group Chairman and CEO Lyor Cohen (Lyor IS a sexy older man; the only time I've ever seen him in person, he sat behind me at a screening of Ray and I was absolutely star-struck)... Back-room dealing.

'Gossip Girl' for '80s Babies

Teen sitcoms written by adults (aren't they always?) can go very badly (think melodramatic The O.C. with a vacant Mischa Barton) or rather well (like Dawson's Creek, which launched a couple of young Hollywood careers.) And as I've mentioned before, I'm a card-carrying Gossip Girl fan, from the fashion to the soundtrack to the scripts, loves it. I was excited to hear that it was getting its own prequel/spinoff set in 1980s Los Angeles. But after network upfronts, the fate of the still-untitled show is still in limbo; fingers crossed.

Not only would I get to indulge in eighties fashion porn ranging from stirrup pants to lace gloves and tutus, but I'd get a peek at a city I don't know much about, save for an ill-fated trip I took a few years ago thinking I'd rekindle the love with my already-ex-boyfriend. His California was as glossy as it looks in the InStyles and US Weeklys, from the Chateau Marmont to Robertson Boulevard. But there's an underground L.A., too, with a thriving music and fashion scene, and I think the writers aim to capture that - only 20 years earlier.

Brittany Snow (pictured, left, with Krysten Ritter) will play Lily Rhodes, mother of GG socialite Serena van der Woodsen, in all her fab teendom. Lily flees her posh Santa Monica boarding school to join her "rebellious" sister on the Sunset Strip. I hear Lily has some Almost Famous moments, giving up the groupie love, and that's how she eventually encounters GG's veteran rock star, Rufus.

Def Leopard

What is it with the color pink? The photographer Naila Reuchel has even devoted an entire recent series to it. I personally can't shake the rosy hue and yesterday I hit an all time low when I spotted this pair of Pink Leopard Heart flats ($119.00) from Marc by Marc Jacobs. I shoved, manuevered, squeezed as hard as I could trying to fit the only pair that was even within a shoe horn of fitting, to no avail. My fixation with the color doesn't really extend to clothes but everything from an apron to an eraser in blush is making me pretty delighted right now. And some Cinderella with a size 7 foot is going to be just as happy soon.

A Summer Reading List for 'The College Dropout'

Good lawd. Do you know what it's like to defend an artist at nearly every turn, from his wardrobe choices to his artistic output only to have him spew the indefensible? Kanye West, whose upcoming 52-page "book" is titled Thank You and You're Welcome!, had this to say in an interview with the Reuters news wire this week:

"I am not a fan of books. I would never want a book's autograph. I am a proud non-reader of books. I like to get information from doing stuff like actually talking to people and living real life."

Since his mother, the late Donda West, a university professor on English literature, isn't here to steer her son toward a book shelf (or even a Kindle!) and away from the Louis Vuitton store, I've taken it upon myself to compile a summer list to help relieve The College Dropout of some of his foolishness.

During my freshman year, I enrolled in a senior-level university course called the African Novel taught by Professor Janice Mays. In that class, Prof. Mays, a Rubenesque Southern black woman with majestic locs and a gap-toothed smile who wore caftans most days, introduced me to some of the texts that I've gone on to re-read since. In the words of Marvin, I say, "Here, My Dear":


Chinua Achebe's Things Fall Apart: Rap icons and Late Night band The Roots know about Achebe's 1958 masterwork and fellow rapper 'Ye should, too. Achebe shines a light on pre- and post-colonial life in Nigeria, focusing on Okonkwu, a champion wrestler and all-around Alpha Ibo male who gets driven into exile as missionaries and colonialists make their way in.

A Walk in the Night (And Other Stories) by Alex La Guma (1968). This book of short fiction is a South African gangsta tale of sorts that gets off to a quick start and never lets up. La Guma's Michael Adonis has just been fired from his factory job for going in on his white boss, after the supervisor unjustifiably accuses him of laziness. Adonis is furious, unemployed and descends into a Cape Town underworld populated by thugs, ne'er-do-wells, and prostitutes. La Guma, a political activist, wrote the book in secret while under house arrest.


The Group by Mary McCarthy (1963). The author's machete-sharp satire of New England society and the Ivy League follows a group of eight girlfriends just as they graduate from Vassar. It's 1933, and the ladies find themselves chafing against entrenched values about marriage, work, sexual pleasure, child-rearing. West seems fascinated with college life; he should be thoroughly entertained.

Nawaal El Saadawi's Woman at Point Zero. Set in the 1970s, a reluctant high-end prostitute, Firdaus, living in Egypt stages a one-woman feminist revolt that lands her on Death Row for killing a man. Offered a pardon, she declines, deciding instead to tell her incredible backstory.

Few authors courted controversy like James Baldwin did in his day. Kanye should appreciate the work of this kindred spirit and lion of 20th century American literature. Another Country (1962) tells the story of Rufus Scott, a self-loathing 20-something Harlemite and jazz musician, who commits suicide after he falls for a fragile, white Southern woman, Leona. The books spans New York, and 'Ye's favorite city, Paris, among other locales.

Getting Nail-ed

One summer my friend A and I worked a camp counseling job pulling a paycheck that felt like making it rain every week on schedule. (I don't think that check would even buy brunch at Balthazar these days, lol.) We bought makeup, CDs, piles of candy, sneakers... But one of my favorite splurges that season was getting acrylic tips for the first time at a Long Island nail salon. Pastel lavender and yellow were my signatures. Now I've been revisiting that palette sans tips, in bolder canary yellows and deep blues and greens from Essie and Opi. I say if you can pull off nail art, go for it. I give Rihanna's look here thumbs.

Lauren Conrad Exits Stage Left on 'The Hills'

After five seasons as the willing, main character in a real-life Truman Show, The Hills' Lauren Conrad begins a two-part farewell tonight. While Conrad has had it with living her life on-camera, her publicity-loving co-stars will continue on, with Conrad's Laguna Beach nemesis, Kristin Cavalleri, filling the void.

In 2006, Women's Wear Daily reported that the hen-pecked L.C. had been offered a shot at solo fame. On MTV's Laguna Beach, Lauren had been the poor little rich girl from "the Real Orange County," thwarted at every turn by the brassier, blonder California Queen Bee Kristin. L.C. was her high school's prom queen-manquee. A move to Los Angeles and a coveted internship at Teen Vogue would give her a chance at reinvention.

When you think about it, it's pretty fascinating that a 17-year-old girl would choose to live out some of the most tumultuous years in a girl's life on a half-hour block of weekly programming, from LB to The Hills.

My cousin, a Family Guy (Fox) fanatic, put me on to a hilarious recent episode titled "We Love You, Conrad," in which the family's well-bred, intellectual canine, Brian, starts dating L.C. only to dump her when he discovers that she's practically a rocket scientist simply playing an airhead for ratings. Hearing the voice of the real L.C. spout off about molecular biology and historic American military battles was just genius. Of course, that epi was as scripted as her own show. If only L.C. and those O.C. chicks were a band of closet sophisticates!

Lauren traded in her anonymity for serious spoils. How many interns do you know appear on the cover of the publication they're toiling for? Conrad also became a spokesmodel for AVON's youthful Mark collection, launched a subpar clothing line that sold at exclusive boutiques, and recently signed a book deal.

Lauren and her clan were fast becoming household names, yet onscreen, MTV producers gave no hint of the paparazzo-magnets their stars had become. A bold experiment in 'reality' TV would have followed her rising celebrity and the ensuing debacles instead of the Heidi-and-Spencer nonsense that wore thin over several seasons.

On TV, Lauren worked as a glorified intern at Teen Vogue's West Coast offices, giving us a peek into the fashion closet and letting us tag along to a couple of high-profile balls in L.A. and Paris but not much else. Friends came and went - and boys were often the culprit: Remember Jen 'Bunny'?

Enrolled at the Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising, L.C. displayed no particular gifts or skills in fashion or any other field. And those morning-after post-mortems when Lauren in the company of Whitney or Audrina or Lo re-capped the previous night's action were often excruciating to watch: no witty banter or insight, but lots of Chanel and Marc Jacobs.

I think the real action now will be off-camera, as Conrad - and her collection of headbands - exits stage left, to rediscover life without a voiceover. I tuned in initially for the same reason I tuned into The WB's Felicity in the early-00s. I'm just a sucker for a storyline that affords its heroine a second act.

Jeremih vs. Jeremiah: Ladies, Sex or Soul on Your Birthday?

This past week I sat in on a concert at Triad, an intimate performance spot on 72nd and Columbus. A Rochester, N.Y., native, singer/songwriter Jeremiah was trying out new material, and to fete his impending born day he'd baked red velvet cupcakes, which he shared with concertgoers.

As tasty Birthday pastry went around the room, a few blocks south at Def Jam Recordings, another singer by the name of Jeremih was celebrating a birthday of another kind: With 16,000 digital copies and counting sold of his single "Birthday Sex" in just the first few weeks of its release, the 21-year-old Chicagoan had a (soon-to-be) certifiable hit on his hands.

After opening with a cut called "Promises," a warm-up that ran perhaps too long and too slowly, Jeremiah laid out a handful of new songs. During a short set with the unstoppable Jay Fenix on keys, my thoughts kept circling back to the unpredictable nature of the music industry. I wanna share with you something like the coldest story ever told...

The classically-trained Jeremiah boasts a multi-octave range, has performed at landmark spots like the Blue Note and Joe's Pub, and released the 2006 album Chasing Forever (Siri), from which the video for the Shanice-duet "Love for a While," still plays on VH1 Soul. And he projects star quality: Onstage, he was charming, trading talk and banter with the crowd and was funny as all get-out.

"Out of Tune With Love," an unintended commentary on the pervasive use of Auto-Tune, found Jeremiah hamming it up and bravely singing so off-key that it was actually hot! He outsang Beyonce during his version of "Halo," even as he flubbed the lyrics. Then he spliced a rendition of Kanye's "Heartless" into his own mid-tempo "Foolish Heart," a much-needed nod to The Billboard 200 that this balladeer, who counts among his influences Nina Simone and Anita Baker, has previously avoided during his live concerts. But after grinding in NYC for a couple years now and seeming to be close to a breakthrough, that closing-on-Jay Leno-type success remains out of reach for now.

Who knows the vagaries of show business? Then there's Jeremih, who also writes and plays, and who has said he feels like he's "cheating" by dropping a single so coarsely radio-ready, describing what he does on "Birthday Sex" not as singing, but "melodically speaking." The Def Jam rookie is the cousin of Day 26's Will and he stretches a bit more on "My Ride"; and on album in stores June 30). But I would argue that Jeremiah packs more gift in his musical box than does his urban-pop namesake.

With lyrically-driven ballads like the tear-jerking "Go" and "Turn the Light On," Jeremiah makes gentlemanly music that often defies easy categorization, heavy at times on jazz, dabbling in folk, AC, and pop. Thing is, many (female) consumers want to make love in this club. They crave the pain, the make-up sex (yes, even the birthday sex), the Confessions, the blues. A soundtrack long on chivalry but short on pounding sensuality can suffer in the mainstream marketplace for "black music," in particular. Again, who knows for certain the equation for making it in the age of the $1.29 MP3? But I think there's room for that dude who brings something other than the business on your birthday. Do you?

A Sartorialist Salve

It Happened One Night

This past week, I was on the scene with a friend who I often teasingly call C.Lo cause she's like a younger J.Lo in style, look, and general go-get 'em. We met up with colleagues of hers at L.E.S. spot Stanton Social. Over mango Champagne sparklers, we talked shop, music, men. We moved on to the next spot, but it wasn't until the wee hours that I discovered that not only were these accomplished music industry women, but one, Maria Christensen, is responsible for writing the one Jennifer Lopez song that I have long described as timeless. So among incomparable NYC encounters, this ranked pretty high.

The Grammy Award winner in 2000 for Best Dance Record, "Waiting for Tonight" is a heat-seeking dance burner. A girl stands in celebration of the moment she's imagined in her head, rehearsed, lost sleep over. He may disappoint her the next morning, but this night will live up to expectations. I have played this song on vacations in Miami, getting prepped for events when I needed to look extra splashy, and just as a kind of performance-enhancing drug (the song drips sensuality).

Have you seen the companion video? You cannot but get lifted: It's 1999, and a glowing Jen (remember spending your P/T job cash on Victoria's Secret Body Glitter?!) is at the center of a giant rave minutes from the clock striking the double 00s. This is Jennifer Lopez at her prime in my opinion; she's post Fly Girls, in the throes of love with Puff, she's seeing big budget movie scripts. The Bronx, N.Y., girl who rode to dance classes On the 6 has made good on her dreams. If you haven't seen the clip in a while or if it's been a minute, click through.

Once Damaged, Funky Divas Reunite

A music producer holds auditions to assemble an R&B group; girls from around the country show up, and eliminations follow before a few winsome singers are selected. Their first album is a crossover hit and the disc is certified platinum. Label politics, jealousy, in-fighting, empty bank accounts, and a headstrong member who drops (or is pushed) out of the group leads to its dissolution. Sound familiar? Nope, it's not the Making the Band tale of how Diddy created Danity Kane.

Producer Denzil Foster and his partner, Thomas McElroy, had stars and dollar signs in their eyes when they settled on four supremely talented singers, with looks to match, to build a Supremes-style group c.1988.

Cindy, Dawn, Maxine, and Terry (l-r, top, 2008). In 1990, En Vogue's award-winning album Born to Sing was a runaway hit, and every grade school girl wanted to be them. Maybe you even fought over who got to be rebellious Dawn or perky Cindy in your homemade singing act? Did you practice singing "Hold On" into your Goody hairbrush, straining to strike the notes on the Jackson 5-sampled "Who's Loving You" intro? The harmonies were lush, spine-tingling, so pitch-perfect, I doubt Destiny's Child could stand in the booth with them.

Harmony on wax didn't translate to harmony offstage, though; by the late 1990s, even with stacks of hits to their credit, the group had imploded. Dawn became a member of Raphael Saddiq's Lucy Pearl after her Aftermath Records release failed to take off. The quartet changed its lineup over the years, but by then music had passed En Vogue by.

Now on the 20th anniversary of the release of their classic debut, the ladies are poised for a reunion tour. On Sunday, May 10, they'll take the stage in NYC, reportedly as, yes, a camera crew follows for a reality TV docu.

For this black girl, R&B girl groups were about more than music for me. Outfits like En Vogue represented a kind of high glamour that was appealing because I could relate and aspire to it. They chose heels over Timbs, minis over baggy jeans (left, 1992). Moreover, unlike most of the faces I saw in the 17 and Glamour mags I was so addicted to, these faces looked like mine. It must "feel good to be grooving again."

xoxo...It's Blitz

Spotted. The single "Runaway" from alt-rockers the Yeah Yeah Yeahs closing out the April 20 epi of Gossip Girl.

The haunting cut from their third, recently released album, "It's Blitz," is sung with that eerie steadiness by perennial fashion muse and frontwoman Karen O (above). It was the perfect sonic backdrop for season 2's "Seder Anything" episode. The drama unfolded over a Passover meal served at queen bee Blair Waldorf's.

If for some reason, you haven't been glued to GG on a recent Monday night (Maybe you're grinding at a good spot? Cheering your team in the NBA Finals?), then you're missing some of the sharpest writing left on the little screen, not to mention the work of music supervisor Alexandra Patsavas; the show deserves a post of its own (stay tuned). Meanwhile, as long as you know the Gossip principals, it's easy to catch up.
xoxo, Black Girl Named Becky

Chrisette Michele Has an 'Epiphany'

Just as there are several ways to skin the proverbial cat, a click of the radio proves there are many ways to throw in the towel on a doomed affair. Once upon a time, it was to the left, to the left. This year, Central Islip hometown girl (I see you L.I.!) and Def Jam signee Chrisette Michele is making it simple with "Epiphany (I'm Leaving)" the first single off her sophomore album of the same name, due
May 5.

As if the syrupy farewell wasn't enough, the companion video features Drake, flexing his acting chops again, as Chris's cheating ex. This is a singer/songwriter who has mustered only a kind of quiet success; she lacks the grit of a Keyshia Cole, Keri's kittenish approach, or Beyonce's power pipes and predictability. But if Chris can cut through the increasingly rigid standards and practices that dictates what an R&B songstress should sound and look like, she just might get it. A little more noise might push her over, too.

Picture Us Married: Nas, Kelis D-I-V-O-R-C-E

Isn't this the picture of marital bliss? When Nas and Kelis first hooked up back in '02, it was, as they relayed it to VIBE magazine in June 2003, kismet. “At the afterparty [for the MTV Video Music Awards], I met my girl,” Nas told VIBE. Kelis added: “Everyone moves out of the way, and Nas stands up, and I put my hand out, and I’m like, Hey, I’m Kelis. And he goes, ‘Who?’… So I’m crawling into a fucking hole, and he’s like, ‘Wait-huh? What’s your name? And I’m like, Kelis, and he’s like, ‘Oh, well that’s great, because I’ve been waiting to make you my wife all these years.’”

And it probably should have come as no surprise that the Queensbridge MC had matrimony on the mind. On his 1999 I Am, Nasir rapped to his would-be wife on "K-I-S-S-I-N-G":

I see you dressed up in white, face covered in veil
Do I hear wedding bells? My dogs throwin rice

And it's the day that your father give you away
to a real man that gently put the ring on your hand

Do we vow to stay faithful? Do more than try to
Now, look me in my eyes and say I do

Dare we look to lyrics for signs or symbolism? Rumor has it Nas couldn't stay faithful to his 7-months pregnant wife, but really only those two know what differences became irreconcilable. In hip hop, we often hold up our celebrity couples as a glossy version of our own relationships, giving Beyonce and Jay-Z the US Weekly treatment when they're courtside at a Knicks game, applauding Nelly and Ashanti for making it exclusive. The same went for Nas and Kelis, who scrapped a reality TV show for MTV after only a few unaired episodes, reportedly because their union was just too good and ordinary - no meddling parents and tug-of-rope over fame like the original Newlyweds.
But I Do is easy, I suppose. I Do forever is another story.