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.

Up Late Night, Blogging Like I'm On Patrol

Okay, I have Kanye on the brain these days. So a few candid reasons why: Because he wore a classic blue denim jacket this past winter so well that I almost wept for the Banana Republic men's version I'd given to Goodwill a couple years ago. Because he really is inexplicably sexy in a plain white tee in the Keri Hilson video for "Make Love." And because I love how vulnerable he sounds on "RoboCop" off his 808s & Heartbreak. "Okayyyy / okay, okay?" [giggles] But I also love the sweeping orchestral arrangement on that cut.

Last year, for a small piece I was writing, I had the pleasure of sitting in on New York Philharmonic rehearsals, during which conductor Lorin Maazel shook that baton at his orchestra. (One of the perks of being a New Yorker is that a few times a year the public can purchase $15 tickets for this experience.) The music on Kanye's lament brings me back to the intensity and pulsing emotion of those opening night rehearsals.

Let Me Ride

This past weekend marked the closing of the Queens Museum of Art's Q14 group exhibit. The museum, just a stone's throw from the temple-like CitiField, hosted eye-catching pieces by young artists living or working in Queens, from the superb photographer Justine Reyes, who showed part of her ongoing "Guayabera" portrait series, to Ryan Humphrey, whose "Fast Forward" (2009, DCKT Contemporary) featured 100-foot bike ramps mounted inside the museum and real bike pros doing demos on them, as well as artfully painted dirt bikes hanging on the facing wall like fine art.

Because the QMA knows how to throw a party on a sunny day, there was food, drinks, Mister Softee, and free bike and boat rentals. Of course, I had to get on, but not before stopping to admire the fresh bikes (a mini garden, a stocked pantry, and gleaming chrome were just a few of the attractions built onto bicycles). And the Indo-Caribbean bike gang from Richmond Hill, parked on tricked-out lowriders and giving the gangster glare? Not so menacing once you realized they were packing bike locks not heat. If you're one of those people whose mantra when it comes to art is, "Brooklyn Everyday," you should hop the 7 train soon.

The Notebook

The neighborhood I live in exposes me to more than my fair share of Asian kitsch. So instead of, say, blocks of stores peddling African sculpture and shea butter like you might find on Lenox Ave. in Harlem, I wake up to Morning Glory. The Korean outpost offers a cornucopia of prepubescent Hello Kitty pencil cases, Chococat hair ties, and tote bags.



Whether it's my hard-knocking nostalgia that kicks in every time I set foot in one of these stores (my mom indulged my H.K. jones like crazy when I was little! Stickers, stationery, erasers, toothbrushes), or just that there's something so cheerful about the color pink, I don't know. But I stay up whenever I'm browsing. The 11-year-old girl in me has taken to collecting quirky notebooks ($0.99-$3.50), with price tags that are much more palatable than the to-die-for Sanrio/NEC notebook PCs (above) sold in Japan only. My perference is for bound not spiral, lined not blank, and they have to be pint-size and skinny (clutch-worthy). The one I'm jotting ideas in now is plain blush with the words 'PINK IS SWEET' on the cover.

Ladies Crack a Bottle With Ray J

First of all, let's clear the air and just admit that you were watching VH1's champagne-soaked dating show For the Love of Ray J. Yes, I know, I know, you could barely get through two episodes of geriatric Flav blessing all manner of badly weaved-up strippers and would-be candy girls with his gold-plated clocks. But real talk, you watched it, and probably A Real Chance at Love, too. Maybe it's that when it comes to escapist fare like this, network television's counterprogramming has been so slow to recognize that black men (with enough encouragement) will spend a few dollars on Roses. Shows like The Bachelor have yet to incorporate color blind casting, and as far as I've heard, the token black girls are usually filtered out within the first round.

But a funny thing happened while watching Ray's iteration of VH1's wildly successful "Of Love" series. The "Sexy Ladies" singer was not only making for good, guilty-pleasure television, but the 28-year-old was also proving to be leading man material. (How often did you cringe when Public Enemy's hypeman got within even spitting distance of one of those chicks?) Unlike brothers Real and Chance, Brandy Norwood's cute baby brother is at least talented, and didn't give the impression that he might actually prefer his girl with a little more testosterone (ahem). That he/producers didn't hide the female influences in his life, from sis to right-hand-gal cousin Lil B, was equally impressive.

Moreover, Ray's boy-next-door quality quieted a lot of the sex tape noise that made him questionable initially. In fact, planting the idea that the impetus for the show was one of transformation was key: Would Ray shed his "shower" habit and take up Scrabble? Would he sip Chardonnay or a different kind of Cocktail? Part of what makes these shows work is a certain accessibility and an aspirational thing (guys want to be him; girls want to be with him). See you at the Reunion Show; bring the Champagne.

Is This Love?

An ongoing fantasy of mine is to pack a small red Samsonite bag with my summer wares, a pair or two of YSL espadrilles, a few Hermes scarves, and relocate for 6 months each year from the Rotten Apple to Kingston, Jamaica. I'd marry a Rasta, do local reporting, and feast on seasonal fruits. The grind and a generally faltering economic outlook has a tendency to turn this ganja-pipe dream from blurry to sharp, but other things do, too. Like when I recently found myself hip to waist with a tall, caramel-skinned Dread, his locs grazing his back while Mavado's "So Special" plays.

But always, hearing Robert Nesta Marley's kinky reggae gets me reaching for the Jamaica Daily Gleaner. One of my favorite documentaries about Bob is 2001's Rebel Music, in which we're introduced to the man beyond the music, partly via a series of on-air media interviews he participated in. He talks Rastafarian culture, politics, Jah, music, and of course, women. Bob's insatiable appetite for the gals is well-documented, from beauty pageant queens to Jamaican socialites.

In the aforementioned docu, viewers meet Esther Anderson (above), a publicist hired by Island Records founder Chris Blackwell to trail Marley and the Wailers in the late 1960s-early 1970s. Anderson was 29 when she met the younger Bob, who was about two years her junior but had already swelled his family with wife Rita. Anderson confesses that she fell hard for her charge, and business often turned to pleasure. The footage filmed by Lee Jaffe and seen here was taken of the pair during one of many mountain getaways they took during their "courtship." It pretty much encapsulates my JA ideal.

Anderson would go on to an acting career, including an Oscar-nominated turn in Sidney Poitier's A Warm December (1972), and a relationship with Hollywood icon Marlon Brando. Bob would go on to other beauties, but you can't miss the chemistry in that shot.

Rick Ross's Cocaine Dreams

Sure, the overwhelming evidence points to an incongruous pre-rap career in his local Department of Corrections. And maybe he wouldn't know a gram of cocaine from a teaspoon of Johnson's baby powder, but what Rick wrought, seems not even Curtis could put asunder. It's Deeper than Rap. Um, actually, with Ross it's just about rap. The detailed drug trade escapades - as slick and glossy as a badge - are more than likely fiction. But Ross is a skilled storyteller. A verse off his Avery Storm-backed "Rich off Cocaine" includes this verse:

Vacation to Haiti
It nearly broke my heart
Seein' kids starve I thought about my Audemars
Sellin dope ain't right
I put it on my life
Chickens put me in position to donate the rice

For an island with a storied history but a ransacked recent past, hearing it discussed on record with even a semblance of humanity, if only to evoke the gut-wrenching poverty, gives some solace.

Cassie's Been a Bad, Bad Girl

So pop&B starlet Cassie recently took clippers to her tresses, leaving a patch of exposed scalp above one ear. Reportedly, as she explained on her Twitter feed, she was looking to entrench her "Rock Star" status and try out her nascent I-don't-give-a-fuck attitude. Well, this gave me pause because I can think of few other singers who embody rock star status less than the lightweight songbird. For starters, being an "official" jumpoff to your label's chief executive officer is not a good look, nor is joining in on what I imagine was a session with The Clutch, assembled for a writer's circle, and presumably lamenting how you're tired/ tired/ tired of being his unofficial girl. Moreover, while Cassie's a gorgeous girl with a few hits behind her, she has hardly built what I can even generously refer to as a catalog. A few radio-ready hits, Ryan Leslie bangers, but nothing sturdy enough for a fan to structure a playlist around. In short, being signed to Bad Boy doesn't make you a Bad Girl, regardless of how much strappy leather Louis Vuitton and Balmain you loop around your ankles.

Drake's Progress

On his track "The Lounge," upstart Asher Roth asks, "What's a rapper look like?" The Toronto-born MC nee Aubrey Graham, bka Drake, went from a wheelchair-bound highschooler caught up in a Columbine-style shooting on The N's "Degrassi: The Next Generation" to a rap boy wonder surfing the crest of a wave of mixtape success, that positively crashed with his acclaimed So Far Gone. So what does a rapper look like these days, and if he can be a former child actor, what separates him from, say, Will Smith's "Yo homes, to Bel Air!" antics? For one thing, an air-tight affiliation with Lil Wayne and his Young Money Entertainment underscores that his rap credentials have been checked and scanned at the door. But the wavy-coiffed 22-year-old also more than earns his "Heartbreak" Drake moniker. Download "Best I Ever Had" or check Drake's melodic stylings on "Brand New" and try to remember when the Fresh Prince ever set your grade-school heart aflutter.

We All Scream for Liya

You know when two things that are seemingly perfect on their own are joined and produce something even better? Like when Jay-Z and R. Kelly came together in the booth (before it fell apart on tour)? Or when Stella McCartney designed that line for H&M? Or when Nestle decided to take vanilla ice cream cones and dip them in a vat of the crunchy chocolate bars to make drumsticks? Well, my favorite model, Liya Kebede, signed an exclusive deal with my favorite catalog, J. Crew (not to be confused with my favorite store), to be the face of its April 2009 issue. It landed in my mailbox just in time for my special day.

The Gloved One

Maybe you were like me, and capped second grade with a sacred ceremony to rival a chapel wedding in its grandeur. For my First Communion - a religious rite Caribbean Catholic households are known to fete with lavish receptions - my mother outfitted this 7-year-old in an ecru gown and wrist-length gloves of elaborate lacework. At the time, I hated that my dress wasn't looseleaf-paper white like every other girls' (lady had to be different!), but I remember loving my handwear. Never mind that I looked like a tiny cake topper - I was having a "Like a Virgin" moment. Now that I'm all grown up, I find something so devilishly naughty about white lace gloves. Say what you will about the former Mrs. Ritchie, but after all these years, she still owns the look. (W, March 2009)

See Spot. Run and Cop These Pants.

My life sometimes feels like a high-wire act, one that requires nimbly balancing any number of competing goals and desires. I've decided that if you're gonna go through life walking a tightrope, might as well do it in style! These cranberry-colored silk polka-dot trousers ($1,250, detail, at right) from Louis Vuitton's spring/summer 2009 collection, had me seeing spots when they were first previewed last Spetember. Enough to make a girl drop the bad-news Business section of The New York Times and join the circus. And now the parachute pants are everywhere: Model Jourdan Dunn sported them in a February 2009 Vogue spread; Lindsay pairs them with a boyfriend blazer and midriff-baring tee on the cover of Nylon's April 2009 anniversary issue, and Ms. Ciccone features them in the latest LV campaign.

Uptown, Monday Night

Where do you live? If you live in a city like New York, teeming with transplants, you'll invariably get asked that question and I've found it has far more loaded meaning for the person asking. As a native borne of and raised in this city, I don't take all that seriously the signifiers that people attach to its topography (e.g., hipsters live in Williamsburg, trust fund babies slum on the Lower East Side). Rather, you plant roots wherever makes you content. In BET's latest foray into reality programming, Harlem Heights, a group of upwardly mobile, black 20-somethings agree to have their lives taped and find out what happens when people stop being polite...oops! (wrong show). Unlike MTV's The Real World, which thrives on the inevitable clashes between seven disparate - if formulaic - personalities, this series pivots on the homogeneity of its cast.

And therein lies the flaw. In seeking to shine a light on the affluent Harlem, an endeavor that I agree is long overdue, the creators nearly erase the bustling Uptown of corner stores, incense vendors, hair braiders and weavers, and the aroma of greasy fried catfish and greens at eateries like Taste of Seafood. Panoramic views would help. And maybe a few more cast members employed in industries beyond media, fashion, and politics and educated at institutions other than the venerable HBCUs. As it is, Jason (aka 'Young Harlem'), a young dad with swag to spare sometimes appears out of his element.

Still, it's verry cool to see on camera the upscale spots that many have yet to discover: the airy Hudson River Cafe, bouncing club Body, Covo, Revival, and more. An incredibly photogenic cast that includes Kanye West ex Brooke Crittendon and DIME magazine editor Christian Grant-Fields (aka 'The Accidental Heartbreaker') makes the views all the more scenic. Fellow viewers have taken issue with how stilted some of the dialogue seems, almost scripted. Pierre, the Trenton, N.J.-bred success story who now works for a nonprofit, at times induces eye-rolling with his penchant for speechifying. But the underlying dramas ring mostly true: There are love triangles, broken friendships, career discussions, and so forth.

A Hungry Ghost

The New York Public Library hosted a reading by Kate Taylor, the editor of an anthology titled Going Hungry, which focuses on "desire, self-denial," and our shrinking appetites. On the first Monday in March, I braved a snowstorm in support of my former colleague, with whom I'd broken (low-calorie?) bread over discussions of body image and disordered eating and overeating. What distinguishes her book is that it gathers writers, authors, and journalists to address the topic and not, for example, embattled teen girls sporting red "ana" bracelets.

If ever there was a taboo subject, this would be it, and perhaps even more so in the black community, where conventional thinking has it that more is more once you step on the scale - and that the zaftig will be rewarded by longevity and male admiration. Real women have curves, right, not jutting rib cages? (At left, an image from designer Hedi Slimane's photo diary of Lindsay Lohan.) Yet increasingly I hear from chicks of colorful complexions who are anxious about their weight, staring down bottles of herbal appetite-killers and passing on dinner. In Tibetan Buddhism, the hungry ghost is depicted with a large, bloated stomach, gaping mouth, and a neck too small to pass food, a metaphor for those who can't grasp that to be full-filled is to go within. But going without, that nihilistic impulse to deny corporeal needs, ultimately just leaves you where you started...hungry.

Fist Bumps for the First Lady

If you haven't picked up this week's New York magazine, run! The cover story on Michelle Obama features briefs by writers including Edwidge Danticat, Margo Jefferson, and Terry McMillan on topics such as Mrs. O's transformation from "militant" to "princess"; her statuesque build, in "Her Body, Ourselves," and an examination of how this first couple engenders a new sexual politics. An online slideshow of artists' renderings (above, illustration by Kim DeMarco) depicting the mom-in-chief is a must-see.

Radio Killa Writes the Songs

Like a lot of people, I tend to tune my week, month, or just a particular moment to a certain frequency. I'll have a song, maybe an album that just plays on repeat either because it mirrors what I'm feeling or projects where I'm trying to go. Sometimes it's more about the music capturing a pre-existing mood - swaggerific, meditative, introspective, combative - that happens to be in need of a melody. This month, I've been letting The-Dream serenade me (when he's not dreaming up publicity stunts to promote his Love vs. Money) with "Rockin' That Thang."
You guess how I'm feeling. (laughs)

The Sweetest Words You Ever Wrote

Every week, Washington D.C.'s young, gifted and black wordsmiths gather at Busboys and Poets on 14th and V streets for "Sunday Kind of Love," a themed open-mic event held in the afternoon. On a wet Sunday in March, we drove past the popular meeting place and I couldn't help but think of the film that sparked a spoken word renaissance when it opened in 1997: Love Jones. Suddenly poetry and verse had moved beyond the literati, New York's Nuyorican Poets Cafe, and underground slams, and every would-be Saul Williams and Sonia Sanchez seemed to have a composition notebook buried somewhere.

In the Chicago-set romance, Nina Mosley is an aspiring photographer who has her eye on a gig at VIBE magazine, and Darius Lovehall (aka "Brother to the Night") is a struggling writer whose classic meet-cute with the lenswoman begins at a words-and-blues lounge. He freestyles his "Blues for Nina," and I imagine attendance at these events, at the time, swelled right along with the box office take. Moreover, the soundtrack was unforgettable.

Which brings me back to the Chocolate City: In the age of Obama, himself a Chicago transplant, one hopes this metropolis of alphabet streets and abandoned avenues can fully salute its inheritance. The soaring, renovated townhouses and brownstones of Eastern Market on Capitol Hill, of Columbia Heights, washed in red and pale blue paints, were a sight to behold even as they competed for space with the darker corners.

It Ain't Hard To Tell

This April marks the 15th anniversary of the release of Nas's seminal Illmatic. The 34-year-old son of Queensbridge was a babyfaced 20 years young when the record came out. Suffice it to say, anyone who knows this blogger, knows that I've been nursing a major crush ever since. Nasir Jones is the quiet boy in your third grade class who wrote your initials just above his, with a "+" sign in between, and left it in your book bag for you to find. He's that guy with his New Era Yankees cap cocked just so, who walked you halfway home, holding your umbrella above your heads and unfurling his brilliance along the way. There's a reason rap devotees called "God's Son" a prophet. Okay, maybe the messianic language was overblown, but regardless of what issue you might take with his flow or track record, no one in the game can more densely pack metaphors, similes, Five Percenter lore, egyptian history, street knowledge... into 16 bars. In hip hop, there's really no map anymore, we don't live and die by coasts, pledge our allegiances by borough. And it's been years since New York had the market on "real" hip hop, but if you can remember the first time you heard "The World Is Yours," it's hard not to get that old feeling. It's a "New York State of Mind."

Love Dying on the Walls

A few years ago, I read an article in Vogue about a socialite of sorts who had fallen in love and married a man whom she later divorced. Asked what she thought had gone awry in the seemingly fairy-tale setup, she said that marriage stuffs you up so close, you could practically see the "love dying on the walls." I must have read that phrase a million times. In 1961, Richard Yates's first novel, Revolutionary Road, was published. An alcoholic, modestly successful short story writer, Yates drew upon the stark reality of his own marriage to craft a masterpiece of an indictment of suburbia and matrimony in 1950s America. Yates lived part of his own married life in Connecticut, and the book's descriptions of Route Twelve, cottage houses, and commuter rail lines landing in Grand Central Station, seem eerily contemporary, even 50 years later. In finishing the book, I've found that I've had an experience that is increasingly rare (but perhaps hoped for by every novelist): The plot lingers. It's been hard to shake the bitter aftertaste. A couple, Frank and April Wheeler, comes together, love blooms, expectations are set then left unmet. ... The love gathers moss - as the two gradually destroy each other. For those who can't be bothered to read the book, the film (above, which I haven't seen) is in theaters now.

Americana

Now that First Lady Michelle Obama has given J.Crew her imprimatur, making it all right for black people everywhere to line their closets with wool gabardine, I thought I'd make a confession: For years, the mere sight of the J.Crew catalog in my mailbox has brought me untold, sentimental joy.

I was an undergraduate when I first started grabbing the seasonal books; they'd be in piles next to stacks of the Daily Orange, at the entrance to our dorm. After months of pushing to get through a particularly brutal upstate winter, I ordered a candy-striped cashmere sweater with streaks of pale blue that I thought would cheer me up. And it did - for a while. But I soon realized that I derived a heady kind of contentment flipping through the pages of the retail mag itself. The WASP-ish model with freckles and beach-battered skin, clad in my cashmere sweater, seemed a world away from the stresses and concerns of life on campus.

Indeed, the genius copywriters and art directors at J.Crew (which launched as a catalog in 1983), have created a blissful world untouched by recession, environmental crises, you name it. Houses are built on the water, couples perch on a front stoop perusing The New York Times or The New York Observer. Weddings are on Martha's Vinyard, receptions follow in Nantucket. Now, I know this is a feat in advertising as clean and calculated as Ivory's well-known "99.99%" campaign, but I fall for it.

Ms. Keri, baby

Someone I know once said that he never listened to R&B because all that performers ever did was to snivel about love lost or unrequited. Sure. But that isn't accidental: Sometimes love knocks you down, as Keri Hilson says. This has been so since humans evolved the concept of romantic love as the basis for marriage and courtship. Either we sing about it, give ourselves over to it in dance - or risk taking a drubbing.
On his latest podcast, the New Yorker's resident music critic, Sasha Frere-Jones, argues that our well-greased American pop/R&B machine simply cannot produce "witty, brash" singers. Instead, he says, the Britneys and Beyonces are "ciphers" rewarded for hewing as close to the Stepford Songstress packaging they get coming off the industry assembly line. So while the UK's Lily Allen drums up clever symbolism to excoriate bloodthirsty bloggers and paparazzi, our Beyonce wags, shakes, and J-Sets to a catchy riff on marital aspirations. But in Keri, who marries many of the seemingly opposing virtues of red-white-and-blue pop and Britpop, I've found a defense. The wordplay is spot on if not erudite (does it need to be? check her well-placed jabs at Sasha Farce and Ciara), the music infectious, thumping, and always comes together in flawless 3-minute bites (Hello, Timb). Album 'drops' March 24.

'Good Girl' Don't Cry

What makes the storm engulfing Rihanna and Chris Brown (who's now something of a fallen prince), all the more tempestuous is that so many among their fans had percieved Brown as a force for good in her life, a playful (age-appropriate) presence. From where I sit, just about five feet from my window is a kiosk whose display case is lined with celebrity tabloids carrying pictures of a forlorn looking Rihanna. The record-label conceit that the black leather-clad pop&B chanteuse was a "Good Girl Gone Bad" had been challenged by photographs in the aforementioned weeklies that showed the couple frolicking at an amusement park, munching on french fries - all the sweet, ordinary things you do with your BF. Of course, these were chart-topping, platinum-selling etoiles. Was Rihanna out there "Livin a Lie," as she sang on The-Dream's Love Hate record? While we all wait for the verifiable truths to emerge, I'm keeping the Def Jam princess in my thoughts.

Chanel No. 1

Back when I barely had a notion that I might one day find my name and affiliation taped to a front row seat at Fashion Week in New York, I used to watch the shows on the local cable channels, daydreaming, wishing I were there. So much of the thrill of the shows to me was about the (black) models, whom we knew then by name: Naomi, Veronica, and later, Alek, Liya. At the top of the current crop of generously pigmented beauties is Sessilee Lopez, Arlenis Sosa, Jourdan Dunn, and Chanel Iman (pictured). Chanel happens to be one of my favorite posers right now. A rash of commercial and editorial work has followed her, from GAP campaigns to coveted spreads in Vogue and Teen Vogue. The girl can do Neutrogena-scrubbed clean as effortlessly as high fashion Marc Jacobs. The 20-year-old biracial model has been tabloid fodder for her dating choices (Ryan Leslie, Kanye), both real and imagined, but it's the strut that got my attention. She's gangly and almost equine (impossibly long limbs) off the runway, but under the flashing lights, playing dress up, she does her dual namesakes proud.

Pitching a Tent at Fashion Week

Fashion Week kicked off on Friday the 13th and appropriately so: With magazines folding, editors and reporters bidding adieu to corporate cubicles, and the well of invites and pre-recession freebies running dry for some, the mood has been a bit somber at Bryant Park. On this sunny Tuesday morning, I ducked (sans notebook) under the great white tents to catch a glimpse of the Fall 2009 presentations, beginning with the Badgley Mischka show. The front row was decidedly light on star-wattage- I mean Kim and Khloe Kardashian and a country-singing American Idol also-ran were the most recognizable bold-faces, which I found utterly depressing. But the fashions were notable, particularly since I'm not typically a fan of the red-carpet staples that are the stock-in-trade of BM. But these gowns and frocks were heavy on black in a variety of textures, including boucle, georgette, and satin chiffon. It model Sessilee Lopez was here (and everywhere) showing floor-sweeping evening numbers paired with, in many cases, opaque black tights and chunky, open-toe jeweled platform stillettos. It was unusual but I warmed to it- a little grunge at the gala.

Love of My Life

Met a guy a few months ago on a New Jersey Transit platform. Asked whether I was a Delta, and did I like long walks, jazz clubs, Barack Obama. Said I seemed like the kind of girl who could only be with a guy who was visionary, ambitious, creative. I've often been drawn to the dude with the most eclectic record (see Mp3) collection; with the obscure, imported comic books preserved in a box; with his notebooks full of charts, prose, and rhymes; the one slinging his guitar like an ax, his camera like a gun. In a city like Gotham though, it can be hard to distinguish the humble, thinking, creative type in a sea of pencil jean-wearing boys who can shop like a m'uu'r but whose minds are hollow. connecting can be confusing. If you swab the relationship trajectory of someone such as Erykah Badu, you'll of course turn up a predilection for MCs -Andre 3000, Common, the D.O.C., and most recently Jay Electronica (pictured) - sweeping aside for a moment her grasp on family values. Lady clearly has a yen for men who commit. To the art that is. And I can understand it.

Tools of the Trade

When the dust from the media layoffs, downsizings and closures has finally settled, this year might well be remembered as the one in which the print landscape confronted its future. The Web has encroached upon traditional media, leaving newspapers on life support and magazines reeling from the sharp decline in advertising revenue. Still, through it all, I find myself going back to why wanted to be in this business in the first place. After graduating from college, I talked my mom into buying me a laptop. Like a carpenter with his tool belt, I thought any writer worth her salt should first invest in the tools of her trade. She acquiesced and got me a PC - not the citrus-colored iMac I had seen the fictional Carrie Bradshaw writing her relationship articles on for her New York Star column, in early episodes of Sex & the City. But I was thrilled to have the clunky book; took some turns in publishing and eventually learned the gratification of reporting, the dignity of honest work, chasing stories, and the quiet satisfaction of a page 1 byline. "Don't you just love the newspaper life?" our editor-in-chief would ask. Still do.

Blue Magic

I'm not the first to fall hard for a pair of blue suede shoes. A certain peanut butter-and-banana sandwich-loving rock 'n' roll icon famously warned that you could do just about anything but step on his beloved footwear. For spring/summer 2009, Christian Louboutin's Ron Ron shoe in turquoise suede (blue pump, above) is an instant pick me-up. The powdery hue plays off the signature red soles to perfection. Walk hard.

Forget the Chocolates, Fellas

If the quickest way to a man's heart is through his stomach, then the straight path to a woman's left and right ventricles is surely through her feet. Just in time for Valentine's Day, Kanye's design collaboration with designer Marc Jacobs, who is at the helm of the house of Louis Vuitton, has been unveiled. A particularly generous BF can pre-order the monochromatic red sneaks (all men's sizes, so convert) at a recession-defying price point, available at LV stores in June. If these don't keep the keep the love on lockdown, don't know what will.

I Want Pastry!

If you've tuned into the rather disappointing 'The City,' then you've probably caught 'Daddy's Girls,' which directly follows the limp, Sex & the City-manquee. On 'Daddy's Girls,' sister act and rap scions Angela and Vanessa Simmons are NYC- (Saddle River, N.J.) transplants go Hollywood. Think of 'Three's Company' (yes, I'm a little too familiar with '80s sitcom lore), but with an all-girl pad, and instead of Mrs. Roper, clad in print-heavy caftans, dropping by, fashion-forward neighbor Alycia shows up to talk ex-boyfriends, make plans, and engage in general tomfoolery. Like most 'reality' shows on MTV, this show too, while refreshingly realistic, functions as product placement for whatever the girls are hawking - in this case, their nascent clothing line Pastry. After watching them do everything from hike to date in pieces from the range, I had the Bow Wow Wow's 'I Want Candy' re-mixing itself in my head: I Want Pastry! But incredibly, a cursory look at the Pastry section at retail turned up none of the toothache-inducing Tees featured on the show. Just a bunch of neon-hued castoffs covered in animal prints. Not a cupcake in sight.

January 20, 2009

In hip hop circles, we've had Nas and Kelis ... Jay-Z and Beyonce ...but black love never looked as good as it does on this pair.

Lip Service

I had just finished covering the Ralph Lauren show during Spring 2009 Fashion Week in New York, and was about to make a Dean & Deluca pitstop, when a pair of editors talked me into posing for Marie Claire magazine's Beauty Road Show feature. My take on 'What I Love About Me' appears in the February 2009 issue. It's bizarre to see your face immortalized in the back of the book, but seeing the page made me remember that September shoot. Although the 'photo shoot,' on a busy Soho street, lasted all of 10 minutes, it gave me new respect for what the real strutters do. Posing is challenging! As was taking direction from the very patient photographer. I won't lie: Conjuring early cycles of ANTM helped.

It Was All a Dream...

Who can't finish the lyrics to that couplet? (That's 'I used to read Word Up! magazine' for the rap uninitiated). The 'Ready to Die' album was one of those moments, not just in hip hop history, but in music history, when you felt sure you were living through something special; what it must have been like to be a teen, for instance, when Marvin dropped 'Here, My Dear,' or the Beatles released 'Abbey Road.' Of course, 'Ready to Die' was, in part, Biggie's biography, and that made it all the more resonant. But it also introduced him as an unlikely heartthrob: B.I.G. was a hulking teddy bear, shyt-talking, smart, clownish, aggressive, fiercely loyal, soft-spoken and bellicose all at once. So many of the qualities that have made me crush on Brooklyn's finest men for so long. Though flawed by a drug-dealing past in Bed-Stuy, B.I.G. found a way to make those exploits classic material. More than excited to see what the filmmakers serve up in 'Notorious.'

Wearable Obsessions: Coup d'etat Brooklyn

Che opted for a beret, Malcolm and Patrice Lumumba were instantly recognizable by their horn-rimmed glasses, and Toussaint, a self-educated slave who went boot to boot with Napoleon, was regal even in Haiti's tropical temps. But what would these visionaries have worn to the revolution in 2009? I'd venture that the clothing line Coup d'etat Brooklyn--which now includes mostly t-shirts and some cardigans but is poised to expand--would make up a fraction of the no-nonsense, yet effortlessly fashionable, wardrobe typically favored by men with big ideas. The 'Teach the Babies' shirt ($30.00) comes in a trio of colors, including a shade of purple for women. Because we lead movements, too!

Sweet 'Honey' on the Rack

Honey, the fashion and entertainment magazine started by editors Kierna Mayo and and Joicelyn Dingle in 1999, will resurface this spring on the Web as honeymag.com. For black and brown girls who had been sorely in need of a magazine to call their own, Honey was a much-needed editorial balm when it launched. If you were the kind of chick who identified as much with Lauryn Hill as you did with Foxy Brown, was as likely to hit a poetry reading as Hot 97's Summer Jam, as apt to be reading Proust as the autobiograpy of Assata Shakur, i.e., if you were dynamic, you probably picked up a copy of Honey in its first incarnation and felt as if you were gazing into a beautifully embellished mirror. The magazine was bought by Vanguarde Media, changed editors (and changed moods), and eventually folded. News of Honey's relaunch was preceded by word that Vibe Vixen will also have a second life soon in print and on-line. (Honey online will be under the editorship of Shanel Odum.) Here's hoping they recapture their former glory.

A Sobering Port

Three episodes into MTV's 'The City' and I can scarcely summon the enthusiasm I was feeling last December ahead of the scripted reality show's debut. A spinoff of 'The Hills' that is meant to follow Lauren Conrad's sidekick to New York as she embarks on the next stage of her fashion career, the episodes have been short on drama and even shorter on the kind of glossy-postcard-from-L.A. veneer that made watching 'The Hills' with the volume turned down so irresistible. But the careerist Whitney Port who toiled away in the Teen Vogue fashion closet before taking a post at power publicist Kelly Cutrone's People's Revolution is now ensconced at Diane von Furstenburg, where her questionable title (image coordinator? public relations assistant?) seems to mean she's responsible for tasks such as straightening tank tops on models during Fashion Week. Little work and lots of play, the viewers are supposed to believe, has afforded Whit the kind of paycheck that gets you a sprawling Gramercy apartment with floor-to-cieling views and dining out each night at the best restaurants that SoHo and the West Village have on offer. Which brings me to the show's title: Where are the city landmarks that would-be Carrie Bradshaws are so familiar with? How about a date with BF Jay Lyon on the steps of the Met or a trip to the Strand to stock up on vintage fashion tomes?