Wednesday, January 27, 2010

Even if my trust wears off, my black doesn't.

How great would it be if Obama went off on people tonight in his State of the Union address? What if he just cursed at the country, told us all off, let us have it, broke off the truth and placed it in our hands, and made us examine it for ourselves? What if he just read us for filth, finished up with “i’m out,” and then walked away from the podium with his diamond-studded cane and his back up dancers?

What if he eschewed his normal eloquent speechifying and opted to sing a Teddy Pendergrass song instead, both in tribute to the deceased singer, and to remind the nation that a good f*ck might make us all relax and carry ourselves with an Obama-like calm?

What if he came right out and called Pat Robertson and Glenn Beck and Oprah nutjobs, and thanked them sarcastically for all their help?

What if he laughed in our faces and called us all out for being as excited about how the Apple iPad is supposed to change our lives as we were about his presidency? What if he got all up in our faces about how we, as Americans, are always looking forward to quitting time or the light at the end of the tunnel, or the Savior to return, or the reward for believing in something, or the big dessert as just desserts for a gluttonous job well done?

I want tonight’s message to start off like a 90’s rap with beatboxing - not the embarrassing “Sing Off” kind - but the messy, Fatboys kind. I want Hillary Clinton to play the saxophone, and I want it to be soulful. For real. Not like her husband playing Elvis-by-the-numbers on Leno (or was that on the Arsenio Hall show?), but like her best self, on her own campaign trail. Then I want Obama to launch into a quicksilver, Heavy D kind of rap. I want it to be laced with expletives and sexual aggression. I want it to say all the things that James Carville is screaming in a back room somewhere. I want it to be dispassionate, actually, delivered the way children recite the memorized the words to songs about hate or lust or love. I want the beat and the aggression to carry the message until Joe Wilson screams, Preach, Preacher!” Then I want Rahm Emanuel to take off his shirt and Krump (He doesn’t have to take off his shirt, I guess, but wouldn’t it be great if he did?). I want everyone else on the stage to throw chicken bones as the music swells to a fever pitch. When all the music and singing and ululating stop, Barack Obama extends one arm with two fingers outstretched, pointing towards the Senate, the House of Representatives, the cameras, the American people, Osama bin Laden, you, me, the Apple Tablet, the NBC primetime lineup, and says, “Till you do right by me...” His voice trails off. His fingers turn to the side. He says, “peace.” Except he says it in all CAPS, turns around, holds out both hands so that Michelle Obama can place his diamond-studded cane in one hand and Malia can slap him five in the other. Then Sasha, bringing up the rear as they walk out, looks over her shoulder, rolls her eyes, swatches her head, and jumps on her Dad’s back to place a cigarette in his mouth.

None of that will happen tonight, but I will superimpose my hopes over his words, as usual.

Wednesday, January 20, 2010


"...What I mean to say is - the Black man can never win," I argued.
And she said, "Well...What if you don't, can't, won't win this argument? What then?"

She had no idea she had handed me the win by saying that.

Don't. Can't. Won't. Sigh...Holy shit.