CheapThrills

Oh shnapppp!

Totally rad Tetris dress

It's not for sale. But I really want one. I wish I had some Erin McKean (the dressmaker) connects...

...because Tetris is the best video game of all time. And this dress rocks. Looks like the music should start speeding up any minute! (yeah, I'm a nerd.)

via A Dress A Day

Happy Friday!

Gets me every time.

Interracial couple denied marriage in Louisiana

"I'm not a racist. I just don't believe in mixing the races that way," [Keith] Bardwell, [justice of the peace in Tangipahoa Parish] told the Associated Press on Thursday. "I have piles and piles of black friends. They come to my home, I marry them, they use my bathroom. I treat them just like everyone else."

I think that pretty much says it all.

Read full article here.

DirectTV's King Kong ad: Playing up a peculiar allegory

This TV spot irks the hell out of me. Perhaps because it cuts in during virtually every show I watch - from MLB playoff games to America's Next Top Model marathons. Perhaps because borrowed interest always turns out phony and lazy.

Or, perhaps, my distaste has something to do with the King Kong mockery itself.

By now, we should all get that the original King Kong film portrayed a <racist> metaphor for race relations in the U.S:

King Kong is all happy being the ruler of a weird, backwards island in the middle of nowhere. He's "discovered" by some White explorers, who basically kidnap him and bring him to the civilized world in chains and shackles. When King Kong escapes, he's murdered. But before he dies, he falls in love with a beautiful blond, and they have some sort of relationship. Which seems silly to viewers - after all, how could a proper woman possibly spend time with an uncivilized giant ape?

Now go through this synopsis and replace all references to "King Kong" with "The African man", and you should get the symbolism.

But apparently, this obvious allegory was totally lost on the marketing folks at DirectTV. The spot, in which a poor man's Naomi Watts jabs at King Kong for not being "evolved" and for "staring at her 24-7", plays up all the controversial racist undertones that the original film portrays. These insults on Kong strike me as gratuitous, and, given the history of the King Kong story, written in utter bad taste. Am I missing some crucial bit of info that makes this spot worthwhile? Somehow I doubt it.

Things To Do When You Have Swine Flu

I was supposed to go home to Philly for Columbus Day weekend. Instead, two days ago I found myself curled up in the fetal position shivering on hospital paper sheets with a fever of 103.5. They swabbed my nose (gross!) and sent me out the fire exit all dolled up in a bendy face mask. On the way home, passer-bys gasped at my twitchy, shaky, sweaty, masky appearance. Kids ran away, visibly upset.

The doc called the next day. H1N1 virus (a.k.a swine flu). Confirmed. Actually, the first case he's seen in Chicago! But the best part? I must stay home for an entire week... thus missing my weekend at home and eating the airfare (thanks a lot American Airlines).

Anyway, this is Day 3 of my week long quarantine. I'm feeling ok. But I'm kinda, well, bored. So to pass the time, I've been:

• Doing jigsaw puzzles. Well, just one. But I've got the border done!
• Catching up on the news. Did you hear the Phillies won the World Series?!
• Looking out the window at my neighbor's TV. It's fun to try and figure out what they're watching. Like a spy.
• Seeing how long I can go not showering, wearing the same pajamas. If no one is allowed to visit you, you can smell however you want! It's great!
• When I get the mail: Wearing my mask in the elevator and facing the wall, totally still. It really freaks people out.
• Wearing my mask around the apartment and taking pictures of myself with my webcam. Surprisingly entertaining.

If you have suggestions for other super-neat things I can do with the next 4 days of my life, send them my way!

-Ryan

Black women want their heads rubbed, too

Now that this week’s Oprah schedule is up on her site, I guess I can divulge which taping I attended (and if this isn’t supreme coincidence I don’t know what is): Chris Rock’s dish on his new documentary, “Good Hair”. In fact, we audience members attended the film’s North American film debut, right here in downtown Chicago.  

The show airs today, September 30th (set your DVRs!). But before it does, I’d like to comment on an issue that Rock discusses both in the film and during his visit with Oprah: the “no touch” rule when it comes to Black women’s hair (i.e. if you’re dating a Black woman, don’t even try to get near her head). According to Rock, Black men are “thirsty” to touch a head of hair, and Black women’s "keep away" policy causes intimacy issues.  

So I’ll venture this, and then explain: Black women’s scalps are equally parched from lack of attention. Yes, our hair is thirsty for love, too.  

Deeper than the “my hair will get messed up” mantra, I think the root of the problem lies in insecurity. And why not? Us women of color have always been taught that, in its natural state, our hair is not beautiful. So we hide behind weaves and wigs and relaxers, quite literally putting up a barriers between our scalps and the hands of others.  

At least in my experience, the fake-ification of my hair promoted my own hair insecurity. When I had a relaxer, my hair was never normal - but instead “oily” or “brittle” or “damaged”. It couldn’t get wet. It would break if I was – forced to – swim during PE. And oh, the lies I told my White friends back then! They’d ask, “How long does it take you to straighten your hair every morning?” I’d reply, “Oh, awhile.” Never letting on that I actually hadn’t washed it for 2 weeks. Because, in my mind, telling them that would make them think I was dirty (when in reality, it’s just not good to wash, blow dry, and hot iron relaxed hair very often). And so, when my first serious boyfriend didn’t want to rub my scalp because my hair was “too greasy”, I pretty much deemed my hair off-limits. It wasn’t that I didn’t want my head rubbed; it was more that I was ashamed.  And, quite honestly, having someone you care about halfheartedly rub your head for a second and then wipe off his hand on his jeans burns more than any relaxer on the shelf.  

Of course, these stories are from high school. I don’t have a relaxer anymore and I’m proud of my hair now, but I’ll be honest – the insecurity lingers. That’s why, even today, there are only a handful of people who I allow near my head. They’re the ones who I know are actually enjoying my hair. The ones I trust with all my insecurities. Because, as a woman of color, when someone rubs your head you’re completely dropping your guard, thus putting your complete SELF into their hands. It can be sensual, but definitely not by definition. It’s love (think Celie "scratching the song" out of Shug's head in "The Color Purple").

It's sacred.  

So back to Chris Rock and men not being allowed to touch Black women’s hair. My advice: If you’re a man and you’re with a Black woman, offer to give her a legit scalp massage. Say you’ll be careful not to mess up her hair – all you want is for her to lay down and close her eyes and relax. She may turn you down, but believe me, the offer will light her up.

Finding blind racism in Charades

Here’s an interesting story:

A friend of mine just started working on his MBA at a new school. He’s met a ton of great people so far – cool kids that seem open-minded, progressive, smart as hell, and just totally fun to be around.

The inner core of his new circle of friends (all of whom are White) has been hanging out pretty frequently, doing everything from grabbing drinks to playing Scattergories. A few nights ago, they found themselves in a heated game of Charades. Boys vs. girls. Winner rules the roost.

Girls were up. Person. 5-syllables. Sounds like “llama”. Yep, you guessed it, Barack Obama.

The boys looked on in excitement as one of the girls acted out “mama” to her team. Then one guy, who I actually met and really found to be one the warmest, most easy-going people in the bunch, whispers to my friend, “If we were up, would it be wrong for me to act out a monkey?”

He was serious. Like, he had no idea.

What’s so baffling to me is that I don’t think there’s an intentional racist bone in this guy’s body. No, these racist images are embedded in his mind, and, clearly, he has no idea how supremely destructive they are. To people as sheltered as he, King Kong looks like a big Black guy! Haha! Funny! And better walk fast, because the “ghetto” kids on the corner are probably selling drugs! Because that’s what “ghetto people” do!

Is it racism? Or just totally cluelessness? You tell me.

Live at the Oprah Show!

You won’t believe it…
A friend of mine actually scored tickets to Oprah.

Wednesday morning, we found ourselves dressed to the nines, in a cab whizzing (literally, the cabbie was going about 55 on city roads) to Harpo Studios for a 7am Oprah Show taping.

Sadly, I’m somewhat limited in what I can reveal about the show itself. But I will say this: Oprah seemed, well, a little odd. It hit me almost immediately, when she was announced out and meandered onto set in a total daze.

Barefoot.

I thought she was trying to make a statement; something along the lines of “Black women are beautiful head-to-toe no matter what.” But no. She honestly didn’t know what the hell was going on. When she sat down, she ran through scripts for about 10 minutes while someone put on her shoes for her and someone else sprayed her hair. We all sat in an awkward silence, half smiling, half cringing. Excited, but also... confused.

The beginning was weird, but the actual show was a total trip. I kept having David At The Dentist moments, thinking to myself, "Is this real life?" And the guest rocked. So if you find yourself home sick on September 30th (or know how to work your DVR), tune in. I sat in the front row, so you may see me. Look for the orange scarf and mohawk-y fro.

When a commenter starts to freak you out

Blogging’s tricky. You become the ruler of a little piece of the web and, as such, you’re faced with these surreal, technology-meets-antiquity dilemmas. “How much should I expose?” "Must I be humble or powerful?" “What is my relationship to my ‘court’, (ie, the commenters)?"

This is my blog. And because it’s mine, I can write what I want. So I write what I know: my interpretations on topics that are important to me. I push myself to really explore difficult, often prickly issues – mostly pertaining to race and interracial-ness. I know my posts can be a bit controversial, and I welcome an open dialogue.

Dialogue. What is dialogue? Dialogue is when you respond to an idea with another idea. It could be a build on the original idea. Or it could be a counterpoint.

What is NOT dialogue? When you respond to an idea with a tirade. When you misrepresent your rage for intelligence. When you create pointless openings to scream and shout and blab on and on about how angry you are.

I’m SO VERY against censoring the comments on this blog. Barring the removal of spam, I don’t exercise comment moderation. But, after months and months of one commenters rants and vindictive posts, I just can’t justify leaving the stuff up. I've tried to refrain from formally responding to this commenter's insulting, downright disturbing diatribes. They’re too hate-filled for me to even go there. I have addressed the topic that gets him so angry, though. Because the topic is important to me.

But now it's just gone too far. This is the comment that did in said commenter:

…and see a Black women cling so feverishly to the persons and the portions of a culture systemically inclined to disregard each and every aspect of her being, is like waiting to watch an accident you know is bound to happen. You can’t help but wait for the impact.

Main reason why this comment sucks so bad:

Contradictory motives. Apparently I cling to people that disregard “every aspect of my being” (if you've been following this person's comments, that would be White people), which leads me to surmise that this commenter would rather I “cling” solely to other Black people. But then in the next sentence s/he admits s/he’s waiting to watch me crash. Isn’t that a total disregard for “my being” as well? And, commenter, arent... you... Black? So... what's with your perverse desire to not only WATCH a fellow person of color hurt, but to go COMPLETELY out of your way to contribute to it? So sickening.

But also:
Use of big words and fancy grammar to sound smart/bolster a point. Dude, you’re not fooling anyone.

And to top it off, the commenter displays:
Stalker tendencies. After countless awful comments, I did a quick glance at my basic analytics - and I’m speculating this commenter Googles my name at least 6 times a day (yeah, at this point I have NO problem calling him/her out on it). To spew rage all over my blog. Hi, that’s not normal.

The truth is, I’m not so much angry at this person. No, what PISSES ME OFF is having to, from now on, delete a reader’s comments. That’s not what bloggings all about, at all.

But frankly, this commenter has issues that run far deeper than I’d like to delve. And I don’t need such negativity in my own, personal space. That being said, I’ve gotta play brutal blogger and ban "nothavingit" from my court. So that's it. Goodbye. I hope you stop throwing punches at the wind and start smiling someday.

-Ryan ☺