Black History Month: Robin Thicke

Robin Thicke has soul. He's easy on the eyes and ear canal, unless you all trying to physically shove him in like a Q-Tip...that would hurt.  He's also married to the very beautiful and talented Paula Patton. I almost had to disqualify him, because my husband (Mr. Freedom Rider) says being married to a black woman is  cheating. See, my husband assumes he has an automatic Ghetto Pass because he put a ring on it, but I'm all throwing up my "Talk to the Hand" hand on that tomfoolery! *Emphatic Eye Roll* Ok,  my husband, Drum Major for Justice Ekhoff, may have a point. Nothing says, "This White Boy Has His Eyes on the Prize" like being married to a sista or wearing a t-shirt that has that slogan printed on it... note to self: make a t-shirt to put on Zazzle in spare time.

I know some of you are just getting hip to Thicke because of the singing white children on Glee, but I am a die hard fan... I bought Jordan Knight's (yes, New Kids on the Block, now, NKOTB...I love you, Jordan. I love you, Donnie!!!! #BlueBloods) solo cd, Jordan Knight and it was chock full of songs co-written by Robin Thicke. Shout out within a shout out:  Bonus Black History points to Donnie Wahlberg for producing some amazing tracks on JK's cd and sliding in a badass sample of Mobb Deep's "Shook Ones Part II "on the killer song "Don't Run." The first time I heard "Don't Run", I was all, (Please do your best to use a Flavor Flav voice here:) "What? Dang? OK? Wait a minute, is that Mobb Deep? Damn, son! " If you don't know who Mobb Deep is; it's o.k. Mobb Deep is old school hip-hop, and a total black thing. We only have a month...me trying to explain Mobb Deep to you is like you trying to explain to me why white people love watercress sammiches, Axe Body Spray, and nuking their innards in a tanning bed...see what I mean?


Sorry, so many white guys, so little month...


Back to Thicke. His voice is like thick hunk of MeMaw's German chocolate cake: DE-Yum-Shuss. His songs are poetic and beautiful. He makes you fall in love with falling in love, and he makes married sex sound sexy... shhhhh, our single friends think they are the only ones who have s.e.x.

 Robin's  mama is actress, singer, song-writer Gloria Loring  and his daddy is Alan Thicke, yes, Growing Pains... his parents wrote the theme songs to Diff'rent Strokes and The Facts of Life (cha-ching). My Mama and I used to watch Gloria Loring on Days of Our Lives... That is some SHO' NUFF Black History Pedigree! Robin Thicke is virtually one of Frederick Douglass' great-grand cousins, yo!


I know Robin Thicke is not a Pioneer of Black History, but he is President of the Next Class of Soul Singers Who Trick Black People into saying, "Damn, I thought for sheezy that DUDE was Black!"


We Salute You Robin Thicke for going one place Justin Timberlake couldn't (because his Mama record company put the kibosh on JT being down with the sisters after that Janet Jackson nipple slipple) .

Are you kidding me!!??!! the sample of Walter Murphy's "A Fifth of Beethoven".... WHAT? C'mon!
I am gettin down with my bad self! 

And for your viewing pleasure the INTERRACIAL SUPERNOVA of Robin Thicke and his beautiful wife, Paula Patton... I did a sit up in honor of her abs... 


Double fist bump to you Robin Thicke!

Intention: The Key to Comedy Success

Every stand-up comic wants a chance to perform on Leno or Letterman, just like every writer wants to be number one on the New York Times Bestseller List. The key to being successful as a comic is to decide very early on what you really want from your comedy career.


In the beginning, I wanted to cover myself in caramel and jump all over Jay Leno. This had nothing to do with being successful. In the beginning, I just wanted to be famous. Now, not so much. These days, I want to book 100 performances or speeches at churches, colleges, conferences, and nursing homes. I want to use my voice to uplift people.


Since moving to Oklahoma, I’ve had a chance to do comedy in a variety of places. I’ve won the semi-final round of Funniest Comic in Tulsa. I’ve produced my own shows at alternative comedy venues. I’ve been writing this blog. I’ve spoken and performed at conferences big and small. I have been featured in a national magazine and in the Tulsa World newspaper. I am, according to my own definition, successful.


Years ago, when I trained under Judy Carter, the legendary expert on building a successful comedy career, she said something in my class that has stuck with me to this day, “Decide if you want to be successful or famous. There are hundreds of successful comedians who work every day, and there are thousands who will struggle forever because they want to be famous.” It took almost ten years for this sage advice to really hit home with me. I will be eternally grateful to Judy for her wisdom and guidance.


The key to being successful at comedy, at work, in our relationship is simple: Decide what your intentions are, and work diligently towards fulfilling your goals. I intend to make people laugh and think. I intend to build a successful business that uses my strengths to make my little corner of the world a better place. I don’t intend to get on a stage and belittle myself, my race, or others in general. I intend to make a living without having to drive 500 miles just to make $100 a night. Hell, I can go back to scrubbing toilets and make more money! I intend to be happy doing what I love, and maintaining my integrity.

It took me a long time to be honest about what I wanted. It has taken almost ten years to see glimmers of success. I feel blessed to have the support of my husband and my friends who cheer for me, when I have a little thing go right. I am happy. I am walking on my path. I am living my dreams.

In case you’re wondering, I still keep a jar of caramel in my car, in case I decide to run off to LA and meet up with “The Chin!”

Little Lessons on the Prairie

The move to Owasso has been tough. Back home in Alabama I was in the middle of everything. It’s kinda hard for a social butterfly to be without places to land, light, and spread a little pollen. Here, I am pretty much unknown. I say that like I’m Angelina Jolie, huh? Well, I wasn’t famous enough to hire some nanny to take care of the McBrothas, but I was famous enough to have my own seat at the bar.

While the changes over the last 12 months have been hard, I can definitively say that they haven’t been all bad. I’ve grown in ways I never imagined. I am free of most distractions… them young ‘uns and that husband of mine still keep me away from the navel gazing and lint picking I miss.

I’ve learned some pretty valuable lessons while being frozen stiff, whipped around like a chubby tumbleweed, and dry roasted:

I will not die, if I cannot plant my big butt on a bar stool in Old Cloverdale. (I did pout about not having any fun people to hang out with for 9 months. I have abandoned the entire idea of going to nursing homes to meet new friends and calling them the names of old friends, just to make myself feel better. I get a sense that that is frowned upon…)

Hot glue is all that. How did I live without it?

Walking to the library is really more fun than listening to some lying ass politician/ lobbyist/ legislative aide tell you about his glory days as second-string quarterback at the University of Alabama.

A guy who bought 2,000 copies of his own book is not really a writer. Oh, and another thing, just because some dude works for a bookstore doesn’t mean he’s a writer, either. Oh, yeah, one more thing, I have just as much right to publish my crappy books as you do. I can’t believe it took me 10 years and 750 miles to finally get my drawers pressed enough to accept this fact!

Drama free living is as refreshing as lemonade spiked with a little vodka at a church potluck. I’ve done both, now.

The same guy that irked the cow crap out of me in Alabama irks the cow crap me on Facebook and Twitter. Some things never change.



MCBrotha Navel Gazing Expo:

Life as a comedian isn’t any easier here. There are just more comedy venues. That just means there are more people who are funnier than me. Not that I care. I’ve learned how to hot glue stuff. I can always make a living working for NASA.

The Question Lady

If you came here thinking I had answers for you, you came to the wrong place. My head has been filled with random questions. Sure, I could Google the answers, but that would just lead to more questions. Some of these questions keep me up late at night long after the McBrothas have gone off to dream about the destruction they can cause tomorrow.

1. Where the hell is Kristy MacNichol?

2. Why can’t Jennifer Anniston/Rene’ Zellweger/ Halle Berry find true love?

3. What was so wrong with shoulder pads?

4. Why do all the men of pre-school shows look like creepy child molesting arsonists? Have you ever seen The Upside Down Show? It comes on Nick Jr at 10pm…long after bedtime for the demographic. I think it’s some sort of Morse code show for freaks. It “cweeps” me out, as my son says.

5. If I deleted my Twitter account, would Kanye West care?

6. If I actually used my Myspace, would Justin Timberlake notice?

7. How can I turn a sex tape into a money making machine without having to get my smack madam anywhere near nasty ass Ray J or brain dead Tommy Lee?

8. Can you die from eating salsa that’s old enough to have green fridge fuzz all on it?

9. How come no one told me after I turned 40 the hair on my legs would stop growing, but the hair on my face would get all militant? Seriously, if I didn’t keep the chin hairs in check, I’d look like an old, black Amish man, for real. Just call me Jebidiah Tyrone Ekhoff.

10. Is there really a market for plus-sized strippers, and would I be the skinniest one on the pole? Think about it, nobody wants to be the fat girl even at a fat girl freak fest.

Where Were You?

There are tragic moments in history that are seared into the American consciousness. These moments can galvanize a generation into action or apathy. These moments can spring forth spontaneous memorials and public mourning. These moments make us true citizens of the United States. In playgroups and daycares and parents’ day out groups all over America, tragedy has struck a new generation: Nick Jr. has REPLACED the actress that played Marina in the tour-de-force pre-school program, The Fresh Beat Band.

Where were you the day the music died? I was in the kitchen sneaking me an ice cream sandwich. (When you have pre-school aged kids, you never get to ENJOY treats near them, because they are like crayon-wielding sharks. They can smell a snack from a mile off, and they have no problem with “sharing” your snack.) I remember this moment like it was yesterday. Because it was yesterday when Adam let loose the scream heard round the world, “That’s not my MaWeena! Gimme my MaWeena back!” He then dissolved into a screaming, snotting meltdown that ranked up there with “The Great Wal-Mart Hissy Fit of 2011.” I actually had to put my ice cream sandwich back in the freezer, because I knew this wasn’t gonna be one of those temporary freak outs. ( Sidebar: Dontcha just hate it when the first ice cream sandwich you eat out of the box is the perfect temp then you leave the box in the freezer and you grab another one a couple of days later to find those yucky ice crystals?) Damn you to hell, Marina! I wonder if I can sue somebody, and get the child some college money because of this trauma ?!?!

Who the hell is the Fresh Beat Band? For enlightened parents, who actually care about real issues in the world, they are an annoying pre-school version of a pre-fab TV show band-- an updated, multicultural, “Monkees” without the dreamy Davey Jones for four-year-olds. They even have a Latina as the lead singer. Old Marina is not the lead singer. Old Marina has fiery red hair, and she plays (insert laugh track here) drums. Old Marina manages to look like the grown- up version of that little girl from the Partidge Family who could give less than a damn about “acting” or staying on beat. But my son loves Old Marina. For four-year olds, the Fresh Beat Band ROCKS!!!! Their songs speak to my son’s soul: Let’s Go Bananas, Great Day, Quack Shoes, are like Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On to little Adam.

According to “sources,” Old Marina has left the show to get married and start a family. But, I did some cyber stalking, and it appears Old Marina may have been moonlighting as a singer- songwriter. Damn you to hell, Old Marina. Parents have taken to the interweb to loudly reveal their displeasure. And here I was thinking my kid was the only stalker-in-training. Twitter is atwitter with calls for the beheading of the Director of Programming at Nick Jr. Facebook posts on the official Fresh Beat Band page are scathing and down-right ugly. As my friend Tara said, “Those parents are ready to riot.” I wish these people would find a life.

After much thought, I have decided not to “take it to the streets” over this new, Miss Clairol- assisted Marina. In the stay at home mom community, I bet that makes me a bad mother. As if I care. I’m old-school. I believe this is a teachable moment for my distraught toddler: change happens. You may hate it, but it does happen. I wonder if losing “his MaWeena “will be to my sons’ childhood what the Challenger Explosion was to mine. That was the day I learned to never watch another space ship launch live. I wonder if in 20 years, a group of young people affected by this Old Marina/ New Marina thing will get together and pen a moving, hip-hop anthem to commemorate the day the music died?

Ever the subversive, I am part of that shadow group that prays that the New Marina adds a Ted McGingley cancel curse to the damn show, BECAUSE I HATE IT. I hate every vapid song. I hate every jerky dance move. I hate every scratch of the turntables by “The Real MC Twist,” or is he Shout? Hell if I know.

I do feel bad that my child has lost his first character on a TV show, but if he would stop beau-guarding the damn TV, I could introduce him to the world of soap operas, where character replacement is high art: one day you are seven years old, and poof the next day you’re 32, and head of Jabot Cosmetics, like Victoria Newman on The Young and The Restless.

I will have to endure another old black lady all up on the casket moment with Adam, because I just cut the TV on, and wouldn’t you know it, the channel is set to Nick Jr. I feel a meltdown in 5,4,3,2,…

Missing

There is nothing like a death of a loved one that slaps you back into the land of the living. My dear friend, Knox McLaney, died last week, and I ain’t been right since. I’m heartbroken, crushed, devastated.

Knox was a master story teller. He and I would sit around the bars in Old Cloverdale in Montgomery, and do everything we could to one-up each other in telling the dirtiest, most salacious, and damn-near unbelievable stories about raising hell or, uh, chasing tail. He’d always win, but I would have a fine time trying to top him!

If I came close to beating him weaving one of my true confessions that would have made Oprah-lying-to- James-Frey look like Ghandi ; Knox would say, “Tang, you are making that shit up!”
I’d look him square in the eye and say, “Maybe, but until the records are unsealed, that is my testimony!”

Knox and I were the odd couple. He was from old Montgomery, and I was this girl who grew up in the projects. I respected the fact that despite his being 20 years older; Knox wasn’t a bigot. I think he respected the fact that I am nobody’s victim. We both spoke the same language: Southern. We both understood that there wasn’t a damn thing better than crumbling up a piece of hoe-cake into some left over collard potlikker. We both understood that you don’t call somebody in the middle of an SEC football game. We both understood that friends, the people you choose to be your family, are sometimes closer to you than your own blood.

For me, Cephas Knox McLaney was the daddy I never had, my wise big brother, my hilarious, bourbon-drinking uncle, and my gossip-loving best friend. I loved Knox hard. I’m taking his death pretty hard. I know when I go back to Montgomery and go into Bud’s his hat won’t be sitting in the chair across the bar. I know I’ll never get to ask him how many damn sticks of butter he used in his world famous barbeque sauce. I know I’ll never be able to hear that crazy laugh of his when I tell him how one of my young sons dropped their britches and took a whiz in the church parking lot. I’ll never hear that slow as Alaga syrup drawl of his again.

I read his obituary online today, and just when I thought I couldn’t shed another tear: a river the size of the Black Warrior came from my heart and sprung out of my eyes. Then I read the first line again “ Knox was a prominent local attorney…” and I started to laugh, inappropriately, out loud. You see, Knox and I used to love when someone from the “Country Club/ Big Money/ Jesus loves me and mine, but not your black/gay/poor ass” clique in Montgomery would keel over dead, and the local paper would describe them as a “ Prominent local doctor/lawyer/businessman. “ Because Knox would have the dirt on the deceased, and he would always say, “If the paper says Prominent local ANY-THING, you know that lying- ass sum bitch paid somebody off!” I know Knox must be laughing his ass off, because he and I both know he could give less than a damn about being prominent in Montgomery. He only cared about being prominent to his children.

Knox McLaney was an amazing father, a generous friend, and an adventurous spirit. Montgomery, Alabama is a better place because Knox McLaney lived a rich and full life there until the day he died. Somewhere out there in the spirit world Knox is drinking a Maker’s Mark, smoking a Winston, and looking Thomas Jefferson square in the eye saying, “Mr. President, you are making that shit up!”

I’m missing him already.

My Husband, The Sleepeater

I had never in my life heard of a sleepeater. Sleepwalker,yes. I'm not into research, so I have no idea if there is a scientific name for this illness of his. I would like to know if there is any way I can make money off of it. My husband is a sleepeater. No, he's not on Chantix...I would have already retained Mr. Beasley's firm if he was.

Whenever DaddyFixIt is stressed, he starts eating his way through the pantry. Nothing. Is. Safe. He's stone cold asleep. His eyes are open and he's in a whacked-out, crackheadian sort of trance. It is snack cake munching bizarreness.

This sleepeating has become the beginning of the end of this marriage. I have toughed it out through poverty and his German stubbornness and his pain in the ass Republicanism, but this madness is worthy of a visit to Judge Mablean. I am certain if the divorce ever happens, I will check the "other" box under reason for divorce, and write in my best school teacher printing, " his crackhead sleepeating episodes."

Zebra Cakes are my favorite. Not because they taste so damn good, but because each purchase is a "swirl power" fist pump for all the interracial families out there. Zebra Cakes are not just a funky good time for me, they are a political statement. I had been finding empty snack cake wrappers for 3 days. I assumed the McBrothas had performed some death defying leaning tower of toddler move on the step ladder to get to the top shelf of the pantry. I stood on the dining room chair, and prayed it wouldn't collapse as it creaked from the extra blizzard lbs. I looked on the top shelf. I was ready to scream when I found the box ripped open with the passion of a kid on Christmas morning. No, it wasn't my doing. I follow the rules. I open where Little Debbie tells me. There is but one twin pack left. I put the box back on the shelf, and went to bed. I was saving the last Zebra cakes for my morning snack. I had one Dr. Pepper left, and I was saving it to wash down my white, creamy, chocolate drizzled, salty, sweet, snack cake of social justice while I watched the first ten minutes of The View...and talked shit under my breath about how unfair it is that Sherri Sheppard has like 16 shows on tv, even though she says ax instead of ask...I hate affirmative axtion!!!!

As I pulled the covers over me I hear a feverish rustling out front. My dear, sweet, handsome husband had apparently gotten up from the couch where he had fallen alseep during the Family Guy episode that he'd already seen a hundred times. It's his way of cock blocking the TV. He gets a death grip on the remote and passes out like a Yeti all full and ready for winter. I walk down the hall to see him standing there, "oooohhhing and ahhhhhing" as if Halle Berry's letting him feel her up, but he ain't nibbling on a Hollywood Zebra; he's slobbering all over my gotdamn ZEBRA CAKE.

I had heard the stories about his sleep eating from his family, so I can't lie and say I wasn't warned. He's eaten an entire large pizza, plus-sized bag of M&M's, and anything left in a styro to-go box. Even when awake the man could eat a baby dingo. As if I don't have enough problems feeding him in daylight, now I gotta figure out how to fund his twilight appetite, too!

But this sleepeating incident was different. It was personal. He wasn't eating with love or dignity or grace. He wasn't toasting Mr. and Mrs. Loving, who fought all the way to the Supreme Court to strike down Jim-Crow era miscegenation laws. He wasn't savoring the interracial goodness of the Zebra Cake.I doubt his black ass even tasted it! I tried to wake him up, but he just looked past me and then proceeded to go to OUR BED.
"Oh, hell to the no! Wake up. You just ate my last Little Debbie." I said, indignantly.

He just turned over, and picked up his snoring where he left off on the couch.

I left the room in a huff. I plunked down on the sofa, and for the first time in the history of our Oklahoma house, I got to watch TV alone: no talking animated critters, no World War Whatever, no screaming, no crying, and no snoring. I now had a death grip on the remote. How come no one ever told me there are two Lifetime channels? The more I flipped, the less angry I became.

Now I buy Zebra Cakes two boxes at a time : one box for Civil Rights and another to tame the savage beast. I never know which box is which until I ask, "How was work, baby?"