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!

Blame Dave P: How The McBrothas Got Their Name

I apologize in advance for the racial undertones, overtones, highlights, and lowlights, but this is the story that must be told.

                                          Exhibit A: Baby Daniel

A few weeks after Daniel was born, I walked into 1048 to show everyone pictures of my sweet little boy. He had hair the color of a new penny and eyes the color of a back-to-school pair of Levi’s. He was beautiful. 

When the pictures got to Dave P( bling, blong, blaow), the lead singer and harmonica player of my favorite band, Blues Old Stand, he said, “Damn, Tange, that’s one white ass baby. You should call him Blackie McWhiteBoy.” 

I laughed. Hard.  P.Moe was absolutely right. Daniel was the whitest black baby I had ever seen. He was the perfect mix of DaddyFixIt and me. He was as white as his dad, and had blue eyes. If it hadn’t been for his perfectly pouty little mouth, I would go to my grave believing some white woman down the hall and I had been victims of a soap opera caliber baby swap.

When I got home from my adventure in Cloverdale (It wasn’t a full Happy Hour. I couldn’t drink, because I was pregnant, yet again.) I told the husband what Dave P said. I fully expected him to hit the roof. We had had a couple of full on brushes with some pretty snarky comments about our race mixing.  While I thought Blackie McWhiteBoy was the funniest thing I ever heard, I wasn’t so sure about Old Daddy. To my amazement he laughed. Hard. He picked up his son and said, “Well, I guess you are Blackie McWhiteBoy.”

                                          Exhibit B: Baby Adam

Nine months later Adam was born. His eyes were even bluer. His hair was even lighter. Rene and I started calling him Whitey McBrotha. Adam looked nothing like me. At. ALL. I still think he may have been switched.

The boys are just getting to the age where they recognize that we all look a little different.  Daniel is noticing it more. The other day, he pronounces Old Daddy to be “Pink, Strawberry Ice Cream.”  Daniel said he and Adam were “Kinda Yellow Ice Cream,” and “Mama, you’re my favorite. You’re Chocolate!” Rene and I had a good old laugh off of that. I’m just glad I’m still my little boy’s favorite!

 As the McBrothas grow up and move out into a world that can be very harsh to people of all flavors, I hope that they always remember that the love Daddy and I feel for each other and feel for them will never have a color. We are a Neapolitan McFamily.

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?"