Showing posts with label Larry Fishburne. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Larry Fishburne. Show all posts

Wednesday, January 2, 2008

TV Talk


I'll get to New Year musings soon, but I wanted to discuss some of the New Year's Day television programming. As you all know, New Year's Day tends to be the day networks show marathons because no one wants to work that day. Quickly: Let me just say that if they made Law & Order: Boise Heat, I'd watch that shit. There was a Law & Order: Special Victims Unit marathon on USA, as well as a regular Law & Order marathon on TNT. The Wire is best written show I've ever seen, but Law & Order is the best cop drama of all time. Better than Hill Street Blues. Better than NYPD Blue, which I thought was overrated. L & W is better than CSI, Cold Case, both of which I find incredibly boring.

Anyway, on New Year's, I got suckered into two marathons of shows I'd never seen before. And I use the word "suckered" because both shows are what I call terrible-compelling.

The first show that got me was this prison reality TV show, Lockup: Holman Extended Stay," which was on MSNBC. First, I'm generally disturbed that prisoners can become reality TV stars. How worthless is it to be a prison reality TV star? It's not like you can do what the other worthless reality TV stars do, which is use their 10 seconds of fame to get on everyone's nerves and make some sort of marginal living. If you're a prison reality TV star, what does that get you? An extra pack of cigarettes? 10 extra minutes in the yard? Only raped once a week?

In this prison, which is set in Alabama, you learn that prisoners live in a delusional world and that, honestly, jail is the most phukked up place on Earth. Alabama's Holman has typically, crappy prison conditions, but in addition to basically sleeping in a cubicle, I notice how small the beds were. Most prisoners are swoll' because they have nothing else to do but work out all day. Yet they gotta sleep on a bed that's the size of a pizza box. There is no tossing and turning that bed, for sure.

Like all reality shows, this one selects a few people in which we can get the real deal on what it's like to sleep in a pizza box, live in a cubicle, yet oddly have access to the Internet. They focused in on this white guy, who I'm convinced he invented his own language. He was just kuntry, but he made the dudes that do Soulja Boy sound like Larry Fishburne.

All this dude does in prison is smoke weed all day and do all the shit that essentially landed him in prison in the first place. Yet magically, he beats every single drug screen. If dude is smart enough to access weed -- and the prisoners there are so bold they smoke weed right on the yard -- and smart enough to pass prison drug tests, then whydafuc are you in jail? If you're that damn smart, you need to be knocking over the Bellagio instead landing in jail on aggravated B & Es.

Anyway, all this show dude is reinforce what we knew anyway: Prisoners are stupid. No, seriously. So, of course, the show then moves to focus on the prison rap-singer duo, Deep South Mafia. First, how are you a mafia when it's two of you? How are you a mafia IN PRISON? This, by far, was the most fascinating part of the show because seeing two prison guys work in music just might be worthy of its own show. These dudes created a "studio," which was them going to a secluded closet and making beats using a mop handle and a bucket. Creative.

Then, the broke, male version of Floetry starts in on their "hit" song, which is called Baby Butterfly. To give them credit, it had a nice, little flow to it. Hell, if T-Pain's gimmicky-ass can make it, why not the male Floetry?

It's seemingly a nice, but sad prison tale. Even though one of the dudes got his eye stabbed out in the county, and is still claiming Crip 4 life, he seems like he has a little sense. His buddy, who claimed no gang affiliation, but was a childhood friend, seemed OK, too. They go on and on about how their dream is to make it as artists, leave that thug ish alone entirely.

And then they show what these dudes are in for. Unfortunately, they got Jay-Z dreams, but Charles Manson time. They ain't nevah getting out. And to cap things off, Crip 4 Life got sent to solitary for exposing his genitals. You know it's hard out here for a pimp. Crip 4 Life saw one of the female guards and went to town on his meat. To the hole you go. At least he didn't do that to a male prisoner.

Thoroughly depressed from that, I move on to bio TV, where they have an Airline marathon. Dunno if you've ever seen this show, but it's a reality show about Southwest Airlines, which I affectionately call Southworst. Funny, they never show any of the jacked up stuff they do, like sending your bags to Uruguay and being generally unhelpful. They just show Southwest being kind and benevolent. They show them doing things I've never seen, like the airline attendants bringing you champagne because you've had a rough travel experience. WTF? That ish doesn't happen. If you have a rough travel day, they just tell you to STFU, take yo' ass to the back and smack you upset with a bag of stale-ass peanuts.

The funniest part of the show is the passengers. My favorite part specifically is when the staff has to confront extraordinary drunk passengers. Pure comedy. I didn't know this before watching show, but if you're too drunk, you can't board. Me, I always try to be a little tipsy on the flight, figuring if I plunge to a fiery death I'll be too drunk to notice.

But there is drunk and DRUNK. Some of these passengers are DRUNK. I'm talking pissy, stumbling, I should be a in ditch somewhere drunk. And they swell up on the airline staff when they won't let their pissy-drunk asses board.

But during the marathon, they really jammed this black dude who came into town to go see his beloved Steelers. The ho-ass chick that checked him in claimed that he was too drunk to board. Then Southwest waited until he boarded the plane to tell him and his wife that they had to take the next flight in the morning. It was some straight bull. I've seen drunk and dude wasn't close. His eyes were a little red, but he didn't slur, didn't wobble and was fairly coherent. His wife was P'Oed, and she had every right to be. If the chick that checked him in thought he was so blew out he shouldn't board, why not just refuse service then? She waited until he got all the way on the plane to bring him and his wife off. He admitted he had been drinking at the game, but it was hours before.

Then the white folks want to look all brand-new when his wife, who hadn't been drinking, started cussing everybody out in a Southwest uniform. I was feeling her. Unless you have a breathalyzer or a blood-alcohol kit, don't holla at me.

Anyway, the lesson to be learned is that they'll make a reality TV show out of anything and anyone. Prison reality TV? Never saw that one coming. But then again, there is a reality show about child molesters that's pretty entertaining.





Wednesday, December 12, 2007

Down Goes The Master Of The Open-Hand Slap


"Beating muthaphuckas like Ike beat Tina..."
-- Biggie Smalls

One of the greatest pimps of all time is gone. The king of the open-hand slap is no more. The dude that gave us one of my favorite lines of all time -- "miss a step today, you be fryin' fish tomorrow" -- has passed away.

OK, I'm not sure if Ike Turner really said that, but Larry Fishburne did in What's Love Got To Do With It. Good enough.

Ike Freakin' Turner died. Of what? I'onknow. All I do know is Ike, on top of being a for real musical genius, is one of the greatest characters America has come to know. Never has someone been so unapologetic about whupping a woman's ass for damn near half her life.

But as I said to a friend earlier tonight, if Ike hadn't discovered Tina, would there have ever been a Tina? If Ike hadn't beat Tina Turner, would she have gone solo? The craziest thing about their story is that the greatest tragedy turned into a huge victory for one of them, and an albatross for the other. If Tina hadn't gotten her ass beat, there is no way she'd be looked at as an iconic woman today. One man's fist is another woman's superstar career.

When Whoopi said, "until you do right by me...everything you do is gonna fail," she coulda been talking about Ike. His greatest downfall was doing Tina wrong. That and wearing outfits like these:




I meannnn...

Who knew a dude that once said "I didn't beat her...with a closed fist" would feel confident enough to wear a go-go belt and heels? For all of Ike's bluster and fuss, he sholl' didn't mind looking like a broke-ass Solid Gold dancer.

Anyway, what made Ike a character is his continual denial that he was, indeed, a character. Ike supposedly was married 14 times, but only four publicly. A couple years ago, Ike penned a song called "Safe Sex." Here are the lyrics:

Sex / I want it every day / There ain't no-body going to take my sex away / Condoms is my best friends / Without condoms I ain't gonna go in.

From the mind of Ike.

In all seriousness, there is a certain teaching tool here with Ike. He was a pioneer. Despite how it may look, Ike was the one who discovered Tina, and if it weren't for his musical genius and intuition, she would never have become an international star. When Ike was really in his heydey, there were hardly any black people getting credit for the music they were producing. Americans, particularly whites, don't like to acknowledge this, but Elvis and several of the legends they idolize stole their music from black folks. Black folk like Ike.

Had Ike never become a cokehead, he might have a legacy like Phil Spector or some of the other great musical talents of our time. Instead, he'll be remembered as the once-genius dude who beat another musical great's ass for damn near 20 years. Just goes to show that it's not what you do that counts, but how you're remembered.