...alleging, implying or sending condolences regarding the fact that I've quit this blog, I'm gonna go home and I'm gonna bite my pillow is what I'm gonna do. I thought my last post was explicit, but I guess not so allow me to be: I'm taking a BREAK that's TEMPORARY and I'll BE BACK SOON because I MISS THIS SHIT especially when JD does things like BREAKING TABLES and THROWING PHONES on THE REAL WORLD and yes, I sometimes yell INTERMITTENTLY but it's only because I CAN'T YELL ALL THE TIME.
Seriously, as if this entire situation weren't enough to inflict complete and total never-be-read-again paranoia upon me, I get shit that's like, "TTYN right back atcha." I said "S" not "N." S!
And so, in sum:
And if you're curious about what I'm up to, let's just say, I'm washing hose.
There will be no Real World post today or maybe ever again, I'm kinda sad to say. I have to take a break from this blog for a little bit. At least, that's what I think. I'll see if my insane sense of obligation makes that even possible.
Basically, it's like this: I've had an opportunity in front of me for a while that's just kind of amazing. So amazing that some people would have me committed for not jumping on it and immediately banging out what needs to be banged out. It's gotten to the point where I feel like it's now or never and even if nothing comes of my effort, I can't really live the rest of my life knowing that I didn't do everything in my power to make it happen. It's been impossible attempting to juggle this potential new project and this blog over the past few months, so my only choice is dropping this ball for a second.
(And sorry I'm being so vague about the opportunity, but it would be horribly tacky of me, not to mention self-defeating, to announce something that is a mere hypothesis at this point.)
It pains me to do this now because there's so much to write about: How's Your News (best show on television, though Eastbound and Downis very much in the running), Paris Hilton's British Best Friend, the new Teedra Moses mixtape-album (support your girl -- trust me, just do it), Friday the 13th, the Oscars, whatever. I wish this came at a less inspiring time, but whatever. I won't be gone long, and I have full plans to cover ANTM when it's back on (I should be all done with my...task by then). I hope to check in several times before then, making this post irrelevant. I just needed to make the break semi-official for my own head. Believe me, this pains me, though it's also something of a joyous occasion. So here I am, ambivalent as ever.
I leave you with this:
Nothing's over, per se, I just wanted an excuse to post that.
The only way Bobby Brown, Johnny Gill and Ralph Tresvant's Heads of State concert at last night's Nokia Theater in New York could have been better is if it were a complete disaster. I went in there thrilled at the prospect of seeing Bobby (Johnny and Ralph are great, too, but they alone or even with the strangely absent Bell Biv Devoe, wouldn't have gotten me in there without Bobbaaaay). Of course, with the prospect of seeing Bobby comes the prospect of seeing Bobby high, and since I figured there was no way he could come close to the spunk of his be-Gumby'd heyday, seeing him vomit all over his legacy was the next best thing. Plus, you know, I still feel ripped off about never getting that second season of Being Bobby Brown, so I kinda wanted to watch it live.
It turns out that there is great joy to be had watching a seemingly sober Bobby (or close enough, considering the displays through the years that he's deemed fit for public consumption). His new-found respectable behavior was as weird as any drunken fit -- I never thought I'd see the day that Bobby would tell a female concertgoer to stop touching him as her hands flip-flopped around his crotch. Now I can die enriched, I suppose. The only truly cringe-worthy moment is the one you see above, when his back went out during a stripped-down version of "Jealous Girl." I'm not entirely convinced that this was sincere. It may have been just a bit of theater for our entertainment. In Bobby's head, is there even a difference between sincerity and theater at this point?
No matter, because the synergy of the two was otherwise apparent throughout the show, a 90-minute sprint through each party's solo hits (with Johnny's "My My My" the only truly bizarre exclusion) traded off in a cycle. Bobby would sing his (starting with "On Our Own"), then Ralph, then Johnny, and Bobby again and so on. All the while, the two who weren't singing lead performed backup. New Edition essentials peppered the setlist, with Bobby making explicit note of the N.E. tracks that were made after he left the group -- he talked about interpreting "With You All the Way" as Ralph's message to him ("But not like that!") and he straight-up left the stage during "If It Isn't Love" and "Can You Stand the Rain," only to soon return both times to provide spirited support. He doesn't hold a grudge; he just knows that a little tension never hurt any performance.
New Edition was never exactly technically impressive on any front, so little was lost in the transition from then to now. They could still pull off the dopey doo-wop-with-swagger dance moves, and their voices are better than they probably should be (Ralph sounded particularly well-preserved, as though he's now a recluse who lives amongst humidifiers). Johnny's a quarter-pounder and a few more my's away from looking bearishy cute, Bobby's as bloated as he was on Being Bobby Brown and Ralph's almost frighteningly thin, but the collective energy put forth in sync like their fellow '80s relics the Thundercats was enough to allay any worries, at least temporarily. If you need more than that, you're in the wrong decade.
Bobby's full performance of "Roni," perhaps my second favorite song of all time, is after the jump. I recommend at the very least skipping to 3:18 to watch what happens when his guitar talks. Be on the lookout for a rogue tongue.
I wish I could quit Kanye, but the fact of the matter is that his whims and tantrums will never not be fascinating to me. Even if I'm gagging with distaste, I'm still paying attention, and so, like a kicking and screaming child, Kanye wins. I had many issues with the words he spoke in the February cover story of Vibe, and instead of doing my usual complaining-about-Kanye rant, I decided a different approach. I know the writer of the piece, Sean Fennessey, so I got on the phone for a discussion about the piece -- an interview on the interview, if you will -- as well as the man himself. "Rappers just never unravel, ever," says Sean on Kanye's...specialness. For better or worse, I'm captivated for the same reason.
[I know that the posting of this could have been a bit more timely, as the interview's been out for a while, but whatever, I was sick last week and napping was always a more attractive alternative to transcribing. Regardless, I still feel like this stuff is relevant. It's not like Kanye or his immaturity are going anywhere, you know?]
Guess what I did while the Superbowl was on? In similar news, I love the way the callouses on my hands exfoliate my face when I apply moisturizer everyday.
