Whitney we'll miss you.

Can the wrong man ruin your life? Yeah, he can! Recently Pop Diva Whitney Houston went home to meet her Lord. The lyrics, “I get so emotional, baby, every time I think of you” was set on replay when I heard.  I don’t pretend to know what goes on in the personal lives of celebrities, but as far as downward spirals go, I think Whitney’s began shortly after her husband put his diamond on her left. 

My ex-boyfriend is a pain in the ass, a pain in the neck, just a pain.  No matter what I do I can’t get rid of him. If I was a dragon, the mere mention of his name would be enough for me to breathe fire and burn his aggravating ass to a crisp.  I don’t hate him. If I see him I wouldn’t hit him with my car, just a light tap on the shins with the front bumper; nothing that would do any permanent harm.  All I want is to be left alone and in peace. We’ve both moved on but he’s determined to keep our lives intertwined which makes me want to scream and show him my fist minus the four fingers; yeah, I want him to f*%# off.  The fact that he can still make me angry makes me wonder if the relationship didn’t leave me with irreparable scars. Am I damaged? Does my life read like an old Danity Kane song?

Unlike the song lyrics I’m well aware that no man can fix me. I’m a product of my past. The lessons I’ve learned about myself from old relationships live on. If I want to be happy and whole I must forgive myself for yesterday’s mistakes. I think I have….sometimes.  The problem is that if my ex still has the power to make me angry doesn’t that mean that I’m damaged? If I was an electronic devise I would be refurbished. Meaning I look good as new but previously I’ve had some difficulty. It would mean that to all but the discerning eye, I would seem fresh with all my original packaging. I look sellable but my warranty is a lie.

The reason people are reluctant to buy used cars or electronics is that although the exterior looks good, the inside, the heart of the machine has a past. The product has suffered from previous wear and tear. People are no different. When we have experienced something traumatic we are tempted to pretty ourselves up, slap on a new paint job and put ourselves back on the shelf.  But the tag of refurbished or previously owned was made for a reason.  Manufacturers must include this disclaimer because it warns the new owner to buy at their own risk. All is not what it seems. It warns that the product may suffer from some inconsistencies and problems because of the previous owner’s neglect.  I’m fixing myself, dusting off the past and going in for regular soul servicing.  I’m not new but I’m worthy of a test drive. If you don’t believe me I have my carFAX.

Did a previous owner leave you damaged but you’re passing yourself off as brand new?

Are you damaged?

I can see it now, Rocky running up the stairs with his hands thrown in the air.  The music is blaring in his ears making him take the steps two at a time. No one can stop him.  He’s invincible.  I can see it now, Lenox Lewis entering the stadium with his white silk hood covering the dreads of his hair.  In the background the DJ blasts, “I’m going to chase those crazy baldheads out of town.” The crowd goes wild. That’s his jam. The Rastafarian boxer uses the Bob Marley classic to strike fear into his close-cropped challengers.  He’s Sampson and his hair is his strength. His music makes him powerful.

Every woman needs a theme song. It’s the song that is going to motivate and energize us when life gets us down.  It’s the song that you put into your CD player and turn it up full blast.  It’s the song that speaks to who you are and inspires you to settle into your fighting stance when people come to do battle. It uplifts and it warns your enemies not to mess or they’ll have a fight on their hands.

The rapper Kool Moe Dee wrote a song just for me.  It’s the song that makes me sing out loud and launch into the running man no matter whose watching.  If I’m down it gives me life.  My choice is very fluorescent socks and acid wash jeans but I don’t care.  I didn’t choose my song.  It chose me. From the moment I heard the chorus, “how ya like me now?” I knew that it was my war cry. The song settled into my soul and took root.  It was the song that I was going to sing when all my dreams were realized. I would ask the haters, “how ya like me now?” If someone doubted my talent, told me I couldn’t do something and proclaimed that I would fail, the minute I proved them wrong, I would ask the question, “how ya like me now?” It’s the theme song for the underdog and it fits me perfectly. I don’t play it all the time. I don’t play it everyday. I play it when life gets tough; when I’m on the verge of failing or giving up. I play it when I think I can’t go on. I play it in my head so much that the real song isn’t necessary.  I can succeed. I can win. My song says I can.  Cultivate a theme song and if you don’t have one borrow mine temporarily.  Win at everything.  When you have defeated all your detractors ask them with only the barest hint of sarcasm, “how ya like me now?”

When asked I tell people that I’m a music connoisseur. It sounds good in mixed company and elevates my status socially, sort of like saying that I like Jazz, the Ballet and Sushi.  I was only half bullshitting when I confessed to having an affinity to vinyl, later the cassette and then the CD. I really do like music. I do, or I did, but then something catastrophic happened. Something that sent me over the edge forever tainting me with the dirty knowledge that I was a pretender and wasn’t really a music lover at all.  How could I be when I could abandon the medium with just the slightest provocation?

I love to dance, twitch, rock my hips and tap my feet to anything that has a semblance of a beat.  Some people like the lyrics but I’m a slave to the rhythm.  It makes me want to shake something.  In another life I would have been a dancer.  More Crazy Legs— Rock Steady Crew and less Alvin Ailey.  It would have been all the same to me.  Music made me happy.  But then some obscure teenager ruined everything for me.  With the creation of one song, Hip Hop, and thereafter all music, was dead to me. I swore not to listen to anything created past 2003.  I hold the rapper Hurricane Chris responsible for the assassination of my love of music with the creation of one song.  The air play of the song entitled, She’s Fine (Halle Berry) forever convinced me that new music was pointless and ridiculous.  I enter into evidence the song lyrics:

♪She fine den a bitch, ass and her tits
Thick in tha hips, every nig want her
Call her Halle Berry, Halle berry
Halle Berry, Halle berry
She walkin like a model
Hands on your knees
Scrub the ground
She aint nothing but a tease
Halle Berry, Halle berry
Halle Berry, Halle berry ♪

I don’t mean to be all old-school and get all Prince, nineteen-ninety nine on y’all but I think Super Sistah is getting old. When I start complaining like my mother that they just don’t make good music anymore, then I know my ass is getting decrepit. I like hip-hop, really I do, I like dancehall, I love me some R& B, but to keep it real and tell you the full one hundred, I must admit that I stopped listening to the new stuff long ago; Chris was just the last straw. I couldn’t take it, the nonsense people were spitting and calling it rhymes started polluting my ears.  Yes, yes, I know, I must be ancient right?  Not really. Super Sistah was born to generation X.  Translation? I remember Michael Jackson both black and white. It means that back in the day I felt I knew LL Cool J personally.  It means that I was there when Hip-Hop breathed its first breath. I know my jams. After the Hurricane Chris tragedy, I tried taking some Viagra for the ears, just enough to give me the stamina to rejoin the new millennium musically. This time the rapper Trina and her song “White Girl” is to blame for ruining the reconciliation.

I know that the white girl is on many a black woman’s mind as they dance off with football player after football player, NBA stud after NBA stud and with our High School boyfriends, but do they really need their own theme song? Is Trina’s rendition of White Girl supposed to be like Lil Wayne’s Party like a Rock star? Implying again, partying like white people is way more cool? Are they wilder than us in the Y2K+10? Only the diehard party goers, music aficionados and those addicted to Sirius radio truly know.  As for me, I miss the good old days, in that I mean the nineties, when they played music that I could comprehend lyrically.

Is Hip-Hop Dead? Is there any music worth the price of the CD?  Give me some examples of something that Super Sistah can jam to without the temptation to rip off her cape and jump off the nearest bridge.