America Needs N.W.A Now More Than Ever

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This is a poster for Straight Outta Compton. The poster art copyright is believed to belong to the distributor of the film, Universal Pictures, the publisher of the film or the graphic artist.

This is a poster for Straight Outta Compton. The poster art copyright is believed to belong to the distributor of the film, Universal Pictures, the publisher of the film or the graphic artist.

I’m a 40-year-old white lady from the suburbs who just saw Straight Outta Compton at a Sunday afternoon matinée. (I know, it doesn’t get less gangster than that.) But you know what? I couldn’t wait for Straight Outta Compton to come out, and I wasn’t disappointed. The performances were genuine and electrifying. The story was sometimes joyous and sometimes heartbreaking, but always compelling. But I’m not writing this to give you a review of Straight Outta Compton – there are dozens of people already telling you how amazing it is. This isn’t about why it was great, but why it’s important.

I first heard of N.W.A in 1988 when I was in eighth grade. I was sitting in Ms. Davis’s English class when my friend, Tracy (who happens to be black if it matters), passed me a note that said, “Do you know what N.W.A stands for?” I shook my head. She wrote: “Niggas With Attitudes.” I had no idea what she was talking about, but I knew that the N-word wasn’t something people around me said. We lived in the suburbs. We watched The Cosby Show. The only rap on my radar at that point came from DJ Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince.

Then the show Yo! Mtv Raps came out. I watched it after school and found a whole genre of music I had never heard on the radio. I discovered Public Enemy, Ice-T, Eric B. & Rakim, and of course, N.W.A. I wouldn’t have had any exposure to hip-hop back then if it weren’t for Mtv. By extension, I wouldn’t have known anything about inner-city life either. Crips versus Bloods. West Coast versus East Coast. For a white girl from Kalamazoo, Michigan, there was a lot to learn.

Then in 1991, four LAPD officers beat Rodney King, and it was caught on videotape. I had been hearing about police brutality in the rap music I was listening to, but I had never seen it before. That didn’t happen in my neighborhood. Remember, this was before cell phones, social media, and even the internet. If your local news didn’t think you needed to hear about something, you didn’t. I was seeing this because a citizen was in the right place at the right time and was able to catch this happening with their VHS camcorder. It was shocking.

When the unthinkable happened and those four LAPD officers were found not guilty, it rocked the country. Los Angeles exploded with frustration and burned with the deadliest riots to happen in this country in over a hundred years. I saw the coverage on television. Rappers had been telling us about police violence for years, but now we were seeing just how tumultuous the situation had become. Ignore a problem long enough and eventually someone is going to make you pay attention.

Fast forward to now. In the twenty-five years since the mainstream explosion of rap music, hip-hop seems to be moving in a different direction. Eminem, Dr. Dre’s prodigy, exploded onto the scene and white suburban kids everywhere were enamored with the white rapper who got constant radio airplay. (Although Eminem didn’t rap about gang life, his rhymes were every bit as dark and violent as N.W.A’s ever were.) After the deaths of Tupac and Biggie, gangsta rap seemed to be winding down in favor of auto-tuned club anthems. For a long time, we stopped talking about inner city life and police violence, at least in the suburbs.

Until now.

With the prevalence of smart phones ensuring that most citizens have a video camera with them at all times, it was inevitable that someone would shine a spotlight again and force us to pay attention.

On July 17, 2014, Eric Garner was put into an illegal chokehold and killed by a NYPD officer. Garner was unarmed. The incident was captured on video. The officer responsible was not charged. The following month, John Crawford III was shot and killed by a Beavercreek, Ohio police officer as Crawford shopped at a Walmart holding a toy BB gun he had picked up while there. The incident was captured on store surveillance video. The officer involved was not charged. A few days later, on August 9, 2014, 18-year-old Michael Brown was shot and killed by Ferguson, Missouri police officer Darren Wilson. There was no video evidence this time, and the circumstances were in dispute. Wilson was not charged, and Ferguson erupted in protest. By this point, anyone who was old enough to remember watching the Los Angeles riots after the acquittal of the four LAPD officers accused of beating Rodney King (on videotape) was wondering how it’s possible that in over twenty years, not a damn thing has changed.

From N.W.A’s song “Fuck Tha Police”, released in 1988:

“Fuck the police, coming straight from the underground,
A young nigga got it bad ‘cause I’m brown,
And not the other color, so police think
They have the authority to kill a minority.”

There have been many, many more victims.  On April 12, 2015, Freddy Gray was arrested in Baltimore under questionable circumstances, sustained injuries while in police custody, and died days later. This time, the death was ruled a homicide and the six officers involved were indicted. The population of Baltimore is primarily black. What about the police officers involved in the death of Freddy Gray? Three of them were white and three of them were black.

From N.W.A’s “Fuck Tha Police”:

“But don’t let it be a black and a white one,
‘Cause they’ll slam ya down to the street top,
Black police showing out for the white cop.”

So, were the members of N.W.A prescient? Of course not. The same police brutality that was happening in 1988 is still happening nearly 30 years later. I don’t know how we stop it, but I know we have to keep talking about it. We might have 24/7 news coverage and “citizen reporting” via Facebook, Twitter, and other social media channels, but maybe what we really need is another N.W.A – somebody reporting from the front lines to tell us what’s really going on outside of our own neighborhood, and packaging in a way that people will listen to. We need someone to keep us informed and keep us angry.

Listen, just about anybody my age is going to love the movie Straight Outta Compton. We were listening when N.W.A came out and we remember how revolutionary it was. But I hope that young people are going to see it too. We need to acknowledge how far we haven’t come in racial equality, particularly when it comes to treatment by the police. (Maybe you think we’ve made progress. Watch that Rodney King video again and you’ll see that we haven’t.) So, everyone, go see Straight Outta Compton for the groundbreaking music and the compelling story. You’ll get a valuable history lesson at the same time.

The Time I Called “Bullshit” On A Mechanic

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Today, I refused to take shit from someone and it felt pretty fucking awesome.

First, I should probably admit that I suck at car maintenance. Not as in I can’t change my own oil. More like how even though routine maintenance on my leased car is free from the dealership, I’m too lazy to take my car in and have it serviced. Have you been to a car dealership lately? It’s the seventh circle of hell. I don’t trust any of those bastards and I feel dirty just walking in that place – holding extra tight to my purse and trying to keep them from raping my wallet.

Anyway, my car recently hit 6,000 miles and was due for its first oil change/service. (By recently, I mean about six months ago.) So, I went ahead and drove around with the light on for another 2,000 miles. Don’t get me wrong, I definitely felt bad about it every time I got into my car and saw the “Maintenance Needed, Lazy Bitch” light on, but I still put it off. I felt especially guilty since, as I mentioned before, this car service visit would be free. It’s one of the perks I was happy about when I leased the car.

Since I turned over a new leaf on New Year’s Day and basically resolved to be a completely different person, i.e., one who gets shit done, I finally sat down to schedule my car maintenance.

I called the dealership and got Pablo in the service department. (Pablo isn’t his real name because I didn’t understand his real name when he told me. And not because he was Latino, you racists, we just had a bad connection.) I told Pablo I needed my car serviced for the first time and he looked me up in their system by phone number. For some reason, they still had the information from my previous Corolla (2009) in the system, which doesn’t make sense to me. I really don’t think these people have their shit together. Maybe Sales and Service don’t talk to each other.

Once we were on the same page with the fact that I now have a 2011 Corolla, I told him I needed to make an appointment for the first oil change and that the car has 8,000 miles. I wanted to make sure that the service was free. I thought it was free for three years (the term of my lease) but I couldn’t remember. Even though the car seems to be three years old (it’s a 2011 and it’s now 2014), I’ve only had it for 2 years, having leased it new (at a bargain!) in mid-2012.

This is where things got frustrating. Here is the conversation I had with Pablo:

Me: “So, before I make this appointment, there is no charge, right?”

Pablo (in the trailing off voice people use when they’re trying to avoid doing their job): “I’m not sure…”

Me:  “If you’re going to charge me for the oil change, no offense, but I’ll just take it to the place around the corner. It’s a lot more convenient for me.”

Pablo: “You can bring it in, and we can tell you whether or not there’s a charge. If there is, you don’t have to get the work done. We’ll ask you before we do anything.”

Me: “Why do I have to bring my car in for you to figure out whether or not this service is covered? You know the year and make of my car. I can tell you anything you need to know about it in order to look up whether or not this is covered. Do you want the VIN number? Why do you need me standing there with my car in order to look up in your computer whether or not this service is free for me? Can you understand why I don’t want to come all the way down there in order for you to do that?”

Pablo (actually looking shit up this time): “Hold on…it says here it’s two years or 25,000 miles, so it’s not covered.”

Me: “Okay, thanks. Bye.”

So, I didn’t make the appointment. Ha-ha, motherfuckers!

It probably sounds like I was not very nice, and that’s the point! I mean, I wasn’t rude to Pablo or anything, just honest. At some point in the conversation, I realized that I cared more about saving time and money than I did about Pablo thinking I was a trifling bitch for pushing him about whether or not I was going to be charged for something and then deciding not to make an appointment just because he spent five minutes on the phone with me. I’m normally a big people-pleaser, so the idea of a stranger on the other end of a phone that I don’t know from Adam thinking I’m nice and cute and full of sunshine has traditionally been pretty important to me.

But fuck that! Ha! Today I decided that it didn’t matter, and it was incredibly liberating. In restaurants, if a server gets my order wrong, I complain to my husband and then when she comes by to check on how everything is, I enthusiastically nod, “Great!” and then tip her at least 20%. Not anymore!

Unfortunately, I still have to take my car in to get an oil change. There’s a place around the corner that’s great. I’ll go tomorrow. Probably.

The British Invasion…of Hollywood

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UK & USA Flags - Dot Matrix

UK & USA Flags – Dot Matrix (Photo credit: gavjof)

Every so often, usually around election time, the conservative contingent in this country revamps their diatribe about foreigners coming to ‘Merica and stealing our jobs. I don’t typically participate in this discussion because it’s tiring and ridiculous and I’ve yet to meet an out-of-work American dying to pick lettuce for $7 an hour.

But this time it’s different.

I have discovered a whole new wave of American jobs being covertly filled by non-Americans, specifically, Brits. That’s right; the Brits are taking our jobs…in Hollywood. What makes this practice particularly insidious is that British people are light-colored and can fake an American accent and we don’t even know it’s happened until it’s too late.

Allow me to elaborate.

Remember the first time you saw Hugh Laurie outside of his title role on House M.D.? Maybe you were a little surprised to hear his British accent. I know I was, but I didn’t think much of it other than, “Wow, he does a really good American accent on that show. Huh.” That program began in 2004, and in the nearly ten years since, this British invasion has only escalated.

Example #1: A British ginger plays a Muslim terrorist pretending to be an American hero. (Got that?)

Those of you who watch Homeland on HBO, when you aren’t distracted by Claire Danes’ ugly cry-face, are probably impressed with Damian Lewis’s portrayal of the multifaceted character Nicholas Brody. You’re not the only one; Lewis has won several awards for his turn as the tortured American soldier with questionable allegiance.

But did you know that not only is Nicholas Brody a Muslim terrorist, he’s also…British? Not just British, but like, super British. The first time I saw him accept an award for his role in Homeland, I couldn’t figure out why his voice was being dubbed by the Queen of England. (That’s how British he sounds.)

See for yourself. (You can skip ahead to about the 1:20 mark for his speech.)

Example #2: After the Zombiepocalypse, the South is overrun with Brits.

There are at least two British actors on The Walking Dead pretending to be good ol’ American zombie hunters. Not only are they playing American, but they are portraying small-town southerners. (I have a theory on this that I will get to shortly.)

Sheriff Rick Grimes? Brit. Sweet Maggie, the farmer’s daughter? BRIT! There may be more! I don’t even know.

Maggie, played by Lauren Cohan:

Sheriff Rick Grimes, played by Andrew Lincoln. (That’s not even his real name! President Abe is rolling in his grave!)

Example #3: Badass Biker Brits

I recently started binge-watching Sons of Anarchy on Netflix. For those of you unacquainted with the show, at least for the ladies, one of the highlights of this program is the amount of time Jax Teller, played by Charlie Hunnam spends in the buff.  (AMC is the new HBO y’all.)

Being that I’m developing a bit of a crush on Mr. Hunnam, I did a little googling to see what else he’s been in. I can’t explain why or how, but right before I clicked on his IMDB profile, I thought to myself, “How funny would it be if this quintessential American biker dude was played by a Brit?” And there it was: Charlie Hunnam, born in Newcastle, England. You’ve got to be kidding me.

Nope, it’s true. (Although to be fair, it doesn’t appear that the badassery is an act.)

Jax Teller, played by Charlie Hunnam:

In summation, I have basically two takeaways from this:

  1. White foreigners are taking our acting jobs. Right now, we’re looking at a primarily British attack. In the 1980’ss and 1990’s it was those pesky Canadians and their love of American sitcoms. (If you’re old enough to remember  “Dead or Canadian?” on the Mtv game show Remote Control then you know what I’m talking about. I’m looking at you Michael J. Fox, Pamela Anderson, and every awkward male comedian who has ever done sketch comedy.)
  2. Brits typically play southerners. Not always, but frequently, and I think I’ve figured out why.  My friend Kristy is married to a Brit named Steve. I once tried to get Steve to put on an American accent for me, but he refused. (We Americans are always trying to sound cute by attempting a British accent, so I wanted to see what that sounded like in reverse.)  Anyway, Steve was too embarrassed to do it because he said he couldn’t do an American accent without sounding like a hick. Finally, I think he managed a “Y’all”. And that’s it! A Midwestern accent is difficult because it’s so nondescript, but the opposite of a cultured British accent is a Honey Boo Boo-esque redneck affectation. It’s easier for Brits. That’s why even though Jax Teller, motorcycle hottie, who lives in California on Sons of Anarchy, often calls the ladies, “Darlin’”.

So, next time you’re watching your favorite television show, look and listen a little more closely, y’all. Because the British are coming…to a theatre near you.

Google. That’s How They’ll Get Us.

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earthGoogle is ubiquitous. I know I’m stating the obvious here, but let me drive the point home. Lately I’ve been seeing television commercials where some “man on the street” approaches people and offers them a challenge where they can view two side-by-side search result pages and choose the one they find most useful. If they choose the Google result page rather than the Bing (who?) result page, Mr. Commercial Man will give them a thousand dollars or a Dodge Dart or some sort of prize – I don’t remember exactly what. Of course, they all choose Bing, everybody is amazed, and whatever. I was intrigued by this millennial generation version of the Pepsi Challenge, so I decided to check out this Bing search engine thing for myself. So, what did I do? Well, naturally, I went straight to www.google.com and typed in “Bing” in order to get myself to the Bing website. That, my friends, is irony.

So, not only did this sequence of events make me question whether or not I am mildly retarded, but it reminded me that Google has reached a level of ubiquity in our everyday lives that places it in the same category of metonyms as Xerox, Kleenex, and Q-tip. (A metonym is a thing or concept not called by its own name, but by the name of something intimately associated with that thing or concept. See? I’m smarter than you thought, right?) We don’t search for things anymore; we “Google” them.

This brings me to my point about how aliens will eventually use Google to destroy us. (And here you were thinking I didn’t have a point.)

Despite what you may think, human beings are pretty good about blindly following directions. Before the prevalence of GPS and MapQuest and Google Maps and all that sort of technology, I used to think orange traffic cones and barrels would be the death of us. Think about it. How many times have you been slowed to a crawl in traffic, herded from three lanes down to one, with no evidence of actual road construction in progress? Sometimes I think the Department of Transportation is just fucking with us. Why not? They have to work in the blazing heat, wearing those tacky reflective vests while we’re sailing along the nation’s highways for a happy holiday weekend.

Anyway, I just figured that one of these days, those orange cones would eventually just lead us all up and into a big alien spacecraft and nobody would stop their bitching long enough to notice until it was too late. It could happen.

But now, we have technology! We have Google Earth! We have online maps! Internet driving directions! This will not save us, fellow citizens. This is even worse. Now malevolent space invaders won’t have to be bothered with covertly procuring construction materials with which to corral us. (Though to be fair, any drunken high school kid can tell you that these are fairly easy to swipe.) Everything is online. I know that if I were an advanced extraterrestrial species and I hacked into our computer pipes and tubes and saw something called Google Earth, with a satellite picture of our lovely planet, that is the first place I would commence my intergalactic fuckery.

All they have to do is write some new programming code, change our driving directions, and reroute all of us into their little space-traps. It will work too. Because we’re stupid. We do what our GPS and online driving directions tell us to do, even when they don’t make any sense. I mean, I know that it doesn’t take seven moves to get from my house to the corner, but I still trust Google maps to give me directions to a destination three states away. There is no logic to this blind faith, and I don’t think I trust anyone else like that. I won’t even take a prescription my doctor writes me without cross-checking it on WebMD first, and he went to college for seven years.

I already suspect that something shady is going on with this Internet driving directions racket. I used to be great with directions, but since I no longer use that part of my brain, it has completely atrophied. I recently needed to drive about 30 minutes away to a neighboring city, so I looked up directions. Despite my repeated attempts to “avoid toll roads”, Google Maps wasn’t having it. (See? Somebody is in cahoots with the FDOT. Dirty money!) Because I now apparently have Stockholm Syndrome and am completely unable to just look at a map and choose my own route, I acquiesced and began my toll road journey.

Of course, I totally screwed up and missed my exit. When I reached the next exit, I got to the little toll booth and threw my quarters in the basket and started to leave. Unfortunately, I messed up and put in the wrong amount: $0.75 instead of $1.00, and the bar didn’t go up. So, I backed my car up and tossed in another quarter and pulled ahead again. This did not work because the sonofabitch toll collection machine beast had reset and wanted a whole dollar again and this time I had underpaid by $0.75 rather than making up the difference of my first mistake. For fuck’s sake. I was running out of filthy car change by this point. I backed up again, thankful nobody was behind me, and managed to throw in a dollar’s worth of change and narrowly escape. Then I had to turn around, reenter the highway, swerve at the last minute to make the correct exit, whose sign was labeled completely different from what my printed directions said, and put more fucking money in the stupid toll monster bucket. That evening I lost more than my pride: I lost $3.00. Oh, the humanity. And I was late for dinner.

Here’s the thing: nobody is safe from the potential Earth takeover by Google savvy alien invaders – not even smart-asses like me who know big words like “metonym”. I think we all need to watch our backs and start relearning how to read roadmaps – just in case. And keep a close eye on those orange barrels. They might still go old school.