The Ballad of Kanye Worst or Why MTV Doesn't Care About Black People

The celebrity universe is one filled with mammoth egos so utterly disproportionate to the wade pool of talent from which they all must so starvingly draw. Trying to grasp the scope of emptiness in the upper echelons of fame would be an exercise in futility, likened to understanding what a beach is by counting every grain of sand contained within its boundaries. Thus, it is better to look at the world of celebrity as the great cultural toilet bowl: clogged, and in desperate need of plunging. Only then would these turds take their leave of our consciousness and leave us to fend with all the real, insurmountable ills we have bestowed on this world.

In bed as much with Old Scratch as their parent and corporate teat, Viacom, MTV has been an open window into the sulphurus depths of our collective soul for decades now. Adeptly recognizing the potential for exploiting the youth of the world, as well as recognizing the bottomless pockets that young Americans seem to have, MTV has mastered the art of marketing so well that if it wasn’t so utterly wicked, we might be able to admire guiltlessly their skill at manipulating the minds and hearts of American children.

As I write this, another MTV Video Music Awards show has come and gone. I am, generally speaking, not only a sucker for painful cultural artifacts, I am a veritable connoisseur of the sort of detritus that washes up on the shores of our collective unconscious. When MTV gets their roids in action, when all pistons are firing in unison, the sheer majestic glory of their grandiose awards show productions are a rogues gallery of disastrous plumage, dialed to ten, and absent a shred of mercy.

Kicking off the tumult was an appearance by the epitome of Southern American dispossession, a good five pounds over the public limit of acceptability for post-teen empty-brained wet dream candidates: Britney Spears. The years since her last chart topping success have not been kind to the young starlet. In the presentation of her public persona (not to mention the regular public presentation of her shaven genitalia), she has exposed what must certainly have been a terrible southern upbringing. There is an impersonal cruelty to the rigors of fame, and there are those who are unable to rectify their own self-interests in the face of the demands of celebrity. Spears is no exception, in fact, she exemplifies the dangers of growing up too fast in the fast lane without the proper anchor. Sadly, it is in the cards that her children will almost certainly suffer a fate worse than hers given their less than stellar gene pond.

As America has watched Ms. Spears hop from one disastrous life choice to another, on that pathetic Sunday night, we all coalesced to the point in time that is the MTV Video Music Awards. This was to be Britney’s moment to shine, her moment to finally put to rest the rumors of her lapses in sanity, her supposed leap back into the welcoming arms of pop mega-stardom, and out of the great void of irresponsible behavior. Instead, she upped the ante on her downfall, and in the process, dug herself a hole so deep she may never come out. Her performance was pathetic. She looked scared and bored at the same time. She was whored up in an outfit that looked desperate. She was clearly lip-syncing, and that was during the time when she was actually trying, the rest of the time she blankly stared into space with her blue contacts and did what I guess was supposed to be a dance. It reminded me of a scene in the (excellent) Mike Leigh film, Naked, in which the protagonist, Johnny (played absolutely convincingly by David Thewliss), arrives on the doorstep of a lonely woman in a dilapidated apartment in London, only to realize that she is much older than she appeared in the adjacent window across the street from which Johnny and a night watchman spy on her. As she continues to drink herself into oblivion (or perhaps, hopefully, absolution), she lazily dances for Johnny in hopes of his awakening her from her existential slumber. There are shades of this barren exhibitionism in Britney’s performance, and many, including myself, are uncomfortable with what it says about her, about us.

Included in the audience was Kanye West. Never one to shy away from speaking his mind, West had plenty to say on Spears’ performance, on MTV, and on the need for the world to buy his new record. Infamous for his adlibbed, brutally honest, and searing indictment of George Bush and the government’s poor response to the Katrina catastrophe, West has become a poster boy more for his opinions than his forgettable music. Prominently featured in the awards show, hyping his new record and his newly minted feud with the ballistically perforated rapper, 50 Cent, West had an axe to grind Sunday night, and nothing was going to stop him from grinding it down to a nub.

Apparently, Kanye felt that MTV was exploiting Britney by even having her on the show in the first place. But to sweeten the pot, he added that he also was upset because he feels he should have kicked off the show with "Stronger," the first single from his new album, "Graduation."

"They exploited her, they played me, and I really don't mess with MTV," he said.

He doesn’t play with MTV, unless they ask him to, and then he plays in the suite designated for his own party, replete with hired audience members, DJs, and multiple guest rappers. Then it’s like a giant fucking playground.

West even went so far as to play the race card when he explained that he should have had the show closer instead of Justin Timberlake. Never mind the fact that the closer included Timbaland, a man who certainly falls somewhere well outside the boundaries of what most people consider white.

Apparently, to Kanye West, having the opener, closer, and all the awards would be the only reasonable way for MTV to conduct their utterly meaningless awards show ceremony. Only then would MTV be freed from the shackles of racism and exploitation that plague them today. In addition, giving West all the attention would afford Britney the chance to heal and grow into a well rounded egomaniac on par with someone like, well, Kanye West.

It takes a big man to stand up to the powers that be and tell it like it is. I don’t even think that’s vaguely close to what happened in Vegas, Sunday, but it sure is entertaining to watch as the unfairly wealthy reduces themselves to cartoonish fools, both simultaneously above us and below.

That this takes headlines, steals our attention, and raises my ire, is a story unto itself, but one I don’t wish to tell. That great depths hide within the shallows of the surface dwellers gives us all a way to fathom the path of all the rest, no matter how sad and weak, no matter how short the steps. That in time, a great wave will come and wash us all out to the roiling sea of the unknown is both a comfort and an unsettling reality. For what if nothing exists beyond this, and all of our fears are simply unwarranted waste; what does this say about now, about you, in this life now? Under the open, blameless gaze of the yawning sky, the lot of humanity scrambles for an answer but gets only questions, and as we fill our days with dreams, only emptiness gives repose. This curse is our salvation, and through it all - blind, feral, and very, very hungry - tomorrow waits on baited breath.

The King and His Credenza

My wife is the kind of woman who is always on some sort of mission. Something burns her from somewhere deep within, and she has no hope but to heed the call. It is exactly this sort of slavish devotion to her inner demons that I think is so funny about her makeup. I have similar feelings, but where mine are borne from a need to hear a record or to learn a song on the guitar, hers are more from a need to have a clean house or a nice, cozy couch. It’s a good mix, because between the two of us this makes for a reasonable mix. I am the spaced out dreamer and she is the pragmatic lover of furniture. As she pointed out the other night, if we ever split up I will be resigned to living in an apartment with little more than a bunch of guitars, cds, and a dresser full of t-shirts and jeans, and little more. Virtually all of the important stuff like kitchen utensils and appliances and even our bed were purchased by her, at her motivation, with her sense of reason overriding my sense of… aw, who am I kidding, I have no sense at all.

With this concept in tow, we headed out into the scorched 100 plus degree wastes of Houston this weekend with the sole intent being to locate a big cushy sectional couch.

From the great, wide reaching post-urban blight of Northwest Houston, we first headed south. Nestled among the dilapidated chaos of the strip centers and meandering sweaty mass of unwashed heathens was an oasis of American decadence. Within the confines of this cavernous pit were the gilded treasures and velvety skinned temples to tasteless comforts too dark to imagine without having witnessed their horrors for yourself. Here within lies the amassed pleasures which appeal to only those of the most base and nearly subhuman persuasion.

Virtually ignoring the last fifty years of design and going straight for the lowest common denominator jugular, Finger’s Furniture coats every corner of their aging warehouse with the sorts of things that only your grandparents could possibly enjoy. I personally expected to find cheetahs on chains being whipped by giant Negroes in headbands and loincloths, and gauzy draped maidens dropping grapes into the waiting mouths of bloated American ingrates, locked on to their cell phones to negotiate the finalities of satiating their desires for the delicacies of flesh forever offered for sale in the darkened hallows of our imaginations.

We made the rounds and then made for the door. Our spirits virtually bested, there was but one course of action. We went to Gallery Furniture.

Houstonians know Gallery well, and for those of you unfamiliar with Mattress Mac, I would imagine that every city has a soulless barker hawking the wares of horror to those of less than virtuous repute to whom they can compare. I have always fostered a certain perverted desire to see the evil that lurks within the depths of Gallery Furniture, but either never had the gumption, or the balls to do so. Thanks to my bargain searching wife, however, it was finally time to put this dream to rest.

As you enter Gallery you are instantly honed in on and maligned by one of a number of greeters whose sole purpose in their professional life is to harass hapless dupes as they enter the temple. Armed with soft drinks and bottled waters, these people accost you with the promise of quenched thirst and cheap furniture. Soon directed to follow your assigned guide into the great maw, off you are skirted before you run screaming with your better judgment winning out for once in your pitiful little life. After a brief questioning, our guide, Rudy, led us off in the direction of sectional sofas. Of all the items in this monstrous space, only two caught our attention in a way anything close to actual interest. The rest of the stuff was again the sort of thing you might find in Liberace’s house after he had gotten home from buying furniture with Ken Kesey and his Merry Pranksters.

As an aside, I might add that the place is like a museum for pop culture artifacts of the most banal order. Encased in a laughably poorly designed castle is a necklace that once belonged to Princess Diana. Sadly the necklace is currently on loan, but fortunately for me they did still have the giant, larger than life size statue of Diana that made her look like she was actually a big nosed man. They also have a half-size tennis court with targets that are supposed to keep a score as you hit them. Of course this feature doesn’t work, so instead you get to watch as fat children do their best to injure one another with light speed tennis missiles. There are live animals on site, like giant Macaws, and other critters we weren’t fortunate enough to see. And then there are the bathrooms. As anyone with children will tell you, wherever it is you take them, they will absolutely have to use the facilities no matter how many places you go in one outing. And oh, the Gallery Furniture toilets, what a sight to behold! Instead of the usual urine soaked fecal sprayed mass toilets that you find in most public places, Gallery has opted for a collection of single user bathrooms. And they’re clean. But best of all is the fact that the Gallery toilets are themed! That’s right; every Gallery Furniture toilet is decorated to accommodate a particular theme. There’s the high school band toilet, the golf toilet, the Houston Rocket’s toilet, the rather unfortunately occupied Chuck Norris toilet (I know, I fucking know, the Chuck Norris toilet!), and then the coup de grace: the Elvis toilet. I might add that there is no small irony in recognizing the fact that the King did indeed buy the farm in his very own personal toilet. In Mattress Mac’s version of the King’s own shitter, the floors are paved with a rich black and speckled silver 14” marble tile, while the walls are festooned with the sort of detritus that only has value in the coffers of those who find alchemical glory in the tritest of minutiae. You can empty your bladder and bowels whilst reveling in the glory that is Elvis Aaron Presley’s Exxon card. You can wipe your daughter’s shit varnished bottom whilst absorbing the majesty of his highness’ receipts from a Memphis tennis shop and also a Memphis area costume rental service.

And speaking of Elvis, just above the front door to this palace of the mundane is a gargantuan portrait of the man himself. My guess is that this monstrosity stands at about thirty by forty feet, and it is a portrait of the king as he is performing in his post-comeback best: bloated, sweaty, and mutton chopped from ear to neck. Even worse, it looks like someone actually hand painted the damn thing.

And just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse, just when the armies of expressionless drones that filter through the place as if in some sort of trance begin to assault your soul like a vampiric colony of ants, you find the greatest horror of the known world, a three storey Diamond Vision TV screen broadcasting sports to the sales floor like some sort of hyper-Satanic colonoscopy monitor. It’s too much, really it is.

So did we buy a couch? We in fact did. There was a grand total of one couch there that didn’t carry the smell of sulfur or the appearance of goblin folly, and we bought it. And that was where the real fun began.

After my wife made her selection, I commandeered my son to mill about the facilities while my wife was whisked away into the bowels of the store to conduct matters most foul with the evil creatures that lurked therein. I have no idea what goes on in these most inner of sanctums as I am always the one who is so appalled at being there in the first place that I am generally resigned to whining to myself in a corner about how much I hate everyone and want to go home. In all honesty, though, the free ice cream was a tad bit on the sneaky side. Ice cream generally wins even the most hateful of misanthropes over, if just for those precious few moments.

So, the deal done, receipt in hand, we headed back to the ranch to wait for the truck to arrive. A few hours later, and right on time, the truck pulls up and out jumps these two monstrous guys. They bring in the couch, sweat profusely, make really terrible jokes, and then spew the prerequisite banter about my CD collection. I can hear them mutter under breath about “collectors” as if they were talking about pedophiles. They might as well have been admiring my used-dildos-of-the-world collection the way they were acting. Fortunately I keep those in the display case in the back.

Just as they are about to slip the reins of responsibility we realize that something isn’t right about the couch. It’s not new. We bought a new couch, oh yes, but the one the ex Biggie Smalls bodyguards just dropped off is clearly not a new one. In fact, it is the very floor model that had suffered the indignity of being a resting place for the collective asses of Houston’s underworld. Dandy.

First, know that our lives in the Cramer clan have been turned quite topsy, and more than a wee turvy since the arrival of our second child. Being stressed out is something we have mastered. We are one-step-shy-from-slaughtering-humanity ninjas at this point in the parenting game, so shitty couch scams will not fly in this three-bedroomer.

My wife, who is humorless by now, fairly ungracefully orders the suddenly not so friendly delivery guy to load the couch back on his truck, “now.”

She ends up calling Gallery Furniture to ream the first customer service manager to grab the phone. So anyone care to venture a guess who that might be? That’s right; it’s Mattress Mac himself, Jim MacInvale, the man with the mission. The thing is, my wife isn’t catching on because she’s so pissed off, so in the middle of a tirade that would make Lenny Bruce cry, her face suddenly betrays hers rage. She covers the mouthpiece and while looking at me in disbelief mouths the words, “it’s Mattress Mac.”

Life can be so long, so painful and unforgiving. There are so few moments that one can look back on as being peaks in their existence. So much rides on every breath, so many expectations to be met (or at least challenged), and in the midst of it all, we clamor for direction and meaning.

Yelling at the very man who has made Houston just that much more horrible over the years is a truly exquisite pleasure. And it is in these rarest of times that the circle closes and the mantle that is our fate is revealed.

The problem was fixed, but the pleasure was all ours.

Sometimes it’s the little things.



“I am a member of the blank generation…”

I love the way Richard Hell put it. But for all that he exhibited in honesty, he lacked in scope. It’s not generational, it’s systemic. And when you get out of bed each morning, come at it with the ferocity of a lion, because anything less will get you no more than a ticket to nowhere, just as fast as you can get there.

Forever and ever, amen.