Know WHY Black Women Are Single...So Stop Trying To Explain It

*In this special edition of "Nyree Goes In", she's talking specifically to black men in her native dialect. Reader discretion is advised.*


Heavy sigh & eyeroll...

Oh will you brothers please shut the fuck up and grow a pair.

Yeah, I'm talking to you.

Steve, Jimi, Baisden and all the rest of you over 40 year old divorced/"used to live with a woman" whiners... may I offer you a big fucking plate of neck swivel and a piping hot side of teeth suck, all washed down with a big glass of "HOSITDOWN".

If I see one more bound in paperback "reason why black women are single" load of bitch-ass whinery, I'm going to slap somebody upside their head. (You know which hand. The one with the rings on it. )

Now, the reasons that are usually cited (in my highly unscientific and fed-the-fuck-up opinion) as to why black women can't seem to find a man are the following:

1. There aren't enough available black men to go around (in regards to numbers.)
2. We're too picky and have fantasies about "having it all".
3. They're gay.
4. We don't know "how to act".

There may be more, but I'm not writing a book. Just a Facebook note. I'd probably write one, but I never divorced a man or been a BM so I'm not quite that bitter yet. I just shook the one I was engaged to for cheating.





...But I digress.

Let's take a look at these four common reasons and if we need to go deeper in another note...come on Muthafucka. Let's go.


Mmmm. That's what I'm talkin' bout.



REASON #1

There aren't enough available black men to go around (in regards to numbers.)

- This is true. There are 1.8 million more black women in the US than black men.
So even if every black woman married every black man, one out of 12 would be assed out.
So there's that. But that still leaves 11 of us with a great shot, right? Wrong.

Fucking.

Wrong.

According to a study of marriage by race in the US,
Asian-Americans are #1 when it comes to marriage.
#2 European-Americans.
#3 Latino-Americans.

Coming up dead last are...you guessed it! Black folk.

And please remember. Tradition is, men have to ask women. Not the other way around. So cut the bullshit.

REASON #2

We're too picky and have fantasies of "having it all".

….Mmmhmm.

According to ABC News, out of 100 black men: By the time you eliminate those without a high school diploma (21 percent), the unemployed (17 percent) and those ages 25-34 who are incarcerated (8 percent), you have only half of black men, 54 percent, whom many black women find acceptable."

So…

YOU DAMN RIGHT! HOW in the hell is THIS picky?

I don't want a man who is in jail, unemployed or uneducated...and that's picky? C'mon SON! You failed at being a man...a provider, protector and HNIC and WE'RE the ones who are wrong for putting you in the reject pile? YOU chose to sling rock. YOU chose to sit on your ass and watch Sports Center all day instead of getting that 9-5. YOU chose to skip school altogether and "be a man" class. That's your mirror dude. Not mine.

Oh wait. We didn't even factor in the 10% who are gay (The ultra-fabulous REASON #3)....so that brings the numbers down even more to 44%.

90 women (taking down the 10% for lesbians) for 44 men.

Yeah. That makes things kind of hard.

BUT ...let's say that you actually beat the odds.

You kept yourself up.
You got on Kanye's workout plan, got your own paper, made you the best you EVER and, no matter how many articles you read in Essence saying it's OK to be Sanaa Lathan in "Something New"...you held out to be Sanaa Lathan in "Brown Sugar".

OK. So now that we've whittled it down to that 44%.… let's take on the last bitch-ass reason.

4. We don't know "how to act". Meaning ..."black women are too difficult" or whatever the fuck.

(Really? Have you SEEN an Italian or Puerto Rican woman lose her shit? Sorry..I digress.)

To this...I give you a hearty, and deep from inside my SOUL...HEAVY SIGH.


Listen. The reason why black women don't act right is simple as hell. And you can go around the block to cross the street all you want, but there's one verrrrry simple truth why black women wild out. But you dudes keep ignoring it.

There’s a very real number who don’t know how to put that dumb shit away, grow the fuck up and act right.

It's as simple as that. Some of you mutherfuckers are worse than "Mr." in "The Color Purple".



Why are you questioning me about Shug leaving me bootie pics on my Facebook page? That was done years ago. Why are you so paranoid?



This is a BLACK woman you're talking to! Did you NOT grow up with a black woman? Are you kidding me? Do you not know us? Do we NOT know you? More importantly… you think we don't know each OTHER? Cut it out.

Boy meets girl. Girl reminds him of home. His mom. His home girl. She's got a fat (insert body part you really care about) and makes you feel all warm and fuzzy. And it's all good until....

Boy meets another girl. Girl reminds him of home. His mom. His home girl. She's got a fat (insert body part you really care about) and makes you feel all warm and fuzzy. And it's all good until...

Boy meets yet another girl. Girl reminds him of home. His mom. His home girl. She's got a fat (insert body part you really care about) and makes you feel all warm and fuzzy. And it's all good until...

Boy slips up and has to get HIS boy to try and cover for him because Boy covered for HIS boy back in the day and “Yo Son…your girl just saw me at a bar…you need another cover…my bad…”

UGGH!!!...who wants to deal with that shit? Seriously!

And I get it. It’s tempting. There's like...double of us out there and some of us are straight skanks and hunt down dudes like zombies going after Will Smith in "I Am Legend".


So where your woman at?


But the thing is... there's ALWAYS going to be somebody else. Always.
That girl from back in the day from 7th grade who just hit you up. That girl you didn't meet yet.
That bootie call you lost touch with that can suck a golf ball through a hose and never told.

Always.

But some can't seem to get their grown man on and so...we leave. Or make you want to. And there we go. Single. Again.

(And I'm not saying that there aren't any good brothers out there. There are. Really are. They are SOOO GOOD! I happen to be dating one and I shouted you guys out in a note last year. I know some dudes who are so good to their women they should get an award. And you know I'm not talking about ya'll so sitdown. :)

I'm talking to these silly writers and the rest of those dudes (some who I KNOW are just silly)…who didn't step up to the plate or refuse to grow up.
Look. I'm not going to get into what drove them to write their wittle hearts out and thus, try hard as shit to make themselves look faultless here... but hey. Whatever the reason was...I'm sure it was a good one.

But please don't forget that finding, developing, and nurturing relationships are hard work and it works both ways. Just as I don’t believe all men are dogs (far from…) all women are not always on the prowl for something bigger and better. HOWEVER, “Bigger and Better” finds us when they notice a chink in your armor. Especially if we're the shit ourselves. (Shit...let Hov slip up. See what happens.)

So please stop writing books about us pointing out how hard this shit is.

We're fully aware...thanks.

And those of us who are respectful, who are doing the damn thing on all levels, who are GENUINELY good-hearted women... are really fucking tired.

Enough already. Pull your pants up, grow the fuck up...do what you're SUPPOSED to do... or move on.

And I'm sure there's some low self-esteem zombie chick out there that is more than happy to deal with you coming at her with ...

"I'm a good brother, but I didn't move out yet, because of the kids."

or

"I'm a good brother, it's just a bitch finding a job."

or

"I'm a good brother I just sling this rock till I get my record deal."

or

"We'll get married...sooner or later. We've only been together for eight years. Why now?"

What. The. Fuck. Ever.

Albeit all of us may not agree, but I believe I speak for the majority of "women about some shit" when I say... we would rather live with some cats, and be comfortable with the knowledge that we've been the best women we knew how...and you couldn't man up.

And if my man don't like it, he can get the fuck out too. (Shoe throw...)



You missed me bitch.

;)

Revisit Old Posts (Braces)

Before



After

So...two years ago, I was hemmin' and hawin' about getting braces.

I had this baby tooth you see and...blah..blah..blah.

Well, the point is... I did it!

Two years of hiding my smile, working on boosting that personality so that nobody could see that big ass gaping hole in my mouth where my baby tooth used to be.

And I know what I said, but really, it was worth every single penny. Dime. Dollar. Thousands of them.


Who give a shit if you're poor if you feel like a million bucks?

OK. I wasn't exactly poor.

I budgeted. Planned. And used the hell out of my Flex-Spend account.

The HELL out of it.

Cost: $8,000 for clear ceramic

And there's no "Black Factor" in this. Busted teeth are universal.

And yes, I'd do it all over again. Even the "rubberband stage", which, was a bitch.

However, the pain is lessened when you've got a stupid hot orthodontist.


I'd give you his info, but he doesn't practice anymore.

BUT I can brag because I got to look up lovingly at this for about two years...

IKR?!!

Cheese.

-Nyree

Do This Kinda Ish

Can I get an amen?

(Do you have any idea how my mother would have beat the black off me for something like this? Somebody CLEARLY has seen "UP" too many times...)

Hold Our Men Accountable

 

These are the men in my family. I won't shout them out, but here they are.
Young and old. Wise and stupid. Rich and poor.

And I love them. Truly do.

But right about now, I'd like take each one in an interrogation room, and beat the shit out of them with a phonebook.

(DAMN NYE...what's with all the hostility?)


Well, let me tell you a little story.

My nephew CJ was just stabbed a couple of weeks ago.

Yes. As in... with a knife. Plunged into his body four times by some other black boy that wanted him dead.

For what?

It all boils down to... somebody's pride/feelings got hurt. Yup. This bitch wanted to end my nephew because of some feelings.


And since this happened, I've waited for the men in my family to stand up. You know...go get that young brother (nephew) stand in front of him, chest heaving, black man to black man ... and punch him dead in the chest till the shit is scared out of him, warning him that if he doesn't get his shit together, he's either going to die or go to jail.
And we may be the ones to put him there. Because if we don't, somebody in the street will.

Because that's the truth.


So I waited. And I waited. And waited some more.

You can guess what happened.

NOPE. Not a one of them has stepped up to the plate. Not. A. One.



Why is it that only black women seem to subscribe to "It takes a village to raise a child?". When we all chip in, borrow each other’s EBT cards and take turns babysitting, why do black men get a free pass?
Why in the hell do we let them off the hook?

It's our fault. ("Our" meaning "The women in my family".)

It's our fault because we don't hold our men to a higher standard. Period.


Recently, I ended the third chance (you read right... THIRD) chance I gave a dude I dated.

Now, according to everything that my mother, Aretha Franklin, and the black woman code of "Oh no that mutherfucker didn't!" says, he shouldn't have gotten chance-the-first. But... he pulled the card.

What card Nyree?

Lets see..

Bad father figure
Single parent household
Good boy gone bad...
Traumatic event
I Got Big Dreams And I Need A Woman To Believe In Me

And the next thing I knew, I was home singing Badu's "Otherside Of The Game"... "which is the craziest "oh please excuse him...he's got it hard because he's black." song ever made.

And I call bullshit.

Do you remember the song?

She's pregnant, dude has a college education and he's slinging rock and she's worried about "Me and baby got this situation...see brother got this complex occupation..."

(Eye-roll...)

Now here's the question. Why in the hell would you not tell this dude to get his shit together? WHY??

Instead of telling him "HEY..Get a real JOB...,” we tell him...

"See I ain't trying to run your life...but I want you to do what's right..."


Now, one day, while thinking about my own dysfunctional fucked up situation, I'm listening to this song, and I'm thinking... wait a minute.

Why in the hell didn't she just tell him to get his shit together?
Why didn't I TELL HIM to get his shit together?

Here's my theory...

We feel bad about what happened.
(You know. Slavery and that whole "emasculation" thing.)

So we coddled and spoiled the shit out of them.

We feel awful that they had to stand by, and watch us take over our families, and survive and take the roles from them that they couldn't possibly fill thanks to the situation they were placed in.
And we never forgave them for "letting" it happen.

Or let them forget it.

I simply can't imagine the pain and humiliation black men must have suffered for generations, living in a world that wouldn't allow them the self-respect and honor of being a man.

And not only should we consider the disrespect they felt from those in power for over 500 years, but from US. (As in “black women”.)

"Nigga, you ain't shit."
"I can do bad by myself."
"I don't need a man."
"Ain't nothing going on but the rent..."
"What have you done for me lately..."
"Don't you ever for a second get to thinking you're irreplaceable...'


And in turn, the best defense is a good offense...

"Bitches ain't shit but hoes and tricks"
"Money, hoes and clothes, all a nigga knows.."
"I ain't saying she a gold-digger, but she ain't messin' with no broke nigga.."


(Ouch. My head hurts.0

I sat for a while and meditated on this and when I came back, the answer was there. ... and simple.

Forgiveness.

Easy. Quiet. Forgiveness.

Let me explain...

Black women, we have to forgive black men for not being there for us the way we need them to be.

They COULDN'T. Period. They COULDN'T. Forgive that.

Black men, you have to forgive us for doing whatever it took to preserve the race. We had no choice.

Forgive us.

And with that forgiveness, know we are more than ready to give the reigns back.

In the face of a new world, a black man in the White House...guess what? The ride is over.

Let me be the first to say...(tap into the mic... is this thing on? Can you hear me? Good.)

"YOU NO LONGER HAVE A FREE PASS. WE ARE THROUGH. STEP THE FUCK UP." ... love, Black Women.

Let's take a look at our excuses again...

Bad father figure - What the fuck ever...so did...umm... THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES!
Single parent household - Uh...DITTO
Good boy gone bad... - The President has "blunt lips". He still smokes Newports. Seriously.
Traumatic event... - Both parents dead. Rev. Wright. Bill Ayers. Need I go on?
I Got Big Dreams And I Need A Woman To Believe In Me ... - Michelle. Muthafucking. Obama.



Now, as for my nephew... (sigh) I don't know ya'll.

I got some info from Job Corps, but I know that all the pamphlets and brochures in the world won't fill in for his father bringing his ass up here from his nice, warm home in Maryland to save his son who, only a few weeks ago, was two inches away from being six feet under.

And that's where the rest of the men in my family come in.

We women can't do it. And you know we can't. It's different coming from us. And you know what I mean.

So I'm not asking you. I'm not begging you.

I'm DEMANDING that you take your rightful place in this family. Step up and be men.

We gladly will let you.

Frankly, we're tired of the job.

Really tired.



And to quote Jill Scott... "The Fact Is...We Need You."

Even Know Who This Dude Is

Who the fuck IS this?

I know this ad says it's LL Cool J, but that's bullshit. I KNOW LL.

I saw LL hump a couch while croonin' "I Need Love..." and that shot me directly into puberty.

Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.

Be the couch Nyree. BE the couch.

I sat in Dapper Dans trembling in awe when he rolled up in (insert hot jeep at the time), sporting a black hoodie, drawn in tight around that mishapen head of his (which I thought was adorable).

He was coming to pick up his (insert knock off label gaudy-ass suit here) and didn't even give me another glance as I sat near my friend Angie's reception desk.

But why would he? I was clearly underage and spectacularly NOT fly.
I mean, it's an art to be THAT not-fly.

Like...you know the team on "Ugly Betty" works extra hard to get America to look THAT not-fly.

That's how I looked.

But that didn't stop me from swooning... or wishing for X-Ray vision so I could see his abs through that hoodie.

THAT dude in the picture is not the same dude I saw when I got old enough (meaning reverse-not-fly) to
land my lucky ass in an "Uptown Records" party, back when Diddy was "Puffy" and was still getting kicked out of
Andre's office.

LL walked right past me...fitted Yankee crispy topping him off...and in a moment that would be on mental repeat for two full months... Cool James himself caught me in an eye lock, licked his lips, winked...and kept it moving.

Done.

Fucking. Done.

I mean, I WAS an "Around The Way Girl". My earrings most-fucking-definitely "Jingled". And nobody killed a running man like I did. I could recite "Illegal Search" and "Milky Cereal" to the "coco-puff!"

"Booming System" was on stolen car repeat in my neighborhood and "6 Minutes Of Pleasure"... um.. yeah.

OK...I'm not going full blog post here. I'm just sayin'...I loved some LL. And that dude...

THAT dude? Man listen.

Hate Michael Jackson...(and we never have.)

Nope. Not once.

No matter what you believe, let's be clear about that.

Even if we should have.

That's the thing about us. If you're ours, you're ours. (Unlike OJ. He's not ours anymore. But that was on him. Anyhoo...)

Listen...

Mike was like that fun yet crazy, self loathing uncle that always came to the family reunion, got drunk and wanted to take all the kids on a "hike" through the woods.

He was all skinny and malnourished. He was "touched", as the old folk liked to call him.

And all the adults would say shit awful about him, while keeping a side eye fixed on him, like.. "Lawd, somebody go get them kids away from Mike. You know he still on parole."

Uncle Mike showed up to the family reunion, not really wanting to be there since he knows you talk about him, but made it a point to be there since he’d rather hear the chatter than be home alone. Again.

We all talked about him. That's what black people do to family when we love you. And thank God he showed up this year, because if it wasn't for uncle Mike, we might not have had something to talk about.

"Chile... you heard he done went through all his money right? He won't give that Beatle back his songs. Don't believe what they say, uncle Mike is grimy."

And uncle Mike WAS sorta grimy. He didn’t do anything to you personally, but you’ve heard stories.

Then one year, you bring your brand new boyfriend to the reunion and the minute uncle Mike starts walking towards you, you cringe. Shit. You forgot to explain uncle Mike, and now it’s too late. All the new boyfriend sees is this high water, surgical mask, lace front having skeleton dressed like a sea admiral who everyone seems to tip toe around.

"Who's that?"

"Oh, that's my uncle Mike," you say. Then whispher,"He's been through a lot. He got burned doing a Pepsi commercial once."

Then you get quiet, and put on your best smile because he’s watching. He comes over to say "Hi" in that soft, non-threatening way of his, and in spite of yourself, your smile becomes as genuine as a ten year old's on Christmas….because uncle Mike still has that effect on you.

“So what happened to him?” your boyfriend asks. Sigh. Where in the hell do you begin?

Depends on who you ask. Truth be told, Sweetie, everyone has a different reason why uncle Mike is so completely fucked up, but we don’t know for sure.

His father pushed him too hard. He got too famous too young. He was molested. His nose was too big and his brothers teased him because they were jealous. The assumptions go on and on.

But uncle Mike wasn’t always that way.

You were little, and can’t remember much, but you do remember how uncle Mike was neck and neck with Mickey Mouse as your favorite.

You remember back in the day, when your parents used to blast "Off The Wall", from beginning to end. And you danced and sang each and every word and begged them to play it over and over and over and over and…well, rock the night away.

Eff "the Thriller dance". Everybody knows that. Do they know the hieroglyphic steps to "Remember The Time"?

You remember how the whole family gathered around the TV because uncle Mike was gonna be on "The Grammys". "Motown 25" changed your life.

Shit. With one song, a song that wasn’t even in the original play, he single-handedly saved “The Wiz”.

He was the only singer whose videos were a worldwide event. They drove you insane, and scared the shit out of you. Uncle Mike took you there before anyone else, like nobody else.

Then you got older and listened again, with a grown-folk ear. “Lady In My Life” and a bottle of Cisco cost you your virginity….but you won’t tell HIM that.

You knew your uncle Mike was special, but how do you explain that? He was so damn special that he couldn't even handle it. You can't even imagine how big that burden is.

But you’ve got other people to introduce the new dude to, so you stop explaining.

The family is standing around, playing catch up. Some are over by the food table; putting a heap of mac and cheese on their plates, others are yelling at each other over a game of spades...it’s a perfect day. Till you glance around to find uncle Mike.

Damn that’s sad. He’s just off in the corner, feeding his…

“Is that a lama?!” your boyfriend asks.

“Yeah. It is.”

Nobody says anything. We’re used it. We’re FAMILY.

Everyone is just waiting on the day that uncle Mike just... gets...BETTER But they’re all glad he’s there. If he’s around, then we don’t have to wonder about him and what he’s gonna do next.

"We love you Mike," you overhear uncle Jermaine say. You glance over to catch them in a real hug. Wow.

Uncle Mike returns the love, but we all know, he doesn't believe it. It's not the first time he's heard it, and he didn't believe it then either.

If he did, he wouldn’t do that just "disappear" thing …and that’s usually when you'd hear about him doing some seriously questionable shit.

"Uncle Mike married Elvis daughter."

"Uncle Mike is carrying a monkey around with him...and Webster."

"Uncle Mike done rubbed all the black off him."

“Uncle Mike been letting little boys sleep with him.”

"Uncle Mike lost his house."

"Uncle Mike moved out of the country."

But then he'd show up and everyone would be so damn happy to see him, we'd forget about all that craziness. And for a hot minute, around all that love, we all hope that he'd just let it all go, and join the family again. Come on back uncle Mike. We forgive it all. Family dude. FAMILY.

But then he'd just walk off into another corner by himself …again.

The minute you weren't paying attention, too involved in the spades game or something, you look up, and realize uncle Mike has quietly slipped out without saying a word to anyone.

"Why he just leave like that?” asks boyfriend.

You shrug. That’s just uncle Mike. “Did I tell you about the time he…”


And then you stop short and suddenly get reeeeal quiet... because... aww shit.

Aunt Latoya just showed up.

...And that's a whole other story.


(...Goodbye Uncle Mike. We'll miss you.)

...Have A Lock On Lovin' Hip Hop Anymore: Hip Hop Karaoke : The Knitting Factory NYC

So I’m going to preface this by saying that I’m from the Bronx (Soundview if you want to be specific about it...) and with that comes an awesome responsibility to Hip Hop that’s daunting as hell. (Eventhough, if it wasn’t for Queens, Hip-Hop would have gone the route of “Disco to a hard beat”… but I digress.)
That said, I’m pretty discriminating when it comes to the genre.
I’m quick to dismiss something as corny and know the difference between a “heels and lip-gloss” rice cake tune and a “kicks and backpack” meaty classic that only true heads will bother to memorize. Not that the rice cake tunes don’t have their place…but let’s just say they don’t have one in my iPod.

I was that kid that ran home everyday to see what Ralph McDaniels was going to play on Video Music Box that would blow my mind. (With my betamax READY so I can tape Salt-N-Pepa’s dance routine and wreck it at the next party.)

So yeah. Those are my credentials. I have references.

However, over the last ten years or so, I kind of fell out of love. Most of the stuff I’d been hearing had been garbage…repeated flows, bad production… and I longed for the days when I used to listen to a rhyme and say, “Wait a minute…WHAT did he say?” then back it up and play it over and over again. Hip-hop was about repetition. The more you loved it, the more you wanted to be it…which usually meant you played the rhyme to death and by default it was committed to memory. And part of the fun of hip hop was being in a crowd, hearing your favorite rhyme…and rhyming along with the rest of the crowd. As I got older, the focus shifted. Knowing “the hook” to a song was suddenly more important than knowing the actual rhyme (and if you listened to weak-ass rhymes in most of those songs you can tell that they were clearly written around the hook.) So yeah. I was kind of disenchanted. So like my mother on Saturday mornings, I stick to the classics (hers, The Stylistics…mine, Boogie Down Productions) and keep my radio off to keep the garbage out.

That said, last Saturday, a friend of mine invited me to the Knitting Factory for “Hip Hop Karaoke”…and immediately, my inner hip-hop snob scoffed. The name alone sounded corny so the event probably was and I wasn’t going to give it a second thought. Then she sent me this link.

http://www.hiphopkaraokenyc.com/

The line that got my attention was “Hip Hop Karaoke was designed for the inner Big Daddy Kane in all of us.”

Not “Hip Hop Karaoke was designed for the inner Chingy…” but Big Daddy Kane. That’s when I said to myself, “If I open this thing up, and Redman’s “Da Goodness” is on the list…it’s legit. If I see “Soldja Boy” anywhere…I’m out.”

Yes on the Redman. No on the Soldja.

Then it got interesting. There’s no guy who asking for your song number so he can order it up in the karaoke machine.
There is no machine and “the guy” is…a real DJ.

What’s also missing is that big screen with highlighted lyrics for you to follow. Because this is hip hop. And in hip hop…you have to know the rhyme. Not only do you have to know the rhyme…more importantly, you have to know the flow.

So I dug deeper. What if you mess up? Not to worry. There’s Jason Dick aka “Diggedy”, your own personal Hype Man, so you’re covered. (For those who don’t know, the Hype Man’s job is to keep the crowd…well…hype, and to help the MC out if they miss a lyric or run out of breath. The Hype Man has become as important to hip hop as the DJ and the MC. The greatest of all time of course being “Flava Flav”. )
I opened up a few links and after a few minutes…I knew that, not only did I HAVE to do this… the possibility of not coming correct was NOT an option.

So I picked my songs, (“The What” Notorious B.I.G. & Method Man, “Warning” Notorious B.I.G. and as a back up…”Children’s Story” Slick Rick) and began practice, making sure I knew all the lyrics word for word…and the flow. First thing I noticed was this is totally different than rhyming along to the record. Breathing is a huge problem and I was just standing still. So I decided to walk back and forth and rhyme…and it’s…not…easy. However, by the end of the week, I had all three rhymes down, the breathing, vocal inflection and the flow…I was ready.

The event takes place at The Kitting Factory, which is hip hop before it got glossy. It’s dark and dingy, still smelling of stale cigarettes (even though the ban has been in effect for years) and it’s basically one of those “don’t drop anything on the floor because you might accidentally touch it” places.
As for the crowd? Well, to quote Diggedy, “The crowd looks like a Benetton commercial.” And he’s right which proves that the days of hip hop only belonging to urban youth are long gone.

Like most hip hop shows, it begins with the warm up. DJ Wex spins to loosen everyone up while they hit the bar or find a wall to lean against. You usually can tell when the crowd is nice and toasty by the reaction to whatever song drops. It happened to be the anniversary of The Notorious B.I.G.’s death, so anytime a Biggie song came on…the crowd erupted and rhymed along, with occasional audio drop outs so the crowd could shout out the lyrics.

I’m greeted by J.New at the sign up table who informs me that both “The What” and “Warning” are already taken. Unlike traditional karaoke, there are no repeats here. So I request my back up and he nods with approval. “Good choice”. I thought so too. However, I’ve got 31 M.C.’s ahead of me…and the event is only three hours long. Oops. Make that two hours. It’s daylight savings time, and we’ll lose an hour. There’s a chance I won’t rhyme.

The first MC up starts with “Warning”… and I’m a little jealous, but anxious to see how he does. Instantly, I see there’s no need to be nervous since, if you slip up, not only will Diggedy back you up…but so will the entire crowd. By the fourth MC, I begin to understand that letting the crowd help you out actually gets you more love than hogging the rhyme all on your own. They love the song too…they’re just not the one up there.

A friend of mine did the Wu Tang Clan’s “Protect Ya Neck”, and a girl who gave an outstanding performance of Biggie’s “I Got A Story To Tell” stood next to me and smirked when two dudes completely fouled up “The What” by forgetting the lyrics. “Next month, we should do it! I saw you rhyming along! I’ll be Method!” she said. “Hell yeah!” I yelled, (though a little bummed. I wanted Meth’s part but Biggie’s part isn’t exactly for suckas so whatever… I’ll take it.)

The event ended with MC #22. I didn’t get a chance to wreck the mike but that’s fine. I’ll be back next month. Early.
And I’m in the middle of learning Lauryn Hill’s “Lost Ones”. Might as well flip it and sing too.

All that said, this is not your drunken co-worker’s karaoke. Far from. Leave it to hip hop to change the game. Again.


Cost: FREE 99
Location: The Knitting Factory, NYC
Do It Again: And again...and again...and again...