Beauty & the Beast, My Capgras Delusion, and my disorganized film review of myself.

I love very few films more than Moonlight. I hate few films more than La La Land.
Nothing has filled me with more nebulous, creeping fear, than Beauty and the Beast. I am terrified of what this movie has done. How easily I am manipulated into a false sense of safety and joy. How easy it is to weaponize nostalgia against myself.
Two terrified, bleeding thumbs up. Dear god. I hate that I liked this movie.
Beauty and the Beast is the sensation of experiencing the Capgras delusion as a child, where the person tucking you in at night looks and acts just like your parent, but is not your parent. They feel like a total stranger. And all of my friends who love this film (like me) are like siblings who are SO READY to believe that this rough beast is Mommy. Even though we know that this is an impostor.
Saw Beauty and the Beast yesterday.  I am the enabler of my slaver. I cannot give this movie a negative or positive review. Instead of a review of the film, I am going to give a review of myself:
a. What is wrong with me?
b. What was I even expecting from this movie?
c. Why do I feel like a kid that is too big for the McDonald’s playpen?
d. Am I so hard-hearted that this movie could not reach me? Is my criticism about the movie or the industry?
e. Am I a cliche?
f. Why does this movie feel like someone just tried to wipe my adult ass?
g. Did I like this? I think I liked this?
h. Am I a white woman? I do not think that I am a white woman. 
i. I am unable to even pick out anything related to politics related to this movie… I did not expect for it to be very perfect in that regard… but also… it is not innocent.

I love this movie the way someone who is imprisoned in a castle loves their captor.

I think this movie is fucked up and weird and I am in love with the sense of terror it has instilled in me. I have never questioned the fabric of who and what I am as an audience member as hard as I have after seeing this movie.


Maybe Lion King won’t be as scary.

*I am unsure of what idea I am trying to express here. But I assure you that from this point forward, I will be performing my love of this film evermore. Until I rediscover what it was that made me human.


Dear Ally: A Short PSA On Not Becoming The Asshole You Hate

1. It’s not cool to shame 45 for having a mental disorder. You actually don’t need to shit on the mentally ill to shame that man. I dunno. Talk some other shit without punching down.

2. It’s also not cool to shame Sean Spicer for occasionally mixing words or letters up. If homeboy has dyslexia or any kind of speech or language disorder, or even shows signs of it, maybe it’s *super not okay* to point fingers and call him a dumbass for that. There are a million other reasons to insult the man, but goddamn there there good people who suffer from these kinds of disorders? I dunno. Maybe it feels good, but it *~*actually*~* helps no one and erodes your decency. Being decent is hard sometimes, but again, don’t punch down.

3. *~* Lists a bunch of other ethical compromises…

4. Also, SNL is generally garbage. Sometimes they hit, but lets not forget some of this horrible shit:

a. that Alec Baldwin has been casually homophobic and sexist — so he’s probably a laugh riot, but let’s not go lifting the motherfucker on our shoulders.

b. This is also a show that played a large part in normalizing 45. They helped.

c. This is the same show that fat shamed Linda Tripp and Monica Lewinsky. Listen to women and all that.

d. I could go on, but let’s just be aware that this show has some easy meaningless wins, but it ain’t our values.

5. Don’t be an asshole.


Dear Ally: My Issue With Hidden Figures

Dearest Beloved Ally,

We disagree on this movie, but that’s okay. We can agree that the story itself is important, and that the performances were stellar (no pun intended/I am Satan).

I’m glad you saw and supported the movie, and I’m more glad that it’s a movie that has sparked conversation, thought, and a desire to understand the realities that black people had to face and still have to face. The film does tell an important story, and it is important to share these stories so that people think about what they can do to be better people and more understanding people.

Black people have a plethora of stories about us overcoming adversity on our own. Black women have even more of those stories because they got two checks against them in society. So this particular story is truly amazing and spectacular. So in the sense that it is important for black stories to be exposed to people, and that it is important for black people to be visible on the big screen, I will say that that Hidden Figures was an especially significant film.

But there are many ways to make a movie and tell a story. My main issues with Hidden Figures and movies like it, is that they are often made without black creative teams to flesh out any nuances specific to black or in this case, black female experiences. This was a movie written by a white woman/white man, and directed by a white man. So the things that were fabricated in the film were designed to assuage the guilt of a liberal white audience. So ultimately the issues I have with this movie are the issues I have with the industry are the issues I have with white dominance in creative spaces. And there may be things here that probably should be reserved for more of an intraracial conversation, because a great deal of what I feel about white dominance is hard to imagine and downright horrifying, but I digress. The makers of Hidden Figures made up too much, and they took too many things lightly that could have been more fleshed out by a team that understood the reality, thus what could afford to be rewritten.

People were scared when they were stopped by cops. Katherine Johnson didn’t run 500 miles to the black bathroom, she went to the white one because THAT was where she chose not to give a fuck. But because I guess we needed a laugh and an extra 15 minutes, they threw that sequence in. Kevin Costner’s character did not exist, because there was no white hero championing them in that way. There was no heroic smashing of the colored restroom sign. They did not let her into mission control. They slammed the door in her face and that was that. But recognition from white people is not what made their work important, and I wish that point was accentuated better. These women did thankless work and remained thankless until another black woman decided to write the story and Obama became president. But it wasn’t enough for her to be proud of her work or for her girls to be proud. We had to have them make up that scene where Kevin Costner pats her on the back.

Black women have been lifting each other up forever, and that was the movie I wanted to see. But I don’t expect the writers of the film to get that.

And history is rewritten all of the time in movies, so my problem is who does it serve? This is why I had as many issues with it as I had. Especially since they don’t always make movies about black women in science. I would love to be able to compare this to other movies, but I can’t because Hollywood threw us all a bone with this movie. How many years will it be till we get another (hopefully better) movie about black women in science? And will it be a priority for studios to get black women in the writers’ room? The director’s seat?

I was wrong to call this movie trash. It was an excessive statement to make, without considering or praising it’s finer points, which, honestly was the attempt to make a movie about blackness that wasn’t mired in pain, and the performances were very good. I just think black filmmakers would have done a more authentic job.

But the extreme “this is trash” reaction is to parts of it that were very upsetting to me. Because black women deserve better work. More capable work. The opportunity to tell their own stories. However well intentioned, this kind of revisionist American social fan-fiction is every bit dangerous as the fake news from Breitbart.

There is this fantasy perpetuated by Hollywood about the way things “used to be” and the way things were “back then.” The shitty reality, is that racism never “went away” and black folks for as long as you and I have been alive will not taste the same draught of freedom that you will taste.

Like the artificial intelligence of the Terminator robots, racism only became easier to hide and accept. Racism adapts to every victory we liberal folks tend to tell ourselves we have. It’s embedded into conservatism, liberalism, capitalism, etc. Any major institution that we support, it is embedded there, and we may not ever truly rid ourselves of the disease. That’s why as a black audience member, it’s important for me to critique and/criticize films like Hidden Figures while also praising them.


Re: Why I celebrate Black History

This post is a response to a friend’s post.

Re: Yup, never hold back criticism to spare guilt. I think this is a constructive question. I thank you fore asking this, and will likely end up reposting this long ass response on my blog. Do I have permission to credit you with asking this in a screen shot?

tl;dr: I celebrate black history now like it’s my lent, because being me is my religion and I am endlessly, impossibly grateful to ones that came before me. I’m here for a good (not a long) time

Now . I started off as one of those well intentioned, but misinformed and annoying black liberal men who lived with the illusion, that black history month was somehow wrong, because it excluded black history from the mainstream. “Black history was just history” I would tell myself. This was before I learned the vital importance of  a) having your own shit AKA your own table to sit at and b) never wanting to apologize.

I lived my life prior to Obama’s second term with the idea that we had “beaten” racism. This is despite the fact that I was doubly conscious, and somewhat paranoid in white spaces/institutions.Though I had been raised in predominantly black environments, I was one of those annoying terrible mansplaining pop-liberal black men who spoke out loud that we had overcome the gigantic specter of Racism.

So “why does everything have to be about race?” I would ask. “I’m just a person who happens to be black.”

And I’m a man. It should have been easy to select my race first because of how corrosive and Eurocentric mainstream masculinity is… It should have been easy for me to know “I am in the world, and I am black” but there was this made faceless shame I wanted to outrun. It was not put there by me of my family. It was something I absorbed as a black boy when I was not seeing my face reflected back at me in a positive light. You get me? I was straight up brainwashed, and because I am a man, I could afford to be. I could afford to avoid race, because the white folks I was ingratiated with “didn’t care.” I was bougie and weak AF until I really thought about what it means for me to be Black before anything else. Mind you, I don’t think anyone HAS to make that choice, but it is important for a person to know the first foot you walk on in this world.

And mind you, my family this the blackest black there is. My parents are first generation true New Yorkers, but my blood is from the south, when my matriarchs were “in a family way” and had to run up North with they baby daddy. And the stories of slavery and segregation were abound in my youth, and we celebrated Kwanzaa, and my mom made us pretend to be slaves once so we could feel what it was like (she was a terrible massa)….You get the idea? I had one-million reminders that I grew up successfully ignorant was because I thought “the world wasn’t that way any more.” I ignored my struggle and the struggle before me and I did not progress or evolve.

Don’t get it twisted, I knew racism was “a thing” but it was always a weird thing. So when the reminders came, it was funny and uncanny to me, rather than chilling and familiar. My mom would kiss me before I left the house like it was the last time she’d see me and I’d laugh. White folks would tell me “I spoke well for a black guy.” I’d laugh. Black men would talk about “going after the girl with the light skin.” I’d laugh. Fuck, one time the security guards at my college accused me of stealing thousands of dollars of inventory from the performing arts department, AKA the most insane and candy ass heist in the world.

The struggle for me I think was the intersection between my desire to be accepted as a young person, my insecurities about not feeling welcome within my own community because I didn’t fit ‘the mold’, and my fear that I would be somehow letting down my race. It was much easier to be uninvolved. Invisible.

So I’ve starred some of the lessons.

So the change in mind didn’t happen over night, but when I went to an all black public school, it was a chance to define myself among my own peers who were dealing with a lot of the same sort of identity challenges. *There I learned that the kind of black man that I am is valid. Then college racism, my own direct experiences as a young man, and all the systemic/societal racism was a large factor in getting me to realize that the pain of racial tensions never dissipated.  *Racism is alive and well. Those experiences alone got me seeing myself as Black first.

Also I rejected Christianity, which I also think held me back.

Once I saw myself as Black, before any other element of my identity, things came a little easier. Black is good. Black is great. Black is why I have my money. Black is my yesterday, today, and tomorrow. And black is me. It’s a shared language where I can see you on the street without knowing you, and nod in your direction because we can just DO that. Black is pain and joy in lock-step. I swear to god. Being black is it’s own special power, and it means that I can evolve, flourish, and survive.

So remembering all of those that came before me who had to survive through every evil thing that tried to stop them is an action that moves me nearly to tears. Here we are still fighting. Still remembering. But still moving forward.


Homeschool. Movies. John Hurt.

Dear God.

As I may constantly remind you, I was homeschooled as a child. In place of a social life, I would spend a lot of time with family, or a great deal of time alone entertaining my brain. This was a good time in my life. It was during this time that I think I figured out the very basic fundamentals of who I was.

My sister and I didn’t have a consistent allowance, so we would often collect recycling and turn it into change and turn the change into dollars. We would save it up in empty Mott’s Apple Juice containers and we would usually scrounge together quite a bit of money. It was a fun time. I would look forward to what I would do with the $20 or the however-so-much I had saved. I often walked to the K&B Toy Store on Myrtle Avenue to see what caught my eye. Usually it was one of the Marvel Legends action figures back in the days when Toy Biz had the license.

The other high points in my week were watching or helping my Mom cook dinner, reading books out loud during “class,” and watching movies with my Dad.

There was a Hollywood Video around the corner so we would usually rent about 5 movies per week as part of our routine. Sometimes he would make popcorn on the stove, sometimes not. Sometimes we’d return the movies on time, sometimes not. Sometimes, if we were lucky, we could rent a video game as well to help the time pass by.

I have a theory about why movies are so important to me, but I will save that for when someone else dies.

I saw so many movies during this time and some faces became more familiar than others. Samuel L Jackson. Halle Berry. Harvey Keitel. Angela Bassett. Michael Caine. John Hurt.

I was about 11 or 12 when I saw Alien and Elephant Man for the first time. One of the movies that had the most profound effect on me as a kid was Elephant Man. Around that time I had been developing a fleeting interest in the stranger corners of the human experience, so my Dad rented that one, a few other weirdo movies, and like, Magnolia or some shit like that.

But boy, oh, boy…Elephant Man fucked me up real good. I’ve seen a million things with John Hurt since then but that was the one that took the cake for me.

This is getting long. And it meandered here.

I really, really, really liked John Hurt. Definitely one of the most fun actors to watch. Such a talent and prolific worker. My TOP favorite things he did were Elephant Man, Hellboy, and his turn as The War Doctor.

What I loved about his performances was that he was a moving cocktail of fierceness AND gentleness. There was always something delicate and frail playing with something wry and scrappy. He wasn’t a big guy, but there was just something in his face and voice that sparkled. And other times that something exploded.

But mostly, it was the sparkling thing.

The last thing I saw him in was Jackie, and at the time I didn’t know he was in it. I was overjoyed. It felt like an old friend stopped by to say hey. In his performance, I thought to myself, “This is that magic thing that movie do. This is why I go.”


Oscar Predictions 2017, or What La La Land will win, or I Am The Saddest Man In The World, Please Kill Me, I’ve Lived Too Long Of A Life.

Best Picture should be Moonlight, but will probs be La La Land or Hacksaw Ridge. Best Director should be Barry Jenkins, and this one might be the bone the Academy throws to the minorities.


Best Actress should be Natalie Portman, but God still hates me for bringing fire to the people so Emma Stone will likely win some shit. Best Supporting Actress is hard to call…I think Naomie Harris SHOULD win, but Viola Davis would be the one who WOULD win that. Who am I kidding? That’s all Michelle Williams. She was in a movie where white dudes express their feelings. (I should see this movie before I shit on it.)

Best Actor should be Denzel, because he’s my Danny Day Lewis pick of the year, but Casey Affleck will win because of course this motherfucker will be awarded. Andrew Garfield is also cute so I’m happy he got a nom. Ryan Gosling WILL NOT WIN THIS AWARD, is what I’m going to call. Alsoo annoyed my favorite white man, Jesse Plemons got no love. Best Supporting Actor should be like Mahershala Ali, DP, or JB, but will be Lucas Hedges. Michael Shannon is my pick for awesome actor who never wins an award ever. I want him to remain better that most actors but never taste the rainbow, b/c it will keep his art good. Even Rocky’s body became weak because he got too used to victory. Eye of the tiger, Mike. I hated Don’t Think Twice, and think it would have been cool to throw a bone at Keegan Michael Key. But it’s not his time yet. Yet.
I do not give a fuck about best animated feature, but my girlfriend really likes Moana, so Moana. Kubo looked good, but fuck everything, nothing matters, La La Land won best picture.
Best Original Screenplay should be The Lobster, and The Lobster should have been nominated for WAY MORE, because my boy Colin does some REALLY STELLAR AND COMPLEX COMEDY. But no one gives a flying fuck about great comedy, only drama that manipulates you and bullies you into empathy. So what ever.  Viggo was nominated, but that’s a comedy drama and a cop out. The Lobster is very very funny and original and it should have better competition….
Jackie, should actually  win best original screenplay for being the best and most complex film about grief this year, but FUCK IT, it wasn’t even nominated for being the lyrical masterpiece that it is, ON THE PAGE.
Haven’t seen 20th Century Women yet. So I may edit this.
But La La Land will win. The Academy can SMD.
Best Adapted Screenplay should be between Moonlight & Deadpool, but its an action comedy. Doesn’t matter that it is technically brilliant as a piece of genre film and as a movie that spoofs it’s genre. It is truly an effective action movie, but those are not the movies that speak to the Academy, so I’ll say, it should be Moonlight. Which really did a good job reinterpreting a play for film in a way that balanced the patient unfolding and vulnerability of stage with the boundaries of the new medium very well. It was wonderfully cinematic, but still has the urgency and immediacy of a play. I wasn’t surprised to later find out it was an adaptation. This is sort of where I thought the film Fences failed as an adaptation. Great movie, but it was structured around the performers and the words. Moonlight feels more etherial. It’s not about the actors or the words, but the world between them all. Zen as fuck. I think Moonlight will win this.
Best Original Song: My girlfriend likes Moana a lot, so whatever song was in Moana.
But here is the funny thing. “Another Day of Sun” was the best song and moment of La La Land. That song should be nominated, but instead two lazily droned funeral dirges: “Audition” and “City of Stars”. I almost fell asleep. in. the. movie. and. I. was. drinking. coffee.
Best Original Score: La La Land will win and I can accept this. It was a spectacular score.
Jackie’s should win though. The music just has this ghostly presence. Mica Levi is amazing, and should have won way back when for Under The Skin. I be listening to scores like that you motherfuckers. I know what I’m talking about. Mica Levi is the queen. The music from Jackie reminds me of the music from Camelot if it was melted, then frozen, placed in an ice chipper, mashed back up again. Mica Levi make music that makes feel like dreams. Jackie is very much an American nightmare. A distortion of something once bright and hopeful. Listen to it, even if you did not see Jackie, because it is the sound of the current climate. And movies and the various elements that make them, should reflect or reject the times. It is such an effective score in what is generally an angry movie.
But yeah, La La Land was cute and the Epilogue was nice.
Best Cinematography I loved the cinematography of Moonlight and La La Land equally. I guess I have to see the other two, so whatever. But this is a tough call for me. I think lighting wise La La Land wins, but Moonlight has a slight edge with the way the color composition shapes the different stages of Chiron’s life. Matter of fact, I’ve never seen a movie where skin as has looked an beautiful. The movie does not really say a lot about race, but SKIN is front and center in this film. You can’t not think about skin in this movie. You can feel the humidity just by looking. Also the film stock is different in each segment, which makes you feel the change in Chiron.
But the landscapes and the pretty outfits and the primary color visual salad. It is a cobb salad in movie form.
Best Make-Up and Hair Styling should be Suicide Squad and will be. lol. This shit is stupid, but the make-up was superior to most of the movies that used make-up. Love Star Trek, but Idris looked like Sweet from Buffy. Which is fine.
Hilarious that this movie could win.
Best Visual Effects should be A Monster Calls, but might be Jungle Book. Though I really like Doctor Strange’s cosmic shit, there just wasn’t enough of it. And Star Wars was pretty great, but that’s just Star Wars doing Star Wars.
I didn’t see Kubo, so I don’t care. I know a lot of work went into it. I should see it. But it’s mad white people doing the voices of non-white people so I feel all weird about it. Ugh. I’m an asshole.
Best Production Design lol nothing should win.
Best Sound Mixing La La Land sang live, whatever, so did Les Mis. A semi musical that you don’t want to look like shit should be sung live.
Rogue One should win. It wont.
Best Sound Editing. La La Land should win here. It will.

Apocalypse 2003, or That Time I Was Preteen A Trump

To this day I have a co-dependent relationship with nightmares, thoughts of death, and the big and beautiful end of all things. I think this love has moments when I makes me a more courageous and thoughtful person; it also makes me terrible inside.


In 2003 there was a blackout on the northeast. It was summertime and I was at camp. I was about 12 and I remember it being scary to lots of kids at the time. This was two years after 9/11, so the terrorism paranoia was spread on real thick and chunky. Any day the terrorist would come and kill us.


So this blackout comes and the children were scared. And for a little bit I was too. But, I believe that it was that moment that something snapped in my brain. I saw a marker and a pile of construction paper and a kind of rapturous delirium took over. On several sheets of paper I wrote a series of deranged phrases like:











I’m pretty sure I actually only did the first two, but you get the idea. Less people found it funny than I thought. It scared most of the kids and even a few of the camp counselors. I walked around with my eyes all bugged out with the signs in front of me. I made a lot of people uncomfortable, because to a few kids, it really felt like we were caught in the death throes of civilization. No light. No parents. Only each other, the remains of the snacks, and scared ill-equipped teens as our guardians.


Kids believed it was the end, and my weird faux-prophetic signs added to the collective horror. Based on the reactions of the people, the end began to feel more real for me, and I started to believe myself. Christ, one of the guidance counselors violently ripped one of the signs away from me, only to see another one right behind it — they were THAT freaked out. If this is the end, I will maintain a firm grasp of the minds of my immediate community. Because as I see it now, knowing the fears of your audiences and dipping your finger into the psychic wound is how you rise to power. I was 12, skinny, awkward, insecure, quiet, wildly out of touch with my peers, and pretty much an easy target on a normal day.

But was different. Something unpredictable happened, and for a sliver of time, nothing made any sense. The center could not hold. Without streetlights, stoplights, and instant message — our immediate universe began to unravel so quickly that someone like me — a pre-pubescent homeschool student — could pull on the string. I desperately wanted attention, and with night just around the corner, a flashlight, markers, pastel construction paper, and a dumb joke I could hijack these people by the gut. I thought I wanted to tell a joke, but I really wanted power for a fraction of a moment — and in a moment where people gave into their fears and their worst selves, people gave it to me. Even if they HATED the joke and what I was doing. They gave me power over their minds because this is what people do. They give in to their worst fears. They become their worst selves.

And maybe…JUST MAYBE, being the focal point of my peers anxiety, masked my own fear and weakness.



At the time, it was so terribly funny to me. So many people drinking the piss. I was doing the same thing, only smiling. There was something cool and radical about leaning into the end times. This was the beginning of my fascination with apocalypse. The end of all things. Just as we live, we die. We’re all careening towards the same black hole.



So, if the world must end, why should I be scared? That’s so fucking boring. Why be the butt of the joke, when you can be in on it? When you can shape it, and the reaction people have to it.



At the time, I was staying over my Aunt Sharon’s, and I had been relying on my cousin Alex to touch base with her since he had a cell phone, and my sister, he, and I all travelled together. I forget what we ate for dinner that night. I remember that we went walking a lot. I think we went to visit my great aunt. I remember looking up and being able to see the stars for a bit.


I went to bed at a reasonable time; I was still a child.

I’m not watching the inauguration right now.


I’m not certain what the point of this story was on this day. I don’t really think there is a moral to take away. I’m even uncertain of the growth I experienced in this story or since this story. I was an emotionally challenged child who would have rare sociopathic tantrums. I am now an emotionally challenged man, and am generally too tired or busy to manipulate people.



As I stated we are all dying, and when I am false or manipulative, I physically feel myself die quicker. If you ever see me drop dead without any medical or external cause of death, it’s because I lied a lot that day.



There is no point to this story. It is barely cathartic. It is not a confession. There will be no uplifting epilogue. I have wasted your time.



Maybe, I’m telling this story because I want to understand the atmosphere of apocalypse that we are collectively smothered by. It is not enough to say that if you are reading this, you are still alive. Why?



If you know me, you’ve likely heard me say “the world has already ended.” So what does that even mean? Am I saying we are fucked? Is it a meaningless platitude I mutter to sound cool?



I’ll admit, I have a collection of phrases that I think make me sound cool, and I think a few of them have landed with people. But I truly believe that the apocalypse is not one event, but a death of worlds over and over and over. It’s a smattering of events that mean something in the long run. Every post-apocalypse is the birth of some new world. This is not a new idea, but perhaps one that needs restatement.



So the question is not, “when will the world end?” but “when did the world end?”



Will there be a final cataclysm to shatter EVERYTHING? Yes, but that’s like a science conversation that I am not really equipped to lead. Everything ends, but what does that even mean? Again, I’m not going to go there.




We are the ashen roaches in the aftermath, scuttling along the ruins of the wasteland. In fact, human beings are lightyears worse than any vermin – we build bombs and kill children to honor man-made concepts of power.



But whatever, we’re gross nightmare creatures who probably don’t deserve a shot in the universe, but we have one. And from the moment we are shat into the world to the moment we are shat into the next, we have a billion-billion chances to do something good. And we can fuck up that many chances and still have that many opportunities to point ourselves in the right direction and try again. It doesn’t matter who we choose to follow, or who we deem “in charge” — we have that chance to do something. Live. Die. Right. Wrong. Create. Destroy.



So what have we learned from this? Probably not a lot, but whatever, I hope this was a welcome distraction from whatever negative feelings you have. I probably need something like whatever this was more than you.




I am writing this. You are reading this. The world ended a long time ago, and though I don’t know when that was, you and I are still here.



We have that chance.