There are three things that Black people need to tell the truth about. Number one: Rodney King should’ve gotten his ass beat for being drunk in a Hyundai in a white part of Los Angeles. Number two: O.J. did it! And number three: Rosa Parks ain’t do nuthin’ but sit her black ass down!
Welcome back to The Bootleg. This past Monday played out like every other Monday in my mundane Monday existence. Between the wife and me, “Monday” is always the day when we “change our ways”, “turn over a new leaf” and “this time, we really mean it.”
For me, it’s the gym.
While, I haven’t missed a Monday in months, it seems that the week’s other six days have essentially turned into my own workout sick days. But, there I am”¦at the start of each week, determined that this week will be different.
Well, this past Monday certainly was different. Y’see, all day I felt just a little off. I’d spent the weekend getting over another cold, courtesy of Kid Cameron, but I was well enough for my usual “he-woman” workout routine of 30 minutes of running on the treadmill and another 30 minutes of shaky-armed, awkward curls and presses.
(And, with a once-a-week workout regimen like mine, it’s hard to believe I can barely fill out a short-sleeved T.)
My adventure on the treadmill ended abruptly at eight minutes and twenty-six seconds into my run. For some reason, my level of perspiration had shot from “very sweaty” up to “Nick Salemi” in no time. In one of my many attempts to towel off, without breaking stride, some of my own salty brine found its way into my eyes.
I reached for my sopping wet hand-rag, but in my blind swipe I found the little red “stop” button, instead. For anyone out there who’s never done anything this stupid, the abrupt end to my treadmill spin launched me forward and nearly up and over the front of the machine.
A Black Test Dummy, if you will.
My eyes were still stinging like I’d gone ten rounds with Tajiri, but I played it all off, re-started and finished my 30 minutes. Thankfully, it was just 5:30 PM and only 60% of San Diego was there to see my in-place run turn into a collapsed sternum.
I get home about half an hour later, hop in the shower”¦and start (stomach) cramping up. By now, I’m in full-on prison bitch position, doubled over under the hot water, awaiting a rape that I pray never comes (in more ways than one). Afterwards, I stumble downstairs and lay supine like a chalk outline on the living room floor.
“We need hamburger buns!”
My wife’s “new leaf” (this week) is cooking. She’s determined to save The Cam Fam from the fattiness of fast food and the drive-thru, so our Monday meal is a Mrs. Bootleg Burger. But, before I can roll over to appreciate the irony, the wife informs me that she wants to fire up the ol’ Propane Jane”¦at 7:00 PM”¦in the rain.
I drive about a mile up the street, stopping at the first storefront I can find. And, wouldn’t you know that the only buns in the whole store were something called “Sara Lee Select”, which required the selection of $3.25 out of my wallet”¦for eight buns”¦and sesame seed free, no less!
Not sure why I thought that a fatburger on my belly would be just what my man-cramps were calling for, though. After about a bite and a half, I crawled to our downstairs stall and successfully fought off the urge to purge. Hell, I even came back and choked down my half-pound of ground round.
For me, it was a small victory in a day reeking with defeat.
Final Score: My Humiliation 38, My Health 17
The Goodness always goes for two”¦
By the by”¦I’ll be on the East Coast for work next week, with the Bootleg World Tour taking me to Nashua, New Hampshire, then on down to Hartford, Connecticut. Bootleg prospects for next Friday depend entirely on my hotel room internet connection.
“I picture AJC next Thursday as a Family Guy segue from Peter…’That’s like the time Aaron Cameron tried to drive from one end of New England to the other.’ Then, a lil’ big-headed cartoon AJC pokin his melon out of the car on a dirt road in the middle of a forest with snow coming down says, ‘Y’all know where Connecticut is?’
And, then a bear comes out and roars, scaring AJC back in his car.”
-Nick Salemi
Cameron Might be More Famous than Cam’ron
Last Sunday morning, just before finishing off my breakfast bowl of bran-flavored ball bearings, the 36-inch babysitter for Little Boy Bootleg broadcast this tantalizing teaser:
“When we return, news on another shooting involving one of the rap world’s superstars.”
For 120 slow-moving seconds, I was forced to endure advertisement after advertisement (trust me, it reads better if you pronounce it “ad-VER-tis-ment”) before a poor knock-off of Kent Brockman broke the news that Cam’ron had been shot in Washington, D.C. after leaving a club just after 2:30 AM.
OK, just to recap: it’s now “news” when a rapper is shot and it’s “news” when there’s a shooting in Washington D.C. Haven’t heard of either happening before, how ’bout you?
So, with that in mind, let’s all return to the scene of the real crime. Did our local, Emmy-Award winning weekend anchorman really refer to Cam’ron as a “superstar”? C’mon, Cam”¦50 Cent = superstar”¦Eminem = superstar”¦Cam’ron = Superstar.
And, speaking of Ms. Shannon, would it not be considered cool to create a community rhinoplasty pool for her? Not to dole out the ol’ double standard, but does Molly know that an actor’s (think Owen Wilson) bad nose is considered “character”, while an actress with a Triple H and a horse face is”¦in heavy syndication and on every side-of-the-bus billboard in the city, it seems.
Umm, well then, Molly”¦carry on.
There’ll be a Quiz at the End of this Item
Last weekend, legal representatives on behalf of Britney Spears threatened to take action against any website that posted pics of Britney and her newborn kid. It seems her recent photo shoot for People Magazine went awry and several of the shots inadvertently ended up out on the internet.
Oh, chick’a, please.
Take it from a relatively new father, baby pictures don’t “inadvertently” end up anywhere. Their appearance on the internet or in your inbox is a parent’s cold, calculating cry for reaffirming feedback. And, along those lines, there’s a certain bit of baby pic etiquette that I’d like to share with you.
The only acceptable response is “He/She is SO cute!” That’s a capitalized “SO”, one exclamation point and be sure not to fall down on the gender pronoun. Just so you know, any other comment, question or exclamation will be misinterpreted”¦mostly by the mother.
Y’see, kids”¦when you write my wife back and tell her that our son “looks so small”, I’m the one that has to reassure her that the boy will someday be a linebacker. When you see one picture of Kid Cameron crying and say, “He looks sad.”, that’ll be me talking the wife out of taking Jalen to baby therapy.
And, Heaven help us all, if Mrs. Bootleg sends you a dozen pics and you don’t respond. Last time that happened, I spent the evening talking the wife down from the second floor balcony, while somehow slipping in a subliminal “jump, bitch, jump”, when warranted.
It goes without saying that she survived the fall.
We Are A Part of the Rhythm Nation Method
Earlier this week, it was alleged that the brief, three-month marriage of Janet Jackson and James DeBarge, in 1984, produced a bouncing baby girl (Renee). According to reports, she’s now 21 and living with Janet’s sister, Rebbie.
Janet has vehemently denied the accusations, which were made by James’ brother, Ain’t Got a Job DeBarge, on that bastion of urban responsibility, HOT 97 FM.
Now, for a second, let’s assume that this is all true.
What kind of reverse world do we live in when it’s the Black woman who refuses to participate in her parental duties? That’s our gimmick, trick, and we ain’t about to surrender it to the sistas. Y’all women have no idea how serious this sh*t is to us.
Janet Jackson thinks she can remove herself from motherhood for good by sending her daughter away? Hell, thirty years ago, John Amos had his “James Evans” character killed off to keep from having to interact with those three black-ass, can’t act little bastards just once a week on Good Times and that was just pretend parenting.
Oh, and by the way”¦memo to the Nick at Nite network: all of those prime time repeats, seven days a week, of Good Times are setting back Blacks about 30 minutes with every airing.
By this time next week, I’ll be taking the Underground Railroad to work.
“¦And be Strewn Upon a Parade of Murderers n’ Single Mothers
Hip Hop Potato Head, The Game, announced the opening of a new recording studio in Atlantic City, New Jersey. It’ll serve as the headquarters for “Black Wall Street East”, which is the name of The Game’s self-styled entertainment conglomerate on the east coast. The original was created in Compton, California.
Game promises that this eastern affiliate will produce more than just rap music musings and random drug shootings. In fact, as stated in a recent interview, Game envisions suites, offices, rooms for short-term living and”¦in his words”¦”mentoring programs for pregnant mothers and children”.
Umm”¦aren’t they one and the same in Compton? Oh, I’m kidding. But, in all seriousness, who do you get to mentor unwed mothers? A decade ago, it might’ve been Murphy Brown, but that was before Candace Bergen crawled back into her coffin after her sitcom’s cancellation. Besides, I’m not sure ol’ Murphy could ever schmooze with the urban youth.
Let’s face it”¦we’ve gotta reach ’em with rap and that means signing up the most famous single mother in music”¦Brenda. Y’know, from Tupac’s Brenda’s Got a Baby. Everyone follow along with the song.
“Now Brenda’s belly’s gettin bigger
But no one seems to notice any change in her figure.”
See? Here’s someone whose pregnancy didn’t preclude Pilates.
“He left her and she had the baby solo
She had it on the bathroom floor and didn’t know so
She didn’t know, what to throw away and what to keep
She wrapped the baby up and threw him in the trash heap”
Oh, we’ve all made this mistake! Brenda, rule #1 in “what to keep”: the baby.
“Prostitute, found slain, and Brenda’s her name, she’s got a baby”
And, before her eventual, still unsolved alleyway slaying, Brenda got a job. So can you, single mothers”¦so can you.
Sometimes the News Just Writes Itself
The music career of Academy Award winner Jaime Foxx is more than just lending credibility to Kanye West. In fact, the actor who has been mentioned 18 times in the 24 Oscar previews that Joe Reid has written since September, has been flexing his casting biceps with regards to Dreamgirls.
In the film adaptation of the Broadway musical of the same name, Foxx reportedly wants American Idol Fantasia Barrino to join the cast, which already includes Foxx, Beyoncé and Eddie Murphy.
Oh, man”¦now, this is pressure. What is this, like the third or fourth week in row where I’ve tried to make fun of Fantasia? And, Lord knows that”¦wait a tic.
“Musical”?
Eddie Murphy?!
Mr. Party all the Time, Party all the Time?
Please tell me that advance tickets are on sale soon. And, is there any way we can get Eddie to break out the “Buckwheat” voice for just one song sequence, while wearing his ubiquitous slacks n’ wife-beater ensemble from every video he ever did?
I know there are four things I think of that make for a great musical: the orchestra, the crescendo, the majesty”¦Put Your Mouth on Me.
Hollywood”¦make this happen.
General Haberdashery”¦Fun Fact Edition 3
Fernandez debuts his new column called “Human Guinea Pig”. It’s a fast food tour de force and one of the most HI-larious reads on all of IP. Fun Fact: In 1993’s Demolition Man, a running joke is that all restaurants have become Taco Bells. For the German language dub, all references to “Taco Bell” have been changed to “Pizza Hut”.
Mathan is on the move and proves that he’s more than just Hip Hop and a hoodie. Go dig his eclectic mix of music and see if he’s pulled himself away from that Warriors video game, yet. Fun Fact: The theme of Sanford & Son is called “The Streetbeater” and was written and performed by Quincy Jones.
Mike Eagle gets all ugly on Hip Hop’s most hideous. Did I miss the inclusion of The Notorious B.I.G. the first time I read it? Probably, but I’m sure he’ll be in there by the time I read it again. Fun Fact: God doesn’t really hate ugly. He loves everyone and died for our sins”¦or was that Jesus? Wait, which one was in Los Boricuas?
J.A.M. = the fourth in the line of short-lived novelty writing nicknames for a trio of Inside Pulse and 411 writers.
J is for Movie Joe Reid. He returns from several days with the sniffles to bring you the final part of his fall movie preview”¦only five weeks since, y’know”¦fall started. Make sure you leave Joey Buffalo a comment about this“¦and, then, a comment about that.
Also, be sure to check out Joe over at The Film Experience. His irregular weekly column is up with news on Erika Christensen’s new role in “a sort of whorey, dramatic version of Dude, Where’s My Car?” He also bashes all things Boston (natch), Michael Keaton, Robert Downey, Jr. and a certain historical Game Six. Ooh, and Joe bares all“¦on Kirsten Dunst? Hope you weren’t eating!
A is for me.
M is TV Mathan. He’s all about ranking his Girlfriends in an exercise that no other IP TV columnist would take on. Having never seen the show (sorry, Black Caucus) I can only contribute with my similarly constructed standings for Living Single: 1.) 1994 Kim Fields (who may have been the most underrated dime from that particular time). 2.) Everyone else.
Junk Mail
How come you NEVER print any mail from people who actually like the Bootleg and agree with your reviews? There are some of us out here, y’know.
Miguel A.
Yeah, I know”¦and a sincere thanks to everyone who wrote in to rap about last week’s ‘Leg, which was probably the most well received piece I’ve written all year. But, the negative emails amuse me more and make for a more fun read, at least to me. I dunno, but re-printing praise in your own column is like showing off your yearbook to your friends, because “Cooly McWhiteboy” or “Jumpshot J. Jefferson” signed it.
But, if you insist”¦
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Best. Bootleg. Ever. You’ve usually got a few LOL moments every week, but (last) week’s Leg had me from beginning to end. If I weren’t already the whitest guy you’ll ever meet in Minnesota, I’d find a way to work in “jigga-BOOOO” into my Halloween celebration!
Julian R.
Trust me, it’s even funnier when you say it out loud in a “spooky Halloween voice”. Just make sure Mathan’s not around. He’s doesn’t cotton (sorry, Math) to those colorful colloquialisms.
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Only that bootleg guy would kick an illiterate when she’s down and beat up on Foxy because she’s gone deaf. Excellently spun on both counts, Cam. Here’s hoping we don’t try to kick you out of the Black community because of this betrayal against your people. But, if we do, please believe I’ll be holding out to get a 1983 Jayne Kennedy in return.
Allen W.
Oh, there’s no way that’s a fair trade. Remember that episode of Diff’rent Strokes where she played Arnold’s teacher by day and moonlighted as a trashy cocktail waitress by night? Blew my mind. Of course, that was at the height of America’s brief mainstream interest in Black women. I’m still not sure if the abrupt end to this trend was blamed on her“¦or on her.
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Maybe this is a question better asked of Movie Joe Reid, but it’s been buggin me for a minute. Your item on Madonna’s movie career eventually got around to sh*tting on Sharon Stone. Now, I’m old enough to remember, but in 1992, after Basic Instinct, she was THE hottest thing in Hollywood, but she never capitalized. This was like Gregg Jefferies levels of hype without the payoff. What the hell happened and are their any better examples of this in Hollywood history?
James W.
Meh. I remember Sharon Stone’s ascent to stardom, too. But, it was basically built around her vamping it up in what was essentially a B-Movie (Basic Instinct), during the start of Michael Douglas’ self-parody period (of which, we’re now in year 13). Now, Alicia Silverstone”¦? There’s your Gregg Jefferies comparison. And, while he was traded to baseball’s Siberia (Kansas City), Silverstone showed up in Beauty Shop. Easily the most inexplicable appearance by a white actor in a Black movie since this kid.
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Just wanted to say MUCH love for the M.O.P. review. I’ve been following Mash Out Posse since the beginning and it’s a shame that they haven’t had that one album that just breaks ’em out for the whole world to hear. 7.5 seems about right, though. Their style is straight-forward and a little one-dimensional, but it’s still cool to see ’em get love in the bootleg. But, why does Nick get to review all the REAL hip hop, while you get stuck with Trina?
Jessie R.
What can I say”¦every Tuesday, Nick beats me to Best Buy and scoops up all the good sh*t before I get there. All that’s left is Trina and John Cena”¦and, even I have standards.
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Future suggestion for Nicka Please: ask your boy to lay out the best guest spots of all time. I’m talking about the cats that come in with one or two verses and just kill it. Maybe even break it out by outlining the cameos that were so great, they made or saved someone’s career or even talking about the most unlikely great guest spots. Just hurry, before someone else at IP steals this idea, too.
Alton S.
ZING! Sounds like it’d be a good read, if Nick’s down with it. It usually takes him a few days to make it this far into the column, so I’ll follow up with him next week to see if he’s seen this.
Have a Happy Halloween, kids. Save a brutha a Butterfinger BB or two. Get at me on Yahoo or AOL IM: ajcameron13.
