Ethnic Avenue – The Street That Crosses All the Others

I’m no lawyer, but I could have sworn there was a difference between committing a crime outright, and being lured into committing one.

Despite that, law enforcement agencies all over the country have instituted the practice of using “bait cars” to fight rampant car theft.

The idea is simple. Cops modify a nice car—usually an Escalade or other ghetto-irresistible ride—with monitoring devices (cameras) and tracking technology (Lo-Jack). Then they sweeten the deal even more by loading the car up with nice shit, like an iPod and some Luther Vandross CDs. Sometimes, they even leave the keys in the ignition. After that’s done, they drop it off in an area where lots of cars are stolen. And wait.

Needless to say, these are the ingredients for some hilarious ghetto antics. In fact, there’s an entire television show devoted to playing footage of people trying to explain themselves to police before being hauled off to jail. You hear shit like, “I was just moving it out of the way so I could get my car out,” or “this is actually my cousin’s car. He knows all about this.” Of course, they don’t realize we’ve all been watching (and hearing them) steal the car all along. I’ve enjoyed more than a few laughs at these poor idiots’ expense.

But I nearly shat my pants (not in a good way) when, during a routine evening out, I spotted this sign in a parking garage here in LA:

Say what? This shit is real? The bait car instantly went from a playing-in-the-background-type-of-show to some real shit in my life. I mean, however unlikely, I could have conceivably been seduced by the bait, and ended up on the very show whose actors I ridicule. I was shocked and pissed.

Look, I’m all for fighting crime, especially crime that puts my insanely in-demand car in any kind of danger. But, what’s next? Where will it end? A bait twenty bucks falling out of a douchebag’s acid-wash-jeans pocket?  A bait just-underage girl? A bait set of answers to the test?

I say that if cops can bait us into committing crimes, we can bait them into thinking they’re fighting crime.

“Oh, sorry Mr. Officer, I didn’t really snatch her purse. Laugh out loud. See, this is Julie, my friend. And we’re just rehearsing for our hipster wannabe-legitimate-theatre play. And, by the way, we were also taping the whole thing. You’re going to be on TV!”

Every smack that goes up, must come down. And, even though Obama’s hand seems to have floated in the air for like a year, it came down correspondingly hard and crisp across the collective orange face of the Republican party over the past week.

Like so many others, I made no secret of my disgust for Obama’s repeated punk-outs and disappointing overtures to idiots that never had any intention of working with him. But, for at least one magical week, I’m getting to enjoy some good old-fashioned, sweet ethnic beatdown:

What started with a surprisingly in-your-face State of the Union address, has poured over into a daily–semi-abusive–barrage of calling-out, political flourish, and general ridicule. Seemingly overnight, Obama has gone from a bad case of no-balls accommodationism to a life-threatening case of testicular answer.

Now, that’s my kind of change.

Nothing says shady (or in select contexts, bad-ass) more than using a dollar sign in place of the conventional letter S (or wearing it around your neck).

But, let’s make an important distinction. If you’re a hip-hop arti$t or a pimp named $ilky or a 99-cent $tore, you’re likely to improve your image by using the dollar sign. Chances are it resonates with your “demographic.” But, if you’re a law office or a bank, you’re probably better off sticking to the core 26 letters of the alphabet.

You’d think all of this goes without saying. But, I often run into poor uses of the dollar sign around town.

In the wrong context, the dollar sign does the exact opposite of what it’s supposed to do. (For instance, I’ve since withdrawn all of my money from Ca$h Bank.) But, the way I see it, currency-symbols-as-letters is a risky move if you’re a business of any kind (except maybe a rapper named £e$ter €x, which would be kinda the shit).

My guess is that the few people that are actually swayed to buy something because every S on the billboard was a dollar-sign, aren’t that desirable as customers in the first place. And, the significant percentage of people you turned off with your dollar-sign-replacements probably were.

Just when you started to believe the excuses for the Australian KFC “crowd pleaser” commercial (e.g., that “not one person [polled] in Australia had any idea of the American stereotype of black people and chicken”), I uncovered another Australian gem–from back in the day (1992):

Now, admittedly, I’ve never eaten at Chicken Treat, but it’s probably a safe bet that, at $2.75, their “Chick’n Ham’n Cheese Burger” is no better than, say, Wendy’s Bacon Swiss Crispy. (Though Wendy’s wins on style points, for placing their adjective at the end.) In other words, Chicken Treat isn’t putting out an exceptionally delicious sandwich that’s universally known as the best. It’s just a regular-ass, fast-food, factory-farm chicken sandwich. So the fact that the black guy can’t contain himself around it—hungrily licking his chops while visually fixating on it at the beginning—says more about the guy than the sandwich.

Wendy's Bacon Swiss Crispy

Then there’s contrast between the two characters, which couldn’t be more stark. On the one hand is the cool, collected White guy with his deep voice (and exceptionally bushy, expressive eyebrows). He’s a wearing a conservative button-down shirt, buttoned to the very top, and a deliciously Fantastic Sams hairdo, circa 1988. On the other hand is the out-of-control, screaming black dude carrying on about the sandwich in his shrill voice. He’s got on the loudest—and frankly, nicest—floral shirt I’ve seen in years, as well as a flattened-bill baseball cap rested on the rear three-quarter on his head. I swear, the only thing missing is the original tags hanging off of his hat and a spinning basketball on his finger. Oh, wait, he’s probably busy licking those fingers.

So, Australians, I call bullshit.

I once witnessed a scene on a Philadelphia street corner that went something like this:

SEATED MIDDLE-AGED BLACK DUDE

(while looking at a girl over his shoulder and talking to another guy)

That girlfriend of yours, man: She’s. A. Fine. Ass. Woman. Mm. Mm. Mm.

MMMM.

No disrespect.

The crazy part is that I could see the other guy’s rage visibly increase as the black dude carried on like that about his girl and, then, evaporate just as quickly as as soon as he heard the “no disrespect.” It was an incredible sight. And I immediately recognized it for what it was: a powerful incantation for de-balling an angry fist. It was like a thin British girl, in the prime of her fertility, stopping a hoard of horny pirates dead in their tracks by simply saying “parley.” Or like placing a disclaimer at the bottom of your illegal copy of a movie like this:

None taken.

What I didn’t know was whether anyone could use the line, or if it only worked coming out of a middle-aged black dude’s mouth. I also didn’t know if it worked equally as good if you prefaced your potentially offensive statement with it (as in, “no disrespect, but you can’t sing”) or if you had to say it at the end, to clear the air after-the-fact. Worse, there was no way to test it until I got into some hot water—and, by then, it could be too late.

After years of experiments, I’m here to tell you that the line is solid gold—especially with ghetto-ish ladies, hostile ethnic types, and power-tripping authority figures. But it’s all in the delivery.

So use it and abuse it to get yourself out of jams. But if you get a beat down, it’s because you—no disrespect—fucked it up.

If you’re up late enough watching TV, you start getting the extended commercials for things that tend to appeal to up-late slobs (e.g., Girls Gone Wild tapes, no-work exercise machines, seductive get-rich-quick schemes).

Lately, I’ve been seeing this gem from our friends at eDiets a lot (watch as much as you can tolerate):

Apart from being entirely too long, repetitive, and giving you a nagging case of that embarrassed-even-though-it’s-not-you feeling, this commercial is another sign that the end-of-days is hurtling toward us.

Five Disturbing Things about This Commercial

1. We’re such collective fat-asses these days that you can actually take out two-minute ads on TV for unnecessary “diet plans” and still turn a nice profit.

2. People know so little about basic nutrition that having someone else prepare every single one of your meals and ship it to your door “fresh” is considered a viable option for eating healthy. What’s next: eShits.com, a service where someone else takes your shits for you? You heard it here first.

3. Insultingly out-dated “rap music,” with whack-ass rhymes and tired “hip-hop” phrases (“I got it going on”) and gestures (raise the roof). The only thing missing is a line of kids doing the Running Man in the background.

4. Lamely, and transparently, trying to legitimize the use of a “rap song” by prominently featuring a black girl—who, from her before-and-after pictures, doesn’t even appear to have lost very much weight.

5. Setting back White girls everywhere—who have been working tirelessly to erode the pesky stereotype they can’t dance—by putting on some of the worst White-lady dancers imaginable.

Every year around this time, the TV lights up with lame programs about “where we are” in respect to Martin Luther King’s “Dream.” Even though I recognize the value of the occasional check-in, I’ve always felt that the annual MLK news special was one of those hollow, easy gestures from the CNNs of the world—put mostly in place so the second-string newscasters can log hours while Wolf Blitzer gets “the night off.”  Needless to say, this year’s special got all fucked up because of the whole Obama thing. For the first time in a long-ass time, they actually have some movement on the Dream front.

I don’t actually plan on watching any of these shows that I’ve been seeing commercials for, but I can pretty much guess what they’ll sound (and look) like: a TV-Reporter Asian American Girl walking toward the camera while saying something like, “While Obama’s election marks a big step in the right direction toward fully realizing King’s dream, there’s still a lot of work to blah-blah-blah.” Cue footage of an especially dramatic Obama speech, inter-spliced with some black-and-white MLK footage. I guarantee it.

So, knowing how the news is going to handle that situation, where are we with the Dream, really–especially with a black president and all?

It’s complicated. But I’ll start with the stuff we won’t get into (at least not right now):

• How a whole new breed of dumb-as-shit, redneck racists is coming out of the woodwork since the election
• How Obama may have only gotten the job because the guy before him fucked up so monumentally
• All of the miscellaneous evidence that the world is going to shit (spike in overall stupidity, the economy, obesity epidemic, etc.)

What I will discuss is the condition of MLK Boulevards, Drives, and Streets everywhere. I’ll explain.

For most of my life, I’ve subscribed to the Chris Rock School of Thought on MLK Streets:

The way I see it, MLK Street is a good barometer on how far we’ve come to achieving King’s dream of equality. As long as MLK Street remains a ghetto-ass, dangerous place in most cities, things haven’t changed all that much. Just because a minority or two land a good job, that doesn’t mean the condition of that whole race has improved. It’s just a stroke of good luck or an exceptional hustle by that one person.

So if non-violent MLK Streets is a sign that the Dream has become reality, imagine my dismay when I found this—in Jerusalem, Israel of all places:

It’s a good thing Dr. King kept his Dream domestic.

For a while now, I’ve suspected my neighborhood was developing a serious hipster problem. Admittedly, it’s pretty hard to live in any decent apartment-dense area in a major U.S. city without running into at least of few of these characters, with their manicured beards, year-round beanies, and two-sizes-too-small striped sweaters.

But, one day, I looked up and saw this.

There’s nothing like a pair of “old-school” high-top Nikes—except maybe a pair of girlish skinny jeans—to telegraph hipster. It’s probably no coincidence that right below this hipster territory mark is:

• a store that sells turn-tables and other equipment for “DJs” (a common hipster pastime);
• an ostensibly “dive” bar, frequented exclusively by mid-to-late 20s city transplants;
• an “ironic” t-shirt and skateboard store.

I guess this is—to the extent that these wimps are capable of it—a hostile hipster takeover.

Very few urban (and suburban) characters are more obvious than the White Chocolate. Even though there are several major varieties and intensities—determined mostly by geography—you rarely mistake a White Chocolate for anything else.

As the consummate example of racial incongruence, things started off pretty rough for the White Chocolate Guy when he first emerged in the late 1980s. Early trailblazers, like rapper Vanilla Ice, were the subject of endless ridicule and scorn in those primitive dark ages. These days, White Chocolates live out in the open with the confidence—often a little too much—that they enjoy the same legitimacy as their non-synthetic chocolate counterparts.

Appearance & Dead Giveaways

• Hip-hop attire, from subtle to way-over-the-top: big-ass t-shirt; baseball cap with un-creased bill and un-removed tags; loosened laces on sneakers; oversized, sagging pants; ostentatious jewelry
• Urban lexicon, with simulated accent (e.g., “I ain’t even trying to hear that.”)
• Ethnic strut and physical gestures (holding crotch when walking; overly emotive hands when explaining things; talking more out of one side of his mouth than the other; driving with a sagging lean and a single, outstretched arm centered on the steering wheel)
• “Hard,” tough-guy look and posture
• Engages in racially legitimizing behaviors like: playing basketball, blasting hip-hop music, and “fixing up” his car
• Two-sided “bid-ness” card: shitty job during the day, side-hustle at night (Credit: Reader MAC)

I don’t know about everyone else but, to me, one of the most irritating things on the road nowadays are those unnecessarily bright headlights on certain late-model cars. In response to this modern nuisance, our "production team" has put together a crude animation on some ideas for getting your revenge dealing with them.