R. Kelly's Whack Mad-Libs

This one was printed in my college's newspaper in March of 2006. I just did some very half-assed research and it surprised me to learn that R. Kelly continues to add chapters to his “hip-hopera.” Which suits me fine. My awareness of Trapped in the Closet peaked years ago, but apparently he's still expounding on some epic vision that I clearly don't take seriously.

If you're a devout fan of R. Kelly, my gripe is not with you, but you probably shouldn't read on. I will no doubt soon transform into tactless wise-ass mode. In my defense, here are two things to consider.



First, I'm writing this column on my birthday. At a certain age, birthdays lose their appeal; after 21, it gets harder to muster that childlike enthusiasm on the anniversary of your passage through your mom's vagina.


Fortunately, I have discovered a remedy for birthday disenchantment. For 24 hours, I try my damndest to reject common courtesies and forced pleasantries and permit myself to be obnoxious and rude. I play the bejesus out of the birthday card! If someone objects to my brash behavior by blathering lines such as, “Don't talk shit about my ailing grandma” or “Sir, we don't allow fireworks in this wing of the library,” my reply is always, “Hey, cut me some slack; it's my frickin' birthday.” It works more often than you might think.



The second reason I'm writing an unflattering column about R. Kelly is much simpler. Some people are jerks, and there isn't much hope they will ever change their ways. These people should be parodied, and parodies aren't always nice.

Unless you were part of the pop duo Milli Vanili, America is willing to give you a second chance. W. Bush blundered through a first term in office (and probably got accidentally trapped in a closet or two of his own) only to be dared by a high percentage of voters to do it again. Like W. Bush, R. Kelly has been granted a second chance.

A few years after his much publicized “sex” tape (and I put quotes around that word because sex takes on a twisted mutation when urine is combined with an underage girl), R. Kelly has bounced back with a popular show on VH1. Some will debate it was Kelly's doppelganger who appeared in the video, and in any case, whoever starred in it didn't get punished too severely; R. Kelly is not tormenting “fresh fish” alongside of Suge Knight. Rather, he's got a show called Trapped in the Closet.

I'll never forget my only viewing of Trapped. It was cheerfully introduced by a swarthy nitwit who applies two gallons of hair gel per day. He's the same guy who hosts Bands Reunited, which means he's the only person in the world that's hellbent on seeing one more concert put on by the original lineup of Mr. Big. There are people with faded Mr. Big tattoos who'd rather not see Mr. Big perform a reunion gig at some shopping mall in Tampa.

Anyway, here's a summary of the episode I caught: R. Kelly is “trapped in a tumultuous love triangle with a cop and a woman. R. and the woman are in her bedroom, arguing in a bizarrely musical fashion, and once the tension reaches a fever pitch, they realize the absurdity of their ordeal and burst into laughter. Fair enough, I suppose.

The cop then enters the house and overhears the commotion in the bedroom. In a jesting tone, the woman shouts, “Stop it, you're killing me!” The phrase in question implies that you want the other person to relent joking because you're laughing so hard your stomach hurts and farcically brings to mind the thought of death.

This cop is a total bonehead, though. He infers those words literally. He assumes the woman is in serious trouble and storms into the bedroom with his gun drawn. BANG! Someone gets shot. It doesn't matter who.

For the record, this is an idiotic plot-twist. When they're in the process of being murdered, NOBODY screams, “Stop it, you're killing me!” It just overstates the obvious, really. Actual murder victims scream things like, “Help!” or “Don't do this!” or “You'll pay for this, O.J.!”

Trapped in the Closet has less creative merit than a WWF Royal Rumble. The story-lines are so flimsy and thoughtless that pretty much anyone could write an episode. Are you a literate adult? Great, here's your formula: Take a soap opera cliché, sensationalize it, and add singing.

What follows is not only a fun game to play with a group of friends, but also a likely explanation for the writing process of an episode of Trapped. I present to you: “R. Kelly's Whack Mad-Libs.”

You remember how to play Mad-Libs, right? This version is quite similar. Simply call out all the stuff in parentheses first, jot down the responses, and then recite the whole thing aloud—but don't say it, sing it. Here goes.


Chapter One: "This Crazy Shit be Like Genesis"


Man, this (swear word) is so crazy. I'm all wound-up and I'd rather be lazy. Just lounging around, high on (name of drug), feeling pretty good indeed. But here I am, arguing with (name of stank ho in room). She threatened to call the police, and there's no need for that. I didn't call her fat. I just need to know what's up with her and (name of sleazy pimp in room). Girl, have you been in his bed? Do you want him instead? All those times we (slang for intercourse, past-tense) don't seem to mean a thing, and neither does my bling. Dammit, (slang for wicked woman), you gotta say something. I got no doubts. We gotta work this out. You're my number one girl. When we get down you rock my world, and I'm sorry I gave you (sexually transmitted disease), but if I may retort, we can't go back in time, so just listen to my rhymes.

You know (aforementioned sleazy pimp) is my boy, and if y'all rattled bedsprings like a baby's toy, it's gonna shake my poise. Wait! I just heard a noise.

I think it came from the (common hiding place). Now (slang for wicked woman), don't be stubborn. You can't hide this from me. I won't let it be. I'm gonna pull out my (deadly weapon) and then count to three. I he ain't out by then, to hell he'll descend.

Now first comes one; my heart is beating like a drum. And then comes two. I want to (excretory function, present tense) on the fools in this room.

The door to the (aforementioned hiding place) flew open. I can't believe what's inside; no, I can't trust my eyes. (Swear word), this (swear word) is so (synonym for psychosis). My brain is going hazy. (Aforementioned name of stank ho) was hiding a (term for little person) all along, and he's got his pants down. This is the craziest (swear word) I've ever seen. This dude is hung like (name of male porn star). If you catch my drift, he's got a huge (synonym for male genitalia). Plus he's pointing a gun. I'm not having no fun. Folks, you gotta stay tuned 'cause the (another synonym for psychosis) (swear word) has just begun!

Thoughts in 2013: “I Believe I'll be Snide.”

Are there any good R & B singers anymore? Ones who don't use Auto-Tuners or publicly disgrace themselves by beating or degrading women? In the original print of this column, I tried to clarify that I don't advocate player-hating, and I cited Marvin Gaye as an admirable (and supremely gifted) Player. With a capital “P”! Is there an R & B singer today with half as much talent as Marvin Gaye? Can the soulful magic of the Motown roster that once included Marvin, Stevie, the J-5, and The Temptations be duplicated even a little bit in 2013? (Cee Lo Green, maybe? I have no interest in the talent show racket he's a part of, but he seems legit.) Feel free to comment, to burst my cozy little time-bubble. Act nice, though. I was a dick about R. Kelly, sure, but you should be nice. I for one think that's fair.

Billy Joel Is My Generation's Dad

1.


My parents kept a modest record collection in the dining room. It mostly went unused, and since I never took interest in the Bay City Rollers and since The Andy Williams Christmas Album seemed worthless 11 (if not 12) months out of the year, my older sister, rather than mom and dad, happened to shape my earliest memories of music. Eight years my senior, she was not inclined to influence the tastes of her younger brothers, least of all me, but when she brought her favorite mixed tape to our uncle's summer cottage, she had that effect on me, anyway. Aside from one anomaly—a hit by Sir Mix-a-Lot (yes indeed, his ode to big butts)--the tape was comprised of songs by Billy Joel.

I recall laying down on a sleeping bag inside a pup tent beside a battery-powered tape deck and fixating on the sonic portraits this man I took to be a legend had to sing about. His outlook on the baffling world of adults fascinated me and he struck me as a sincere storyteller.

Years later, having developed a more critical account of things that occasionally yields some wisdom, I see that Billy Joel matters as a weary yet passionate performer (“Piano Man”), a survivor of atrocities (“Goodnight Saigon”), and a History teacher who sported shades 'cause he wanted to look tough (“We Didn't Start the Fire”). He is also a cranky individualist (“My Life”), a lover of Motown doo-wop who couldn't quite do justice to that sound (“The Longest Time”), and an imitator of John Travolta's theatrical flair in the movie-musical Grease (“Uptown Girl”). All those songs were included on my sister's mixed tape.

In the pantheon of rock and roll, Billy Joel is not the greatest, but when we consider how wildly he spanned the spectrum of excellence and mediocrity, he is perhaps the most definitively human. For my money, Billy Joel is our foremost expeditionary of both sublimity and crap.

Before elaborating on the Billy Joel state of mind, I should tell you how my first tape deck concert ended: My dad stormed into the backyard, unzipped the tent, shined a flashlight in my eyes, and told me to turn off the racket and go to sleep.

2.

Like my dad, Billy Joel is a Baby Boomer. They were both born in the month of May, in 1951 and 1949, respectively, right in the thick of what must have been a truly swell time to reproduce in America. They were of the generation that sprouted proudly from G.I. Bills and victory in Europe and Japan and was later subjected to draft lotteries and failure in Vietnam. It was a generation of free spirits who rode their motorcycles in the rain only to be plagued by the temptation to become snotty big shots when they reached middle-age. The Boomer lifespan is characterized by jarring changes and restless ebbs and flows.

A Boomer can tell you a lot about human progress, but he can tell you just as much about human limitations.

Billy Joel, like family, stirs conflicted feelings in me, and I doubt I'm alone. Regarding both, I err on the side of love because if I don't life seems a bit shittier. Billy Joel has not instilled in me consistent adoration in me as The Beatles or Beastie Boys have done, but the same goes for my family and their paling to all those funny drunk dudes and beautiful heroines that I knew in college. I'm amazed by my dad. He's awake by six every morning and eager to fix a snow-blower at 6:05—and I have no idea what that's like.

But I've been embarrassed by my dad, too. The fatherly comparisons to Billy Joel listed soon are not auto-biographical, but this one is: My dad referred to fried potato wedges as “wedgies,” and when I had two friends over for a sleep-over in grade school, while we distributed portions of chicken and appetizers at the kitchen table, he straightforwardly asked them, “Would you guys like some wedgies?” He had no clue why they laughed at him, and when our definition of “wedgie” was explained to him, he shook his head and said, “Pfft. Those are called undie-grundies.”

In that instance, dad pulled a real “Keeping the Faith.” It was embarrassing—but at least the old man didn't intend it that way.

What I've done, then, is compile a list of BJ tunes which evoke memories and portraits of dads. Because, to my generation—the one after X that precedes the Half-Second Attention Span Generation, brought to you by China generation—Billy Joel is the embodiment of Everyman's dad.

3.

“Piano Man”

Dad experienced his prime before he even realized it. He was wise beyond his years at a time when his wisdom had little to do with coping with age. At parties, dad captivated rooms, made those rooms as vibrant as carnivals, even when he was scrutinizing others, holding them under microscopes but without scorn. He toasted his fellow man and slept with waitresses he only loved for one night, but he was destined for bigger and better things since he knew something they didn't. He really did. It's just that, years later, he'd learn about the things they knew that he didn't, like the fact that not all sorrows are especially romantic.

More Stories, and Additional Stories is the name of that eBook.

The Biggest Jokes

1.


Beauty
is skin deep.
They dove right in
the shallow end
and twisted their necks—
still we all want to be their friends.



2.

That night by the seaside
they got drunk
out of love for vice
more so than each other
and he ranted scathingly
about the human race
as though he were truly
detached and superior.

She retained nothing
of the conversation in the morning,
but he remembered.
He remembered every last God-damned thing.

After she passed out
he grabbed a stick,
headed to the shore,
and wrote her a love-letter in the sand,
using all the sweetest words,
without a trace of bitterness,
during low-tide.

When she arose achingly
in the morning, he was gone.
She gazed at the high-tide
that stretched closer to her
and felt inexplicably haunted.



3.

Long after the boy
was given pills
to aid his mind
they gave him pills
to fix the damage
the first pills did to his body.
He kept the second pill
in his wallet for a special occasion.

And once in the summer,
on a camping trip,
he left his wallet outside the tent
without knowing
it was going to rain all night.

He awoke to find the second pill dissolved,
reduced to chalky nothingness,
and his brain was at least intact enough to think,
quite rightly,
“This sure sums it up.”