Marcus from Queens, NY asks:
The talk at my barbershop has been how those Scientologist people are busy trying to find Tom Cruise his next wife. Yeah he’s rich and famous but don’t you think it’s strange that women are lining up to be with someone whose crazy is so well documented? And isn’t it even stranger that he’s outsourcing the job of finding his next wife?
Is it strange that’s he’s outsourcing the job of finding his next wife when he outsourced the job of finding the last one? I mean do you think Tom Cruise can just pick someone up at a bar? Like he can just meet someone at the gas station at 2 in the morning? What would that conversation be like? With a regular person?
Just screaming gibberish most likely.
I think when you reach a certain stratosphere of fame, you’re no longer just a person, you’re not even a brand or a commodity, you’re not even a king—you’re myth, you’re legend, you’re a fucking fable. You’re not Frodo. You’re not Gandalf. You’re not Sauron. You’re the One Ring. So having the handlers of a church built in your shadow choose your next wife seems far from strange. To me.
You watch TV and read Maxim and dream but I imagine for Tom, he’s basically looking at a menu.
“I think I’ll have the brunette on that CW show. The one with the crooked smile.” #WordtoJCole.
And women lining up to date him, cuckoo or no, seems even less strange. As if fame and fortune is so dismissible. As if Henry VIII ever lacked for bed partners. I imagine there were women giving him the eye even at the beheadings.
Sure go on and scoff at that. But I feel like Tom Cruise could get you too Marcus.
No, you’re not gay.
But if Tom maybe sees you out and develops an interest in you—maybe he says hello and you make a clever Top Gun reference and he laughs, really laughs and looks at you in that intense way that he has and tells you he thinks you’re funny.
And he lets you take a picture with him for the Gram.
And then he starts sending flowers to your job.
And you laugh.
And then he sends a limited edition one of a kind running shoe because you’re on that Nike app; and then he sends you a diamond encrusted Piaget because you deserve nice things or so the note says; and now you’re texting each other and he’s retweeting your tweets; and then he tells you, you’re the only one who gets him and as a thank you he sends you some of the latest tech stuff, some prototypes, maybe a real life honest to goodness hover board. And then he sends over a private chef, to make you steaks just the way you like it. And then the next thing that arrives is a private car waiting to take you to the nearest heliport, if only you’ll do him the honor of giving him an audience—an hour or two of your time.
Enough time to make his case.
On his private island.
And he greets you at the door shirtless, wearing just some drawstring linen pants.
And he’s beautiful.
The most beautiful man you’ve ever seen.
And he welcomes you in and offers you a little wine.
And a little coke, so you’ll have the excuse you need.
And sits you down to talk about your future arrangement. Together.
Do you hear him out Marcus?
Who are we kidding?
He had you at hello.
Sierra from Detroit, Michigan asks:
A while back you said that there’s no way to hurt someone that doesn’t give a fuck about you but there has to be a way. Do I just make him leave? It’s winter and it’s cold outside and the apartment is in my name.
You can’t hurt him by making him leave. You can only hurt him by making him stay.
Let him know it’s you and him forevuh. Tell him you’re going to be the last face he sees before he dies because it’s going to be you that kills him.
I mean the prison systems aren’t about letting people go. Or extraditing people. It’s about making them stay and limiting their sunlight.
So you have to limit his time outside.
And you punish him even more by making him have to face your increasingly dour disposition every morning and every night, for the rest of his life. Shackle him with insurmountable debt. Bind him with your unending tears. Break his spirit with increasing demands for sex. Sex you don’t let yourself enjoy. Stay dry, so that he also begins to question his worth as a man.
And then have a multiracial baby even though you’re both black. Make him raise it. Make it call him by his first name.
Offer no pardons. No parole.
Make yourself not just the warden but become the prison itself. So basically do lots of Kegels.
I guarantee these things will hurt him but I guarantee these things will hurt you too.
Carla from Kennesaw, GA asks:
My family gave me a gym membership for Christmas and I don’t know what to do?
Go to the gym.
Madelyn from Baltimore, Maryland asks:
I’ve been thinking about a lot of ways Obama can leave office with a bang. I mean there’s nothing they can do to him at this point so why not write an executive order forgiving all college debt or maybe tells us the truth once and for all about what went down at Roswell? But that’s just what’s been on my mind. What’s been on yours?
I’m with you on the Obama tip.
But I myself have been thinking a lot about Oprah’s last will and testament. I mean who is she going to leave all that money to? Is she going to give it to the Angel Network? Or to those African “daughters” of hers? Or to Stedman? (She’s not giving it to Stedman.)
What’s stopping her from giving it to us?
All of us.
What’s stopping her from setting up some kind of trust where we can use her billion-dollar base to help us build wealth?
We never had that base.
Four hundred plus years of labor and not a nickel to show for it. They gave us our freedom and not much else. And fuck it; our freedom came with AWL the fine print, all the clauses and qualifiers and loopholes. And blood.
I know people are tired of hearing us talk about reparations but reparations are the best way to shut us up America!
So why not give it to each other?
(I still mean Oprah giving it to the collective us)
And I know, I know…some of you immediately have images of all the potential news coverage of hoodrat types squandering their windfall on flat screens and fur coats and rims to the horror and amusement of the rest of the world.
But I’m not talking about a cash grab.
I’m talking about giving us a foundation.
An almost literal one.
What if Oprah set up a trust that allowed, qualified Blacks, to become homeowners? We can quibble on what would make one qualified. But we should all agree that there should be some type of barrier to entry. And once you met the qualification you’d be given the money you need to afford a home outright in your neighborhood.
Not a loan. Not a down payment. But the full amount.
With more Black homeowners you’ve immediately created a solid middle class. A group of people with real assets.
And of course there are other things to consider. Things like skyrocketing real estate prices because of the skyrocketing demands but there’s nothing like true purchasing power to be able to control inflation.
A bloc working together under the umbrella of a trust can fix prices.
(We’ll have a lawyer deal with the legalities of price fixing in the real estate market.)
But this can happen.
Oprah can make this happen.
I truly believe this is her true purpose here on earth.
She’s our Harriet.
Our torch through the proverbial tunnel.
Our hope for a truly level playing field.
But yeah, that’s what’s been on my mind Madelyn. Oprah and her will