Nicole was putting it down back when Beyonce was just the light skinned jawn in the blonde weave clinging to a Wyclef remix. No no no no!
There are only two directions a blog post about Beyonce can take when a woman is wielding the pen: Hater territory and booty worship. I pray at the altar of neither. I am apathetic in the throes of well-oiled thigh jerking and the tossing of expensive hair. I bat nary an eyelash towards her success as I cannot change the minds of sassy 20-something women who, too, think they are independent womyn. They usually are not. And that’s cool, I get it. Everyone has their something. I have bounced my shit in more than one nightclub to more than most Beyonce songs. If you wish to know my weaknesses they are 808 beats, sirens, and whistles. Lady B has been my pusher man. To the untrained eye, I am the casual fan. My iPod both likes it and wishes to put a ring on it. My ass pales in comparison. But I don’t think about her much, don’t worry about whether or not her backup dancer has a dick taped into his bodysuit, don’t wonder what she’s doing with Jay-Z or how often or in which positions. And the reason is simple. Beyonce is be-oring. Despite recent efforts to sell herself as the man-eating double-identity (and, conveniently enough, double CD), Sasha Fierce, homegirl is the barely living equivalent to a Quaalude and Zima sake bomb..
Sure her music videos are innovative and her dance moves spin my shit into a seizing mess of two left feet and honky rhythm, but otherwise, I am often left feeling uninspired and dissatisfied. Which, given my record with big-talking men, is pretty much par for the course. But Beyonce isn’t supposed to make me feel the way a man makes me feel. She is supposed to raise me up on the wings of wealth and positivity. She is supposed to make horrible career-ending mistakes, throw up on something, spill a secret, a drink, out of a Tina Knowles designer gown. She exists to allow laypeople such as I to feel something, better, newer. And yet, and still, she just…doesn’t. At this point, I can’t even be sure that Beyonce is human. But not in a sweet, robo-babe way, but more like that of a badonk’d cardboard cutout.
Beyonce’s contemporaries, while hardly as successful (save for Rihanna who rips shit up on the reg), make up and break up with fly lookin’ teen wet dreams like Chris Brown and Bow Wow (I see you, Ciara…actually, I haven’t seen you come to think of it.), wear bizarre headdresses (Alicia, girl, let me help you help yourself), and strike people down with their cars (Dare not question Brandy’s gangster.). They stumble, they fall, they probably have freak shit saved on their handy-cams. Beyonce? Her most intriguing moments are award show performances where here papa-teer and momager have her shit on lock, each move orchestrated to the teeth. Her most fascinating moment in recent history is hardly so. Rewind the time machine back to January and you might find Beyonce, oh I don’t know, marginally more likeable than say, every other month she remains on the Earth. Remember-member when blogger habitué, Kanye West, posted snaps of himself and Beyonce engaging in a heated Connect Four tourney to her prevail? Sigh. Stars, they’re just like us.
Since then? Barely a peep.
Even Beyonce, it seems, is not that into Beyonce. Her latest song and music video, “If I Were a Boy” paints the picture of Lady Knowles as if she were any other women living on the shit end of the dick—she’s got the boyfriend with a case of Roman eyes and Russian fingers, a thankless homemaking gig, and all those weepy eyed histrionics. Beyonce, you are Beyonce. What’chu know about that? In retrospect, I can understand the man-serving “Cater 2 U” of the Destiny’s Child era. I get that shit. Beyonce was just some chick with a fatty looking for an audience among bunnies with no to low self esteem who would do anything for their men short of wiping the dooksicles from their boo’s crap canyons. Been there. But you only get one of those. What would Sasha Fierce say? Speaking of which, Sasha Fierce isn’t even all that fierce. It’s just Beyonce, you guys! Underneath the pricey ponytail and fake eyelashes. See? There she is, bougie-ass B. with her songs about lost lovers and waterfalls and feelings. Since when do Beyonce-bots even have feelings? Jigga, get your girl, yo.
I am acutely aware of how unsuccessful I am. No need to remind. However, I do think that my advice is not without its merits. And so, a word: Beyonce, baby girl, listen, you got the party-jam game on lock. When shit starts not making sense, you know you’ve done it right. “Bootylicious?” Certified tail shaker. “Ring the Alarm?” Blaring. “Put a Ring on It?” Deleriously stoopid. “Crazy in Love?” Uh oh uh oh uh oh uh oh! Do that and do that shit often. Every time someone sticks a microphone in front of your lips just start repeating any word, your choice, and blow a whistle to the beat. Solid goldfinger.
Keep the booty bus plowing through the bachelorette party circuit, B., and worry not about looking deep inside of yourself. Afterall, you’ve got Hov for all that.