Why Joe’s New Song “So I Can Have You Back” is An Old Guy Fuckboy Anthem

joe_photo

I don’t know what’s happening to me, surely I’m getting old! I was in my car listening to the radio station that my mom used to listen to when I was young—grooving to some Chaka Khan and Earth, Wind and Fire because this is the kind of music that moves my heart these days. In the middle of all this, the latest song by Joe (you know—I won’t stop having sex with you until I hear your mama scream, Joe) comes on and it sounds like it might be this beautiful R&B ballad that was about to knock my socks off. Well, I suppose it would have if I had not listened to the lyrics (-_-)

So I Can Have You Back in my opinion, is the old guy fuckboy anthem of 2017. Perhaps it’s not nice of me to describe Joe as “old” but what I mean is that as you get older the more complicated love becomes. R&B songs are no longer about “let’s dance at this club and let me love you” but more like, “Can I come over and have sex with you when you put your kids to bed? Also, please hold me after because I am still traumatized by my past failed relationships.” Hence the lyrics to the song:

Pictures and pictures of the smile I remember

This just can’t all be true

I hope he makes the biggest mistake

The unforgivable that makes your heart break

I hope you tell him “sorry is just not enough”

And it goes from good to bad, so I can have you back

Joe is a fuckboy. Joe is getting older and lonelier by the second, so naturally he starts looking through old pictures and makes the decision that he is suddenly in love with an ex-girlfriend. I assume he had years to build and grow with this woman but for whatever reason it didn’t work out. C’est la vie, welcome to the real world, that’s how the cookie crumbles…so on and so forth. Let it go, and let her go—sounds like she’s moved on and quite possibly, is even happy without you. Meanwhile, here you are JOE, sending negative vibes and bad juju onto her relationship all for the sake of your second chance. Sighhhhhhh, we’ve all dealt with this dude. Post a decent selfie and he’s there! He’s always there, stalking your social media for signs of distress OR attempting to re-enter your life because he misses your friendship. Dude, we were never friends.

I always make the mistake of thinking that there is an age limit cut off for fuckboys. Obviously, that’s a naïve thought process and it is entirely possible for a young fuckboy (18-32) to blossom into a strapping fuckman (33-50+). For example, a friend of mine in her late 30s decided to take a chance on a man about 15 years older than her. He was awesome! Old enough to be established in his career and willing to wine, dine and sweet talk. The only problem is that he wasn’t wining, dining and sweet talking with his long-term girlfriend who ended up calling my friend, identifying herself and explaining the situation that the seat on his face was taken (and had been for years). As it would seem, the guy was attempting to line up hoes in different area codes because he had the money and liked to travel. Nice! There are plenty of old guy fuckboy songs for that particular scenario—most of them apologies for cheating tunes.

You know what I would enjoy? Some old school “I love you so I’m not going to fuck this up ,” kind of songs. Maybe a, “Some bitch tried to throw herself at me but I rejected her because I love you,” song. Or EVEN, “We had a healthy adult relationship that had to end. I wish you the best and I will not text “I miss you” in the middle of the night six months from now or inbox any of your social media,’ song. (These are all working titles, of course)

R&B for millennials is worse. Bryson Tiller’s Sorry Not Sorry hook is:

Girl if you don’t get the fuck from me

I know you thought we had somethin’ special

But you don’t mean nothin’ to me

Girl I’m sorry, you not the one for me

Well, damn.

Love is rough out on these streets! I suppose we should all just be grateful that fuckboys– young and old– may now be easier to identify by their taste in music.

For funny renditions of R&B classics remade for this day and age, click here. I got a kick out of it, I hope you will too!

Advertisements

The Stages of Grief/Window Seat

I thought watching black man take his last breaths on TV screen
Was becoming too much for me
But then there’s something about this new thing
Pale open palmed hands raised in hatred and bigotry
The media really doesn’t give a fuck about me
I suppose neither does reality    ~Whiskey

 Sometime about six years ago I remember watching Erykah Badu’s Window Seat video and crying my eyes out. It wasn’t that the video moved me to tears, but the commentary of the other YouTube users. In my eyes, her body was nothing short of absolutely beautiful and similar to the body I saw of myself whenever I took a look in the mirror. According to white America—and the ridiculous shit show that is the YouTube comment section— she was disgusting.

Witnessing racists react to Erykah Badu’s body in that music video was one of those small things that stuck with me for a long time and drudged up a lot of feelings from my past. In high school, I hung with the white kids, attended local rock festivals and crushed on lanky, pale boys with bright blue eyes. The me now would hardly recognize that girl—pining over boys who would never accept me much less develop a romantic interest. I was developing into a woman—a BLACK woman—with big hips and ass and thick bones. As naïve as I was about a lot of things, I always seemed to be highly aware that none of these boys would ever want me.  I carried with me the general belief that white people thought of the black body as disgusting. Of black people as disgusting.

The concept of white people’s secret condescension for us and our culture is a belief I held tough to for years. It was only maybe ten years ago—after entering the workforce and integrating with more diverse groups of people– that I began to think otherwise. White men are MEN, and most men just like and are attracted to women. White women are just WOMEN, and just because their hair is straighter and skin lighter doesn’t mean that they look down on me because I am not the same. I would ride the metro and look around at all the white people and tell myself to relax. We are all just people.

Fast forward today and that relaxation is nowhere to be found. I simply can’t do it– I feel just really sad…and tense when I look around at a sea of white faces. My black skin is an identifier but there’s no way for me to know the difference between friend or foe. Strange to say, but I think I am overall ok with blatant adversaries, it’s those who exist in the grey who make me weary. My empathy is spent, I can’t seem to muster any for the Trump supporters who feel so victimized and wounded. I feel displaced, severely disillusioned and betrayed without knowing whether those are even rational emotions to feel.

I’m not sure where I’m supposed to go from here. I haven’t seemed to complete the full spectrum of the stages of grief. I am in a vicious cycle, alternating between anger and depression.

No hopeful wrap up or conclusion. This post is just an update on my state of mind…