by Charlie

Spring is here-so it’s time to get that business waxed and get them rocks off. It’s the only time of year when I don’t feel creepy about being horny 24 hours a day. That said, I want something to be different this year. I want something fresh and new. Don’t get me wrong, I stay randy, but when it comes to the men I sleep with, I’m consistently pretty dull. White dude after white dude after white dude after white dude. This is a good thing, in one way, because we all know: most interracial couples are doomed from the beginning.

So why not slap on some Dereon jeans, get a weave and roll out on some 22s with one of the strong, independent, church-going black men my mother keeps telling me about? Stop screwing every Tom, Dick and Harry-and start screwing Leroy, Darrell and John. Less white. More black.

Apparently the New Yorker, in a plot to ruin my imaginary future sex life, caught wind of this master plan and decided to foil it before I had a chance to get it off the ground. This week’s book review section, aptly referred to as “The Caucasian Cause” on the contents page, posits that a litany of recently published books suggest that whiteness actually is the new black. My first reaction was, “Hey, this is very interesting. Go blacks!”

But then I was all, “Say what? Like whoa. Hold up. No. They. Didn’t!!!!!” It has never been cool to black. Like EVER. What these books reeeealllly mean to say is, “fuck you black people. We white people are so cool we can be white and black at the same time. HA!”

Those clever sons of bitches think they know everything. But I gotta say, I’ve known for a long time that here in America whiteness is and will always be in vogue. I frequently use this truism to justify my sexual proclivities. You see, I was self-diagnosed with Sally Hemings Syndrome-nothing turns me on more than the idea of getting boned by a white dude who looks like Thomas Jefferson. Consequently, I tend to skew pink in the penis department, desperately trying to recreate those steamy moments in the slave quarters.

Thing is? Most of the white guys I’ve knocked boots with just don’t share this fantasy. They’re only tangentially interested in authenticating my blackness by means of a good pork. Which leads me to wonder: am I looking for love in all the wrong places? Does my founding father have any baby daddy potential or am I just in it for the freedom?

I’ve been thinking on this for a minute now and it occurred to me that this is nothing that anyone should ever be concerned about. So be it. If my speed dial is stuck on “honky,” I guess the cracker is going to have to do until the black man of my dreams waltzes into my living room.

In our glorious, post-racial society, where white and black are interchangeable and self-hating Jews run the White House, it’s no small wonder that any relationship, inter- or intra-, can function at all. Ask Elin! It’s great that Tiger is back, but, wow, what’s up with the Elin no-show? Is she standing on principle, refusing to support him as he carefully attempts to rebound his image and career? I think she’s getting ready to leave that Negro.

So I say, to Elin and everyone, even though interracial coupledom is toast, don’t discriminate. And ladies: if you’re like me and you’re looking to get laid this spring, definitely keep your racial options open. There are lots of good-looking chicks out there and only a handful of men worth swallowing for.

Charlie is the pen name of a sexually liberated professional young woman in New York City.

So long we are discussing the lessons you learn at Internet School, let us point you to the tagwork on this post as an example of what not to do if you want to construct a Google-friendly entity. It is, however, an example of exactly what to do should you want to make something amusing and enjoyable. The choice is yours!

Related: THE TEN MOST USELESS DAILY BEAST LISTS OF ALL TIME

Wait a minute. This new rapper, Sam Adams-white-kid from Boston, goes to Trinity College, accused of buying 8,000 copies of his own record on iTunes to get famous-he’s part of that crazy faux-documentary Casey Affleck’s making with Joaquin Pheonix, right? I mean, this is just Casey Affleck’s little cousin or something, right? This is a hoax, right? And… is that an Annie Lennox

sample! What is going on?!

Some kid in Arkansas is suing his mom for hacking his Facebook account, because that is the world we live in now.

Chronic sampler, exploiter and musical entrepreneur Malcolm McLaren is at last dead, at the age of 64. As a youth he was a confirmed attendee of art schools, until they’d had enough of him. Eventually he segued from work as a band costumer into work as a band manager, at first an almost negligible difference in duties. It was his office that installed Johnny Rotten in the Sex Pistols; but the way down was just as steep, and Sid Vicious died and the remaining members of the band turned against him, even using that least of punk methods, the lawsuit, against him.

After a short stint trying to produce barely-legal porn, he took up with Adam and the Antz, making the unusual business position of choosing to fire Adam and remaining with the Antz, surely the lesser end of the deal-except then he installed the inimitable 14-year-old Annabella Lwin as their lead singer, thereby creating the greatest band known to pop music, Bow Wow Wow.

In the 80s, he gave up Africana and began to, shall we say, “re-channel” African-Americana, making records with a blend of hip-hop, electronica and tacky schmaltz music. One of his last acts was to attempt to conquer reality television. Along the way, his fashion directives (gold and the look of leisure!) set the groundwork for the stylings of the modern chav. He starred in a show called “The Baron,” which he technically won, by losing, because the real winner dropped suddenly dead. And he took part in something called “Big Brother: Celebrity Hijack,” in which he again tutored chavs, this time on how to drink wine. He experienced, created and reappropriated so much of so many cultures, reaching from low to medium; surely no showman like him remains.

Bravo’s reality show about artists, producing by one S. J. Parker and coming in June, which we’ve all been sort of anxiously dreading? It is deemed “hilarious” by trustworthy pilot-viewers. But will the show really find America’s Next Top Art Star? “Based on what I’ve seen thus far, the answer to that question is a resounding no,” reports our correspondent. I still don’t understand how/why China Chow is involved but hey, it’s TV, kids!

A couple of days late to this, but here’s a nice dispatch from a rare and recent public appearance by Charles Portis. Portis is usually lumped into the “greatest authors you’ve never read” category, but in this case the praise is completely warranted (unless you’ve read him, in which case he’s just one of the greatest authors). I’ll again suggest that you read anything by him you can (True Grit, Norwood, or The Dog of the South are all great starting places.) [Via]

by Mark Bibbins, Editor

Today, The Poetry Section is pleased to deliver two new poems by Matthea Harvey, who lives in Brooklyn.

No-Hands has hands but he keeps them clenched in fists at his chest. He appeared long ago on the dustiest day. Some say the sunset sent him. The children are fearless-they’ll caress the two moles on the back of his right hand, bring their softest animals to rub past his bare ankles. When the town committee put the most delicious cake (with glossy fondant and candied pansies) in front of No-Hands, he didn’t lunge for it, didn’t even lick his lips. No one has seen him eat, but we imagine him gnawing on the fruit of low-hanging branches, licking the leftover jello from the schoolchildren’s lunch trays. If we could discover his diet, we’d remake his food with twice the butter and cream, sit back and wait until his ballooning belly forced his arms out and away from his body. We’re not thinking “ta-da!”-flock of doves or drawbridge comma princess, but we do dream about his fingers unfurling like sea anemones. We just want him to understand the hose dribbling next to each tree, why I give you something and you take it from me.

Our American husbands were born
on a day of cartoon clouds and neon sun.
They don’t remember their fathers
whispering Ferris Wheel lullabies over
their cradles, but they can do somersaults
while smoking. Their banter is full of data.
They have kiss quotas and the shoulders
of soldiers. While our small selves made
toast points and played post office,
they were practicing love-hate with
the heads of state. I’ve asked, so I know
our American husbands didn’t have hamsters;
they had can-do cats and piggy-banks.
Don’t get me wrong-I’ve added
up my toys a time or two, but when
they whistle dixie, I wonder.
Remember the Halloween I was a Bruise
and you were a Moving Picture
and our American husbands picked masks
that made the most of their noses? Sister,
I envy that with the zippers on their jackets
they can mimic the sound of rain.
When our American husbands take out
the trash, the garbage-engorged flies
don’t thud against their heads.
They have extravagant smiles
and can run for miles. When they go
into their studies, they study.

Matthea Harvey is the author of three books of poetry: Modern Life (Graywolf, 2007), Sad Little Breathing Machine (Graywolf, 2004) and Pity the Bathtub Its Forced Embrace of the Human Form (Alice James Books, 2000); and a children’s book, The Little General and the Giant Snowflake (Tin House, 2009), illustrated by Elizabeth Zechel. Her website is Matthea Harvey.

The Poetry Section can be reached at poems@theawl.com.

Britain, the world’s favorite spot for libel tourism (and knife crime), will remain the arena of choice for those who wish to silence the free expression of information (and those who commit crime with knives) until a new government is formed after next month’s elections. It is unclear whether a Conservative government will show the same commitment to libel law reform that the Labour government came extremely late to, but one thing is certain: There will be plenty of knife crime no matter what.

Dust off your old “crisis/opportunity” cliche for this important bulletin from Japan, where the recent bankruptcy filing by Japan Airlines has lead to a new hope by everyday Japanese that black market supplies of stewardess uniforms-that nation’s most coveted possession after USB breast warmers-will see an increase as stewardesses take voluntary retirement. Good luck, crazy country I will never understand!