Eds. Note: In 2000, Martin Lawrence starred in the seminal black-man-in-a-fat-suit-portraying-a-black-woman comedy, Big Momma’s House. This was an exciting moment for cinema. Lawrence, long thought to be the clown, turned in a sensitive and nuanced performance as a man who, driven to insanity by a racist society, dons a fat suit and begins to believe he is an overweight woman named Big Momma.

The movie, adapted from the novel and subsequent Broadway play, Big Mammy’s House, tapped into a simple truth: Inside all of us is a fat black woman. Except for the fat black women. Inside them is a skinny black man. And fat. Wait, wait. There’s also fat inside the skinny black man. I mean, there’s fat inside us all. Even the fat white women and skinny Asian men. Anyway, Big Mommas: Like Father Like Son, the third installment in Martin Lawrence’s Big Momma franchise, features Lawrence returning to the role he originated in the Broadway play. This time, however, Lawrence’s character has a stepson who, driven mad by the same discriminatory forces that nearly consumed his father, slaps on a dress, a wig and pantyhose, believing he is a fat black woman. While its predecessors received near universal critical acclaim, this movie elicited a range of critical responses. Below, we take a survey of the reactions to this important entry into our national dialogue on race.

*

“Never have I seen such a degrading portrayal of an African-American man!”

–Stepin Fetchit, actor and Chicago Defender columnist

*

“This is a movie that seems to say, ‘What’s funnier than one fat black woman? Two fat black women!’ Lawrence has started a fat black woman arms race.”

—Roger Ebert, movie critic for the Chicago Sun-Times

*

“So, I’m watching Big Mommas and I’m thinking, ‘Wow, two fat black women are much funnier than one fat black woman.’ In my next film, Madea’s Big Hogmaw, Chitlins and Watermelon Barbeque, I play four fat black women.”

—Tyler Perry, director

*

“I didn’t think it could get lower than the second Big Momma’s House where Lawrence, in the guise of Big Momma, actually plays Mammy to a White family. Say what you will about me, but I’ve never sacrificed my dignity for a role. ”

—Actor and comedian Eddie Murphy, from the set of Norbit 2

*

“                                                                    ”

—Clarence Thomas, United States Supreme Court Justice

*

“That Big Momma sure is fine.”

—Uncle Ben, lovable rice spokesman

*

“It seems that Martin Lawrence’s entire career, more or less, consists of him repeatedly making an ass of himself.”

—Michael Steele, former chairman of the Republican Party

*

“What the…I—I mean— It’s not even—  A third one? Aaaah….”

—Author Ishmael Reed, seconds before his mysterious spontaneous combustion

*

“No fair, Juwanna Mann killed my career!”

—Miguel Nunez, Jr., homeless street performer

*

“The ridiculous elocution of the situation—in this instance, Martin Lawrence’s Big Mommas: Like Father, Like Son—has often led to a much greater than infinitesimal castration of the African-American male image in our society today. My brother, can you dig it? Or as the late poet Christopher Wallace so aptly put it: ‘Stereotypes of a black male misunderstood/And it’s still all good.'”

—Michael Eric Dyson, University Professor of Sociology at Georgetown University

*

“It was like seeing Citizen Kane, The Godfather or Madea’s Family Reunion for the first time. I can’t say I’ll ever be the same. After watching Big Mommas, I can certainly say that I changed. Yep, into a dress, wig and some pantyhose for a Saturday Night Live sketch.”

—Kenan Thompson, actor and comedian

*

“I prefer the second movie; the beautiful scenes of Mr. Lawrence  cooking and cleaning for that nice family nearly made me cry.”

—Kathryn Stockett, author of the bestselling novel, The Help*

*(Lawrence has been tapped to play a nanny in the upcoming film version of Stockett’s novel.)

*

“Breathtaking costumes.”

—Rudy Giuliani, former New York City mayor

*

“If you like Lawrence in Big Mommas, wait till you see him in the next one, Big Momma’s Driving Miss Daisy.

—Morgan Freeman, actor and director of Big Momma’s Driving Miss Daisy

*

“I like your movie very much.”

—Director D.W. Griffith in conversation with Martin Lawrence

“Thank you.”

—Martin Lawrence in conversation with D.W. Griffith

@Reeamilcarscott

datsun flambe

Eds. Note: In 2000, Martin Lawrence starred in the seminal black-man-in-a-fat-suit-portraying-a-black-woman comedy, Big Momma’s House. This was an exciting moment for cinema. Lawrence, long thought to be the clown, turned in a sensitive and nuanced performance as a man who, driven to insanity by a racist society, dons a fat suit and begins to believe he is an overweight woman named Big Momma.

The movie, adapted from the novel and subsequent Broadway play, Big Mammy’s House, tapped into a simple truth: Inside all of us is a fat black woman. Except for the fat black women. Inside them is a skinny black man. And fat. Wait, wait. There’s also fat inside the skinny black man. I mean, there’s fat inside us all. Even the fat white women and skinny Asian men. Anyway, Big Mommas: Like Father Like Son, the third installment in Martin Lawrence’s Big Momma franchise, features Lawrence returning to the role he originated in the Broadway play. This time, however, Lawrence’s character has a stepson who, driven mad by the same discriminatory forces that nearly consumed his father, slaps on a dress, a wig and pantyhose, believing he is a fat black woman. While its predecessors received near universal critical acclaim, this movie elicited a range of critical responses. Below, we take a survey of the reactions to this important entry into our national dialogue on race.

*

“Never have I seen such a degrading portrayal of an African-American man!”

–Stepin Fetchit, actor and Chicago Defender columnist

*

“This is a movie that seems to say, ‘What’s funnier than one fat black woman? Two fat black women!’ Lawrence has started a fat black woman arms race.”

—Roger Ebert, movie critic for the Chicago Sun-Times

*

“So, I’m watching Big Mommas and I’m thinking, ‘Wow, two fat black women are much funnier than one fat black woman.’ In my next film, Madea’s Big Hogmaw, Chitlins and Watermelon Barbeque, I play four fat black women.”

—Tyler Perry, director

*

“I didn’t think it could get lower than the second Big Momma’s House where Lawrence, in the guise of Big Momma, actually plays Mammy to a White family. Say what you will about me, but I’ve never sacrificed my dignity for a role. ”

—Actor and comedian Eddie Murphy, from the set of Norbit 2

*

“                                                                    ”

—Clarence Thomas, United States Supreme Court Justice

*

“That Big Momma sure is fine.”

—Uncle Ben, lovable rice spokesman

*

“It seems that Martin Lawrence’s entire career, more or less, consists of him repeatedly making an ass of himself.”

—Michael Steele, former chairman of the Republican Party

*

“What the…I—I mean— It’s not even—  A third one? Aaaah….”

—Author Ishmael Reed, seconds before his mysterious spontaneous combustion

*

“No fair, Juwanna Mann killed my career!”

—Miguel Nunez, Jr., homeless street performer

*

“The ridiculous elocution of the situation—in this instance, Martin Lawrence’s Big Mommas: Like Father, Like Son—has often led to a much greater than infinitesimal castration of the African-American male image in our society today. My brother, can you dig it? Or as the late poet Christopher Wallace so aptly put it: ‘Stereotypes of a black male misunderstood/And it’s still all good.'”

—Michael Eric Dyson, University Professor of Sociology at Georgetown University

*

“It was like seeing Citizen Kane, The Godfather or Madea’s Family Reunion for the first time. I can’t say I’ll ever be the same. After watching Big Mommas, I can certainly say that I changed. Yep, into a dress, wig and some pantyhose for a Saturday Night Live sketch.”

—Kenan Thompson, actor and comedian

*

“I prefer the second movie; the beautiful scenes of Mr. Lawrence  cooking and cleaning for that nice family nearly made me cry.”

—Kathryn Stockett, author of the bestselling novel, The Help*

*(Lawrence has been tapped to play a nanny in the upcoming film version of Stockett’s novel.)

*

“Breathtaking costumes.”

—Rudy Giuliani, former New York City mayor

*

“If you like Lawrence in Big Mommas, wait till you see him in the next one, Big Momma’s Driving Miss Daisy.

—Morgan Freeman, actor and director of Big Momma’s Driving Miss Daisy

*

“I like your movie very much.”

—Director D.W. Griffith in conversation with Martin Lawrence

“Thank you.”

—Martin Lawrence in conversation with D.W. Griffith

@Reeamilcarscott

datsun flambe

“The spell is over us all, the spell is over us all, relentless.”
Mel Bosworth, Grease Stains, Kismet, and Maternal Wisdom

Sometimes I stress over the big decisions: job choices, moving from state to state, parental choices. However, I am continually reminded that the smallest choices, the ones not even thought about are truly running my life. Bosworth calls this ‘the spell.’

My biggest spell moment included: after doing well my MA orals, I decided to not study for yet another test, but decided to go home early, answered an unknown random phone call, agreed to drive 75 miles to go for a hike with old friends … and eventually met my future wife, mother of my children, in the woods. That was an intricate f-ing spell.

I like to think that “the spell” controls most of the good, and I can control/limit most of the bad. With that, I try to keep this in mind …

Have you ever been to a cattle call? It’s like entering a writing contest. But I should explain a cattle call first.

When I was a model I used to go to these things the industry referred to as a “cattle call,” which is when a bunch of beautiful women assemble themselves in one area for the purpose of being viewed by a client for a potential job. You could say it’s dehumanizing, a demeaning process: I don’t know. The clients looked you over. Sometimes the client stared you up-and-down. Sometimes he or she asked you to walk, turn around, walk again. Sometimes he or she frowned. Once in a while, the client requested your composite card, which was essentially a five-by-seven or eight-by-ten card featuring your photos. The composite card also included your stats: height, weight, eye and hair color. Sometimes a client didn’t ask you for anything, which meant you were excused. Occasionally, a client asked if you’d stay. That was a good thing.  You’d passed the test. Which didn’t mean anything really except you’d hit the right client on the right day with the right look, whatever that was. Very much like a writing contest. You hit the right contest at the right time with the right story for the right judge. Also, there’s a huge amount of luck involved. Unless of course you believe writing contests are rigged. 

A young writer asked me recently if I’d recommend she enter writing contests. I said, “Sure, they’re terrible for your ego.”  But there’s also a giant leap of faith involved: you enter writing contests against all odds same way you show up for cattle calls. Clients gave me all kinds of reasons why they couldn’t hire me for various jobs: I was too short; I was too tall; I was too thin; I wasn’t thin enough; my boobs were too big; my boobs weren’t big enough; I was a blond: they wanted brunette; I was brunette; they wanted a blond. Modeling is terrible on your ego. Certainly it prepared me for life as a writer.  No shit.

“Dear Author, thank you for allowing us to read your story. Unfortunately it doesn’t meet our needs at this time.”  Yeah. I know. You need a redhead. I’m a blond. Dirty-dishwater blond. With red undertones. Doesn’t work? Okay. Better luck next time.

Have you ever judged a writing contest? It’s hell. I’ll never do it again. You feel like shit everytime you crush someone’s dream.

I don’t want to be an editor either. I suggested on Facebook my friend, Shanna Germain, and I co-edit a collection of bisexual erotica together, but she has yet to take me seriously. Probably a good thing. I’d write mean rejection letters. “I’m afraid I couldn’t get past the first word. Boring!” Editing is a writer’s best revenge. Actually, I’m not vindictive like that at all. 

Far as memories go, I’ll never forget the time a client told me, “I’ll have to airbrush your photos if I hire you.” Or the photographer who screamed about the hives on my chest. “Jesus Christ. Make up!” I’d get nervous during photo shoots.  I also used to get  nervous in workshop at graduate school. One of my mentors wrote on my manuscript, “I thought you came here to write? This is bullshit.”  I just cried and cried and cried. And then I didn’t write four days. On the fifth day, I wrote like a sonofabitch.  

Modeling was  easier on my ego. It’s easier to feel pretty than smart. Until you lose your figure and get your first age spot. Then your modeling career is over. I can write until I kill myself, right? 

I was at a cattle call the day I discovered Gia Carengi’s composite card. That was 1991. Gia was already dead. She died from AIDS the year after I graduated high school. She was one of the first women in the United States to die from AIDS.  She died when she was twenty-six. Gia was a supermodel in the seventies with a terrible heroin addiction. She killed herself.

At that cattle call, sitting in a waiting room, I went through this stack of shit to distract myself from all the other beautiful girls in the room and discovered Gia’s composite card. And then I stole it. I had no idea who she was except for what it said on the composite: height, weight, eye and hair color. She was represented by Elite models. I had no idea how old the card was. I had no idea she was dead. I slipped the card behind one of the photos in my portfolio. I still have it. A prized possession. I also have the book, “Thing of Beauty,” which is a biography of Gia Carengi. She’s my profile picture on Facebook.

I think about her a lot.

I think, why does someone with everything going for her do everything possible to destroy herself?

Gia was a lesbian. Nobody took her sexuality seriously, not even her lovers. What I mean is, nobody loved her.

So many of the characters I write feel they’re unworthy of love. Do you feel unworthy? The world is designed to make you feel that way no matter who you are. You must show up for cattle calls. Or give cattle calls the finger once and for all. Gia didn’t really care about being a model. She was the first to admit it wasn’t a dream of hers, she never worked hard at it, most the opportunities came easy. But we’re talking about modeling, not love.

It’s common for someone working in advertising to complain about a client every now and then. It’s only human nature as well as science (chemistry). There are the clients who want to play art director, or the ones who like to dabble in copywriting, or the ones who never call back after sleeping with them. But the worst client, by far, is the client from Hell. I’m not talking about a client who is so bad that he or she, metaphorically, is from Hell. I’m talking about the one actually from the netherworld called Hell. Specifically Satan, deliverer of eternal pain and suffering.

What makes Satan so difficult to work with? First of all, he’s Satan. Secondly, he is constantly demanding tight deadlines, outrageous revisions, chicken butchery, and 24-hour attention. Personally, I think he’s doing it on purpose and getting some kind of sick thrill off it. But why? It begs the question, Who is this guy named Satan and what’s his M.O.?

Don’t tell my boss this, but I’m beginning to think the Hell account is more trouble than it’s worth. I know a lot of my coworkers feel the same way. We’re overlashed and underpaid. Not to mention, Hell is a disaster, operationally. Fourth Circle? More like “Forever To Finish Construction” Circle!

Here’s another thing: The Accuser and King Of All Darkness has quite the temper. Okay, so it took Gary two days to return Satan’s call, big deal. I mean, Gary should have called him right back, but I think magically turning Gary into a brick courtyard was a little overboard.

Gary, these days.

I’ll tell you what, there’s no shortage of egos in Hell either. Take Asmodeus, for example, who is the marketing director and your point-of-contact as well as a king of demons referenced in the deuterocanonical Book of Tobit (perhaps you’ve read it?). The guy insists he’s the prince of Hell, when everyone knows he’s just one of seven princes.  But don’t tell him that. If you do, he’s liable to give you less time on that website while simultaneously sleeping with your mother-in-law. I know what you’re thinking: “At least he’s not sleeping with my wife.” True, except for the fact that Asmodeus, Immortal Demon Of Lust, will shapeshift into an image of you when he sleeps with the old Battle Axe, so your wife will think you’re sleeping with her mom. Order up: one set of divorce papers!

Asmodeus is bad, but let’s face it: Satan, Father of Lies, is the worst. I mean, it’s right there: ‘Father of Lies.’ Really, we have nobody to blame for our troubles but ourselves. If the signs were any more obvious, they’d bite off our nose, dip it in graphite and use it as a pencil (happened once). If only someone—anyone—at our agency had read the Bible, specifically Isaiah 14:12-14—

12 How you are fallen from heaven,

O Lucifer, son of the morning!

How you are cut down to the ground,

You who weakened the nations!

13 For you have said in your heart:

‘I will ascend into heaven,

I will exalt my throne above the stars of God;

I will also sit on various jobs until there

Isn’t much time left;

14 Not much time left at all, really;

Nay, there won’t be much time.’

All those hotel rooms on all those business trips and the answer was sitting right there, in the second drawer of our nightstand. But did we open the book? No. No, we didn’t. Not while we were sober anyway.

Well, if you’re in advertising yourself and get the “opportunity” to work on the Hell account, I have some advice. It’s the kind of advice that just might save your life and, more important, your job.

1) The Lawless One does not drink coffee; he drinks tea. This may seem trivial, but, trust me, if you serve coffee that first meeting with him you’ll regret it. Just ask our account coordinator, Jaime. Just kidding, you can’t ask Jaime. Jaime’s dead.

2) Never look at The Wicked One in the eyes when he isn’t speaking. Melissa over here did that and Satan cursed her with a hex in which she will forever smell like Vidalia onions and we all must now call her Vidalia because of this. Well, we don’t have to call her Vidalia, but it’s just too goddamn funny to resist.

3) Dye your hair black.

Well, I better get going. We have a meeting with Satan in five minutes, and I don’t want to be late. An associate creative director named Cindy was late once. That was the last time she was late. In fact, that was the last time she was anything. Cindy died the next day while reading a book of poetry in the park (picnic, lightning, Satan).

The ever wonderful Jimmy Chen has this wonderful story, Sashimi Saturdays, to offer.

Desmond Kon has new poetry.

Kyle Minor tells an Origin Story at Metazen.

At Abjective, a poem by Ricky Garni.

Wonderfort continues to be wonderful with a new poem by Peter Schwartz.

The new issue of Kneejerk includes a list from Andrea Kneeland.

Brad Green interviews Matthew Simmons at Dark Sky Magazine. In other interview news, here’s a great interview with the one and only Paula Bomer, Mel Bosworth at Smalldoggies, and one with David LeGeault at The Collagist blog.

The Ramshackle Review’s latest issue includes poetry by Shannon Peil, Amorak Huey (and again and again), Robert MacDonald, and Bill Yarrow and fiction by Barry Basden and Sheldon Lee Compton and finally, nonfiction by Nicole Monaghan.

Stace Budzko confesses for Grub Street Daily.

At Divine Street Quarterly, a poem from James Valvis.

There’s a new magazine, Timber, which includes writing from BJ Hollars.

I dreamed once a person took a shit in the middle of a room and then left it there, and I just stood looking at it like, I’m supposed to clean this up?

I used to live in this apartment complex where a guy let his dog shit on the sidewalk in front of the building, right at the stairs going up. He also left cigarette butts everywhere. One day I put on a pair of gloves then picked up every piece of shit and cigarette butt I could find before delivering it all to his front door.

Some people are lazy. Some people are just stupid. But sometimes it’s more disturbing than that.

I worked in this office once where the top sales guy wouldn’t do his own dishes. He left coffee cups in the sink every day. They’d stack up. One morning, because he’d used all the available cups and wouldn’t wash the ones he’d left in the sink, he grabbed my Jim Morrison cup and used it. Yeah. When I arrived and saw him drinking from my cup I took it and said, “Wash the cups you left in the sink.”  And he said, “I don’t do dishes.”

Oh, this guy was arrogant: charming, cute, but arrogant. Lazy? Pompous? Infuriating? Yup. His cups remained in the sink until our boss’s wife washed them once a week, and why that was okay I don’t know. This woman had a full-time job and a toddler.

I’m wondering right now, batting it around, mulling it over: is my story an example of sexism or privilege or both? Sure, men enjoy certain privileges being male and all. So do people in positions of power and people with money. Human beings can, I’ve witnessed, obtain a certain status in which they leave dishes in the sink for some lesser than to wash and that’s okay. In my example, this young man had an impressive ability to make sales and hit the boss’s numbers, which therefore deemed him valuable, better than, too important to wash his own dishes. Let one of the “girls” do it.  Yeah. I once found the other woman in the office washing this guy’s coffee cups and I said, “What the hell are you doing?”  Seriously. Unless this is a case of I’ll do yours today and you’ll do mine tomorrow, unless we’re talking everyone’s equal and we all pitch in, forget it. I. Will. Not. Do. Your. Fucking. Dishes. I don’t care who you are. I ain’t your maid, I ain’t your wife, and I ain’t your bitch.

Mark my words. When I’m Queen of the World one day, I’ll do my own dishes. I’m turned off by Prima Donnas about as much as I’m turned off by Pricks.

Which reminds me, I met this writer I admired once and he was a Prick. A writer! How weird. I’ve also met writers who were blank as donuts in person. (I totally lifted that off someone: Loorie Moore, I think.) “He had a face as blank as a donut.” Is that Loorie Moore? Point is, it’s not mine. T.S. Elliott said, “Good writers borrow. Great writers steal.” How should we interpret that? Michael Cunningham, who wrote A Home At the End of the World and The Hours, is the most beautiful human being I’ve ever met. Aside from his talent, Michael exuded warmth and grace. He reminded me of my friend, Judy.  When Michael Cunningham spoke to me I thought, people are good; life is great. I’m not a peon. In fact, Michael Cunningham told me I’m brave. He wrote in my book, “All single mothers are brave.”  Thank you, Michael. I want to be like you when I grow up.

I’ve met lots of celebrities over the years, and you never know what to expect. Some are normal. The sweetest most down-to-earth guy I ever dated was a rock star. The rest of the rock stars I met were mostly drunk and horny. Sometimes drunk and horny and incoherent.  (Excluding Brian May who was the best example of a gentleman ever, and he’s in Queen, one of the biggest bands in the world.) Meanwhile, John Elway was a dick. Yeah. Do not flick quarters at me and think you’re funny. You’re a dick. Kiefer Sutherland serenaded me with Jim Croce. Jim Croce! And then there was Keanu Reeves. Oh, I’ve thought about you lately, Keanu. A man can look at me in such a way my nipples lift off.  Just so you know, I’m getting older. I dug how you looked at me. Do it again, Keanu, and I’ll write you a love story. I’ll do your dishes.

My boss’s life coach, Marcus Straub, said we should feel grateful for doing dishes. He said there’s something about the act of washing dishes that’s . . . humbling? Reaffirming? Peaceful? I can’t remember, but his point was every moment is an opportunity. Or a stroke of luck. Like what if you didn’t have hands and couldn’t do dishes?

Like what if every time I did dishes Keanu Reeves came up behind me and kissed my neck? Or he mowed my lawn or something? Both would be nice. Reciprocal, right?

Marcus Straub talks about gratitude often. We’re not grateful by nature. Not us. We’re programmed to complain. Take advantage. Look down upon. Judge. That’s us. I try to figure out why some people can be successful and such assholes while others remain so generous and down to earth? I don’t have an answer. Right now, Eminem is rapping on my I-Tunes and telling me I’m nothing but a slut-bitch-hoe and he hates his mother. “Bend over and take it like a slut, Ma.” I finished a story last week in which one of my characters confesses he began to twitch as a child, and the girl he falls in love with says, “Amazing how much starts then.”

Monkeybicyle is looking for awesome writing, particularly for their online imprint. Send them brilliance. Full guidelines, here.

—

Annalemma 8: Creation

Only the most proficient of techies among us would be able to fix their mobile phone if it broke, or their computer screen if it blinked out. If your car was built in the last fifteen years then you wouldn’t be able to fix the steering system by looking it up at your local library. The age of the professional is over and has given way to the age of the specialist.

And every day we sacrifice knowledge of how things work for comfort of living. In the future, our ability to survive will hinge upon our ability to provide for ourselves, to build our own homes, to craft our own tools, to grow our own food, to reclaim our abandoned sense of imagination and creativity, instead of relying on companies and institutions to provide them for us.

With this in mind, Annalemma is dedicating an entire issue to making things. Annalemma Issue Eight: Creation will celebrate humankind’s capacity to think its way out of problems and conflict. It will focus on people who have been relying on their own ingenuity for some time and people who are trying to rediscover what it means to be a creator.

We’re looking for mostly nonfiction for this issue: Interview an artisan. Write an essay about how your newfound granola lifestyle has clashed with your loved ones. Profile a medicine man living in a 10×10 shack in North Carolina.

There will be a two to three spaces open for fiction, so the competition will be very stiff. If you’re looking to get published in the print issue the odds are in your favor for a nonfiction submission.

Deadline is April 5th. No pieces over 5000 words will be accepted without first submitting a query letter. No unsolicited poetry will be accepted for this issue.

From today’s Oakland Examiner, some PANK love.