Say Hello to the Sea of Green

Contributing writer:
Shao, Political Guru of the Steez Conglomerate


Allah Akbar…Marg bar Khamenei

Imagine a nation’s masses, strewn amongst a Sea of Green, chanting these exact words each night from the balconies of their homes in concerted defiance against an unjust, oppressive, and tyrannical regime.

Ain’t it a beautiful thing?

The situation in Iran has become increasingly complex. For those who have no idea what I’m alluding to…you must live under a rock. A very large rock. And by very large I mean, if people were hustling stones like their retirement plans depended on it, even Oprah couldn’t afford this one...

Since June 12th, the Iranian people have taken to the streets, reinvigorated by a long-brewing desire for a kind of social dignity that their political system has repeatedly refused. This is no random hood riot. These forces have been bubbling to the surface for years…fueled by bleak economic outlooks and despotic mullahs. For far too long, the youth have been thinking, no more velayat-e faqui gone unchecked. The stolen election was just the spark they needed. Say hello to the Sea of Green.



The funny thing is, their quarterback Mir Hussein Mossavi isn’t some charismatic, young, eloquent, Oxford and Yale educated leader looking for a revolution. During the election he was just, by many means, the lesser of two evils. The “moderate” reformist candidate who was willing to consider breakin’ a piece of that Kit Kat Bar with the US.

And how does the US play into this? Well, it depends on who you ask.

On one end, there’s the GOP. Ridin’ that damn horse-blinders wearin’, shotgun slingin’ elephant full speed towards tougher rhetoric. In the last week they’ve seized upon Obama’s restraint in discourse to suggest B is just being weak. I liken it to Jim Jones saying Jay Z doesn’t have legitimate swag.

Are you fucking kiddin’ me?

This is Jay Z and Nas beef, post-Peace Treaty. The US and the Sea of Green have a tacit understanding. But here come the Cam’ron’s and Jim Jones’s of the world, who just need to let go of their washed up careers and that damn Autotune.

On another end, there’s Ayatollah Khamenei and his Ahmadinejad loving cronies. Truth is they’re sitting there, hoping and praying for some EU style, blatantly outraged, pro-protester sound bytes to seize upon. What better way to disenfranchise the hearts and minds of young Iranian activists than to say the big, bad, blundering American devils are playing the meddlesome Imperialist Puppet Master, again?

What do I say? Yes, we support the fundamental principles of democracy. And yes, that is what these protests are all about. But let’s take a quick history lesson about intervention, for better or for worse…

Let’s start with the 1953 CIA backed coup d’etat that eventually replaced a democratically elected Mossadeq with the iron fisted Shah. (This later sparked the flame for the Iranian hostage crisis, too). Then there was Jimmy Carter, who just couldn’t keep his mouth shut about his (no homo!) love for Pahlavi. Here comes Ayatollah Khomeini in ’79. We all know how that turned out.

How do we feel about tough discourse on the Iranian election, now? This is a global game of chess and spouting at the mouth, Cold War style, is like putting our binkey-wielding toddlers up against the Decepticons.

Leave it to the people, to lead the peoples’ fight. It ain’t bullets and ballots out there, anymore. It’s bullets, batons, tear gas, and bodies. Here's to the Iranian youth, holdin’ it down out there on the streets. What can we do here at home? End our oil addiction. Focus less on useless rhetoric and more on our own "Sea of Green" revolution. Stop fanning the flames that sustain these autocratic oil regimes. Literally. And with that…I leave you with this:

“I will participate in the demonstrations tomorrow. Maybe they will turn violent. Maybe I will be one of the people who is going to be killed. I’m listening to all my favorite music. I even want to dance to a few songs. I always wanted to have very narrow eyebrows. Yes, maybe I will go to the salon before I go tomorrow!

I wrote these random sentences for the next generation so that they know we were not just emotional under peer pressure. So they know that we did everything we could to create a better future for them. So they know that our ancestors surrendered to Arabs and Mongols but did not surrender to despotism. This note is dedicated to tomorrow’s children.” –Anonymous Student

Allah Akbar…Mo’afagh bashed, Iran.
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LA Fashion Market, June 2009: The Grand Aftermath

By yours truly:
Jhym Chu, All-Around Extraordinaire

California is a big mash up. Up north you’ve got the progressive well-to-do’s livin’ large in the hills with their open-minded artistic free form expression, milking the term, “by the Bay” to its fullest. Way south you’ve got the beach bum surfer types mingling with the reckless partiers fresh from drinking and debauchery in Tijuana.

And somewhere in between all that there’s LA, in geography and in context. A sun bleached, sprawled out, smog-covered city where some of the country’s richest and finest members of pop culture, fashion and tabloid headlines wink, blink, and drink the night away...

It’s so crammed full of Hollywood style, glam, and drama I could just devour it; a California cocktail with a few shots too many, a cherry at the bottom, and a whole lot of decorative, garnish-like nonsense…the fuck?!?

Did I mention the sugared rim? It’s a blend of sub-pop stars and a big spoonful of eccentrics. Take my homeboy for example, we’ll call him “Chuck”. Chuck and I go way back, almost as far back as J-Lo’s...well, you catch my drift right?

Anyway, so Chuck’s one of those guys you find working at a telecom center in the daytime. He’s not the hippest. He’s no Brangelina. Until of course, the blaring California sun settles down in its milky polluted nest behind the hills and the hustling, bustling LA nightlife I love so much begins. Then out come the leggings, the Chanel cocktail dress with the midnight blue sequins, the eyeliner, the rouge, and the….get this….the blonde afro wig.

Chuck may be a soul-sucked job zombie by day, but he’s the hottest cross-dressing telemarketer to ever hit the late night LA scene.

Riiiight….so you get the picture.

Last week I was in town for the 2009 LA Fashion Market when Chuck appeared, made one of his strange cameos, and left me with more than just models and martinis to sip on.

I was standing in line for the after party at the Standard, decked out in one of my best fits (and looking absolutely dapper I might add) waiting for my turn to step VIP up to the burly 270 lb Samoan doorman at one of the freshest spots on the block. There was this pair of breezies up ahead of me, dressed to the nines, in short little skirts that made my eyes pop. I was working out a plan to “run into” one (or both) of them once I was in, when all of a sudden some shit started to go down at the door.



Everyone in line started shifting around and peering up to the front. Getting all riled up as if Megan Fox just walked up wearing nothing but, well, nothing. Then the deep booming voice of the Samoan bulldog came filtering back like a Barry White track blasting out of some serious 21 inch speakers,

“We don’t just let no sale rack nobody in this joint, so step up off me! Take your shit back to WeHo.”

Old news right? Fools are always trying (and failing) to make an appearance where they don’t belong in this town, searching for a way…ANY way, to climb to the top of the status ladder.

These bouncers, they’re a bit like Cerberus, guardian of hell in Greek Mythology. They’re sentinels for the entrance to a flaming pit of obscene excess and outrageously overrated self-indulgence. A place that most decent human beings outwardly proclaim to avoid, and would secretly suck a dick to get into. No homo, right?

They stand stoically, arms crossed and hats low, and with one shake of their meaty heads deny countless ugly ducklings and wannabe trendsetters the sacred right to mingle with high-class fashionistas and their aficionados.

As Uncle Karl would put it, the démodé just don’t fly with these guys.

The rejected girl came into view. She’d been pushed backwards, earning a broken heel in the process. When she turned around I caught a glimpse of her face and a strangely familiar…adams apple??!

“Holy shit. That’s Chuck,” I thought.

And here’s the deal: it didn’t add up. Chuck wasn’t some fake floosy trying to worm his way into the scene; he was legit. Decked out in the latest and greatest: Funky East, Mynk, Crow Thief; all some of the up and coming, top designers strutting up and down the runway at the show. Rocking some serious style and class, Chuck was probably the freshest thing to hit this polluted city, not to mention this party, in a long while.

The only catch was, of course, that he was dressed like a she. A very attractive, incredibly with-it, trendsetter sort of she that might turn all sorts of high and mighty fashion heads…if they don’t notice her adam’s apple first. But a she nonetheless.

And apparently this matters to the snooty upturned noses on the inside, waiting to be flattered and doted on with compliments and comments of adoration. Even to the fag hags with their accessory gay hanging off their arm, it mattered. While they occupy a world both alluring and incredibly rich with brilliant creative design, these Runway gurus all have a serious character flaw. Their high maintenance lifestyle requires fulfilling an obsessive need to be constantly surrounded by numerous beautiful and socially significant people. Cross-dressing “nobodies” not included, and all those démodé excluded.

I watched as Chuck stood on one foot, holding his (her?!) broken Jimmy Choo in one hand, looking at the entryway to the Standard’s rooftop, with this sort of sad accepting gaze. Before I got a chance to holler at him, he turned and dejectedly walked away, not noticing how his wig tilted just so slightly askew to the left. He’s normally got his shit so together that this minor detail would usually be fixed quicker than a white kid getting jumped for wearing blue in Inglewood.

Looking back at the entrance to the Roof Top, a now cordial and smiling Mr. Samoan Cerberus was opening the rope for the two Bs I had been admiring earlier. They were batting their lashes and sprinkling that magical sexy-dust the whole time, and damn if he didn’t just let ‘em right in.

I got in too. It didn’t take much. Just had to flash my pearly whites and drop a few names and that was that. The party was bananas. Sittin Rooftop Bar, gazing at the most spectacular views of Los Angeles (animate and inanimate) with the who’s who of Hollywood? C’mon! ‘Nuff said. But I won’t deny, I thought about Chuck and the nature of his rejection more than once that night.

What’s the deal with all these high-class elitists in the fashion world today? They can’t even recognize when the next miss thang walks straight up to them and offers up her seriously fresh piece of ass to do whatever they please with.

And does it matter so much that she is really a he? Fashion has always been about sex. About pushing the limits. About change and innovation and challenging the norm. So that’s real. But in today’s rapidly emerging modern world, who’s wearing what and looking good in it transcends the archaic notions of gender placement and gender role. The metrosexuals are all over it. The “boyfriend” cuts and suit pieces worn by androgynous girls are totally chic. It’s all over the map.

The line dividing gender and sexuality in fashion IS history. And always a blurred one.

So why was Chuck the exception? Word on the street is, GET IN OR GET THE FUCK OVER IT.

LOOK, to those who claim and collect chic, don’t front if you can’t back it. Take the pretentious pre-conceived notions out ya stuck-up nose and take a lung full of real fuckin FRESH air. In the hazy LA summer, you’ve got to breath it in wherever you can find it.

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When Peace is a World Away: Can Obama Bridge Differences in Alien Lands?

Okay, so at one point Ice T and LL Cool J had beef.

Like serious beef. The type that involves threats of violence, wives and family, and semen…lots and lots of semen.

You see, in 1990, LL had released a diss song to Ice titled, “To Da Break of Dawn.” In it he may have possibly, kind of alluded to ejaculating on pictures of Ice’s then wife, Darlene Ortiz... sort of. Basically, the two men didn’t like each other much.

They were from two different coasts, representing two different facets of Hip Hop music. The ideological fissures between the two ran deep.

Well, a short time later Flavor Flav held a birthday party and the two artists found themselves, probably for the first time, in the same building. Words were exchanged and things began to get heated. But before the situation could get out of hand, Afrika Bambaataa sat everyone down and worked out a truce.

He appealed to the better part of each side’s conscience and came to a resolution that was mutually beneficial for both: LL would stop ejaculating on pictures of Ice’s wife…and Ice would promise not to kill him.

In fact, as a way of testing his resolve, Ice would eventually divorce Ortiz and marry the beautiful human flotation device, Coco. Reports say that Ice is currently addicted to every form of sedative there is to avoid spontaneous combustion, now that the entire world has the opportunity to release love juice over his wife’s image. Tragic Irony or Poetic Justice? You tell me.

Ah, if only American foreign relations were as easy to reconcile as Hip Hop beef.

Why can’t Israel just stop trying to kill Palestine? And what’s the deal with Palestine consistently nutting on Israel’s face? Or is the other way around? And what’s the deal with Iran? What are they, the 50 Cent of the Mideast region?

One thing is for sure tho’, and that’s Obama is no Bambaataa.

Aside from the fact that I hear he has a horrible breakdown backspin (don’t get me started on his fuckin’ scratch and mix technique) the U.S. President seems to be ignorant of a key difference between he and the leader of the Zulu Nation. You see, Bambaataa was, and is, anchored within the culture he was trying to preserve.

Bambaataa is Hip Hop. On the other hand, Obama, for all his worldliness, cannot hide from the fact that he’s American. Like, really, really American. Despite what his detractors would have you believe, the guy probably shits apple pie fixins.

It’s hard for someone who represents “The Great Satan” to come off as anything but condescending when attempting to mend decades-long divisions in the Middle East. I mean, American is American, and that’s whether you love fiery, strong-willed women with bubble butts or not.

Iran’s current unrest following their most recent election and its suspicious results are a testament to this disconnect. While the country’s youth seem to back the Obama-influenced promises of reform by the opposition’s leader Mr. Hossein Moussavi, there is reason to believe "incumbent" President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, despite his shortcomings, vitriolic rhetoric and all-around failures as leader, still carries support from Iran’s clerics, ayatollahs, and rural voters.

Then there’s Israel. On June 14, Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu made a major statement by acknowledging the need for a two state solution to his country and Palestine’s ongoing conflicts. However, the statement came with conditions requiring Palestine be demilitarized with no control of its own airspace and borders. Israel is basically saying, "Yeah, Palestine, you can have recess...but you'll have to hold the playground monitor's hand the whole time. Oh, about that whiffle ball game...Yes, you can play. No, you can't have a bat. Or a mitt. And you still have to hold my hand. Have fun!" Netanyahu also rejected the idea of a freeze on Israeli settlements in the Gaza strip. As expected, Palestinian response was overwhelmingly negative with Palestinian legislator Mustafa Barghouti, accusing Netanyahu of calling for the creation of a ghetto state.

In the end, what could have been a continuation of President Obama’s June 4 call for conflict resolution, quickly descended into a volleying of the same trite and well-worn arguments.

And that seems to be the story of Obama’s presidency so far. He wants to be a bridge between the conflicting ideologies of our past, but can’t because, due to the very nature of who he is, he and his ideas are too polarizing. This is especially true in the Muslim and Arab worlds where he is considered a cultural outsider. Tragic Irony, or Poetic Justice?

President Abraham Lincoln believed that to be a successful mediator, both sides have to hate you. If one side thinks you’re cool, you’re probably not being fair enough. It’s like if Bambaataa came to Flavor Flav’s party with a picture of Ice’s wife, a box of tissue, and started screaming “Where the Jergens at?!”

Obama’s campaign for “change” just won’t fly in the Middle East. It’s as simple as that. There’s too much history, too much pain, and too much resentment. The words and urgings of someone on the outside looking in will do little to nothing. Call me a cynic, but I have no doubt that Israel, Palestine, Iran, Pakistan and Afganistan will continue on with business as usual and someone, somewhere, is getting the creamy grill.

Unlike Hip hop beef, foreign relations are “in the immortal words of LL, hard as hell.” Read More!