Beyonce & Jay-Z Richest Couple in Hollywood


The Baddest Couple in the entertainment industry will always go to Bey & Jay. Not only are they a dynamic power couple but they are an iconic multi-million dollar brand. According to reports from Forbes magazine earlier this year, the couple are worth over a billion dollars. 

Beyonce has a net worth this year of $350 million and Jay-Z at $810 million respectfully. 

The couple even bought a $26 million dollar home in The Hamptons with over 7 bedrooms and 7 and a half bathrooms. As well as a seperate guest house with two bedrooms. Wow! Can I borrow $500! 

Nicki Has a Minaj a’ Trois for PAPER

Paper Magazine, published a Break The Internet issue with the self proclaimed Barbie rapper, Nicki Minaj. The rapper is featured well doing just that. 

According to an article on PAPER MAG, they chose to go with Minaj because of how she pushes the envelope and has constantly evolved over the years with her music and style. The mag published the cover art on Tuesday, November 14, 2017,  while the full interview with Nicki comes out Wednesday, November 15th online.  The print copy hits newsstands on Tuesday, November 28th.

Paper Magazine, published a racy photo of Kim Kardashian just a few years ago in 2014.

Nicki Has Minaj a’ Trois for PAPER 

Paper Magazine, published a Break The Internet issue with the self proclaimed Barbie rapper, Nicki Minaj. The rapper is featured well doing just that. 

According to an article on PAPER MAG, they chose to go with Minaj because of how she pushes the envelope and has constantly evolved over the years with her music and style. The mag published the cover art on Tuesday, November 14, 2017,  while the full interview with Nicki comes out Wednesday, November 15th online.  The print copy hits newsstands on Tuesday, November 28th.

Paper Magazine, published a racy photo of Kim Kardashian just a few years ago in 2014. 

Tyrese Breaks Down on Camera

Singer and Actor Tyrese Gibson filmed and uploaded a rather heart wrenching video about missing his daughter Shayla. He states how he is up to possibly $13K a month for child support. Also how the judge won’t allow him to see her and it’s been two months. Now I don’t know if it’s a cry for help or attention as Tyrese has been in the news lately but for nothing positive. 

I do feel for brothers who over paying in child support and still the state or a judge wont allow them custody or visitations of there children.  If this is the case then I most certainly feel for this brother. 

But Tyrese has stated some prettt nasty things about his sisters lately and not to mention his rant about The Rock getting a spin off film over him. So maybe this is a way to keep his name buzzing in the media. 

Take a look yourselves and see what’s going on with him. 

Boy Buh-Bye to Love & Hip Hop Hollywood


Well, well, what can I say…If you’ve watched part 2 of Love and Hip Hop Hollywood, you’ve seen the messiness and the tea. If not, well let me spill it for you. 

We open with a few of the cast on the couch. The host ask if Mr. Ray could be cordial with Zell. (This is Love and Hip hop no one is just cordial). Well, Mr. Ray said, “I don’t want to be cordial with him.” Well that must have sparked something off in Zell because instead of giving Mr. Ray a hug like he looked like he was attempting to do, he sneaks a couple punches in and is escorted off the set and into a car. He doesn’t return to the set. 

Meanwhile, Mr. Ray is backstage crying and trying to understand why he was punched; why he’s bleeding. A1 tries to sympathize with him and once Mr. Ray comes back on stage all of the case has pretty much taken up for Mr. Ray and said Zell was wrong for hitting him the way he did. Although, they themselves have been doing the same thing all damn season.

Alexis was caught laughing at Mr. Ray although she denies it. 

Later, Ms. Nikki Baby and Masika get into it for some comments she made that weren’t even directed towards Masika. But Nikki this time wins as the clap back queen when she said to Masika, “You live like you’re in a struggle and you look like one too.,”,and “My heels are higher than your whole self esteem.”

A none bothered Masika lies on the floor, taunting Nikki to come swing at her. Of course nothing happens, they break for commercial and all is well with the cast. 

Keyshia Cole was the perfect example of unbothered. We finally get to the love triangle of Brooke, Bridget and Booby. Keyshia not here for the drama gets off the couch and joins the rest of the cast near the audience. Clearly, Brooke never really wanted Booby and was clearly using him to make Marcus jealous. Booby, on the other hand may have been feeling her but not so much he brought Bridget on the trip to Catalina island with him. Bridget was left looking like a used up rag as usual. Her ex stating that he felt he dodged a bullet. But when Keyshia performed, her latest song, Incapable, you could see the love or perhaps some form of feelings or expression there for Keyshia. Perhaps, he’s still in love?!?

Later, we get to see Tearia discuss her alcoholism and the intervention that took place and lead her to rehab. Tearia calls out Cisco for playing her and of course he denies it but later apologizes for it. 

Lyrica, the orange hair queen who’s been dipping her nose in everyone’s business all season discusses why she was so upset her husband A1 would even consider working with other female artists that aren’t her because she’s so talented and the women aren’t even on her level.  Later, A1 says he does it all so there’s no need for his wife to work with other producers. Um, there was no point of y’all being on the show but yeah ok.

We close the show out by watching Safaree get emotional because he’s leaving Cali and going back home to New York. Hmm, just in time for the New York season to start. Chasing a paycheck suppose? This wouldn’t be the first time a Love and Hip Hop cast mate has jumped ship to another state for the show. 


Well anyway, another season is dead and gone so let us get ready for Yandy, Remy Ma, MariahLynn, and joining the cast is Superwoman, Lil Mo’ for season 8 of Love and Hip Hop New York. Get ready for more ratchetness to begin next Monday, same place, same time. Vh1 at 8pm. Get your popcorn ready!

Boo!2 Madea Halloween Scares Big at Box Office


The sequel to the Madea Halloween film, Boo!2 A Madea Halloween opened up in theateres this past Friday at number one grossing over $21 million dollars.  Somewhat less than what the original film did just one year ago with $28 million in sales and $74 million worldwide. 


Boo!2 is a comedic horror film written, produced, directed and of course starring Tyler Perry himself as Madea. The film opened in theaters, October 20, 2017. 

The premise of the film is, Tiffany goes to a frat party at a haunted campground. Madea, Bam, Hattie, and Joe venture out after her and the group must run for their lives when monsters, goblins, and the boogeyman are unleashed.

Last In Line: A Slide From Obama to Trump

  Read Last In Line, a thought provoking novel that tells of a young man’s accounts during President Barack Obama’s Inauguration. 

From “Preface”

 

An Inaugural Air: The Slide from Obama to Trump

 

 

Jamal Mtshali’s Last in Line: An American Destiny Deferred (African American Images, 2016) examines U.S. public policy’s role in reproducing racial inequality in America’s justice, education, health care, and economic systems. With Donald Trump’s inauguration, these structures are certain to be reinforced. Although anchored in data and research, Last in Line also seizes narrative to underscore the magnitude of racial disparity in America and the prevalence of the biases which drive it. This excerpt details then-18-year-old Mtshali’s attendance at Barack Obama’s first inauguration and his pensive reflection on the implications of that moment. It contrasts starkly with the ominous air surrounding Trump’s inauguration, an unequivocal confirmation of the doubt which compelled his writing of Last in Line.

 

I exited a cozy station and made my way through joint-stiffening, glacial treatment uncharacteristic of Maryland’s temperance. I marched Washington’s streets in throngs reminiscent of Roman legions, warming my hands with circles of merriment, singing and dancing an unprecedented episode of American communion. Ours was a 21st century Great March, not comprised of Americans calling for freedom but Americans heralding the freedom’s arrival.

 

As I walked the streets and lawns of Capitol Hill, I thought of my ancestors and their bondage beneath Old Glory. President Lincoln’s first inauguration was their auspice, the sign of a future in which their chains would be cast off and melted into material with which a new, free America would be cast. Paralyzing chills came not from January’s pricks and pierces, but the vision that my ancestors may have regarded Abraham Lincoln the way I on this day regarded Barack Obama.

 

A silhouette rose from the east; rays shone amid the multitudes along the Western front. “Not in my lifetime.” I couldn’t help recalling the words I, born a score and seven years following Freedom Summer, often spoke with a tone of practical resignation. My ancestors’ words came into my hands a truism and dissipated in inaugural air a platitude. A hurried gust brushed my 18-year-old face, bypassing it to seize and escort the falsehood elsewhere. It was persona non grata in presence of the revered utterance, “God bless the United States of America.”

 

A chuckle froze. It turned me. “Man—racism is finished. It is dead.” He gazed for seconds, a heavy grin complementing eyes radiating limitless optimism. He turned toward the projector in injected stiffness, freeze frame belying motion picture. I tried to mirror his effervescent smirk, but found paralysis—a pensive discomfort unbefitting, perhaps even insulting of, this moment.

 

For the rest of the afternoon as the world celebrated Barack Obama’s ascent to the Oval Office, I mulled that stranger’s words. Friends and family, some who witnessed the height of the Civil Rights Movement, marveled at images of the president and first lady greeting the nation. I could not marvel, for I could not help chewing that late twentysomething’s verse. It seemed to fly in the face of the dispiriting elements of American scripture I had known. Like the Book of James Byrd. Its ink dried when I was seven years old. What was that—solitary confinement? An outlying emblem of hatred long since banished from America’s heart? Given the experiences of my family members, my friends—even myself—I was reluctant to accept his prophecy. It seemed unfulfilled—his belief that race was anywhere near the finish line. I heard praises of victory but no buzzer flatlining us from scorched Earth to Eden’s divinity.

 

I entertained that he was perhaps right. Perhaps I’d glorified myself in some malcontent archetype, covering my eyes and ears as strange, partisan fruit of petulance. This was not James Byrd’s day—this was Barack Obama’s day. Reformation was upon us. This was America’s dawn, the day which would heal the sufferings of the multitudes—every James Byrd. America rejoiced in a new Pontifex Maximus—a man with whom I shared not only blackness but first-generation African descent—yet all I could do was groan. America saluted a black president hoisted by a variegated will, entertaining an era free of the sit-ins, bus boycotts, and freedom rides that convened about an operating table excising cancers threatening our Constitution with a threadbare fate. Many died for our sins, nailed to fiery crosses, mocked by unholy masses, blood-sacrificed unto Sodom’s devils. They rose from the dead in schools, neighborhoods, and colleges convoked in Christ’s name. The day of reckoning portended in the prophecy of resurrection dawned. I blasphemed. My wanton thoughts were libel, spilling blood upon consecrated soil.

 

As I walked Washington’s streets on inauguration day, disparity accosted me. Its profile was black—and in the neighborhood of a palace where, because of the discriminate acquiescence of mortgage lenders, a black man and his family would soon reside. Middle-aged black men idling on porches, frozen by January, arrested me. Children held me captive; I recoiled at clones made in my image a foot, one hundred pounds, and ten years prior taking baby steps that, with socks, shoes, and bootstraps, would be giant leaps. Young men bearing resemblance to the then-me mean-mugged—their cruel contortions perhaps originating from some intoxicant peddled by a kingpin on a far-away planet. Perhaps not so far.

 

Truth frisked; I had no right to resist. “These people”—my people— were not stuff of inanimate will, feral sentiment, and Petri dishes. Laziness, violence, pathology—measurements of the dark visage America struck and neglected—stared not with concrete savagery, but a graveled, dispossessed affect. Where men of titles and tailors saw feral children, I saw human sorrow. That sorrow harked to a familiar face—one of hard work, humility, and hope. I looked into those eyes, dark as my own, and saw the sorrow I, as a child, once saw slip from the eyes of my grandfather, a man born and reared in rural Georgia. It was a sorrow somewhat assuaged by his migration to Buffalo, New York, an exodus affording him, his family, and many black Southerners of the Great Migration some semblance of spirit. But no dam could contain such falls. I wondered if, on this day, the souls of black folk would at last be free.

 

On this day, Americans autopsied sorrow. We tested its vital signs. We placed our frozen fingers over its face, feeling no fumes. We grasped steel; its caged, rocking ribbing ceased. We declared it deceased. On the day of this great coronation, we designated ourselves licensed coroners; our degree of qualification became apparent as we declared racism’s death after determining its proper resting place. We dared to dream. Dream we can. But the dream is cruel fantasy. In this dream, there is no justice ruling against minorities and on behalf of injustice. In this dream, there is no euthanasia failing black organs, harvested both from poverty’s casualties and Jack and Jill card-carriers. In this dream, there is no birthing room denying admission to two black infants for every one white failing to thrive. In this dream, there is no executive shredding African American opportunity, shouting black credentials to double doors ex officio. In this dream, none of these figments permeate into present. Wrapping embalms King’s body from substance seeping to spoil the slumber deferring America’s awakening.

I entered a cozy station. Frostbite yielded to a sweltering wave fostering equilibrium. Its sheltering did not consummate with bodily homeostasis, but with consumption of the sacrament it bore. Spirit’s nourishment conceived Last in Line; it is sacrament for a greater body. I believed then and believe now, at the end of his presidency, what all Americans knew on that day—that President Obama’s election is both a symbol of change and a representation of our country’s potential for greatness. Where I, along with many Americans, diverge is in the belief that his election is far from a sign that America has salvaged its damaged soul, crediting its constitutional “master promissory note.” American masses have certified Barack Obama’s election a sign of long-awaited heaven on Earth. In doing so, these denominations perpetuate the strangely pernicious idea that racism is no more—and that to speak otherwise is to assume the dark mantle of the victim. On January 20, 2009, while American congregations, young and old, black and white, rejoiced in a dream, spirit commanded me to desert.

 

  Adapted from Jamal Mtshali’s Last in Line: An American Destiny Deferred, published by African American Images and available on Amazon. For more on the author, visit http://www.JamalMtshali.com. Follow Jamal on Twitter at @jtmtshali.

On The Brink of Greatness

  
Every time I’m beside you, everything is so chill. Just being beside you, shit kind of feels totally real

Sitting beside you, holding your hands in mine

Tracing both simultaneously, trying to connect our lines

Sitting beside you, looking at your side view

Admiring the strength in your face, you’re so cool

I’m genuinely interested in everything about you

Sitting beside you, I’m studying you like I’m supposed to

The curve in your ear, the bend of your neck

The presence of your Adams Apple, the light hair on your chest

I’m observed all that while you sat looking ahead

Sitting beside you with one hand rubbing your leg

I feel you loosen up, your tense exterior slowly dispelled

We’re taking it one day at a time, we’ll be GREAT, I can already tell

Sitting beside you, I’m wondering how many more days

Will I sit beside you and love you in so many more ways. 

Stand behind me and I’ll protect you from the front

Walk beside me and let the world know that this is what you want.

By CoKane

Single and Ready : The Art of Dating

Single and Ready

 

In 2016, it’s almost rare to find a man that still asks a woman on a date, and actually follows through. It’s crazy to say that the times we live in have changed the dating game forever. Where a man used to ask a woman on dates then picked her up, opened the doors, enjoyed her out for a few hours and returned her home with a simple kiss of gratitude, they’re now asking ladies to “chill” in its place. It’s a “not wanting to waste money on someone who isn’t worthy” mentality, and the saddest part about it is seeing women lower their value and conform to the popular “Netflix & chill” phenomenon.
Many agree that dating in this era seems pointless because men are only looking for sex and women only want the money. If we go to the time before cell phones and social media, dating was one of the only forms to meet new people. It allowed friends to set their friends up on blind dates. It allowed men to step their game up and come correct for a woman he was interested in. It allowed men to wear the pants as their woman proudly wore the skirt. Roles were not confused or switched during these times. And this created more dating then courting then possibly marriage.

Fast forward to the emergence of the internet and cell phones, and all sensible, single folks turned to internet dating sites and social media to “meet new people”. While cell phones and social media do connect like minds with other like minds, it tore down the art of dating and evolved it into this “smoke and chill”, “drink and chill”, or “Netflix and chill” era. At this point, a man spending his money on a woman who might not bed him doesn’t sound as inviting as that same woman coming over for Popeyes and a DVD.
Chuck Henderson of Wallstreet Insanity agreed that “hanging out and hooking up seems to be way more prevalent. Sometimes, this evolves into a relationship before you’ve even gone to dinner and a movie.” So where does that leave courting? Exactly where it left dating….in the past. Men are complaining that some women serial date just for free meals and movie trips, while women argue that most men serial date just to see who they can bed the quickest with no intention on anything but sex. With so many sex filled song lyrics, TV shows and movies in the 21st century, it’s no wonder that everybody has an ulterior motive when they meet someone new. Whether good or bad intentions, dating was created to help find commonalities in folks and figure out if forever is even an option with that person.
So how do we get back to what worked in the 1930-60s when people still believed in families and marriage? Easy! The first thing that must happen is people need to raise your standards and quite conforming to a person who just wants to “chill”. Single people also need to stop looking for sex in the wrong places and wrong people. Not to mention, women are incapable of having emotionless sex unless she’s being paid for her services. Sex is still an emotional attachment for every woman, especially those with their hearts on their sleeves.
Dating helps you get to know someone, figure out if they’re worthy of your time, love and presence, discover the commonalities between each other, and possibly move forward into a union. A smoke session with Dante isn’t a date; he’s more than likely trying to feel you out to see how fast he could bed you. Chilling on the block with your crush isn’t a date. She’s probably casing every dude out there to see who makes the most money. Pay attention to the signs because in everything we do, there’s a fair warning prior. If we’re trying to reintegrate family values into our kids, we must unteach then reteach ourselves the art of dating!
By Co Kane

Www.KanePresents.com