Dear Chris Brown

Dear Chris Brown,

Well, you’ve done it now, Goldilocks. You tarnished what was supposed to be a
day of self-celebration and album promotion, effectively erasing a public journey of alleged improvement, I’m-better-nows, and
distraction from less-than-flattering events with the blink of an eye. Or launching of a chair. Whichever. Details.

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Yesterday you hit up Good Morning America for an interview and performance. Rather than focus exclusively on F.A.M.E., your electronic hodgepodge of an album, anchorwoman Robin Roberts dove into your troubled past, much to your dismay. So now you’re mad. You’re a victim. You were ambushed! Let’s get back to the album! What do you do? You trash your dressing room, smash a
window, ditch your second scheduled performance, and storm out of ABC studios shirtless on some Albino Hulk shit.

are awesome.

Nevermind that Rihanna was a pre-approved topic of discussion.
It’s no secret that the media training you lack would teach you to
tactfully and respectfully dodge tricky questions. Since there seems to
be little grooming happening, here we are, and there you sit, blond and
bitter. Mad at the world. Defending your actions. Again.

Surrounding yourself with the homies and Yes People works well for
video game
tournaments and chipping in for pizza, but not so much for resurrecting
and maintaining a career you are blessed to even still have. It’s quite
evident nobody is keeping it real with you, so allow me to
break a few things down.

Let me get the requisite positivity out of the way: Yes, you are immensely talented. Okay? Now, on to the advice:

You Are Not White.
In case you forgot, Britney Spears‘ ancestors owned yours. Not
versa. Though you, Angry Beaver, are free to Crip Walk across musical
genres and leak your own nudes if it tingles your testicles, your
porcelain-skinned counterparts have privileges that you do not.  You
don’t get to go Joe Jackson on a major pop star’s face and
berate interviewers for “bringing up old shit.” Whereas Britney can
spiral out of control, endanger her kids, and powder her nostrils, all
still earning millions weekly on a wildly successful world tour, you
don’t have that luxury, Black person. You are not a Sheen or a Hilton.
You don’t get to profit from and laugh off tragedy and disaster. It is
unfair, but so are BET’s production values in the Age of Obama. These
are the breaks.

Unless You Are Leaking More Nudes,
Delete Your Twitter Account.
In general, you lose when it comes to social media. Whether it’s a public bitch fight laced with homophobic insults
brushed off as “just jokes” or public put-downs of marginally talented
pint-sized former allies, it’s clear that you need a filter on your
communication with the world outside your gassed-up head. You’ve
demonstrated that you’re essentially a ticking bomb, lashing out at
naysayers and doubters for all the world to see. That’s cool on a tour
bus, but the world is watching you, Dancing Dandelion. Contrary to
popular belief, your words are seen by people other than your faithful
army of loose-legged, pink-haired, face tattoo-sporting 106 &
Plantation viewers. A dozen exclamation points in each tweet doesn’t
soften the blow of the unchecked buffoonery jam-packed into many of your
messages. Also, deleting ill-advised tweets doesn’t work. Clearly, it’s
already been screencapped and passed around like your wang picture.
Until you get a grip on what’s appropriate and what’s better left
unsaid, quietly bow out.

Your Fans Are Not a Substitute For Therapy.

Sure, they support your music. That’s awesome. Team Breezy has stood by
you at your lowest points and welcomed you with open arms even after
leaving the house in that infamous Charlotte Russe Bescandaled
Homecoming Queen’s Apology Blouse.
They also shamelessly blamed Rihanna for warranting the reconstructive
surgery you performed upon her mug. And made jokes about it. And
viciously defend each of your missteps. Do you see a trend yet? They’re
enablers. Do you know what “enablers” are? Those are the people who look
the other way when you disappoint your mammy while the world looks on
in horror. And say Rihanna got what she deserved. And don’t tell you to
stay off Larry King Live, because cutesie bowties
can’t pull words out when there are none to be said. Your receipts from
the completed anger management courses are a great conversation piece,
but look what they have amounted to. Try chatting with a paid
professional not motivated by a secret desire to be inseminated by you.

And lastly, Nobody Owes You Anything.
Lest we forget that this time last year you were bashing DJs who refused to play your music. You were also begging fans to demand more airplay, as your sales suffered behind mixed reception after that little altercation. You’ve been uninvited from events, banned from the UK, snubbed at the GRAMMYs, and so on. BET tossed you a bone at last year’s BET Awards,
prompting Keri Wilson’s Leather among others to proclaim, “He’s back!”
Here we are months later, and you can now leave the house without being
called a woman-beater at every turn. Handclap for you.

And what
have we learned from all of this? Obviously not humility. Shouldn’t you
be grateful for a chance to share your gifts with someone other than
potential prison buddies? More than most, you’re aware of the “politics
and ass-kissing” (your words) that rule the industry. Sure your face
doesn’t suck, but you did, ultimately, sharpen your knuckles and
teeth on a more famous person’s face. Can you not see how it’d be hard
for some to move past this? Yes, you finished your mandated community
service and now do all sorts of nifty well-timed charity work. Would you
prefer a cookie or a gold star? Sure you would like us to focus on your
artistic progression, but controversy sells. A juicy quote from Lil’
Holyfield trumps an album sales pitch any day, kid.

Even from
the grave, Ike Turner can’t shake his rep as Anna Mae Bullock‘s sparring
partner. What makes you so special? Just because you’re ready to move
on and put that “unimportant” thing behind you, the media and public may
not be. This is the world in which you chose to participate. This,
until you transition to that big dance floor in the sky, is your new
reality: R&B’s dented can. Deal with it. Clean house. Grow the hell

Judgmentally Yours,


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