Urban Thought Collective

A week or two ago, I was largely minding my own business driving west on Pico when I caught an alarming sight in my right peripheral– a lime green Rolls Royce covered in hand-painted gold curlie-ques and with enough interior doilies and shingles to make a Mexican grandmother shudder.

As I do when faced with most visions of ungodliness, I quickly turned away. However, a moment later, when I heard repeated honking and I started to get the “someone in the car next to me is boring a hole in my retina” creepies, I dared to look. And suddenly, I was face to face with one Donald Campbell, the not-so-bestselling author of “From Pimp Stick to Pulpit.” Yes, my friends, it was the self-appointed, Chairman of the Board, Archbishop Don “Magic” Juan in full regalia. Now, to his credit, after a block or two, the Archbishop gave me a golden-grilled smile and went on about his business, but I, in turn, was left with a not-so-fresh feeling and a whole lot more questions than answers.

What would you call a man who:

1. Is always running around in a man-pack;
2. Dresses up in eye-catching, flashy attire to impress other men;
3. Constantly talks about how pretty he is;
4. Wears high-heeled shoes and a ton of jewelry;
5. Grows his nails long and gets manicures;
6. Grows his hair long, goes to a hairdresser instead of a barber, and sleeps in a do-rag at night;
7. Constantly brags about how he doesn’t love women?

In American culture, he’s called a pimp and in hip-hop culture, he’s revered as a P.I.M.P., but in good old San Francisco, we called it something else. Which brings us to moi.

I was raised in “pimp or die” Oakland, went to school with the Ward children, (fathered by The Mack) and have listened to Too Short since his name stood for the two front teeth he was missing. My education in pimpology has, unfortunately, been pretty thorough.

As a child, I rode the 72M bus from downtown Oakland to El Cerrito, along San Pablo Boulevard. San Pablo spans five cities, and to my knowledge, was the largest ho-stro in the country, and possibly, the world. And I saw it all. I saw pimps checking their hos from stretch Caddies, Lincolns and El Dorados. I saw backhands and slap downs. And I saw the pimp culture replace the previously dominant southern black family values that had defined the Bay Area since the 1920’s.

In the eighties, I watched the pimps’ empires crumble as they joined me in the back of the bus and had to check their ho’s from out the window lest they waste their bus transfers. I saw their business plan of creating the drug-addicted (and therefore, submissive and dependent) ho fail as their charges went from being mini-skirted and glass-heeled prostitutes, to barefoot crackheads. Let’s face it: no one can really pimp someone who will perform sexual acts in exchange for a 10-dollar rock. Sigh….it’s so hard out there for a pimp.

But let’s really define the pimp: a woman-hating man who will only interact with women he can demean and control, but does not love himself enough to engage in a meaningful, loving relationship with a woman or a man. (Yes, I said it. I mean, really—is it merely coincidence that the Archbishop’s license plate used to be HOMOBILE?).

And as I’ve deduced from observing this strange human aberration, the future pimp was usually abandoned by his father and often watched his promiscuous, or drug-addicted mother with combined feelings of love and disgust. And later, when his sexual confusion, unresolved mommy/daddy issues and repressed anger come to a pimply head, this type of male becomes a full-blown pariah, not to mention, an unholy spectacle of tacky, tacky, tackiness.

Which conveniently brings us to the present day, and the subject of pimpin’, a sort of low-carb brand of the pimp game. Ask a twenty to thirty-something woman looking to find a good boyfriend or husband these days, and she’ll confirm the behavior is equally as pitiful. Just go to most clubs/bars/jazz festivals, and sucking all the oxygen out of the room that the real men could be breathing, is this guy who:

1. Doesn’t have the courage or manliness to step to a woman and make conversation, ask to buy her a drink, or for a dance. Instead, he mugs attractive women from the corner and waits for them to approach and “choose” him while he and his boy-toys stand around trying to out-pretty each other.
2. Is obsessed with being “clean.” Now called the metrosexual, this man may not actually grow his hair and fingernails, but will beat you down for mirror time, gets weekly mani-pedis, and is obsessed with his perfectly-coordinated outfits. Well-groomed, great style…wonderful. Acting like my 13 year-old niece before she goes to the skating rink…not so manly.
3. Has sex with numerous women, but often avoids any real intimacy that would come from kissing, staying the night, or spending quality time during the day together.

So when, I ask, did we get so far off track? But most importantly, how do we get out of this hot, green and gold mess? One thing seems pretty obvious…the pimp game is over and it’s time for a lot of us to get some counseling, love somebody and commence to acting like grown folks.

Kali Love is my sometimes brilliant, often obnoxious, alter ego. If I’m Chuck D., she’s a bit, well…Flava Flav with hers. So to protect my career as a writer/producer/Veuve Clicquot-sipping philanthrope, I shall remain nameless. But Kali Love? There’s no telling what she’ll say. My collection is exclusive to www.urbanthoughtcollective.com.