The problem with being me is that I can never turn off my brain. I know some of you are sometimes unhappy with this fact; you're probably not going to like this post either.

What happened to my generation? Raised on My Little Pony and Mikhail Gorbachev, steel-gray Transformers and shades of grey Reaganomics, a deficit-ballooning prosperous poverty masquerade of supply-side insanity, one would think that the She-Ra's and G.I. Joes of my generation would just say no to the uncut cocaine of simple explanations and media whitewashing. Sure, I'm probably asking too much, but let me be clear: I don't give a shit about Heidi Klum's impending marriage to Seal. Unless one is willing to delve into this latest example of an open public rejection of Black women by a dark-skinned Black man for a used, skinny, blonde-haired, blue-eyed cave bitch, then shut the fuck up!

Entertainment has never been informative news. Tiger Woods' recent nuptials and Taye Diggs recent hate mail also publicized interracial multiculturalism and a publicly acknowledged reinforcement of the stereotypical heroin chic platinum blond White woman as most desirable, most beautiful, and most feminine worldwide (Western tested, global approved!). Our socially liberalized American corporate media easily sells stories of rich Negroes joining symmetrical White women in unholy matrimony because the demand never fades.

To be general, the ethically honest marketing executive at CNN or wherever would promote this story because women (excluding the sistas) gravitate towards the 'cross-cultural bonding over ethnic differences' element as an easy inroads into their sexually explicit fantasies of the Mandingo warrior -- replete with rippling LL Cool J muscles and thirteen inch Alabama blacksnake -- who ravishes each anonymous Missy Anne in the wooden slave quarters of their pornographic mental plantations in 102 degree South Carolina heat, while the men (excluding the brothas) can both ogle the supermodel White chick with nubile breasts and high cheekbones and wish they could absorb Seal's ebony sensuality without speaking ebonics. (Supermodel my left testicle -- Heidi Klum looks like Michael Jackson wearing Beyonce's weave.) This is America -- racial diversity decided through market share by a heavily Confederate viewing audience that self-reinforces base stereotypes about those too dark and too destitute to care about. In this country, your skin is your sin -- don't let MTV's leftist Real World propaganda fool you.

Now myself, I'd take a phat ass and a smile any day, but some brothers enjoy the bleached toothpick look. Whatever. Not my thing, but I'm not one to judge. But, before anyone responds to this rant trying to point out a glass house, let me make something quite clear. Yes, I am in an interracial relationship, and have been since September '99. Not trying to leave it. In fact, I've never dated a woman inside my race. Ever. Don't plan to. The point? Whatever relationship Seal and Heidi Klum have is their business, completely unimportant to the racial politics of our era. True love or Grammy ploy, it really doesn't matter, as it is their personal private business. It's not 'news'; you're not helping the terrorists if you remain unaware of their wedding plans. Hell, maybe the real reason news agencies publicize this information is because of the famed celebrity of the individuals involved, but I'm not that naive, nor should you be.

Going back further than boxing legend and heavyweight champion Jack Johnson, the sociopolitical purchase (often enabled through extreme financial wealth) of attractive White women for marital bliss with famous Black men has always taken its worse effects upon Black women, reinforcing in the public and private eyes of John and Jane Q. Public unfortunate stereotypes of masculine brutishness and ogre confrontation that continually reduce most Black mothers and sisters and daughters to Shrek. Black men today not only socialize and outmarry in record numbers but also create and maintain a multi-billion dollar multimedia misogyny industry called hip hop that wastes creativity by openly demeaning Black women in word and deed and mind, with hyperbolic Jazze Pha baselines adding a radio-playable soundtrack. Every voluptuous caramel posterior bouncing lewdly on BET, every reference to Black women as "bitches" in a club (only Eminem references Tipper Gore), every film or video or hip hop art revealing Black women's oral cavities as pink targets for the slimy, smelly, salty ejaculate of some low budget rapper with low self esteem and too much money (Snoop Dogg and Lil' Jon -- this means you!), exposes the all-consuming, omnipresent race hate Black men hold for Black women, adding precedent and credence to the larger civilization's sadistic demonization of the African American fairer sex.

Think about it -- what was Omarosa Manigault-Stallworth from The Apprentice but a Black man's nightmare -- a stalwart, sensible, assertive Black woman with dark skin and no-nonsense attitude turned 'sista ya love to hate' after her realization that she could never be judged by her White peers by her deeds instead of their prejudices? Midway through that season, something clicked in Omarosa's mind, a notion registered, a door slammed. A dream deferred. She understood that she was not an applicant given an equal shot at honest competition; rather, she was the perennial Black Bitch, a woman so utterly vitriolic in speech and psychological manipulation that even her own racial companions (genetically athletic, violent, and criminal to modern America, Willie Horton cripwalking) flee in abject fear from her side to avoid the grapes of her wrath. Omarosa became the most evil woman on the planet through Mark Burnett reality editing. Every great drama needs a great villain, and one can always count on the White person's hatred of Black people to boost ratings and sell advertising.

Omarosa' toned, Angela Basset upper-body definition and cold practicality frighten all -- especially the Black men that helped create her through centuries of emasculated cowering from White supremacist control of Black lives, labor, bodies, and minds. Before American history congealed Southern Whites solved labor issues through the triangular trade, bred today's Supermasculine Menials from sturdy African transatlantic slave ship survivors. Throughout this race trauma, the color-conscious American predilection for Victorian, fair-skinned, empty-headed, weightless white wraiths too foolish to consider the unfree labor of the porcelain doll, etched itself into the race history of the American Black man, envious of his master's house and all his possessions yet kept too unskilled to outthink the master, Jayson Blair meets Jayson Williams. Black men's desire for 'the white man's prize' continues to our modern era; the underlying political sentiment publicized relationships like Seal and Heidi Klum exude to the American public (without choice or conscious thought for the personal-as-political needs of the participants) involve illicit lust, exotic miscegenation, devolved bestiality, orgasmic animalism, rear-entry transactions, desperate prostitution, Puritanical revulsion, public outcry, and mob violence; Emmitt Till in a white Bronco running 90 mph down an L.A. freeway. Melanin is merciless, escape impossible: most of us can't Mariah Carey even if we wanted to.

We simply end where we begin. Wednesday night, during a commercial break in the hit ABC castaway drama Lost, I spied Omarosa in a McDonald's commercial silently scaring the excrement out of four twenty-something office workers simply by walking in and looking around. Fully caricatured for White audiences now, I doubt Omarosa recalls the moment she first burnt cork. Why should she -- her bank balance proves to all concerned that righteous indignation over racial violation leaves one pissed off and broke, as opposed to just plain poor (unless, of course, you can sell it by demeaning yourself like Michelle Malkin and Larry Elder). Still, Omarosa provides a useful example of the bitter acidity of the modern Black woman of my generation -- willing and able to corrode all in search of the impossible, the heterosexual mate within her community that will treat her as she deserves to be treated, regard her as the obsidian Amazonian of man's nocturnal emissive phantasmagoria warm, soft, peaceful, neither saint nor sinner but compassionate to all; supple, strong, sexy, the lover, the mother, the teacher, the soldier, a doctor, lawyer, President or Ayatollah.

But this is wishful thinking. The general public won't respect Black women as more than sluts and servants until Black men forge that new social paradigm, and Black men have no incentive to do so whatsoever. Call it self-hate, call it selling out, call it colorstruck -- and the point is long missed. Black men, still conflicted and traumatized from American race oppression, still envy the master's possessions, including his easy, nonchalant, institutionalized sexism. Essentially, Black men want to dominate the women of their homes, churches, and communities as easily as their white counterparts, and are tortured by their tasteless envy and absent despotism. Plus, Black men's sexual freedom becomes largely compromised and realistically nonexistent if the Black woman emerges as his sole acceptable sociopolitical sexual option. The collegiate Black community grapples with these concerns almost daily, especially in mainstream historically White colleges and universities, as Black women realize the despondent dearth of available, suitable, upwardly-mobile, heterosexual Black men and they find their Pierre Delacroix's sauntering across campus arm in arm with either Ashley Nicole Rockefeller, Maria Rodriguez, or Kim Soon Li Wang. Darling Nikki Johnson from Atlanta, Georgia stares at the straight hair, the prepubescent bosoms, the miniscule buttocks, and the bright complexions of her newfound competition, and shrugs in disgusted defeat, as she recalls nearly two decades of grocery-store checkout lines and bookstore newsstands that include popular woman-hating publications like Cosmopolitan, People, Maxim, and FHM, that promote with colorful photography and obnoxious headlines thin, drugged Cameron Diaz ice princesses Nikki can never resemble, no matter how many Tae-Bo and Pilates DVD workouts she performs. No wonder Prince caught her masturbating with a magazine; she might as well get some use out of it.

Black men have more reasons than self-hate to discard Black female sensuality, even when for some, self-hate or light pigment fetishism is a driving factor in the dismissal. Still, the promotion of Seal and Heidi Klum's engagement -- a private affair between public people -- unmasks as a political attack upon certain American constituencies, and can be analyzed for the damage it may cause. The laser scalpel demarcations of red and blue America hide our identity politics' confused complexity under a translucent shawl of speech codes and martyred reputations, but without useful analysis of unethical news symbolism, all of us are left smiling and happy, neutered adults waving rice at Seal's wedding to some white girl we can barely remember wondering how the hell we got there. Now who's burning cork?