Kanye West is reportedly aiming to produce a million pairs of Yeezys in Wyoming by the start of 2021.


Prince Harry has claimed his mother, the late Princess Diana, would be ''fighting'' alongside people of color to end ''institutional racism."


Naomi Campbell still wears make-up every day in quarantine. The 50-year-old supermodel refuses to let her beauty standards slip just because she is at home all the time due to the coronavirus pandemic.


Lenny Kravitz has announced that his new memoir 'Let Love Rule' will be released this October.







by: Patrick Strudwick


DeMarco Majors (1st pic) has a speaking voice that is a soft baritone. His looks — tall, muscular, angular jaw — suggest fortitude, and his life, success: a former professional basketball player who appeared in a Beyoncé video, modeled at New York Fashion Week, and after disclosing his sexuality — as a black, gay sports star — was named by Out Magazine as one of the top 100 influential LGBT people in America.


“I woke up and they were pulling a body out of Ed Buck’s house,” says DeMarco. He was watching the scene live on the television news on the morning of January 7, 2019. It was the second black man to have been recovered from the Democratic party donor’s West Hollywood apartment — the second to have died there of a crystal methamphetamine overdose following a hookup. How strange, thought Majors; only recently he had been discussing the first case with his dear friend of 20 years, Timothy Dean (3rd pic).

“I texted him, ‘Did you see this shit?’ I even took a screenshot of the body on the gurney.” As Majors was messaging Dean, 55, he was unaware of what those at the scene knew: The body on the trolley was Dean’s.

Majors’ phone rang. It was a friend up in San Francisco. “He’s like, ‘Tim’s gone. He was at Ed Buck’s house.’” In disbelief, Majors ended the call and phoned Dean’s best friend, Alex, pleading: “I need you to tell me right now that this is a lie.”

“I’m sorry,” replied Alex. “I can’t do that.”

Majors tries to convey the enormity of the loss: the old friend who had long been there for him; the big personality who worked for Saks Fifth Avenue and always wanted to make things just so. The senselessness of it all. That he could no longer confide in Dean, who was far into his own recovery from meth. “Tim was in many of our lives,” he says — a mentor to people facing addiction.

What would make even less sense is how Dean ended up at that address. A month or two before his death, says Majors, Dean had warned him not to go to Buck’s apartment. They were talking about Gemmel Moore (2nd pic), the first man who died there, in July 2017, aged 26. “He said, ‘DeMarco, don’t you take your ass to Ed Buck’s house.’ Tim shows me his phone, all these messages are from Ed Buck. It was a lot of messages. He went like this…” Majors performs the phone-scrolling gesture, quickly, to denote how many screens it took up. “I said, ‘I’m not going over there.’ He said, ‘Me neither.’”

But with meth addiction, he says, “You’re never out of the woods.” So although he believes Dean went to Buck’s house to take meth, he does not wonder why. “Crystal has a way of contacting you,” he says.

He stops and looks up.

“I have walked those paths,” he says, “I’ve been on the train to go hang out with somebody and even shivering with fear, [thinking], You shouldn’t do this. And then a moment later, How the fuck am I sitting on his bed without my shirt on?”

Majors’ story answers this question — how meth magnetizes particularly queer people of color – in a series of layers. It leads to the starkest of illustrations. After two hours of talking, he lifts his left forearm. Marks and scars bisect it: across, underneath, stripes of different width and color. Some look like burns. It is too much for him to talk about, for now. Instead he nods to confirm one detail: A white man did this.

Such hookups — where meth and other drugs such as GHB are used to intensify everything — are popularly known as party and play (PnP) in the US, and as chemsex elsewhere. But what is being ignited in these settings, the racism and violence, has been largely hidden, with the only flares fired into the air when a public figure has been involved.

As well as the more immediate, recognizable attacks on a person, what emerges through these accounts is something previously undocumented: the targeted, sustained abuse of individuals over long periods — and the thrill their destruction gives the perpetrators.

DeMarco Majors, 42, stoops to light two candles — for Gemmel Moore and Timothy Dean. “It was two young men who were taken, here in LA,” he says.

His open-plan apartment is set back behind a security gate in Sherman Oaks, a quiet suburb in the San Fernando Valley of north Los Angeles. Sage has been burning, thickening the air with earthy acridity. “We have to protect ourselves,” he explains. “We’re sitting targets.”

It’s been 10 months since he lost Timothy Dean, and grief seems locked into every muscle. “He was one of the most loving, funny characters,” says Majors. “He would laugh and get close to you and put his hand over his mouth and tickle you while you're laughing. You know?”

Majors stops for a moment to breathe. He begins to explain meth’s pathway — how men like he and Dean are propelled into its orbit.

First, he says, there is the growing up black in America. “Men of color always have to be strong,” he says. Majors was raised in a single-parent household in Indiana, with little money. “You’re taught to survive before you’re taught to love.” And if the love you feel is for another man, it can lead to rejection by church and family.

“A lot of people would never understand what it’s like to be black — and then black and gay?” he says. This then involves entering the gay scene, “where people tell you ‘love is love’ and ‘equality for all’ and then you’re told on an app: ‘No blacks, no Asians.’”

A community that should provide sanctuary, therefore, instead compounds alienation: a double rejection. “Some white [gay] guys,” he says, “were not taught racism was wrong.” And then meth enters the bloodstream, ripping inhibitions away. “When you are under the influence, that shit is heightened,” he says.

Majors remembers the first hit of meth, in his late twenties, given by a white man. For the first time, he says, “I was not in my head.” Pain and shame were silenced. “I was actually OK with being touched and touching someone. I didn't have to be aware at all moments. It gave me what I thought was freedom.”

The danger, however, lay not only in the people Majors began to meet, but in what meth found in him to feed upon: a trauma buried decades before.

Major says he was abandoned by his mother when he was 13. “I was given away on Christmas Day.” There was domestic abuse at home, he says: fights between his mother and her partner. “My mom asked me if I could stay with my grandfather for awhile.” After a few days she said to come home, so his grandfather dropped him off.

“They didn’t answer the door,” he says. “I found myself sitting on the porch in the snow, with all the lights on in the house, and the TV on.”

His grandfather had been driving around, and looped back to check on the boy. “He saw me still sitting there in the snow. He picked me up and said, ‘I’m never going to let you feel this way again.’”

Majors was raised by his grandfather until he graduated high school. But once he arrived in New York City in his twenties, meth bit. “I had all this deeply rooted hurt, shame, and depression,” he says. Because of its use with sex, often arranged on hookup apps with two or more men, the combination — disinhibition, connection, escapism — was too great to resist. “You end up getting around people and people touching your body that do not deserve you.”

On one occasion, this escalated beyond his worst fears. He went to see someone, a white man, he considered his friend. There were others there who gave him meth and GHB until he lost consciousness.

“When I woke up, the person who’s supposed to be my friend was sitting on the side of the bed weeping,” he says. In the confusion, all he knew was that “I was high as fuck and ashamed and throwing up. Didn’t know that I was out [unconscious]. I said, ‘I’m going to go to the store to get some Gatorade.’” But when he later arrived home, something else felt wrong, physically. “I went to the bathroom and checked myself,” he says. Fearing the worst, he phoned his friend. “I said, ‘Did something happen to me?’” Majors enunciates the response as a slimy drawl.

“He said, ‘Ohhhhh, it was so hot.’”

The words reverberate around the sparsely decorated room.

“I had been drugged and my body used while I was passed out,” he says. Majors remembers how he replied and relays it in a rasping tone that sears with incredulity: “And you let them use my body?”

This was just one occasion. Being a model, a beautiful man on the scene, put him more at risk. “People look at you and are instantly attracted by your outward appearance,” he says. “It’s like, Get the drug in so I can get what I want. These people will harm you at any and every opportunity they can.”

At the time, he could not consider what was behind it — racism or otherwise — because of the distorting effect of meth, disguising cruelty in the fog of need.

“You’re either trying to survive,” he says, “or to keep people at a distance — even though you want them so close. You want to be loved, but the truth is you don’t know what love is. You only know what feels good. Because you’ve dealt with so much emotionally, the little engagement you get with another human being? Your perception says, ‘This is good’.”

Often it wasn’t even the sex he craved with meth. “It was the companionship,” he says. In those rooms of uninhibited strangers, “you could actually talk to people.” He describes the inner voice, driving him to those houses: “Please just give me these next couple of hours where I can just feel like a human being.”

Now, however, he sees it differently: “I was numbing myself.”

Much of what he experienced percolated for years before forming a clear perspective, of the abuse enacted upon him and others, nuclearized by meth and racism.

“A lot of people have the drug around because it was the lure — they couldn’t get the guy they wanted on their own,” he says. He remembers a white guy who had been gorgeous when younger, but was horrifically beaten in a homophobic attack — a baseball bat to the face — that also destroyed his confidence. But when he found meth, “he could get over [to his house] whoever.” In his case, it was black men. Only later did Majors come to regard this behavior pattern as predatorial. But he is insistent on understanding what lies beneath.

“Hurt people hurt people,” he says, not excusing the white gay men responsible, but seeing the context. “This community was built on hurt.”

As Majors talks, he becomes concerned that the conversation itself could be dangerous. I try to reassure him that I’ve interviewed many who have suffered violence and trauma, including victims of torture.

He tries to help others now. He talks of a friend who video-phoned him recently while high on meth. Majors kept him talking for hours, just to stop him going out and meeting harm. The wider discussion, he says, also needs to become about solutions: tackling the mental health problems that underpin everything and the racism compounding it.

But six months ago, just four months after Timothy Dean died, Majors lost the person he had fallen in love with, a Puerto Rican man named Jesus. “One of the most beautiful men I ever laid eyes on,” he says. “The first guy that I loved — really, deeply loved. All I wanted to do was take care of him.” But Majors could not stop what was about to happen.

“He was partying with some guys,” he says, “and I don’t know all the details, but as he was dying, the guys were so afraid because there were drugs in the house [that] they didn’t call the police. They left him for dead.” As he begins to talk, his fury rises as if confronting those men: “I don’t give a fuck if you did the drug. Call [911]! You could have cleaned up the house and ran. But you let him die.”

He breathes deeply. His voice drops back, quietening into stillness.

“That broke me,” he says. “So many in our community are prepared to let people die.”

Others, however, are engineering it.






One man, Harry Balk, is responsible for "What's Going On" ever seeing the light of day. One day Balk, an executive in the creative department, received an acetate pressing of "What's Going On" by mistake, while it was on its way to be heard by Motown's quality control department. Balk fell in love with the song and was deeply disappointed when the company's ears said no to the track. The only other person at Motown who loved the song as much as Balk was Stevie Wonder.


Without Gordy's knowledge, Barney Ales, vice president of sales, commissioned a pressing of the 100,000 copies of the single. The song was sent out to radio stations on Jan. 17, 1971. DJs and the public loved it. Motown sold all 100,000 copies of the song on Jan. 21, the official release day, and already had orders for 100,000 more copies. It became the fastest-selling single in Motown history, all thanks to the determination of company man Harry Balk.



"What's Going On,"was originally conceived by Renaldo "Obie" Benson of the Four Tops. On May 15, 1969, the band was on a tour stop in San Francisco when Benson witnessed a violent confrontation concerning People's Park between young protesters and Berkeley police. Kids in America were being sent overseas to fight in Vietnam and kids were being beaten by the cops back at home. Benson wanted to know, in his words, "What the f--k is going on?" He pitched the song to his bandmates in the Four Tops, and they rejected it as too political — and too folky!


The Four Tops were on tour in the U.K. and due to appear on the British TV show Top of the Pops. Before the taping, Benson got to chatting with a folk singer playing on the show: Joan Baez. After the Tops had rejected his protest song, Benson thought it might work for Baez. He tried to play "What's Going On?" for Baez in her dressing room, but she didn't go for it.


In mid-1970, after working on the song with lyricist Al Cleveland, Benson finally had a chance to play it for Gaye after tracking him down on a golf course. Gaye loved the song but didn't hear it for himself — he wanted to cut the track with a vocal group he was producing called the Originals. But Benson refused to give Gaye the song unless he sang it. He was so convinced Marvin was the man for the song that Benson offered up a percentage of the songwriting credit to Gaye. Gaye's wife, Anna, helped seal the deal telling Marvin, "This is a perfect song for you." Benson has said he'll love Anna Gordy forever for helping Gaye see the truth. Gaye tweaked the lyrics, and the rest is history.


The question mark Benson had originally fixed to the album's title track was deliberately removed by Gaye. What's Going On, the album, is a statement rather than a question.


To separate himself from the finishing-school look of other Motown artists, Gaye changed his image while recording this album. He grew a beard, wore casual attire like hoodies, denim and funky tracksuits, even though the album artwork sees him wearing a tailored suit.


During the recording, Gaye began to wear a series of knit caps. Many of his fans copied his fashion sense, but Gaye later admitted to biographer David Ritz that he wore them to cover up a growing bald spot on the top of his head, and was tickled to see people wear them to look cool.


Motown album artwork was generally mediocre, but people could tell What's Going On was a different kind of record just by its cover art. It featured a striking image: a close-up of Gaye gazing off into the distance, his collar up, rain on his hair and beard. This was one of the last shots that photographer Jim Hendin took. Art supervisor Curtis McNair chose the now-famous shot, but his boss rejected it because he thought you could see too far up Gaye's nostrils. McNair fought for the photo, and enlisted Gaye's opinion; Gaye backed McNair's choice in five seconds flat saying, "This is definitely the cover right here." And that's how we got the photo we've been looking at for 49 years.


What's Going On was the first Motown album to feature the names of the people who played on it, including the Detroit Symphony Orchestra's string section. It was the first record to give recognition to the Funk Brothers, who laid down the rhythm tracks and was the band of musicians largely responsible for the famous Motown sound. It was the beginning of a long road to recognition for these studio musicians.


The studio musicians were primarily jazz cats playing on the pop hits of Motown to earn their dollars. At night they would play the Detroit jazz clubs to satisfy their musical urges.

Gaye decided he didn't want this record to have the familiar, straight-up Motown beat, so he didn't use the usual drummers from the Funk Brothers, instead inviting jazz drummer Chet Forest into the session. Gaye went heavy on percussion players, using Eddie Brown (Gaye's former valet) and Earl Derouen on congas and bongos, Jack Brokensha on vibes and Jack Ashford on tambourine.

What's Going On was one of the first Motown albums to publish the lyrics. The album was headed to the printers in Detroit, but Gaye was in L.A shooting a movie so he sang the lyrics over the phone to Georgia Ward, who worked in the A&R department at Motown. Ward was getting a one-audience-member Marvin Gaye concert but says that she was so busy getting the lyrics down correctly that she didn't have time to enjoy Gaye singing just for her. She included every note he sang, which is why there are so many "la, la, la"s in the printed lyrics.


This album was the product of many writers, among them Anna Gordy, Obie Benson, Al Cleveland, Elgie Stover, James Nyx and Earl Derouen, but Gaye always claimed there was one writer on the album who didn't receive an album credit: Smokey Robinson.


Another signature sound on the album was the layering of Gaye's vocals, his ability to back his own voice and harmonize with himself over and over. This sound was also a product of chance. Gaye had asked engineer Ken Sands to record his lead vocal takes on separate tracks for the song "What's Going On" so they could be listened back to and compared. The idea was to play them alternately so Gaye could pick a favourite. Sands accidentally played both vocal tracks together and Gaye loved how his double-lead sounded, deciding to keep this unintentional duet. Gaye would use the accidental double-tracking for the rest of the album as well as the rest of his career, creating a trademark Marvin Gaye sound.


The alto-saxophone riff that opens the album was the first and only take. Musician Eli Fontaine was noodling around in the studio, warming up before the session. He signalled to the booth that he was ready for a take, and was instead told to go home. Gaye had been recording Fontaine's warm-up and heard the riff he needed for the song. Fontaine protested at being sent home, claiming he was just goofing around. Gaye told him through the intercom, "You goof exquisitely" followed by, "Thanks, you're done." Gaye decided not to spoil the perfection of the riff by having it appear anywhere else in the song, becoming one of the album's signature features.


The songs "Flyin' High (in the Friendly Sky)" and "God is Love" were written by Gaye, his wife, Anna, and his confidante Elgie Stover, who was nicknamed "the Curse Out Man" at Motown. If the company needed to tear a strip off of someone, they'd send Stover over after a couple of drinks and he'd curse the heck out of them (later in life, he became a caterer for President Bill Clinton). As one of Gaye's most trusted associates, Stover contributed to the vocal chatter at the beginning of What's Going On. His voice opens the album: Stover is heard asking, "Hey what's happening?" and adds in the very groovy line a little later in the opening, "Everything is everything."



Mike Tyson speaking on Rick James in his book.

"I was living this crazy dual life. One day I'm visiting friends at prison, the next day I'm hanging out with Rick James.

I met him at a party for some new movie. We were at a big club, maybe a thousand people were there, but you’re going to notice Rick James. I didn’t know whether he was a celebrity, a musician, or a gangster. He had made a lot of money from Hammer sampling him on “U Can’t Touch This,” so Rick was back in business.

The next time I saw him, I was in the lobby of a hotel on Sunset Boulevard. I was sitting outside with Ricky Schroder and Alfonso Ribeiro from "The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air," just chilling. Ricky was probably 16 then and Alfonso was maybe 17. But we’re sitting there drinking, and I looked up and I saw a convertible Cornice Rolls-Royce pull up and Rick got out.

He was wearing a loud shirt with a tie, but the tie wasn’t tied and the shirt was unbuttoned. He came over to us, slapped me five, and then he looked at Alfonso.

“Aren’t you an actor?” he said and then, boom, he hit him. “Gimme that fucking beer,” he said and grabbed Alfonso’s beer. “Rick, this is a kid, you can’t hit this guy like that,” I protested. He just took that bottle and swigged from it. “What’s up, nikka?” he said to me,' before he departed.







1. In 2018, an auction was advertised on Facebook.


The object being sold? A young 17-year-old girl from South Sudan.


The event was condemned by human rights lawyers, anti–human trafficking organizations, and local and international communities. In South Sudan, the tradition of selling child brides is hard to stamp out.


Young girls are given to the man who provides the highest “dowry.”


In this case, five men fought each other in a bidding war and not one asked the teen if this was what she wanted.


She was handed over to a man in his forties as his ninth wife.


He paid with luxury cars, 500 cattle, $10,000, bikes, phones, and a boat.


What angered activists—besides the selling of a child—was that she was advertised on Facebook for days before the social media giant responded to complaints and removed the post.


Even then, other posts singing the auction’s praises remained.


Later, a picture was published showing the sad-looking girl with the buyer.



In 2018, a dinosaur skeleton sold for $2.36 million in Paris.


The sale rubbed paleontologists the wrong way.


The meat-eating creature was part of a new trend that harms the efforts of researchers.


Under US law, any dinosaur bones found on private land can be sold by the landowner anywhere in the world.


As fossil sales rake in big bucks, scientists fear this will encourage people to auction off their finds instead of allowing researchers to study the fossils.


Worse, fossils stolen from federal land might be peddled as something the owner supposedly found on his property.


Beyond the fact that researchers cannot afford to compete at dinosaur auctions, moving a fossil from its original location removes a lot of contextual information. However, the Paris sale was controversial for another reason.


The catalog said that the creature was probably an Allosaurus, a common predator.


Additionally, in what paleontologists described as pure hype, the catalog suggested that it might be an unknown type of allosaurid.


If true, however, the loss to science would be all the greater.



The British artist known as Banksy achieved fame through anonymity. When nobody looks, he spray-paints his creations on buildings.


Banksy’s themes made statements against commercialism, and he even told people not to buy art.


Fine words for somebody whose record sale at auction was $1.4 million.


In 2018, another Banksy painting came under the hammer at Sotheby’s.


It showed a little girl reaching for a red balloon, and when the auction ended, the simple scene was sold for an amount that equaled his previous record.


However, the moment the sale concluded, the painting self-destructed. A confused crowd watched the image slide into a hidden shredder and emerge in strips from the frame.[8]Banksy admitted that he was responsible because “to destroy is also a creative urge.”


Sotheby’s was not aware of the stunt beforehand. Neither the auction house nor the buyer could be too upset.


The world of high art being what it is, the destruction made the work 50 percent more valuable than before.






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