20 A STARR IS BORN—interview by Jerome Onyx' Fredro Starr is blowin' up all over the place. Whether it's on the small
screen, the big screen, or on your turntable, Starr's star has never shone brighter.
As he pauses to take a breath, he reflects on the rise so far.
32 SALT OF THE EARTH—by Ron Chepesiuk
The nation's black farmers are in a a crisis of sorts. After years of discrimination
by the Department of Agriculture, many predict that almost no black-owned farms
will exist by the turn of the century—andme are saying that's being optimistic.
46 THE 1998 PLAYERS COLLEGE FOOTBALL ALL-AMERICA TEAM
60 THE HARD FACTS—by Donna Powell
Suffering from a splitting headache? Can't get rid of the sniffles? Well, before
you pop those Tylenol, get the facts straight—it might be your last chance
to get anything else in that particular condition. DEAPARTMENTS
7 Letter from the Editor
8 Dateline
Clinton in Africa
10 Body and Soul
Virtues and vices
15 The 411
Entertainment news, buzz, and interviews
44 Comic Relief
72 Women
Editorial by Cassandra George-Sturges
74 Peep This
Music and video reviews
78 Hook-Up Alley
Strictly personals
82 Did You Know ...?
African American history PICTORIALS
25 TABATHA
Pictorial by Laurien
35 CHASITY
Pictorial by Sparks
55 ART
Pictorial by Matthew Otsuka
LETTER FROM THE EDITOR
FELLAS, I died this past weekend. Now, I know what you're thinking—how could
I be writing an editor's letter when I am, in fact, the late editor of Players
Magazine? Well, I can faithfully transcribe my own death because, soon after,
true love brought me back to life. Well, not true love exactly, but my ability
to express it to someone.
You see, after I died, I came to the realization that nothing I did really mattered
anymore. So I made my way back to an empty bedroom and held court—I was
on my deathbed, and no one was gonna take this moment away from me. I then sent
an emissary forth to bring back Nicole, the prettiest girl in the world and that
one shining moment. Let me explain:
Back in high school we all know that there was always that one girl in school,
usually in the senior class, who was the most beautiful, funny, cool, nice creature
God had ever made. And there was always a point when you realized that, because
of her, you would never stop loving women—because they could get this good.
At that second she became your One Shining Moment. Of course, she only ever went
out with older guys; but it was actually kinda better to just wonder with your
friends what it would be like to just kiss her breasts, or cup her inner thigh,
or other innocent lustings of the time.
Nicole and I had recently rekindled our old high school friendship and a few things
had become apparent to me. She was still the same person—bubbly, breathless,
flustering—and the crust that age puts on youth—the weariness of life,
the sag of various guilts—had not found their way to her. So, I decided,
who better to finally say the one thing that I died without ever having told anyone?
So I pulled Nicole closer—right up to my dead lips—and told the prettiest,
most popular, sexiest girl in my graduating class that I was in love with her.
And at that moment, the air came whooshing back into my lungs, my heart finding
pace with a familiar beat. And Nicole, relieved that I had rejoined her world,
wasted no time in walking over to me, putting her head on my shoulder, and doing
what any woman would
do—telling me how much it meant to her. "I knew that would do the trick,"
she said.
Of course, now there was the small problem of the afterlife. What if this adolescent
memory decides she loves me, too? What if, after too many broken promises, she
sets her sights on me; on post-mortem rants? I didn't sweat it, though. We were both involved, and besides,
it was actually kinda better to just wonder to myself what it would be like to
stroke her forearms, or dance on her lips, or other harmless copulations of the
time.
So as we lay there in the dark, her body temperature rising to compensate for
my rigor mortis, I began to wonder, could that really be what it's all about?
Could it be that I'd worried too hard about the odds of women liking me back?
And as we lay, her breath a sweet furnace on my cold dead nose, I realized that
there is no shame in expressing how you feel, only keeping it from the people
you know it would mean a lot to. It just means you'll now have one more person
in your corner; which isn't so bad at all, actually.
And while this may seem more like a love letter than an editor's letter, it is
actually more of a cautionary tale than either. It's easy to see love as a means
of getting sex—but if you don't think women can smell that attitude a mile
away, this magazine is as close as you'll get to a real one. I would, in fact
suggest you turn right to Cassandra George-Sturges' essay [page 72] and brush
up a little on the female psyche. The rest of you, do me a favor. If you see that
girl again, the one that you had no chance with, first make sure she knows you
want nothing from her in return, and then just say the words. See? She doesn't
stifle a laugh. She doesn't run screaming into the night. She just puts her gentle
hand on your anxious shoulders and whispers, "I'm can't tell you what that
means to me." I swear you'll never feel more alive. David Jamison
Editor in Chief
