What Kevin taught me was that in our line of work, people enjoy doing business with people who have the tools of the trade. If someone is going to meet you and you are someone in the public eye, they really don’t want to see you drive up in a sensible car. It’s terribly interesting. And terribly Negroidian. People don’t want to see you wearing a sensible wool coat in the winter. They want to see you fluffed out in a chinchilla or a mink.
And they don’t want to see you with sensible gold balls in your ears, they want to see you dripping in diamonds. And your hair had better be done, freshly dipped. Your jeans had better be down and your shoes had better not be turned over. You may have on work boots, (and I believe that work boots should be to work in and have some mud on them), but when you’re a celebrity they better be clean. Especially when you’re a black celebrity. There is a lot of pressure on black celebrities. And I totally understand it.
I used to drive a Subaru when I got out of college. And one of my first radio jobs was at HOT when it was HOT-103. I was very popular on the station, because I did many appearances and had a little bit of celebrity within the pop community. I remember pulling up to a 7-Eleven to get a pack of cigarettes one day and some listeners pulled up next to me. The girl was driving a brand-new cabriolet and she had a couple of friends with her. The crew looked like they were having so much fun—Barbie and Ken and Midge. It was a nice summer day and they were chilling in the bright white cabriolet with the top down. And there I was in my dirty brown Subaru with no air conditioning, windows down, looking sweaty.
As I was getting out, I heard one of them say, “Wow, we have a better car than her!” They knew I was Wendy from the radio, and I guess they hadn’t expected me to have a car like that. The comment stung a little. But it wasn’t delivered with any malice, just matter of fact. And I understood their surprise.
But the sting would have been magnified had I pulled up next to a car full of black people. I would have gotten hit in a very Negroidian way with “You see that car!” It would have been so loud and nasty, I would have wanted to crawl under my car. And that kind of attitude seems only directed at black people by black people. I cannot imagine a black person opening her mouth to say, “That’s all they’re driving?!” directed at a white celebrity.
White celebrities get a free pass. It’s a serious double standard. If you’re pulling up at a traffic light and you look over and the guy in the next car is from the band Blink 182 and he’s driving a beat-down Chevy, no one is looking at him like “Ewww, look at that!” The assumption is that he has money because he’s in Blink 182. They would think, “That’s just a crazy white boy with that grunge thing.” We don’t make fun of his uncombed hair, his beat-down jeans, his turned-over shoes. We still assume he has money. We think that he probably has mad houses or farms or whatever white boys like that live in.
But black celebrities are forced to get tools of the trade, and I hate it. It’s really silly. But it’s a reality.
I have found that the very people who are pointing and saying, “I have a better car!” are the same people who have nothing but that car.
The Negroidian thing goes way beyond celebrity. I attribute a lot of the behavior to not being used to having money. For many black people, our money is all brand-new. Generally speaking, a lot of us are second-generation college graduates. A lot of us are first-generation college graduates. Very few of us are third- and fourth-generation college graduates. Hardly any of us were born into family businesses with a silver spoon in our mouths. Right now, we are probably striving as much as we have ever been as far as having things and money and raising our children into a certain lifestyle.
Look at the way Kimora and Russell Simmons’s children are being raised—in multimillionaire neighborhoods with nannies, the best education, with a certain class and etiquette, a knowledge of all of the finest things in life, not wanting for a thing. The same for the children of Will and Jada. And Puffy’s kids. They may never be touched by the ills of the streets.
But there are also many noncelebrities hustling to provide a different reality for their family. There are households where Mommy and Daddy both went to college. Mommy is a Ph.D. and daddy is a chemist and they have a nice house. Or both Mommy and Daddy work very hard and are sending their children to private school and are struggling to have the nice things—but they have all of the nice things.
I look at some of the things my son has and how he’s being raised, and I am in awe over what we are able to give our children now . . . some of us. But with the toys, games, and electronics, we are also missing some very important values . . . some of us. Too many of us are putting our entire worth into those things, which is Negroidian in the negative. We are raising our children to value things and possessions instead of values like love, integrity, and morality. They want all of the latest things, and parents are literally breaking their bank to give it to them. I think this is wrong. And the stakes seem to be higher today than ever before. Kids don’t want Air Force Ones, they want Prada sneakers. They don’t want the Murakami (the rainbow colors) anymore. It’s too common. They want the Louis Vuitton Theda bag. These kids want it all. And parents have to learn how to say no.
But how can they when many parents are worse than the kids? They want the Manolo Blahniks and the Jimmy Choo—not the Payless knockoffs (they don’t care what Star Jones is talking about).
Too many look down their noses at people for not having things instead of being grateful for what they do have. We shouldn’t be at a point where we can afford to pull up to one another and sniff our noses and say, “Hmm, that’s all you’re driving!”
I have an old soul’s opinion about material things, and while I talk about materialistic things a lot on my show, in real life I am still that frugal person who clips coupons and has occasional flashbacks to the elderly lady who is so poor that she has to eat cat food. I never want that to be me, so while I have the “tools of the trade” and all of the trappings of a celebrity lifestyle, I still stash money and am very careful about cutting into my retirement fund or my son’s education fund. I will do without before ever doing that.
And in the midst of what appears to be Negroidian behavior on my part, when you see me out with a pink fur and matching pink fur hat or the crazy jewelry that I may have on, know that in my personal life, at the end of the day, none of those things matter to me one bit. I recognize that without someone significant in your life, no material thing matters. Life is so much bigger than that.
If your kids are in remedial reading or your baby’s mom is giving you drama, who cares how much money you have or how many cars are in your driveway? When you are lonely, no Cartier bracelet or Louis bag is going to fill that hole.
Things do help, but they aren’t the end-all. I know it feels good to pull out of that mile-long driveway in a nice whip but if your household is a mess, what does it all matter?
CHAPTER
6
Puff, Puff, Pass
This will be the shortest chapter in this book because I really don’t have much to say on the subject, and after I have said what I am going to say, I want to put this whole issue to rest— once and for all.
For the record, I do not hate Sean “Puff Daddy, Puffy, P. Diddy” Combs. I do not hate anyone, for that matter. I do, however, hold a certain level of contempt for Puffy. He single-handedly tried to ruin me, tried to ruin my career. He spent a lot of money and used a lot of his influence to try to crush me in New York in the late 1990s. Much of this is part of a sealed court record in a suit filed by me against my former station at HOT-97, and some of it was covered in Wendy’s Got the Heat. It’s old news, and I don’t really want to rehash the gory details, but I will say that Puffy almost accomplished his goal. And the hell he put me through, I will never forget. But I don’t hate him.
Puffy is in a special category with me. I will call it “other”— as in other than everyone else.
I recently went on a rant on the Experience where I had some harsh wo
rds for Puffy. Much of it was for dramatic effect for the radio. And some may pick up this book and see exclusive interviews with people directly connected to Puffy and think that this is my way of getting him back. Well, it isn’t.
Let’s be honest, Puffy is the biggest name in hip-hop—from the music, to the clothes, to the legend. Many of the things that hip-hop is today, it owes to Puffy. And being the biggest name in hip-hop also makes him the biggest target for scandality. People want to talk about him, and you people want to know what people are saying.
Perhaps the real reason why there are so many references to Puffy in this book is because of Puffy himself.
I didn’t build the aura that he has around him. I didn’t create the scene at City College where nine people lost their lives in 1991 at a charity event run by him. I didn’t have Puffy smack in the middle of a murder of his Bad Boy artist Christopher “Biggie” Wallace in Los Angeles in 1997.
I wasn’t there at Club New York in 1999 when shots rang out and a police chase ensued. I wasn’t on trial for attempted murder and I didn’t cause the events that led to the conviction of Bad Boy artist Jamal “Shyne” Barrow, who was sentenced to ten years in prison.
I didn’t have anything to do with Bad Boy artist Mason “Ma$e” Betha leaving the business, fearing for his life. And I wasn’t there in 2004 when Bad Boy artist Loon was arrested and charged with attempted murder for a stabbing outside of a Los Angeles nightclub. And I certainly didn’t have anything to do with Puffy shirking his responsibilities and not ponying up enough child support to adequately take care of his firstborn child.
There seems to be this black cloud over Puffy. Call it karma, call it kismet, call it what you want. I didn’t create it, but I damn sure will talk about it.
So forget about whatever he did to me. I will not go into details about that. Just know that Puffy has given me and all of the wags plenty of grist for our mills. If he doesn’t like what’s written about him, he has only himself to blame.
Puffy is a person who stays in the news. That is one thing he has done for my career—giving me much to talk about. And I love him for that. If it’s not Diddy Running the City for the children, he’s paying off Wardell Fenderson, the driver of the getaway car from Club New York. Or he’s renting a yacht for four hundred thousand dollars a day with fabulous celebrities aboard. Or he’s bedding some hot star. Or starring on Broadway.
I don’t hate. I thank. I even buy my son Sean John outfits. I love his clothing line. I appreciate Puffy. I even look forward one day to sitting down with him for a little chat. The last time I interviewed Puffy was around 1991 before the City College incident. It was a great time in the studio, lots of fun and laughs. We talked about his big event. I was even supposed to be on the sidelines for that celebrity/charity basketball game as a cheerleader. It was a regular interview—but definitely not an Experience interview. I wasn’t Wendy the way I am now and he wasn’t the Puffy that he is now.
The last time I saw him was at a play in Manhattan in the winter of 2004. It was at the opening of Women Can’t Wait, the one-woman play by Sarah Jones. Sarah Jessica Parker was there and Puffy sat in front of me a couple of rows down. He came in as the play was to begin. He saw me. And I saw him. He didn’t acknowledge me.
The only kind of acknowledgment that I would accept would be “I’m coming by to see you on your show.”
I would love to interview Puffy. But it isn’t a goal of mine. I set reasonable goals for myself—goals that I have some assuredness that I can make happen. Interviewing Puffy isn’t very reasonable because it doesn’t depend solely upon me. So if it happens, great.
What would I ask him? He would have to find out when he comes into the studio. But I can say that I will not be asking him, “Are you gay?” We’re way beyond that.
CHAPTER
7
A Wendy Williams Exclusive Wardell Fenderson, the Driver
December 27, 1999, is a date that is permanently etched in the mind of Wardell Fenderson. That was the day his life was to change forever. As a driver for Sean “Puffy, P. Diddy, Whatever He Is Calling Himself These Days” Combs, Wardell Fenderson was asked to drive Puffy and his then-girlfriend, Jennifer Lopez, to Club New York, where they planned on partying the night away—a post-Christmas, pre–New Year’s celebration that would turn into a disaster for all involved.
It was a routine assignment for Wardell that went very, very bad when shots rang out and all hell broke loose inside the club. In the middle of the melee was his client—Puffy.
Wardell, who was filling in as Puffy’s driver as a favor to a friend, had been driving the rap mogul for just a few weeks when this incident happened. And when he pulled up to Club New York’s entrance as he was instructed, Puffy and his entourage (minus Jennifer at first) piled into the SUV and ordered Wardell to drive. According to Wardell, one of the bodyguards had to go back in—Wardell contends that Puffy had totally forgotten about the love of his life at the time—Jennifer.
J.Lo finally emerged from the club and Wardell said he had no idea what had really happened inside until J.Lo blurted out, “Shyne busted off! Shyne busted off!” Police arrived at the scene, and according to Wardell and his trial testimony, he was ordered by Puffy and his bodyguard Anthony “Wolf” Jones to drive and “keep driving!” And he did.
Eleven red lights later, Wardell finally pulled over, was arrested for the first time in his life, according to him, and that’s when he says his personal nightmare began. A gun was found in the car. Another was found near the scene. And while in jail, Wardell said he was offered a bribe from Puffy—a twenty-five-thousand-dollar ring—to take the rap for the gun found in the car. He even testified to that before a grand jury. Puffy said that if Wardell agreed to claim the gun was his, he and his family would be taken care of. Out of fear, Wardell initially said he would take the rap. But he said he quickly came to his senses when he was released (Puffy had him bailed out of jail) and realized what he was facing. He didn’t take Puffy’s ring and didn’t take the rap.
A taped phone conversation had Puffy offering to make Wardell—who had lost his real job driving for an investment banker amid the negative publicity following the club shooting— and his family “comfortable,” according to court documents. Wardell testified against Puffy.
On March 16, 2001, after a two-month trial, Puffy—who was defended by all-star attorneys Johnnie Cochran and Benjamin Brafman—was cleared of weapons possession and bribery charges. His codefendant and bodyguard, Anthony “Wolf” Jones, was also acquitted of all charges. But Puffy’s protégé, Jamal “Shyne” Barrow, who had a separate defense team, was found guilty of assault and weapons charges and was sentenced to ten years in prison. He is still in prison. (Wolf was shot to death at Chaos, an Atlanta nightclub, in November 2003, allegedly in an argument over a woman.)
In many ways, it looked as though Wardell Fenderson was also a loser in the case. The jury obviously didn’t find his sworn testimony credible enough to convict Puffy of bribery. And after meeting Wardell, I somewhat understand. It’s not the things that Wardell says. He’s just a quirky little dude. He had some very interesting things to say, but I could see why the jury in the first trial did not find him credible. And it didn’t help that Puffy’s lawyer Benjamin Brafman painted Wardell as a liar and a deadbeat dad.
“You have to look at who the person is saying it,” said Brafman to the jury. “What do you know about Wardell Fenderson? What type of person abandons, for all practical purposes, the welfare of his own child?” Wardell had confessed to owing about seventy thousand dollars in child support.
I also found Wardell to be very courageous to take on Puffy the way he did. Don’t get it twisted. In my opinion, Puffy is a very dangerous man. He may not wear his danger the way someone like, say, Suge Knight—who is six four, and 350 pounds— wears his, but he is dangerous all the same. Suge wears his fear and intimidation, Puffy hides his behind shiny suits, which makes him more dangerous because you don’t necessarily s
ee him coming.
Something is rotten in Puffy’s camp. I am still baffled how he was able to walk away scot-free while Shyne got ten years. I think he sold his soul to the devil a long time ago, to be quite honest with you. Perhaps that’s why things like this keep happening to Puffy. And credit to Wardell for having enough balls to not back down.
Wardell Fenderson used to call me on the request line on WBLS after I returned to New York in 2001. I was still in Philly when the mess jumped off at Club New York, but when I got back to New York he called me to welcome me back and he would call me frequently on the request line. I would never put him on blast and I never put his calls on the air. I would shout him out here and there.
He had been calling to chat. But I knew he was open to me asking him questions. A person doesn’t call so many times on a request line without a reason. He wanted exposure and he wanted to tell his story and perhaps get a little bit of celebrity. Because celebrity is like a drug.
I decided to keep Wardell as a feather in my cap for a one-on-one interview, whether in the studio or, as it turned out, for this book. I kept his number handy and at the right time, I used it.
I interviewed Wardell Fenderson on November 10, 2003, at a special meeting spot in Manhattan. He was wearing glasses and a gray Kangol and said he was very tired. Since the 1999 Club New York incident, Wardell, whose nickname is Woody, has had to take lesser jobs than he was accustomed to and was working crazy hours to make ends meet.
We talked for more than an hour about everything from how he started working for Puffy to how Puffy treated J.Lo to what really jumped off that night at Club New York. He was very soft-spoken and answered every question without hesitation. He seemed relieved to finally get it all off his chest. As it turned out, it was the last interview he was to do before his big trial. And as it turned out, it may be the last interview he will ever get to do on the subject.
The Wendy Williams Experience Page 8
