Riding the public transit, I study the blank stares
to answer my questions of how and why I got so many grey hairs.
I take care of the nervous that runs through my extension cord,
and I reflect on that reoccurring dream where we met the Lord.
Single file lines, to give her a pound one at a time but when I faced her-
I attempted to embrace her, she looked so fine,
I awoke from my sleep
before her bodyguard had a chance to beat me to submission
and I still walk with my religion.
I watched the children scurry in circles around a two-way mirror,
worrying about which side of the glass projects the reflection clearer.
Hear the whispers of the wind trying to get me to grin,
gassing me up about the love that I plucked and I’ve been stuck within.
For every eclipse that stares at me
from the other side of a paper cup of espresso
I light a match beneath a kettle.
And for every set of lips that become attached and equipped
with that program
to seek success,
I bleed my ethics out a slow drip.
I used to know a man who met a woman, don’t remember where,
big beautiful eyes and light brown hair.
She was from the ‘burbs, he was from the south side of the city,
this was back when Franklin avenue was still pretty.
—Atmosphere, Don’t Ever Fucking Question That
Enough to hold you to the brightest of lights,
to place you dangerously close to that sun.
Enough to acknowledge the flaws you can’t ignore
and recognize the cause of what’s done is done.
More than enough to put my name behind my ideals,
and neglect my logic twice daily.
Enough to keep me looking for my Lucy in the sky with gems,
when I remember how you used to call me baby.
Enough to look in my mirror with detest for every tear you shed,
regardless of why you wept.
Enough to curse any man who can’t appreciate the depth
of the ocean I swam till I ran out of breath.
—Atmosphere, Don’t Ever Fucking Question That
Nicki Minaj can pack it up and go home.
You should definitely read it, and I’m being completely unbiased here.
I know I’m not your cool older cousin or your college radio DJ buddy at the University of Maryland, but it’s clear you don’t have an influence like that in your life. I know this, because I saw you at the sold-out Mac Miller show at the Fillmore Silver Spring on Thursday.
This was the single worst concert I’ve been to all year — and I go to four shows a week. But you guys were going cray! (Do you say “cray”? Or is Kanye old-people music?) I know Miller’s new album, “Blue Slide Park,” debuted at No. 1 last month, and I know he’s earned some phantom credibility as Wiz Khalifa’s protege. But seriously, guys. He’s a 19-year-old from Pittsburgh who raps about how much he likes bagels with cream cheese. You deserve better.
Just lol at this whole article, as
- I never knew 32 could sound so unbearably old/pretentious, but I’m sure everyone is expected to only listen to Mozart, NPR, Brother Ali, and the sound of their own mellifluous voice when they’re 19. I’m sure I’m the only one who thinks listening to shitty white boy rap just to have fun is appropriate. But cut the kids some slack.
- If “Donald Trump” doesn’t get you pumped about your life, you clearly have no stacks to count nor big butt bitches to kiss your nuts. We can’t all be so lucky.
- We all know that Mac Miller is just Asher Roth minus hair, and we all know how long that one lasted.
Don’t worry gramps, the kids will get off your lawn before you even need to go get the garden hose.
"Gimme Dat Christian Side-Hug," one of my all-time favorite raps.
So yesterday I woke up and was doing my usual morning internetting, which includes (of course) a nice scroll-through of Tumblr, and I see someone has posted an audio of that song Gucci Gucci by Kreayshawn. I listen to it, and, as addressed in my previous post, finally learned where all of the white girls on my various social media networks were getting their quotes.
In any case, the song was pretty okay, but I’m pretty sure that it wouldn’t have gone anywhere if she wasn’t white—it’s a novelty thing, I guess.
So I creeped her Twitter and noticed that she was going to be performing in a “concert” at Colette, this famous store on the Rue St Honore, at 5 PM. Since I was going to an Opera, (Othello at the Bastille Opera House) at 7, I figured I could stop by since it was right on the way.
So I’m all dressed up in my new little black dress, nude pumps, ornate black ring—ready for an Opera. I go to this store, not really knowing what to expect, and arrive in what may be the worst retail establishment ever in operation.
The store, Colette, is apparently known quite well throughout Paris. I had never heard of it, but then, I don’t give two shits about “The Fashion World,” so I’m not really one to ask. But my boyfriend told me, upon his confused arrival, (his inquisitive “what the hell am I doing here” look and much-too-put-together suit still on from his work day were the definition of adorable) that most everyone knew of Colette. He also told me he’d sworn he’d never come into this store, but I suppose that’s neither here nor there.
If I had to describe this store, I would say an Ubran Outfitters for the millionaire jet setter crowd. The ground floor was all overpriced skater gear, Nike Airs designed by some Japanese guy, novelty coffee table books, and Swarovski-encrusted headphones. The upstairs was full of 16,000 euro jackets. If you can take a moment to appreciate the kind of douchebag you’d need to shop at this store, and the kind of money you would need to afford it—I think you might come close to the picture of the clientele.
Not to mention the salespeople with a permanent look of judgmental disgust as they eyed everyone perusing the sparse racks. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: WOMAN/GAY MAN, YOU WORK AT A CLOTHING STORE, YOU ARE NOT BETTER THAN ME. REMOVE THE STICK FROM YOUR ASS AND FOLD A TEE SHIRT, BITTER DISDAIN IS NOT A GOOD LOOK FOR SOMEONE MAKING 12 EUROS AN HOUR.
I’m not rich by any standards, but I also don’t spend my days sucking lemons and glaring at strangers.
So anyway, the concert started extremely late, so we were left walking around in circles semi-making fun of the whole ordeal. A little crowd (about 25 people) started to fill up around the makeshift stage, and the thing started up.
Cue the absolutely absurd gaggle (I think that’s the correct term) of sexagenarian gay men in next to me wearing the kinds of outfits I would expect to see in an avant-garde musical stage stage of Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood. It was all crazy colors, bowties, clamdiggers, sweater vests, and sparkly loafers. And who should walk up and join them but Andy Milonakis, Milla Jovovich, and this guy whose name I can’t remember but whom I KNOW is famous for something minor.
Andy Milonakis wears cool glasses. Milla looked…much older than I would have thought.
Anyway, the show itself was…exceptionally mediocre. The guy who opened is an AMAZING beatboxer, Kreayshawn was…unprepared. Possibly the worst singer I’ve ever heard; rapping was as good as it could be, I guess. Then there was the skinny chick in the Urkel glasses from her video who just kind of stood behind her and awkwardly threw up gang signs. The enormous black guy who DJ’d looked as though someone had put a gun to his head to be there, he was so half-heartedly swaying his arm back and forth in a lackluster, “let’s get this over with” kind of way.
Also, that awkward moment when no one knew any song but Gucci Gucci and she was just kind of like…”okay, let’s cut the foreplay, I know what you came here for.” But in a less clever way.
Meanwhile, we (Marc and I) were in what amounted to business casual, standing perfectly still as we sort of detachedly appreciated the music. Not really the average rap concert audience, I guess.
The Opera was exquisite, our seats were perfect. Truly a wonderful show.
We ended the night at this American-style restaurant in Bastille, eating bacon cheeseburgers and drinking beer in our opera clothes.
The definition of happiness.
I love trashy Parisian rap. Also, I know his brother’s roommate, which basically makes me the Amber Rose of the Ile-de-France rap community.