Culture, Sports, Writing…or whatever
I cried. It finally happened, I mean. Been trying to cry close to four months now. Both times caused by movies. This time Room; previously Inside Out. The connection’s transparent: The saddest moment in life is when you’re no longer allowed to be a child.
I’ve been thinking about Her again. An obvious literary trick at mystery. Use pronouns to elicit symbolic distance. Also an attempt to call attention to myself; hope all the She’s read this and think that sentence was about Her. Really I’m referring to Scarlett Johannson. I am Joaquin Phoenix. Surprise.
I wish she called me.
Attended a writing conference. Many people instructed me lessons already learned. I’m an autodidact meaning I’m smart meaning I’m alone. This is all heading somewhere. If I had to predict a direction—down. In a shape of a spiral.
Some people were nice, some were assholes, I was somewhere in between. It was all nothing new. A repetitive cycle of questioning, belittling those deemed intellectually inferior, wondering why it wasn’t my turn, crystallizing into a millennial trope. I’m bored with how pathetic I sound.
I yearn for Purpose. Now I am Justin Bieber. What do you mean? I’ll show you. Where are U Now? Sorry. Get used to it. Love yourself. No pressure. No sense.
I return to my storage unit. It’s funny: I no longer am attached to this Stuff. It once held great meaning, now it’s a metaphor. Something about leaving Stuff behind, but refusing to let go. That’s as close as I can get.
I retrieve what I came for. A plot detail not necessary to explain. Travis Scott’s “Antidote” blares from my phone. I play his music only when no one’s around. I dance and rage. I bashed him once online and wish to maintain my brand. Can’t shatter the illusion. It’s all I have.
My plot detail and I leave. We speed away. The building blows up behind us. Stuff rains from the sky. Insert generic flourish of pluming fire, a couple embarrassing items like panties. One more weird thing. A chicken clucking in cocktail attire. A lesson: The only way to end eras is violently.
The sun sets as I drive. Kanye West’s “Power” provides background soundtrack. The fantasy ends at the bar “I’m jumping out the window, I’m letting everything go.” Too much identification.
In the editing bay, they revert the color palette back to its muted, drab aesthetic. Jump cut to the opening scene of me crying at the movies. Camera follows me from behind out the theater. Stunned shuffling. Drained appearance. Open the door to the dark outside.
Cut to a close-up of my face. Puffy eyes, salt streaks down my face, hot breath steaming in the cold night air. A push-in closer as a thought flickers but doesn’t complete itself in my expression. Pause an almost unbearable time at this position.
Right before it’s totally uncomfortable, a twitch of a smile. Then everything fades to black.
I’m going to admit something in the comforts of this blog that I normally wouldn’t say aloud: Sometimes, I believe in Free Masonry. Other times I believe in the Knights Templar. And yes, some times, I think the Illuminati is real. I really do. In a way, how can I not? Often, secret societies seem the realest aspect of 21st-century life. And no, we’re not talking Edward Snowden-NSA or anything tangible or truly threatening to our current, functioning reality. That’s what THEY want you to think about. That’s what THEY use as a distraction. But I’m talking Jay Z, Jay Electronica and BK Hip Hop Festival–the stuff THEY don’t want you to hear.
That Jay Electronica was headlining a promoted hip hop festival was news enough; then he had to “bring out” Mac Miller, J. Cole, Talib Kweli, Muhammad My Man, and Jay Z, who had a quick break in between stops of his “On The Run” tour with Beyonce to make a showing. All that matters is Jay Z. All that matters is that Jay Z bestowed his highly-scrutinized and -publicized “5-percenter” chain to Jay Electronica, who was dressed in full Fruit of Islam regalia. All that matters were the line of young men who stood in FOI uniforms emotionlessly and wordlessly behind Jay Electron like a mime-squadron ready to pounce at a moment’s notice.
Don’t belittle this moment. Don’t besmirch it with your ironic attitude. You are, I can tell. Chaining Days hold special meaning in rap, especially when chained by King Hova. J. Cole even recorded a whole melodramatic song about the concept–and he never does that. It’s supposed to signify a passing of the torch, a generational blessing from rap’s statesmen. It’s a special day. But it’s an event when done with a 5-percenter medallion to an FOI-dressed man signaled as rap’s Second Messiah; a man who’s perpetually arriving, appearing just when the public could have forgotten him, but otherwise existing forever in rap purgatory comfortably.
Jay Electronica is a man who cannot be described easily. He’s an eclectic, enrapturing, exasperating enigma who has carefully constructed his persona to create such a description. He’s a musician who doesn’t care to release music. The last time he did, it was at the behest of a fan on Twitter. And Jay Electronica obliged simply because he was in a good mood at SXSW.
He dated hip hop queen Erykah Badu, had a child with her, and is currently dating real royalty in Kate Rothschild. A freakin’ Rothschild! Don’t tell me secret societies might not be legitimate when a man who boasts of a past as a homeless wanderer, belonging nowhere and existing everywhere, who holds incredible underground celebrity but little public attention, who was handpicked by Jay Z as heir to his throne privately and now very publicly with only releasing less than 20 songs in like five years, is dating a fuckin Rothschild. I don’t think I’ve emphasized that last point enough.
Sigh. Allow me to remove my veil, at least temporarily. There seems to be a lot of confused emotions right now–anger, confusion, sadness, surprise, horror–and that’s just my emotions. No idea how you’re feeling here. All this is a rouse to express the burning necessity that Jay Electronica release his debut album, an album that’s supposedly been recorded since 2010, teased in 2012 with an iTunes tracklist, and dubiously confirmed with the release of “Better in Tune with the Infinite.”
What plagues hip hop is lack of stars who can capture the public’s attention and have something worthwhile to say. Only two rappers from the past five years–Drake and Kendrick Lamar–could claim that distinction. However, those rappers seem momentarily disadvantaged by the soaring monuments of stars like Jay Z, Lil’ Wayne, Kanye, Eminem, et al. They can’t escape their shadows, at least for now. Jay Electronica can and does. He’s one of the few rappers who can hold a stage with Jay Z as an equal presence, even Kanye can’t do that. Ye looks like Jay’s little brother up there, Jay Electron feels like a lost cousin who’s earned his respect.
And so what I’m truly saying here is that moments like this weekend, when Jay Electronica reaffirms this hope by demonstrating just how truly skilled he is and how much others within rap’s elite community respects him, it has become a painful reminder of what exists but isn’t known. He’s a secret society in and of himself. At this point, it’s no longer a jesting game, a wonder of what is and isn’t. What’s worse is that this won’t die on both sides for the foreseeable future: He’ll keep toying around while fans endlessly wait like willing fools.
If you’re under the age of 40, you likely enjoy the musical creations of one Kanye West. You find his music consistently interesting and groundbreaking. You know the upcoming summary paragraph of Kanye’s career, but just as a reminder:
He reintroduced “soul” sounds to popular black music (Blueprint, various others), effectively destroyed gangster rap’s legitimacy on his debut album (College Dropout), recontextualized orchestral tones to sound urban and hip (Late Registration), stole rock music’s big-ness and stadium static for hip hop purposes, usurping rock’s present popularity in the process (Graduation), created a new subgenre within rap of emo-pop beats and minimalistic, soul-searching lyrics delivered through robotic auto-tune vocoders, constructing a new lane for a fresh batch of artists to occupy like he had on his debut album (808s & Heartbreak), demonstrated how far he could push his artistry and maximalize every last modicum of his skill and talent to regain the public’s love (My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy), dropped one of the best rap duo collaborations albums ever—while creating a new subgenre of luxury rap (Watch The Throne), and he…well, you’re not quite sure what Yeezus is, but damn it’s provocative. It gets the people going.
But you likely knew all that because you’re under 40 and care about music and this type of stuff. You’re culturally aware. You scout Twitter for illegal download links when new albums leak, have likely seen all or almost all of Orange is the New Black AND House of Cards, and you have strong opinions about Wes Anderson movies. You enjoy being in the know about pop culture. You do this because you never want to be seen as ‘ignorant’ and dismiss new stuff outright. In fact, you think searching for new culture and entertainment is ‘fun’ and ‘cool.’ You have a good eye and ear for music, film, TV, etc. You’re a good judge. A fair judge. You know what’s quality and what’s kind of crappy. This is why you like Kanye West because*, regardless of his political and social outbursts and his rants and interviews and all this stuff, you recognize he produces good music.
*And this part is key.
Unfortunately, your parents do not. Parents don’t understand Kanye, especially your parents. They hate Kanye West. Hate him. “That Kanye’s a jerk, man. A real jerkoff. How could you like a guy like that?” you can almost hear them saying right now. At every family gathering, you’re put on trial for enjoying Kanye West, as if you represent his legal counsel. “How could you respect him?” “How could you defend him for (various social outbursts)?” “Did I mention he’s a jerkoff?” You always hear these statements. You’re sick of them. Tired of these perpetual attacks. This referendum on your character.
We know this pain. We get it. We want to help you. And so we’ve written this for you, cultured person under age 40, to present the next time a parent or uncle or boss criticizes you for liking Kanye West.* No longer will you toil under their oppressive ignorance. No longer will you need to fearlessly battle for yourself and/or Kanye. No longer will you be misunderstood. All you need to do, cultured friend, is hand this to them, filled out accordingly, and all will be fine with your world.
*Exhibit C is not applicable in debates revolving around and with regards to Kanye’s ranking and status within the hip hop realm. Exhibit C will not prove Kanye’s comparative worth to Jay Z or Scarface, simply that Kanye has worth at all. We hope this satisfies your needs. If not, we advise you seek legal counsel elsewhere.
And now, we present Exhibit C.
UNITED STATES DISTRICT COURT
DISTRICT OF PUBLIC OPINION
Kanye Haters, Persons over the Age of
40, Persons who don’t engage in pop-
ular culture yet sermonize on it, your
family members, et. al
Plaintiff(s)
vs.
Investigation No. 773-MBDTF-47
Kanye Supporters, Persons under the
Age of 40, Persons who enjoy and
respect popular culture, you, et. al
Defendant(s)
EXHIBIT C
(Insert relative’s name(s) here)
Plaintiff, hereby referred to as Hater, are upset with Kanye West because of (Hurricane Katrina telethon incident/Taylor Swift incident/Recent interviews/other) (hereby circle all that applies).
This upsets you, Hater, because (lack of respect to fellow human being/I’m a diehard Republican/I’m secretly racist/country fan/other people seem upset so I am, too). Now, we understand you have individual value and personal opinions regarding society. We see that in you. A standing pillar of our great democracy lies in the individual and his/her freedom of speech. However, according to our client, you were recently recorded as saying (Insert applicable Kanye-bashing quote here) (e.g. “Kanye West is a fucking piece of shit douchebag. How could you respect someone who’d do that to a pretty, white girl on a national, public stage?” Or “George Bush does care about black people! What a goddamn loser for him to say that.”)
Now, hater, we will forsake questioning the validity and worth of such a statement. Instead, we ask of you of your mistakes as an individual. Like that time (Insert drunken outburst mistake here) or that time (Insert workplace outburst here, i.e. yelling at boss out of frustration, losing job as a result, family struggles mightily for 6-8 months while looking for a new job, human souls are tested.).
And we ask of you, hater, if your mistakes throughout life are not redeemable. We will not ask you if they are comparable to Mr. West’s mistakes for that would be a trappable court room fallacy that this case could not recover from because of course your mistakes and his mistakes are in no way comparable for multiple reasons including, but not limited to, his status and public nature of his mistakes which amplitudes them, that Mr. West may or may not be completely mentally stable like most great artists, that you are of a different upbringing of him (likely of white American origin) and cannot understand the competing forces within society that work against Mr. West, and because Mr. West has a habit of doing very, very publicly foolish things that 99.99% of the public does not have a habit of doing.
So we will not ask if your mistakes are comparable, but instead if they are redeemable. (Insert long-winded response where hater argues yes they are redeemable but attempts to hint at some comparability to Mr. West’s transgressions.)
(Court room quickly devolves into parties interrupting each other, talking over one another, etc.)
Stop—please, no sir/madam, please I’m insis—No but you simply don’t understand. You can’t have it both ways like this…I know. No, I know. Kanye West may not be the most respectable human being, but he is redeemable because redemption is basic constitution of Americ—so what he doesn’t get the same rights as you and me?…Fine, he sucks or whatever. I’ll let you have that.
But could you at least admit his music is pretty good?
(No, hater almost always will respond.)
Well fuck you then!! I move that this case be tossed out due to the fact that this hater will always be a hater and culturally unaware and who’s opinions on popular music simply don’t matter. They reject new ideas only because they’re new and live in their old, nostalgic world. And in this court of public opinion, where we are constantly trying to improve and progress and build a better society, that is simply unacceptable!
Wait…what? I can’t yell “Fuck you!!” to the plaintiff?
I knew this was a losing battle and engaged anyways? I should’ve just kept my mouth shut and moved on? We’re supposed to shake hands, retreat amicably, and accept our differences? That’s your ruling.
Damn. No one man should have all that power.
[a] millennial reservations 