Essays on Yeezyanity

KanyeChain

I’ve been thinking about Kanye a lot lately.

I mean, I think about Kanye a lot all of the time.  But I’ve been thinking about Kanye a lot lately.

My dog Killa Cam would probably insist on a “no homo” there.

It’s crazy though, just the other day was the 10th Anniversary of “College Dropout” and it had me in a hella reflective mood.  Sadly, it’s hard to find good convo about Kanye in this day-and-age.  It’s crazy how fast perspectives and opinions flip around.

Like, when Collo Drollo hit, everyone wanted Kanye to win.

Oooh, hecky nah, that boy is raw!

‘Ye is still ‘Ye, right?

10 years is a long time.

Me is still me, right?

When Yeezus dropped everyone wanted Kanye to lose.

Kanye made a white lady with yellow hair sad on TV one time.

And it’s just a big spinning cyclone of rain-slick razor blades and spittle and peoples expectations alienate us until we alienate them and maybe Kanye doesn’t want to wear the fucking pink polo and the little leather Gucci backpack anymore.  And we don’t like him anymore.  And I don’t wear throwback jerseys and baggy jeans and fitted caps and Ecko hoodies and fucking Tribal sweatbands on my wrists anymore.

Do you guys still like me?

How many times has your phone rung today?  The world is fucking LOUD, dog.  The world is like, DMX-at-a-Arby’s-drive-through-speaker loud.  Sometimes the only way to block out the billion noises around you is to listen to one single noise so fucking loud that it drowns the rest of them out, and maybe that noise is just one hammer striking the same block of wood again, and again, and again, and again, and again.  And maybe that hammer is building something, and maybe that hammer is tearing something down, or maybe that hammer is just beating.

I listened to Collo Drollo on Sunday again.  It’s lemonade.

Lemonade was a popular drink, and it still is.  But I’ve never really *needed* lemonade.  And I know that now.

It’s kinda crazy; Kanye decided to buy his mother a present and Oprah’s doctor wound up killing her on the operating table.  Tell me you can fathom that as set-your-alarm-Monday-morning real-life and not some sort of cough-syrup fuelled fill-in-the-blanks Soap Opera plot.  Imagine that sentence in ink instead of magic marker.

There are times when I Thank The Based God that when I lost my father I was still too young to process emotions fully.  Every time I agonize about an ultimately-insignificant life decision or lament some imagined mistake that I’ve made.  I’m glad my muscles didn’t work this way back then.  I’m glad I didn’t know how to do these jumping jacks and push-ups yet.

I listened to Yeezus on Sunday again.  It’s whiskey.

Whiskey isn’t good for you, any Doctor will tell you that.  But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that there have been a few moments in my life where there was nothing I needed more than a couple shots of whiskey and a loud fucking hammer.

And 10 years is a long fucking time, after all.

My homie Sean and I tried to Google up some Rick Owens leather jogging pants at work one afternoon.  I think they cost like $900 or something.  I doubt that’s a concept I’ll ever fully grasp.

I remember bagging up all my high school clothes and donating them to the Salvation Army awhile ago.  If you see some kids on the Westside looking extra-nostalgic in tall-tees and baggy Rocawear zip-ups tell them I said “what’s good?”

If I ever stop being the me that you like: I’m not really all that sorry.

I have a JPEG saved on my desktop that’s a picture of Kanye running his tongue up Amber Rose’s scalp.  I still can’t remember why I saved it in the first place but it’s beautiful, and fascinating, and perfect to me.

kanye

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