A friend of mine, who never grew out of his rapping hobby but wizened enough to find other sources of income, hired me to collect the cover money at a party he threw last Thursday.
His parties are more like showcases for local rappers where he gets a chunk of the door money as well as some stage time. He’s got some rhyme skills, as well as a few other kids we know, but most of these kids lack any capacity to rap and have egos as out of control as their identity crisis.
Kids who talk like The Situation and dress like Lil Wayne. Girls with neon colored hair that don’t understand you’re only staring out of bemusement that she actually looks like a deflated, white version of Niki Minaj.
And we can’t forget about those dudes who “hate fags,” but walk around looking like they borrowed their little sister’s jeans.
The most dignified person may be the 30-something Jamaican guy who can’t accept that his career peaked in 94’ when he did background vocals for a few notable rappers.
Or perhaps that drunk Jewish hip-hop junkie who never raps and keeps his self-esteem guarded by so many Ralph Lauren Polo horses, that he needed $60 bad enough to work at the gate of this hip-hop hell all night.
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