Oh, you don’t say? My #3 MC of all-time? Really? N.W.A.’s “Crazy Motherfucker Named” Ice Cube? He’s coming to Vancouver, to one of the greatest venues in the city THE WORLD: the Commodore Ballroom?!? Domino, motherfucker!! Man! A.T.’s probably already wearing a Raider’s hat on top of another Raider’s hat…Me? Oh, you know I’mma be there. I’mma be there with bells, a jheri curl and a motherfuckin’ “Bitch Killa” jacket on! Sheesh!
What’s that cha say? Oh. Well, yeah I’ve seen Cube before. So what? If you love something, it’s of one-time use?! Shee-it! Yeah. It was Lollapalooza ‘92. I was 13, but baby-faced. (The Terrorist Beard had showed no sign of itself yet, and didn’t leap out of a tree and ambush my face with no warning till later in life.) After watching some flannel-wearin’ sucker successfully pull off an emotional jack move, I decided to follow suit. I actually poked myself in the eye to make it start to water, approached another information kiosk “crying,” on some “I’m from out of town and I lost my wallet and all my money and I’m lost and stuck waaahhhh!” shit. They let me make a phone call to “my cousin” for a ride. (I don’t know why I placed cousin in quotes. He’s actually my cousin and I really phoned him) and – the end goal of the con – gave me a backstage pass to wait for rescue, “safe” amongst the hairbags and gangsters.
And then: I met him. He mispronounced my name (weird, cause he didn’t read it; I was introduced to him by the pimply info-chump). and signed my backstage pass, violently butchering the spelling of my name (Noovie). And he waved off a yes-man attempting to pass the dutch to his left, directly to a grinning ear-to-ear child. Cube was like “Naw, n_____. He small.” And that was that. I don’t really remember much of the actual performance/setlist (could be the contact buzz) other than how commanding he was on stage. And, that it’s quite probable that this lone, minute-long (tops) interaction with me made him realize he liked kids, and foreshadowed his descent into family films. (Sorry!) After the show, the guy that gave me the pass asked me on the way out how I was and if I would be okay waiting for my cousin by myself. I spat on the ground right between his shoes, flipped him the bird and carried on. I was teaching him (and you) 2 very important lessons: 1. Nice guys finish last. 2. You’ve heard “you can’t trust a big butt and a smile?” but did you know in the first draft of that song, the next lyric was originally “or an east indian kid wearing an N.W.A. shirt, snotting himself.” Chances are he’s method acting.
Anyway, I could go on and on about the man, and I will in another post. Right now, lemme just hop on over to Live Nation and cop a ticket. (Sorry, Cube. I didn’t mean to use the word ‘cop.’ Uhh… Double-Fuck Tha Police!! Cool? Cool.) Be back in a…hmmm? Oh, yeah. Tickets don’t actually go on sale until this Friday, Jan 21. For all these civilians. But me, I’m special. I got clout, baby! Gman told me on the low, (looks over both shoulders, crouches for no reason and switches to Homer Simpson yell-whisper) that if you know the secret password, there’s a…hold on. Let this motherfucker walk by…stare at him too…(Okay. I think he’s out of earshot) YEAH! THAT”S RIGHT! KEEP WALKIN”!!
Okay. He’s gone. Yeah, that was a shitty sweater-vest. Anyway, like I was saying, Gman told me that if you know the secret password – WEST – you can jump all these peons Checkers-style and gaffle a pre-sale ticket! What’s that? “Gaffle?” Oh. You’ve never heard “gaffle” before? Loser. There’s a skit on AmeriKKKa’s Most Wanted called JD’s Gafflin’ (skip to 4:41)? What’d you think it meant? Gaffle is like jack. Verb, not noun. “Jack them motherfuckers for them Nissan trucks.” Jackin’ For Beats. (Look to your right.) Whatever. “It ain’t my fault you got the heebie jeebies.” No. That last one doesn’t really make any sense there. I just felt like using another obscure Cube quote.
Hell no, I won’t buy you a ticket! Why don’t you buy me a ticket? Equal rights, lady! Now gimme your credit card, so I can go buy us some tickets! Although if we can only get one, I call shotgun on that shit. You can buy yourself one on Friday with the masses. Directions? What am I, Google Maps up in this [radio edit] mother-mother?! Fine. You might wanna write this down:
Want me to press on top of your finger to make it press the button on the mouse too? Damn, girl! Alright. Yeah, yeah. Of course I’m excited! All this good news, and I didn’t even have to use my AK!