What up, fam? Long time no speaky. How the hell you been? Ah, who cares! We’re here to talk about me! December was stupid-rad! (Exhibit A: you’re not hearing about it till January.) What can I say? I spent it goofed up on booze and Flinstone vitamins and shit. It was one party/event/show/reunion/key party/knifefight after another. Yo Jazz, lemme hit you with that highlight reel one time…
The first of the month we posse’d up, crossed the border & I saw my first live NFL game! (That dullard Jay Haddow manages to string together something resembling words and describes the experience HERE.) The best part was that we were ourselves (drunk and fighting each other through the streets while A.T. the Bartender was flexing his supreme tact and impeccable taste via a ‘North American Pussy Crushers’ t-shirt and Jay’s twin – yeah, sorry to say, there are two of ‘em – rocked a damned do-rag!) and we didn’t get arrested or kicked out of the country! Sick-stravaganza!
Christmas was also retarded special needs! It was my daughter’s second, but really the first one where she wasn’t a blob of adorable nothingness. You know what that means! If you said “Miss Teen USSR forcing her to open presents big, coloured squares that don’t mean shit to her, through grit teeth, ’cause you will like Christmas dammit!” you would be correct! Although if you said “a mini purple armchair to match Pops’, mad blu-rays and dolls and books, a baby Ironhead hoodie from Uncle Piggy, a magnetic helicopter, a superhero-dinosaur backpack and matching mask, her first colouring book and crayons, a stylish apron, a Grover microphone, a talking treehouse full of crazy-ass Zoo creatures (no Haddow), a giant plush Super Mario coin box that makes the noises when you hit it with your domepiece, AND her name in motherfuckin’ Run DMC-typeface on a shirt!” we will also accept that answer. Stella be all like, “Gimme the loot, gimme the loot…”
Boxing Day was Fizjmas (don’t ask), the annual get-together between me and my stupid-ass circle of friends (whom I’ve been bound to by black magic and legally binding contracts since elementary school). I can’t say much about it. I’ve been sworn to secrecy on the EPIC events of that night. Uh, or I can’t remember anything past that shot of 151 I did out of the midgets. (No, you read that right. No apostrophe intended and that WAS the end of the sentence.) Choose your own adventure, folks! Either flip to the next paragraph or take my ass to the nearest STD test! Fizj!!
December 16 &17 (Featuring December 14)
And the shows! Sweet Andy Griffith, the shows!! I already talked about December 14th’s early evening visit with Ghostface Killah OF FUCKING WU-TANG CLAN (pardon the yelling).
And that was just the warm-up to the craziest back-to-back concert tag team EVER! Separated only by one night, and in the same venue no less! I’m talkin’ ’bout the one-two punch of the 16th and 17th: The Royal Weekend. Saturday night we would be watching The Throne. The dream team of two of the biggest titans in rap’s pantheon. Jay-Z & Kanye West.
And that ain’t even shit!
Friday night. Oh, motherfuck me, Friday night. Not a Friday night. THE Friday night! PRINCE, LIVE!?!! The one I’d been waiting for since I was 4! Ever since deciding purple was regal and declaring it my favourite colour. Since bumping Purple Rain on vinyl and wearing out 1999 on tape and tapping my feet in the theatre seat to his Batman Soundtrack. Since my mom finding out Apollonia’s titties got purified in the waters of ‘Lake Minnetonka’ in the film and mercilessly forbidding me to see it. (I had to wait a year or so until my brother was ‘babysitting’ me and get him to rent “that movie with the weird little gaylord” to occupy me while he ‘occupied’ his girlfriend downstairs.) Where all everyone else saw was the blouses and androgyny, I saw a hybrid of Hendrix, James Brown, Little Richard, Sly Stone… the list goes on forever. Point being, he wears his musical influences on his (frilly) sleeve and has the talent to, despite his diminutive stature, stand shoulder to shoulder with these musical giants. Don’t believe me?
HOW ‘BOUT NOW, LONGHAIRS?! The only thing better than his guitar wizardry is his guitar face! And that’s just the tip of the iceberg’s dick! Prince can (and does) play every instrument. One man band. Force of nature. Weirdo. He’ll kick your ass at basketball for breakfast and then serve you breakfast for dessert! So much creativity he had to create whole other acts to release it all (see: Vanity 6 / Apollonia 6, Tevin Campbell, Morris motherfuckin’ Day & The motherfuckin’ Time!) and gave away hit, career-making songs like they weren’t shit (see: The Bangles, Chaka Khan, Sheena Easton, pre-Pope-bashing Sinead O’Connor, etc.). Plus: no matter how many women’s clothing racks he raided he got ALL the pussy! (see: Kim Basinger, Carmen Electra, Madonna, Vanity, Apollonia.) And he even staked claim to the few chicks that didn’t get “the 7 inch in the computer” by stickin’ ‘em in his band (see: Sheila E, Wendy & Lisa). So diss his clothes all you want, tough guy. He’ll just be over there fucking your soulmate. In the soul. And then he’s gonna pose nude in a bed of flowers and pretend he’s finger-banging himself. No big whoop, Short Round!
So… how was it? Well…
I waited MY WHOLE LIFE for this show! The least you can do is wait 7 days, mu’fuckers!! Plus, that means it’ll be exactly one month to the day(s) from show to review. Which means, well, nothing, but it sounds like… destiny? Or something? Except I’m posting them on opposite days so… I DON’T KNOW. Shut up, already! Damn! Just come back in a week, mmm-kay? Monday: THE THRONE! Tuesday: PRINCE!! Today? PEEEAACE!!!