I've Got One Wish When I'm Deceased: Bury Me In 501s And 10.Deep.

I know that I've already touched on this subject in a past post, but I figure I'll post this anyways. I had to complete it for an art class, so I might as well post if I put in the time to actually do it. It's an enjoyable read. Trust me. I wrote it.


It’s rare that I’m excited for a concert.

Well, that’s a gross understatement and a lie—every concert I go to generates excitement.

But Cudi in Cleveland is different: this is a man apart from the rest of hip-hop—the music industry even. This is an artist who hasn’t necessarily reached that subjectively interpreted apex of his career and he’s playing in his hometown. Say whaaaaaa? Count me in, brotha.

Now, I’ve spent countless time thinking about Cudi. Don’t take that statement the wrong way (because Lord knows you definitely could), but rather I’ve been thinking about his place in music—I’ve been thinking about his art.

What really is Kid Cudi? Is he a hip-hop artist?

Nah, not so much.

Is he an R&B singer?

No, that really doesn’t suit his style. He harmonizes but not consistently and always with the help of some serious studio production.

Is he a rock ‘n’ roll star?

Outside of his guitar-laced outro, “Up, Up and Away,” he isn’t really rocking that much.

Or is he a gangster rapper?

Are you kidding me? He wears dark-washed Levi ultra skinnies and chunky Elvis Costello frames. If he didn’t blaze so much and were Caucasian, he’d easily be Rivers Cuomo from Weezer.

So what is Kid Cudi? Why do I care so much as to travel three hours from school to watch him in industrial, depressing Cleveland?

Well because he’s… Um, because he’s Mr. Solo Dolo. He’s The Cudder.

But more or less because he’s revolutionizing music through diversifying what we consider popular music to be—changing our aesthetic perceptions of hip-hop, rock, rap and R&B all at the same time.

On his debut mixtapes, A Kid Named Cudi and Dat Kid From Cleveland, his beats hit like a freight train: sparsely crafted, bass- and melody-heavy tunes crafted to Cudi’s personality. His stream-of-consciousness poetic flow teeters dangerously between choppy and smooth; lyrics like, “they love a dooder, they love me I mean/I can’t believe how I had a dream of Martin King/But they ain’t takin’ me out on no balcony,” spread onto your ears like Jif chunky peanut butter.

The synthy and atmospherically beautiful “Man On the Moon: The Anthem” is introduced by the line, “I never gave a f**k/I never gave a f**k about what n****s thought about me/I mean I did, but, like, f**k it/you gon’ love me, man,” a statement and proclamation drenched in such cut-and-dry honesty and self-consciousness that F. Scott Fitzgerald would be proud.

He’s introspective and pensive without being maudlin. His wistfulness is palpable yet it’s not over-bearing. He’s brash, cocky and bold at times, but he still has his doubts.

He very well might be the J. Alfred Prufrock of our generation.

When you start off an album with the proclamation, “I’ve got 99 problems/and they all bitches/wish I were Jigga Man/carefree livin’,” you’re nothing short of a basket full of emotion.

And because of this journey through the human condition—because of this disregard for every music industry cliché of pompousness and trivial subject matter—I wanted to see Cudi live, in Cleveland, on the 15th of January.

So I did.

With the exception of a few not-so-desirable concert attendees, Cudi’s performance at the Agora Theater was more than entertaining. His open use of alcohol and pot during his concert not only made his performance that much more lively, but it also added to his conflicted persona. He seemed untouchable onstage as he romped through classics such as “Down And Out” and “Make Her Say,” but was human and melancholy during his performances of “Mr. Solo Dolo” and “Man On the Moon: The Anthem.”

Ditto with his closing number, “Pursuit of Happiness.” As the crowd helped chant “I’m on the pursuit of happiness and I know/everything that shines ain’t always gon’ be gold/I’ll be fine once I get it/I’ll be good” with the encore, Cudi’s smile lit up the dark, crowded theater; an assurance that solidifies Cudi’s closing statement about the hometown crowd, “I love you, Cleveland.”

Other than Cudi’s being the second-most worshipped man in northeast Ohio outside of LeBron James, this concert emphasized why Kid Cudi is relevant: he is relatable. He embodies the superstar persona that everyone wishes to be. He has his issues, but who doesn’t? He makes pop music that’s creatively outside the box no matter how many rap and hip-hop purists bash on his simplistic rhyme scheme. He’s from a city that’s as aesthetically ugly and depressing as the demons that roam his sub-conscious, but he’s not afraid to unleash them. He shares what he feels—earnestness that makes him human.

So what is Kid Cudi?

He’s just like you and me. That's why I was excited.


God Is Love,

Rev Rub.

He Was A Diplomat's Son, Oh.

-Since Curb Your Enthusiasm ended its seventh season, I've been itching for more of that misanthropic Jew genius, Larry David. It's like a bad addiction to painkillers: once you're prescribed a modest amount to make up for your newfound apathy towards Zach Braff and everything he creates, you start inundating your hypothalamus with copious quantities of Seinfeld's comedic savant.

So in order to pass the time until that four-eyed fuck is back on the air, I've thought of a few situations that I believe could work in season 8. Granted, I'm not a screenwriter (I'm just a blogger hack), but I think these hold promise:

1. Escalator Etiquette

It's not that hard to remember: stay in your own fucking bubble. I find it hard to believe that this nearly golden rule goes to the wayside when you step on a moving set of stairs. Proper escalator etiquette requires each rider stand on opposite sides of consecutive steps--at the least. This prevents unnecessary and often awkward hand slips and crotch grinds from both sexes. I'm 5'5"--there's nothing worse than having some 6'10" Paul Bunyan dip his fly's zipper on the back of my dome-piece. Larry could take this pet peeve to the next level.

2. People Who Walk Too Slow

Another often broken golden rule: people who walk as if they should belong on AARP yet still possess the legs of a gazelle. While I'm not condoning that we all try to emulate Usain Bolt, it becomes tedious trying to pass these sloths on the way to a class I'm probably already late for. And that's too true. Their tepidness causes me to not necessarily become late for class, but ensures that I'll almost never find the perfect seat in order to only half-heartedly participate in my lecture. And this bothers me. Maybe I want to text someone about getting crappy dining hall food after class. Without a venerable position I'm utterly and completely fucked. In the direct path of the hurricane that are my professors' eyes, I'm unable to perform this function and many others that are necessary for most of my lectures: day dreaming, sexy-lady scanning and of course day dreaming. You people know who you are that force me into this kind of destitution. Fix it, pronto.

3. Having Sex In The Room While Your Roommate Is Present

This would be LD gold. For those who follow the show, Larry's sexual awkwardness is mythical (the Cheryl threesome episode, anyone?). Especially with Leon in Larry's house now, this would prove to be most satisfactory. But, c'mon, sex while your roommate is present in the room? It's like dorm room etiquette number one. At the very least it's in the top-ten. The bed was rocking so hard against my head the other night I nearly got a concussion. And I'm not OK with those slurping noises being no more than three feet from my face. I'm not.

With that being said...


God Is Love,

Rev Rub.