Mac Miller, Justin Bieber, And Rap Taught Me How To Handle The Police



I do things based off lyrics from rap music and that is the life I’ve made for myself; a counter-productive reactionary. I spent 40,000 over a 3-month period trying to recreate situations from my favourite rap songs. I can’t remember most of them because I was in a drunken stupor or they are too embarrassing to recall, so I’ve completely blocked them out of my mind. The parallel between Mac Miller’s life and mine has me giving his new mixtapes a few spins.

Mac Miller, like me, is a non-committal suicidal roller-coasting through the highs and lows of life. You live with him through the spikes in the ego that says you’re the greatest Homo Sapien walking the planet Earth that even death can’t touch — as well as the down, which is, when you feel micro-small and want to barricade yourself Howard Hughes style. It’s all delivered in a chill flow that makes you forget that he is even rapping, but talking right next to you, holding your hand while he walks through the banalities of his existence and fantasies [fuck Rosa Acosta and disappear in southern California], fears and self-loathing [a genius still thinking with his dick bone], self aggrandizing [I don’t see anybody but me], and absurdities [somebody said I deserved to die/ I looked em in the eye and told him the devil’s not circumcised].

I’ve had my fair share of drugs, but I managed to come out of it. Admittedly I was able to escape easily because by “druggy” status, I’m at the lower end because being a black guy, my version of totally-off-the-rocker is vibing off the strongest strain of marijuana. That’s the furthest I’ve ever gone. Besides, pharmaceutical drugs are hard to find where I live. I’m also surprised that I’m still alive, honestly. A 4-day binge drinking spree and waking up with a nosebleed can really put a strain on your body. To make it out of the fast life without a strong strain of a venereal disease is a blessing because pulling random strays or wounded gazelles at the club every weekend comes with non-refundable tax.

I have a strained relationship with the music industry as well; it made me who I am and broke me at the same time. I’ve been a manager, music writer, roadie, publicist, creative director and in all these capacities the only thing that’s improved in my life is the list of contacts in my phone. Like Mac said in Diablo, “the industry is a lie, the promises were hollow.” I spent 4 years doing it to shift the culture like Drake said, but I came out with severed relationships and people that slander my name in public and private conversations. A few plays of the tape got me in a bad place re-assessing my situation and the room full of girls and liquor and bros willing to take the night didn’t help.

I found myself in a shady backwater bummy bar in the outskirts of the city at 8PM surrounded by shady characters. Nothing could have prepared me for the night. I was tormented for a few hours by the resident DJ who felt that throwing in commentary every 5 minutes between songs was a good idea. Every genre change, which happened frequently, meant an enthusiast of said genre would get an unnecessary shout out. Announcing the latest sports results and mocking supporters of the losing team was also part of his performance. I heckled him, but I guess I could relate, I’ve been subjecting people on the line to be content thinking I’m doing service to the people, but I’ve been wasting time deferring effort from what I should be truly focusing on; actively creating the product and letting it do the service instead of talking about it.

From the back of my friend’s mom’s car we had stolen from the parking bay, I heard someone say, “Sipping quarts driving around looking for young girls; this is the Botswana Dream.” Quarts are the equivalent of what Americans call 40 ounces. I guess he was right; guys our age somewhere are doing the same thing so there was no need to feel ashamed. We hit the club, but 10 minutes later we found ourselves being manhandled by bouncers and accused of being pickpockets. Life Lesson: if you’re a suspect, it’s not in your best interest to mock the accuser and people running the establishment. My reward for all the slick talk is a night hunched over drooling handcuffed to a police desk dreaming about watching Insidious with my Twitter sugar boo. We’re both high off A-grade marijuana strain and she asks me about my individual Tweets about women and if she is the subject. I tell her “No,” and she falls into a state of depression. I try to cheer her up by making love to her, but before I do, I’m woken up by a police officer tightening my cuffs.

I get interrogated by an officer, but because I watched Justin Bieber’s deposition, my answers are obnoxious I end up being kept more hours than I deserve. The circumstances surrounding the incident are not in my favour so to avoid a trial and possible jail time I strike a deal with the complainant and settle the deal independent of the judicial process. Unfortunately because I’m not famous and my name means nothing, I get my passport confiscated and get released on a hot sunny afternoon. At this point I’m glad this is like when Snoop Dogg/Snoop Zilla/Snoop Lion gets out of jail in Bitches Aint Shit. I tell myself I’m too smart to be in this situation, but what can I say, it’s something that I’ve been chasing since I put on that Mac Miller tape.