*** The names and essenses of each song is really a part of the story; hence no links this time***
Das Racist broke up two months ago. It must have made sense I found out in heaven, because that's where they were, and it was a matter of location. I was at Chipotle. I'm not very much the religious type, and I'm terrible with healthy habits, although I live on humus and bananas. Let my pores be Chipotle. Every Wednesday or Tuesday or Thursday my parents decide it's too much time to look in the refrigerator, and we make our pilgrimage to that familiar place of cilantro and brown rice. Chiptotle is my heaven because one day I will die of overdose, and my veins will ring themselves with all salsa blood, and thick guacamole will clog my arteries. Chipotle is my heaven because it has unearthly food.
Dara Bean told me Facebook had been Facebook again. "AIDAN. IT SAYS DAS RACIST BROKE UP." Well there's facebook telling you all its information because it's twitter. I really do care facebook, I really did want to know that. "SOME FRESHMAN KID MADE A COLLAGE." This is how I knew when I died I was going to a Mexican fast food restaurant.
I didn't feel much. I didn't feel as if I had to cry, or as if I had to wale, or scream to the slicing cold I wanted my Brooklynites back. That I wanted my music taste back. That I wanted back that first time when I fell in love with not-radio. I didn't feel much, I just felt:
Oh. They're playing a joke again, are they? They are fools. This is why I only listen to them a week out of three months. I don't have time for this.
And I expected it to be like when my dog died, or when my friend died, or when Michael Jackson died. I would be very quiet, and contemplative, and I wouldn't really get it. Then I would cry and I would realize I could never listen to nonsense lyrics of stylishly obscure haircuts in my life ever again.
That was the most brutal trick Das Racist played. It was a Poe death. The death brought nothing within me, I hadn't departed from anything, and that was the game. They had won monopoly because they had kept their piece on the same station the entire time. After they laughed in my face, they yelled "that's how we do," because that's how they do. Their break-up wasn't the issue, what was was that they knew you didn't care, and that was the most bitter treatment to empathy there was. You care because you don't care.
I miss Das Racist sometimes. I haven't played their tracks on my iPhone and cried, or felt sorry because I wasn't ever going to learn how to properly produce a track such that it flows perfectly into some social issue I have. I haven't felt bad because they're gone, and perhaps it's because they don't. Victor was the children's author who had lied in his autobiography of having seen the world and it's hidden vortexes of dinosaurs playing on iPads and told his most loyal fan it was all butters and nothing to obsess over.
Why I don't like Social Networking (Victor):“for the record i quit das racist 2 months ago and was asked by our manager not to announce it yet. apparently @himanshu wanted to do it tho.”
Himanshu was the author who had lied in his autobiography because he was never aware it was to be of truth at all.
“hah dag, my bad dont even remember saying that [filth]"
I mean to say Das Racist ruined all of my dreams and hope for a new music and a sane group of artists to produce an era of loveliness and introspection, but that happened with the Fugees. That happened with my mother's favorite television show Girlfriends after the writer's strike. That happened to My Favorites in 2006 when each of them were crazy enough to separate. It happens because break ups are going to heaven. Break ups are going to no where, and break ups are going to hell. Break-ups happen because things end, and that's almost as axiomatic as how great Chipotle's food is after you're devastated your band's called quits.
Peace
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