Dollars Make Sense.

No Bay Bay. No.

Posted in smh. by Jason Mekkam on May 5, 2010

Remember Hurricane Chris? If not, I don’t blame you. Dude really didn’t have much of a career. The entire post “Crank Dat” hip-hop soundscape saw a way major influx of interchangeable and forgettable players and bitters, all looking to make a quick buck off a specific brand of wholesome southern lyrical buffoonery.

But yo I digress. Cuz even tho Mr. Hurricane’s body of work never resonated with yours truly, one line from his only hit, “A Bay Bay” stays, for whatever reason, forever burned into my long-term memory drive:

“It’s so hot up in da club that I aint got no shoes on.”

Instant disgust.

I don’t care how hot it is Mr. Hurricane. Don’t be selfish. You keep them shits on. Common courtesy. Other people be clubbin at the same club you be clubbin. Don’t go messin up everybody else’s vibe with your nasty, unhygienic toes. Whippin em’ out to in such a confined, humid, public setting just ain’t right. Not to mention it’s dangerous. I mean single ladies are out.. In stilettos.. And with your feet all out in the buck.. Do the calculus.

But hey, I like to give people credit. Assume they got some sense. Bet that they moms raised em all right and proper like. So after cooling down, I reassured myself that Mr. Hurricane had to be joking. Because nobody in their right mind would be foolish enough to air out their extremities like that right…?

Forward to last weekend. I’m in San Francisco visiting my girl Socks. Hella romantic. Saturday night we head out to a club in the Marina District called the Matrix. I was feeling good before we even went got inside because the bouncer didn’t check my ID even though he was carding everyone else. Shit had me feelin real special. Tiger Wood’s 4th mistress status.

As Snoop say, “if you ain’t up on thangs”, the Marina District is known for being the choice location to reside for young professionals on the come up and recent colleges grads eager to blow more of daddy’s money with the quickness. Sure enough, Matrix is inhabited to capacity with such folk. People are dressed to impress for sure. We get in and the scene is nothing short of PG-13 orgy: people super close talking, boys and girls fraudulently trying to pass off gyrating and dry humping for dancing, and couples making out everywhere.

Fun.

Not wanting to miss out, me and me lady head straight for the dance floor. A minute or two into the groove, even in my tipsy stupor, I still have the right mind to whip out the camera for a few snapshots. Ever since I got my beautiful, sleek, sexy, 14.1 megapixel soul capturing device about a month ago, I’ve been taking more pictures than a Chinese tourist. (PC Note: No disrespect intended by that last line. I’m just lazy and couldn’t come up with a more clever metaphor. My fault). Content after a few random, sloppy inebriated snaps, I eventually put the camera back in my pocket, boogied a little longer, got one final drink in with the miss and then wisely decided to call it a night.

Now photographin while intoxicated is a lot like Christmas. You snap snap away, go to bed not knowing what you’ll get, but hope to awake to one big ol’ panoramic present waiting for you in the morn. Unfortunately though, as Socks pointed out to me the next day after flippin through my pics, I had inadvertently captured one devastatingly disturbing piece of coal.

Peep:

No bay bay. No. Say it ain’t so.

My world is forever rocked.

Consider my faith in humanity shattered.

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