Like every other fad-tracking fool, I got the Macklemore haircut this summer. Shaved the sides, left the top long, strutted out from the barber feeling like a progressive pop star, albeit shorter and more modestly dressed.
Within a week, I was regretting my choice and whining nonstop about what seemed to be an unending onslaught of unfriendly comparisons to the “Same Love” MC, my favorite of which was “You look like a young Macklemore, but even gayer.” One friend though, went a different route.
It’s going to be the best time of your life: We were freshmen when your father said he could spend the rest of his life with me until death or incarceration do us part. Beneath those Locust lights, I knew he was the one.
Standing on the corner of 43rd and Market with my weight in canned food sitting like a ton of steel inside my housemate’s hiking–sized megabackpack, my spine caving into an awful kind of inverted “U,” I truly began to understand the concept of the sophomore slump.
Let me preface this review by noting the grudge I hold against Lana Del Ray for shaming SNL with the most breathy, awkward, wince–inducing performance I’ve seen since passing an asthmatic homeless woman choking out “At Last” in a New York subway station.