Last night at The Root ball, me and Kenyatta are cutting the rug, during the old school set. Biz Markie is on the wheels. And somewhere between the "All Night Long" and "Got To Give It Up" I peep Christopher Hitchens, mid-groove, with some dime-piece on his hip.
I think I can speak for my generation when I say, "What the hell?" I also think I can speak for my father's generation when I say. "What the hell?"
The man who waterboarded himself and consistently pisses off half the reading public with his I'm-simply-smarter-than-you writing style apparently gets down at Root balls to Biz Markie. That the slovenly drunk of a brilliant columnist has a hot date next to him isn't so much a suprise, but, as Coates quotes....
Philosopher of all things, William Jelani Cobb, who was dancing with his date a few paces away, offered the observation of the week, and the week had just begun...
The prospect of Christopher Hitchens getting down to Biz Markie, is only slightly less improbable than the prospect of a black president.
There it is.
