If you're going to hold up Angela Davis as a comparator to Donald Glover, maybe the problem isn't Donald Glover. BTW, yes, you're fucking superior for knowing of Angela Davis and pretending to have attended one of her lectures. I bet you subscribe to the New Yorker. How fucking highbrow.
But that's only in the alternate universe, a world outside New York and hip-hop, where things start on time.
Provincial and smarmy. Prof. Scocca gives it an A-.
I'm waiting to be wowed, after having heard Donald spit a single whiny verse on Peter Rosenberg's mixtape.
"I am a biased observer. I DARE YOU TO ENTERTAIN ME, NERD!"
He's poorly rapping about poorly rapping. Meta-foolishness. And that's how I know he's sad. Because irony is the saddest form of humor.
I don't... I can't even... I'm overwhelmed by... The fuck does this even...
The crowd just loves him, though.
Angela Davis would hate this. And how glad I am that we didn't invite her.
Did I mention earlier about pretending to see Davis speak? It's escalated to speaking on her behalf and pretending to know her on an intimate level within about 4 paragraphs. The twist ending - the author IS Angela Davis!
The difference between him and me, however, is that I found something else to say besides Ow.
What is this? Is this a zinger? Is there a zinger inspector in the house? Lil' help?
not in front of whites who don't—can't—get it.
"Just like they could never understand Angela Davis. If only she were here right now. She would agree with everything I have to say."
This is his dream, his dream as an unwanted black nerd, his reality as a cool-ass motherfucker. New York City. Just like he pictured it. Adoring bitches, dap for days. He is getting back at us for all those jabs at his tender pride, all those people who doubted him. This is for high school, for the cruelest thugs, for the clueless whites, for the girls who always said no. But not for anyone else.
SUMMARY: Some people like Donald Glover, and some people do not. Angela Davis wouldn't, that's for certain.