What Celebrities Eat at Golden Corral
Kanye West gets a plate of cake with ice cream and sits and watches that shit melt into a puddle. Once it has, he signals for the waiter to come over and get this fucking plate out of his face. Then he goes into the bathroom and washes his hands and face with the hottest water they’ve got while looking at himself in the bathroom mirror. Then he goes back out and does it again. Two hours, 17 cakes, and 80 gallons of ice cream later, he leaves a $30,000 tip in cash.
Chan Marshall of Cat Power scalps the awful and bland plaques of pastry off of the peach cobbler because they are the closest food equivalent she can find to the Void. She picks mournfully at the plaques until her date drops his fork and asks in a stern whisper why she must make her illnesses so ‘showy’ and ‘disruptive’ to everyone around her, which finally allows her to feel at home.
Kanye West Is Standing on Your Lawn, Yelling His Own Name
My senior portrait in my high school yearbook is bad. Stupendously, horrifyingly bad. Orbit-stopping, telethon-necessitating, encyclopedia-entry bad. Bad in a way that should entitle me to write it off on my taxes. Not bad in the almost-charming way that perfectly encapsulates a bygone pop culture phase, like “remember Old Navy?!”, or bad in a blatantly misrepresentative way that belied some current or future attractiveness. Bad in a way that feels permanently branded to one’s identity, like an addiction to animal pornography or a manslaughter conviction. I imagined the women of the world meeting at some Bilderberg- type conference, with headphones and translators and a giant white screen that lowered from the ceiling so the yearbook picture could be projected onto it. WARNING: THIS MAN IS OUT THERE AND HE MIGHT APPROACH YOU.
My eyebrows were a sprawling, untamed mess. To call them “eyebrows” would be insufficient. They were something to be classified by a horticulturalist. I was sweaty. My skin was not pale so much as it was a sickly beige, as if my entire face was made of wet Band-Aids. I had braces. I deliberately left my hair “messy,” because I was 16, and I believed this was “cool,” and was going to “change everything,” except it wasn’t, and it didn’t, because I am not Mark Ruffalo, I am me, I am this, and this spent high school afternoons microwaving bowls of cheddar cheese and eating them with its fingers. I weighed 120 pounds. In the picture, you can see distinctly in my neck not just the outline of an Adam’s apple but a number of fragile throat parts. Afterward, as I walked from the platform where the pictures were taken, I saw waiting in line one of the coolest kids in my grade—cool, as measured by Number of Girls Fingered in a Stairwell. He looked down and realized that we were wearing the same shoes. Real, actual devastation has never been as discernable as it was on his face in that moment. Like it temporarily altered his perception of himself. Like my uncool-ness was so immense that even the slightest similarity to it could briefly transfer that uncool-ness onto him.
I am 26 now and my hair is less-awful than it was then. I exfoliate. I have consumed several pieces of cauliflower. I own a tie. The picture exists only in the yearbook, which is in my room, in a box, in a closet. We hide and we change and we pretend the new us is the only us we have ever been.
About a month ago, Jon Caramanica of the New York Times said this to Kanye West: “You look at your outfits from five or seven years ago, and it’s like—” And Kanye said to him, “Yeah, kill self. That’s all I have to say. Kill self.”
Legendary Producer Mike Dean Talks About His Work on ‘Yeezus’
As far as hip-hop producers go, Mike Dean is a legend. He’s a Grammy Award-winning producer who helped pioneer the Dirty South sound in the 90s. Mike’s had a hand in mixing, producing, and mastering multi-platinum records for everyone from the Geto Boys and Pimp C to Tupac and Jay-Z. Mike’s also been one of Kanye West's go-to guys from the very beginning. He's worked on the majority of Kanye's albums, from mixing College Dropout and Late Registration to co-producing tracks on Graduation and My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy. For the past six months, Mike Dean, Ye, and the legendary Rick Rubin have been putting the final touches on Kanye’s new record. The way Yeezus has been blaring out of every pair of headphones around the VICE office, we can’t wait to catch Kanye and Mike performing the new tracks on tour.
We sent Archie Green, an MC and producer who’s made beats for VICE’s Noisey Raps and has been featured in the Creators Project’s Layers series, to catch up with Mike Dean before Yeezus dropped. Archie picked Mike’s brain about Kanye’s new album, Mike’s past projects, and what the future of hip-hop holds.
“Being a strong black man (or any man) has nothing to do with what you wear or who you fuck, but whether or not you have the will power to stay true to yourself. If that means wearing a dress, then so be it.”
—Black Man in a Dress
Artist Tom Sachs has recreated an entire four-week mission to Mars with little more than wood, glue and household objects. Working with Nasa and the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, his studio built go-kart rovers, a model rocket, and a giant lunar excursion module to turn the fabled Park Avenue Armory into a Martian space adventure that certainly makes all those post-NASA private space endeavors look much more professional, but nowhere nearly as fun.
Watch our video - Spaced Out: Making Mars with Tom Sachs
French Montana and Kanye. Photo by some guy with a shitty camera-phone.
Kanye Was “All Over” French Montana, by Ben Detrick
When the New York Post’s “Page Six” gossip trawl reported on Jay-Z and Kanye West’s “Watch the Throne” concert in New Jersey, there was an item that must have seemed bizarre to the majority of their racist, glassy-eyed, drooling readers. Backstage, Rupert Murdoch’s spies whispered, Kanye was “all over” French Montana, a rapper who few people outside the New York City mixtape circuit have ever heard of. The blurb of gossip was designed to make Kanye sound like a trolling homosexual, but it contained a crumb of truth: if the Louis Vuitton Don, arbiter of credenzas and leather kilts, thinks French Montana is worth propositioning, you might want to know who he is.
Yes, “French Montana” sounds like a variety of coffee roasted somewhere in Red Hook by a dude with a beard hanging in front of his neck like a ginger proboscis. It would have notes of vanilla and hints of smokiness from a distant forest fire. Or it could be a delicious granola mix, one of the popular kinds that is always too shallow in the plastic supermarket bins and includes more moth larvae than raisins. It wouldn’t be surprising if French Montana was also the name of an acrylic paint shade that falls somewhere in the ovum-hued space between eggnog and eggshell.