Oh, some people never seem to grow up! My problem is I don’t know whether to love em or hate em! Mainly, I just laugh at their silly, silly antics and reserve a little green envy for their youthful ways.
Like this Coolio character, you know, the one from the early-90’s? Why, he is just a barrel of monkeys, this guy! I mean, he’s a grown man definitely in his mid-to-late forties by now, but you wouldn’t know it from the youthful and blindly inebriated company he keeps. But you would definitely know it once contrasting him with said company. He smells like a fresh bottle of Takka vodka, just like the good ole days, and doesn’t mind spreading his cheer to anybody who remembers 60 percent or more of the lyrics to ‘Gangsters Paradise.’ He is a riot, just a big reeking scream of a good time.
Let’s put it this way: If I had a nickel for every time Coolio told me he was going to get me pregnant? Hello early retirement! But he’s a sweetheart, really.
While it’s mildly grating to have a grown man, who’s clearly moments away from blacking out, lick your arm, it’s also kind of endearing. You remember he did the Kenan and Kel theme song, right? Well, seeing him sign some random woman’s neck in permanent marker? That’ll give you a flashback to those days, for sure. Although it won’t be too severe of a flashback when you see his bald spot. He’s covered most of it with a tattoo, but it’s there nonetheless, surrounded by his once-mighty-but-now-erroded dreadlocks; just a painful reminder of how old we’ve all become. I mean, he’s still much older than us and the college-aged women he violates regularly by rubbing his bare chest upon, but, ah, getting old it seems is just another part of life. C’est la vie.
But you really get Coolio’s zest for life when you see him going to the bathroom with the door open, singing “Get yo woman on the flo(or).” It’s true: You gotta get up to get down.
You may not be able to empathize with his lifestyle, but you can certainly appreciate his “Can-Do” attitude, even though it’s apparent he can’t-do. Staggering on stage with all of the grace of a drunken paraplegic sailor on roller skates, he loves singing only a third or so of his own lyrics, randomly mumbling along with the crowd as they do most of the singing for him, God bless him. He more than makes up for his lack of a grasp of his own material with his showmanship, and by showmanship, I mean him grabbing the first unwitting person he can find near the front row and giving them an honorary lap dance. It’s clear that while “it” may not be what it used to be, he’s still got “it.” It’s always bittersweet to see him slump away, cursing himself and God, and getting into his 2003 Grand Prix and driving away into the night air. Away he goes like a vapor, into our memory again, like all our memories, leaving a hint of vomit hanging in the air.
You gotta love this guy!