
And yet the scene inside the Cook County Juvenile Court Building was fairly modest; a group mostly made up of journalists, legal professionals, and Keef's family filled three wooden benches in a small, off-white courtroom. The room's sparse decor—a clock on one wall, a calendar on the other, and a droopy American flag behind Judge Carl Anthony Walker's seat—was hardly reminiscent of the lavish lifestyle Keef enjoys rapping about. The rapper himself walked in wearing a navy-blue sweatshirt and sweatpants that bore the letters JTDC ("Juvenile Temporary Detention Center") instead of his usual Louis Vuitton and Salvatore Ferragamo gear.
Outside the courtroom he has an outsize, violent persona, but inside he was a 17-year-old who goes by Keith Cozart. Lately the online conversation about Keef has focused on white cultural tourism via violent music by African-Americans, but it didn't come up in the conversations among cops and court officers that I overhead in the courtroom prior to Judge Walker's entrance—I heard more about young Chicagoans who are grappling with real violence. In the courtroom Cozart's rap career was almost of no consequence—except for the fact that it was used as evidence to keep him behind bars (and a reason to let him go).
As detailed in a recent interview with GQ, Beyonce appears hell-bent on documenting every single moment of her waking life. Stored in what writer Amy Wallace calls the "official Beyoncé archive," a "temperature-controlled digital-storage facility," is "virtually every existing photograph of her . . . every interview she's ever done; every video of every show she's ever performed; every diary entry she's ever recorded while looking into the unblinking eye of her laptop." The majority of the film is purportedly culled from this archive, which is also said to include "thousands of hours of private footage, compiled by a 'visual director' Beyonce employs who has shot practically her every waking moment, up to sixteen hours a day, since 2005."
Yong-sun: OK, here is the dear leader.
me: Good morning, Mr. Marshal of the Democratic People's Republic of Korea.
Jong-un: Greetings, cousin of Eric.
But the moments that deliver this kind of transcendence tend to come amid a whole lot of straight-up awfulness. You generally have to wade through a lot of shit before you get to the jet pack fight or whatever.
The execs, whom police described as stocky middle-aged white men dressed in pinstripes and wingtips, apparently rappelled down the building's southern facade from a second-floor window on a rope of heavyweight garland, which had been serving as office decoration. Authorities were uncertain how the men managed to get out the window, which is only five feet wide.
The execs were last seen in their office during an 8 AM conference call. Two hours later, a secretary noticed that two figures hunched in front of computers in corner offices were mannequins, and employees realized their CEO and CFO were AWOL. Police believe the mannequins were stolen from the adjacent Apparel Mart.
As far as I'm concerned, that extra attention helps keep my bike in my possession and out of the hands of a bike thief. Just this morning I considered locking it to the racks outside the building, but ultimately decided against it. I've been warned and warned again that thieves will chop or bash through cable locks, U-locks, and chain locks to get at a bike. Basically, it's just waiting to get stolen.
To my surprise and relief, Sister Deborah turned out not to be a racist nun, but rather a Ghanaian pop singer, and "Uncle Obama's Banana" is not yet another piece of depressingly common right-wing hatemongering but a fun and funky pop song that is very literally about a girl buying bananas to feed her monkey and definitely doesn't have any sort of highly suggestive subtext and what are you even talking about?
Enjoy after the jump.