Let’s Ride by Q-Tip
Riding the ‘S’ bus in Miami-beach, down the highway adjacent to the bright blue bay, a man stopped me to address how we were passing a yacht owned by Usher.
How do you know it’s Usher’s yacht? I asked.
‘Look!’ He said, pointing toward a big white boat docked alongside Collins ave, the thirteen-mile road that runs from North to South Miami Beach, a ‘street’ touted online for being quite famous, having some of the most desirable destinations for food, drink, and culture in the US, though it’s mainly lined with expensive hotels, holiday apartments, fake lips, ass, the largest American cars you’ve ever seen, retirement homes, police, posters of Ron DeSantis, corporate gay pride advertisements, and, ostensibly, Usher’s yacht.
I looked toward the boat and saw the big Usher sign right on top. Skeptical, I wondered if celebrities usually prefer more discretion; you’d figure Usher wouldn’t want to be bothered. But then again, the most minute details surprise me, constantly, like how it’s possible to get upwards of five thousand dollars to only jack off once and become a sperm donor, or how the best kind of wigs are made of natural human hair that’s somehow been preserved. In light of these surprising nuggets of information, it’s not impossible for someone like Usher to publicize the whereabouts of his private properties. I don’t know why Usher does this, but the answer to most people’s motives, the rationale for the most illogical bits of info, are often vague, if not indiscernible.
Everything in the world has unintended consequences. For example, you get a large amount of money to masturbate once into a specimen container, but then have to live with the somewhat horrifying fact that an unknown descendent of yours is running loose in the world, doing things, making things, meeting people, all with your eyes, mouth, aura, personality, everything a child might inherit from a parent they never even meet. Second example: a top-quality human wig cannot survive countless hours of sunlight, which inevitably leads to problems when one desires to do something like leave the house, which, I had thought, was the exact purpose of owning a flawless wig. Third example: putting your famous name on a yacht will undoubtedly lead to situations much worse than quotidian harassment. And still, people do all of these things with a beautifully sheer willingness to deal with any and all ramifications. Or, and this is more probable, the repercussions aren’t considered; human nature exists more in a state of present than I had initially thought. The nature of being present is, I guess, distraction, the non-Machiavellian instinct to choose to avoid recognizing an upshot. Presentness, in all its extraordinary distinction, is making decisions that are unlikely to benefit your future. Short of jumping off a balcony, the idea of living in the present sounds delightful.
‘Oh.’ I said back to the man on the bus. ‘I don’t really care for boats.’
He turned away in disappointment.
Using public transport in a city with no income tax is a sort of cruel oxymoron. But, still broke and the good New Yorker I am, I do not know how to drive. Even if I had a little bit more cash on hand, there’s something irrepressibly sad about frequently using ride-share apps. So in cities like Miami, where buses and trains are reserved for the poor and forgotten, I look at this stupid yacht and feel no pang of jealousy whatsoever. Which is to say, I’m more awkward than a man of virtue—I wouldn’t know what to do with myself on such and such a boat other than, probably, looking at the buses driving by with a sense of guilt and displacement. It’s a shame that no matter what I do, my life is pretty much ruined: To be self-conscious is to not be at all.
Every time I come to Florida, I lose something. Last time it was my watch, this time my two hundred dollar e-reader. There’s a metaphor there, something about time and the receipt of knowledge, that I’ll leave to a later date.