Track by track, detail by detail, I mansplain this music’s glory with an oppressive enthusiasm - one woman-lecturing blowhard proclaiming the brilliance of another. The album’s splendor has become gospel it’s an unimpeachable masterpiece, or so goes the story, which I am eager to recite as an outlet for all this pent-up agitation. As Kanye West’s My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy blares from the car stereo, I hold court about what a mammoth achievement the album is, filling up every bit of empty conversational space with my rapturous opinions about the music and its place in the pantheon, regurgitating talking points I’ve internalized from countless rave reviews. I opt to channel my nervous energy into music criticism because that is my own perverse brand of neurosis. I’m pretty sure she’ll say yes, but the unresolved tension is paralyzing. I keep worrying I’ll lose the diamond in my seat cushion or bungle the proposal in some other way. The ring is in a box in the pocket of the raincoat I borrowed because I’m too much of an idiot bachelor to own a proper raincoat. Although the weather is not ideal, my plan is already in motion and will not be abandoned, even if it means kneeling in mud when I pop the question. She’s riding shotgun on the way to a state park where we’ve decided to hike before hitting up a gargantuan small-town festival called the Circleville Pumpkin Show. 20, 2011, and I’m driving my ’03 Honda Civic down drizzly Ohio backroads, getting ready to propose to my girlfriend. He’s become a punchline and a pariah, and to some observers it seems like his moment of pop cultural dominance is over. The stage-crashing incident punctuates a spiral that seemingly began with the death of his mother from a plastic surgery gone wrong and a nasty breakup with fiancée Alexis Phifer, as documented on 808s & Heartbreak, his polarizing 2008 dive into Auto-Tuned desolation. Bush during a Hurricane Katrina relief telethon in 2005, in the aftermath of the VMAs he’s widely ridiculed as a self-righteous buffoon - or a “jackass,” to quote President Barack Obama, who feels compelled to weigh in on the situation that has monopolized the national conversation. Already known as a loose cannon thanks to his infamous outburst about George W. Seemingly everyone in America rushes to clown and/or condemn Kanye. The fallout from this event is immediate and extreme. Beginning a sequence that will be quoted more often than most of his lyrics, he says, “Yo, Taylor, I’m really happy for you, I’ma let you finish,” then turns to the crowd and announces, “But Beyoncé had one of the best videos of all time! One of the best videos of all time!” Then he shrugs, returns the mic, and exits the stage as Swift stands there looking sad and embarrassed, literally and figuratively speechless. Kanye, compelled to defend the honor of “Single Ladies,” leaps from his chair, rushes to the stage, and grabs the microphone from 19-year-old Swift just as she’s settling into her acceptance speech. We all know what happens next because it instantly becomes a huge news story and soon moves beyond history into the realm of myth and meme: The night’s first award for Female Video Of The Year goes to Taylor Swift’s “You Belong With Me” over clips from Lady Gaga, Katy Perry, Pink, Kelly Clarkson, and Beyoncé. Dressed in a black leather short-sleeved button-down, jeans, and sunglasses, with elaborate designs buzzed into his hair, Kanye is working his way through a bottle of Hennessy he’s been nursing since the red carpet. Kanye and his girlfriend, the model Amber Rose, are seated in the front row at Radio City Music Hall, where the superstar rapper is nominated for several MTV Video Music Awards.
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