Yeah, I learned that alcohol and coke? Is kind of for faggots. You know, like, in my eyes. I’ll drink alcohol to get a lean, don’t get me wrong, but, like, something about the people who are addicted to alcohol and cocaine, they seemed like fags to me.... Not ‘fags’ as in ‘gay.’ I have nothing against gay people. Mad people in my family are gay.
I rep CT because CT made me. I’m a product of CT but I’m not—I don’t know. What would a prep school kid wear?... That’s not me. You know what I mean? I might have gone to school with that kid. That kid might have played video games in my house. Played out in the woods with me, but I didn’t turn into that. I’m so fucking CT, but I’m not that at all … Not everybody from Texas got a fucking cowboy hat, you know?... I’m going to tweet that.
And then there's this loathsome anecdote:
In the cab, Rich explained that we were headed to Premier Studios in Midtown, the only studio in New York that hasn’t banned him, he said. At Downtown Studios, for example, he was blacklisted for breaking into their offices with his creative partner, Uncle Panther, and generally running amok. He peed in workers’ coffee cups, pushed over bookshelves, "drew dicks everywhere" and drizzled honey on keyboards, all of it captured on security tape that he wants to obtain for a music video.
Note unheard, is there anything less likable than someone who doesn't need a regular job making someone else's work day harder, on purpose, because it was amusing to them? Also, is the Odd Future baiting at the end of the article a cynical attempt to start a Twitter feud? Because Rich and Tyler seem like a total dream date to me.
On the Voice’s blog, music editor Maura Johnston has a slightly disingenuous plea to ignore rapping celebrity children entirely (note: this doesn’t count as ignoring). Even she can’t help but excerpt the most gob-smacking quotes and throw in some obvious blind-item clues. Because the idiocy, without even broaching the question of talent, is flatly entertaining in a shitty, human-nature sort of way. It’s hard to argue with her point that lending blog space to spoiled brats who haven’t yet proved discernible artistic worth is probably counterproductive, but I'd beg to differ in this case and argue that the specific identity of this second-generation cultural carpetbagger is entirely the point.
Born at 1990, on the cusp of his father’s prescient co-option of streetwear and hip-hop, young Rich (and really can we stop for a moment to note the lack of self-awareness it takes for Tommy to burden his son with flatly descriptive name “Rich Hilfiger”) would have been marinating in his Dad’s hip-hop posing for his whole formative life. Given no reason to ever expect that he couldn’t have whatever thing he wanted, and with that thing sort of nakedly obvious as being his famous Dad's love (see the "I love you dad" neck tattoo), why wouldn't he decide to be a rapper? While Tom Hanks' son, say, seems like the generic example of a childhood with every whim nurtured, a Hilfiger child misguidedly identifying with hip-hop is a too-perfect embarrassment that we all should have seen coming. And really, while it seems like poetically ironic punishment to us, Tommy might genuinely loooove it.