Something strange happened to me while reading GQ’s August cover story on Kanye West: I realized I didn’t care and couldn’t wait for it to be over.
I’m not sure when this wave of can’t-be-bothered-ness happened, but suddenly, whenever I hear Kanye talk about how awesome he is, I find myself wanting to do other, more interesting things. Like become an A-list celeb character on Kim Kardashian’s new video game, perhaps.
Sure, conventional wisdom—“He’s a genius”—and the number of outlets running the obligatory “Awesome Things We Learned From Kanye’s Interview” stories will say otherwise, but Kanye has devolved from provocatively perplexing to exhaustingly boring.
And his GQ interview was rife with nothingness. Who truly cares about Kanye’s unsubstantiated claims of how many Balenciaga sneakers are sold because of his influence?
Did it move you to hear him talk about how game-changing it was that (gasp!) other influential celebrities came to his and Kardashian’s wedding?
It was all very much “been there, done that.”
I couldn’t help but feel like I was hearing my favorite corner-store drunk tell me for the hundredth time about that epic summer in ’76 when he and Blacula played a round of spades at his family reunion. Sure it was a compelling story once upon a time, but now I just want to blurt out: “Yeah, I know, mang—you already told me that one.”
So when did we arrive at corner-store Kanye?
Maybe it was during that bizarre stream of radio interviews last year, when he made it clear he was more interested in gaining the approval of the high-fashion world and a seat at the CFDA table than, you know, not squeezing out half of Yeezus in two days.
Or those ridiculous concert rants where he compared himself to Steve Jobs, Walt Disney, fried chicken and every other American stroke of genius that’s so far transcended society.