The entire span of my 30s has been an exercise in attempting to give the fewest fucks possible. It hasn’t been easy. Fucks are sticky. Fucks are Velcro. Fucks are pieces of confetti you still occasionally find in a sweater you wore to a New Year’s Eve party in 2015. Just when you think you’re out of fucks, they pull you back in. Because fucks are tricky, sneaky, slippery and persistent.
Fucks are like debt collectors, crossing guards, bad pennies, boomerangs and niggas who say things like, “I just wanna build with your vision” and “But does your man let you have friends, though?” Twenty years from now, when the dust finally settles from World War Melania, all that’ll be left are roaches, bologna sandwiches and random fucks, scattered throughout our postapocalyptic hellscape like specks of radioactive pepper.
Which is why my primary goal in life—shit, my only goal in life—is to be an 80-something black man who’s still vibrant enough to have a sharp mind but is just too seasoned and too damn old to give any fucks anymore (and wealthy/distinguished enough that people still listen to me). And even if a single, solitary fuck is lying on the floor somewhere, I’m old enough to say, “I ain’t bend down to pick shit up since 2003, so that lonely fuck can stay right there.”
I mean, just look at the unbridled celebration of fucklessness in this Vulture interview with Quincy Jones.
On Michael Jackson:
I hate to get into this publicly, but Michael stole a lot of stuff. He stole a lot of songs. [Donna Summer’s] “State of Independence” and “Billie Jean.” The notes don’t lie, man. He was as Machiavellian as they come.
On who killed JFK (?!?!?!?!?!):
[Chicago mobster Sam] Giancana. The connection was there between Sinatra and the Mafia and Kennedy. Joe Kennedy—he was a bad man—he came to Frank to have him talk to Giancana about getting votes.
On the Beatles:
That they were the worst musicians in the world. They were no-playing motherfuckers. Paul was the worst bass player I ever heard. And Ringo? Don’t even talk about it.
On white women who are daughters of the president of the United States of America:
Yes, sir. Twelve years ago. Tommy Hilfiger, who was working with my daughter Kidada, said, “Ivanka wants to have dinner with you.” I said, “No problem. She’s a fine motherfucker.” She had the most beautiful legs I ever saw in my life. Wrong father, though.
On rock music:
Rock ain’t nothing but a white version of rhythm and blues, motherfucker.
On Jimi Hendrix:
He was supposed to play on my album and he chickened out. He was nervous to play with Toots Thielemans, Herbie Hancock, Hubert Laws, Roland Kirk—those are some scary motherfuckers.
On whether his dick could possibly be any bigger ...
What the fuck are you talking about? I’ve never had that problem.
( ... figuratively—he was really talking about never having a failed project). On today’s pop music:
It’s just loops, beats, rhymes and hooks. What is there for me to learn from that? There ain’t no fucking songs.
On his greatest accomplishments:
Everything I’ve done.
On his greatest accomplishments, again, just in case you weren’t listening the first time:
Everything was something to be proud of—absolutely.
On Marlon Brando:
He could dance his ass off. He was the most charming motherfucker you ever met. He’d fuck anything. Anything! He’d fuck a mailbox. James Baldwin. Richard Pryor. Marvin Gaye.
The Catholics have a religion based on fear, smoke, and murder. And the biggest gimmick in the world is confession: “You tell me what you did wrong and it’ll be okay.” Come on.
This entire interview was an event horizon of fucklessness. Of knowing all the things and just not giving a shit about sharing your opinions because, again, you know all the things. (Even if some of said things aren’t even completely true.) Which is where I aspire to be in old age. I’m tired of all of this fuck-related acid reflux and angst. I just wanna sit on a luxurious porch somewhere, rock chancletas, sip my tea and occasionally splash it on a random lonely fuck hiding under my hammock.