I Don’t Have to Sell My Soul; He’s Already in Me.

February 26, 2005

I went to a party that Adidas threw in memory of Jam Master Jay last night.

I went because my very old friend Greg Galloway’s wife, Fiona, works with the company who set up the event. I spent the evening just chilling with Greg, catching up and talking about people we haven’t seen in a while. This all seemed very normal until, for instance, Li’l Kim passed through with her entourage–she is indeed li’l–barely up to my chest–and has a face so pointed and waxy-looking she might’ve been a doll.
There was a room set up as a meditation room, where apparently one was supposed to go and think good thoughts about JMJ; unfortunately it was filled with big, fake-fur covered beanbags labeled with their unfortunate product name: LOVE SACK. The room stayed empty, except at one point Bone Thugz-n-Harmony went in there to get high.
I felt a little uneasy about the Adidas connection–they seemed to be using this event, ostensibly to raise money for JMJ’s charity foundation, to unveil a line of limited-edition collectors’ shelltoe sneakers. They were themed after cities–Berlin, Buenos Aires, Boston, others–and musicians, among them Ian Brown, the former Stone Roses singer, and one of my all-time faves. (the Stone Roses, and the Madchester thing in general, were big in my mind’s ear when we recorded Haughty Melodic) He wandered the party with his pants sliding off his ass, looking like a slightly more gaunt and lined version of himself.
Greg had made a giant poster of JMJ on which celebrities put their autographs; it was to be auctioned for JMJ’s foundation. It seemed the less sizable the celeb, the bigger the signature was. The signatures of Starski and Grandmaster Caz, God love ‘em, were absolutely gigantic.
I walked up to the poster–right there in front of everybody, security milling about and people standing around chatting–and wrote my own name on there, right next to Lee Qui