Hot Damn, KOOL A.D. Wrote a Book
After releasing a shitload of projects this year—including not only one, but two 100-track mixtapes—the rapper has released a novel called 'OK.' Read an excerpt here.
You probably know KOOL A.D. from the days of Das Racist, the oddball rap group that (unintentionally?) launched a generation of rappers on the internet. They ended Das Racist a few years ago, but KOOL A.D. hasn't stopped creating. This year alone, he's released upwards of a bazillion different projects, including not one, but two (!) 100-track long mixtapes (!!). Now, he's published a book called OK. We've published a couple chapters below, and you can buy it here. What have you done with your life today?
"I'm the best rapper," I whispered into the void of the night and the void howled back: "No doubt, no doubt."
I was in Berlin somewhere by the wall, I can't remember which side, I was off some Molly and had been drinking and then I had smoked some DMT and went off walking, I felt dimensions falling away from me like the shedding of skins.
Gounod's Faust was playing.
The void said:
"Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita
Mi ritroval per una selva oscura
Ché la diritta era smarrita."
Or maybe I did, what's the difference, am I right?
As the DMT wore off, I realized I wasn't listening to Gounod's Faust I was listening to "There Will Never Be Another You" by Bud Powell, and I wasn't in Berlin, I was in Khadija's Bedstuy apartment, lying on the bed. The head game was that crazy. The apartment was in the attic of a Catholic Church. Our Lady of Victory on Throop. She started reading 1001 Arabian Nights out loud to me but then we got bored and she rolled some Blue Dream into fronto leaf for me and poured me some Pinot Grigio. I smoked my little blunt and drank my little wine and we watched 2001: A Space Odyssey on a 110 inch flatscreen TV with my hand on her stomach, lil baby pulling itself together in there.
After the movie I put on a Ray Charles record that just said Ray Charles on it with a picture of Ray Charles. Beautiful record.
Khadija flipped idly thru the Kama Sutra for a bit and then we spiritually congressed. Rain fell. Khadija made some tea. I smoked another fronto blunt and we drank tea watching the rain.
I was riding dirty down the 1 in a white 1998 Acura Legend with Khadija listening to the new Project Pat tape. We were somewhere between weed country and wine country.
She asked me who Albert Einstein was.
"What do u mean, who's Albert Einstein?"
"Who is he? I don't know."
"He was a German mathematician, or like physicist I guess? E = mc^2. Energy equals mass times the speed of light squared. Theory of Relativity."
"Did he build the Atomic Bomb?"
"Naw, but his theoretical work led to it I guess."
Highway patrol car rolled up behind us and whooped its siren, flashed its lights. We pulled over.
Copper walked up to the window.
"Do u know why I pulled you over?"
"I wanted to inform you that Albert Einstein signed a letter to President Roosevelt lobbying for the creation of the atom bomb. And this letter was said to be highly influential in Roosevelt's decision to sign off on the Manhattan Project."
A seagull landed on our hood and interjected: "Yeah but he was only doing it to beat the Nazis and later he said it was his life's one regret."
I mulled it over.
"Hmm… Seems like Einstein was O.K."
Khadija was less than convinced, "whoever he was, he seems insignificant."
"Who isn't?" Said the seagull and flew off.
The cop drew his six shooter and said, "Ur under arrest u stinkin varmint, get outa the car and lie down on the ground, braid ur fingers behind ur head, u stay in the car for now ma'am."
I did as I was told. Heard seven shots and saw the copper's body fall down dead next to mine. My beautiful bride had shot seven holes in the porker and they were all leaking blood now.
We we hopped back in the carriage, skreeked off and parked at the next beach we saw, swam out to Hawaii. A friend put us up in a house while the heat died down. For days we swam all day, ate swordfish steaks and drank beer all night listening to Miles Davis' Sketches of Spain on repeat.
It was a good time but eventually we had to head back to the yay. Paradise Hills was home now and home was calling.