For Drake fans, this is the week we've all been waiting for.
Views from the Six
, the album we've spent
a couple Saturday nights listening to Beats 1 Radio for snippets of so we can have new Instagram captions, is finally dropping. And if that wasn't enough, earlier this week, Champagne Papi upped the anticipation by announcing plans for a tour.
Detroit is one of the sixteen stops on the Summer Sixteen Tour, which features
Ciara's baby daddy What a Time to be Alive
collaborator Future, who also hit the road with Wheelchair Jimmy last summer.
I had the treat of kind of experiencing Future and Drizzy Hendrix together during their Jungle Tour, and by that I mean I accepted an invitation from an ex to go to a show, and I should have said absolutely the fuck not
The ordeal started out innocent enough, my hotline blinged (yup, went there), asking if I wanted to go see Mr. Damn He Ain't Coppin That Is He?
at the United Center in Chicago, which is basically the equivalent of dangling freshly-cooked bacon in front of my face.
Out of equal parts curiosity and needing to experience The Reason I'm Always Getting Faded
on multiple levels, I said OK. Deep inside, I knew there was no way for this to turn out well, but YOLO, free Weezy, what would Drake do?
The three-hour car ride went by without anyone yelling 'NO, fuck YOU!'
or fleeing the vehicle (this scenario was much more likely than I'd like to admit), and I'd even go so far as to say I enjoyed it. I heard "Cha Cha" by D.R.A.M. for the first time (still love that shit) and got all the juicy details from my former beloved about why his most recent ex-girlfriend kicked him out of her apartment. Again.
But as I started to enter the address of our hotel into Google Maps, I heard him say, 'Just hold on, we're going to pick up the tickets,' or something along those lines, who cares, the point is I was under the assumption the tickets had been Mekhi Phifered
, and the fact that they hadn't yet been purchased led me to believe I had potentially been duped into hanging out with him. Character judgement is not my strong suit, dear reader.
"What do you mean? From will call?" I asked, a fair question based on the assumption that when someone says they have tickets to the Drake concert, I take it to mean they ACTUALLY HAVE TICKETS TO THE DRAKE CONCERT.
"No, don't worry about it," he answered, which as our relationship had taught me was code for 'you should absolutely be worried about whatever is about to happen.'
As we drove further into the city, he entered some other address into our trusted navigation app, and I prayed that my last moments alive wouldn't be spent with someone whose Twitter bio read "turning ladies' wildest dreams into their wettest realities."
Yup. Let that one sink in.
He interrupted my thoughts of woe by casually saying, "I'm buying them from someone off Craigslist," which was my cue to start focusing on what my last Facebook status would be.
A suitably cryptic option.
We pulled off to the side of a road, and while he texted this "totally legit" ticket seller, I spotted a 7-Eleven and decided to buy a bunch of booze just in case I somehow survived. I emerged from the store just in time to watch a woman clad in an admirable hot pink sweatsuit approach my travel companion.
I remember thinking ok, maybe this will be fine,
while also examining every nearby parked car for potential crime partners. I sat on a bench that was close enough to hear their conversation, but far enough to give me a head start in case shit went down. Gotta look out for #1, everybody.
"Yeah, I got tickets to the show, but my boyfriend won't let me go because I'm pregnant," said the woman, who looked...how do I say...not pregnant.
As much as I wanted to chime in and say, 'Oh dude, I didn't even know I was pregnant until I was like, 12 weeks along, and I went out all the time. You'll totally be fine," I also wanted tickets to the Drake concert so I shut my mouth and averted my eyes.
I continued to contemplate the legitimacy of this pregnancy while my ex seemingly verified the legitimacy of the tickets and proceeded to hand over $300 cash to a stranger on the street. She walked away and I let out a sigh of relief.
Nothing Was Ever The Same
With the tickets in hand — which in our defense, looked pretty real — and our lives intact, we made our way to our hotel to get ready for an evening with the light skin Keith Sweat himself. I made a silent pledge to make the most out of the night and worry ‘bout it all tomorrow aka try not to sleep with my ex but if I did, there were worse things.
Me giving a thumbs up before everything went to shit.
We left the hotel, drank a bunch of Jameson in the bathroom of the nearby Billy Goat Tavern, and headed confidently into the venue, where we presented our floor seat tickets to the security guard, who seemed to take great pleasure in loudly announcing in front of many other concertgoers
, "These tickets are fake. Sorry."
"This happens all the time," she continued as if it happened all the time.
"You can file a report and see if there are any tickets at Will Call." Cool, fuck you too, Chicago. Motherfucker never loved us.
We'd been scammed. For Drake tickets. By a fake pregnant chick. (When asked for comment on this story, my ex unsurprisingly defended his terrible decision, stating, "It's not like I just picked my first option. I was on the phone all morning and afternoon. Funny thing is, I thought I was being careful and turned down what I thought were scammers, then I got scammed by a pregnant chick at a 7-Eleven." Which just, ugh.)
We gave our account of what happened to the FBI agents that were casually standing in front of nearby concession stand while Future belted out "At the Same Damn Time," which still remains one of my favorite life moments.
As we exited the building in a haze of shame, I made the rash decision to go to will call and purchase any seat I could afford on my nearly maxed out credit card. I had come to Chicago on the basis that I would be seeing the October's Very Own, not hanging out at some shitty bar with the guy who cheated on me on Halloween, and goddamnit, I was determined. One might say I was charged up.
As my ex began to furiously text threats upon the life of the fake baby (oh hey, red flag), I went over and bought myself a ticket to the show. I'mma worry about me, give a fuck about you, indeed.
JUST KIDDING. That's what I should've done, but nope. The woman at the ticket desk told me that there were a few seats left (hooray!); however, they were about about as good as Mr. Minaj's "War Pain" [read: garbage].
So, I did what any self-respecting lady would do. I said fuck it, I'm on one
and bought them.
Yes, both of them, you didn't expect the other person in this story to do be the hero, did you? Part of me still wonders if he was in on the scam, illegitimate pregnancies are kind of his thing.
Views from the 6....00th row of the United Center
Despite my doubts and his pouting, we climbed to our shit seats on the side of the stage and vowed to (unlike our relationship) make the evening something we wouldn't regret. No, I didn't get the full view of the jungle-inspired stage design which seemed to include some sort of large-scale chiminea. And yes, I still get sad every time I hear "Jumpman," but as Aubrey Graham said himself:
Which in my case just meant a $10 knockoff merch shirt from some dude selling them outside. Nothing like a wearable reminder that some mistakes you just really ought to see coming.