April was supposed to be our big reprieve from the unholy dump of tabloid fodder, indie buzz news jargon, and frivolous rap beefs that marr our days and clog our feeds. Baseball season and the NBA Playoffs were supposed to be our way of mentally checking out at 5 p.m., shutting out the noise of Morrissey soapboxes, Tyler the Creator mischief, and debates over whether the emo revival is real or fabricated or embedded in our DNA like a terminal virus we’ve all caught from coming in contact with Fueled By Ramen records in the ’90s (think piece in the making!).
Instead, the NBA Playoffs brought us face-to-face with a corporate waterhead who’s been reprimanded for decades of bigotry and corruption because his mistress was being sued by his estranged wife. Now we can’t check out like in those Corona commercials we see at half-time. If this is “our beach,” the events of April have represented a salty tide of mottled seaweed and jellyfish and debris that has mercilessly washed over our umbrella-and-towel setups. You thought Coronas couldn’t get any more watered down?
The past 30 days didn’t bode well for post-racial America. Allegations of racist behavior took down Sterling, Bob Dylan, Sky Ferreira, Avril Lavigne, and Pitchfork writers. We can’t believe we’re saying this, but we kind of felt like Drake sitting courtside with a lint roller, furiously trying to get the filth off. We get it, Aubrey. We totally get it. Stay fresh, stay clean.
