This year I was thinking, ‘I’m a rapper now. I need to spend excessive amounts of money.’ So I bought a 2008 Cadillac DTS Biarritz, this bougie luxury edition—except mine has white walls and custom hand-painted cacti all over it. If Barack Obama and Rick Ross had a baby, this is what it would look like.
Rapgenius.com—the ultimate database/translator/SparkNotes for hip-hop lyrics—dissects every rhyme from, say, Lil Wayne’s “Gonorrhea” as if it were T.S. Eliot. GQ enlisted the site’s founders, Shawn Serato and Gavin Matthews, to break down their favorite lines of the year.
Below, a choice sample from the profile of the Bawse in our Oct 2011 issue, in which GQ’s Devin Friedman spends one very long, very stoned night with Ross and finally learns what it means when rappers go to a strip club and “make it rain.” Click here to read the full story.
Despite all this activity, it feels like the house—the sense of industry that’s been ratcheted up for the nine hours I’ve been here—has slipped into standby mode. It occurs to me that it might be the weed, the same way it feels like you’re driving ninety miles an hour when you’re crawling along at five. Then it occurs to me that a better explanation is that Rick Ross has disappeared.
In the den, Gucci Pucci, Ross’s manager, is lying on one of the black leather sofas. There’s a television channel whose programming seems to consist entirely of people getting into car crashes, and Mr. Pucci is watching it.
“Where’s Ross?” I ask.
A conversion van plows through the front of a 7-Eleven and surprises a woman buying milk. “Asleep,” Pucci says without turning his head. “Or…” Then he makes the “banging someone” gesture with his fist.
It’s not hard to figure out who that someone might be. Since I arrived in Atlanta nine hours ago, I have met at least a dozen men at Rick Ross’s house/recording studio, all of whom kind of work for him and are also hoping to get their big break from him. But I have met exactly one woman. When I arrived this afternoon, Ross was reclining in a cushioned dining chair wearing camouflage cargo shorts, a blindingly white T-shirt, and giant Louis Vuitton sunglasses. The room was fragrant with cocoa butter, and a slender blonde woman in black leggings had both hands up the legs of his shorts. She had skin that looked like it smelled good and a face like Whitney Houston in 1987. Ross dismissed her wordlessly, with a nod, put one warm paw on my shoulder, and let me know that should there be anything I need, anything, all I had to do was ask. He said the word “anything” like someone who embraced the scope of what that might mean.
[Photographs by Christian Weber]