“Ye flew from Japan. 15 hours. Pretty sure he’s gonna support Diddy, too.”
The text came in late Wednesday night from someone inside Yeezy’s camp.
My first thought: do I need to find Ye a line sitter?
Then I remembered — this is Kanye West. He’s not paying anyone $32 an hour to sleep on the sidewalk. If anyone can finagle his way into federal court, it's him.
And this isn’t just another “Free Diddy” supporter. This is Ye. Or “Ye Ye,” as of last week — a name I refuse to get used to.
The same source told me Ye was also planning to attend a listening party for DIGITAL NAS, one of his producers, throwing an album release party in Chinatown for Tampering with Sound.
I believed them. Minutes before the text, I saw a fan page post of Ye and Bianca at Newark Airport. Ye rarely comes to New York. And with BULLY scheduled to drop June 15th, who else would turn Diddy’s courtroom into a stage?
By Thursday morning, I was in court. The press was buzzing before lunch. My phone lit up: IS MR. WEST IN THE BUILDING?
Rumors swirled. Some claimed he was banned from entering after being mentioned in Jane Doe’s testimony. Others said he was nearby, waiting, prosecutors allegedly blocking him from attending. To this day, nobody really knows.
That night, I headed to DIGITAL NAS’ listening party in Chinatown, where Ye was rumored to appear. The club was packed with chicks in WET tanks, diehards in Vultures box tees and a DJ blasting “Heil H*tler” through the speakers.
The venue was only one subway stop away for me. Others crossed state lines for this. They thought this was their moment to get a glimpse of Ye in a dark lit basement. A faceless Instagram admin arrived, driven from Massachusetts by his father — too young to drink, too naive to ever call out Ye’s nonsense. Even retired fan pages were there, wearing Meta glasses, ready to troll the man they once worshipped. My rumored MK Ultra handler, Spirit, flew in too — dressed, as always, in his Mozart fit — standing out against the sea of faded $20 Yeezy merch.
As the admin of Kanyesposts, I felt obligated to be there. I photographed fashionistas in fuzzy fits and met a lovely DJ duo named Cakebatter, Jewish DJs who were only there because they’re regulars at the venue. A guy who once sold puff paint t-shirts of Ye masked-up on Infowars bought me two tequila sodas. The drinks were strong. By 1AM, I knew Ye wasn’t coming. I walked ten blocks home in Hanes socks, Chloe boots in hand — perfect for Instagram, painful on concrete.
While I was sipping tequila and failing to slip behind the DJ booth, my new friend Brianna was in Brooklyn, unraveling her breakup. I imagined her in her friend’s apartment, alone, soothing her tears with Lana Del Rey monologues:
Wondering why she now belongs to nobody. Wondering if she’s meant for everybody. Processing freedom. Mourning her cat left behind in Florida. Debating if city life was worth sacrificing small town comfort.
“I was in the winter of my life
And the men I met along the road were my only summer
At night I fell asleep with visions of myself dancing and laughing and crying with them”
….with a fire for every experience and an obsession for freedom that terrified me to the point that I couldn’t even talk about it and pushed me to a nomadic point of madness that both dazzled and dizzied me” -Lana Del Rey, “RIDE”
If it wasn’t for Lana Del Rey and Ye, I’m not sure Brianna and I would be friends. Back in October, we were writing for the same woman. Brianna wrote about Lana. I wrote about Ye.
One day, I read a piece she wrote about her new life in Florida— comparing her fresh relationship with a southern man with dirty hands and how it mirrored Lana’s surprising romance with her alligator tour guide. The piece was good. So good, I wanted to get to know her. We hopped on the phone and within minutes started gushing about Lana and Kanye. I told her during the pandemic, a model from Lana’s “Born to Die” music video DMed me cryptic conspiracies about crows. She told me she there’s no doubt in her mind Ye and Jeffree Star hooked up in Wyoming. A long-distance friendship sprung, built on pop culture gossip.
Here we are, months later. Technically unemployed, running on instinct, and pushing ourselves to places we never imagined back on that first phone call last October. Every day feels like a test. We’re growing, breaking, rebuilding — trauma-bonded by tearful testimonies.
Girls Night Live 🎙️
Last night, we hopped on Substack Live to recap the highlights of this week. If you caught it live in real time, thank you. If not, don’t worry, you’re right on time.
Grab a mimosa and get cozy. We decided it was time to relax and lighten up.
We cover the Diddy trial updates, but also escape into the lighter side of pop culture (finally), where no criminal enterprise fueled by two dozen bottles of baby oil is involved.
You’ll hear us spiral through a million tangents: D.C. parades, Kanye’s 10-minute court appearance, Katy/Orlando breakup rumors, Lana throwing shade at Miley, why TMZ told Brianna she should work at a local newspaper and of course — family drama inside a politically divided house in Attica, New York.
After diving deep, swimming in shallow waters is essential for feminine healing.
We can’t spend all our time analyzing whether or not jurors understand RICO. Sometimes we need to dissect trivial matters of culture.
Why is John Mayer pretending he’s looking for a wife just because Jason Bateman asked him a stupid question? When will Benny Blanco stop telling the world that Selena Gomez loves Taco Bell?
Happy Sunday & Happy Father’s Day.
“Fathers, be good to your daughters
Daughters will love like you do
Girls become lovers who turn into mothers
So, mothers be good to your daughters too”
Tonight, we learned it’s much easier to recall the chorus to “Daughters” than remember the name of the corny duet Katy and John sang during their brief romance.
Enjoy the live.
To help support my independent coverage of the Diddy trial, consider upgrading to a paid Substack subscription. Huge thanks to everyone who’s already joined. I’m loving this new chapter. Let’s keep it rolling!
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