I’m still baffled that Yours Truly was given the opportunity to interview R. Kelly a few months ago. Still diggin’ his new single, “Echo,” and, like I said before, homie’s crazy. And I dig that about him! But, what’s really crazy is that he’s become my boy.He gave me a ring a few days after that interview and told me to give him a call if I was ever in LA, Chicago, The People’s Republic of China, or any Waffle House east of the Mississippi.
I met up with him before in Chicago and we went to IKEA, ate some meatballs that were off the hook, got bored, called up his girls, kicked the help out, pulled all of the IKEA beds together, put on Jock Jams Volume 2 and danced to Coolio until noon the next day. He called it his very own “IKEA idea.” He wants to do them every year now. Then, when I was in LA, he gave me the address of a restaurant and told me to meet him there, 12am sharp, for the pre-party and a hot biscuit.
As I stood in front of the building, questioning the address he gave me, I pulled out my phone and dialed his number while double-checking the crumpled piece of paper I wrote the address on.
He picked up and started sing-yelling, “Tell me who this is! I said, I said, tell me who this is right now, girl!” I let him continue as he stretched his words into notes. “Cuz I just wanna know, yes I said I, I, I wanna know, I wanna know, who this is right now, girl.”
I pulled the phone back from my ear and snarled at it. “Dude, it’s me. Just chill, R.” I secretly thought it was funny to call him R.
“Oh what’s up girl!” He replied, as if he didn’t just write a song to me over the phone. “How you been?”
“I think you gave me the wrong address. I’m standing in front of a strip club right now.”
“Yeah, come on in, girl. We in the back. The big booooooooth!”
“I thought we were going to a restaurant?”
“Nah, dawg. We goin’ bowlin’!” he said, as if it all made sense now.
Dryly, I replied, “What, there’s a bowling alley in this strip club?”
“This is bowling night, girl! Get in here, man!”
“Alright, R” I said, a little bit irritated. “You gotta stop calling me ‘girl.’ If we’re going to be friends, you – .”
” – You’re right. My bad, girl. It’s just natural. Let me think for a second.” Singing, he repeated, “Let me think for a second, girl.”
I guess singing helps him think.
After a brief thinking period, as if he had the most brilliant spark of genius, he said, “I’m gonna call you Kellz,” genuinely believing he solved the problem. “Ya dig?”
I gave up. “Okay, that’s fine.” I muttered. “I’m on my way in.”
“Das da spirit, Kellz!”
When I walked in, “Ignition (Remix)” was busting through the speakers, as girls danced like they were ‘at da club’ rather than performing a tease. I had the sneaking suspicion that when Kellz walked in, he said, “Put this on and make ‘em girls dance like this.”
I saw R. in the very back of the room in a huge booth with six dudes in matching bowling jerseys, each with a girl on their lap. Kellz had a bowling jersey on as well, but no girl. He was sitting in the middle of it all, sunglasses covering half of his face, bopping his head at a tilt. I imagined that he was talking to himself in his mind, saying, “Yeah, that’s right, gurrrl. This is how I roll. Yeah, yeah, gurrrl. I’m chillin’ cuz that’s how I like to do it. Yeah, dawg. Yeah.”
I walked up to him and said, “What up Kellz?” No response. He just continued to bop his head with his sunglasses on, looking like a ghetto Stevie Wonder. “Kellz?” No response. I looked around at his crew and they just stared back at me like everything was normal. “Kellz!”
He suddenly stopped bopping his head. “Oh, what up, son. Come sit up on my lap,” he said, patting his leg.
“What?”
Rather than explaining, he gently grabbed the elbow of the stripper next to him. Pointing at me, he said, “Hey girl, get up on ‘em over there.” She turned to me, rolled her eyes up and down my body twice, mad-dogged me, then walked towards me. I flashed an awkward smile and flinched a little bit as she pushed me down into a chair and proceeded to give me a lap dance.
As I bobbed and weaved my head around the girl, I tried talking to Kellz. “So, when are we going bowling?” After seeing their dope ass bowling jerseys, I was excited to hit the lanes.
“This is bowlin’, son!” Again, Kellz give explanations that make no sense, but he honestly believes that he clarifies things. It can get really annoying.
“Is ‘bowling’ a term for going to a strip club or something?” I replied, confused.
“Nah, man. This is the old bowling alley. And this,” pointing to his entourage, “is my bowlin’ league.”
A little more irritated, I said, “I don’t know what you’re saying 99% of the time. What does that mean?”
“This is the old bowlin’ alley and me and my homies got a bowlin’ team together a few months ago. That’s why we got these fly jerseys, homie.” As he said this, he turned to show me the back of his jersey, which read “Kellz Bellz” in silver sequins.” He turned back and asked, “Cool, right?”
Choosing not to answer, I prodded, “So, you had a bowling team and….”
“Right-right. Word. But, when I was in here I was like ‘damn, we need some girls up in here,’ ya dig?” I didn’t really dig, but he continued. “So I called up some girls and was like yeah, this shit is goin’ off. This is right. So, I bought the place and turned it into a strip club.” He leaned back in the booth, puckered his lips, and nodded his head as if to commend himself on a job well done.
“So, you’re telling me that – .” I cut myself off to address the stripper, who was still giving me a lap dance. “Ma’am, do you mind if we stop the lap dance? Maybe take a water break or something?” She climbed off of me and walked toward the bar. “So, let me get this straight. You’re telling me that you call this ‘bowling’ because this used to be a bowling alley?”
Popping his collar, he insensibly explained, “And the jerseys, too, son. Kellz Bellz.”
I leaned back in my chair, looked up at the ceiling, and shook my head. “I guess it’s like your IKEA idea.”
Excited, he said, “Word! Just like that but this is….uh….more like my bowlin’ alley rally!” He snickered and I could tell he was proud of that one. Sometimes he really does come up with some clever shit.
“Anyways, what have you been up to?”
He pulled off his sunglasses and shook his head. I got the feeling that he had been waiting for me to ask. “I ain’t been well, homie. Come over here.” He pushed his buddy out of the way to make room for me in the booth.
I hesitated. “You want me to sit there?” I asked, nervously.
“Yeah, come over here.” He started to sound sad. “You’re the only one I can talk to, girl. Oh my bad. I mean Kellz.”
I sighed. “You can just call me girl. Whatever. Or how about ‘son’? Can we do that?”
“Word, son.”
I sat down and he immediately put his arm around my shoulder, ready to let his heart bleed. I didn’t know that I was going to be his shoulder to lean on. It was so weird.
“You’re the only one I can talk to, son,” he lamented.
I was a little confused because really we weren’t that close. “Ya know, we don’t know each other that well – .”
“I don’t care, son! We got a connection. So I’m gonna tell you my feelin’s!” he demanded.
“Okay, okay. Go ahead,” I said, as if he really needed my permission.
He proceeded to tell me about how he was sick of living this party life. He wanted a woman – a good woman. He wanted to settle down and have kids. He reminded me a lot of Sir Smoke-a-Lot in Half Baked, only he needed more than a back-ee-attamee.
“I want a house, son. I want a fence with the pickets and I want a poo,” he lamented.
“A poo?” I asked.
“I want a poo for my kids and my shark to swim in, you know?”
Understanding, I said, “Oh, a pool,” emphasizing the ‘L’.
He continued to tell me about his aspirations and often sang them. He even echoed himself at times.
“I just need a good woman, woman, woman……..I’m tellin’ you gurrrl!” he sang.
I think at one point he even started crying. And, the whole time, his entourage was just chillin’ around him, gettin’ lap dances like everything was cool. It was so weird and I had to get out of there.
He was still singing and crying when I said, “I’m gonna get out of here now, Kellz. I gotta get home.”
He froze. I thought he was going to kill me for leaving him in the cold when he’s spilling his guts. I was scared. After about a 30 second pause, he pulled his sunglasses and said, “You’re my boy, dawg. Good chillin with you. Hit me up at the next WaffleHouse. Word?”
R Kelly Is My Homie
I met up with him before in Chicago and we went to IKEA, ate some meatballs that were off the hook, got bored, called up his girls, kicked the help out, pulled all of the IKEA beds together, put on Jock Jams Volume 2 and danced to Coolio until noon the next day. He called it his very own “IKEA idea.” He wants to do them every year now. Then, when I was in LA, he gave me the address of a restaurant and told me to meet him there, 12am sharp, for the pre-party and a hot biscuit.
As I stood in front of the building, questioning the address he gave me, I pulled out my phone and dialed his number while double-checking the crumpled piece of paper I wrote the address on.
He picked up and started sing-yelling, “Tell me who this is! I said, I said, tell me who this is right now, girl!” I let him continue as he stretched his words into notes. “Cuz I just wanna know, yes I said I, I, I wanna know, I wanna know, who this is right now, girl.”
I pulled the phone back from my ear and snarled at it. “Dude, it’s me. Just chill, R.” I secretly thought it was funny to call him R.
“Oh what’s up girl!” He replied, as if he didn’t just write a song to me over the phone. “How you been?”
“I think you gave me the wrong address. I’m standing in front of a strip club right now.”
“Yeah, come on in, girl. We in the back. The big booooooooth!”
“I thought we were going to a restaurant?”
“Nah, dawg. We goin’ bowlin’!” he said, as if it all made sense now.
Dryly, I replied, “What, there’s a bowling alley in this strip club?”
“This is bowling night, girl! Get in here, man!”
“Alright, R” I said, a little bit irritated. “You gotta stop calling me ‘girl.’ If we’re going to be friends, you – .”
” – You’re right. My bad, girl. It’s just natural. Let me think for a second.” Singing, he repeated, “Let me think for a second, girl.”
I guess singing helps him think.
After a brief thinking period, as if he had the most brilliant spark of genius, he said, “I’m gonna call you Kellz,” genuinely believing he solved the problem. “Ya dig?”
I gave up. “Okay, that’s fine.” I muttered. “I’m on my way in.”
“Das da spirit, Kellz!”
When I walked in, “Ignition (Remix)” was busting through the speakers, as girls danced like they were ‘at da club’ rather than performing a tease. I had the sneaking suspicion that when Kellz walked in, he said, “Put this on and make ‘em girls dance like this.”
I saw R. in the very back of the room in a huge booth with six dudes in matching bowling jerseys, each with a girl on their lap. Kellz had a bowling jersey on as well, but no girl. He was sitting in the middle of it all, sunglasses covering half of his face, bopping his head at a tilt. I imagined that he was talking to himself in his mind, saying, “Yeah, that’s right, gurrrl. This is how I roll. Yeah, yeah, gurrrl. I’m chillin’ cuz that’s how I like to do it. Yeah, dawg. Yeah.”
I walked up to him and said, “What up Kellz?” No response. He just continued to bop his head with his sunglasses on, looking like a ghetto Stevie Wonder. “Kellz?” No response. I looked around at his crew and they just stared back at me like everything was normal. “Kellz!”
He suddenly stopped bopping his head. “Oh, what up, son. Come sit up on my lap,” he said, patting his leg.
“What?”
Rather than explaining, he gently grabbed the elbow of the stripper next to him. Pointing at me, he said, “Hey girl, get up on ‘em over there.” She turned to me, rolled her eyes up and down my body twice, mad-dogged me, then walked towards me. I flashed an awkward smile and flinched a little bit as she pushed me down into a chair and proceeded to give me a lap dance.
As I bobbed and weaved my head around the girl, I tried talking to Kellz. “So, when are we going bowling?” After seeing their dope ass bowling jerseys, I was excited to hit the lanes.
“This is bowlin’, son!” Again, Kellz give explanations that make no sense, but he honestly believes that he clarifies things. It can get really annoying.
“Is ‘bowling’ a term for going to a strip club or something?” I replied, confused.
“Nah, man. This is the old bowling alley. And this,” pointing to his entourage, “is my bowlin’ league.”
A little more irritated, I said, “I don’t know what you’re saying 99% of the time. What does that mean?”
“This is the old bowlin’ alley and me and my homies got a bowlin’ team together a few months ago. That’s why we got these fly jerseys, homie.” As he said this, he turned to show me the back of his jersey, which read “Kellz Bellz” in silver sequins.” He turned back and asked, “Cool, right?”
Choosing not to answer, I prodded, “So, you had a bowling team and….”
“Right-right. Word. But, when I was in here I was like ‘damn, we need some girls up in here,’ ya dig?” I didn’t really dig, but he continued. “So I called up some girls and was like yeah, this shit is goin’ off. This is right. So, I bought the place and turned it into a strip club.” He leaned back in the booth, puckered his lips, and nodded his head as if to commend himself on a job well done.
“So, you’re telling me that – .” I cut myself off to address the stripper, who was still giving me a lap dance. “Ma’am, do you mind if we stop the lap dance? Maybe take a water break or something?” She climbed off of me and walked toward the bar. “So, let me get this straight. You’re telling me that you call this ‘bowling’ because this used to be a bowling alley?”
Popping his collar, he insensibly explained, “And the jerseys, too, son. Kellz Bellz.”
I leaned back in my chair, looked up at the ceiling, and shook my head. “I guess it’s like your IKEA idea.”
Excited, he said, “Word! Just like that but this is….uh….more like my bowlin’ alley rally!” He snickered and I could tell he was proud of that one. Sometimes he really does come up with some clever shit.
“Anyways, what have you been up to?”
He pulled off his sunglasses and shook his head. I got the feeling that he had been waiting for me to ask. “I ain’t been well, homie. Come over here.” He pushed his buddy out of the way to make room for me in the booth.
I hesitated. “You want me to sit there?” I asked, nervously.
“Yeah, come over here.” He started to sound sad. “You’re the only one I can talk to, girl. Oh my bad. I mean Kellz.”
I sighed. “You can just call me girl. Whatever. Or how about ‘son’? Can we do that?”
“Word, son.”
I sat down and he immediately put his arm around my shoulder, ready to let his heart bleed. I didn’t know that I was going to be his shoulder to lean on. It was so weird.
“You’re the only one I can talk to, son,” he lamented.
I was a little confused because really we weren’t that close. “Ya know, we don’t know each other that well – .”
“I don’t care, son! We got a connection. So I’m gonna tell you my feelin’s!” he demanded.
“Okay, okay. Go ahead,” I said, as if he really needed my permission.
He proceeded to tell me about how he was sick of living this party life. He wanted a woman – a good woman. He wanted to settle down and have kids. He reminded me a lot of Sir Smoke-a-Lot in Half Baked, only he needed more than a back-ee-attamee.
“I want a house, son. I want a fence with the pickets and I want a poo,” he lamented.
“A poo?” I asked.
“I want a poo for my kids and my shark to swim in, you know?”
Understanding, I said, “Oh, a pool,” emphasizing the ‘L’.
He continued to tell me about his aspirations and often sang them. He even echoed himself at times.
“I just need a good woman, woman, woman……..I’m tellin’ you gurrrl!” he sang.
I think at one point he even started crying. And, the whole time, his entourage was just chillin’ around him, gettin’ lap dances like everything was cool. It was so weird and I had to get out of there.
He was still singing and crying when I said, “I’m gonna get out of here now, Kellz. I gotta get home.”
He froze. I thought he was going to kill me for leaving him in the cold when he’s spilling his guts. I was scared. After about a 30 second pause, he pulled his sunglasses and said, “You’re my boy, dawg. Good chillin with you. Hit me up at the next WaffleHouse. Word?”
Relieved, I replied, “Word.”
R. Kelly is my homie.