I'm at the unveiling of a new rap artist's debut album. He's signed to Diddy's Bad Boy Entertainment.
We're in the Captain D's parking lot, and I reach over to touch the rapper's creme seersucker suit.
"Nigga, don't be touching my suit," the rapper says.
"But I really like it," I tell him. "Where did you get it? Brooks Brothers?"
The rapper shoots me a look like "silly white, gay boy."
Once we're inside the line for deep-fried salty seafood goodness, a pimply faced teen comes over with a bottle of wine.
"Captain D's serves wine now?" I ask in dumbfuck awe. "Well, pour me some of that shit."
Again, as we inch closer to place our orders, I keep trying to touch the rapper's suit. I have to know what fabric his creme seersucker suit is made from.
But I soon spot Diddy in line, talking on his Blackberry. He pauses and glances over at me.
"Nigga, don't be touching his suit, now," Diddy says.