P. Diddy is Icon of Our Debased Era

Indictment consistent with my perceptions of the man in 2006.

In the summer of 2006 I found myself, by a strange twist of fate, attending an afternoon party in Saint-Tropez hosted by P. Diddy and Paris Hilton at one of the tony town’s beach clubs. Immediately upon walking into the pool area, I felt a strong antipathy to the event’s energy and atmosphere. Both Paris and Diddy seemed uncomfortable, and their body language and affect spread to the other party-goers.

It was still early and few had drunk enough alcohol or yet taken ecstasy or cocaine to overcome their self-consciousness about being at a party in Saint-Tropez hosted by Paris Hilton and P. Diddy. It occurred to me as I sipped my glass of rosé that the stiffness could be remedied by a good music soundtrack. Alas, the “music” consisted entirely of a thunderous beat, with no discernible harmony or melody.

Sensing the low energy, Diddy grabbed a microphone and yelled, “It’s time to get the women wet!” which prompted a few half-hearted cheers from the crowd. “Throw them into the pool!” he yelled. On his command, a few bikini-clad girls were flung into the water.

A few seconds later I noticed that a brunette was suspended motionlessly and face down in the pool, apparently unconscious. Luckily someone from the club staff noticed her at the same time I did, and quickly jumped in and hauled her to the steps. Blood was flowing from her nose and it appeared that she had dove into the shallow end and struck her face on the bottom. I feared she had broken her neck, but then she seemed to revive. A few minutes later paramedics arrived, and I suppose they took her to the local clinic.

The point of this introduction is not to judge the desire to attend a Bacchanalia—to experience a dopamine rush of intoxication and sexual desire induced by the presence of beautiful women. While I am not advocating that people participate in such parties, I can understand why they would want to.

The trouble is that if chasing this kind of dopamine rush becomes your primary pursuit, you are likely to grow bored with ordinary pleasure and seek to obtain the same high through darker, more taboo means. This is the affliction of sexual sadists who find themselves needing to exert power and to inflict pain on their partners to obtain satisfaction from the sexual encounter.

Diddy was, I thought, an icon of our debased era.

Observing him hunched over with the microphone, wearing ridiculous clothes, and occasionally shouting silly exhortations, I contrasted him with Nat King Cole—a splendid musician and a perfect gentleman. While Cole ultimately became famous for his silky voice, he was also one of the finest jazz pianists of all time.

I thought of the ridicule that Cole had to endure when prominent blacks such as Thurgood Marshall called him an “Uncle Tom” because he was well-spoken, had fine manners, and wore fine suits.

“I think P. Diddy’s music and style suck,” I remarked to my party companion. “And it wouldn’t surprise me if he is involved in serious criminal activity.”

This morning I was reminded of this party 18 years ago when I read the INDICTMENT of the United States District Court, Southern District of New York. Count One—if proven to be true at his trial—is consistent with my perception at the time I observed him.

I was right about P. Diddy and Thurgood Marshall was wrong about Nat King Cole. Cole was not an “Uncle Tom,” but an artist who loved music and wanted to focus entirely on his craft. Under constant pressure to get involved in politics, his hand was forced when he was attacked at a 1956 performance in Birmingham, Alabama by three Klan members. I have long wondered if these idiot goons were incited to do this by an agent provocateur. The timing—right as Cole was under maximum pressure to become a political activist—and the theatrical quality of the attack strike me as suspicious.

At Cole’s funeral, Jack Benny captured his character with the following eulogy:

Nat Cole was a man who gave so much and still had so much to give. He gave it in song, in friendship to his fellow man, devotion to his family. He was a star, a tremendous success as an entertainer, an institution. But he was an even greater success as a man, as a husband, as a father, as a friend.

American culture needs far more guys like Nat King Cole and far fewer like P. Diddy.