Didn't see it coming

There were just certain things that I knew were going to happen on my favorite TV shows this season.

Let’s start with ‘The Sopranos’, I just knew that Chris was going to get caught up with drugs and dealing with the two Arab guys that had been coming around buying weapons, that he’d get busted for it, and then turn rat for the Feds. Damn, was I wrong…

I didn’t see that coming.

Nor did I see Melinda Doolittle losing to one of the weakest and weirdest American Idol contestants yet.

I didn’t see that coming.

The problem with American Idol isn’t a matter of racial conspiracies or a flawed voting system. No, it’s none of that. It’s a flawed American youth culture.

What we’re seeing are a bunch of 13-18 year-olds who have every access to modern technology, but sorely lacking in judgment. We’re seeing kids who basically don’t know how to judge talent based on the necessary components that come with it: craftsmanship, skill level, technical ability and originality. When you see a talented singer like Melinda voted off, you have to wonder.

Inside and Out

Once again I’ve been away too long. I know, I know. Life is has been pretty rough nowadays. You know the saying: “When life throws you lemons…make lemonade, right?” Well, what do you do when life throws you shit? Throw shit back, right?

I’ve been busy trying to write proposals and articles and deal with my family and work, that I get very little time to talk to you.

Someday soon Wax Poetics will run my Eddie Cheba article; I can’t wait to see it in print. You have to understand something, I hounded Eddie for two years for that article. I stepped my pen game up 200% for that piece, I put my heart into it. I can’t wait for you to see it, you’ll know what I mean. No one has ever told the story of that side of hip hop history like that before. Trust me its well worth the wait.

I also handed in an article about the rise of Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five, considering their nomination to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame it is a timely piece, and it too is some of my best work. I checked all of the major publications and none of them, not one of them, covered the story like I did. But, I have no idea when that article will see the light of day.

I know I have an idea you should contact Wax and tell them “Hey run them Mark Skillz joints…”

The Virginia Tech shooting was horrifying to me. It made me stop and think about all of the potential wacko’s I could’ve offended over the years. You never know what goes through some people’s heads, man. One day, you’re in class minding your business and then some wack job is in the back of the class taking pictures of people not saying anything. You have no idea what the pictures are for or nothing. For all you know he’s using them to jack off to. You never know.

The scariest thing – it was all scary, but the part that bugged me out was he stopped what he was doing to record a video and take pictures of himself. That tells you something about the impact that the media has on wacko’s. One day, someone else is going to imitate what this nut job did, except in his video he’s gonna stop talking and pull down his pants and start wacking off. I’m telling you its coming. Sorry, no pun intended. But it’s true.

I’ve been hooked on American Idol lately I don’t care what, I hope Melinda Doolittle wins. Her performance last night was dope to me. I don’t care what Simon and Randy say.

Speaking of American Idol, that dude Blake is kinda corny yo. I mean he’s a talented dude and all, but on the real, all that shit he’s doing to them songs is kinda corny kid. When he makes them sound effects he makes the songs sound like you’re in some weird club somewhere where you need to be taking some kind of mind altering drug in order to dance. His last song last night was aiiight, but he killed – and I mean killed not in a good way, ‘You should be dancing’ – wack, wack, wack, totally corny.

I know you like LaKisha but, on the real she ain’t gonna win, yo. A lot of black women I know are rooting for LaKisha because she in a way represents them. Stay with me on this. LaKisha looks like an ordinary sister, she can sing, but she’s a big girl. And a lot of women can identify with a big girl easier because she is non- threatening to them. She is one of them.

Check this out, bring up the subject of ‘Dreamgirls’ and watch what happens. Most Black women are rooting for Jennifer Hudson’s character because they just ‘ain’t feeling Beyonce’. Not Beyonce’s character – but Beyonce the person. See what I mean? Beyonce is threatening to them; her beauty makes her someone they don’t want to relate to. Check that out then get back with me and we’ll compare notes.

Men, we don’t have those hang ups. We have other hang ups, but we won’t knock the next dude because he looks better than us…nah, nah, nah, nah, we’ll knock the next dude if he tries to play like he’s better than us. He can think whatever he wants – we don’t care, but if he tries to play like he’s king of the castle then there will be probs. Most dudes who knock the next dude do it out of insecurity. Same as women. But for men, at least most men I know, so long as homie isn’t throwing shit in your face its all good. Get back at me on that we need to talk about it.

A Shot of Viagra for the Movement

Last weeks incident with Tony Yayo and Jimmy Rosemond’s 14-year-old son has sparked outrage in New York. Which is a good thing. But when will we confront the real enemy?

Who’s the real enemy you ask?

The real enemies are the ignorant ass jack offs, who – of their own free will, continue to perpetuate the worse stereotypes of Black men. And guess what? They too are Black men.

You know who I’m talking about. I’m talking about the so-called brothers and sisters that who – through their own actions, have shown that they don’t hold the same values as the rest of Black America. These people choose to be niggas. Or niggers. Or if you really want to keep it real niggaz.

I’m not going to insult your intelligence and run down for you what a nigga is. I think you know.

But what of this planned rally? Is it going to be more sermons and freedom songs or is it going to spark real meaningful dialogue amongst Black people? Bill Cosby has been touring the country for the last couple of years speaking his peace. Stanley Crouch has been on his stepladder condemning our generation for so long, I’m starting to think the brother is glued there or something. We haven’t given him reason to stop because he’s right. Especially when you think about recent events. Anyone remember NBA All Star weekend for starters?

If the Hip Hop Action Network really wants to make a difference here’s what they can do. They can march all right. They can find out where that brother Tony Yayo is going to be that day and march to that building or house and hold their protest there. Bring drummers, conga players and a several thousand pissed off people. Be sure to beat the drums loud so that people know you mean business.

And when you get to his location break out the stepladder and turn on the bullhorn and say the following: “Marvin Bernard (that’s his real name) this is the Black community. Bring your black ass out here nigga! It’s time for you to answer to the people!”

Back in the 60’s they identified the enemy and made an example of him. Anyone remember the name Bull Connor? Hearing his name today wouldn’t cause a normal sane Black person to feel warm and fuzzy now does it? That’s because we know he’s the enemy.

Same for the people like Marvin Bernard.
If we don’t confront them our movement will continue to be as limp as a bad case of Erectile Dysfunction. Russell Simmons and Ben Chavis have decided to not take part in the planned rally. Hmmmmm…I wonder what they really think about the subject? I smell poverty pimpin’ goin’ on. What do you think?

Deep In the Heart of Texas

I always heard that Texas wasn’t a place to go fuckin around at. I remember my first trip there, I was stunned by the signs on the doors of just about any business you went in: “NO GUNS ALLOWED” or this one: “No Concealed Weapons Allowed At All”.

“What the fuck?” I thought to myself. At first I thought it was a joke of some kind. After a while I realized these mofo’s weren’t playing. I remember tapping someone on the shoulder and asking them about the signs. They told me that it was legal to carry a gun in Texas it just couldn’t be concealed. As a matter of fact you can shoot a person in Texas as long as you can prove that it was in self-defense.

Now imagine something like that in New York or California.
“Pow! Pow!”
“Hands up ni----“
“Hey, hey, hey, it was self-defense that asshole stepped on my sneakers!”
“Oh yeah? Tell it to the judge Tupac!”

See couldn’t have that kind of shit anywhere else but Texas.

It all goes way back deep in this countrys history. Back when the English started settling here. And in fact even further than that. When one dude had a beef with another dude they’d settle it with a duel. Yeah for real. Here’s how it would go down.

One guy would write another guy a letter.

“Dear Sir,

You hath offended me and my honor sir. I challenge you to a duel to the death. You may choose whatever weapon of your choice. If you don’t have a weapon I shall be happy to provide one for you. I say we meet at daybreak two mornings from now. Where we will turn our backs to each other and count off twenty paces out loud and then turn and shoot at each other, until one of us is dead.

If you don’t show you will provide further proof that you are of dubious character and will hath offended me more.

May the better man be the victor.

Cheers…

That’s some wild shit ain’t it? You see these guys had ‘gentlemen agreements’ and stuff like that. There was a code these cats went by. So ok, the one dude who was challenged to the duel would respond by letter as well.

“Dear Sir,

I accept your challenge and I am ready to defend my honor sir.

Cheers…

These idiots would meet out in the open with a referee of sorts, it would be someone who made sure these things were carried out in an honorable fashion. So dig it, they’d meet and turn their backs against each other and count off an agreed upon number of steps and then turn, and in some cases would take turns shooting at each other.

After a while guys who were a little less scrupulous did things like instead of taking the agreed upon 20 paces would turn around and shoot after five steps or some shit like that. Me myself, shit, I would set that shit up so that my tenth step was behind a tree or something. Or better yet, when the letter came demanding the duel, I would have acted like it was a bill collector and refused that shit.

“Fuck you” I’d write back.

But as the country moved west things degenerated. The kind of people that moved to settle the west weren’t blue bloods or aristocrats or nothing like that. Nah, these guys didn’t mind going days or weeks or hell months on end without a bath or a shave. They were much more rugged than the guys back East.

So that dueling shit had to change.

Since these guys weren’t abiding by ‘gentlemen agreements’ in the wild, wild west - in came the showdowns. The quicker you were on the draw the more likely you were to live.

So as the wind blew the old dried up tumbleweeds around and the old broken down doors frantically open and shut as people fled the street, two desperadoes would meet in the middle of the dirt road. Neither one of them had bathed in months and you probably smelled a mixture of piss, shit, whiskey and fear from both of them from all the way back in the saloon. They probably chewed so much tobaccee that their teeth were rotted and brown. But it was alright because you were only gonna be smelling one of them after it was all said and done.

Nowadays nobody waits for another person to draw before they shoot, if you can get your shot off first your lucky.

Texas is a real law and order kind of place now. Since the death penalty was re-established some years back, they have executed more people than any other state. They’ve executed some 386 people in ten years. In California, you could’ve gotten sentenced to death row in 1978 and your ass might be up for execution this year.

In Texas there’s no waiting period buddy. There have been times when they have had three executions in one day! Now that’s law and order for your ass.

Now they amended the law to where you no longer have to retreat if someone is attacking you. You can just pull your shit out and shoot. “Boo-Yaa!” that’s right. You can take them out right on the spot if they threaten you on your property, in your car or at work.

Ain’t that some shit.

Habitual Line Steppin' in the Age of Beef

Word on the street is Jimmy Rosemond is not a guy to be messed with. His nickname is “Henchmen”. He earned that rep that hard way on the streets of New York in the 70’s, ‘80’s and 90’s. Since I don’t know the man personally, I won’t be the one to be spreading half truths and rumors. Let’s just say I wouldn’t wanna be Tony Yayo right about now.

According to this from Allhiphop.com Tony Yayo allegedly put his hands on Jimmy’s son.

Where I come from that means war.

To hell with beef…when a grown ass man slaps a kid – that ain’t his, oh that ni--- got an ass whuppin’ comin! There are consequences and repercussions for shit like that. Walls shake and furniture moves when someone crosses that line.

Ordinarily I am against violence. But on an occasion like this: I understand.

Should a pile of rocks happen to suddenly fall out of the sky and onto Tony Yayo’s head – I’d understand.

Should he be sitting in his prison cell and suddenly and mysteriously find himself hanging from whatever objects are attached to the ceiling of his cell – I’d understand.

There are a few immovable laws of the streets that everyone abides by. Well, they should abide by. And at the top of that list after ‘don’t talk about nobody’s moms’ is: ‘don’t touch another mans kids’.

If you have beef with somebody keep it to that man, don’t cross the line and take it to the kids.

But let’s just say, and I’m sure of this, he didn’t know that that was Jimmy’s son. Ok, but why would a 29 year old man hit a 14 year old boy?

Regardless if the kid had a big mouth or not, you don’t hit a 14 year old. What’s that prove?

“Yo man, I just slapped this lil’ ni----“…
“Oh word?”
“Yeah, man this lil’ ni---- was wearing a Czar Entertainment t-shirt and shit man.”

Sounds ignorant to me.

Now on the other hand let’s say hypothetically that the kid is lying, because he said 50 Cent was there as well. It would be ashamed if these brothers went to war over a lie. One member of G-Unit has manned up and said if it did go down it wasn’t cool. Let’s see what kind of man 50 Cent is.

That’s 50’s home boy from way back. But home boys or not. You can’t back your mans when they get out of line like that.

We’ll see how it breaks down later.

An Important Life Lesson

Of all of the people I remember from third grade there will be one person that I will never forget. Her name was Miriam. We went to PS 24 in Flushing, Queens. Don't ask me what year it was cause I damn sure don't remember. Let's just be safe and say it was in the mid to late 70's.

Anyway, everybody in my class used to run away from this skinny Puerto Rican girl named Miriam. I never knew the reason. At the very sight of her mother fuckers would start bookin'. "Ill Miriam's coming..." And they would dash away like roaches. The rumor was she threw up in a water fountain and contaminated the drinking water for the whole entire school or something like that.

Well, after a while stupid me joined in on it too.

"Ill, Miriam!" I said as I ran as fast as I could.

That went on for about a year.

Fourth grade rolled around and we did the same thing to her. That was until one day in March or April I think it was. Had to be one of those months cause it wasn't cold anymore.

There was Miriam walking across the schoolyard. 'Ill Miriam", I said as I started jettin' the hell out of the way. Word was she had 'cooties'. Whatever in the hell 'cooties' were I sure as shit didn't want them.

But this day wasn't gonna go down like any other day.

Just as I was reaching top speed lo and behold Miriam was hot on my tracks. 'Oh shit the cootie girl is gonna get me!' I accelerated more, I looked back, "Goddamn, she's closing in!"

I juked to the left and then a quick right, then I made another quick juke to the left, surely she'd be in the dust by now.

Hell no, her hand was damn near on the back of my shirt. "No, don't touch me please!' I shouted.

'Gotcha!' She said.

'Oh no, I'm gonna start throwing up or something like that" I thought.

But it didn't happen.

"See, I touched you and nothing happened to you." She said looking me square in the eyes.

"Yeah, huh" I said surprised.

"Why do you run from me? I don't even know you."

"I dunno." Stupid me responded.

"See, you run from me because everyone else does. That's not right."

'It isn't?' Stupid me responded back.

'No, how would you like it if I did the same thing to you?"

'I don't think I'd like it."

"So how do you think I feel?'

"Hey, you're right."

"When you see me just wave and say hi, I'm not a bad person."

'Ok, you got it."

After that whenever she and I saw each other we always smiled and said hi to each other. Not a day goes by that I don't think about that girl. She taught me to never follow the crowd. Just because one person doesn't like somebody doesn't mean that i have to dislike them too.

Conspiracy theories and different agendas @ the Rock Hall of Fame

On the streets of New York City in the 1970’s the name Grandmaster Flash rung louder than a fire engine siren. He had the rep. He was definitely the man back then. I heard the name before I heard the man.

One day at the Jamaica Alden – an old movie theatre in Jamaica, Queens – this was a ghetto ass theatre on Jamaica Ave, if memory serves me right. My pops took me and my brother to see the ‘Fish That Saved Pittsburgh’. To show you just how rowdy this theatre was, you had dudes walking in there playin’ their box as if they were outside. Cats were smokin’ weed and passin’ 40’s as if they were at a party. I mean it was some real nig- type shit.

Anyway, the song ‘Good Times’ by Chic was the hottest record out at the time. Deejays loved to cut the shit out of that record. Everywhere you went you heard it. Right before the movie started up someone was playing a Flash tape on their box. I now know that it was Mele Mel on the mic at that party, back then I had no idea who was talking on the mic for Flash, but it was just before ‘Rapper’s Delight’ came out. This rap shit was at a fever pitch on the streets.

I’ll never forget the first time I heard ‘Superrappin’. To this day that is one of my favorite songs from that group. It was the first time that I heard a group of five MC’s literally sound like one. And their rap skills were head, shoulders, knees and toes above the Sugar Hill Gangs.

Now that the group has finally been inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, it feels kind of like the movement has been validated in some ways. Way back in the day, rap music was definitely not respected, in fact, for many years it was the ugly stepchild of the music industry. No one really respected the music. They didn’t value it because guys were ‘just talking over a beat’. Many people – right until today, don’t think that it takes talent. And if they do think it takes talent, they don’t put it on the same level as singing or playing an instrument. It’s really not a respected art form.

While I was watching the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction ceremony on TV, I was sitting on the edge of my seat, because the group that electrified the movement – the movement that I have been apart of for my whole life, the same movement that I grew up with, was finally taking its place alongside the greats of Rock history.

Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five are to me and my generation what Chuck Berry, Little Richard, Fats Domino, Ike Turner and the Beatles are to previous generations. They were the group with the biggest influence, hell; they were the first rap group.

The thing that disappointed me the most watching the broadcast was Jay Z’s introduction of them. And here’s why…

Jay Z is definitely one of the greatest rappers ever. I’ve followed dudes career from ’85 to now. And that’s just it. Jay and I are the same age, we’re both damn near 40’s year old. How can he get up in front of any camera or any audience anywhere on a night as historical as that and not talk about what impact that group had on him personally? It defies any logical explanation I can think of.

Like I said Jay ain’t no 22 year old from Boise, Idaho or someplace like that, he knows how important that group is to hip-hop. None of us would be doing what we’re doing now, had it not been for them. And that’s real.

Over the years I have interviewed just about all of the major hip hop pioneers for various articles I’ve written in print and online. Many of them have mentioned a conspiracy of sorts that is meant to downplay their contributions to the culture. Many of have said that there is a stigma attached to being a hip-hop pioneer that is difficult to live with. Part of that conspiracy that the brothers have talked about is that anyone prior to RUN-DMC, it’s almost as if they didn’t exist or weren’t as important as Run and them.

At first I didn’t believe it. I thought it was the remnants of the coke some of them had been sniffin’ in the 80’s.

That was until one night when LL Cool J accepted a Soul Train Award – I think for lifetime achievement or something like that. LL credited Run DMC as being “the creators of rap as we know it today”.

That statement struck me in between the eyes and has stayed with me to this day. “How can Run and them be that?” I asked myself. That’s impossible. It’s physically, mathematically and historically impossible. I could see someone 21 years old and from Butte, Montana or somewhere like that, saying something like that, because they wouldn’t know.

But not James Todd Smith from Hollis, Queens a guy who like myself and Jay Z is also damn near 40. Ain’t no way.

Someone damn near 40 – and or over 40 and from New York has a different perspective of the music and the culture than someone who is damn near 40 and from Shreveport, Louisiana. They aren’t going to know about the block parties, the jam tapes, the weekend jams at parks, rec centers, gyms, parking lots, parking garages, roller rinks and anywhere else a crew of guys could set up a sound system and jam. A person from outside of New York is not going to understand certain things that were apart of the culture back then. They just wouldn’t.

So when I hear these guys who are my age and whom I know grew up on the music the same way I did, not personalize their experience and omit the contributions of guys like Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five, I reflect on those conspiracy theories and they gain more credibility day by day.

But why would anyone work to discredit them?

The theory is is that Russell Simmons is behind it. For some reason allegedly, Russell doesn’t want anyone or any group to overshadow RUN-DMC.

And to be honest there is some credibility there. Check this out.

In 1985 the movie ‘Krush Groove’ came out. This was a movie that featured just about all of the Rush Artist Management groups. From what I understand, originally, the movie wasn’t even going to be about Russell, it was going to be called ‘The King of Rap’ or something like that and was going to be about Kurtis Blow.

Somehow or another that got changed.

When the movie was released Right On magazine did a full feature on the movie and its stars. This was big back then. By the way Right On Magazine was the only publication covering hip-hop back then, Spin Magazine would come along in the late 80’s and do it, they were the first to seriously cover the music. Anyway, in this issue they described Kurtis Blow’s character as an “aging over the hill rapper who’s career was over.”

From what I understand Kurtis was born in 1959 in 1985 he would’ve been 23 years old when that movie came out. Now you tell me, how is a dude washed up at 23 years old?

It wouldn’t be until years later when I learned about the industry that I learned that an artist’s management are the ones that protect his image in the press. They work with fan magazines on articles and whatnot – those articles were advertisement, so I imagine RUSH Artist Management paid for that write up.

Hmmmmmm….why would an artists manager dare let one of his acts be seen as ‘washed up and over the hill?”

Unless they had another agenda.

From what I understand the first rap group with a platinum album is not RUN-DMC, it’s Whodini’s ‘Escape’. Not only that, but Run and them have been credited for having been the first rap group on Soul Train and American Bandstand. How is that possible when Kurtis Blow was the first rap artist on Soul Train and the Sugar Hill Gang were the first rap group on American Bandstand.

Unless someone has another agenda.

Looking For Mr. Untouchable

At some point this summer in some obscure town somewhere in Middle America, an old unassuming Black man is going to have an acute interest in two movies. One of them is called ‘American Gangster’ and the other is a documentary called ‘Mr. Untouchable’. To the people in some quiet suburban section of the heartland, neither movie will matter to them.

For nine years this old, bald, bespectacled Black man, has lived quietly amongst them, far removed from the life he once lead a lifetime ago.

If for some reason, by some twist of fate, the old man would stumble upon someone over 60 years of age from Harlem, New York – he’d feel the kind of sense of danger that he’d hadn’t felt in many years.

Once upon a time a long time ago, in a different life, his name was Nicky Barnes. He was New York’s biggest drug lord. That was until he was bought down by the Feds and incarcerated for life. And then he flipped on his people and turned informant. That’s why he isn’t Nicky Barnes anymore. He’s been in the Federal Witness Protection Program and has been quiet.

Until now.

In March of this year Rugged Land Publishing released “Mr. Untouchable: The Rise, Fall and Resurrection of Heroin’s Teflon Don”. ‘Mr. Untouchable’ captured Barnes in all of his arrogance, cunning and shrewdness.

Barnes lived well. He had the best of everything: Rolex watches, mink coats, custom made Italian suits, platinum rings with huge diamonds and all the ‘zings’ he could smoke.

What is a ‘zing’? According to Barnes it was a joint rolled with hash oil, Jamaican Motah weed, angel dust and crystal cocaine sprinkled in for good measure. The high gave you an ‘Arabian floating feeling’ he said.

The 1970’s were a helluva time to be Black. The Civil Rights Movement, the Nation of Islam and the Black Panther Party emboldened African Americans like at no time before. Tremendous strides were made on many fronts. But if you were an African American drug lord in the ‘70’s, well, the world was yours as they say.

It was the first time in the history of organized crime that so many Black men were able to stand up and free themselves from being under the feet of the Italian Mob. There had always been organized crime in Black communities; the problem was Black racketeers were dependant upon the Italians.

This summer when the movie ‘American Gangster’ starring Denzel Washington hits the theatres, it will be very difficult for Barnes, now 74 to stop himself from going to see the movie. ‘American Gangster’ is about one of Barnes old rivals Frank Lucas. In his day, the North Carolina born Lucas was as ruthless as they come. Barnes and Lucas didn’t care for one another at all. Cuba Gooding, Jr. will be playing Barnes on the screen.

The other movie Barnes – or whatever his name is nowadays, will be hard pressed to avoid is a documentary about his life called ‘Mr. Untouchable’. For the first time in years Barnes will get to hear from his former associates, and get their take on his rise and fall.

I’ve known about Nicky Barnes since the 80’s, I had heard he was a snitch. I never understood why a man of his supposed stature would turn on his people. After reading the book, I understand why.

The book ‘Mr. Untouchable’ is about loyalty, greed and revenge.

Hip Hop's Death and Music Evolution

It is said that in the last days of disco record companies were losing their shirts left and right. They had sunken millions of dollars into a dying art form and everyone was crying. There were signs everywhere “Disco Sucks”.

Some of everybody recorded a disco record Rod Stewart, the Rolling Stones, Phyllis Diller, Rick Dees (gotdamned Disco Duck) and too many others. It was a cash cow in the 70’s. White folks danced off beat in discothèques, had orgies in stairways, openly snorted cocaine, drank champagne – like the shit really tasted good, it was the time of their lives. That was until the ‘Disco Sucks’ movement caught momentum and people stopped buying Donna Summers records. And oh yeah, all those nights of bingeing on cocaine and sex led to things like herpes and then AIDS.

Now that sucks.

Lately there has been a lot of talk about hip-hop being dead. I’m not sure if it is or not, but let’s go back to my disco example first.

If you wanna see if Tommy Mottola is really a connected guy – you know some Italian cats like to say that they “know a guy who knows a guy that knows a guy that is connected…” well, Tommy’s allegedly one of those guys who knows some guys who can plant your ass in Giant Stadium. Anyway, if you want to piss him off try going into his office and getting a deal for a disco act. Just mention words like “fever”, “boogie” and uh while you’re at it wear a white suit a`la Johnny Travolta in Saturday Night Fever style. Then look out because some 400-pound guy in shades with a baseball bat is going to escort you to the parking lot the Jimmy Hoffa way.

Tommy was one of those record execs who lost his shirt during the disco days. Disco is a bad word in record industry circles.

But is disco really dead? I mean how can a style of music die? Well disco morphed into house, techno and you also hear elements of it in acid jazz.

For the record they also say that Jazz is dead too…

Well if you ask any trained jazz musician he might say two things, one of them being: “No, it’s not dead”, then he might say something like “it isn’t appreciated like it should be.” And he would be right.

What about rock? What about the rock n roll of Little Richard, Chubby Checker, Fats Domino, Chuck Berry, Ike Turner, Jerry Lee Lewis and all of those guys is that dead?

Well no one is recording new records in that style anymore. What is difficult for me to believe is that once upon a time – a very long time ago, those acts (minus Jerry Lee Lewis) were supported by African Americans. But if you go to see Chuck Berry, Little Richard or anyone else of that genre now, you will be hard pressed to find a black face in the crowd.

Do you know why? Because we abandoned that style of music 50 years ago.

I have a test for you put an ad in a Minneapolis newspaper say something like “Producer with a million dollar budget looking for excitingly, fresh band in the vein of Prince and The Time” and see who responds. Do you know what you’ll get? Five fat guys in their late 40’s who have just dusted off their guitars and keyboards for one last shot. Do you know why? Because the youngsters around those parts are too young to remember Prince in his heyday. But hey, with a million dollar budget you can get the five fat, balding, 40 year- old guys in the gym for six months and with a diet program and plenty of Pilates you can make one hell of an attempt at resurrecting a sound of a bygone era.

What about Rhythm and Blues is that dead? Hell, Nelson George proved that twenty years ago with his groundbreaking classic “The Death of Rhythm and Blues”. When Rhythm and Blues died it supposedly morphed into R&B. I know your scratching your head asking yourself if you read that right – you did. Yes R&B stands for Rhythm and Blues, so let me ask you this…do you hear any “Blues” in R&B music today? Ok let’s take a look at the top ten R&B songs of last year. Hold on let me get situated. Ok here were go:

Let’s put it like this: John Legend, Anthony Hamilton and Leela James come damn close! But you can’t get a Cuban cigar for it. Maybe a five dollar one…But uh…Mariah Carey, Nina Sky, Gwen Stefani, Pussycat Dolls, Faith Evans, Fantasia and Destiny’s Child? Can you honestly with a straight face tell me that those acts sound like they have been inspired by the blues? I'll wait...

Whatever happened to Grunge, Modern Rock, Acid Rock, Industrial rock and all those other styles is the same thing that happened to the Do Do Bird and other extinct species – they got swallowed up. Whether or not you believe in evolution is on you, but one thing that is a fact of nature is that only the strong survive. The same applies in music.

So now is hip-hop dead?

Well, using my current line of thought I’ll say this: The hip-hop I grew up on is dead. And it had to die to make way for a new generation to interpret the music their way.

In a recent interview with Tommy Boy Records founder and CEO Tom Silverman, I asked him what was the music industry doing wrong today?

He told me that the majors are pouring 1.5 to 3 million dollars into their acts and the records aren’t selling. In other words record companies are losing their shirts with hip-hop and R&B, kind of like the last days of disco.

I asked some friends writers I respect “Is Hyphy Hip-Hop or a cousin?”

They all said, “Yeah it’s Hip-Hop.”

In all fairness I was supposed to call Adisa but I caught the flu, shit has had me out of business until today. Yo Adisa I’m gonna call home boy.

Anyway after some of the usual back and forth with this guy I say, ok, it’s a sub genre just like Grunge and all those other styles are to Rock. But never the less it is Hip-Hop as are Snap, Bounce, Krunk and Chopped and Screwed. It ain’t the hip-hop I grew up on, but it is hip-hop. One day in a couple of years from now all of those sub genres will give way for a new style of hip- hop. Speaking of which what happened to ‘Miami Bass’ is that still being done?

There Will Never Be Another

From what I’ve heard from those that knew him: he was mean, ornery, arrogant, stubborn, nasty-tempered, competitive and strong-willed, but most everyone agrees that the man was a genius.

Now that the GFOS (that’s Godfather of Soul to you) has left us we can say good-bye not just to a man, but to a tradition of musicians, whose talents and contributions will never be equaled again.













Quincy Jones said it best: “There will never be another Earth, Wind and Fire, James Brown, Ray Charles, Dizzy Gillespie, Parliament-Funkadelic all of those great talents, once they’re gone we’ll never see anything like it again.”

And he’s right.

But before I talk about why Mr. Jones is right let’s first take a look at James Brown.

Mr. Brown (as he liked to be called) was the first Black musician to not only demand his independence, but goddamn it the brother emancipated his damn self! He pressed up his own records and dictated to Syd Nathan (owner of King Records) what his singles were going to be.

This was in the 50’s and 60’s; this was at a time when Black men didn’t tell White men anything. From what I hear, Syd Nathan was no one to fuck with either. He was the kind of guy who, well, if he wanted your legs broken he didn’t need to ask twice.

We talk about the evils of payola today, in Mr. Brown’s day it was just the way things were done. When he gave a deejay money to play his songs he did it with the understanding that you were going to always play his songs and like Don Corleone when he asked for a favor you were not going to refuse him.

Before James Brown we were Colored or Negro – after “Say it Loud (I’m Black and I’m Proud)” we became Black and Afro American. That’s deep cause, from what I hear, in the 50’s if you called somebody Black – you had to fight. It was the equivalent of talking about someone’s mother.

According to Fred Wesley and many others Mr. Brown was very hard to work for. “He’d come walking up to me humming something – it made no sense at all – and would say, ‘Ya hear that?’ I’d say “What’s that Mr. Brown?” “That’s the new tune we’re gonna cut”, he’d say. Now what he would be humming would make no musical sense. He’d holler out chords and keys that would just be wrong, and I’d tell him “Mr. Brown, you can’t do it like this.” And he would say very adamantly “It will work if I say it will work.”

That was James Brown. Many of his classic recordings came together just like that. He was a genius.

Now here’s why Mr. Quincy Jones is right. Record companies today will not allow a genius like a James Brown or a Ray Charles or a Billy Joel, or a Barry White to fully blossom under their rosters. You see record companies and radio stations are run by corporations who have hundreds of investors who are there for the bottom line. Not for art. Record companies will not let an artist make a thirteen minute song like “I Can’t Stand It” or a nine minute jam like ‘Poppa Don’t Take No Mess’. Because radio won’t play a song that ebbs and flows and builds up and breaks down, nah, nah, nah the machine ain’t going for it! Three minutes: hook, verse, hook, verse, hook, verse and that’s it. We’ve been conditioned for: 30 commercials and three minute songs – that’s because of our dwindling attention spans.

So take one good last look at the genius who inspired disco, soul, rap and funk. Take a look at the genius who captivated not one but five generations of people around the world. Take a look at the genius who on one hand made us proud to be Black and stood firmly behind the Civil Rights Movement but also embraced Republicans like Nixon, Ford and Strom Thurmond and sang patriotic songs like “America is my Home’ and ‘Living in America’ and owned his own radio stations. Take a look at the man who bought a city a night of peace at the height of some of the ugliest racial tensions this country has known. Take a look at the man who changed music.

Support Your Favorite Rapper - No Matter How Old He Is

So ok you’ve noticed that I haven’t been bloggin’ much, please believe that it isn’t because I’ve had nothing to say – on the contrary, I’ve got all kinds of stuff to talk about.

My time is being taken up by home, work and research for an upcoming article. This is the first time in my career as a writer that I am having a hard time to get people to sit down and talk to me. But it’s alright, Mark Skillz is a warrior ‘No matter how hard you try you can’t stop me now…”












Check this out I found it online just the other day. I wasn’t shocked I’ve been saying stuff like that for years.

The first part of the problem is that record companies have to get behind those projects and promote them just like any other act. While it is surprising to hear that Public Enemy’s landmark classic “It Takes a Nation of Millions…” has only sold 400 copies this year and that RUN-DMC’s groundbreaking album ‘Raising Hell” only sold 100 copies, is sadly only mere evidence of the dismal state affairs in not just hip-hop but I bet in R&B as well. I wonder what sales are like for Keith Sweat, New Edition, GUY and other 80’s R&B singers.

In defense of that twenty-two year old who knows nothing about Whodini or Kurtis Blow, I can say this. When I was twenty years old I had no idea that Marvin Gaye had material before “What’s Going On?” After all, it was the first thing I had ever heard from the man, and I had no reason to believe that he had done anything before it. Shit, that stuff was made before I was born. How would I know?

Now, once I learned about ‘Heard it Through the Grapevine’, ‘Stubborn Kind of Fella’, ‘Hitchhike’ and others I took upon myself to get up on that material. You all should do the same as far as learning your hip hop history. With all of the information available online there is no reason for cats to be calling Big Daddy Kane and Rakim ‘pioneers’. That is physically and mathematically impossible. A pioneer is: One who ventures into unknown or unclaimed territory to settle. Therefore it is impossible for people like Kane, G Rap, LL or KRS to be pioneers because the trail had already been blazed many years before they started by the Funky Four, the Cold Crush, the Treacherous Three, Spoonie Gee and many others!

Some years back I went to a Fresh Fest reunion concert RUN-DMC, Whodini, Kurtis Blow and the Sugar Hill Gang were there. The amphitheatre was virtually all black when Whodini, Kurtis Blow and the Sugar Hill Gang were there, but out of nowhere the immigration floodgates opened once RUN-DMC came on. I swear I don’t know where all of those white folks came from! Most white folks back in the day weren’t hip to Whodini by the way. And oh yeah, did you know that it was Whodini who have the distinction of having the first gold rap album – even before Run and them. No shit…and look folks don’t support them today!

Everyone Loves A Gangster

Everyone loves an outlaw and 1.6 million people proved it when they tuned into BET’s premiere episode of ‘American Gangster’.

Just like the upcoming movie with the same name the series highlights the careers of the truly infamous: Stanley ‘Tookie’ Williams, Freeway Ricky Ross, Nicky Barnes, Frank Lucas and the Chamber Brothers.

Now you’re probably saying to yourself: “Why does everything about Black people have to be about gangs and drugs?”

I dunno. But I can say this: if white people get to romanticize Jesse James, Butch Cassidy and Billy the Kid. And Italians (and everyone else) get to make heroes out of Al Capone, John Gotti and movies like “The Godfather” and the TV show ‘The Sopranos”, then African Americans can tell stories about gangsters (real gangsters – not studio made, record company inspired wanna be’s) from our neighborhoods.

There is a common mis-perception that there were never any major Black gangsters. White people don’t know about them, because no one outside of the Black community has really written about these people. Until now.

Hopefully we’ll see stories about racketeers like Casper Holstein the brother that created the numbers game as we know it today. The Jones Brothers of Chicago, Eddie Jones was so rich and stayed freshly dipped everyday. They owned one of the biggest furniture stores on the Southside of Chicago ‘Jones Brothers Furniture’; they literally owned the town as far as the numbers game went.

Ellsworth ‘Bumpy’ Johnson was called ‘The Godfather of Harlem’.

Frank Matthews, one time East Coast drug lord had spots in Brooklyn, North Carolina, Atlanta, Ohio and all parts in between, was also somehow connected with the French Connection case. He is one of the most successful bail jumpers ever, he split town in 1973 after posting $325, 000 to get out of jail and then disappeared like a wisp of smoke with more than 25 million dollars. For many years it was believed that the Mob rubbed him out, but the DEA and ATF don’t believe that, in fact, he was spotted a few years back in Philly. For the record Matthews was from North Carolina.

All of these stories deserve to be told in the same way we talk about white gangsters. If you don’t like those kinds of stories, don’t blame writers and producers – blame society for creating the conditions that gave birth to these kinds of people.

Reverend Al versus Colonel Sanders

Lord help a rich Black man with too much time on his hands. And by all means, Lord, don’t strike Reverend Al Sharpton down for what he’s doing now. I never thought I’d see the day when a rich, fat, Black preacher would lead the boycott against Kentucky Fried Chicken.

You know you’ve seen it all when a fat Black man starts crying over the cruelty done to chickens!

And just think about all of those Sunday dinners and lunches he’s had over the years where he devoured big pieces of chicken wings, and breastes and thighs…Lawdy lawdy.

Good Writing

I don't rememeber having a favorite book when I was growing up... although I read alot, there wasn't anything that stood out. In all honesty it wasn't until I was a teenager when I got my hands on three books that I found something that I really liked. The first one was called "Bloods" by Wallace Terry, and the other was 'Pimp: The Story of my Life by Iceberg Slim", and of course "The Autobiography of Malcolm X".

Other than that I read magazines.

I'll never forget my journalism teacher Bill Parks telling us "If your going to write, you gotta read, and read the good stuff..."

That is a statement that has perplexed me for years.

What is the good stuff?

I've tried to read all kinds of different authors, but in the end you know what, I can't get into it, because to me, it's just layers and layers of language that doesn't speak to me. Maybe it's a cultural thing. I remember this guy I used to work with a long time ago named William Lo, I used to go on and on about Malcolm X's books, one day I showed it to him, and after one page he said, "This is garbage, this is awful."

I couldn't understand how he could say such a thing. After all, it was the best thing I had ever read.

He pulled out one of his favorite books - don't ask me what it was, I can't remember, but he read a little bit of it out loud. I couldn't understand what in the hell the writer was saying. It was English, but he went into too many descriptions and poetic like language that it didn't appeal to me.

I use that example because I believe that writing - like music, is an art, what is trash to me may possibly be beautiful to you. I like Fela Ransom Kuti, you might like Justin Timberlake. My God may be your devil. I was clearly over 25 years old before I could appreciate Jimi Hendrix, hell I'm damn near 40 now and don't have the slightest bit of appreciation for Bob Dylan. I hate his voice.

All that to say if you like what you read then it's good writing. If it speaks to you and resonates with you - it's good.

The Real World

This season of HBO's ground breaking series“The Wire” was good but slower than usual. Don’t get me wrong though I’m still a fan of the show, but they took too long building the story up this year.

For instance, the Major Crimes Unit, which is the crew of cops that bug the drug dealers and all that other stuff, was just re-instated, and this is the second to last episode of the season! That’s too long, that’s what…15 episodes to sit through before the shit hits the fan. I love the show, but I can see why people with short attention spans don’t.

But pushing my gripes aside, it is one of the best written shows out there. The things that happen to these kids are truly sad. I’m not sure whose story is sadder, but the one that stands out with me is the kid Namon, whose father Wee Bey was in the first season of ‘The Wire”, as one of Avon Barksdale’s soldiers. Bey was a cold-hearted killer – loyal to the end, but was a stone cold soldier. This season his wife is trying to push their 14 year old son to follow in his fathers footsteps, but there’s one problem: The kid ain’t cut out for the game like that. He doesn’t have that kind of heart, which would be a good thing in a different environment. In a better setting he’d have access to more positive role models so that a kid like that could possibly blossom.

After being busted for drug possession his mother tells him, “Motherfucker you mean to tell me, you ain’t got the heart for Baby Lock up? Nigga, I’ve kept your ass in NIKE since you was a baby. You gonna get out there and push that package…”

That is a shocking thing to see and hear on television. But not in the Baltimore of “The Wire”.

It’s a place where kids who snitch pay the price, drug addicted parents sell their groceries for a hit, drug addicted families steal each others clothes – and sell them, school systems warehouse kids who can’t read and do math, crooked cops steal, lie and harass citizens, city hall is over wrought with corrupt politicians who are more interested in protecting their own interests versus those of their constituents, teachers are forced to teach the path test versus real meaningful lessons and drug dealers employ neighbor kids who feel they have no other options.

That’s the world of “The Wire” the real world.

Do You Remember OJ?

Of all of the most popular cases of the last thirty to forty years the Manson family trial, Rodney King, the Menendez Brothers and Paula Jones vs. President Bill Clinton, there was nothing that could surpass one case: The OJ Simpson murder trial. It was truly the trial of the century.

To a person of 17 or 18 years old today, the significance of the case, but more so the verdict probably has no meaning to them. I can dare say that like that day in November of 1963, very few Americans can forget where they were the day of the OJ Simpson verdict.














I know I won’t.

Word came out that the verdict was going to be announced at 10:00 am. This was a case that some of everyone had an opinion about. I remember being on a bus when I asked a chick “So what do you think of the OJ trial so far?” The next thing I knew everybody on the bus had an opinion, it was the damnest thing I had ever seen.

If you wanted to see two people argue in the mid 90’s all you had to do was invoke the name of OJ Simpson and then kick back and watch the battles begin. I worked at the James River Corp. and every morning these two guys named Charlie and Ted would go toe to toe over the case.

But what was the big deal about OJ?

In his heyday Orenthal James Simpson was one of the most recognizable figures of his era. He was a football star, a movie star, a sportscaster and if you didn’t know him for all of those things then you probably saw him on TV commercials running through airports for Hertz Rent a car.

He was the first black athlete to truly transcend race. He was polished, intelligent, articulate, good looking and knew how to present himself. He was accepted into circles that the average black athlete couldn’t get into.

And he had his pick of white women.

So here it is 1994 Ron Goldman and Nicole Simpson Brown were found dead in her walkway.

The media reports said, “OJ Simpson’s ex-wife and her friend have been found murdered.” No one suspected OJ of anything at that point. But as the days went by, media speculation began to grow as to who could’ve committed these murders. And then slowly, very slowly you started to hear OJ’s name mentioned one too many times. And then all fingers started pointing directly his way.

Everybody had a theory as to how and why OJ would kill his wife and her friend. One guy said, "Hey man, I hear he was paying thousands of dollars a month in child support. That alone would be reason enough for me to kill her." Another guy said, "OJ saw Nicole having sex with one of his home boys...hell I'd wanna kill her too!"

And I can't forget the infamous scuba diving suit that OJ was supposed to have worn during the murders. Like someone is gonna miss a big black guy in a scuba diving suit?

Yeah right.

When the announcement was made that OJ Simpson was a fugitive the world went into shock. Because after all, if you run, you must be guilty, right? Hours later TV cameras picked up OJ in the infamous white Bronco in the slow speed chase down the 405 freeway. Every station in America tuned into that slow speed chase! Hell, they interrupted the NBA finals to follow the chase.

As the months went by speculation went back and forth as to whether Simpson was innocent or guilty.

But there was one day in the trial that will always stand out with me. From the very beginning I thought he was guilty, but when he tried that glove on…hmmmm…it doesn’t fit.

The late Johnny Cochran said it best: “If it doesn’t fit – you must acquit!”

That resonated with me, because that was the only physical evidence they really had, the bloody glove and the drops of blood in the Bronco.

So there it was October 3rd 1995 at 10:00. The TV cameras were zeroed in on the courtroom clock. I worked on the third floor at 300 Lakeside Dr. There was a TV in my break area. I had no idea until that day as to how many people in that building knew that there was a TV in my break area. Everyone came running in.

Judge Lance Ito took the stand and had the jurors led into the court. Turns out the jurors had only deliberated for three hours the day before. There was a sense that if the verdict went the wrong way that the shit was going to hit the fan.

OJ was asked to stand and fact the jury before the verdict was read. I bet he could’ve shit in his pants at that moment.

The counts were read: Not guilty on all counts.

There was shock all over the country

Damn near everyone in my break room cheered. Those that didn’t cheer were upset.

The same scene was played out all over the country.

For years the debate would rage: How did OJ get off?

Now OJ is releasing a book called “If I Did it…” in which he doesn’t admit guilt but he says, “Nobody knows this case like I do. I’m going to tell you a story that you’ve never heard before.”

His publisher Judith Regan considers this book a confession.

What on Earth would make this man who has denied any knowledge or involvement in those murders write something like this now? Maybe he’s toying with us. Or maybe he really did do it.

A Good Man Ain't Too Hard To Find

With all of the talk about disintegrating Black families I figured that I'd drop my two cents in.

Ok, it is apparent that Black men are missing in action, hell, Stevie Wonder can see that. There are some statistics that say 1 in every 4 is in jail and there are others that say something like 1 in every 4 is on the 'dl' or just out right gay. I don't know if I believe those statistics or not. For the sake of this article - I don't.

Statistics aside, let's cut to the chase, these statistics are bought up whenever the subject of single Black women is raised. Black women say they can't find a good brother because way too many of us are either in jail, on the dl, out of work, or with a white woman.

Hmmmmm...there are 24 million African Americans in this country, for arguments sake let's just say there are something like 12 million Black men. Okay, there are somewhere near 2 million people incarcerated in some kind of penal institution; last I heard there were something like 400-600 thousand brothers doing time. Big number but not a nail in the coffin.

So that leaves something over 11 million Black men. Ok, now for the gay thing...If we believe the whole 1 in every 4 thing that means go walk to the corner, pick out 4 brothers and tell them your conducting a test. Tell them to be honest, ask them the following questions: Are you a homosexual? Are you now or have you ever been a homosexual? Have you ever engaged in sexual activity with another man?

Without a doubt there are a whole lot of dudes out there sneaking around with other dudes. I don't know the number but let's just say there are somewhere near a million brothers who are engaging in either bi-sexual or homosexual relations.

That leaves 10 million men may be more, may be less.

Now, brothers with white women...I can't front about that one, a whole lot of my boys are with white girls. I think just about every dude I came up with is married to either a white woman or someone who isn't Black.

I don't know how it happened.

All I can tell you is that my wife is Black. I wanted someone who shared the same culture that I do. Alot of these cats notice the difference on holidays when there is something not exactly right about their cornbread. They ask for sweet potato pie and get - well, it's close. Collard greens? Oh no, them niggas ain't gettin' the collards cooked in fatback or like my wife does with smoked turkey. And Charles Brown and King Pleasure are not playing in the background when they go visit in-laws.

So no number will be given let's just say it's alot.

All of this to say there are about 8 to 9 million available black men - and if you tally in the statistics of Black women in jail (which is high and getting higher, but not as high as brothers) and bi-sexual/lesbian women (my money says the numbers would be about the same) the numbers of available black women and available black men are somewhere near each other. Now what tips the scale is inter-racial dating/marriage.

But still. My bone of contention with the 'I can't find a good Black man' crowd is with all of the available brothers left, you all have your asses on your shoulders. Alot of women have their eyes glued to Essence magazine and have soap opera like fantasies of what romance and relationships should be like. If their honest, a whole lot of sisters are buying into the 'Essence Magazine/Shemar Moore ideal image of Black men, that when a good man does come along they turn him away because 'he isn't what I'm looking for.'

And when you ask them what they are looking for they say things that are so off the wall, you have to wonder what planet their from. "I want somebody that makes a hundred grand a year, and drives this kind of car, and vacations here, and can cook, and will massage my back and is buffed and blah, blah, blah..." And let's just say they do come across a brother like that, well, unless your ass is off the hook and you too are balling out of control like he is - you ain't nuttin' but another ass to tap.

The funny thing is is that there is often another brother who occasionally calls and asks her out, he's a nice guy but she don't want him cause he doesn't fit that soap opera conceived image in her head. She shits on him and puts him off and puts him off, meanwhile in the loneliness of her house she's griping about how she can't find anybody...

Wow. Like Flavor Flav would say: 'Woooooooow!'

Alot of women under 40 will not give a brother in the post office a shot. Nor a bus driver. Or a sanitiation worker. Or anyone else who isn't 'on their level'. And it's a shame because these dudes may know how to make them happy - in and out of bed. But nope they want that twisted fantasy in their minds. Shame. Damn shame.

See what happens is once they get to 40 they start looking around and getting desperate - and its then that they want a regular dude because they don't want to be lonely. They see that they ain't got it goin' on like they did when they were 25.

Wooooooow!

All that time they spent chasing losers and now they want a good man. I feel you. I guess you wake up and learn when you do right?

Vote Republican and Die

Anyone who believes that voting Republican will make them safer is a fool.

Believe it or not, we are in more danger now than at any time prior to September 11th 2001. With the recent verdict to hang Sadaam Hussein and all, please believe, in the end, it spells trouble for us. Not only that, but killing Sadaam further infuriates the Sunni’s, and it will not help to bring that country closer together.

In fact it will drive them further apart.

Just last week a report came out that said ‘Iraq is on the brink of chaos’. When translated into plain English, it means: We can’t handle this shit anymore.

In all honesty though, and this is from a guy who is against the war, we have to stay there and finish the job. What does that mean finish the job? I dunno. But I know it means we are going to be there a long ass time. I mean real long. Like Korea long. In case you don’t know long that is, let’s put it like this. We fought the Korean War way back in the 50’s and we still have troops over there now; 50 years later!

Before we invaded Iraq Colin Powell warned President Retard, ‘If you break it; you own it.’

President Retard and the Evil Sith Lord said, “No problem, not a problem, we’ll be done over there in …what…90 days, ya think?’

Look where we are now.

I remember when the Evil Sith Lord went on Larry King and said, “the Iraqi’s can’t wait for us to get there. They will be dancing in the streets, singing songs and throwing chocolates at the feet of our soldiers.” I guess the words ‘chocolates’ and ‘bombs’ got twisted in translation somehow….ooops!

And oh yeah, he said we’d be looked at as ‘liberators’. Hmmmm…then why are we called ‘infidels’ and ‘invaders’? I guess those words got lost in translation too.

We have to stay there because there are terrorists there now – they weren’t there before, but they are there now. Those guys that are fighting against us over there are getting some of the best kind of training – on the job training. And you can’t beat on the job training. Instruction goes something like this: ‘Hey Bashid, go blow up that tank of Americans with that empty soda can.’

The terrorists are more Westernized than you think. Don’t be surprised if they come up with books that are packaged with special mix tapes and DVD’s like “How to Rid Your Country of Fat, Lazy Americans in Four Years (I Did it and So Can You)’ and ‘Ridding the World of Infidels One American at a Time’. They will be able to write guerilla warfare manuals pretty soon. And what do you think they are going to do with all of that on the job training, huh?

They are going to bring their asses over here that’s what. They don’t fight wars and shit like we do. They have their own timetable and shit; those dudes may hang out here for a few years before they do anything.

Anyone who falls for Karl Rove’s election year distraction plan deserves what they get. What is Rove’s distraction plan you ask? The one that says to harp on issues like gay marriage and family values.

Ok, ok, ok you’ve read my blog, you know I ain’t for gay marriage, but let’s be real here. What do gay marriages have to do with what’s currently going on now? Na da. Not a got damn thing. It is a distraction from the real issues: a fucked up foreign policy, a stagnant economy, a dismal education agenda, their idiotic fumbling of Hurricane Katrina and a war we can’t win.

I’ll tell you what, if gay guys want the same misery as married straight guys, go ahead. It’s your sanity. You’re stupid if you do it, look at all of the straight divorce rates…and you want that kind of misery too? Well, may God help ya.

I’m no presidential historian, but I can safely say that, at least in my lifetime (when I got here Nixon was boss) George Bush, Jr. is the absolute worse president this nation has ever seen. Clinton was the smartest; Bush One (his dad) knew how to corral the troops; Ford – hell he wasn’t around long enough to matter – he was like a caretaker or something while the real president was away; Carter was the most caring; Nixon was the toughest – and the scariest, while Reagan was a really skilled politician.

This guy we have now. Ok let’s see, he is shrewd and strong-willed, however on top of that is retarded. He sees nothing but what he sees and knows nothing beyond what he learned 25 years ago. There is a saying: “God protects fools and babies…” Well, may God help any idiot that votes Republican.

Wrong Place, Wrong Time

“...Why not you?”
-Wallace McCoy

Willie Dixon’s Uptown Bar and Grill has been a neighborhood mainstay for as long as anyone can remember. It’s been said that the Dixon family has owned it for at least 4 generations. People come and go in the neighborhood, but Willie’s remains.

On Tuesday nights they have an all you can eat crab feed that could knock your socks off with well drinks starting at $1.50. Wednesday and Thursday nights are cards and darts. If you’re lucky, you can catch old man Willie on the rare occasion when he comes out of retirement and kicks asses in a fierce game of Bid Whisk. The fried chicken and catfish are so good that if you get there after nine o’clock – you’re shit out of luck. Fridays and Saturdays are for karaoke. Locals line the walls and fill the bar stools waiting to watch friends and family entertain, and in some cases make total fools of themselves. But it’s all right if they do, because everybody knows everybody and knows things far worse about each other than who can or can’t sing.

It was on one of these Friday nights that the lives of two men would cross one another again and would forever seal the fates of both of them.

It was on this night that the crowd was entranced by the voice of a middle-aged light-skinned man with salt and pepper hair. Slight in build and short on teeth, the man sang in one of the smoothest falsettos anyone had heard in those parts in a long time. No one had sung like that in their neighborhood since LJ Reynolds of the Dramatics had dropped by in 1975 and sang Billy Paul’s “Me and Mrs. Jones’ to a star-struck crowd. The man on stage this night sang a rendition of Eddie Holman’s 1960’s classic “Hey There Lonely Girl”. Note for note it was dead on the original.

At the end of the song the bar patrons dropped their drinks and gave the man a standing ovation. Humbled, the man silently nodded in thanks to the crowd. With a raspy voice stained with a shot of Hennessy and scarred by cigarette smoke the man thanked the crowd, “Thank you brothers and sisters. You make me feel so good inside, the Lord has blessed me this evening to be able to spend time with you, I hope you don’t mind if I sing another song for you. Do you mind if I take you back in time again?”

Enthusiastically the crowd yelled back ‘Yeah’ as the man turned to the deejay to request his next song. Just then the familiar drum roll of the Motown classic ‘Ooh Baby, Baby’ by Smokey Robinson exploded through the speakers. Everyone was smiling as the man closed his eyes while slipping into his smooth falsetto. Everyone but one troubled man seated at the bar.

The Hennessy-stained voice sounded so eerily familiar to the man at the bar, that immediately upon hearing it he was jolted from his seat like it had been shook by an earthquake. Slowly he rose up from his bar stool to get a better look at the face of the owner of the Hennessy-stained voice. Bobbing and weaving side to side he was able to see his way through the crowd of heads while getting a better look at the man. Half way to the front he was stopped dead in his tracks by the man’s face. His heart sped up to a full gallop.

At that instant his body was overcome by feelings of shock and anger. He knew exactly who that man was. As he looked in the bar mirror at his own face and remembered how smooth his youthful and boyish- looking face had been some 22 years before, his fingers ran along the scar that stretched from his left eyebrow, to the bridge of his nose, under his right eye, across his high cheekbone to his right ear.

Somberly he recalled the events to himself that had disfigured him in his youth. His wounds had healed; yes, but some wounds never go away. Like the one in your heart from missing your best friend because you know he isn’t coming back. The warmth of a lonely tear caressed his cheek and dripped into his mouth, where the salt from the teardrop dissolved onto his tongue.

He knew the man as McCoy – McCoy Wallace, but at that time McCoy had been an angry Vietnam veteran home from the war with an axe to grind with the world. He was an alcoholic. A drug addict. An abusive father and husband, and was known to rob drug dealers.

He, Deon McLove, was an aspiring teen-aged rapper at the time that was on his way to becoming a neighborhood hero. Word back then was that Bobby Robinson from Enjoy Records wanted to sign him. His slim build and boyish face caught the attention of many girls in the area. He had a reputation for being a ‘pretty boy’, this, would help to earn him the wrath of the many jealous ‘hard rocks’ in the area, if not for his best friend Vincent Sotolongo.

Vincent or Vicente` as his mother liked to call him, was a stocky kid with a gap-toothed smile, and fists that were big and battle scarred. He always made it a point to rock a baseball hat slightly tilted to the side to show off his wavy hair. The two of them had been best friends since elementary school and were hard to separate.

The ghostly image across the room awakened a skeleton that had been hiding in the darkest closet of his mind for far too long.

As Deon became the top rapper in his neighborhood, Vincent would be his protection from the crab-asses around the way.

On a cool October night in 1982 they went to check Busy Bee out at the neighborhood Boys and Girls Club. Every rap crew and wannabe knucklehead from within a 15- block radius was there as well. When they got to the jam, the air in the gym was thick and filled with the smell of underarm funk and the pungent aroma of weed smoke. The room was dark except for the lone light that came from the little lamp on the deejay table.

Making their way through the crowd Deon and Vincent headed to the stage. Massive crews of steely-eyed 5 Percenters encircled the gym floor like competing warriors. Stepping through the crowd Deon accidentally bumped into a 5 Percenter wearing a dark hat with big white bold letters that read ‘B GOD’. As the man slowly exhaled the cigarette he was smoking, the cloud of smoke mushroomed above the gym floor. As B God turned to confront him, Vincent stepped between the two to counteract any hostility. Once they approached the ropes they checked out the Bronx’s best, Chief Rocker Busy Bee, who was rocking the crowd while his man, Kool DJ AJ was cutting “Cavern, Cavern” on the wheels of steel.

“Come on shout it out…shout it out, come on 1, 2, 3 uhhh, ya go bom with the bom da bang da bang boogie boogie then you shake your booty to the bang bang boogie. And then ya bom with the bom da bang da bang boogie boogie then ya shake ya booty to the bang bang boogie. I want y’all to say this with me, come on…I’m DJ Bust-a-nut where? (The crowd yelled) In your face and in your butt! At the Alps we work out, at the Alps we work out…

As AJ kept the beat going he would backspin on the thunderous cymbal crash repeating it over and over. Crash…and then cut into the beat using the cymbal c-c-c-c-c-c Crash! The low end of the bass-line vibrated the gym windows and sent the b-boys into a sweat-drenched frenzy.

Stepping out of the hot and funk-filled gym into the cool October night the two laughed about some of the girls they had seen that night. Feeling hungry they headed in the direction of a local liquor store for some snacks and a couple of bottles of Wild Irish Rose. On their way up the block they ran into a local drug dealer named Stevie Dash. Dash, was a brown- skinned skinny guy with a neck full of gold chains and a Caesar haircut. He wasn’t an especially dangerous guy for someone of his trade, but his nervous disposition kind of kept people at bay.

“Yo what it be like fellas?” Dash said as he greeted them both. The two young men explained to him that they were on the way to get a drink and then would be calling it a night. Dash told the pair that he had a tape of a jam that Deon had done two weeks before and that he’d give it to him. The two followed Dash to one his ‘spots’. Uneasy about going to a known drug spot, Deon and Vincent said that they would catch up with him the next day.

“Yo y’all dudes buggin’, ain’t nuttin’ gonna happen to y’all out here. I’ll be right back; all y’all gotta do is stand here just like this.” Dash said as he mockingly folded his arms into a b-boy stance. “Ain’t nobody gonna mess with y’all if y’all just standing here in a b-boy stance.” Dash convinced them.

Clearly uncomfortable about being out of their neighborhood and in front of a known dope spot, Vincent yelled out to Dash. “Yo hurry up in there! I don’t want to be out here all night mother fucker!”

As Dash ran up the stoop into the house he dismissively said, “Yo ski boss, I’ll be right back just chill, goddamnit!”

“Yo man, this nigga here is buggin’,” Deon said as he sucked his teeth and folded his arms. “I mean, I want my tape and shit, but damn, look what a nigga gotta go through for this shit. Standing in front of dope houses and shit…yo wasn’t this one of them spots Frank Matthews or somebody like that had back in the day?”
“Yo shut the fuck up man, you don’t know who’s listening out here.”
“I’m just sayin’ yo man, look at all this shit though.”

Out the corner of his eye he could see a dark figure lurking in the shadows. The figure would peek out periodically from behind a lamppost and then wander over to a house on the corner. Deon wasn’t sure of what he was seeing but he didn’t want to over-react either. The two men continued their conversation all the while Deon kept a lookout for the shadowy figure.

As he sat back down on the stoop Deon adjusted his hat and rubbed his head, when he remembered a new tape he copped, “Hey, I was checking out the Force MC’s the other night at Broadway International right, and they got this new kid on the cut for them named Dr. Shock. Word up man, this kid was nice.”

‘Yo I seen them kids at the Parrot they was all right.”

Just then both men saw the tiny amber glow of a cigarette drop in the dark. Jumping off of the stoop and on to their feet the men were prepared for whatever came their way. The figure that stepped out of the dark was a slim black man in his late 30’s. He wouldn’t have been worth the passing thought if not for the fact that he was wearing dark sunglasses in the middle of the night and an Army fatigue jacket and blue jeans that had seen better days.

The men instantly recognized him as McCoy Wallace a known stick up man and dope-fiend. In a Hennessy and cigarette-smoke stained voice McCoy asked them, “So what y’all doin’ out here?”

Both men shrugged their shoulders and nodded their heads as if to say nothing, but McCoy was having none of that.

“Come on what y’all got for me?” McCoy said while looking at both men with a steely gaze.

“Yo check this out man, we ain’t got nothing to do with nothing you looking for”, said Deon.

“Bullshit, y’all niggas wouldn’t be out here for nothing. Where’s that mother fucker Dash at?”

“Yo man we just hanging out here, why don’t you just move on, you fucking dope-fiend,” said Vincent.

This earned the consternation of the older man. Suddenly he pulled a banana knife out of his jacket pocket and stuck it up to Vincent’s face. “Y’all some suckers, give me the dope AND your money,” yelled the sweating dope fiend.

Deon pleaded with the man to stop, “Ay we got nothing to do with none of this shit, for real, we’re just out here waiting on my man.”

“Empty your pockets, turn them mother fuckers inside out”, commanded McCoy.

Both men emptied the contents of their pockets onto the street: they had a total of $45 between them, two packs of Newport’s and a pair of dice.

“So where y’all hiding the dope?” McCoy quizzed them with the knife still pointed at Vincent’s face.

Scared the two young men protested that they had nothing to do with drugs and that they wanted to leave.

McCoy looked both men in their eyes and with glassy eyes said, “Y’all niggas think ya fooling somebody, but that ain’t working here. Not tonight. See, I seen y’all out here before and you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t belong here.”

A feeling of desperation rushed over the two men; instinctively they lunged at the man going for the hand with the knife. McCoy, a former combat veteran stepped back and kicked at Deon and caught Vincent in the throat as he continued to lunge forward. A gush of blood leaped out of Vincent’s neck splashing all over McCoy and Deon. Stunned, Deon paused to look at his friend; it was at that second that McCoy swung the blade in Deon’s direction slashing the young man across the left eyebrow to his right ear.

Crashing to the ground with a deep burning sensation across his face Deon let out a scream that could’ve awakened the dead. Suddenly, a resident across the street started to go for her window. McCoy hearing the stirring around him kicked Deon in the ribs with the force of a bucking horse.

Between the stinging of the cut on his face and the throbbing pain in his ribs he gasped, “Damn man, what the fuck, why me?”

McCoy dropped down to one knee droplets of blood were dripping from the blade on to the concrete like slow running water from a faucet, looking him dead in the face with rose-colored blood shot eyes and with that gravely voice as low as a whisper he said, “Why not you?”

And with that he walked into the cool midnight and disappeared like a shadow on the sun.

The morning headlines in the New York Post read:

ONE KILLED, ONE SLASHED IN QUEENS

Queens, NY – One man was killed and another slashed in a violent attack near a known drug spot on 178th and Jackson Ave.

Vincent Sotolongo, 19 of Flushing, was found dead in a puddle of blood, the apparent victim of a throat slashing. Also found at the scene was Deon McLove, also 19 and of Flushing, was found a few feet away with a severe slash to the face. Though his injuries are serious he is expected to survive.

A witness who chooses to remain anonymous gave police a description of the alleged perpetrator and an arrest is imminent.

Residents reported hearing an argument at about 1:30 a.m. and then heard a loud scuffle ensue before they heard the sound of “loud footsteps running away from the scene.”

The Sotolongo killing stayed in the papers for the next few weeks.

VIETNAM VET ARRESTED IN QUEENS SLAYING

VIETNAM VET PLEADS GUILTY IN QUEENS SLAYING

No member of the McCoy family was present at the trial. His wife of 9 years released this statement through her pastor:

To the Sotolongo and McLove families,

My family and I deeply regret your loss. The man that committed these acts was not the same man I knew before the war. The man I knew before the war was kind and loving and cared about humanity. The man that came home from the war is distant, abusive – both physically and verbally. I hardly know the man that came home from Vietnam, as he would not open up to me, my pastor or any other member of our family.

Once again I deeply regret your loss, my family and I deeply grieve for you.

Yours truly,
Ellen Wallace

The judge handed down a sentence of 10 to 20 years to be served at the Danemora Correctional Facility. To the astonishment of the Sotolongo family he could be paroled in 15 years.

Adjusting to prison life was not hard for McCoy Wallace as he had done two tours of duty in Vietnam and had been a guest at the ‘Hanoi Hilton’, the notorious prison camp in Vietnam that broke the soul of many American soldiers.

What was difficult for Wallace to adjust to was not seeing his kid’s everyday. Though, emotionally distant from them, there was still a part of him, the loving, caring father buried somewhere deep inside of him that needed to see his children. The first few years of his incarceration he cried himself to sleep at night.

Seven years into his sentence Wallace decided to make peace with his inner-demons and Vietnam. He joined a Christians Men Group in Danemora and became an active participant in the group.

As he came to grips with his inner struggle; the images of the atrocities in Vietnam, the images of the faces of Sotolongo and McLove that fateful night, Wallace McCoy got down on his knees daily and begged the Lord for forgiveness.

Very often he would hold pep talks in his cell for other recovering addicts and vets; as he had become an encouraging force to both groups. He continually advised them to stay away from drugs and all other forms of foolishness that they could engage in behind bars. He constantly told them, “Look man, if you shuffle…you deal.”

He would accompany many of them to the prison psychiatrist’s office to discuss their problems. It was during one of these visits that the psychiatrist asked to see Wallace privately. Closing the door and taking a seat the psychiatrist looked at Wallace and said, “So McCoy how long have you been here?”

“I’d say it’s been 15 years now, sir.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking about you, and your progress and I want you to know that I have noticed how far you have come. I wanted to tell you to your face that when it’s time for you to go before the board, I’m going to recommend your release. Now, you better not disappoint me McCoy, I don’t believe you belong here anymore. I find it highly unlikely that you’ll re-offend again. Do you understand?”

In shock McCoy said he understood.

The doctor continued, “McCoy when you leave here I want you to do me one favor.”

“What’s that?” McCoy answered.

“McCoy I want you to promise me that you’ll never come back to this place or any other places like this again. Okay?”

McCoy still in shock nodded in agreement and shook the doctor’s hand. Upon exiting the doctor’s office the euphoria of the moment was swept away when the faces of Sotolongo and McLove flashed in his head. Leaning against the wall to catch his balance, he quietly said a prayer to himself begging the Lord to forgive him for his sins.

When the prison gates were opened the beaming sun blinded him. It was the first time in years that he had smelled air that didn’t have a hint of prison funk. No one greeted him as he left the institution and entered into a new world.

Life for Deon McLove hadn’t fared well. As a youth he was known as a nice kid, but because of his pretty boy looks he was known to be arrogant and cocky. The slash across his face that McCoy had made left both a physical and emotional scar on his psyche. Whereas he was once good-looking and cocky, he was now disfigured and extremely insecure. The rap career he had worked hard to attain disintegrated before his eyes like dust in the wind. He worked two dead-end jobs 6 days a week that barely kept his head above water. Friends and family over the years silently remarked among one another about how much Deon drank. His insecurity about his looks made approaching women very difficult for him so he would often seek the company of prostitutes.

On this night at Willie’s just as he had recognized McCoy Wallace, one of his favorite companions came walking through the door. Her name was Exxxtacy Love; a hustler by trade, she was a stripper, a hair-stylist, massage therapist, mixtape distributor, internet model and escort. Caramel brown and stunningly sexy with arched eyebrows and full lips she carried herself with the confidant demeanor that only a pro could have. With carefully color co-ordinated manicured fingernails and toes, there wasn’t anything about her that was out of place. The tattoos on her arms made the loudest statements about her. On her left arm in big bold letters was her name ‘EXXXTACY LOVE’. On the right shoulder it said ‘Shut Up Bitch’. Inscribed on her neck: ‘The Path I’ve Chosen’.

Walking up on him and planting a light kiss on his cheek, she greeted him with a honey-inflected “Hey baby what’s up?” as she gently maneuvered his arm in the direction of the bar. As she seated herself on the bar stool she opened up her purse to at once drop her cell phone in and take a small mirror out. Looking at herself in the mirror and primping her hair and lips without looking in his direction she said, “Baby, buy me drink.”

Throwing five dollars on the bar he told her to get whatever she wanted as he re-located McCoy in the bar mirror. Grabbing his hat off the counter he pulled it down real low to hide his face.

“So where are we going tonight, baby?” Exxxtacy asked.

Briefly distracted from stalking his prey he said, “I don’t think we’ll be going anywhere.”

Exxxtacy let it all hang out, “Well why not? Shit, I had a lot to do tonight, there was other shit I could’ve been doing instead of coming out here to see your drunk ass.”

“Hey not right now, I got something else to do at the moment,” Deon said as he focused back in on his prey.

Without missing a beat Exxxtacy whirled around on the bar stool and snatched her cell phone out of her purse, flipping it open while walking away saying, “Yeah girl this mark-ass, trick-ass bitch think I got time for games and shit…”

Deon dismissed Exxxtacy and focused in on McCoy. He watched him as he laughed it up with his buddies. Drinking. Laughing. It looked like he had been living well. While Vincent was a decomposed lump of bones 6 feet in the ground.

The jukebox was serenading the crowd with the sweet sounds of R Kelly’s hit ‘Happy People’. Couples young and old danced in the small area, spinning and twirling each other around. He eyed Wallace at a table with a group of friends eating fish and telling loud stories. He decided to wait for him outside. He grabbed an empty bottle of MGD off the bar and headed into the night air. Once outside his heart raced around his chest. He looked around the corner to see if anyone was looking. No one was there. He silently waited in the shadows for McCoy to come outside. Hours passed by before McCoy would leave. In the shadows he wrestled with his conscious. He had never done anything like this before.

When McCoy stepped in to the night air after a night of merriment he had no idea of the fate that awaited him. Smiling to himself while looking for his keys he looked up the block for his car. Walking in the direction of a lone Honda Civic parked under a tree, Deon followed McCoy in the shadows.

When McCoy made it to within feet of his car he heard the loud music from a passing car, and a voice say, “There goes that mother fucker right there, bitch stop the fuckin’ car!”

Turning in the direction of the voice he saw a short, caramel- skinned woman jump out of a shiny black Toyota Camry that came to a screeching halt in the middle of the street. He vaguely recognized the young woman from earlier in the evening. Had it not been for the fact that she was walking really fast and in his general direction, he would’ve dismissed her and minded his own business, but he sensed some type of threat was about to occur.

“Every mother fuckin’ time I see your ass, it’s always some bullshit!” Exxxtacy shouted.

In a panic Deon frantically reached down to his ankle for his holstered .45 caliber gun. As he lifted the gun out of its holster and straightened his body up to take aim, Wallace saw the shadow of the young man that the loud mouth woman was shouting at.

“Ay yo!” The figure said stepping out of the shadow and into the light.

Squinting at first to focus in on the person, McCoy didn’t easily recognize the young man until he got a little closer and saw the scar across his face.

“Oh no!” he said as he was caught in the bulls eye of the barrel.

Throwing himself over the car Wallace slid across the hood as the first shot cracked through the silence of the midnight air. The first shot grazed his back, the second shot missed; the third shot hit him in the ankle. There was a second of silence and then a fourth shot rang out.

Desperately he crawled to the rear passenger tire in an effort to somehow shield himself from the bullets. Looking in the direction of the shooter from underneath the car he saw the young man sprawled out on the asphalt. Somebody shot him.

With his heart pumping a ferocious mix of fear and anger, Deon reached for the gun he dropped after being blasted by one of the people in the car. Fumbling around for his weapon he noticed a bloody faced Exxxtacy Love. One of his shots missed Wallace and hit Exxxtacy in the face. Somebody in the car fired at Deon striking him in the shoulder.

The street was a mass of mayhem. The screeching tires of the shiny black Toyota couldn’t muffle the screams of the injured young woman.

Slowly limping his way to Deon, Wallace scrambled for the gun angrily kicking it away from him. By the laws he learned in the street and his tours in Vietnam, he had every reason to blast this punk’s head all over the sidewalk. Reaching for the gun he felt the cold steel in his sweaty palms. Raising the gun up he had Deon’s face in the crosshair. Every instinct told him to pull the trigger, to end this here and now on this street corner, and disappear to some foreign country somewhere. But regret kicked in. The memory of what he had done before and the promise he made to himself to never cross that line again took precedence over anything he learned on the street. Looking from side to side he took a couple of steps and dropped the gun into the sewer. With his back turned he said, “If you know what’s best for you young blood, you better get in the wind.”

He stared back over his shoulder at the angry young man whose eyes were a blaze of fire while remembering that night. “I’ll never be able to undo the wrong I did to you, and we’ll never be even…but…”

His words were broken by the distant sound of the oncoming police cars.

“Fuck you you fuckin’ piece of shit!”

“Listen to me”, McCoy said quietly while looking in the direction of the sirens, ‘you can spend the rest of your life being mad at me if you wanna. But if you want what’s left of your life to be spent with even an iota of peace – at some point, get the fuck off your ass and into the wind, like I’m about to do.”

As the seconds went by the sirens went from being distant sounds to being a matter of seconds away.

When the patrol cars pulled up the corner was empty. The officers knew they were at the right place because there were puddles of blood all over the asphalt.