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April 29, 2009

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Combat Jack Celebrates Crispus Attucks Week

March 2, 2009

Crispus Attucks (c. 1723 – March 5, 1770)

Back at Cornell University, there was this Black dude named Cornell. Cornell was this short ‘lil fella that I think ran track. He probably didn’t though, since he was a true nerd. He also made it a point to not hang out with with any Black people. On campus, the student body was like 25,000 deep and being that at the time (probably now too) there were so few of us, and what I mean is few Black people, we made it a point to at least build with each other, have each others back. Nothing exclusive, but you know how ornery white can get when they’re clearly in the majority.

Anyways, Cornell was mad happy on account of how he managed to stay away from Black people. He even pledged a white frat during our freshman year. I forget which one, but like most white frats up in college, they had a dope ass house which epitomized the whole Ivy League experience. Ivy growing on the facade, mad oak wood floors and libraries, framed pictures of frat brothers going 100 years back, all of ’em white except for Cornell (the dude). So once this guy becomes an official frat member, he takes place in what was tradition for this frat, the beloved beer flume. It’d be a Friday night and this frat would have kegs all up in their piece, you know how they love them some kegs. Brothers meanwhile, stayed grasping the 40 oz. So one night, white is partaking in their beloved beer flume, where they make a line on both sides, kinda like the Soul Train line, and then they’d commence to pour beer from the kegs onto the wood floors so that its like a one’a those Slip and Slide thingies, like the photo below:

Gassed up on beer, white would proceed to take off their shirts, race to the beer flume and have a good ole time slip sliding to and fro. Mad shits and giggles. Getting back to my point, one day, Cornell, the Black fella, decides he will make history by becoming the first Black dude to slip slide on white’s hallowed beer flume. White gasses him up, tanked up, Cornell runs and proceeds to slide. Problem is, Cornell, being too eager to both please and out do his brethren, puts too much accelerate on his approach. Dude takes off with so much momentum that as he flumes, he takes off like an effin black rocket, so much so that he keeps going, way past the stop mark, so fast even, that his head collides against the wall way on the other side of the room. Dude was fluming so fast that upon contact of head and wall, Cornell (the Black dude) cracks his spinal cord in several places, thus leaving him a quadriplegic for the rest of his life. Yeah, that shit was tragic, and most definitely a true story, but I learned a valuable lesson: Black should never ever partake in activities that are designed, by nature to be exclusively white.

Did you know that today kicks off Crispus Attucks week? Born in 1723, Crispus was an escaped slave. Upon arriving to Boston, he was greeted by white who thought it would be mad cool to have a token Black amongst their ranks. Soon enough, Crispus and his boys came up with the name “Ye Olde Drank Mad Meade Crew”. The Drank Mad Meade crew became notorious for invading every known pub in Boston from like 10 am until they closed shop. Their drink of choice was that fresh Samuel Adams brew, who happened to be alive then. It’s even reported somewhere that being a fan of the crew, Sam gave these cats an endorsement deal, blessing them with authentic Sam Adams jerseys. Dudes also had coupons which enabled them to drink free Sam Adams brew at participating taverns.

The Drank Mad Meade Crew stayed having mad beef with other inferior crews, and they would dominate said crews in gang fights throughout the city. Many surmised that the Drank Mad Meade Crew had the advantage because they was always fueled up on alcohol plus had a Black dude who was always eager to jump in the front and prove his worthiness to his crew. Around this time, America was on some pop off shit with the British. Still under colonial rule, colonists here resented being taxed for shit and having to answer to the King. A couple of skirmishes took place, but nothing big, and shit always resulted in the British keeping the colonists well in their place.

On Monday, March 5, 1770, a British soldier walked into a barber shop, got a trim, and when asked to pay for the barber’s services smacked the barber across his mouth saying “Fuck yo bill, go tell it to the King, beyacth!” News spread fast and around 11am, as the Drank Mad Meade crew was polishing up their third round of pitchers, a boy, idolizing the crew, ran up in the bar to tell them about the incident. Seeing the British as just a bigger version of some of their other rival gangs, the crew got hyped. One of the crew members, enraged at the incident, let out a “Yo, let’s lay these British niggas way the fuck down, son.” Throwing one last round of brew down and violently pounding on the bar, the Drank Mad Meade Crew was AMPED! Dudes then ran home, collecting their hunting knives, batons and muskets, ready to tear shit up with regard to the British.

A little after 12pm, the DMM crew spotted a group of British soldiers. “Thar those bitches be-ith”, one of the members shouted. So incensed that the soldiers were proudly rocking their colors on their turf, the DMM ran towards them. Crispus, having recently been promoted to war chief status, screamed out “I got this fam, I got th…..”. Instantly, the British let off some rounds, striking Crispus dead center in the chest with two bullets. The picture below also depicts poor Crispus about to catch a mean one with a mini bat from behind. Needless to say, Crispus died immediately.

See how dude got that mini bat arched up? Not a good look for Crispus.

Although it is historically agreed that the attack on the British soldiers was a major pu~ on the part of the DMM crew, according to Wikipedia, Crispus “has been frequently named as the first martyr of the American Revolution and is the only Boston Massacre victim whose name is commonly remembered. He is regarded as an important and inspirational figure in American history.” So in celebration of Crispus Attucks week, let all Black know that as fun and cool as it can be to roll with our white brethren, stay on point when being invited to partake in some their fun looking but way dangerous for Black activities. I haven’t yet compiled a list as to what activities to stay away from, but before jumping in, just think “what business does a Black person like me have joining in on some white people shit like this?”. It might just could end up saving your life. When in doubt, just say no!

UPDATE: Pu~ = The New FAIL

February 27, 2009

I just had a conversation with the homie Dallas about PIYUSH being the new FAIL. Dude suggested that the reason FAIL works so well is because in reading it, it’s so short, only four letters, and because PIYUSH has six letters, it might be better if it were shorthened to PU~!. I’m still laughing at how, when you look at it, PU~ looks like it sounds like PIYUSH!!! Ah man, this shit is so funny. I’m still open to your suggestions, but for now, epic PU~!!!!! is offical.


UPDATE: Pu~ = The New FAIL

February 27, 2009

I just had a conversation with the homie Dallas about PIYUSH being the new FAIL. Dude suggested that the reason FAIL works so well is because in reading it, it’s so short, only four letters, and because PIYUSH has six letters, it might be better if it were shorthened to PU~!. I’m still laughing at how, when you look at it, PU~ looks like it sounds like PIYUSH!!! Ah man, this shit is so funny. I’m still open to your suggestions, but for now, epic PU~!!!!! is offical.


Drake: "So Far Gone" Mixtape

February 24, 2009

Back in 2007, my boy Eric Sutton kept telling me about this kid he and his brother T-Slack of Bigger Picture Entertainment Management were repping named Drake. Eric used to work at the now defunct Loud Record during Mobb Deep and the Wu’s heyday. Eric eventually worked at my law firm and then we both went on to work at MTV. Anyways, Eric kept calling me like every other day about how this kid Drake (Aubrey Drake Graham) was really the next shit. He’d call me telling me how Sylvia Rhone, President of Universal Records’ Motown wanted to sign Drake but flaked. Then he told me how he and his brother introduced Drake to Lil’ Wayne and how he did a song with Trey Songs. I remember Eric telling me how dude was not only a crazy emcee/ rapper, but was also a dope singer, Canadian and an actor who starred in the Canadian teen drama televison series “Degrassi: The Next Generation”, and who also happened to be down with the teen pop band The Jonas Brother as well. Uhm, a Canadian actor/sanga turnt rapper down with the Jonas Brothers and Lil Weezy? Fukouttahere! Not dissing Eric, but I’d go through the motion of listening to bits and pieces, then kept it all the way moving.

Last week, Drake dropped his latest mixtape, “So Far Gone”. I once again went through the motion of downloading it, but really didn’t get a chance to dig into it [||] until this weekend. YO! You need to cop this shit NOW or go out to your barn and kill yourself painfully with some gardening tools. This kid is the perfect blend of new school hipster hip hop (notice I didn’t say rap) with that crazy gully lyrical wordplay shit that kniccas from New York in the ’90’s used to jones for.

Oh, did I mention how this kid even gets emo in this? This is the effin “album” Kanye clumsily tried to drop with that “808’s” bullshit, only Drake sings way better and bares his soul much nicer (Sorry Dallas). And he ain’t even on no heartbreak tip yet. Unlike “808’s”, Drake manages to serve up a healthy portion of emceeing. He also murdalizes Kanye’s “Say You Will” track. MURDALIZES! I would love to hear this kid when someone actually does break his heart, for reals.

Because Lil’ Wayne endorsed Drake, there are a couple of tracks featuring Young Money. Those that know me know I don’t eff’s with Weezy that tough, but “So Far Gone” is one of those joints where Weezy really brings some of his “A” game material, so much so that I’m actually feeling his features on this. Yeah, I said it.

I just glimpsed somewhere that Drake mentions that his album (he’s signed to Interscope Records) will not sound anything like this mixtape. Bummers. But if he brings a quarter of what he dropped here, this kid has the future on lock!

Drake’s “So Far Gone” is the hottest mixtape out. Cop that shit while you can. This is an official Combat Jack co-sign.

No Stanery though.

download courtesy of Drizzy’s own blog: October’s Very Own

What was the deal with, and where the eff is Ms. Melodie?

January 29, 2009

Back in ’88, when Jay was selling weight, and P was a ballerina my favorite emcee/rapper was KRS-One. Dude still remains in my top ten list of all time. With the support of Boogie Down Productions helmed by the late DJ Scott La Rock and tutored by beat meister Ced Gee of Ultra Magnetic fame, Kris Parker single handedly destroyed the borough of Queens with classic shots “South Bronx” and “The Bridge Is Over” fired at MC Shan, Mr. Magic and the legendary Juice Crew. He was strategically smart enough to keep stray shots away from Big Daddy Kane and Kool Gee Rap though, cause that would’a been some real beef for that ass. Anyways, dude was an effin monster. That Jamaican spice he added to his rhyming established the fact that he repped firmly the upper echelons of Hip Hop. Even though he claimed the South Bronx, his swag was sooo Brooklyn. You do know he’s from BK? My man Jo who grew up with him was telling me that the first time he heard “South Bronx”, he was surprised that Kris was running with the Bx so heavy, but it made sense since he was hanging there during his early to late teen years. Dude’s shows were not to be effed with either. Stagemanship, breath control, song repertoire, throwing fat dude from PM Dawn off the effin stage, KRS-One epitomized the essence of what Hip Hop was to a then young nation.

Dude was a walking enigma though. When he started treading too hard on that edutainment, teacher ish, he started losing me. He also let Puff Daddy murda him on his own shit. But the illest shit of all time that he pulled was when he came out rocking Ms. Melodie.

I know love be blind and beggars can’t be choosers, especially since dude WAS homeless once, and chick DID look like she could be hella warm and comfy during those cold ass New York winters from years back, but I’m saying. I know how it is to hit off a she-beastie now and then, but DAMN homie, you can’t really be claiming that. Of course all this childish superficiality would be irrelevant if she could rock the mike, but girl girl was also a bit hard on the ears as well. Still and all, she was able to get a solo album out of dude, drop that god awful “Live On Stage” single and video and was fortunate enough to spit amongst legends on that classic “Self Destruction” joint.

I guess, what I’m trying to say is that for the past 15 years or so, I’ve been wondering what was that whole effin’ thing about? How and where did KRS and Melodie meet? How did they hook up? When did they get married? Did she favor chicken, beef, goat or ham? How soon after he started dropping science and garnering the attention of female groupies world wide did dude wake up and start thinking of ways to get as far away as possible from his broad broad? Did Chubb Rock have a twin sister? And why hasn’t D-Nice interviewed her in his “True Hip Hop Stories” video series yet, him also being an integral part of that whole BDP movement? His video series is crazy dope though.

If any of ya’ll know the deal, please let me know the sordid facts. Better yet, if you know where Melodie is these days, holla at yer boy. I really want to interview ole girl, you know, get her side of the story and post that shit up. Eff around and I’ma start my own “Shit Behind The True Hip Hop Stories” series, dead serious!

In the meantime:

I’s Hongry!!!

January 22, 2009

A coupla years ago, I went on a school trip with one of my sons. Nothing special to write about, except I remember that day being especially brick, extra brick ’cause the teachers had us all walking around some bullshit ass historic Brooklyn pier. What also sticks out is the memory of one of my son’s classmates named Shakira. My son was like 8 at the time, and because he attended what was supposedly the best public school in our borough, there were only a handful of kids of color in the school, less in his class. Anyways, the only other Black kid on this trip was a girl named Shakira. No lie, Shakira, at the time, must have been easily pushing 150 pounds, ankle to braids. In comparison to my kid who is tall for his age and was probably pushing 80lbs at the time, Shakira was effin ginormous. Like a junior version of Aretha Franklin from two days back. Without the hat though. Now being the only Black parent that attended this trip, I guess lil’ Shakira took a liking to me. So we get on the bus at 8:30 am and once the shit started moving, Shakira immediately pulled out this big ass brown paper bag and starts going to town on some type’a egg and cheese bagel sammich, a bag of Lays chips, some cookies topped off with bottle of Snapple. Around 10 am, Shakira walks up to me as says, “Mister, I’s hongrey”, like she was seeking some sort of approval, then swiftly whipped out her bag, this time snacking on some donuts, some type of inorganic (and I might even guess, non-nutritional) “granola bar” topped with a bottle of Yoo-hoo chocolate milk. All this time, my kid was probably three bites deep into his apple for the day. Noon hits and the teachers announce it’s officially lunch, kids sitting on cold ass benches opening up their lil lunch boxes and what not. Shakira pulls out this tupperware container from her book bag containing some type of rice, beans and chicken concoction and just as quickly, makes said contents disappear. By 1pm, Shakira is like, “Mister, I’s hongrey, can you buy me something to eat?” Mind you, I don’t really know Shakira or anyone of her family members like that, and I didn’t sign on to be her daddy for the day, alls the while taking care of my son, so I sternly reply “Shakira, you just had lunch, and you don’t really want to eat any of this junk food they’re selling over here, plus, I’m not here to buy anyone any snacks.” Without skipping a beat, Shakira looks me dead in the eye and pleads, “But Mister, I’s HONGREY!”

Over the past three months, I think starting around Thanksgiving, I’ve been going to town in just about the same way lil Shakira was on that school trip. I mean, everything cooked, baked, fried, roasted, sauteed, frozen or jerked has been fair game, like I just released my inner food crack head. Problem is, magically outta nowhere, a knicca’s put on 20lbs and feeling sluggish as fuck. Wifey stopped effin with a knicca too. In addition, I have some potential money meetings lined up for February and I remember reading somewhere that money seems to gravitate towards those that are more fit than those who aren’t. Cool. So I decide that today, just to get some of my swag shit back, quick and right, I would go on this Master Cleanse diet. For those unaware, The Master Cleanse is a detox process where you can only consume lemon juice mixed with maple syrup and cayenne pepper. Nothing else. Not even a cup of coffee. One a my homies just came off a 10 day process and says he’s feeling great, what with him losing 20lbs since January 2nd and releasing all types of toxins from his body. And his chick is telling my wife that knicca’s stamina is waaaay off the charts. It’s been months since anyone in my house said anything about stamina. “I can do this”, I’m thinkin”. “I got this.”

Problem with this shit is that, regardless of whether all that lemon juice fills you up or not, all you effin think about is sinking your canines into an effin pot roast. Some ham too. With cranberry sauce. And a side of mac and cheese. Plus some red velvet cake. And ice cream. I am now twelve effin hours deep into this hunger strike with about 30 oz of lemonade swiggling up in my gullet and I’m trying to summon the willpower not to sneak into the fridge after everyone goes to bed and BEAST the eff out on any and everything in plain sight. Sneak because I eff’d up and announced last night to my household that I would be on this bullshit for ten days. TEN JOINTS! And they’re like, “knicca you? Yeah right. 2 days tops”, just cause family loves to fuck with a knicca like that, letting the hate percolate, just to see a knicca fall, then rain you with the “I told you so’s, you effin loser dad husband fat fuckoff”. Fuck.

So my shit is on steady not right, right about now. Around 6pm today, I was driving home from the city and had this brief feeling of euphoria, like I was on some natural high. Lasted about 15 minutes. Once that feeling ended though, I was back on some hongrier than I ever been in my whole effin life. Hongrier than Shakira probably.

Nine days left.


So, what did you eat today?

I Have A Dream

January 21, 2009

Not for nothing, what an effin’ weekend!!!! I know, it’s already Wednesday, but cot damn!!!! Friday started with me, wifey and the 11 year old catching a matinee of “Notorious”. The flick was aiight, but we loved it. What was major though, was that the 11am, 12pm, 1pm, 3pm and so on shows were sold the eff out! Not more than Paul Blart, still, there were so many Black people milling around Court Street, I thought kniccas was gonna start selling tee shirts and shit. It was like the official national Biggie Day everywhere (which actually wouldn’t be that bad, now that I’m thinking about it). Then the whole MLK weekend which meant that for many of youse, no work on Monday. I’m not working these days, again. Incidentally, do you remember when MLK day meant getting HEATED cause you’d stay up watching those gully ass black and white documentaries on PBS showcasing knicca’s getting effd up and hosed down (no Robert Syslvester Kelly) by white, German Shepherds in tow? Me too. Then yesteray, HOLY SHIT. A friend of ours organized this whole Obama day set up where she had some friends over and served up some mad trays of mean jerk wings and like tubs of potent rum punch, from like 11:30 am til’ like midnite, with CNN up front and center. That’s like 3 effin Black holidays, back to effin back in a row. February don’t got shit on January ’09!!! But for real, didn’t yesterday’s events seem a bit science fictioney, like here’s when the aliens, or the cataclysmic giant asteroids, or Jack Bauer shows up to put shit back in proper perspective but good? Knicca’s is so effin happy right now that they thinking shit is sweeter than Mickey D’s Sweet Tea. What was most important though, is now that we have a Black House, it’s time for all of us to man the ‘eff up and take this whole shortbus ride to the next level.

Like right now, wifey is so effin done with me cause I stopped working since August, gained like 20lbs since Thanksgiving, and stopped showering every day, only because I now sit home all day cause I’m not working again (okay, I’m washing up every other day). But it’s good though, because today’s a new day. We make the causes today that shape our tomorrows, right? I’m bout to go heavy into a ten day Master Cleanse joint starting January 22nd (I’ll walk ya’ll through it), setting up some high paper meetings for February, so I can get back to stacking some chips, I mean today, my future is looking mighty rosey right about now. What Barry has done, even with him having the worst effin job a Black man could have these days, him cleaning up after white’s mess and all; dude’s vibe is on some, “everybody, stop all yer bitchering shit, there’s work to be done.” I’m with that 1oo%, always been.

One of the things I’m hoping to share through this blog is that we all have BIG dreams, regardless of whether we’re following them or not. And I’m hoping that we all can get back on track with them. One of my dreams is that by the time I pass this plane, I’ll have created so much wealth that my family for the next three generations won’t have to hold a job if they don’t want to. It’ll be in my will that they’ll still have to work at something though. How? Through this ever expanding medium we call entertainment. I’ll keep you posted as it starts coming together. Anyways, we all have dreams and shit is so eff’d up these days, so much so that all most of us can think about is how to keep some food on the table, cable and cell phone on, and how soon we’ll be able to download that next cd we’ve been waiting for, on the low. And even though I’ve been fortunate enough to stay focused on my goals, aside from some distractions here and there, Obama being the 44th Commander In Chief is a crystallization of how dreaming, focus, hard work, dedication, a firm eye on the prize and no excuses really help to make the impossible possible.

Now am I saying dude is the messiah? Nope. Can he solve all of humanity’s problems? Fuckouttahere. Shit is way from being perfect, and what dude is saying is that his job is our job. This shit right here is workable only through our collective responsibility. Black men will stay being shot up by Po-Po, Israel will stay heavy pulverizing the Palestinians into ground paprika, lil’ kids all across the nation will stay getting touched up by they step dad’s an ’em when moms is out working late and Diddy will stay blackballing Easy Mo Bee for tapping into his inner Doctor Strange, but life’s slick like that people. Shit ain’t easy, ain’t never been. Ask Damon Dash. Like, when my kids start bitching about how this, that and the 3rd ain’t fair, I give em a nice solid punch dead in they lil chests, just to remind them that there’s always a knicca lurking in they school hallways, waiting to take their milks and cookies, just on gp.

So with all this rambling and such, I’m looking forward to the day that all of you’s out here will achieve your dreams. I just want all of yous to get back on track, stay focused, make that shit pop like nobody’s business. I’m a firm believer that a happy you makes for a happy me. [||] though. So in commemoration of such a momentous occasion, and if you care to, please share your dreams, your goals. I won’t laugh, word up. I read somewhere that once you go through the process of writing your dreams down, that dream is transformed from the intangible ether into the physical through the form of your handwriting, and the more public you make them, the likelier that they will materialize. Perception is reality, and I’m perceiving good things. How about you?

I’m also seeing a future where these yung ’80’s baby knicca’s start pulling they pants up from they asses. Ya’ll really need to cut that shit out.

"Notorious" Movie Review

January 17, 2009

Last night I spent two hours writing an in depth review about this piece. Was too difficult. Ended up writing like about 1,000 words. Can’t decipher through that shit now. So, as to not having wasted the effort, I’ma keep it brief. “Notorious” is not the greatest biopic I’ve seen, but being the first official Hip Hop joint, what with me having experienced being a part of the extended Bad Boy fam, Christopher Wallace being a major part of the Brooklyn movement and B.I.G. being the G.O.A.T and what not, I LOVED IT!!! Some plot holes here and there, especially where it handles the whole East coast, West coast “beef”, but thanks to the homies Mark Pitts and Wayne Barrow, both who managed Big throughout his career and were involved in this flick as producers, so many of the movie’s scenes were spot on factual. The Palladium scene where Funk Master Flex drops Craig Mack’s “Flava In Your Ear” while a young Puff and crew is buying up the bar, mad factual. The whole niggas blowing gaskets ’cause a the wrong shoe size scene (if you haven’t seen it yet, don’t worry, it’ll make sense), no embellishment. Mad props to Angela Bassett for channeling Voletta Wallace. A+ for effort to everyone else who acted in this piece. X-tra kudos to Dennis L.A. White who plays Damion “D-Roc” Butler, Big’s closest friend who goes above and beyond what this thing called friendship is about. Anyone who knows D-Roc knows what kinda stand up knicca he is and White, who even resembles dude slightly, pulls of the emotional and physical sacrifices D-Roc has gone through for his crew, time and again. Whaddup D-Roc!!!!

Please see this on account that there’s no Hollywood effery here. Like I said, not the greatest, but in terms of factual content, flawless. At the real B.I.G.’s funeral, shit was mad overwhelming, what with all the celebs, drama, paparazzi, plus the weight of the loss and senselessness that Christopher Wallace’s loss represented, so much so that I was too busy taking in everything to truly feel the pain that so many people, including myself felt at the time. The “Notorious” funeral scene, including actual footage of the legendary Bed Stuy street procession celebration that took place had CJ really fighting back some tears I thought were already spent. Thinking about it even as I write this has me fighting back more tears. [||]. Yo, see this.

Plus, what with it being Martin Luther King weekend, Obama’s inauguration coming up and theatre’s being sold out from coast to coast for a movie about Biggie Smalls, seems like it’s the Black people heaven weekend we’ve been dreaming about, for like forever.

Combat Jack Gets His Martha Stewart On!

January 16, 2009

First of all, [||] for this whole post, just in case. Long and short of it, last year I brought a two family townhouse in the Crown Heights section of Brooklyn. When me and my family moved in, and having a gang’a kids (3 going on four), me and wifey didn’t know jack about home decorating so we just put shit any effin where it fit. One’a my homies who works in television was outta a job and in looking for one, found a post on craigslist offering a free televised home makeover to whoever qualified. On a whim, I responded. Soon after, I got a response from a rep from HGTV (Home and Garden Television ) who told me about this new show they were working on. I was informed that the channel had taken one of their star designers Genevieve Gorder from the show “Trading Places” and blessed her with her own joint called “Dear Genevieve”. So they send some reps over to my spot, just to see if our shit was legit and weren’t living too deep in the “hood” and soon after, out of 60,000 families, we were informed that we made the cut for the first episode. Even though we never ever watch HGTV,we were all more than a little excited. Free shit? Televison? Let’s do the damn thing!

The producer of the show was excited as well, and being that this was a first episode, he let me know that although they were working with a budget of $5k, they were gonna open the check book on this baby, what with wanting to make a good first impression and all. He let me know that they were gonna have an entire crew up in my piece for an entire week, film us during the entire process, sorta like “The Real World”, but without the drama, at one point, we’d have to move out so they could get to work, and on the final day, we’d be moving back in, all surprised and shit and on camera. On day one, like at 6am, my door bell rings and there’s like 30 effin white people standing outside my door, ready to wreck shop. These cats descended on us so with the quickness that I didn’t have a chance to relocate my stash of “bud” and haven’t been able to find it ever since. Before they started filming, I had to pull my sons to the side and threaten to whup ass if they decided it would be cute to get out of pocket on camera, you know, just in case one’a them wanted to get back at me on national tv for some shit I did to them in the past that they didn’t like. So we meet Genevieve, who was mad cool, and the camera starts rolling. Like a therapist, Genevieve starts asking us what wasn’t working in our space and for the next 5 days, it’s like insane cause I have people I don’t know going through all types of my shit, I’m talking really tearing down, moving, tossing and breaking up shit. Plus, there’s like trucks, vans and a trailer parked outside my shit 24/7, tents, flood lights, loudspeakers, the whole kit and kaboodle. Shit was so ostentatious that some of the lil’ kids that live on our block kept asking me, in between takes, whether Spike Lee was working on his next joint up in my piece. Plus, wifey and I were more than a lil’ nervous ’cause we live in a neighborhood where randomly, especially on Labor Day, gunshots can clearly be heard from my window, so a camera crew, mad white people camping out on our property and a trailer really put our shit on blast. And you know how niggas get when they see someone else’s shit in the hood on mad display. I’m saying.

Anyways, on the final day, we get to see the results and to her credit, Genevieve did her effin thing. Our shit is mad laced, what with candelabra’s, pieces of art, sculptures and all types of other items that I would have never ever conceived of buying. Wife and kids are happy, and I’m feeling plush and luxurious in my home these days. Our episode aired on January 1st, right after the Rose Bowl Parade, further putting our shit on maximum blast. Now, my father-in-law is giving me shit about why I’m tryna’ sound all white on tv cause I don’t sound like that in person, the neighbors two doors down from us stay reckless eyeballing my wife and not talking to us on account of them hating more than a bit, also, last week, when I stepped out to grab some shit from the bodega up the block, three shady looking niggas was standing across the street, scoping my shit out and when one’a them saw me and was like “Yo Mister, that’s the crib that had got that makeover with that white lady on tv?” I curtly responded “No” and kept it moving.

So here’s the first episode of “Dear Genevieve” featuring yours truly and family. It’s a bit long (@ 20 mins) , so I won’t blame you for not watching the full piece. Looking back though, I’m still tryna’ figure out which one’a those lil’ crew fucks made off with my stash.