Friday, February 27, 2009

UPDATE: Pu~ = The New FAIL
























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.

Lol!

Hindudes Stay Losing



Thanks to Byron Crawford for pointing out how Chris Matthews absolutely detests Louisiana Governor Piyush "Bobby" Jindal. In reporting on Piyush's response to President Obama's speech this past Tuesday, Matthews lets fly out an "Oh God" in response to Piyush at the ten second mark. Hillarious shit, especially when you replay the clip and see how incredibly goofy Piyush's walk is. Looks like homie just stepped out the stock room from the back of your local 7-11, happy in that he's about to fuck up your high by announcing that they completely ran out of Mountain Dew. And chips.

Further props to Barack's Alter Ego for pushing the Jindal = Fail initiative. BAE is moving to replace the term FAIL with JINDAL. I'm with that. Or replacing FAIL with PIYUSH. I like Piyush better, maybe because the name is so much more ethnic and is so spot on in how it sounds unmistakenly like a Hindude's name.

As BAE eloquently points out, how effin bad must it be for Hindudes the world over to have wake up on a high on Monday morning , what with all the Sunday "Slumdog Millionaire" Oscars sweep, only to have that shit come violently crashing down because of Jindal's speech the following night. I'm surprised the Indian community hasn't yet declared Jihad against the good Governor. Epic PIYUSH!

I'm so with this. I mean, we changed the world once with the "No Homo" to "Nullus" back to "Pause" to "[||]" movement, didn't we? Everyone who's anyone is using [||] like that shit is going outta style. Let me know what you think, are you with this? And if so, what has the better ring to it, epic JINDAL or epic PIYUSH?


Wednesday, February 25, 2009

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

Watchmen Alert



I know a lot of ya'll just ain't into this geek, comic booky shit, but really, after viewing this clip, are you not yet entertained?

Monday, February 23, 2009

My Favorite Rap Video EVER!




Summer '88. White kid named Patrick Moxey used to throw these moving parties called "Pay Day" featuring live performances by the hottest acts of the day, acts like Rob Base, De la Soul and what not. Shits would be at different locations throughout the city. Hottest parties around, bar none and word bond. Joints was so hot, your favorite rappers' favorite rappers would be posted up in the joint, and casual like. Stetsasonic, I seen them at the bar, Jungle Brothers, up in the back puffin L's with Slick Rick and Kane, Just-Ice, by the speakers signing autographs. Anyway's this one night when Pay Day was running in this huge ass school auditorium in the Lower East Side, me and my Brooklyn set hopped the turnstiles to catch scheduled performances by this group The '40 Busters who had a single "I Drink Old Gold" parodying Eric B. and Rakim's monster hit "I Know You Got Soul", as well as this other group The Dismasters who was scorching the tri-state area with a local heatrock called "Small Time Hustler".

Anyways, the 40 Busters had just finished their set, dj was spinning, chicks was grinding on the God, blunt fog clouds was hanging right over our heads when suddenly, the music stops, the lights cut off and everyone was like wtf? Then, like on cue, this HUGE hanging movie screen starts dropping from the ceiling all slow and shit and NO ONE knows wtf is going on. Since Hip Hop was crazy new and mad unpredictable, the anticipation is unbearable as to what was taking place, but we all knew that shit was gonna be dope, HAD to be dope, or someone would have to leave the joint all bloodied and buck fiftied up. Shit was primal like that back during them days. Kniccas mos def had to come correct. Then, the movie projector sparks up and like a slow rumbling earthquake the sound starts pumping mad truck like through the speakers and for the first time in our young effin lives, everyone in the joint is mesmerized as we all watch in awe, the video for Boogie Down Productions' "My Philosophy" in it's fucking entirety, KRS-One in front of the Suzuki, speaking to us all in acapella. Please understand, this wasn't just us seeing the video for the first time, it was the very first time we all got to HEAR the song. By the time the video ends, the entire crowd, black, white, Asian, Martian, dudes, chicks goes freaking
B-U-C-K-W-I-L-D! That night, the Dismasters had an incredibly hard act to follow.

Patrick went on to start a label by the same Pay Day name. We even did a deal back in '95, where he signed one of my clients, a young Jay-Z for like a mere $25,000. Then he went on to drop Jay from his Pay Day label like four months later. I can't call it, but, I'm sayin'.

Directed by my dude Fab Five Freddy, the "My Philosophy" video will ALWAYS be my favorite hip hop video of all time. The production was crazy, catching KRS One in his prime, the song being one of BDP's BEST and the set up as to how and when I saw and heard it for the first time will forever be planted firmly in my noodle.

So CJ is asking you, what's your favorite hip hop video of all time and why?

Drake: "So Far Gone" Mixtape























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

Like, Totally Awesome Cam!!!



Pretty lol!

Sunday, February 22, 2009

Oscars Fail?
























Zoom in to see your favorite actor's favorite actor.

UPDATE: So the leak was either a fake or the Academy hustled to tighten their shit up but good by scrambling winners around.

Saturday, February 21, 2009

Why Wasn't I Invited?



Most definitely sounds like good times.

Why Wasn't I Invited?



Most definitely looks like good times.

Thursday, February 19, 2009

"I Would Rather A Nigga Come Up In Here With A Gun"



Looks like a Praying "Manthis" to me.

Rihanna, Uhm, Yeah, She Caught It Pretty Bad
























Here's a shot of Rihanna's face after she allegedly got beat upon by Chris Brown. Whatever went down, all's I can say is "dayum"!. No way she was gonna pull this one off at the Grammys. C. Breezy, it is not looking good for you potna'.

Courtesy of TMZ.

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Jesus Was My Best Friend

Originally posted by the homie Byron Crawford, 4/15/05














During my 2nd year in college, I started going through some real depressing shit. In the midst of having the best four years of my life, life started getting all serious on me when the following course of events occured:

1. My girl tells me she's pregnant. Being too young to be a parent, she gets an abortion. I missed the appointment because the night before, I drunkenly fell asleep in the arms of another girl across campus. Feeling like an asshole, I start getting all types of heavy and guilt ridden. We of course break up.








2. My next chick, which I'm hitting on the regular gets pregnant! Fuck! So she has an abortion (this time I make the appointment only to arrive at the clinic, surrounded by protesting pro-lifers holding up all types of “Straight to Hell” signs) and now I'm really fucked up in the head.








3. This jealous Chinaman dude who got dumped by his girlfriend a coupla weeks earlier decides it would be a great idea to drive up from Chinatown to Ithaca to freaking shoot her dead, with a mac 10. He does so, then splatters his brain out in the dorm hall walls right across the road from my dorm, like on some Columbine shit, but way before that. And really. He died that day too.














4. Some shit pops off in the Middle East and all this talk starts up on campus about the possibility of nuclear war and the end of the world as we know it.








5. I had done horribly my freshman year, was on probation and was miserably failing statistics, which meant, if I failed, I would fail out of school, thus becoming a hopeless loser on the streets of Bed Stuy, Brooklyn.








The level of depression I'm experiencing is like nothing I ever felt before. So, one day, I'm in my dorm room listening to some Prince [|||], (when it was cool for men to listen to Prince circa the "Purple Rain" era) when my boy Phil stops by. He and I were cool since we were on line together (I had pledged a frat the year before). He's all pensive and shit, shooting the shit about nothing in particular when out of the blue, dude states that Prince's music was devil music and not particularly good for my soul. Wtf? I'm like “huh?” He then proceeds to ask me if I were to die today, was I 100% certain I would go to heaven? I reflexively said “hell yeah”, but inside, that shit had me really fucked up. Normally, I would have told dude to get the flying fuck out of my room, but alas, I was depressed and not yet the worldly and experienced Combat Jack that I am today. Sensing that my shit wasn't tight, Phil invited me to a prayer meeting that night.






So later on, I go to a prayer meeting held in this chick Alliyah's hot ass room and it's filled with all types of wierdo cats I peeped on campus but didn't know what the eff was wrong with em. Everyone up in the piece had this weird ass glazed look in their eyes that I can't explain, but you know it when you see it. My man Arvis (a black dude from Arkansas who was a champion jock on the lacrosse team) was up in there praying his ass off and I figured since he was in there (he scored mad ass from chicks during our freshman year) I figured it was cool for me to be there as well. Anyways, the room was crowded with like 25 heads, and we're all standing in a circle holding hands [||] sweating, reciting psalms when out of no where Alliyah screams out “JESUS” scaring the shit outta me, then the whole room erupts in some crazy ass praying, on some super dupa fast shit and motherfuckers are sounding like Twista rapping while high on cocaine and speed. Jesus Phil whispers to me that everyone just caught the “spirit” and were “praying in tongues”. Not to be outdone, I'm doing my best to keep up with all this madness and I'm trying some speed praying but all I'm doing is mumbling worse that Jigga at a press conference. Then Jesus Arvis starts twitching like he's an effin narcoleptic (only without that foamy ass spittle around his lips) and this other bitch from my psych class yells out “ALLELUJAH” and drops on the mutha fucking ground with a loud ass “THUD!” and the insanity rises way past level 15! Needless to say, I am now scared shitless of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. After about an hour, everyone calms the eff down and they explain to me that in order to be saved and accepted into the house of the Lord, I can no longer curse, drink, think lewd thoughts, smoke the blunt and listen to heathen music. Fuck!







A few weeks go by and I'm trying my best to stay holy. Of course being that cool dude on campus, I keep all this shit to myself. Especially knowing how my hell bound kniccas would joke me on my road to redemption the eff out. In the cafeteria while in the middle of staring at some chick's fanny, I catch myself, in my room about to pop in some RUN DMC, I catch myself, my niggas stop by to start a blunt cypher, I catch myself, the Deltas and AKA's about to have sorority parties with some new young and drunk chicks from other colleges attending, I catch myself, I got my muh-fuckin bitches calling me on some late night booty call shit, I CATCH MYSELF! I got my eyes zeroed in on that effin stairway to heaven and nothing on God's green earth is going to sway me the fuck to the dark side!











After a coupla more prayer sessions, the God Squad inform me that I'm ready to get saved. We schedule for them to pick me up the following Sunday morning to go to church and then and there, I will be officially baptized and accepted into the house of the Lord. By now, all my bitches have officially cut me off, thinking I'm hitting some new chicks they never saw before and my crew start joking me the eff out like I fell off. Its cool though, cause the stairway to heaven is real close. On some insurance shit though, I decide to put my best friend Tony Smalls in on all this. Tony was my buddy from high school and we had been through some rough times together growing up in Brooklyn. I figured, since he knew me so well, he wouldn't think I lost all of my marbles. The plan was for him to join me on our trip to church and if shit wasn't kosher, he had my back and he would convince me not to go through with this off the wall shit.

Sunday arrives and Jesus Phil, Jesus Arvis, Jesus Alliyah and the the rest of the God Squad show up to my dorm room. We all hop into this dusty ass white van, along with Tony and we head off campus going straight to church. We get to church and this joint has to be one of the creepiest places I have ever been in my life! There's a statue of the most fucked up bloodiest Jesus ever known to man hanging from the cross, the congregation consists of jigs and poor white trash townies all downtrodden, dirty and looking like they were gathering for a Children of The Corn convention, the Reverend, a cracka ass cracka with mad grime and grit under his fingernails was preaching at the tops of lungs about the flames of the inferno and all I'm thinking is “there's no way in hell Tony and I are getting a chance to back outta this freakshow!” Of course there's more screaming, yelling, speed praying, spazzed out twitching, all types of dropping to the floor with loud ass “THUDS” (all of which would be just perfect at a Special Olympics session) when in the middle of the madness and from our seats, Jesus Phil shouts out that he gathered two lost sheep (guess who?) ready to be cleansed of their sins. Some Corn people hand us some white robes to change into as they fill this cold ass looking stone tub with some cold ass looking water from a hose. The tub gets filled, everyone’s ready and I convince Tony to go first. Reverend Cracka grabs Tony's forehead with those dirty ass hand, shouts out “ALLELUJAH!” and dunks my nigga in the tub with more force than Lebron James during the All Star Weekend. My turn comes, those grubby ass hands grab my dome, I get tossed backwards into the tub, I feel all my sins being washed away and immediately realize that I was right about the temperature of the ice cold water. I get pulled out, the Corn congregation go totally ape-shit and Tony and I are officially saved.

Later that afternoon, after the fun has died down, Tony and I head to our favorite spot on campus, this lush grassy hill overlooking campus and providing us with the most breath taking view of the Cayuga river. We're not saying much, being all reflective, glaze eye tryna creep in, and although I'm feeling like I was just granted a new lease on life, I'm thinking that for the rest of my life in this physical form, I have forsaken cursing, drinking (which I really enjoyed when I was a sinner), no more heathen music (no rap, no pop, nothing), no weed, no fanny (until I get married), no fanny, NO FANNY!!! I look at Tony, who's starting to get that weird ass look in his eyes, and ask “Yo nigga, you got any of that weed I had you hold for me a few weeks ago?” He pauses, that weird look instantly vanishes, he smiles and says “No doubt!” We get up, head to his dorm room, call some other members of our crew and sinfully backslide down that stairway to heaven, using the flames of hell to blaze up some refreshing and much needed trees.

During the rest of that semester, I did my god damned best to avoid Jesus Phil, Jesus Arvis, Jesus Alliyah and the rest of the God Squad. It proved to be one of the most difficult things to accomplish since those effin holly rollers are persistent as all hell. But I gotta tell you, something really spiritual happened while my black ass was floating like an ice cube in that cold ass tub. Since that day, I have never, ever come close to even feeling guilty about my again. Praise God!

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

American Kids Have Too Much Free Time On Their Hands



And of course, [||], just in case. Courtesy of Marvelous Mo via twitter.

Suge Knight, I'm Looking For You!!!



















Ya'll might have already heard about Suge Knight getting knocked the fuck out again this weekend at a private party in the W Hotel in Scottsdale, AZ, during the All-Star weekend festivities. Damn. This is like the 2nd time dude got flattened within nine months. Shit is looking so bad for Suge that the first dude that knocked him out is feeling sorry for him and has even offered his services as Mr. Knight's security.

I clearly remember the days a few years back, when Suge had EVERYONE shook. Shit was so bad that whenever he came to New York, dudes was ducking him all types of way. Back when Tupac was alive, he even issued a severe beat down to one of my boys, just for being associated with Diddy, B.I.G. and the Bad Boy set. I'm really feeling a kind'a a ways right about now. Not because he's getting his ass kicked all up and down every function he attends. (I happened to be staying at the Shore Club Hotel in Miami a few years back when the big homie accidentally shot hisself in the leg during the MTV Awards). I'm kinda pissed off because I never knew what kind of a bitch Suge Knight was in the first place. Yeah, I know some of ya'lls out there must be muttering "You talking all that sideways shit now CJ, where the eff was you when he was knocking down the buildings in New York?" Real talk? I was hiding. And so was you. But shit, if this dude is gonna go down every time he get's tapped in the jaw, I WANT IN!!!

Next time you hear Suge Knight is in town, lemme know cause I wanna kick his ass too! Not that I need that kind of rep, but shit would be mad sweet on my resume right about now. Picture that shit on the blogs yo; "COMBAT JACK KNOCKS SUGE KNIGHT THE EFF OUT!" I'd be getting more hits than the homie Eskay even. I could use them hits right about now too. But only if I'm 3rd though. Not trying to be the 4th or 5th person to drop his fat ass because at that point, shit would be played out and being 4th or 5th in anything don't ever count. I wanna stand on the podium. Gold, silver and bronze baby!

One question though, who in the fuck keeps inviting Suge Knight to all of these god-damned functions anyway?

Justice Ain't Blind, That Bitch Just Cockeyed!















So over the past holiday season while away for Christmas break, my wife was talking to her brother and sister-in-law about one of their girlfriends. Not really snooping, but hearing more than I should, it sounded like their friend was going through some shit. A lil' after they finished talking, I was like "hun, what was that all about". Turns out their friend is the mother of four boys and has been going through it financially, emotionally, the whole gamut as she's raising these boys alone on account of her being a widow (no Nadya Suleman "Octomom"). My wife and I have four kids and this recession/ depression whatever the eff economic thingie is that we're going through these days is making life real hellish right about now, so I can only imagine what their widowed friend is going through. Poking a bit further, I asked wifey why homegirl was widowed, like, what happened to her husband. Come to find out her husband was a fellow by the name of Kirk Wright.












I remember vaguely hearing about dude from a coupla years back, in the news. The son of Jamaican immigrants, Wright grew up in a working-class family in the Bronx and had the rare opportunity as an African American to truly taste a slice of what the so called elusive "American Dream" concept is all about. Growing up like most brothers, he played a decent game of basketball (sometimes with my brother in law), earned a bachelor’s degree in political science from Binghamton University and later received his master’s degree in public policy from Harvard University’s Kennedy School of Government. A year after graduating from Harvard, Kirk went into business for himself, founding his investment and hedge fund company International Management Associates. Relocating to Atlanta, word soon spread about how Kirk's hedge funds were turning incredible profits and he quickly collected a vast roster of investors consisting of doctors, professional athletes, wealthy executives and rich retirees. Kirk did his thing, he rocked Bentleys, Aston Martins and Lamborghinis. He had homes in Florida, California, and Georgia.















Wright's Marietta, Ga. Home

Dude was firmly entrenched in the higher echelons of our society. Breaking and making bread with the creme de la creme, Kirk was working with the stuff that went far and beyond him living the good life. Unfortunately, that good life, that high, that power tapped into dude's inner demon of greed. Once awakened, that greed took charge of Kirk and in a major way. After his "run" Wright was arrested in May, 2006 and charged with bilking his investors, including many NFL players (including Steve Atwater, Terrell Davis, Ray Crockett and Rod Smith) out of over $180 million dollars. By the time he was busted and raided by the feds in May of 2006, International Management Associates could only account for less than $500,000. The community in which Kirk stole from was enraged. Vilified, demonized, Wright was convicted of 47 counts of mail fraud, securities fraud and money laundering on May 21st 2008 and faced a maximum sentence of 710 years. 710 effin years yo! Imprisoned, having fallen from grace in the public eye and awaiting his life sentence, Kirk Wright buckled under the weight of his fate and took his own life by hanging himself in his prison cell on May 25th, 2008. He was 37 years old.


















Not that I knew dude personally to make any excuses for his crime, but when my wife told me this story, all I could hear echoing through my head was "SHIT 710 effin years. SHIT 710 effin years." This nigga really ended up catching a life sentence on some white collar crime shit. That is truly WHOAH. It's not like I'm even tripping on how dude got pinched and paid the price so much that I was completgely unaware of how severe these sentences were for convicted criminals of his ilk. Maybe I was just ignorant to shit like this since most celebrated white collar crime stories rarely pique my interest. I just thought, like, isn't 710 years a bit... excessive? This one being closer to home though, I wondered what other notorious frauds received as sentencing for similar crimes.























Boom. So I looked up Kenneth Lay, who some consider to be the effin Kinpin of embezzelement, swindling, fraud and all other types of financial fuckery, and who was responsible for bankrupting Enron, the biggest corporate bankruptcy in U.S. history. You already know the story, by cooking books, turning a blind eye to financial reality and concocting fugazi returns and what not, Lay's greed eventually cost 20,000 employees of Enron their jobs and many of them their life savings. Investors in Enron eventually lost billions of dollars. Lay was estimated to have a gross wealth of approx. 40 million US dollars. On May 25, 2006, Lay was found guilty of 10 counts against him. This meant that Lay faced up to a maximum of 30 years in prison. WTF?!? Ironically, Lay died while vacationing in Colorado on July 5, 2006, about three and a half months before his scheduled October 23 sentencing. Dunno which is harder to wrap my brain around, the part about him facing a maximum sentence of "only" 30 years or the fact that homie was afforded the opportunity to be vacationing in Colorado. Now I'm no financial whiz, but I know for certain that 30 years vs. 710 don't add up, not one effin bit. Plus, I'm betting dollars to donuts that the "deceased" Kenny Boy is currently holed up somewhere being fed mangoes on some lil remote town in Cuba, feet getting all up massaged by 17 year old Cuban girls as he reads the New York Times, chuckling about our current economic crises. No "Tupac is still alive" conspiracy theory.















Meanwhile, the Grandmaster Fonzi of the Ponzi game Bernie Madoff continues to sip latte in his $7 million dollar Upper East Side apartment, looking down as he pisses on the foreheads of hardworking, taxpaying US citizens everywhere. Times might be "looking " rough for dude, but how much you wanna bet, when it's all said and done, that Madoff won't see nothing close to 710 years? I'm saying. We already know Justice ain't blind, but goddamn, does that bitch have to be so obviously cock-eyed when it comes to who she judges?

Moral of the story: White is having NO parts of Black pulling off white collar crimes. Stick to selling rocks homie. Oh wait, shit ain't kosher in that lane either, what with the Rockerfeller laws and what not.

Friday, February 13, 2009

The Realest Shit I Ever Wrote















I was ekeing out a living, working my first industry gig. I was fresh out of school and was living back in my old room at my mom's house where I grew up. I was trying to further enforce my freedom gained from 7 years of higher education (college, law school) but I felt I was getting soft, what with home cooked meals and mom's insisting on washing my clothes. Life was a bit awkward now, no more schooling, I was really living in the real world, feeling my way around on the daily grind to man up. Then I met her. Angela. Certified dime piece. Actually I knew her from college. She was one of those sisters that didn't hang with the black crowd that tight, but wasn't all up under the white dude's arm either. I pegged her as being one of those artsy, free spirited chicks that followed the beat of a different drum.


















It was a beautiful August afternoon, and I was running through Washington Square Park on my way to a meeting when I heard someone call out my name. Boom. Angela stopped me. I hadn't seen her since I dunno when. She saw that I was in a rush, but told me she was happy to run into a fellow former classmate. She had a huge leather portfolio under her arm, obviously in a rush as well. She made me wait though, took out a small note pad, scribbled and passed me her math and we kept it moving. Later that night, I peeped her number. She had written out "Let's hang out together or something. Soon. Angela". I didn't think anything of it, especially since we probably exchanged no more than 5 words to each other all throughout college, but later that night, as I was hanging out with my crew and brought up the topic of our encounter, one of my dudes was like "Yo man, her note is screaming for you to chop that down, especially with that "or something" line." Word? A couple of days passed before I called her. When I did, we talked about how we really didn't know each other from Cornell University and arranged to meet up for lunch or "something" the following weekend. We met on a Sunday for brunch. Like at 1pm. We hung out up til like 1am. Money was low for both of us, but we did New York City big that day. From the East Village (where she lived) to Washington Square Park, Central Park, then back downtown. Conversation was effortless, body language played out like it was choreographed. Angela shared that she was heavy on her grind as a fashion model. In addition to being beautiful, she was tall, and lean with muscle in all the right places. She had just signed an exclusive agreement with one of the top modeling agencies in the city and was just starting to get heavy burn in several print magazines. Her shit was impressive, especially since she was the first professional model I had ever met. Plus, back in the early '90's, dating models was like the next best thing since sliced bread. Later on, as we continued to go out with each other, whenever she would stop by my office, even my former boss, legendary model monger Russell Simmons would holler at her strong. Even though I was the lowest cat on the totem pole, my stock at Def Jam shot way up because of her. I liked that. And I liked her.























I soon started crashing at her crib more and more, even got my own set of keys. The East Village was still wild, it was a very exciting time to live in and around there, and our every moment together was pure fun. I introduced her to the inner world of the music industry, she upgraded me as well, easing me off that N.W.A. 24/7 and onto Jimi Hendrix, Steely Dan and Pink Floyd. Those artists still remain planted deep in my 80 gig ipod. Because of her. I also became a sushi connoisseur. Dunno how a Trinidadian girl from Brooklyn did it, but Angela was mad fluent in Japanese, and that shit there was sexy. Who was fucking with that? My homies started mad joking me out though, calling me out for being sprung. Sprung? Fuck yeah, shit was heavenly yo. A couple of more dates led into nine months of courtship. By that point, Angela and I had become inseparable.























On the ninth month of our relationship, Angela, focused on her career, knew that she had to move to Paris to get her catwalk runway game on lock. Her agency had her set her up in an apartment with a view of the Eiffel Tower and she was set to go. Her stay was to be indefinite, but we promised each other to stay true. No lie, I had images of her drinking wine, smoking cigarettes and falling in love with some stringy long haired, gay looking Frenchman. Fuck it though, it was good while it lasted. On that designated day, we hugged and kissed until her flight took off. Like that, there I was again, back in my room, in my mom's crib, heart broke and listening to Steely Dan, Jimi Hendrix and Pink Floyd.


















As much as I was trying to get out to Paris, my paper wouldn't afford me that luxury, still, our letter flow was consistent and voluminous. I'd keep her posted on what was happening in Brooklyn, how our homie Keith Haring had died, how I had to take the New York State bar exam over again, she'd send me letters written on expensive looking stationary in gold and pink metallic ink, smelling like her, updating me on how treacherous the fashion world was in Paris, bitches cat fighting and shit, how beautiful the Champs-Élysées was at night, delicious pastries and all. We managed to keep our long distance relationship alive. Shit, I even stayed true, well, I smashed something once, but it was on the random, and only once. Our phone conversations were short and sweet, and as one day turned into four months, the fire in her voice seemed different. As time passed, she began talking about how she wanted to come back to New York and soon, how she was lonely and starting to realize that the fashion game wasn't for her, how all that devious sneak talking and body selling for a meal no longer had her amped. We talked about it, about how, when she got back, we might could even maybe move into an apartment together. We talked on end about how we'd split the rent and all bills since we was both on the come up, and live happily ever after. I was down with it, my first crib in New York. "Set it up" she said, "I'll see you soon, I can't wait. It'll be great." I was with it.

















I found a two bedroom apartment in Park Slope for $900 a month. $450 a month was gonna be rough, but doable on my end. 69 5th Avenue between St. Marks and Prospect. I signed the lease, paid down on the security, moved in and prepped it for Angela's return. I felt guilty though, because moms for some reason did not feel my girl. She was also pissed at me for not staying home to save some money. I kept it moving though, I was too excited in starting this new chapter in my life and after being apart for 4 months, I was gonna be able to have my baby to myself, all the time, whenever I wanted. The day came, her cab pulled up and Angela had arrived. She loved the spot as well as the location. We kissed, we drank wine, we laughed, we loved, we lounged. It was the bestest sweetest weekend. It was also the beginning of the end.

Boom. Monday came, and I was back in beast mode, hustling to climb that ladder of success. Nothing beats being young, energetic and focused, and I was all that. After my first day back at work, I came home that night, and Angela. looked. depressed. and. unhappy. In contrast to me being fully alive and energized in my craft, in my field, Angela, on that first Monday back, came fully to grips with the fact that everything she had worked so hard to achieve for the prior 3 years up until that point was on reset. No career, no work, nothing to apply her once fiery drive to. Just the television set on daytime loser mode, New York now being a cold, strange, lonely and depressing place in her eyes. As the days passed, what was once encouragement and support for my career just months earlier turned into jealousy, anger, sorrow and hate. The "I love yous" became "fuck your job, fuck you, you think your shit is more important than mine. " And just like that, I found myself in a completely different relationship with a completely different person. The bright, warm, cheerful home I once envisioned became cold, dark, depressing, heavy. I loved work more and dreaded coming home. Our endless chatter box rapport was replaced with deadening silence, broken randomly by mono syllabic responses to questions revolving solely around mundane household issues. I felt like I was slowly dying. No, I wasn't dying, but I felt like I wanted to.


















You know how they say if you want to see what your potential wifey might end up like in the future, peep out her moms? That shit right there should be a law, eff that, the eleventh commandment even. Our courtship took us, took me to such heights that I never even thought to put in the due diligence required in seeing what Angela's d.n.a was composed of. One weekend, she had to pick up some shit from her moms and needed my help. Her mom lived close by, in Brooklyn, on Washington Avenue. Back when Washington Avenue was nothing to eff with. When we got to her mom's building, I knew instantly that I didn't want to go in. A group of young thugs was posted deep up on the steps, obviously slanging their wares. Entering the hallway, my senses were greeted with the strong pungent stench of urine. As we climbed the stairs, I spotted a couple of water-bugs spotting me. I. hate. water-bugs. When we got to our destination, her mom's place was exactly how I pictured it to be just moments prior, disheveled, unkempt, nasty. Even though it was our first encounter (and last in person), I knew instantly that not only did her moms not feel me, I knew that her moms didn't feel any man. Angela once told me that her parents were divorced, that her father was a successful banker on Wall Street, and that her moms was deeply affected by their split. Her mother was thin, gaunt, withered even, and had a look of lost, disoriented crazy in her eyes. Angela picked up her shit and we promptly bounced.

The first month passed and rent was due. Expectedly, Angela couldn't pony up her share as she hadn't yet found work. I ate that, even though I couldn't afford to. A couple of weeks after covering the rent, and shopping for groceries, and barely holding us down, I reminded her what our arrangement was, 50/50. Instantly she flipped. She started throwing a tantrum and anything within her reach all over the place. Plates and glass shattered. A lot of cuss words and hateful shit was flung my way. What I couldn't realize at the time was that Angela was trapped, cornered in an emotional box of fear and despair, and in me calling on her to fulfill her responsibilities, she lost it. Problem was that I was in a corner as well. Being caught off guard by the intensity of her violent reaction, I snapped. I grabbed her by her arms, trying to calm her livid ass down, but she went in deeper at the fact that I was trying to restrain her, kicking, pushing, scratching, my temper rose to match hers, and in overpowering her, I pushed her firmly until her back struck the wall with a THUD! The unthinkable had happened. Shit escalated to violence, and I was the perpetrator. I didn't hit her , but I used force, I put my hands on her. Shocked, ashamed, stunned, I released her. Oh, she most definitely kept it popping, but I was emotionally and physically spent. No mas. I went quietly into my room, beaten, defeated by the chaos of our circumstances. Closing the door, I shut myself off from the world and let all that pain, anger, hurt, resentment, confusion and disappointment in her, in the relationship, in myself, in the world wash over me.

















It's funny how at times, when living with someone you consider to be close to you can the be the loneliest of experiences. Food became tasteless. I began to loathe the routine of my daily life. The woman I once saw as beautiful not only changed internally, but physically as well. One day on a whim, she cut off all her hair. In doing so, she finally cut away any and everything that reminded her and I of her days as an aspiring model. At that point, Angela had clearly demonstrated to me that she was straight up 7:30, definitely not balanced. Shortly after, one day outta the blue, upon coming home from work, I checked my messages and that's when her moms started leaving hateful messages on the answering machine, chilling insane rambling messages about how I was not a man, what with demanding that a woman, her daughter pay some of the bills. "No man allows his woman to pay for anything" she screeched. Although indirect, her messages played like she was consoling her daughter, but that shit was clearly aimed my way. So now they were talking shit about me. Daughter enlisted the aid of mother in making me the bad guy. Angela knew she was being so foul in letting those messages stay fresh until I came home to hear her mom's witchcraft like rants. Still, I played the bigger nigger, continuing in paying bills, groceries, all that. Locked into a lease I could not afford to pay alone, put into a place where I had to live up to the commitment of maintaining all the amenities, I was living with the enemy. My only recourse at this point was my very survival. To step to her in an attempt to kick her out would've resulted in more violence and for real, I wanted very much to choke the fucking life outta this bitch. My mind was scrambling for the solution, but I had to continually fight back the thoughts of how I so wanted to blacken her eye, crack her ribs, how I wanted to run up and smack the shit outta her and her fucking evil deranged mother that was consistent in leaving hateful shit on the answering machine. Yes, as much as most of my existence became murky, unclear, I was sure of one thing, Angela, my former love had become my mortal enemy. I had to get out alive and with my sanity and dignity intact, or die trying.
















3 months of this hell passed, with me enduring it. Then, on the third month, Angela landed a job. It wasn't what she went to college to do, but as much as her self hate translated into hatred for me, she seemed happy, at least briefly, in that she was finally earning some money. The week after she started working and cashed her first paycheck was when the levy broke and hell was unleashed on earth. It was March, on a Saturday. I woke up that morning not feeling well, headache, throat sore, body hurt. I felt a cold or the flu coming on and had a fever of 103. A snow storm was predicted by the local weatherman, and on schedule, it was snowing. Angela was on top of the world though. For what seemed like the first time in months, she was playing her music on the stereo, as if the cash validated her existence and lifted her spirits. The fact that I was painfully curled up in the bed and sick seemed to add to her joy. She had gone grocery shopping, cooking, playing her music and dancing about and around the apartment, music on blast all day. She made it a point to be as loud as possible. She wasn't talking to me, wasn't fucking with me at all. I kept my distance too. That snowy Saturday, Angela reborn, was cooking shit up like a chef. B, she was straight cooking for like 5 hours, and even though I was sick, her food smelled good. That evening, as she had completed her culinary masterpiece (mind you, this was the first meal she prepared since she moved in) she sat down at the dinner table and began to dine elegantly. With fever still in effect, I shuffled out the room hungry as I hadn't eaten anything all day. Carefully measuring my words, my tone, my delivery, I approached her, asking if I could make myself a plate, get a taste of what she had cooked. Wrong.fucking.move.

As if on cue and laying for me, she spit out her venomous reply "I brought this food with my money." "Fuck you if you think I'm cooking for you, your bitch ass cant even afford to pay for shit!" RAGE. BLOOD. DEATH. MURDER. was all I saw. After endless months of enduring her shit, tortured by her very existence I felt the puppet master's strings controlling my very being, driving me to commit unadulterated savage brutal violence on her person. I was there. I WAS SO FUCKING THERE! I KNEW, IF I TOOK THAT ONE INCH, I'D TAKE IT A MILE. HER VERY FUCKING LIFE WAS IN MY HANDS. AND I WANTED SO MUCH TO KILL HER THAT VERY MOMENT. KILL HER WITH MY BEAR HANDS UNTIL THE LAST OF HER WARM BREATH LEFT HER BODY COLD, LIMP AND LIFELESS.

Pause. breath. step back. reassess. reset. regain. control. I don't know how I did it, how I managed to pull it off, but somehow I channeled that murderous rage, and looking in at the scenario, as if I were experiencing an out of body moment, I saw my self calmly walking into my room, slipping on my timbs, my Girbauds, my hoodie, my goose. Somehow, I knew what it was. I could not, would not give this bitch the satisfaction in giving her the very tools that would eventually lead to my downfall, my demise. I had just passed the bar and was about to get sworn in as an officer of the New York State court system. My career was popping. I was looking good. Smelling good. She knew that as much as she wanted to break me, only I could break myself. Oh, she had set the traps, had done so masterfully even, but the final move was mine. I knew this now. I saw myself heading for the door, fever and all, snow storm storming outside. "WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU GOING?" she screamed, driven further insane at the fact that I would not play in this deadly game and on her terms. I ignored it all focused only on my exit, my escape. She darted madly in front of me, blocking the door, blocking turning into screaming, screaming into spitting, spitting into swinging. She was long gone, wholly consumed in whatever hell fire and bile was coursing through her veins. Composed and in a zone, I mechanically grabbed her arms once again, moved her tall frame from my path, and marched in a daze, zombie like through the snow and on a mission to get to the nearest bar.























After about an hour at the bar, with several shots to the dome and still feverish, I was now completely impervious to pain. Comfortably numb, I started trudging through the snow, legs aching from my sickness, Das EFX blasting through my headphones. I somehow resisted the strongest of urges to do the unthinkable, I didn't kill her, but now the demon that had fully possessed my once beautiful Angela was completely and absolutely dead to me. I got to my prison that was 69 5th Avenue, between St. Marks and Prospect, climbed the one flight of steps to my apartment and paused as I heard foreign sounds coming from the other side of the door. There were some people inside, I heard radios squawking and men's voices.

I opened the door to be greeted by two white police officers standing in the middle of my living room. Standing next to them was my moms. Yes, my moms, looking visibly shaken, worried. Before I could take this all in, I realized that the entirety of my apartment had been completely trashed. Papers, clothes, glass, liquids madly thrown about, all of which were my belongings. Before any words were exchanged, I also noticed that Angela was in her room, packing shit, pacing like a rabid dog and playing the victim.

The argument, the liquor, the rage, the fever, the adrenaline had me goosed. It was show time, front and center and I was still in the zone. "Good evening officers, hello mom" I said as I approached the police and hugged my moms. "What's going on?" The cops informed me that Angela had called them on some domestic violence shit, claiming that I was high on drugs, lost my mind, had beat and choked her to the point where she lost consciousness, then I trashed the place and fled from the scene like a criminal. The officer in charge asked me as to what transpired. Feeling like I was towering over the cops, I calmly, coldly looked them in the eye and said "Officers, believe me when I tell you that I want nothing less than to beat that woman into a coma. I want so much to inflict bodily harm to the point that my only recourse was to do so, or leave the premises in order for me to cool down and regain my composure. I had to get a drink in order to calm myself down. Believe me also when I say that I want to hurt her so much so that had I the opportunity to lay a hand on her, it would be so clear to everyone in this room that I had done so, so much to the point that I would be asking you to take me under your custody. That being said, I didn't touch her and knowing that you are the professionals that you are, you look around and tell me what went on."

The officer in charge pulled me to the side, out of Angela's earshot and explained to me that he had been on so many domestic violence calls during his years as a cop that it was obvious to him that I was innocent and that Angela was setting me up. He then asked me whose name was on the lease and what I wanted to do. I told him it was my name solely that was on the lease and that I would greatly appreciate if they would promptly escort Angela the fuck out of my apartment and the fuck out of my life. Moments later, Angela came out with a small suitcase filled with her shit, flanked by the two officers, still trying her best to look like a victim. As she passed me, I flashed her the peace sign. I then spent another 1/2 hour consoling my moms, calling a cab and sending her home through that winter snowstorm. That night, after sifting through the wreckage that was finally home to me, caused by the fury that was Hurricane Angela, I was about to call it a night. In my victory, I was spent. I went in the bathroom to brush my teeth when I caught whiff of a foul odor. It was then that I realized that Angela left me one final parting gift. She smeared her feces on my tooth brush.

I was alive again though. When her girlfriend Yvonne (who went to college with us and at whose home Angela was staying) called to curse me out for putting a shoe on Angela, I laughed, packed up every belonging of hers I could find, called my boys and neatly delivered everything to Yvonne's door. Months later, Angela called me several times, apologizing, asking for me to forgive her, to allow her to move back in, crying even. I felt sorry for her, for her not realizing how far off the deep end she was and how much pain she must have experienced in her life to drive her to the point of snapping the way she did. I was cool about it, still playing bigger nigga, even accepting her apology, but there was no effin way she was coming anywhere near any parts of my life. A few years later, I ran into Yvonne who told me that Angela had gotten married, had a kid, then ended up getting divorced, accusing her ex-husband of beating her ass, of physically abusing her. We both laughed as she was now convinced, that after the smoke had cleared, that my name remained clean in her eyes.

The current Chris Brown Rihanna drama so reminds me of this story. As much as that situation is being sensationalized by the media, by us, I truly feel for them both. Looking back, I see how, had I gone with it, what that view from Chris' perspective must be looking like. I joke, but nothing about whatever transpired is at all funny. What is funny though, is how all the critics, especially the male one's are talking about how Chris is bitch ass because what he did was bitch ass, and how they would never ever do something as bitch assed as he, but they all sound mad bitch ass to me because it's so effin clear that their bitch asses were never forced to stand on that edge of insanity, tempted to jump in head first. If what happened is what most people think happened, Chris is no doubt wrong, but instead of being persecuted and crucified in the public's eye, I hope he receives the help that he's calling out for. But his current misfortunes are in no way an open door for the chest thumpers out there to judge him while proclaiming how much of a man they are.

Moral of the story, check out the mom's first and always play the bigger nigga.

Thursday, February 12, 2009

Best Week Ever?



I wasn't going to post this only because my peeps beat me to the punch here and here. But then I just read here that because of a series of behind the scenes "negotiations", the video featuring Curtis Jackson stalking D.J. Khaled's moms an' em has been pulled down, thus making my last post somewhat irrelevant. Between this and "Chrihanna Gate", this is really shaping up to be one helluva effin week!

"Tia Told Me (Rick Ross Diss)"

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

“I Have Less Compassion Than The Average Human”



In the ongoing beef/saga between 5o and Rick Ross, 50 fires another salvo at DJ Khaled. And possibly his moms. Looks like some cousins, nephews and nieces as well. Curtis Jackson, you have gone too far. A psychic told me you will have a restraining order served upon you shortly.

Did Khaled actually get his tires stabbed up?

Byron Crawford vs. Elliot Wilson



I guess Byron fired the first shot. Between this, Curtis vs. Boss Ross and Hov declaring jihad on C. Breezy, there's like, way too much beef in the air.

But cot-damn, I am entertained and loving it!

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

Combat Jack Salutes Gabe Tolliver















This one goes to the homie Gabe Tolliver. Don't worry, dude's still alive so no misty eyed R.I.P. thingie at the end of this post. Being that he's still living though, he might be a lil' pissed at me for putting his shit on blast like this, but fuck it, that's what friends are for.

I met Gabe back in 1989. Or was it 1990? I had just gotten back to New York from law school and was mad green in the jeans working in the record business. Gabe was legendary from the gate, legendary because upon graduating from N.Y.U. film school he instantly landed a gig working as a producer at M.T.V.'s classic and groundbreaking video show, the seminal "Yo! MTV Raps". Back then, that title right there meant instant pantie disintegration on any first date. But I digress, Gabe and I didn't become friends solely because of his job title, we became friends because dude's mind was incredible. As a producer, screenwriter and director, Gabe was so ahead of his time that a gig at M.T.V., as much as it bigged him up, served to hold him back from demonstrating how talented he was behind the pen and camera.














Not only was he skilled at the above-mentioned talents, Gabe had the uncanny ability to spot stars years before they popped. Like back around '93/'94, Gabe was working on a short called "Connects", a brilliant piece that centered around a cast of characters living in Brooklyn whose lives though separate and diverse, but for a series of events, were connected intimately to each other in ways that they were unaware of. For that and some of his other works, Gabe mined the young and unknown talents of Saul Williams, Bobbito Garcia, Craig "muMs" Grant of "Oz" fame, my man Walter Mudu who is currently killing 'em out there in the commercial world as well as cameo appearances by yours truly. In his works, Gabe masterfully directed us all in helping to create great unknown pieces of social commentary by, of and for a young Hip Hop generation.

On top of all that, my dude possessed a criminally genius deviant mind for all things concerning the art of the come up. If you wanted to serve revenge, justice or to plain punk folks out, you'd call Gabe. See Gabe was born and raised in Shaker Heights, Ohio. Gabe's dad was a military man who died too early for his son to appreciate. In an attempt to connect, to identify, to continue in his pop's legacy, Gabe poured himself into military history, weaponry, wars and strategy, C.I.A. lore, covert and black ops shit. All that. Basically, Gabe would fuck you up in such a manner that you never saw it coming or going, shit, you wouldn't even know you were fucked up until my dude had done left the premises, like four days earlier.

For example, during the mid '90's Gabe had an ill duplex on St. Felix Street in the Clinton Hill/ Fort Greene section of Brooklyn way before gentrification began rearing its ugly bland homogeneous head. At night though, baseheads would populate his block like zombies straight out of a George Romero flick. Gabe had a problem with that, with how the crackheads would harass his neighbors and even at times, take mean shit dumps on his stoop. So one night and like a true deranged vigilante on some Charles Bronson shit, Gabe pulled out some black military wear, painted his face black, put on the night goggles and dusted off his high powered and fully loaded paint gun. Dude climbed the flights of his building up to the roof, then camped out and waited like a hunter for his prey, the living baseheads, to appear as they did nightly and congregate on and about his building's steps. As they gathered, arguing and fussing about whose turn it was on the pipe and who hadn't paid for such and what not, you know, having that mindless conversation that crackheads have, Gabe held each of them in his scope's sight and let loose with the pellets. POP! One landed on a nigga's neck, and as the sting from said pellet exploded into a blood red mist, that crackhead started yelping out loud as to how he got shot in the neck. POP! Another one landed on another one's wrist. Like the sniper he was, Gabe let loose with a coupla more shots, each landing right where he intended. Screaming in pain and fear, them crackheads broke the eff out with the quickness, running for their lives. They never ever showed up again either. Most effective way of getting rid of undesirable "neighbors" I ever heard in my life. Don't sleep though, even with all the shenanigans, shits and giggles, Gabe kept the real authentic trusty Mossberg shotgun tucked in his closet for actual fire fights, just in case and for good effin measure. He named her "Daisy". True story.
















Gabe pulled off mad other hilarious pranks on many an unsuspecting victim. I won't go into detail about how the F.B.I. showed up at his door one day, months after he prank called THE Reggie "Red Man" Noble on some red-necked K.K.K. shit. Funny shit is how the feds tried to squeeze Gabe on some hate crime shit, but were flummoxed since both he and Red Man were Black.

When I wrote "Bling, The Hip Hop Jewelry Book" back in 2006, Gabe was my co-author. He introduced me to the then new book "Generation Kill", the very same book from which I copped my name "Combat Jack". According to that book, Combat Jack means:

"To jack off in the middle of a firefight, or any combat situation."

Yes, that's right, in the heat of battle I will jizz on nigga's manuscript, on GP and just for fun. [||]. Gabe's organized creative mind helped us in not only landing the book deal, but dude was mad integral in keeping all that info and all those pictures in order. That book also took us 1/2 way around the world as we were hired as consultants for the 2006/2007 Bling Exhibit held in the Diamante Museum in Antwerp, Belgium, the diamond capital of the world. Amsterdam was the shit too.

When we got back from Europe at the end of '07, Gabe shared with me that he was enlisting in Uncle Sam's army. Being in television and the film industry for so long, Gabe reached a point where he was no longer willing to kiss ass, be subservient or compromise his talents for a dollar. He had written mad intricate scripts as enthralling as the Coen brothers, he broached topics as broad as Steven Soderbergh, on top of directing some memorable pieces for shows like PBS's "Sesame Street". Still and all, as the industry began to turn it's back and once again ignore, as it did before the civil rights movement and affirmative action, talent that didn't neatly fit into what it believed was Black culture and what was appropriate content wise as to what Black writers and directors should be delegated to, my dude got shut out from making a decent living. Film and television became whiter, bills piled up and my dude fell more and more in debt.

We argued. I was like wtf!?! "Nigga, you about to fight this bullshit George Bush war, plus, you just turned 41!!!" Mind you, politically, Gabe knew how fugazi Bush's war against terrorism was and didn't sip the kool aid one bit, but as the military, desperate for recruits during a cynical age, had just upped their recruitment cut off age to 41, he knew this was his last shot. Yeah, we fought, shit got a lil tense between us as well. But Gabe wanted to stop the financial hemorrhaging he was going through, and the US Army was very attractive with the financial packages it offered. They knew the time, employment options were becoming very slim in every city USA. They also knew how to make a nigga's debts disappear overnight, plus some. In hind sight, we both know that part of what drove my dude to join was his fascination with all things military, plus a final opportunity to jump feet first into that adventure as he identified with and got closer to his father's legacy. In December 2007, Gabe and his friends gathered at a restaurant in Brooklyn and celebrated together in what would be a new departure for our friend.

I've seen Gabe frequently since, on his leaves and when he drops by Brooklyn. He's done survived basic training and dropped at least 25 pounds. Nigga is ripped! Scary how on top of how he already knew 100 ways to chop you down, he can now also deliver a well old fashioned bare handed beat down. Brutally. Being an "old man" in a young man's arena has helped create some hilarious stories as well, like the time, during basic chemical warfare training, how he was in a gas chamber and had to take off his gas mask, inhale a breath of mustard gas and "calmly" put his mask back on. Let's just say that that one didn't work out so well, and upon waking up from passing out, lunch, eye juice and snot all over his army greens, his superiors ordered him to redo that exercise. Or how his drill sergeants, Black and white, would refer to him as "Ole Nigga". Funny shit. You can peep more of his stories from behind the barracks on his blog.

In wrapping, I really want to shout my dude out, just for doing the damned thing. For also further teaching me how it really is that different strokes for different folks ish, and how, at the end of the day, I can no way in my right mind criticize another man's choices unless I stand firmly in his shoes. I really believe what they say about not waiting to big up your peeps when they're no longer among us. My dude Gabe, for being a true friend, an official Combat Jack salute to you. Stay safe homie, and wrap up that commitment on the quickness!