Combat Jack With Today's Mathematics

I've been running that a lot recently. For The Win! That phrase is dope. Just saying it, blogging here or letting it fly on Twitter makes me feel good. Feeling good is important. Essential even. It's good for me. You too. June is here peoples, does that make you feel good? I dig when the start of a new month arrives. Trying to face each 1st day as a starting point. Reinvigorate my determinations, my goals, my energies. Use those annual 12 dates to evaluate how I did between now and the one from last month, how much I accomplished or how far back I backslid fighting this round of life. Or not fighting, just showing up, ducking from the blows, blocking some, catching major ones too, a right to the jaw, a knockout punch landing solidly to the left temple. Lights out, bright blinking lights on and off. Waking up in confusion after the fight's over and wondering what happened between the moment I stepped into the ring and now. And if I fell off, on or around what day of the month was it? Just so I can better peep what my thoughts, words, deeds were then and are this time around. See what adjustments need to be made so the steps I took to ensure my fall off last month won't be repeated this go round. Knowing too, that if I fall off again in the future, which will most definitely happen, that I won't be down on myself. Get up, re-lace the gloves, and start swinging. For The Win.

Cause and effect is strict. Hard body too. It don't care as to why you did certain things, what the intentions were, just what ripples were put in motion based solely on your acts. The big ones, and the small ones. The big causes we make are easy to see, because they're big. The smaller ones are the ones that get you though, the ones close to impossible to spot. Impossible to spot but so easy to do. Habitually. Tens to hundreds to millions of times even. Eventually, billions of tiny acts manifesting into big ones. Splashing, creating ripples across the universe, major waves too. And eventually, like clockwork, we get back all that we put out, a universal law like gravity. What goes up, must come down. What goes out, must come back.

They say our actions are caused by our thoughts. Thoughts that turn into words. Words that turn into deeds. That being the case, our thoughts bring us to where we are. Thoughts bring into our reality what we think. And how many thoughts do we have, per moment, per millisecond, constantly determining what we say, what we do? You ever try to keep track of all of your thoughts? All of them and all the time? Better yet, you ever try to control your thoughts? Think about it. Think about it hard enough and you might get scared in realizing how much our brains, our minds that are like little computers, are so much in control...over us, and the control we have over our minds, not so much. Our thoughts are nothing but electrical currents. The greatest conductor of electricity is water. Isn't the human body made up of 75%, 80% water. Better yet, isn't Earth composed primarily of water? Isn't the Universe made up primarily of water? Think about it.

Thoughts, words, deeds. Words are powerful. Words are becoming much more powerful by the moment now that technology has afforded each and every one of us the ability to connect to so many others, instantly, globally, electronically, though the power of the Internets. It astounds me when I take in the fact that based on a thought, any random or recurring one, at any moment can manifest into the deed of writing and shooting something off into the blogosphere where it becomes ingested into our collective consciousness, not knowing how many tens of hundreds of millions of effects will be caused, domino knocking into domino, endlessly across the universe. Who could have predicted that the advent of the Internet, an invention created by cold technology, would usher in the advanced evolution of man's thought power? The ability to virtually touch and effect any and everyone jacked into this matrix of life. And at the touch of a button. We're evolving right before our eyes. We are so far ahead of ourselves that we're actually behind. I think that in the next 100 years, our heads will expand, like how those aliens from outer space look. It almost has to, what with all this information we mentally ingest, process, store away, until we're ready to use said information in any manner we choose.

Bad thoughts always seem to come easy. The pace of our daily lives in this new age of thought power almost require that we think bad of things. We're wired like that, a negative energy creating being always ready to shit on any thought, word, deed and in turn any possible positive outcome that seems too good to ever become true. Someone once told me that in a given setting, you can receive 100 heartfelt compliments and one complaint. And when you sit down to reflect on the events of that setting, the one that will ring most loudly is the negative one.

So then we do the dance, where we eff up, or let our minds trick us into thinking we did bad, we fell off, to the point that we start to beat ourselves up, dirty little thoughts creeping in, and about how we might not be good enough, will never be good enough, won't ever accomplish this, that or the third. Worse yet, we slander ourselves with the one thing I truly believe to be a sin, self guilt. Allowing those little thoughts of guilt and doubt to creep in, until we eventually become what our thoughts created. To those that claim you have no idea what I'm talking about I call bullshit. That "I'm always on, never could fall off" parlay is certified grade A industry talk. Game talk. I know too well and intimately that kind of talk. Especially when it's show time. There's nothing wrong with game talk, just don't delude yourself into believing your own hype. You're just setting yourselves up for a bigger fall down the road, one you might not be able to bounce back from.

Where am I going with this space aged type rant? Dunno. What I do know is that recently, two of my peoples very close to me have been diagnosed with Cancer. The disease. Two different healthy and VERY accomplished successful men that I've been fortunate to have in my life. One even, who never ever drank or smoked anything in his life, who played mentor to me throughout the years, ensuring that, based on his past experiences and his continued guidances, that I would always land on my feet, be back in the game, and for the win. He taught me that in this game of entertainment, one has to work double, triple, quadruple overtime to create the hype in one's name, in one's product, in one's brand. Then one has to work way harder to avoid falling into the trap of actually believing the hype they created, because once one believes their own hype, it's guaranteed game over. I've seen first hand many people in the industy eff that lesson up. I've dropped the ball with that one myself. The other one, a man so damned successful, with a beautiful wife, and stripes upon stripes of of victorious business ventures behind him, and both now facing this new kind of obstacle, looking at it face to face, eye to eye, and each wondering to themselves, "What the fuck way can I knock this bitch of an opponent out?" And me going in, deep and asking myself, "what the fuck do I do to support them, to pay back whatever lessons and opportunities they blessed me with, and without a trace of pity?" Or, "who am I to even think I can help them in any way since I've never had to deal with anything as serious as this?" Those little negative thoughts creeping back in, limiting my ability to dig deep into the universal collective that we all share for an answer, a solution.

The greatest trick we've managed to pull on ourselves is creating the illusion of scarcity, of division, of separatness, of us vs them. Of good vs. evil. You do know the universe is anything but scarce though? Far from that, the universe is abundant. You do know too that we're not separate at all, not divided one bit. We're as separate from each other and the universe as an individual wave is separate from the ocean. Also too, that each and every one of us and at any given moment, has the potential for great good as well as great evil. And as long as we are alive as a species, the most important battle that we will face on a daily basis until either we cook ourselves up with them nukes we keep building and in storage, or until the sun burns out is that inherent battle between our innate negative selves and our higher enlightened selves. And through practice, although seemingly impossible, but if committed, we can control our thoughts, if we so commit ourselves to observe how we think and moment by moment. That's a lot of effin effort. But it is possible.

Placing myself in a situation where my thoughts reach many, I want to do my best moment to moment, use this mighty tool of technology to create value in any way I can, so that it resonates positively to those my words reach, and hopefully resonates back with equal positive value. Trust, I'm not on some preachy, holier than thou vibe, I'm not that goody conscious knicca either. It's easier to sit here and type shit that will result in throwing folk under the bus, you've seen it, I've done it before, might very well do it again. And again. Especially with this thing called Hip Hop. Trust how I felt like clowning on that Eminem/ Bruno thingie from the MTV Movie Awards. But I also want to become that more aware, able to take full responsibility for all of the unseen and tangible actions and the causes I make. Become that dude that eventually becomes so fully aware that my thoughts and words and deeds create that kind of value that can be an endless source of comfort, encouragement and inspiration for myself and for my peoples, effecting us all to dig deep into our universal reservoirs, to find within ourselves that which will ensure complete victory over the destructive threats of things like Cancer that lay ready to rip viciously through our bodies until there's nothing left for us to justify our existence on this plane. In the here and now.

June 1st is here peoples, a wonderful time of the year for self reflection, for re-determination, for rejuvenation. So sorry if this is not the type of stuff that brings you here, I can zone out like that. But I truly do respect you all, your humanity and all the individual scenarios that play out in your individual lives. And I truly want each and every one of you to take a step back, truly appreciate all that you are, all that you've accomplished, and most importantly, all that you want to be. Let's get out of the way of our success, out the way of our health and happiness. Life is a truly incredible blessing, even when that cotdamned rent is due, and each and every one of us are more than capable of becoming our best self's ever. I'm learning more and more to appreciate and to love every moment of life, and every instance of connect that I make with each and everybody that I come across during my time here. In person, or electronically, through the blog, email or Twitter. June is here my peoples. Let's go effin hard this month, harder than we did the month before. Let's do this month big, and most definitely For The Win!!!


Please note, I did not drop any types of hallucinogenic drugs such as ecstacy and what not during the writing of this post. Just sharing what I feel.

And now, back to our regularly scheduled program.

Guaranteed Spoiler Free!

I figured I would take my 11 and 12 year old sons with me to see the new Sam Raimi flick "Drag Me To Hell", especially since it's rated PG-13. Having basically grown up with the Spiderman franchise and blowing their minds by having them view "Dark Man" earlier this year, they were psyched to see another Raimi production. I also groomed them over the years to have at least a sense of respect for the horror genre. Some nights, as I'd pop "Night Of The Living Dead" or "Halloween" in the dvd player, I'd beam as a proud father as I watched them from afar with their little faces frozen in fear as they took in some of my favorite scary movies from years past. Still, as we walked into the theatre, I could see some nervous glances coming from them, uncertain as to whether they would survive the hell they were about to witness. The result as the credits scrolled up the screen? We had an effin blast!

Revered as a true master of horror after he dropped "Evil Dead", "Evil Dead 2" and "Army Of Darkness", fans have been eagerly awaiting Raimi's return to scary movies, especially since he blew up and became known to the masses as a bankable blockbuster director. From the opening scene, Raimi lets you know exactly what you're in for. Simple, brutal, blunt, loud and to the point, you know that beyond the confines of the safe little "real" world we live in, there are evil scary things laying right beyond the edges of reality, demons waiting patiently for any of us simple mere mortals to fuck up, eff around with the wrong ancient artifact or the wrong person to unleash or catch a curse giving them a pass to enter our world, long enough for them to exact all types of hellish fuckery and what not on that unsuspecting ass. Catch the right curse, best believe those devilish bastards will be taking your twisted ass back home with them, leaving your torterd soul to squirm in fiery damnation as you eternally burn in hell.

You've seen the commercials and the trailers, you know whats next. How the cute Blonde bank loan officer Christine Brown (played by Alison Lohman) decides to play heartless as she denies the elderly gypsy woman Mrs. Ganush (Lorna Raver) an extension on her delinquent mortgage payments which will result in the bank seizing Ganush's home and leaving her homeless. How Mrs. Ganush curses Lohman with a special express one way ticket to Hell. How Lohman catches it every which way as supernatural forces torment the remaining moments of her life, how she desperately enlists the support of her boyfriend Clay Dalton (Justin Long), fortune teller Rahm Jas (Dileep Rao) and trusty exorcist in waiting Shaun San Dena (Adriana Barraza) to help her out of this jacked up predicament. Believe me, I can't give anything away about this piece, not because I don't want to but because there's nothing more to it than what you already know. No twists and turns, no "I didn't know it was him that did that" kind of moments, no surprise endings. None of that. Written by Raimi and his older brother Ivan, "Drag Me To Hell" is one of the simplest movies, plot-wise that you will see in a very long time. And that friends, is a very very good thing.















Raimi didn't need anything to stand in his way as he created this masterpiece. Not even an R rating. I admit I was disappointed when I initially learned of the movie's pre-teen friendly rating but since 1981 when his first movie "Evil Dead" changed the game, Sam Raimi never let me, let us, the movie goers down. I knew for sure, with his return to horror, that "Drag Me To Hell" was going to be entertaining. And that is exactly what this movie is, pure unadulterated entertainment. No over the top blood and gore, even though the movie goes over the top and will gross you the eff out, especially since Raimi goes all juvenile and sophmore-ish with the gross out scenes, filled with so much wet nasty shit that you'd never want to witness and experience in real life. No over doing it with trying to scare you shitless, even though I jumped more than a couple of times as things went bump in the dark, in the night, and even during some very bright sun-light filled shots. Yes, you will be jumping, and jumpy through the entire movie as Rami lets loose with the frights and the chills. I was also concerned about some of the special effects and cgi scenes that were featured in the trailers and commercials. I hate movies that rely too much on obvious cgi special effects, maybe because the outcome always comes off looking way too fake for my liking. Raimi applied just the right amount of cgi, even where it looked like it might be too much, too fake even, but it all made sense, maybe because what was transpiring on screen was so god damned way out that the cgi made it all make sense, brought it back to Earth. You'll understand when you see this.

What I didn't expect when I copped the tickets was how funny this movie was going to be. This movie is straight certified comedy, people in every aisle laughing loudly and almost throughout the entire movie comedy, EVEN as we jumped and screamed and ducked from the thrills and scares. And not funny in a sadistic "damned she got eff'd up" way. Or that nervous laughter to let up on the horror intake. I'm talking purposefully funny, in how the characters react to situations, the things they say, even as they say them with straight faces, and yes, even the way she and they get physically assaulted. I haven't laughed this hard at the movies since last summer when I peeped "Pineapple Express". I remember when I first saw "American Werewolf In London" and being blown away at how John Landis was able to deliver the perfect combination of comedy and horror. At the time, I thought that movie would forever be the best of that combo. No more. "Drag Me To Hell" snatches the title for "funniest horror movie" as it compromises nothing in it's delivery.

As the final credits rolled, with me, my boys and the rest of the audience clapping, still laughing, still marveling at the horror we just witnessed, still taking in all the understated over the top moments and regaining our senses as we prepped to re-enter the real world, when lights came back on, I realized that what we all shared as a collective audience after this short and sweet gem was over (99 minutes in length) was nothing but sheer fun. Without shitting on the seriousness of the genre while at the same time, not taking said genre nor himself too seriously, Raimi once again demonstrates why he's a master of his game. I might have felt a bit guilty as I tortured my boys when they watched "Halloween", might have crossed the line even when they sat through "Nightmare On Elm Street", but none of that guilt, that 2nd guessing myself took place here. This movie should fall under the category as being a funny entertaining piece that incidentally happens to be a horror flick. Without going too far, I'd venture to say that this movie provides full "wholesome" entertainment for the entire family, kinda in that roller coaster amusement park kinda way. I urge you all to run see this. Bring the entire fam (get a sitter for kids under 11), make this that first date joint, take your moms even. Even those that hate scary pictures, please see this and trust that you haven't been entertained like this in a long time.

Back in 1981, when he was an unknown independent director unshackled by the constraints of Hollywood and its suits, then 22 year old Raimi went buck wild and held nothing back as he and his brother Ivan had fun shooting "Evil Dead" on a shoe string budget. Watching "Drag Me To Hell", it's so obvious he had just as much fun making this, like he was 22 again, only with a bigger budget. "Drag Me To Hell" will definitely make you feel like a kid again. And in a very good way.

I don't remember specifically when our paths crossed, but from what I remember, he knew me before I knew him. I didn't really know how impactful I was in the industry at the time, being that 1st entertainment attorney in the game that claimed hip hop culture. The attorneys before me were at closest, of the '70's soul and '80's r&b school. The rest of them were Jewish. But I stood out, people took notice, and I couldn't keep tabs on the hundreds of people I was meeting when I jumped in the industry. I do remember being at a music conference when dude informed me that he had just been admitted to the bar as an attorney. From the gate though, it was clear that Kedar Massenburg wasn't interested in repping music clients as a living, he had his eyes set on a bigger prize. I learned that he was from the mighty borough of Brooklyn, that his brother was Daddy-O of Stetsasonic fame. I even remember him cutting his entertainment teeth as Stetsasonic's manager. We always kept it moving, but whenever we would bump into each other on 57th and Broadway, or at some industry related function, Kedar was always talking money, big money.

I started to take note one day in the summer of '94. I was chasing some model chick at the famed Coffee Shop restaurant in the Union Square section of Manhattan one lazy Saturday afternoon where I inadvertently bumped into him. As we talked, he started picking my brain about label deals, joint ventures and partnership deals with major labels. Being that I was still learning from the attorney who was training me, I gave him some answers that I had overheard from my mentor as she was negotiating the bigger deals. Kedar was hungry for knowledge, especially in learning how to come up on the big deals. The chick I was chasing had brushed me off so I opted to talk more shop with him. He was with an unknown young songwriter and future recording artist. Introduced him to me as Michael Archer, p/k/a D'Angelo. Kedar was going on about how he and dude were going to change the game. He invited me to check out some unreleased songs D'Angelo had recorded as we rode in Kedar's brand new drop top Benz. It was crazy, riding in the Benz, driving through the city, me, Kedar and the unknown D'Angelo, listening to joints that were banging. You don't need me to tell you how ahead of the game his music was. Kedar kept going on though, about how he wanted his own label, was going to have his own label. He wasn't showing off either, he was more like a very proud kid that had completed an incredible science project, ready to share with the world his accomplishments and ready as well to claim all the rewards that he knew he already earned, way before they were presented before him. Kedar was very proud indeed.

Being that he stood at around 5'5", off the bat you knew Kedar had the Napoleonic thing going on. Especially whenever anyone mentioned Puffy around him. I made the mistake once of saying something about Puff's deal with Arista, and Kedar went the fuck off on a tirade. "Fuck Puffy, he ain't the only nigga making money in this game!!!" Thrown off by his outburst, I backed off. I didn't get the impression he was hating or being envious of Puff in any way, he seemed more like he was tired of always hearing Puff's name associated with success and money when Kedar himself, set in launching his own empire, his own dynasty was barely if ever mentioned in the same conversation. I wish I earned $100 every time I'd hear Kedar say "Fuck Puffy, he ain't the only nigga making money in this game!!!" It was almost comical how he would go all "Eff Puff" whenever someone mentioned Sean Combs' name in his presence, almost like he was subconsciously waiting for it. In retrospect, it all makes sense now. Like I mentioned many times before, during that period, Puff really was the center of the music industry universe and almost every credible producer, a&r and exec was following his movements, so much to the point that they'd recklessly swerve way out of their own lanes in order to emulate Combs. Most of those execs eventually crashed and burned, eff'ing themselves out of the industry. Kedar was different, was loud about being different in that he had his own vision which was completely different from the hip hop influenced r&b and r&b influenced hip hop movement that Puff spearheaded. If it took him "hating" on Puff to stay focused on his vision, his goal, his lane then so be it, let the Puff hate flow.





















D'Angelo's album "Brown Sugar" was released in June 1995. That album was a monster. Although r&b, it didn't exactly fit neatly in that category, especially with its jazz, soul and more than subtle hip hop influenced undertones. The industry took note and Kedar capitalized overnight by coining the term "Neo Soul" as the brand of music that D'Angelo dropped. In one fell swoop Kedar had "created" his own genre of music. I don't really eff with what they're calling "Neo Soul" these days, too much coffee shop, incense burning and dread locked for my taste, but when it dropped, when that sound was new, fresh and original sounding, Kedar did what so many couldn't do, he created his lane, peeped his own niche market ripe for the picking and summarily locked it down. It helped that Kedar had picked up the r&b crooner Joe under his management company. Joe also had buzz on the airwaves and Kedar had the industry where he wanted it, eager and ready to eat from his hand, and on his own terms . Fuck Pufff and Bad Boy for real, he set up shop, his own Kedar Entertainment label at Universal. Made them pay for "giving up his freedom". I'd run into him more frequently and whenever I'd congratulate him, or ask him how things were going, he'd let out that "Fuck Puffy" line. He kept it real though, one of the few industry execs that really spoke his mind and remained uncompromising in how he viewed his role in the music industry. He stayed getting in people's ass as well. Dude wasn't one for the bullshit and if he felt it was coming his way, he go off in a minute. To many, he was an asshole, unnecessarily aggressive, verbally combative, you know, that Napoleonic thing. But even though I saw many times and firsthand how he would go off, I always found him to be respectful, at least where I was concerned. He was one of the few Black execs who congratulated me when I got married. More than a few others were discouraging by reacting like I eff'd up. I got the impression that Kedar valued the concept of family. He stayed looking for a mate to claim too. He loved smart women, especially fellow attorneys.






















He stayed being on a roll too. Dunno how he kept consistent, where he found the unique artists gifted with their unique artistry, but he stayed finding them. His next artist, the first on his label, was Erykah Badu. Her album "Baduizm", dropped on February 11, 1997. Badu was dubbed the "Queen of Neo Soul" as that genre gained a female spokesperson for the movement. The record made a lot of noise. The T.I.s at Universal loved him, better yet, tolerated him for the time being, the market that his brand and his artists spoke to championed him as a visionary. I made it a point to remain on Kedar's radar. Be it me shopping a new act or just connecting to build, Kedar's doors were always open. I think he dug the way me and my firm stayed keeping hot acts too. Sometimes, he would ask what I thought of this or that act that he was considering signing, or what I felt was hot on the streets. Not that I was an A&R, but he knew I stayed in the streets, in the clubs, he respected my opinion. Kedar stayed candid too, about how even though he was the new Black dude in the limelight, the minute he wasn't hot or had a series of flops, the T.I.'s would have him disrespectfully escorted out the building with the quickness. Especially since he made it a point not to kiss ass. No doubt he loved the fame and the money he was making, the luxuries he was able to buy, but he stayed away from the Kool Aid. He knew that as the highest ranking Black man in the Universal building making as much noise as he was, that at any given moment, he was expendable, that his head would be the first to roll. I think that's what kept him on point, and competitive, and aggresively cussing out fools. From my vantage point, he fought hard on behalf of his artists. Kedar stayed checking anyone he felt was trying to shit on him, his brand, his artists. He was also known as a taskmaster to anyone who was on his team. Not as abusive as other execs like Damon Dash, but Kedar seemed like he was ready for a battle at any moment, with anyone. He loved his artists though, and it seemed like every time he turned one into a household name, they'd flip, drunk in the heights of their stardom and turn to bite the hand that launched their careers. D'Angelo eventually fell out with Kedar. Erykah stayed giving him mad drama.


















It was around this time that I got a call from him. Said he had been thinking about it and wanted me to rep two new artists that he was signing. One of them was Chico Debarge. The younger brother of the '80's brother act DeBarge, Chico had a troubled past, having been imprisoned and serving time for drug trafficking. Kedar loved Chico's pedigree, while at the same time seeing how his stand alone bad boy image would fit perfectly as his next Neo-Soul ambassador. Being that the relationship between Kedar and D'Angelo had deteriorated to the point that their issues were being "worked out" legally, Chico was tapped as as that next dude. Plus, after his stint in prison, Kedar saw the potential in marketing DeBarge with a image far different from his prior glammed out one he previously shared in connection with his asscociation with his DeBarge brothers. Referring clients my way was big on Kedar's part. Other than Puff who referred a couple of clients our way, Kedar was one of the few execs of his level that referred work my way. He knew how rough it was out there for young Black attorneys and unlike other execs like Chris Lighty who made it a point to steer clients away from their Black attorneys and into the arms of the white firms, Kedar understood the importance of supporting Black owned businesses. Like I said, a lot of people may have bad things to say about him, I don't have one.

Chico was mad cool when we met. It was apparent that he had been through a lot. He also felt good about the direction that Kedar wanted to take him. The studio sessions were amazing, seeing dude in action, hearing the soul, the musicianship, the pain flowing from within his life and out onto his work. It was a humbling experience for me. Exciting too. Intent on making sure things went as smooth as possible, Kedar made sure Chico had everything he needed in order for him to deliver the quality album Kedar was expecting. Personally, I think Kedar gave artists way too much, especially how at any given point and out of the blue, artists would flip and play that "I'm being taken advantage of" victim role. "Long Time No See" was released on November 18, 1997. Another classic record. Played like a rap album, but in r&b. Was received with critical acclaim. Unfortunately, because of it's sound and Kedar's association, Chico and the album were both unfairly compared to D'Angelo and his work. Although it did well, it wasn't as major a success as D'Angelo's "Brown Sugar". Too early and too soon to get out from under D'Angelo's shadow. Soon after the album dropped, Chico hired a two man management team. Real niggerish goons they were. Reptilian even. Thuggish and all about getting money by any means necessary, Chico's management seemed more intent on damaging Chico's relationship with Kedar for the purpose of squeezing more money from the label instead of building on the headway and goodwill the two had established. As Chico's new management was busy trying to devise way of getting Chico off of Kedar's label for the purpose of signing elsewhere for more money, I remember getting an angry call from Kedar, screaming, cursing, accusing me of trying to get Chico to double cross him, stab him in the back, how eff'd up I was, especially since he referred Chico to me. We fought, and even though he definitely made some enemies along the way, we cleared shit up. Over the years I learned by observing him that the harder you went at Kedar, the harder he would come at you leaving nothing resolved in the end. The more I deflected his attacks without counter attacking but hearing him out as I made certain he heard me out, all the while standing my ground, the calmer he'd become. Chico eventually bounced as my client though, claimed I was deep in Kedar's pocket when I was far from it.

Having delivered successful records, Kedar was next tapped for his most difficult task yet, resurecting the once legendary Motown Records, a label that was now under the Universal umbrella. He also retained a Vice-President position at Universal. Well beyond it's heyday of the '60's, '70's and even '80's, Motown had become a struggling label. Several seasoned execs had been hired as it's head with the goal of reviving Motown, but time after time, they each failed to breath life into the dying label. Still, Kedar seemed like the most likely candidate to succeed. Not only was he a proven success, Kedar seemed like a throwback to the record men of the past, the Berry Gordy's, the Clive Davis', passionate about the music, determined to instill showmanship through intensive artist development, intent on preserving the culture as well as being concerned about the general well being of his artists. We spoke when he was working on a Motown Stevie Wonder project. Not only was he amped in working with a living legend, he was confident that he was able to make him modern, current. Kedar seemed like he finally found the project he was waiting his entire life to work on. Dude was genuinely happy, like working with Stevie was the culmination of all his prior efforts. Plus, he made sure his hands were dug deep in Universal's pockets and as long as he delivered. Kedar made sure Universal paid him like they respected him. The money he made was, of course, very respectable. He no longer had to cuss Puff from afar as it was now well known that Puffy wasn't the only nigga making money in the industry. As head of Motown, he worked with artists Brian McKnight, Bebe Winans and Michael McDonald and also introduced Neo Soul artist India Arie. We did a couple of deals with me landing some of my clients on the Motown roster. Even though Motown never regained the luster it once held in the music industry, in Black and pop culture, Kedar was successful in ensuring that Motown broke even after more than a decade of losses.

After a good run, Kedar quit his position as head of Motown. Word was that the higher ups were planning to prepare an "exit" package for him, not in a good way and definitely not in connection with his performance. Politics was the culprit. When he inadvertently found out they weren't being straight with him, Kedar stepped to those in charge, calling them out and demanding that they be men enough to be straight with him. When they continued in playing dumb, he flipped them the finger and left with all his dignity intact. He left with good coin as well. Like he should have. He played his chips right though. Word is he currently owns a vineyard and through a partnership, actually has his reputable own French wine K'orus on the market. Crazy, I'm wondering if he's the only African American to be that high up in that industry. Eff that Crunk Juice and Sizzurp, Kedar kept it rich and classy. He also keeps his hand in music, but away from the razzle dazzle of lies, deceit and politics of the majors as he runs his independant label Kedar Entertainment Group, where his cornerstone artists remain Joe and Chico DeBarge.






















Not saying that Kedar Massenburg is a man without faults, this isn't that kind of Stan piece. Talk to several others that worked closely with him, I guarantee you'll get a different story, a different opinion of the man. I've heard their stories too. All sides can be true and valid. Still, in an age where our music has become disposable, where the concept of artistic development, class, honor, passion and originality is at most laughable, I look back a few years and can say with honor that I had the fortune to work with legendary execs like Kedar. I write this because we don't get to celebrate the accomplishments of men like this too often. Kinda like dudes like Kedar never existed. Not being a pessimist, but I write this because I feel that the game doesn't produce execs of this caliber anymore. And it won't be for a long time coming.

I don't really follow this Charles Hamilton rapper dude with the Sonic The Hedgehog fetish too much. I think I'm kinda too grown for that. Plus, I'm not trying to post up every event that goes down in hip hop. But this lil clip right here that's been circulating across the blogosphere of late is a real gem. Peep Charles. Peep the woman featured in the video. Peep what goes down. Really, shorty's whole steez, from her hair game, to the lil rasp in her voice, to the really cute around the way girl look she rocks so reminds me of the girls I used to love when I was a yung'un coming up in Brooklyn.

None of my shorty's ever rocked me like this though. She most def has a future ahead of her.

Previously: Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3, Pt. 4, Pt. 5

Just in time to wrap up the week, as well as to bless ya'll with some reading material during this Memorial Day weekend, the homie T just dropped his latest installation of "Chronicles Of A True Hustler". T, for real my dude, thanks so much for putting in so much of your time and life stories onto this blog. It's really appreciated from my end. To you, the reader, I now present to you, Pt. 5 of Chronicles Of A True Hustler:

Despite the new threats brought on by our move to build up DVP, I still had to commute across town to Bay View/Hunter’s Point for summer school, 21 Hayes to the 24 Divisadero. Phillip Burton Consent Decree Academic High School was an old school with a new name. Chicken, who grew up in HP went there when it was a junior high school named Pelton. He said he fucked his 7^th grade teacher. Yeah right, and if so, I wasn’t so lucky. After my 9^th grade year I was invited to leave by Mrs. Howell, the Principal, who very candidly explained that she didn’t see me succeeding there. I admit, I wasn’t taking school seriously. Mrs. Howell did me the favor of letting me transfer to another school to prevent her from having to go through the trouble of expelling me.

Galileo was where I should‘a been any way. It was where kids who attended Francisco Middle School graduated to. I wouldn’t have lasted long with a daily bus ride to enemy territory, so Gal was the move. But, had I not returned for that summer semester at Phillip Burton I would have never met Rachel. Rachel was Italian. With a last name like Guido, what would you expect? Standing about 5’5’’, thick-cut, thick brown hair, I thought she was cute. I sat directly behind her and Ice sat to my right. Ice was DVP and would be my dealing partner for a while. All three of us cracked jokes and made the time fly. Rachel and I hit it off. She wasn’t like other girls.

On our first date, I told her to meet me at the Valley at 8pm. When she got there, she was supposed to page me with the secret code I’d given her, which she did. But, by the time I got to the turf, there was a crowd gathered in front of Ed’s Liquors. Pushing my way through the crowd, I realized that Rachel was on the ground tussling with one of the young girls from the set; pulling each other’s hair with one hand and punching each other in the face with the other. I wasn’t about to get involved in that shit. Rachel came to the turf for the first time and was already hot. I was feeling how she was handling herself, though. She wasn’t afraid to throw ‘em. But, she was going to have to fight her way out of this one on her own. I wasn’t siding with her in a beef on our first date.

She was so gangsta. Sitting behind her in typing class I had no idea how deep her grind was. Even though I had seen my uncles either pimp or marry white girls I never thought I'd ever be with one. Either white people are just like black people, or Rachel was the blackest white girl I had ever met. Rachel’s stepfather, Sonny, mentored her in the art of paperhanging, what old school hustlers used to call identity theft. Sonny was a master. He had tutored many a white girl in the art of long drag; paperhanging plays could sometimes take weeks to set up. If you got a good run, it could last for months. She also cared for her two younger sisters while her mother served a bid on forgery charges. Sonny was old school, had to be in his 50s though he looked much, much older. His right hand man was another OG named Mohammed, who always dressed in a 3-piece suit, overcoat and brim…never said much. And when he did cosign Sonny’s crazy ass, you wouldn’t hear much more than a mumble. They were both hooked on heroin. Sonny had been addicted for so long he had a permanent curve in his back that kept his head low and made him lean forward when he walked. Even if you and Sonny were the same height, he always managed to seem like he was looking up at you.

Sonny and Rachel would buy a Spread, the remains of a stolen wallet or purse after all the cash had been taken; driver’s license, credit cards, check book. If the original owner bared even a remote physical likeness to Rachel she would assume the woman’s identity, opening new accounts at multiple banks. Next, they made cash deposits of their own money into the various accounts and allowed the money to season. This was called padding the account. Once the account was seasoned, checks and credit cards were issued and the shopping spree began.

Armed with a new, fully-loaded counterfeit Spread, they went from mall to mall, city to city; Stones Town Mall, Serra Monte Mall, Tan Foran Mall, Macy’s, Wilson’s Leather, Nordstrom. Focusing on big-ticket items they used fingernail polish remover to remove markings from receipts that identified the transactions as charge or check purchases in order to return items to the retailer for cash refunds. If that didn’t work, they sold items on the street at a discount. Rachel was the first person I ever knew with a Louis Vuitton handbag in 1986. Nordstrom’s was their favorite because of their high level of customer service and lenient return policy.

Sonny didn’t like me much. He complained to Rachel that I was a bad influence on her because I was a dealer. I distracted her from her hustle. It was actually the opposite. We were both very competitive. At the end of our respective grinds we’d meet up at the house and see who had clocked the most. I’d be pulling crinkled up, nasty smelly ass bills from out of my socks, all my pockets, secret stashes in my clothes…and I’d call it, $3,700 for the day. Rachel would go into her Louis Vuitton and pull out over $5,000 in crisp clean $100 bills.

Rachel was a hustler.

LEVERAGE. Defined as positional advantage. It means having an advantage over others, particularly when negotiating a deal. Leverage is key. If you ever find yourself having the upper hand in a deal, never ever give up your positional advantage.

Summer of 1996. I was representing Chico Debarge as he was recording his album "Long Time No See". Album was fires. Chico was nutso. Not in a good way either. But this post ain't about Chico. One day, while having Chico sign some papers in a midtown recording studio, I met a young songwriter who was working on some songs for Chico. For the purposes of protecting the innocent, let's call the dude Jake Nimbles. Jake had an attorney, but he sat in as I talked shop with Chico. As I was leaving the studio, Jake asked me for my card.

The next day or so, I get a call from Jake. Says since he already has an attorney, he wanted me to manage him. I told him I don't do talent management on account of how that's the worst job to have in the music industry. It's only worth it if you KNOW your talent will yield money for your efforts, and sooner rather than later. He was persistent though, told me to hear him, hear his music out first before I made a decision. I set up a meeting, just to be courteous to dude. So Jake shows up and starts playing me his music. HOLY MOLEY, Jake's shit is beyond ridiculous, beyond bonkers too. Song after song, I'm hearing hit after hit, and not on that crappy The Dream level ish that's currently effing up the radio, I'm talking Prince, I'm talking Stevie Wonder. Jake Nimble is an effin musical genius!!!!

So I'm reconsidering his offer and we shake hands. I tell him to give me 3 months to rock with him with me as his manager, let me land a lucrative publishing deal for his services as a songwriter. Incidentally, right after I met with Jake, my office gets a call from Diddy's Bad Boy office. My office had that reputation of housing very talented producers and songwiters and the call was about Puff needing a songwriter for this current project he was working on. I call Jake and tell him about the call and his voice over the phone goes all quivery, shaky, like dude is about to cry. Let me tell you more about Jake.

Jake was about 21, 22 years old. His story is the same tragic story you hear about in the news when it comes to stories about the Black family. His mom died from the needle when he was just a kid, pops nowhere to be seen. Already having a kid at an early age, Jake hustled drugs to feed his family and keep a roof over their heads. Having been busted and convicted as a felon, Jake did some time behind bars and was recently released. On top of all that, Jake was incredibly smart, like Einstein smart. Dude was comfortable talking theories relating to quantum physics and alternate realities smart. His smarts also made him a little nutty as well.

Understand the time too. In 1996, Puffy (it's still very hard for me to refer to dude as Diddy) was basically the center of the urban music industry. Everything he touched at the time turned multi-platinum, plus, B.I.G. was still very much alive and killing every track he rhymed on. Jake's quivering voice was an indication of how he felt his dreams were coming true, how he was Puffy's biggest fan, Stan even. He kept repeating over and over how this wasn't really happening, how he must have been dreaming. This whole opportunity was a chance for Jake to finally do right in his life, to finally escape the cycle of suffering and pain his family had experienced for so many years. We go ahead and set up a meeting with Puff at his midtown recording studio Daddy's House. Before I go on, let me tell you more about Puffy.

Somewhere along the line, Puff mastered the basics of the Jedi Mind Trick. What I mean is that dude, in all the times I've met with him in business settings never lets you on to what he's
thinking, especially when he's listening to something you're trying to sell him. As a matter of fact, he's always acted like he was completely disinterested in whatever it was you were trying to get him to pay attention to. I've literally seen him make grown men cry on account of how he would act like what you had was pure garbage, even as he was doing back flips inside on how hot your material was. Acting like this, plus the fact at how dude is basically a living legend almost always gave him the advantage of having way more leverage over whomever he was negotiating against. I knew this going in, Jake didn't.

So we're in the studio, playing hit after hit, Jake is all nervous, sweating even, because Puff is busy cleaning his nails, talking on the phone, calling his assistant in to make sure she ordered the right flavor Snapple, flipping through the Source magazine. The more Puff is acting like he's disinterested, the more I know he's shitting his drawers on how insane Jake Nimble's music is, and I'm already counting the million dollars in my head that I'm about to squeeze outta Bad Boy. So we end the meeting, Jake looks like he's ready to kick rocks and Puff's about to bounce when Jake notices Puff's tattoo on his inner forearm. You might know about it. It's a tattoo of a scroll and on the scroll, there's a quote from Psalm 23 that reads "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death" and what not. So Jake tells Puff how dope the tattoo is, we all shake hands, dap and bounce.

In the elevator, Jake is all sweaty, nervous, whining about how he fucked up, how he and his music is pieces of shit, how he should have taken that post office job his baby's mother told him about a week ago and I'm tryna tell him collect himself, stay focused and cut all that nonsense out. Lo and behold, by the time get to my office, I have THREE calls from Puff not only saying that he wants to use Jake on his project, he's also offering us a deal and kinda begging me not to take Jake anywhere else.

So I call Jake at home and let him know the good news. I hear a thud and nothing. I'm thinking he fainted. Funny thing happens though. Jake's music is so incredible that it's getting around the industry and by the end of the week, I shit you not, we get two more offers on the table, one from Universal and one from Warner Chappell, the music publishing arm of Warner Brothers. Being that we have three offers, basically a bidding war, Jake and I are sitting on a mountain of leverage, ready and waiting to count the fortunes these entities are about to throw our way.

So word gets back to Puff that we have two other deals on the table and he personally calls my office one day on some cuss out shit. Oh, he's cursing me out about how I used his name to drum up interest from other companies and how much of an eff'd up person I am, and how I'm finished in the music game, and my mother is all types of goat and such. As he flinging hateful words my way, I'm laughing inside because I'm really seeing first hand how much he needs Jake in his life and how he's realizing how much he's about to invest in my kids' college funds. I try to diffuse the situation by clappping, saying "bravo" and telling Puff how much he's learning from all them acting classes he's been taking and how convincing he's sounding. I think that made him laugh a bit, he wasn't expecting that, and when he calms down, I tell him that Jake is still open in negotiating the right deal with him. Puff demands that we meet him the following day to see what it is we need in order to close the deal as quickly as possible.

Even though we had our choice of deals, I knew Jake wanted to sign with Puff. At the time who DIDN'T want to sign with dude? I think if I was talented, I would have wanted to sign with Puff myself. I tell Jake what transpired and he shows up to my office the next day for our meet up with Puff. What I wasnt expecting was that when he showed up, Jake instantly pointed straight to his inner forearm, gleefully stuttering in excitement as he proudly displayed a brand new tattoo, IDENTICAL IN ITS ENTIRETY TO THE TATTOO HE SPOTTED ON PUFF'S ARM A FEW DAYS AGO!!! WTF!?! I'm seeing the leverage we built quickly going down the drain and I lose my cool. "What the fuck you doing man, you fucking crazy? Puff takes one look at your fucking tattoo and he'll give us goddamn peanuts on this deal!!!" "This shit is unacceptable and you WILL not let that man see your arm until we cash the fucking checks, you got that?!?" Going off like that, I could tell I threw Jake off, which was good, shock some sense into that knicca's noggin. Even though it was July and like 90 degrees and muggy I marched dude to the nearest Modell's and brought him a brand new hoodie. As he slipped the hoodie on, I ordered him to keep his arms covered during our meeting, let me do what I do to get the best deal possible. He nodded in agreement.

So we get to Puff's, and he's talking about how he didn't appreciate how we got other labels involved and before we start talking deal points, I look around a see Jake's hoodie tossed aside on the floor, Jake all wide eyed, happy and all crazy looking as he stutteringly proclaims "Look P-P-P-Puff, my new tattoo, I got it the d-d-d-day right after I met you, hee, hee, it's incredible right? Incredible! Yea do I walk t-t-t-through the valley.....wow, P-P-P-Puff, I got one too! Where do I sign?"

POOF! Like that, our leverage instantly disappears, like it never even existed in this whole scenario. I'm also a bit creeped out because I'm thinking dude lost his damn mind, really. I look at Puff and I could tell he was a bit creeped out as well, like I just delivered his biggest stalker right to his door step. We end up doing the deal for like 200k, I'm calling the other companies, explaining that they can keep their millions and we keep it moving.

On a good note, Jake's still writing with Puff, with Bad Boy, and he's had a steady string of hits coming out of that shop ever since. On top of that, he's still making good money and lives down south with his wife and kids. We keep in touch and he turned out to be a really good dude. We still even go back and laugh about that whole deal and that tattoo thingie. I'm really glad he's one of the few cats that can honestly say nothing bad about his financial relationship with Puff.

But every now and then, I'm thinking how much we really could have g'd off had he not gone and got that stupid fucking tattoo on his arm.




I wish I could make these stories up.

The homie Mookie over at Def Thought thought it would be a good idea to interview me. I was most definitely interested as well as honored. Didn't know he would go that in with regard to my background, but he was able to get more shit outta me on his site that I usually drop over here. If you so inclined to do so, peep the interview in it's entirety over here.

I think dude did a great job, if I may say so myself. Heh.

So word on the Internets is that I fell off because I cut back on my standard 2000 word posts, which, I guess, is what keeps a bunch of ya'll coming back. Or I fell off on account of how I stopped dropping behind the scenes stories about my days as an attorney in the music industry. Or how I don't really get personal about my daily life anymore. The homie Dallas was like, "CJ, how could you fall off if you ain't never been on yet? Still nigga, you need to feed the beast" I hear him though. Especially since that Vibe Top 50 Blogs list clearly put me in my place. Heh. But yeah, I admit, I did fall back on them long ass posts. Maybe because them shits is hard as hell to keep dropping day after effin day. And for free too. Plus, there's days that I wake up realizing that I don't have shit to write about. Or how some of my industry stories might either be too revealing or too boring for you. But, still and all, I'm a firm believer in giving the people what they want. So I'ma wing this one on some free association ish, you know, go with the flow. Hope you like it.

Secret Wars



















Back around '92, '93, there was a secret war going on between LL Cool J and Jay-Z. At the time, LL was sitting on top of the world, especially after he dropped his classic "Mama Said Knock You Out" LP, which was bonkers. LL was untouchable, having earned the title of being a battle rapper as well. Jay-Z, Dame Dash and Clark Kent was on the hunt though. No one was effin with then with regard to giving Jay a shot as a credible artist and they figured if Jay was known as the dude that kilt LL in battle, record labels would take note and give him that much sought after deal. Dame and Clark had the plan laid out, whenever LL was spotted by either of them, they would page each other and Jay and get him to meet at whatever location LL was. This went on a couple of times. Once contacted, Jay would roll up to the club, bar or whatever venue and lay in the cut, waiting for his opportunity to attack LL in battle. Dame would polly with, then taunt LL about how Jay was nicer than him, was ready to take his spot even. LL's ego would result in him agreeing to go head to head against the young and then unknown challenger. They would take the battle to the parking lot, outside of the venues and away from the crowds. And battle they would. Dame and Clark would end up in my office the following day, laughing about how Jay lit that ass up. Every time too. They was a bit sour too, cause after each battle, LL would kill the vibe, crush Jay's high by flinging the "yo, my next record is dropping next month, uhm, when's yours coming out again, scrap?" line at him. Jay, Dame and Clark didn't like that shit. Not one bit. I'm betting those battles are the reason LL is still kinda aggie towards Jay. Don't let his words fool you. Since I was never physically present at any of these "secret wars", I stay begging Clark to let me interview him about those battles for one of my drops. He stays telling me no. I feel I'ma land that soon though. Soon.

Clark Kent and Japan























I met Clark through Damon Dash. I think we were at a Das-Efx recording session at some studio. Around that time, I was dating this artsy chick named Angela, you might of heard of her. Anyways, Angela had picked up a pair of cowboy boots for me. Said I was rocking the Timbs way too much. The first day I rocked them was when I went to the studio and met Clark. The minute we met, Clark started going the eff off on me on how I wasn't a real Brooklyn cat, and a Black dude rocking cowboy boots was the corniest type of knicca walking the planet and all other types of abuse. I was heated as shit about how dude mouthed off, still, I was a professional there to do business and kept it moving. Clark is one of the most opinionated dudes I know. Anyways, we ended up doing so many deals together and grew to respect each other to the point that I'm most definitely sure that he forgot that it was me that he insulted on that fateful day.

Anyways, I ended up doing this one deal where this Japanese company hired Clark to judge a DJ contest in Tokyo, Japan. All expense paid trip, with accommodations at the TOP four star hotel at the time. Clark made sure we negotiated for two tickets as Damon Dash, still a new jack in the game, wanted to experience Japan in all it's glory. So I close the deal, and Clark and Dame are prepped to go. Like three days before their trip, Clark calls me and lets me know that since Damon at the time had never been out of the country, he didn't have a passport, and there was no effin way he was going to be able to get on a plane headed for the far east. Because I had mine, he asked me if I minded taking Dame's place. B, my bags were packed with the quickness.

So after a 14 hour flight we land in Tokyo. It's a Friday night and we instantly hit some clubs. The Japanese treated Clark like he was a god, especially since his skills as a DJ was a thing of legend to them. Naturally, the Japanese chicks were all over dude. At the end of the night, we ended up taking two chicks back to the hotel. All while in the cab, then the lobby, then in our separate hotel rooms, communication between us and the chicks was kinda comical, kinda difficult since Clark and I didn't speak a lick of Japanese and the chicks didn't speak a word of Engrish. Clark and I ended up smashing them broads though. Funny shit is the next morning, when we all reconvened for breakfast, right when we were about to part ways with our new friends from the Orient, one of the broads says in her best broken English: "your hotel much better than De La Soul". Clark and I were speechless.

Sonia

Angela didn't break my heart, she just turned out to be nuts, and when it ended, I was relieved that it was over. Sonia did though. I was at a party down in the Wall Street area. She was there too. A real cute "thick-thin" fair skinned honey with a short cut. A Black girl with natural Blonde hair. Maybe it was her smile. Or the green eyes. Or the way she rocked the Timbs and how they looked with her cut-off shorts. We talked briefly. She said she was a lawyer too. Ah man homie, shit was too perfect. She lived in DC but her best friend was a well known video director who lived in New York and she would come up to the city every week. After the party, I walked her out. The summer night was filled with magic, especially when I saw how she filled her shorts. My game was on point too. Her whole presence had me on bold mode, and I was most definitely focused on the win. I played her mad close, walking circles around her like lion to prey. She loved being preyed upon too. Unfortunately, she had to get ready for her drive back to DC early the next morning. She walked up to her Jeep (tm) and right before she hopped in, she kissed me lightly on my cheek. GOD DAMN, I was open.

You already know how I did it, mad calls one the phone, long distance too. My name in the music game was starting to spread, but my paper was still kinda short. Sonia came from money though. Her pops was on the executive board of some major tobacco company. She grew up in some mansion type home in Connecticut. Even though her family was kind of conservative, Sonia had a rebellious side, she wanted to walk a bit on the wild side. At the time, I was mad cut, I stayed in the gym 24/7 and my shit was 5%/10% body fat. Plus, I stayed in the streets, in the clubs, in the studios, looking for that next star of a client, or that next broad to smash.

Every other weekend, she'd come to Brooklyn or I'd drive to DC. I fronted too. One of my boys Norm, made a shitload of money working on tours with acts like Whitney Houston, Guy and Jodeci. On weekends when he had to fly out of town, he'd automatically toss me keys to his Benz. Whenever Sonia came to NY, or I'd drive to DC, I stayed in the Benz. She knew I had chicks on the side, and I knew she was seeing other cats too. That was the word on the street, how she stayed playing lesser negroes. But our chemistry was right. Her favorite drink was my favorite as well, and when we drank Tequila together, we'd always end up falling way deep inside each other.

There was a couple of times when Sonia was scheduled to come to Brooklyn, when I would miss her call. I didn't have a cell phone then. I'd get home and check my answering machine. I'd hear her message, that she was in Brooklyn, and that we'd connect before the weekend was over. The times that I missed her though, I wouldn't hear from her until like Sunday night, right before she would leave, headed back to DC. Hmmmm. I deduced that she was either hanging out with her girl, the video director and that they didn't need me as a third wheel, or that another nigga from Brooklyn had peeped her style, had found a way to snatch her precious time from me. I knew Sonia played the game well, but damn, in my hometown. I wasn't jealous, we both sized each other up and knew what kind of person we'd be effin with. In fact, her boldness made me like her style that much more. Plus, I was confident that the other cat wasn't giving her what I was, he wasn't giving her what she needed.

We took a trip to the country of Jamaica. Away from the states, our work, her other Brooklyn lover. Man, the open that I felt when I met her intensified. Even though I laughed inside at what the other dude in Brooklyn was missing, what I had all to myself that week, I wasn't too cool with having to share her once we got back to the States. As we were laying in bed, overlooking the ocean view, she initiated the issue. "I have to tell you something, you know I date other people, right?" I told her I knew. Then I carefully cornered her, "I know you're effin with a Brooklyn dude too." Still playing the game, I could tell she dug they way I put the pieces together. I went in "You know, I'm really feeling you, and that Brooklyn dude, you might want to cut that out right now. I know how you and me do Sonia, and we're only going to end up hurting that other dude's feelings. So I'm ready to cut my birds loose for you, for real." She told me she wasn't ready to do that. She then proceeded to tell me who the other dude was. Said she "had" to tell me who he was. When she did, I was stunned, insulted too. Dude was a well known film cat who had mad paper, but pound for pound, he wasn't effin with the rest of my attributes. I let her have it "if you're effin with dude, you know it's only for the money, because there's no way he has ANYTHING on me!" She claimed she was "torn". I laughed it off, and decided to keep it moving. No way was I gonna ruin the mood of our trip. I knew that eventually she would see the error of her ways, especially since I knew how corney the other dude was. Our last couple of days in Jamaica, I made sure to put it down extra heavy, for good measure and just on gp.

A week after we got back, me to New York and she to DC, this other dude releases the BIGGEST movie of his effin career. I open up a copy of the Daily News, I see a picture of Sonia standing next to him at the screening. I'm on the train and the lady sitting next to me is flipping through a copy of People magazine when I spot a picture of them together. I'm hanging with my boys watching the game and all I'm seeing sitting court side is Sonia and this nigga!!!!! Once again, I'm getting joked out by my crew.

Now Sonia and dude become a public couple, but she's still calling me and now on the low. Now she's sneaking to my place for the back shot. Problem is, I'm not with it no more. No way I'm creeping behind that corney ass dude. Eventually, I had to break it off. Dude had edged me out as he was now that main cat and I was on the side. The last conversation we had, she was mad at me for not wanting to continue our thing. I liked it how mad she sounded, the last bit of satisfaction I was able to get out of the whole scenario, knowing she was mad at me cutting her off from what the film cat could never bring. Be it ego or pride or both, I didn't have it in me to move forward. That was years ago. She and dude ended up getting happily married. I still see them in the news from time to time. She's seen me an wifey too. When she first saw her, I glimpsed some of that jealousy pop up. That's what beautiful women do when matched by a beautiful woman. And wifey stays a dime after 12 years and four kids together. In the long run, I lucked out and ended up with just the right one.









Wifey

Blogging

I wish I could write as well as Byron Crawford. Not the hate, that's just his lane, his gimmick, I'm talking about his style, not only the words, but the way he dissects topics and switches to the next issue, then wrapping up his drops perfectly. In my opinion, pound for pound, he's the best writer in the game. I'd hate to have to go pen for pen against dude. I'd go for it though, go for it with gusto, just hoping it never happens.

Dallas Penn is, or at least I believe, my best friend who blogs. That dude's way is some kind of magic, like the only blogger in the world who doesn't get hated on. He's like the magical negro blogger, but without the coonery. It really does feel like he's my brother from another borough. Dude has been in my house breaking bread with me, wifey and the kids. Not only is his future getting brighter by the moment, but I truly believe once we stop bullshitting and eventually team up on some project, we will effin kill the game. Dallas, I'm waiting on you homie.

Still trying to figure out how Eskay stays making all of that money. Not to get in dude's pocket, but the street estimate in terms of what he makes is what I want to make doing this shit. Soon too. I'm impressed by his game. Not mad at his game at all.

This blogging shit is really addictive. Not to take anything away from rappers, from emcees, but whenever I get to writing, really writing, I feel like how a rapper must feel when they think they just spit some hot fiyah. Maybe I'm delusional, but bloggers are the new rappers. And I spit hot fiyah. I'm also starting to see bits of hate coming from some of my fellow bloggers. It's all good though. I'm learning that words are powerful, especially when amplified through the power of technology. If you notice, I'm throwing fewer people under the bus than I did when I started out four years ago. I'm not trying bring no types of bs to my life, I'm only in this shit for the win!

Whaddup B? Our good homie Dallas was the first person to ever put me on to you a coupla years ago. I checked your performance at Fort Greene Park two summers ago. I even brought my kids with me. No lie, you killed it homie! I've been following your work ever since. I truly dug your album "The Brick: Bodega Chronicles" as well. Very solid work for a first album. Me being a Brooklyn dude for life, and having had the opportunity to have worked with some of the best that BK has had to offer (Jay-Z, The Notorious B.I.G.), I can honestly say with utmost sincerity that you rep our borough well. A salute and props on that.

























On top of that, whose effin with Slaughterhouse? Nigga, a four man crew consisting of solid emcees is dangerous and I'm grateful to you, Joe Buddens, Crooked I and Royce The 5'9" for that. There hasn't been a crew bringing it like ya'll in like... forever. That "Move On" joint is on instant classic status. Thanks for that as well. Slaughterhouse is THE rap super group and I will be checking for ya'll like a fiend.


















Plus, I just now downloaded your latest mixtape, "Joell Ortiz Covers The Classics (Hosted By DJ Green Lantern)" via Miss Info. I haven't had a chance yet to listen to it in it's entirety, but judging from your previous body of work as well as the buzz it's getting, I'm sure I won't be disappointed. Plus, you get props just on the artwork alone. I'm remain very impressed.

I just now read your comment you wrote in connection with my Eminem "Relapse" review. I'm glad that you read the Daily Mathematics. I do have to say that I'm surprised at your reaction though. Disappointed as well. Especially this part:

"maybe if your gettin 2 grown and have 4 kids a wife and a friend in the hospital maybe you shouldnt listen to rap anymore and pick up a Celine dion cd or some shit because u obviously have lost touch with rap good rap music 2/5? for real what did u give lil wayne? Stop being a hater Combat WACK"

For real B? I'm a hater now? I shouldn't listen to rap anymore? Plus I'm whack? All behind my review? Cool. I'ma let that fly on the strength of my respect for you and our peoples. But. Let me be clear, there's no hate or whack here potna. I ain't a new jack either. If Eminem isn't in my top 10 list, he's at least in my top 20. Dude in his prime would murder almost anyone, bar none. But you know this. On top of that, Dr. Dre remains my favorite hip hop producer of all time. And that stands even though he hasn't dropped anything recently that matches his past classics.

When "Relapse" landed in my hands, please believe that I "ripped" the packaging off, eager to listen to that "heat" that I expected from Em and Dre's reunion. I went in with full concentration my dude. What I heard though, was very much sounding like a poor version of Em's classic "The Marshall Mathers LP" or "The Slim Shady LP". Now a poor sounding version of "The Marshall Mathers LP" could might of been hot in 2000, but it's 2009! Ain't no one checking for that shit today. Unless they are part of that die hard crew of Eminem Stans. Maybe it's just that I expected too much from Em and Dre and "Relapse", in my opinion, proved to be a major let down. What's really funny though is that, in your comment, you claim that you're not a huge Eminem fan. However, most (if not all) of the shots fired my way in connection with my review came from certified Stans. So I'm asking you Mr. Ortiz, are you a closet Eminem Stan?

What I'd like to do, Joell, and with your permission of course, is to challenge you as to the merits of your claims in calling me a hater. And whack. And a new jack. When you have the chance, please go through my entire body of work as the blogger known as Combat Jack. If you can present to me and the readers a clear and systemic pattern of hate seeping through my words, then I will fall back and accept that I am a hater. And that I'm whack. And that I'm a new jack. And I don't need to be listening to rap no more. See, I'm giving you a fair chance for you to prove your words right and me wrong. Back them shits up my dude. Now, you don't necessarily have to accept this challenge, shit we all have more important shit to do. But if you can entertain me (and the blogosphere) just a bit, the challenge is officially placed and firmly on the table. I'll even up the ante and say here and now, that if you do accept this challenge and are able to clearly prove to me and the world all that you claim, that I'm a hater, that I'm whack and that I need to retire from rap, I will officially retire from Hip Hop, Rap and blogging. Word Bond (no 50 Cent). In the event though, that you are unable to back up the validity of your words, then I wager that you officially record a record proudly declaring yourself as one of Eminem's biggest Stans ever. And that you personally record a Combat Jack fan record. I really need my own theme song right about now and it would be a great honor if you were the one that recorded it. You game?

The ball is in your court now. Please feel free in proving me as being a hater and as whack. Simple as that. And please understand that this is no shots fired. I wouldn't do that, especially since you're that nice of an emcee from the mighty borough of BK capable of easily destroying me in one verse. Just a friendly gentleman's challenge. What's it going to be sir? Until then, I'm claiming you as "Joell Ortiz, The Official Em Stan".

And as per your request for me to "pick up a Celine Dion cd or some shit", heh. That won't happen, only because I'll be too busy banging "Joell Ortiz Covers The Classics". "Crime Pays" too.

Get at me Joell. I'm waiting.

UPDATE: Joell's people got at my people (Dallas) and was like "WTF is CJ doing going at Joell Ortiz?!?" They clarified that they ain't that type of blog cats to be leaving no disrespectful comments on blogger's comment sections. I respect that. I respect them too. I take back everything I said. Joell, that mixtape is a gem too potna. I needed that. Still looking forward to that Slaughterhouse joint. Respect.

Fuck though. I'm thinking that I really need a theme song now.

UPDATE #2: Last I checked, Eminem's "Relapse" still sucked.

Fucking Cam'ron. I hate that his albums require multiple listen to's before judging the final product, eccentric bastard. Been banging this piece for a week now. An acquired taste yes, but fuego nonetheless. A public apology to all Cam fans.




+ 3/4




Killa!

I kinda slept on this, but yo, Wanda stays keeping it 100%. Not mad at her at all.

Previously: Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3, Pt. 4

I really appreciate the fact that my friend "T" is extremely diligent in trusting me with his very personal story. I am also very thankful that dude is patient with me taking a couple of extra days to post his work, only because I'm trying to be early with drops like the Eminem and Star Trek reviews. From me to you my dude, THANK YOU.

I also want to go on record and clear up some discussion that popped up in the comments section of Pt. 4 of Chronicles Of A True Hustler. Particularly this comment left by "Anonymous": "This 4th part has me smelling the B.S. or "literary licence" hanging thick in the air, that I suspected from the hop."

To said Anonymous, I'm honored that you do (did) take time out of your day to read my blog. It's unfortunate that you feel that T's memoirs smell of bullshit or that his story lacks credibility. Duecey was a true flesh and blood person with whom T was very close to. She was actually his brother's ex-girl friend. When she died in front of T, the very real connection he had with her at those last moments of her life was of his own recollection of when he himself came very close to overdosing on cocaine. Prior to Duecey's death, T found himself in a predicament in which he chose to swallow a bag of Cocaine in order to avoid arrest, only to later have the bag compromised within his abdomen and him living through the very exact experience that he described as being Deucey's last. In honoring her life and tragic death, the only license he took was in imagining what she must have felt as she lay dying a couple of feet away from him.

That being said, T is slowly stepping away from his hidden alias as he just blessed me with some extra goodies, some true to life pics of him and his crew as they lived through the stories that I proudly present to you. Now, with no further ado, I truly hope you enjoy Pt. 5 of Chronicles Of A True Hustler:

We started out as 89 Mob while attending Galileo High School, OJ Simpson’s Alma Mater. OJ was from Potrero Hill Projects, which eventually turned out to be a pretty dangerous place. But back in 1987, our schoolhouse gang activity was more of a pecking order than serious criminality. Those graduating in ’88 would pseudo-bang on us and we, in turn, would pseudo-bang on the ‘90s, carrying on tradition. Most of us claimed Fillmore so with the turf in common there was no real desire to inflict any lethal damage to each other. Shouting 89 Mob before lumping up schoolhouse homies was just a way for us to stay on our toes and prep the sophomores and freshmen for turf life. When we weren’t in school, we didn’t bang on colors like cats did down in LA. We were turf bound, claiming our set and only really fuckin’ with niggas in our crew. San Francisco is very small. And the SFHA (San Francisco Housing Authority) had a practice of rotating families from one public housing complex to another, such that people’s families would be spread throughout SF’s projects. We never really had to ask, “where you from,” because we already knew. We knew you, probably knew your whole family. You knew us too. We might even be family but that shit didn’t matter. If we weren’t from the same turf, that just might be your ass.


















My brother and I took our sibling rivalry very seriously. So seriously, in fact, that we ended up joining rival gangs. More to the point, he joined a gang, Page Street, while I helped form a rival one - DVP. As youngsters Hayes Valley Projects was where my friends and I played team tag, hide and go get it with ghetto girls and pitched in on $5 bags of weed. And best believe, it would be 8 or 10 of us all trying to get high on that one nickel bag and a sole 40 oz. When we were younger, meeting up on Saturday mornings in Hayes Valley on our dirt bikes, always one bike short and trooping up to Golden Gate Park on the hunt for a bike to steal was a ritual. But as we got older we grew tired of stealing and boosting to make up for what our parents couldn’t provide for us. Niggas up the block from us was getting’ money, niggas down the block from us was getting’ money. Why not us?

And at that time and around our way, cocaine was so plentiful. Real good coke, the kind that smelled like a sour dishrag, was only $450 per ounce. But I didn’t start my career as a hustler with a true understanding of the power of my product. I’d spend $50 for a solid rock, take it home and chop it down on the desk in my room, the same desk I did my homework on. I casually swept crack crumbs on to the rug until the carpet sparkled with crack flakes. No one sold crack crumbs back then. Eventually, I would learn how to re-rock crumbs and cook coke into crack. A red flag should have gone off when Moms started volunteering to clean my room. But I was so distracted in being so focused on my grind that the signs of her addiction went unnoticed. Her boyfriend Chicken wasn’t the only crack head in the house.





















The whole 89 Mob jumped into the crack game headfirst, all of us except Quince. Quince was more into getting pussy and reading comics than in really living the street life. He decided to bow out of the game early enough to still have his whole life ahead of him. If only I knew better, had better role models, I should have followed him. But the streets felt way more natural to me than being a square. And that's what I felt Quince was when he bounced, a square. Me, I couldn’t just watch shit moving to and fro from the sidelines. Sometimes, when shit was popping and commerce was good, I'd peep Quince glancing over at us as he walked from school or to work, safely across the street from the projects, away from the fray. I can imagine that from his vantage point, he no longer recognized us. To him, it must have seemed like we were just shadows, silhouettes of old friends he once knew, now destined to end up dead, in jail or worse, living the lifeless life as one of the crack zombies we were helping to create.

But we convinced ourselves that Quince was the loser, the mark with no gang, no turf and no hustle. We were determined to get ours, just like the niggas up on Page Street or down in Virgo’s. We called a meeting in the playground. The playground, located at the Northwest corner of Hayes Valley was a patch of old dirty sand, the play structures had long been removed. Shielded from the street, this was a frequent hangout of ours for various reasons; we could see everyone who approached well before they were close enough to shoot, rob or arrest us; there were multiple escape routes including the upper tiers where we could run circles around the average mother fucker. We had been mastered these routes as kids. Now, they were the trade routes we’d use in building our small drug empire.

Our first order of business was to choose a new name for turf because Hayes Valley Mob wasn’t going to cut it. Hayes Valley had always existed in a somewhat gray-area, transient and without any real gangsta lineage. It was neither a hot spot for the Gang Task Force nor a turf worthy of note by respected G’s. We were determined to change that. Our second order of business was to choose new names for each other. But the rule was, you couldn’t come up with your own name, it had to be bestowed upon you by one of the homies. I went from being Unknown T to _____, Sly C became Dark Raider, Sweet S became Loc and so on. We had outgrown our childhood monikers and needed names that spoke to our movement and would call us powerfully into being. The task we had ahead of us was perilous and crazy, damned near impossible. We had to create a gang from scratch and put a turf to be reckoned with on the map.

Hayes Valley rested under the umbrella Fillmore along with our neighboring turfs: Page Street (Tha Capital), Fulton Street (Young Black Gangstas), Eddy Street (Outta Control), Divisadero Street (Uptown) and Central Street (Central). In order to establish ourselves, we wholeheartedly declared that we were not from Fillmore, but that we would solely claim DVP until our turf received the same level of respect from our neighbors that they expected from us. This decision put us in direct conflict with said neighbors as well as exposed us to danger from Fillmore’s rivals from across town; Hunter’s Point (HP), Sunnydale (Tha Swampy Desert) and Valencia Gardens (VG’s). We had seceded from the union and broken the unspoken oath of solidarity.

This meant war.