Combat Jack With Today's Mathematics

Other than that college song, I have not given dude a listening too. Too much hype, plus that whole white rapper who sounds a little bit like the G.O.A.T white rapper thingie. Decided to pass on him until the CD dropped, give him the full dissection. Just listened to this. Sounds like a white rapper who sounds a little bit like the G.O.A.T. white rapper. I slept. Kid is effin mangoes on this one. Really want to hear the CD now.

I'm not mad at Asher Paul Roth

Courtesy of DJ Vlad.

I never idolized drug dealers. Their way of life seemed too risky and way too dangerous. I do deeply respect the few that I know. And I know a few. Seems like the ones I knew the best were filled with an incredible sense of wisdom, a clear sense of mission as to why there were here on this planet and what they had to accomplish before they left this life. I most definitely met a lot during my career in the music industry. I don't think it's a coincidence that the one's that made the successful transition from working the streets to becoming successful execs in the industry are the few people who continue to make good coin today. The honest way. It did take me by surprise a few years back, when one of my closest friends and former housemates from law school decided shortly after graduating from Georgetown Law that he would forego a career in law in order to hustle drugs. And not street corner slanging either. Because of his credentials, my dude placed himself in a position where he was able to move some serious poundage during the early 1990's. Even lent me the seed money needed in order to start my law practice back in 1995. Good dude. Eventually, he got busted and did time twice, first state, then federal. Shared the fed time with his twin brother who graduated from Columbia University and was on his way to med school. It felt good to pay him back, and then some, once he got out from doing his bid, like maybe the money I paid back would help him get back on his feet. Crazy shit, but no embellishment.

Which brings me to my dude "T". T is an upstanding citizen of the community. Brooklyn homeowner, married to an accomplished writer, a father and an extremely successful real estate agent. Top exec in New York's top real estate company. Member of the block association even. Dude moves brick and mortar like nobody's business. I met T a couple of years back, when my wife and I were on the market for a home. T was real patient, extremely forthcoming with information, especially because I was intimidated by all the things I didn't know about real estate, me being a potential first time homeowner. As we got to know each other better, his kids playing with mine, his wife bonding with wifey, dude began to share some things about his background. How he was from out west by way of San Francisco, how he grew up in an extremely disfunctional family, with a father who was a pimp, sometimes dope dealer and full-time drug addict, a mother who became strung out on heroin at the age of 17, how most of his uncles and aunts were drug addicts who had died of drug overdoses, one dying of aids because of his affinity to the needle.

Some real heavy shit, but whenever T shares his experiences with me, it's never coming from a place of "check my street cred stats" machismo bullshit, it's more like dude is reflecting on the worst aspects of his upbringing with a sense of appreciation as to who he is today, the hurdles he's had to overcome in becoming a successful businessman, husband, father, human being. Almost like he gets this big joke about life and is somehow trying to let me in on that joke. There's no glamorizing or glorification in his words.

T eff's with the Combat Jack blog heavy, and has started writing some of his experiences as an exercise in expression, in growth, in strengthening his skills as an writer. As much as he enjoys doing what he does, selling homes to those that can afford one, he does not want to become complacent in becoming just one thing. I'm really honored that my writing has inspired him to write more. Recently, he's begun to share with me some of his writings. In reading some of his work, especially with regard to his memories as a young kid growing up in the streets of S.F., I was blown away by the things he's lived through and how he's been able to make it over to "this" side. In a sense, his experiences are inspirational to me, in helping me to overcome the challenges that I face on an almost daily basis. I've asked him if he would allow me to share with you pieces of his "memoir". T gave me his blessings, and I promised him I would do my utmost best in bringing his words, his story, his life to you. I truly hope that I do this man's history justice. If what Shawn Carter raps about is true, Jay-Z ain't the only one that dabbled in crazy weight and survived the "game".

That being said, I proudly bring to you, in the words of T, The Chronicles Of A True Street Hustler, Pt. 1

Looking back on my life, in hindsight, I'm able to recognize that some of the worst things that have happened to me were some of the best things that happened to me. Growing up in Hayes Valley, better known as "Death Valley", I received strict "professional advice" as to what my career options were at a very early age. Around the time that I was 4 or 5, my father and my mother's brother, my uncle, would often lecture me on the only two choices I had to look forward to when I grew up. "Niggas round here grow up to be either a drug dealer or a pimp, you need to figure out what you gonna be early, before you get twisted up in some bullshit. Don't ever forget that shit T." My pops used to drill that shit into my head relentlessly. He came from a family of pimps. Through my father, I learned that one of the best ways for pimps to keep their women on a tight leash was to get them strung out on drugs, on heroin, and as soon as possible. My mother met my father when she was in high school. Fell in love with him. By the time she was 17 years old, she was addicted. I don't know if she was using when she was pregnant with me or my younger brother, but I knew she was an addict, and for a very long time. Eventually, my father became an addict as well. My younger brother and I soon were left to be raised by a drug addicted single mother. At the time, I understood these things that I lived through to be normal, and as hectic as shit was, I was content in my extremely fucked up conditions. Maybe that's because that was all I knew.

By the time I turned eleven, I decided to choose drugs over the family business, I decided that I would become a drug dealer. With mom's zoning out on her highs, I felt I was old enough to earn a living and keep food on the table for my younger brother and me. Although I got first hand training in the skin trade, I wasn’t much into pimping. Maybe I was turned off by pimping because I grew up watching my mother catch regular beatings from my father. My brother and I never intervened, but when the beatings were over, we'd look after moms, cleaning her up, consoling her they way she should have been able to do for us. When I finally shared my decision as to my profession to be with my mother, she was very supportive. So supportive in fact that she sat me down at the kitchen table in order for her to instruct me with my first lessons in selling drugs. She started off explaining to me that she loved me very much. That because she wouldn't always be there to take care of me, she would show me how to hustle to make money so that I'd always be able to take of myself. She said "remember, no matter what, you’ll always have a hustle to fall back on.”

And the lesson began. She went in her room and came out with a huge bag filled with marijuana. She placed some of the marijuana on the kitchen table. “This is a quarter-ounce of weed,” she said. “It weighs 7 grams, plus the sandwich bag makes 8 grams all together.” She continued, “Never pay more that fifty-dollars for a quarter and never, ever let me catch you selling anything for anybody else. Only hustle for yourself.” I listened to her intently. After emptying the weed into an empty shoe box, she took a small pair of scissors in one hand and some weed in the other. “This is how you break it down.” She snipped and crumbled the quarter into a fuzzy green mound, removing the few seeds and stems along the way.”See, now you have to let it dry out a bit. It’s heavier when it’s wet and sticky, you’ll end up over stuffing your bags. When it dries out, it will fluff up and fill out the baggies more.” I nodded as if to affirm her observation, not having a clue of what she was talking about. She took a baggie, stuffed it and placed it on the table between us. “This is what a ten-dollar bag should look like. Now, bag up the rest of this weed and make’ em all look like this one. ” I followed my mom's orders like a good son. I figured out that rubbing the baggie between my thumb and index finger

made them open easily. The weed felt crisp and crunchy between my fingers, and it's skunky aroma wafted up into my nose, made my mouth water.

Moms returned about a half hour later, “8 bags”. “Not bad,” she said. “But your bags are too fat, you''re giving money away, nigga. Take some weed out of these two and get one more bag out of ‘em.” After a couple of more turns of breaking down, packing, weighing, after my moms felt I was getting the hang of packing weed bags the right way, efficient and economical with my servings, I felt I was ready to hit the streets. My moms introduced me to one of her, one of my father's connects. I felt grown, extremely pleased with myself and the responsibility that I was readily assuming. My next step though, was to figure out how I was gonna survive the streets. See, niggas in my neighborhood started gang banging heavy, and I wasn't yet down with any gang. I had to get my shit "affiliated". There was no way I was going to place myself out on the streets of a war zone, alone at 11 years old and with no muscle." Fuck that! I need to get my muscle game up and intact.

TO BE CONTINUED

I do have kids.

50 cent talks about his ongoing feud with Rick Ross (Big Boys Neighborhood Exclusive) from qdeezy on Vimeo.

Even when he's serious, he's funny.

If you're younger than say, 34, 35, close your eyes for a minute and as impossible as it may be, try to imagine a world without Hip Hop.

My first experience with Hip Hop was in the summer of 1978. My best friend Frank, who lived up the block and was two years older than me, used to be a messenger working at a courier service down in the Wall Street area. At work, Frank would hang with some brothers from the Bronx and Uptown and as they would build during their lunch breaks, they would tease my man with snippets of live performances from groups with bugged out super hero sounding names like Grand Master Flash and The Furious Five, Kool Herc and the Herculords and the Cold Crush Brothers as they performed musical routines in an art form then unknown to the world. It was most definitely unknown to cats like me in Brooklyn. For a couple of weeks after coming home from work, Frank would desperately try to explain this new sound called rap coming from Harlem, banging from the Bronx. I had no concept of understanding what the hell my man was talking about, or what the fuck a Melle Mel or a Grand Master Caz was, only that it had the homie Frank amped. This one Thursday night, before payday, Frank convinced me to pony up $5 and go half with him on one of those cassette tapes he was going on about, said he would cop a Grand Master Flash & The Furious Five joint. Little did I know that after that night, my was life was never going to be the same.





That next day, on Frank's stoop, on Lincoln Place in Brooklyn, as he popped the tape in, and emcees Cowboy, Raheim, Kid Creole, Scorpio and Melle Mel invaded my senses, hypnotized by how Flash was savagely raping beats with his furious cuts and scratches, my whole d.n.a. metamorphed into something else, something new. As a young teenager trying to find his way in a changing world, the music that I heard that day seemed like it spoke only to to me, the lyrics was about shit that only I could relate to. Growing up on r&b, soul, funk and disco was cool, but on that very day in 1978, in discovering the beginnings of a culture that I would wholly become a part of, in speak, in dress in attitude, in perspective, I became a B-boy. On that fateful day, I became complete.

Over the next year, my cassette collection blossomed with the likes of Kool Herc and The Herculords, Dr. Jeckyll & Mr. Hyde, Busy Bee. On top of Melle Mel becoming my first rap idol, The Cold Crush Brothers stayed being my favorite crew because they kept their routines sounding fresh and on the way they sounded in their famed battle against rival crew The Fantastic Five. I still have that CCB vs. FF cassette, and even though the FF officially won that, I claim the Cold Crush the true winners. In school, I stayed having an edge on my peers since I was so much more up on Hip Hop than they were. Some cats began to think my shit was a bit weird in how I kept my jeans creased, how I would flip if a sucker scuffed my Adidas, my Hush Puppies, my Puma's, how I stayed with the ice grill when cats I didn't really eff with too tough was around me. Hip Hop was my own little private world, and the more private I kept it, excluding clowns that wasn't down, the happier I was. I was steady tripping on that young teenager shit. My definition of nirvana was sneaking out after dark to the park, packed with other teenagers crowded around our local deejays with their makeshift turntables and speakers blasting the break beats of "Seven Minutes of Funk" by The Whole Darn Family, or "Mardi Gras" by Bob James as our local rappers lined up, waiting patiently for their chance to rock the microphone, their only shot at a brief moment of stardom, weed smoke from all the burning joints further expanding our young consciousness as we danced, grooved, romanced, postured and thugged out in this very private, intimate world of ours. All this without a record deal.




















On an October morning in 1979, as I was getting ready for school, I was listening to WBLS when my world was changed again. That morning was the first time I heard "Rapper's Delight" on the radio. Although it was the first rap record I heard on the airwaves, I was pissed. Pissed at how these Sugarhill Gang rappers sounded fake, nothing near as authentic as the cats I had been following on cassette, even though they rocked that Chic "Good Times" beat that had flooded every hood in the US. Plus they looked whack and had corny sounding names like Wonder Mike and Big Hank and Master Gee. Out the gate the record industry betrayed me by insulting my Hip Hop intelligence with a rudimentary Mickey Mouse ass sounding song as it's very first rap single, still and all, I grew to like, grew to love that record as they started playing it at all the little parties I was going to, how the girls who wasn't up on Hip Hop loved to dance to it. How that record was the first official corner stone that went into the construction of the rap music industry. Right after "Rapper's Delight", it seemed like every one was rushing to put out a record, further gelling the makings of a growing musical genre. My favorites, Grand Master Flash and the Furious Five and The Cold Crush Brothers got a chance to do their thing on wax, and even though some of their records took off and it felt good to hear my original rap heroes on wax, the sound that I first heard on cassette, primal, raw, fresh was replaced by slick production, almost a smooth blend of Hip hop beats with a lil of that r&b. No doubt I stayed fiending for that next single, that next banger, but over night, the era of the sound of rappers performing the most original of routines as their deejays spun, mixed, cut and scratched records with the crowd screaming in the background was replaced with the rap record. My private little Hip Hop world was now part of a growing industry and teenagers from Brooklyn to Beijing began to take note, began to become a part of this new culture.


















Mr. Magic kept me up late on weeknights, trying to catch the latest joints way before anyone else. Rap albums started being released and even though they rarely felt quite cohesive in content and theme, we kept dancing. In 1983, I started hearing "It's Like That" by a group with the unique name Run-DMC. "It's Like That" was cool, but at the time, it was nothing that made me take note. Shortly after, I heard "Sucker MC's" at a block party in Bed Stuy and me along with the crowd went ape. That record was the first time I heard a single that fully captured that feel that I had when I used to rock my earlier rap cassettes, a parse driving beat, cutting and scratching, two rappers spitting fire, nothing more. No chorus, no r&b inflected baselines, no chorus, just that out in the park late at night vibe, packaged neatly as the b-side to "It's Like That". "Sucker MC's had Run-DMC standing out and apart from the herd, right out the gate. Even though they released the follow up single "Hard Times" that was similar in nature to "It's Like That", the heat rock single next launched from the Run-DMC chamber was the instant classic "Rock Box". "Rock Box" was that perfect mix of hood rap and rock strings, what with that electric guitar riff making that joint sound hard as hell. In addition, the single was accompanied by a video, an artsy looking black and white piece that visually showcased the young rappers, Run coming off with the most arrogant of emcee swagger, DMC looking like the B-boy hard rock version of Frankenstein, stiff, menacing, hard, [||], Jam Master Jay showing off his Hollis cool as he manhandled the turntables. Not only did these cats have the hottest song and video out. They also dressed like me (or like how I wanted to dress). Gone were the coked out, older looking rappers with the Jheri curls, leather, lace and leopard, who were desperately trying to jack r&b's and disco's smoothed out and slightly homo-erotic glam look [||]. Run-DMC were the new niggas on the block and with one fell swoop, they declared with "Rock Box" the death of Hip Hop's "old school" generation artists that laid the foundation. Looking like it was shot at a party representing New York City's then downtown scene filled with Punks, whites and a smattering of Black faces, "Rock Box" is known as the first hip-hop music video to air on MTV. Cementing their place in history with the release of their eponymous debut album in 1984, Run-DMC dropped what some consider to be the first true rap album.























Becoming Hip Hop's first true widely recognized stars, Run-DMC set out to conquer not only rap, but the rock genre as well with their follow up release "King Of Rock" which dropped in 1985. Because of the noise they made with their first album, many esteemed critics from the rock establishment began dismissing the group's accomplishments, shitting on them and rap as a whole as not being a true art-form, that Hip Hop was just a passing fad for ghetto kids, that it wouldn't be around that much longer. In what was a shot aimed against it's critics, Run-DMC's next single and video, named "King Of Rock" had the group dissing major pop acts like Michael Jackson, the Beatles and even Elvis. On an intense drum beat and a scathing base line loop, further expanding on the rock feel introduced by "Rock Box", Run-DMC boldly claimed themselves to be the new kings of rock, kings of pop even, and dared every one out there to test them. In retrospect, this was such a brilliant effin move, shutting down all potential rap competitors and aiming for the top spot in one shot. It also helped that the single was fuego and MTV stayed jocking the video in major heavy rotation. Matching Hip Hop's street intensity with rock and roll's colossal instrumental sounds, Run-DMC convinced the world that they were here to stay. The album also broke all Hip Hop records in that it was the first to go gold and then platinum.























If "Run-DMC' is considered to be rap's first complete album and "King Of Rock" it's first major crossover, the following album "Raising Hell" released in 1986 is deemed rap's first masterpiece. Taking over most of the production, legendary producer and co-founder of Def Jam as then partner to Russell Simmons, Rick Rubin went in deep with this one. Whereas their prior records had combined elements of dense and sparse production, "Raising Hell", at the time, was simply the best produced rap record ever. The hits on the album were plenty with classics like "Peter Piper", "It's Tricky", "My Adidas", "Walk This Way" and "Raising Hell", what on earth was effin with this? Run-DMC's 4th album went triple platinum. Even though the group would drop further classics in their subsequent albums "Tougher Than Leather" (1988), "Back From Hell" (1990) and "Down With The King" (1993), "Raising Hell" proved to be the last monster album released by the group.

I can't even begin to get into the highlights surrounding Run-DMC's career in connection with their impact on touring, movies, magazine covers, endorsement deals and merchandise without having to write another coupla thousand words. This past Saturday, April 4th, Run-DMC became the 2nd rap act ever to be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall Of Fame, second only to Grand Master Flash and The Furious Five. Funny, how Melle Mel was my first rap idol and Run-DMC was my second. Not known for their true lyrical skills and rarely mentioned in anyone's top 5, top 10 or top 100 emcee lists, it was great to see them receive the highest props for their contribution spanning back 25 years. Run-DMC may not go down as anyone's favorite G.O.A.T. emcee's of all time, but they remain arguably, Hip Hop's Greatest act of all time. From me to you, a sincere and heartfelt salute from Combat Jack to Run-DMC, the Kings from Queens.




So I'm asking, what's your favorite Run-DMC song?

A couple of days late, but the 1st quarter of 2009 is in the can. That means I survived my first quarter of blogging on the regular. Yo! This. daily. blogging. shit. is. an. effin. grind. I have a whole new level of respect for you internets soldiers out here in the blogosphere who have been doing this thing consistently and for a while. I am truly amazed and humbled at how my favorite bloggers have been steady getting it in day and night after day and night like clockwork, and I salute you. I'm trusting and hoping that I'm not shitting on this thing of yours, this thing of ours. I respect your blog craft and I'm doing my best in making sure I play my little part in continually raising the bar. Please feel free to check me whenever you feel your boy is reckless blogging and swerving outta control. I welcome your advice and criticisms with open arms. Like, how I don't/ can't keep my posts to the standard less than 75o word count minimum rule. For some reason, I'm having a serious problem in keeping my usual avalanche of words from falling out of my dome and onto your computer screen. I'm so sorry for that, so sorry for having you, fellow bloggers and faithful readers in having to read through my long ass pieces almost on a daily basis. Wifey been telling me for years that I talk to much, and now I see what she's been bitching about. Please be patient as I'ma work extra hard during the next quarter in keeping my shit short, brief and to the point.

But I'm loving it though. Loving the fact that I'm finding my voice. Loving that my 15 years of experience in the music industry is a commodity that I can generously share with you all. Loving that this "old head" can take rusty ass memories, bang them out onto my keyboard and have them coming out sounding so fresh and brand new to the world. Loving that I'm officially down with this movement, that here and now, during this period, me, you and my fellow blog masters are slowly and steadily locking down our rightful place in history. Most important, I'm loving you for coming through my lane on the regular, for supporting Combat Jack and for finding whatever part of this thing that informs you, entertains you and keeps you coming back. Thank you, thank you, and once again thank you. Without you, this blog would be a masterbatory exercise in self gratification and masterbaition blogging don't really sound like too much fun. [||] on that though.

Going into the 2nd quarter, I hereby vow to continue in the delivery of quality material. I realize that your time is valuable,especially since we are living in an age of information overload. I promise that in you stopping by the Daily Mathematics, you will not have wasted a second of your day. I will keep that promise, and if I feel I can't live up to my word to you, I will gracefully bow out.

Shout outs to Byron Crawford, p/k/a "Fuck Boy", [||]. Thanks again for letting a nigga rock with you when I was a lil snot nose. Eskay p/k/a The Big Co-Sign, you see it and already know what it is. To my brother from another borough Dallas Penn, the original Internets Celebrity, put the Mountain Dew down my dude, especially since we about to snatch this paper grandly and by the sacks and I ain't tryn'a see you lapse into no diabetic coma before we rob the effin bank blind. To my lil sis Marvelous Mo, you got the juice now, time to shoo all them birds from fluttering on your property. To my Favorite White Boy, Robbie, Benhameen and to all the heads listed on the CJ blog fam role, thanks for showing mad love to a knicca. You all have made this that much more enjoyable.

To my wifey and kids, thank you. Daddy ain't gone crazy, I'm just on a mission. It will be worth it. Trust. To the big homie Fab 5 Freddy, getting the steady twit passes from the Original Renaissance B-Boy is an honor, thank you for that. To my dude Clark Kent, we stay being Brooklyn's Finest. To Gis, my dude and soldier, you remain a true stand up nigga and I appreciate you for that. Yo, Elliot Wilson, you know who I is so what it do? Thembisa, Dori, thanks for the prep talk and in convincing me that I'm not wasting my time, thank you. Lamonte, you're too talented, however, the world will catch up to you and soon, watch. A special super thank you to the homie Sha Money XL, you personally blessing my "50 Cent Is Not A Rapper" piece is major, really though. Tell Fif I said whaddup.

To all of my posters, friend and foe, thank you. Your daily messages are like food for the soul. Or is it ego? Plus, some of ya'll really be leaving some witty, original funny ass comments. That "body that latte" from the lil' Run's House kids is classic and will stay being in my vernacular for a long time.

Finally, to the crab ass "Frenemie" who called my house bitching about that same 50 Cent post, screaming all types of lame ass threats in my ear, a major thank you for exposing and for playing yourself "homie". You stepped way outta line with that move, but I now see the hate flowing in your blood. With all the history I thought we had, I was bigging you up in my posts only because I had mad respect for you. Especially since the world done passed you by and forgot about your very minor contributions to the music game a long effin time ago, sensitive ass nigga. Your name has been removed from all posts and I'ma make sure the world keeps on in forgetting who the eff you are, you little ass man. You stay being forgotten. Run tell that to your lawyers. I'll be waiting for them right here.

And with all the pomp and circumstance now out of the way, it's time to get back to our regularly scheduled program.