Combat Jack With Today's Mathematics

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.