The Innermost thoughts of a Throat-Chopper

5 Reasons why “New Jack City” is utterly ridiculous

If I ever happen to become a person of particular note, and people find my existence on this earth to be truly worthy of documentation - the chapter detailing my Senior Year of High School will be entitled “Bullies, Virginity, and New Jack City”. The Bully part of the equation refers to a man-child of a 17 year old who knew that I couldn’t fight him for fear of being kicked off the track team. So because of this he made untoward advances at my girlfriend and publicly questioned my hetero-street cred for not doing anything about it. Let’s just say that I paid him back in kind by riverdancing on his skull him in front a few curious onlooking classmates after school. Even though I technically lost my virginity during my freshman year, I only feel comfortable counting the coitus that I was a part of during my senior year - primarily because it was the only sex that where the words “Um, that’s not it honey.” weren’t uttered. That explains the “Virginity” Part. But what happened during March of my final year of Physical education classes, stuffing books inside of a locker, and having my blackness questioned solely because I owned a skateboard really made 1991 one for the record books - and that was the release of a little movie called “New Jack City”.

Of course I loved “New Jack City” like most people. I mean, you can’t beat a flick chocked full of quotables and random acts of violence - lets just say that I have a history of saying “Rock-a-bye baby” and “In Broad Daylight” at some truly inappropriate moments But more than 20 years later, either due to the rigors of life heightening my cynicism or just an organic wisdom sullying my memory of a movie that I once adored, I now see “New Jack City” with a different pair of eyes. Here are a few problems that my 39 year old self has with a movie that my 17 year old self obviously overlooked.

Pookie undercover: To the makers of “New Jack City”: I know you made sure to show the audience that there was widespread skepticism throughout Stone’s(Mario Van Peebles) team over the decision to send Pookie in to infiltrate the Carter. You also made sure to imply that Pookie had been sending the CMB crew customers over a respectable period of time to gain their trust. That said, who in their right mind sends a crack fiend fresh out of rehab to a job where he’d be handling cocaine all goddamned day? The shit is not only ludicrous, it’s cruel man. I mean, did they edit out the part where Scotty and Peritti were taking bets to see how long Pookie would last? I know they were desperate to nail Nino Brown and all, but there had to be some other available route outside of sending a kind recovering drug addict to his death sentence. Give credit where credit is due, the white boy(Judd Nelson) got this one right.

Craziest whiteboys ever: My favorite Dave Chappelle quote is the one where he talks about that one white dude in the crew of black guys being the craziest motherfucker out of them all. He says, “There’s no telling what kind of crazy shit they’ve done to get them black dudes respect!” That said, there isn’t a white dude in existence that’s as crazy as Don Armeteo crew of goons. Ok, I get that Nino Brown has been taking over shit with reckless abandon and also cut Don Armeteo out of their agreed upon 10%. But expecting to survive after running up in Nino Brown’s New Years Eve party, only three men deep, with a lawn jockey with a noose around it’s neck? Sure, they all survived, with the only damage being the impromptu haircut of Frankie Needles thanks to Nino - but there should have been motherfucking murders that night. Shit, try that with me and I can’t guarantee that you’ll walk away from that incident - and I’ve never shot a school teacher, sold poison to my own people, stabbed Christopher Williams in the hand, or used a little girl as a human shield.

The Gang who couldn’t shoot straight: Speaking of using toddlers as human shields, the one thing that I noticed about that gun battle against Don Armeteo’s crew at the wedding was how terrible Nino Brown’s crew was at basic marksmanship. It wasn’t like they were using bow and arrows, they were equipped with Uzi’s and their targets were stationary white guys. My nearly 80 year old mother would have made sure that all of those Italian gentlemen took a rather untimely dirt nap.(And she probably would have screamed “Riverside Motherfucker!” afterwards. Ok, that’s a different overrated movie.) Sure, two of them got clipped as they drove off in the van but that’s pretty shoddy handywork when you have 4 shooters. Totally unacceptable. I guess when you’re running a successful drug distribution operation you don’t have time to go to the gun range.

“Too soon, don’t do, reconsider..”: Women have been man’s downfall from the beginning of time, or so I’ve been told, but the CMB being taken down by someone that G-Money only slept with once is quite the head-scratcher. Dear G-Money, nothing says your girl isn’t wife material like her claiming that you have “no papers” on her while she shamelessly flirts with your best friend in front of his wife. That’s some ratchet ass shit as the kids say nowadays. So, Nino Brown deciding to sleep with this caliber of lady is going to make G-Money both hit the pipe and make side deals without Nino’s knowledge? I can see doing something like for Jill Scott, or the woman who plays Michonne on “Walking Dead”, but not for “Uniqua”. Shit, the sound of her name alone should have shaken G-Money out of his momentary lapse of judgement.

You knew what you signed up for: The same way I’ll never understand all the friends that I’ve ever had who met a stripper at her job, starting dating her, then miraculously had serious problems with her choice of profession - I’ll never understand the wives of bad guys who suddenly take issue with how they went about making that almighty dollar. The scene after the wedding shootout where Nino’s wife screams “You’re a murderer Nino, I’ve seen you kill too many people!” always makes me giggle like a teenage girl meeting Justin Bieber. I mean, did she have a senseless killing limit? She was cool with knowing about 20 murders, but any more than that was a bridge too far? Get the fuck outta here.

LL Cool J: The “On Purpose” Black Friend

One of the main reasons why I don’t fuck with porn any more is because I didn’t want myself becoming desensitized to it. I totally saw a scenario in which looking for standard online filth would slowly graduate into me feeling the need to see someone have sex with a Filipino single-amputee with a lazy eye - or a drunk midget with a lisp - even me begging to the porn Gods for someone to create a porn parody of “Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo”. It was a rabbit hole with my name all over it.

I only bring that up because it reminds me of my current situation in terms of dealing with racism. See, I live in Virginia Beach Virgina - a place marketed as a city on the come up but in reality it’s nothing but Mayberry 2.0. Over my many years here I’ve heard all manners of reckless shit escape the misguided mandibles of white people: Like asking why they can’t use the N-Word, how I’m OK for a black guy, how I’m articulate for a black guy, their attempts to cite our nonexistent friendship against charges of racism, why can’t black people get over slavery, how the confederate flag is a source of pride and has nothing to do with racism, that there are black people and niggers and how I’m not the latter. Not to mention the mass amounts of dog-whistle racism about our President that white people have been more than comfortable sharing with me. In fear of becoming desensitized to it I make it a point to aggressively and in no uncertain terms to always check the aforementioned offender - everything ranging from light scolding, rhetorical tongue lashings, to neck strikes delivered with laser-like accuracy. Never letting them get away with it is essential.

The only thing I can come up with in trying to explain LL Cool J’s collaboration with Brad Paisley on “Accidental Racist” is that not only has he become desensitized to countless hours of “Whitesplaining”, he’s apparently become brainwashed by it as well. “Accidental Racist” is simply a heartwarming tale of a black guy giving the white guy a pass at every turn. Not only does LL embrace the “black friend” moniker, he’s also reciprocating the embrace with a huge smile on his face. He’s gleefully setting picks for Paisley, letting the country singer effortlessly get around taking accountability or responsibility for anything on the racial front. Truly some Stockholm Syndrome shit.

People have said that despite the utter ridiculousness of this song that LL and Paisley’s heart was in least in the right place. Maybe, they do say that the road to hell is paved with good intentions.. or X-rated clips of a drunk midget with a lisp having sex with a Filipino single amputee with a lazy eye.

Answering my own Twitter question: The Most Underrated MC

Sometimes I feel like I’m in the midst of a zombie apocalypse. But instead of friends and loved ones not having the proper cardiovascular training or sword wielding skills to fight off the undead, thus being turned into moaning flesh eaters themselves - it seems that everyone whose musical opinion I respect winds up becoming another kind of zombie by liking some monosyllabic rapper who apparently makes people lose I.Q points with every song. Even lowering the bar to midget limbo levels and wanting modern day microphone holders to just stick the landing on a coherent sentence has become quite the soul crushing enterprise. That said, Twitter restored my faith in Humanity last week when I received so many great replies to a few Hip Hop questions that I posed. Granted, I knew beforehand that these was no wrong answer to asking “What’s your favorite DJ Premier beat?” - but the answers I got to the “Who do you feel is the most underrated MC?” question I posed was nothing short of exemplary. I tip my hat to you twitter. That said, I never answered the question myself - so here goes. I think the most underrated MC is..

Black Thought: If someone of Black Thought’s caliber were a baseball player he’d be considered a “5 Tool Player” - the guy can do virtually everything. Dope Lyricist, breath control, rhyme styles for days, free style technician, amazing performer - the motherfucker can ever sing. I feel that anyone who doesn’t list him in their Top 5, or at least give the brother an honorable mention, should be mushed in the face down a flight of stairs. There are a couple reasons why I think he doesn’t get the props he deserves: It’s either because the guy makes it all look so goddamn easy, or it’s because The Roots misuse him - he should be the center of that band’s entire fucking universe. They have Michael Jordan on their squad and they’re making him kick out to open shooters and shit. Yes - *shots fired*

Tales from the Trail: I Hate People

About a year in a half ago I found myself in my doctor’s office, the paper that drapes the cold table that you have to sit on rustling as I nervously shifted in my seat - awaiting my doctor and lifelong friend of my parents to enter the room. I kept imagining him trying to maintain the best poker face imaginable as he delivered news that would undoubtedly rock my feeble little world. See, without getting into too much detail, for 5 years to that very point in time I was convinced that I was dying of a terminal disease. When I first starting feeling what I thought were symptoms of my perceived ailment I was too scared to go to the doctor, and as time passed my reasoning for not seeking medical attention was that I had waited too long. Even though I had a behind the scenes view of this movie before, when my father sought medical attention way too late, I seemed determined to do a third rate remake. A funny thing happens when you think you’re dying: You truly stop giving a fuck. Sure, I was an asshole before - but feeling that your ticket will get punched at any moment just gave an asshole like myself a cape and a handy utility belt. So besides the carnage left behind by living like each day may be my last, the sunken in cushion under me serving as a reminder that I still carried around some of that carnage - I sat in that cold office on an October morning waiting for what I just knew would be devastating news.

But come to find out I was dying, but not of the terminal disease that I thought was slowly eating away at my insides. I had extremely high blood pressure and my Glucose levels were through the fucking roof - not getting any exercise, eating nothing but fast food and tipping the scales at about 300 pounds tends to do that. I obviously had to start losing weight, and immediately - so the next day I started eating better and walking around a local park called Mount Trashmore. Now, a year and a half later and one hundred pounds lighter, I’m still getting my daily exercise by circling what was once a landfill. “Tales of the Trail” will not only document my weight loss experience that I hope will be an inspiration to people - but most of it will highlight the many idiosyncrasies of a guy who already had way too many idiosyncrasies.


I Hate People

I didn’t realize how much I really loathed the existence of other human beings until I started running at Mount Trashmore. Sure, I have Introverted tendencies: I’ve been known to hide behind produce and other food items in the Supermarket to avoid engaging in small talk with acquaintances. When I was a drinker I uttered the words “I just want to be left the fuck alone” at bars on several occasions. If I told you how many times in the last few months that I told a person, “Go fuck yourself”, you wouldn’t believe me. I couldn’t tell you how many times I fantasize about burning certain barbershops to the ground just for the mere fact that I was privy to one too many asinine conversations that occurred there. Other than that I thought I had a sincere love for people overall. Boy was I wrong.

When I was heavier I loved winter simply for the fact that it allowed me to shield my girth with layers upon layers. A depression would actually set in when Spring arrived. Now that I’ve lost weight Spring still bums me the fuck out because it just means that scores of people without the same dedication to fitness that I do will invade my running trail. To quote another person that hails from city, “Fucking Posers”. In the Winter I pretty much had the trail all to myself - inclement weather was a small price to pay for the serenity of exercise solitude - and the few people who braved the weather with me weren’t annoyances at all, they were kindred spirits. The older black gentleman who jogged as fast as most people walked, the 40 something white woman who I could tell still runs marathons - all of us shared the same dedication to fitness while giving mother nature our collective asses to kiss. We were all in the same secret club, like we were in the “Skulls” and shit. But now that Spring has finally decided to arrive my running trail is littered with nothing but dreaded people. Fair weather warriors, people with their kids, people pushing their kids in strollers, people walking their dogs.. People, people, people. Public parks would be so dope if it wasn’t for all the fucking people.

Dancing with Myself

Let me just state for the record that Father Time is one vindictive bastard, so dastardly that I’m sure he’s somewhere laughing maniacally while stroking a cat. As I stand with a battering ram at 40’s door, I don’t so much mind the diminishing nature of my hairline, my metabolism, the grey hair that spreads across my dome and visage more like a virus than the natural order of things. I feel like I’ve been well briefed on this so none of it is neither a shock nor very upsetting. Overall, I feel like I’m gaming the system merely for the fact that I still look a few years younger than my actual age. That said, one thing that time has robbed me of, in a troubling way, is my ability to dance.

Look, I’ve never considered myself to be in the same league as the Deney Terrio’s or Shabba Doo’s of the world, but I can remember a time that I was pretty proficient on the dance floor. I’m totally aware that the rhythmic gymnastics of my youth would be both unnecessary and inappropriate at 39. Rest assured, B-Boying when a battle isn’t involved was never considered. I’d pull out the running man or the cabbage patch or bust the worm only if I wanted to get a laugh, or to be committed. But I used to be good at just good old fashioned dancing, and to be honest I still thought that I was. I mean, the last few times that I’ve danced I resorted to a simple two-step - primarily because of the sheer ease of the maneuver - my hubris assuring me that I had a torrent of dance moves that the peasants around me were truly unworthy of witnessing. But then the other day I decided to unleash this supposed treasure trove of dance dance steps in front of a mirror, naked. Let me explain.

I had just gotten out of the shower, M.O.P blasting in the background, and I found myself in front of a full length mirror that only stood in my room because I hadn’t gotten around to shit-canning it yet. So first I start with the two step as a warm up. Ok, feeling good. Then what occurred next could be best described as drug induced convulsions that involved a lot of spinning and awkward sex faces. Then I thought, “Ok, M.O.P, as great as they are with tales of intimidation and gunplay, isn’t exactly dance music.” So I put my iPod on random and the next song was Nirvana’s “Lithium”. That’s no good. Next was “Sara Smile”. No again. Wu-Tang’s “Ice Cream”, then a random MF Doom song. Ugh. Then my iPod landed on Jamiroquai’s “Space Cowboy”. Fuck it, this will work.

Still dripping wet, I placed myself back in front of that same full length mirror. Warmed up with the basic two-step dance that I had done previously, and as I attempted to prove to myself that I hadn’t literally lost a step - I noticed even more haphazard spinning, more intense sex faces, but this time Elvis-like kicks were involved along with an “ErrrrrAhh!” grunt sound that I’m sure my brain sampled from Melle Mel. Oh well, the same old two-step it is.

P.S That’s two of the most humiliating experiences that I’ve had in front of a mirror, the first one involved looking at my own grimaces in a mirror during a prostate exam.

The N-Word Loophole

There’s been a strange phenomena in my life lately where my Caucasian brothers and sisters feel completely comfortable spewing the N-word around me with reckless abandon. No, it’s not in the form of the racial slur being directed at yours truly - my history of vicious neck strikes followed by me sifting through the offender’s pockets on some High School bully shit has pretty much prevented that from ever happening. What I’m talking about is the aforementioned melanin-less folks thinking that it’s totally acceptable to utter the word used in “Django Unchained” 108 times as long as they are quoting someone. It’s as if they miraculously become Woodward and Bernstein, journalistic integrity trumping everything - even the uncomfortable grimace on my face that only materialized during my last prostate exam and when I learned that they were turning “Entourage” into a movie. It’s what I’ve characterized as “The N-Word Loophole”. The common denominator in all of these conversations is the excessive use of the epithet(Which I’m supposed to accept because they are simply quoting someone, of course.), and the narrator making the moral of the story about how racist they aren’t. For example:

White Person: Yeah man, the guy at the bar was totally out of line when he told the man “I’m not taking any shit from you N*gger!”. Of course I defended the black guy and told the other man that he was way out of line, then he said “Why in the world are you defending this N*gger?” That’s when I got in his face because racism can not be tolerated, no way no how. Then the man, even more angry by this point, said to me “Does the word N*gger bother you? In that case “N*gger, N*gger, N*gger, N*gger!”

Jesus Christ man. Sometimes I can’t wrap my head around some people’s lack of self awareness, so much so that I find myself thinking that these folks are just fucking with me. It’s as if they want to know how many times they can get away with saying the N-Word, truly on some “Super Troopers” shit - where those two cops were trying to see how many times they could say the word “Meow” to a motorist that they had just pulled over. Dear white people: Outside of touching our hair, feeling the need to greet me with some outdated handshake from the blacksploitation era, or telling me shit like how cool I am for a black guy - one of the keys to having a black friend is not saying the N-Word in any context. The shit makes us uncomfortable. If you value our friendship, out milquetoast acquaintance, or your jaw - please cease and desist.

P.S.: I’ve seen white celebrities(actors, rappers, etc.) retweet their black followers in tweets using the N-Word. Yeah, your ass isn’t slick. Fucking loopholes.

Dogtown and Z-Boys

One of my favorite movie quotes of all time comes from the 2000 comedy “High Fidelity”, where Rob played by John Cusack says “It’s not what you’re like, it’s what you like.” I believe that wholeheartedly. I mean, people spend so much time going on dates, holding each others mannerisms and idiosyncrasies under a microscope gauging whether or not they’d be willing live with this motherfucker til death do us part - closely observing how they handle situations like they were a figure skating judge in the Winter Olympics. It’s this writer’s opinion that people could save so much time if they just swapped each other’s CD and DVD collections and proceeded(or not) from there. You learn everything you need to know just by the shit someone likes - reminiscent of how “Rob” would make mixtapes for people so they could get a better understanding of what he’s all about. Which brings me to the 2001 documentary “Dogtown and Z-Boys”.

When I thought about what I would give someone to get an even deeper understanding of the man who pens potty mouthed diatribes and throatchops people, the documentary “Dogtown and Z-Boys” came to mind - along with the fact that it ties into my other love, Hip Hop. The have similarities up of the Ying Yang. For one thing, both artforms have a “creating something from nothing” quality about them - the mid-70’s droughts enabling a scrappy band of West California kids to carve and grind in emptied swimming pools - and slashed music programs in New York City public schools ushered in fierce microphone wielders and masterful dancefloor acrobatics. Even though I never had a “..and then the DJ plugged his sound system into the light post” story, and I never had the opportunity to see the Zephyr team skate - I was able to create my own authentic skateboard experience, and I feel that my love for Hip Hop is just as real as anyone born in one of the most famous 5 boroughs in the most famous city in the world. Also, I still practice both with reckless abandon knowing that I will never get signed to a skate team or get a recording contract - at 39 I still spend an inordinate time pulling kick-flip ollies and writing battle rhymes that will never see the light of day. The one main difference, unfortunately, is that having skills in the sport of skateboarding is still held in high regard. I can’t always say the same thing about Hip Hop.