http://www.datpiff.com/ICONOGRAPHIC_RECORDS_TONY_GRANDS_Grandzilla.m72617.html
I started rapping when I was 13. Doing little shows, making karaoke demos, & finally recording material at a legitimate studio-rapping, as opposed to freestyling with random dream chasers or writing songs instead of doing homework. I come from a generation where the ability to rap was a skill, & whatever was crafted was art. With me, never once was it a money making scheme, a "get rich or die trying" crusade, per se, but a love for words & an affinity for rhythm. It made perfect sense, too, because I've never been that good at basketball, & my nuts weren't big enough to sell drugs.
That link up top is to an album my nigga Esquire (the producer) & I recorded about 5 years ago. Please, download it & enjoy, if you haven't already. If there's something you like, great. Burn a copy for your friends. Use it as a soundtrack to a YouTube video. Or toss it in the trash bin, & accept my apologies for wasting precious time & hard drive space. I couldn't care less. Point is, getting paid for my "art" was never a part of the plan. Very similar to my writing. These things I do out of love, & if others are able to find pleasure it what I do, thats fan-fucking-tastic..
Rappers these days aren't born. There manufactured. Somewhere there's an assembly line, & a couple of times a year, the newest model of audio hustler is unveiled, & unleashed to the public, under the guise of representing an art form, a culture. No dice. These niggas are in it solely for the possibility of getting paid. No more, no less. It's a tad bit sad, depending on your vantage point.
Anybody who remotely follows the music business is fully aware of the crack pipe dreams it offers. The entertainment industry as a whole, for that matter. It's not a real job, so to speak, & while it's is possible to live off of talent, assuming you have said talent, nowadays people with such goals are adamant on becoming uber-mega-superstars, who use $50 bills as toilet tissue & eat seafood 7 days a week. That's an unrealistic minority. The majority is a somber group of people who lack the skill, knowledge &/or "it" factor to stand out, in a crowd of hundreds of thousands. & the 'Net just leveled the playing field, so good luck on your career choice.
I'm not gonna name drop specific artists who I think may be responsible for the less than noble state of Hip Hop music, but I'll blame man's fervent thirst for monetarily compensated under-achievement. & that way, the umbrella covers all parties involved. Money changes things. Fact. Once the flood gates opened on rap music being a somewhat lucrative business, with the opportunity for quick, profitable turnaround, anybody with at least a 3rd grade level of comprehension & access to a recording device decided to dive into the music game, feet first. Once that happened, the art, natural skill & prowess folks once took great pride in, was replaced by greed, gluttony, & an assload of luck. & again, the 'Net just leveled the playing field, so good luck with your career choice.
Saying that everybody wants to be a rapper is an understatement. Here I was wanting to share a "gift" with the world. Coincidentally I learned, quite some time ago, that I'm not built for such a egregious, erroneous, ass backwards, self-serving, cock sucker line of work. I tip my hat to those who have the gumption to stick it out, really though. They know who they are, & so do their fans. I'm sure if I have the opportunity to get back in the studio, I'll jump. But again, my love of words & affinity for rhythm would be the driving force. Not money, or my lack thereof.
I used to take my son to the studio with me. In fact, he's on a couple of songs I did. Albeit as a baby, but even still. Now, instead of saying "Daddy, I'm gonna be a rapper," he's says things like, "I wanna own my own store. I wanna be an astronaut. I wanna be a scientist. Then I can be the president or something, too, huh Daddy?"
Indeed...
Showing posts with label fam bam. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fam bam. Show all posts
Friday, January 29, 2010
Thursday, January 21, 2010
T.I. should meet my uncle.
Can you imagine how many rappers wish they were in T.I.'s position right now?
No shots, but Mystikal, Mr. "Shake It Fast," served a little over 5 years for some unsavory business etiquette towards a female member of his entourage. As successful as he was pre-"Bitch betta have my money (or else swallow throat lotion!)," dude comes home to little fanfare whatsoever. The few fans who were excited about his return, are lost in the message boards of articles & blog drops about his release. Lost, as in a "Mystikal's back!" is met by 25 commentors calling him a criminal, & throwing around words like "extortion," & "rapist." I'm not a judge, so I don't condemn. I just hoped he learned something, aside from how to live with nothing but men for years at a time. Point being, many people don't even know he's home. Of those they do know, most don't really care. His ship has long since sailed unfortunately, & not even the great Percy Miller himself can undo that. Shit, P can't even keep his own brother out of jail, so good luck with him relaunching a rap career that's long been dead in the water. "Watch yaself," indeed. It'll be interesting to see if Mystikal jumps into the viral ring, or fades into absolute obscurity. How much you wanna bet that he's set on putting 'The NEW, New No Limit' back on the map. No dice. & I don't think it's so much that we, the fans & heads & afficianados, turn our backs on artists during trial & tribulation, so much as it's just that niggas have better shit to do. Any man who believes life will stop for him is a fool doomed to failure by his own stagnation. I'm almost positive he wishes he was in T.I.'s position.
Again, no shots, but Prodigy of Mobb Deep, is in a curious situation. Mind you, I'm a Hip Hop Head from the early 80's, & still, if I had to name a rapper who I could quote verse for verse, song by song, it would be Prodigy, before NaS, or even Redman. There was a period in my life where I had a BIG ASS poster of 'The Infamous' album cover on my wall, over my bed. No homo. Call me a stan, but I'd prefer you call me a Tony (ha!). Sorry, that was corny. A lot of people may not know that P has sickle cell anemia, a blood disease that affects people of color, that can cause death. The girl I lost my virginity to had it. That shit is no joke. It almost seems unbelievable. I know all to well how it can affect a person. Yet & still, this nigga wants to be a thug. Carrying guns, fighting people, going back & forth to jail, where he sits now, as what remains of his music career sits in limbo. Not to mention, the apex of his career came & went while he was still free, so now what? Dude's gotta be at least 30-something by now. The number of people who probably don't even know who he is greatly outweighs the amount of people who anxiously wait for his release. Saddest part is that 50 Cent (Whaddup MDub!!) seems to be his only remaining tie to rap music at this point. Good luck with that, P. I put him in a category I call "When Keepin It Real Goes Right," because apparently these dudes want this life. Mistakes are one thing, but repetition is insanity. I'm pretty sure he wishes he was in T.I. position.
Which all brings me to my point about T.I.'s position. As a rapper, boundaries are set as to what you can or can't do, lest you be wished into the cornfield by the public at large. The nay-say is loud & plentiful, but the truth is that T.I. is arguably the most successful rap dude of 2009. Success, in terms of popularity, record sales & media attention. Dude held a press conference last year. Now, I don't remember what it was about, but what rap nigga does that? & wasn't the police chief or somebody there with him? This guy got a television show, based around a crime that he only served about 8 months for. If that's not "success" in some variation or another, feel free to correct me. Unlike most young, Black felons, he has the chance to come home, & make a difference, especially on a worldwide scale. The same difference he made when he began his arbitrary reality show, which to me, was a pretty good idea. Who would you take sound, sage advice from; your grandfather, or some nigga who lives a life you wish you did? Just saying.
I'm not one to recalibrate another one's moral compass, but it would be nice to have a high-profile celebrity bring some positive energy to a culture that seeks instant gratification, yet ignores any repercussion. The listening world knows all about what T.I. has done to harm his impending society, so why not be an asset, in the public eye, to reverse the detriment? I always say society loves a rehabilitated convict with a story to tell. That trumps a "feel-good movie" any day of the week. Now's his chance to be a role model, at a time when we really don't have any left. Again, just saying.
I have an uncle, who served 7 years on federal drug charges. Dude got home early last year. When I was growing up, this cat was rich. Literally. In a White people way. He moved from Compton & Firestone to Rancho Cucamunga, & had unnecessary luxuries as far as the eye could see. I loved going over there, looking for shit to steal, even though he would've given it to me if I asked. Dude was so heavy in the street that every time I rode with him, we got pulled over. Here I am, a kid, being treated like a man because my uncle's a known drug dealer. Everybody knows a hustler, or the neighborhood dope man, but this cat was far removed from all that. With all sincerity, 'Scarface' was very, very similar to his life story, except the ending. Anyway, he came over yesterday to pick up some mail. In his work truck. He drives for some meat-packing [||] company, delivering dead animals to businesses for food consumption. A humbling job, to say the least. To the multitude of kids he has (yes, MULTITUDE), he's a hard working cat, trying to provide the best way he can. Only his oldest daughter is of an age where she could slightly recall when this guy was ridiculously paid. Albeit by poisoning the community, but paid nonetheless. All the others know is that daddy's finally out of jail. Point being, he touched down with the intention of doing the right thing(s), by his kids, if nobody else. That's the least he can do. It's imperative that the kids see that, especially with the stories of their father they undoubtedly have heard about. You know kids stay eavesdropping. One of the first things he did when he got out was to check on me, hearing about my run-in with death via alcohol. He had some very wise advice, too. It was obvious he'd thought long & hard about the life he lived, & for all the evil he'd exposed me to, as a kid, he was know shedding much needed positive light on me, as a man. That's that real shit, fuck the fake.
It would be nice if T.I. employed that same attitude for the thousands, upon thousands of young folks who look up to him. He's blessed with the opportunity to help, from the inside out, & us positive Black men could sure use the manpower, really though.
No shots, but Mystikal, Mr. "Shake It Fast," served a little over 5 years for some unsavory business etiquette towards a female member of his entourage. As successful as he was pre-"Bitch betta have my money (or else swallow throat lotion!)," dude comes home to little fanfare whatsoever. The few fans who were excited about his return, are lost in the message boards of articles & blog drops about his release. Lost, as in a "Mystikal's back!" is met by 25 commentors calling him a criminal, & throwing around words like "extortion," & "rapist." I'm not a judge, so I don't condemn. I just hoped he learned something, aside from how to live with nothing but men for years at a time. Point being, many people don't even know he's home. Of those they do know, most don't really care. His ship has long since sailed unfortunately, & not even the great Percy Miller himself can undo that. Shit, P can't even keep his own brother out of jail, so good luck with him relaunching a rap career that's long been dead in the water. "Watch yaself," indeed. It'll be interesting to see if Mystikal jumps into the viral ring, or fades into absolute obscurity. How much you wanna bet that he's set on putting 'The NEW, New No Limit' back on the map. No dice. & I don't think it's so much that we, the fans & heads & afficianados, turn our backs on artists during trial & tribulation, so much as it's just that niggas have better shit to do. Any man who believes life will stop for him is a fool doomed to failure by his own stagnation. I'm almost positive he wishes he was in T.I.'s position.
Again, no shots, but Prodigy of Mobb Deep, is in a curious situation. Mind you, I'm a Hip Hop Head from the early 80's, & still, if I had to name a rapper who I could quote verse for verse, song by song, it would be Prodigy, before NaS, or even Redman. There was a period in my life where I had a BIG ASS poster of 'The Infamous' album cover on my wall, over my bed. No homo. Call me a stan, but I'd prefer you call me a Tony (ha!). Sorry, that was corny. A lot of people may not know that P has sickle cell anemia, a blood disease that affects people of color, that can cause death. The girl I lost my virginity to had it. That shit is no joke. It almost seems unbelievable. I know all to well how it can affect a person. Yet & still, this nigga wants to be a thug. Carrying guns, fighting people, going back & forth to jail, where he sits now, as what remains of his music career sits in limbo. Not to mention, the apex of his career came & went while he was still free, so now what? Dude's gotta be at least 30-something by now. The number of people who probably don't even know who he is greatly outweighs the amount of people who anxiously wait for his release. Saddest part is that 50 Cent (Whaddup MDub!!) seems to be his only remaining tie to rap music at this point. Good luck with that, P. I put him in a category I call "When Keepin It Real Goes Right," because apparently these dudes want this life. Mistakes are one thing, but repetition is insanity. I'm pretty sure he wishes he was in T.I. position.
Which all brings me to my point about T.I.'s position. As a rapper, boundaries are set as to what you can or can't do, lest you be wished into the cornfield by the public at large. The nay-say is loud & plentiful, but the truth is that T.I. is arguably the most successful rap dude of 2009. Success, in terms of popularity, record sales & media attention. Dude held a press conference last year. Now, I don't remember what it was about, but what rap nigga does that? & wasn't the police chief or somebody there with him? This guy got a television show, based around a crime that he only served about 8 months for. If that's not "success" in some variation or another, feel free to correct me. Unlike most young, Black felons, he has the chance to come home, & make a difference, especially on a worldwide scale. The same difference he made when he began his arbitrary reality show, which to me, was a pretty good idea. Who would you take sound, sage advice from; your grandfather, or some nigga who lives a life you wish you did? Just saying.
I'm not one to recalibrate another one's moral compass, but it would be nice to have a high-profile celebrity bring some positive energy to a culture that seeks instant gratification, yet ignores any repercussion. The listening world knows all about what T.I. has done to harm his impending society, so why not be an asset, in the public eye, to reverse the detriment? I always say society loves a rehabilitated convict with a story to tell. That trumps a "feel-good movie" any day of the week. Now's his chance to be a role model, at a time when we really don't have any left. Again, just saying.
I have an uncle, who served 7 years on federal drug charges. Dude got home early last year. When I was growing up, this cat was rich. Literally. In a White people way. He moved from Compton & Firestone to Rancho Cucamunga, & had unnecessary luxuries as far as the eye could see. I loved going over there, looking for shit to steal, even though he would've given it to me if I asked. Dude was so heavy in the street that every time I rode with him, we got pulled over. Here I am, a kid, being treated like a man because my uncle's a known drug dealer. Everybody knows a hustler, or the neighborhood dope man, but this cat was far removed from all that. With all sincerity, 'Scarface' was very, very similar to his life story, except the ending. Anyway, he came over yesterday to pick up some mail. In his work truck. He drives for some meat-packing [||] company, delivering dead animals to businesses for food consumption. A humbling job, to say the least. To the multitude of kids he has (yes, MULTITUDE), he's a hard working cat, trying to provide the best way he can. Only his oldest daughter is of an age where she could slightly recall when this guy was ridiculously paid. Albeit by poisoning the community, but paid nonetheless. All the others know is that daddy's finally out of jail. Point being, he touched down with the intention of doing the right thing(s), by his kids, if nobody else. That's the least he can do. It's imperative that the kids see that, especially with the stories of their father they undoubtedly have heard about. You know kids stay eavesdropping. One of the first things he did when he got out was to check on me, hearing about my run-in with death via alcohol. He had some very wise advice, too. It was obvious he'd thought long & hard about the life he lived, & for all the evil he'd exposed me to, as a kid, he was know shedding much needed positive light on me, as a man. That's that real shit, fuck the fake.
It would be nice if T.I. employed that same attitude for the thousands, upon thousands of young folks who look up to him. He's blessed with the opportunity to help, from the inside out, & us positive Black men could sure use the manpower, really though.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Hi. My name is Tony.
"Prosecutors are prepared to indict Michael Jackson's doctor for involuntary manslaughter in the death of the pop star, ABC News has learned. Dr. Conrad Murray, a Las Vegas-based cardiologist who was with Jackson when the pop singer died after receiving a lethal cocktail of painkillers and anesthetics June 25, has long been the focus of a homicide investigation."-via ABCnews.com
I don't claim to be an expert in a lot of things in life. A few things, I just know a lot of stuff about, other things I know enough to sprinkle some big words around & appear like I know more than I actually do, & sometimes, I'm just smart enough to know when to shut the hell up, & soak up some knowledge. More people should learn that "shut up & soak" method. I'm positive the world would be a much better place. Funny thing about that though is, the older I get, the more I learn, & the more I learn, the more I see that I don't really know a whole hell of a lot about anything. Go figure. Then again, I've heard that a wise man knows that in actuality, he doesn't know shit. & that, in essence, makes him wiser than most. So, yeah.
Unfortunately, if I had to say I had any actual field of expertise, it would be in addiction. Mine was one of alcohol, but I learned in rehab & therapy that addiction knows no preference. Crack, heroin, crystal meth, beer, it's all the same to addiction. It doesn't base it's target on any specific attributes. It's very flexible & open-ended, like bisexuality. No shots. Addiction is a disease, like AIDS. & I mean that as in, you may or may not be born with it, but once you've got it, only with tender care & education can it be controlled. If you treat it with cavalier abandon, it will destroy you.
[tony's note: im not comparing anything to aids, because that's in a horrible class by itself. god bless anyone who's had to deal with it. that was just for illustration purposes...]
Of course, there are those who seem to magically alleviate the disease, like Earvin Johnson appears to have done with "The Monster," but those people are far & few between. For the most part, it's a sickness that must be treated as soon as the symptom's re-occur. Like a psychological herpes outbreak, except it can kill you.
Now, pardon me as I do a little character assassination. The faint of heart my want to close their eyes. Michael Jackson was a drug addict. I know drug addicts. I'm related to drug addicts. I'm an alcohol addict. Hell, I know quite a few people addicted to food. Point is, the symptoms are the same, & one addict can see another one a mile away. I remember in my rehab classes, the majority of us were alcoholics. I was the worst off, with mild cirrohsis, pneumonia, dehydration, malnutrition, & a host of other ailments that tried their hardest to murder me. The other booze hounds were a lighter grade of addict, & for all intents & purposes, you wouldn't know they drank constantly. Except for one lady who was dark pink; a shade of pink that says she probably poured wine in her breakfast cereal. Aside from us bottle jockeys, there were a few crackheads, & one dude who was obviously riding the "white horse." No bullshit, the first day he came is, he admitted he'd been snorting cocaine all night, & fell asleep in the middle of talking. Snoring & all. I've never seen a person do that. After about 5 seconds of sounding like he was choking on his tongue, he opened his eyes, pulled on his nose, & kept talking. Even our counselor roffled. One guy had a gambling problem, but he was mostly there on a court mandate for drug trafficking. His twin brother was there too, but it was because he smoked way too much weed. Niggas call themselves potheads? No dice. This guy was a pothead. He was basically a cartoon character with flesh. There was this real cool little Asian dude who was in there for huffing. Huffing is inhaling man-made chemicals like paints, cleaners, or solvents. His choice was computer keyboard cleaner. Dude passed out & hit his head on the computer he was supposed to be cleaning one day. That's how his girlfriend found out about his problem, & she threatened to leave him if he didn't get help. He thought the whole ordeal was humorous. & so did we. Funny thing about honest addicts; we laugh at ourselves. When we're away from the judgment of the "normies," & alone with others who understand us, man, that shit's fucking beautiful. It's just horrible that we all develop such intimate relationships behind such atrocious circumstances. Believe me when I say, some of the coolest people I've come across in my life were addicts.
Of about 25 people who were there my entire nine month stint, I'd say 5 relapsed, 2 just never came back, & the others, like me, were determined not to let this addiction get the best of us. I couldn't have left if I wanted, because my legs were painfully swollen due to bodily fluid distribution as a result of my blood transfusion & salt intake, liver swelling, or something like that, & I needed a walker to get around. Yeah, the kid was down for the count. But, unlike a lot of addicts, being so close to death really gave me a renewed outlook on what was important. I'd given over a decade of my life to hardcore, care-free liquor consumption, & fuck that shit. What kind of a punk would I be to die from alcoholism? I'm not saying I'm a punk for having a problem. I'm saying I'd be a punk for laying down & giving up on myself. My wife. My kids. Nah, fuck that shit.
After I was released from the hospital, & started regaining my health, life was a brand new experience. Literally, I left Kaiser a completely different man. I appreciated everything. My first dip back into reality, & off of the "pink cloud" (google that), was when I'd learned, from my wife, that my mother had pulled her to the side, at some point during my hospitalization, & blamed her for my drinking. Wow. I hadn't been mad like that in years. I didn't know the meaning of the word 'livid' until I was livid. How the fuck is she blaming anybody? If she wanted to lay blame, real type, she should've started in the mirror, but that's a post for another day.
There wasn't one single, solitary time in my addiction that anyone made me drink. Unless you count Satan, because we should all know by now that he has the whole world in his hands. Even still, it was my choice, my doing, & I'd never cop out to blaming someone else. Had I died in that hospital bed, like the doctors had told me I probably would, it would have been completely my fault. Granted, most of the individuals in my immediate circle didn't try & stop me, but that had more to do with me being so adamant about drowning my liver in the sauce that they let me be, rather than argue with a lethargic, incoherent fool. The further I sank into my depression, as the disease accelerated, I'd blame myself in various, inexplicable ways (another post, I promise), but never would I stoop to a level of unfiltered cowardice, & blame anyone else.
Conrad Murray, while he was wrong for helping, is not to blame for the mental shortcomings of Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson was addicted to various substances before he even meet Dr. Murray. Just because he was the "King of Pop" doesn't warrant a witch hunt. That's bullshit. Even if Murray administered the last amount of drugs that ultimately killed Michael Jackson, he didn't wander into Jackson's home, off of the street, & attack him with a needle. Michael opened that window long ago, when whatever bothered him got so bad that he needed unnatural disconnect to make it better. I speak from experience. For this man to be the fall guy is absurd, especially with Mike being a 50 year old rich dude, more than capable of making his own decisions. If he was cognizant enough to tell Dr. Murray what drugs he needed, he was also cognitive enough to tell someone that he needed help. Really though.
On April 1, it will have been 2 years since I've had a drink. Hooray for me!
I don't claim to be an expert in a lot of things in life. A few things, I just know a lot of stuff about, other things I know enough to sprinkle some big words around & appear like I know more than I actually do, & sometimes, I'm just smart enough to know when to shut the hell up, & soak up some knowledge. More people should learn that "shut up & soak" method. I'm positive the world would be a much better place. Funny thing about that though is, the older I get, the more I learn, & the more I learn, the more I see that I don't really know a whole hell of a lot about anything. Go figure. Then again, I've heard that a wise man knows that in actuality, he doesn't know shit. & that, in essence, makes him wiser than most. So, yeah.
Unfortunately, if I had to say I had any actual field of expertise, it would be in addiction. Mine was one of alcohol, but I learned in rehab & therapy that addiction knows no preference. Crack, heroin, crystal meth, beer, it's all the same to addiction. It doesn't base it's target on any specific attributes. It's very flexible & open-ended, like bisexuality. No shots. Addiction is a disease, like AIDS. & I mean that as in, you may or may not be born with it, but once you've got it, only with tender care & education can it be controlled. If you treat it with cavalier abandon, it will destroy you.
[tony's note: im not comparing anything to aids, because that's in a horrible class by itself. god bless anyone who's had to deal with it. that was just for illustration purposes...]
Of course, there are those who seem to magically alleviate the disease, like Earvin Johnson appears to have done with "The Monster," but those people are far & few between. For the most part, it's a sickness that must be treated as soon as the symptom's re-occur. Like a psychological herpes outbreak, except it can kill you.
Now, pardon me as I do a little character assassination. The faint of heart my want to close their eyes. Michael Jackson was a drug addict. I know drug addicts. I'm related to drug addicts. I'm an alcohol addict. Hell, I know quite a few people addicted to food. Point is, the symptoms are the same, & one addict can see another one a mile away. I remember in my rehab classes, the majority of us were alcoholics. I was the worst off, with mild cirrohsis, pneumonia, dehydration, malnutrition, & a host of other ailments that tried their hardest to murder me. The other booze hounds were a lighter grade of addict, & for all intents & purposes, you wouldn't know they drank constantly. Except for one lady who was dark pink; a shade of pink that says she probably poured wine in her breakfast cereal. Aside from us bottle jockeys, there were a few crackheads, & one dude who was obviously riding the "white horse." No bullshit, the first day he came is, he admitted he'd been snorting cocaine all night, & fell asleep in the middle of talking. Snoring & all. I've never seen a person do that. After about 5 seconds of sounding like he was choking on his tongue, he opened his eyes, pulled on his nose, & kept talking. Even our counselor roffled. One guy had a gambling problem, but he was mostly there on a court mandate for drug trafficking. His twin brother was there too, but it was because he smoked way too much weed. Niggas call themselves potheads? No dice. This guy was a pothead. He was basically a cartoon character with flesh. There was this real cool little Asian dude who was in there for huffing. Huffing is inhaling man-made chemicals like paints, cleaners, or solvents. His choice was computer keyboard cleaner. Dude passed out & hit his head on the computer he was supposed to be cleaning one day. That's how his girlfriend found out about his problem, & she threatened to leave him if he didn't get help. He thought the whole ordeal was humorous. & so did we. Funny thing about honest addicts; we laugh at ourselves. When we're away from the judgment of the "normies," & alone with others who understand us, man, that shit's fucking beautiful. It's just horrible that we all develop such intimate relationships behind such atrocious circumstances. Believe me when I say, some of the coolest people I've come across in my life were addicts.
Of about 25 people who were there my entire nine month stint, I'd say 5 relapsed, 2 just never came back, & the others, like me, were determined not to let this addiction get the best of us. I couldn't have left if I wanted, because my legs were painfully swollen due to bodily fluid distribution as a result of my blood transfusion & salt intake, liver swelling, or something like that, & I needed a walker to get around. Yeah, the kid was down for the count. But, unlike a lot of addicts, being so close to death really gave me a renewed outlook on what was important. I'd given over a decade of my life to hardcore, care-free liquor consumption, & fuck that shit. What kind of a punk would I be to die from alcoholism? I'm not saying I'm a punk for having a problem. I'm saying I'd be a punk for laying down & giving up on myself. My wife. My kids. Nah, fuck that shit.
After I was released from the hospital, & started regaining my health, life was a brand new experience. Literally, I left Kaiser a completely different man. I appreciated everything. My first dip back into reality, & off of the "pink cloud" (google that), was when I'd learned, from my wife, that my mother had pulled her to the side, at some point during my hospitalization, & blamed her for my drinking. Wow. I hadn't been mad like that in years. I didn't know the meaning of the word 'livid' until I was livid. How the fuck is she blaming anybody? If she wanted to lay blame, real type, she should've started in the mirror, but that's a post for another day.
There wasn't one single, solitary time in my addiction that anyone made me drink. Unless you count Satan, because we should all know by now that he has the whole world in his hands. Even still, it was my choice, my doing, & I'd never cop out to blaming someone else. Had I died in that hospital bed, like the doctors had told me I probably would, it would have been completely my fault. Granted, most of the individuals in my immediate circle didn't try & stop me, but that had more to do with me being so adamant about drowning my liver in the sauce that they let me be, rather than argue with a lethargic, incoherent fool. The further I sank into my depression, as the disease accelerated, I'd blame myself in various, inexplicable ways (another post, I promise), but never would I stoop to a level of unfiltered cowardice, & blame anyone else.
Conrad Murray, while he was wrong for helping, is not to blame for the mental shortcomings of Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson was addicted to various substances before he even meet Dr. Murray. Just because he was the "King of Pop" doesn't warrant a witch hunt. That's bullshit. Even if Murray administered the last amount of drugs that ultimately killed Michael Jackson, he didn't wander into Jackson's home, off of the street, & attack him with a needle. Michael opened that window long ago, when whatever bothered him got so bad that he needed unnatural disconnect to make it better. I speak from experience. For this man to be the fall guy is absurd, especially with Mike being a 50 year old rich dude, more than capable of making his own decisions. If he was cognizant enough to tell Dr. Murray what drugs he needed, he was also cognitive enough to tell someone that he needed help. Really though.
On April 1, it will have been 2 years since I've had a drink. Hooray for me!
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Happy New Year, Bitches!
First & foremost, I want to extend peace, blessings, & prayers to all of you reading this. May your higher power be with you as we begin a new season of earthly life. Secondly, if you are reading this, congrats! You've survived another year on this God-forsaken planet, successfully navigating death, despair, poverty, disease (hopefully) & dozens of other misfortunate happenings that plenty of folks have succumbed to. So, no matter how bad things may appear, rejoice in your apparent resilience, & rest assured that, though another person's existence is by no means a measuring stick, there's always someone who's worse off than you. Whether that makes you happy or sad is your call. I'm just here to point shit out & provide commentary. All other assessments are yours to make. No need to thank me, but you are welcome, just in case.
However, I will thank you, for fucking with me. Pause-if that makes you uncomfortable. As I've stated several times, there's no tangible reason for cats & dogs & birds to come & read my words. I appreciate the fact that you deem me worthy of your time. Time, being the most expensive asset in the world, because once it's gone, it's gone, even if you're Marty McFly. When I was a kid, I was adamant on building a time machine, so once I got to a certain age, I could go back in time & do it again. When I grew up, I realized that even if I did that, I'd still grow old, but perhaps I'd be able to warn a youthful Tony Grands about avoidable missteps. Then I remembered some movies I'd seen about flux capacitors & space-time continuums, & my high started coming down, & I was off that. But anyway...
I want to share a few things I've learned this year, if I may. I've learned that the majority of your family has no blood relation to you. I've learned that life is short as hell, & if you're a Black man, over the age of 35, you are middle-aged. I'm creeping up on 34, so, yeah. I've learned that anger is a heavy burden, & forgiveness is an elusive state of mind, & the two cannot occupy the same space simultaneously. I haven't quite learned yet how to make the transition between the two, but I'm working on that. I'll keep you posted.
I've learned that women are easy to please, but men are too stubborn to see it. That one was actually a couple of years in the making, but now I have the solidified happiness to show & share with the world. I've learned that being a good parent is usually the deciding factor in the child's victories & failures. As well, I've learned that being a good parent is a trait that is born from humility, experience & a willingness to step back sometimes & let nature take it's course. I've learned that my parents aren't super heroes, or robots, but rather normal human beings, just like me. & no matter how hard I try, I'll never be a super hero, or robot, either. I've learned that mustard is good on any type of meat. Pause. I've learned that most adult humans can't digest milk, & those that can have a mutated gene. I've learned that A LOT of people don't really read the Bible, they just skim through to the "good" parts. I've learned that "the truth" is dependent on the eye of the beholder, like beauty, but actuality never, ever changes.
I've learned that more people love & respect me, than hate & despise me. I've learned that I love & respect more people than I hate & despise. Actually, I've learned that I really don't hate anyone, & quite possibly never have. Hate is a strong emotion. Stronger than most people can truly fathom. It's just such a fun word to toss around that it's lost it's edge, like "nigga". I've learned how gullible people fall in love over the Internet. Personality is the axis of attraction, even if physical qualities distract us. If one's personality is genuine, assuming they're being true, how could a bond not be formed, even without physical contact? I've learned that you don't have to meet someone in person for them to be a friend. & I've learned that a personal relationship with someone doesn't mean they're your friend, regardless of what they say. "They" always have something to say...
Don't you just love how Black folks love to end any ceremonious event with a shout out? On Court TV, I actually saw a dude rattle off "shout outs" as he was being escorted away for life imprisonment. Roffle mayo. Oh well, he'll think twice before he murders a prostitute again. But anyway, there's far too many cats who supported me over this last year or so, but I love y'all motherfuckers. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE! Thanks for the support, for believing in me, for the kind words, the intelligent exchanges, the real talks-when necessary, & basically being there for me, as well as giving me a reason to be here for y'all. Really though, I appreciate the appreciation.
Brand new year, brand new bullshit, same old nigga...Happy New Year, Bitches!
[tony's note: keep your goddamned gun(s) in the house tonight...please]
However, I will thank you, for fucking with me. Pause-if that makes you uncomfortable. As I've stated several times, there's no tangible reason for cats & dogs & birds to come & read my words. I appreciate the fact that you deem me worthy of your time. Time, being the most expensive asset in the world, because once it's gone, it's gone, even if you're Marty McFly. When I was a kid, I was adamant on building a time machine, so once I got to a certain age, I could go back in time & do it again. When I grew up, I realized that even if I did that, I'd still grow old, but perhaps I'd be able to warn a youthful Tony Grands about avoidable missteps. Then I remembered some movies I'd seen about flux capacitors & space-time continuums, & my high started coming down, & I was off that. But anyway...
I want to share a few things I've learned this year, if I may. I've learned that the majority of your family has no blood relation to you. I've learned that life is short as hell, & if you're a Black man, over the age of 35, you are middle-aged. I'm creeping up on 34, so, yeah. I've learned that anger is a heavy burden, & forgiveness is an elusive state of mind, & the two cannot occupy the same space simultaneously. I haven't quite learned yet how to make the transition between the two, but I'm working on that. I'll keep you posted.
I've learned that women are easy to please, but men are too stubborn to see it. That one was actually a couple of years in the making, but now I have the solidified happiness to show & share with the world. I've learned that being a good parent is usually the deciding factor in the child's victories & failures. As well, I've learned that being a good parent is a trait that is born from humility, experience & a willingness to step back sometimes & let nature take it's course. I've learned that my parents aren't super heroes, or robots, but rather normal human beings, just like me. & no matter how hard I try, I'll never be a super hero, or robot, either. I've learned that mustard is good on any type of meat. Pause. I've learned that most adult humans can't digest milk, & those that can have a mutated gene. I've learned that A LOT of people don't really read the Bible, they just skim through to the "good" parts. I've learned that "the truth" is dependent on the eye of the beholder, like beauty, but actuality never, ever changes.
I've learned that more people love & respect me, than hate & despise me. I've learned that I love & respect more people than I hate & despise. Actually, I've learned that I really don't hate anyone, & quite possibly never have. Hate is a strong emotion. Stronger than most people can truly fathom. It's just such a fun word to toss around that it's lost it's edge, like "nigga". I've learned how gullible people fall in love over the Internet. Personality is the axis of attraction, even if physical qualities distract us. If one's personality is genuine, assuming they're being true, how could a bond not be formed, even without physical contact? I've learned that you don't have to meet someone in person for them to be a friend. & I've learned that a personal relationship with someone doesn't mean they're your friend, regardless of what they say. "They" always have something to say...
Don't you just love how Black folks love to end any ceremonious event with a shout out? On Court TV, I actually saw a dude rattle off "shout outs" as he was being escorted away for life imprisonment. Roffle mayo. Oh well, he'll think twice before he murders a prostitute again. But anyway, there's far too many cats who supported me over this last year or so, but I love y'all motherfuckers. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE! Thanks for the support, for believing in me, for the kind words, the intelligent exchanges, the real talks-when necessary, & basically being there for me, as well as giving me a reason to be here for y'all. Really though, I appreciate the appreciation.
Brand new year, brand new bullshit, same old nigga...Happy New Year, Bitches!
[tony's note: keep your goddamned gun(s) in the house tonight...please]
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Some Coal For Your Stocking.
Or Merry Christmas, Motherfuckers!
How would you feel if, as a kid, you heard rumors of a happy, fat, possibly drunk White dude who, on Christmas Eve, goes from house to house to drop a load of goodies on good kids? To add to the legend, this guy has countless movies, TV shows & sightings, starting the day after Thanksgiving, so there's no doubt in your young mind that he exists. You may even see him at the mall or the grocery store with a friendly smile & an inviting lap, & even if your parents warned you about personal contact with costumed adults, they make an exception with this cat, even leading you by hand to receive his embrace. Really though, I'm not too partial to my own kids sitting on my lap, so one can't help but wonder about this type of guy's agenda. Never mind the fact that your "house" is covered in security bars & devoid of a chimney, urban mythology says that this clown will be there, satisfying all you material needs, no matter the obstacles. My aunt used to tell my cousins that Santa had a spare key, & that's how he got in. No dice. My uncle had the spare key, & in between crack cocaine binges & trips to the pawn shop, he was nowhere to be found. Anyway, if Santa's not there to deliver the goods, you're left with 364 days to ponder your apparent wrong doing, & correct your mistakes.
I was never allowed to buy into the Santa stereotype, as a kid. My father & mother worked damn hard all year long, too hard to hand over credit to some imaginary character for any possible happiness I may receive. That would be like if I was complemented on how cute I was as a kid by a stranger, them pointing at me, & saying "hey, he did all the work!" Some of my fondest Christmas memories are me looking at my gifts, & always finding a few that said "from Santa". Word? To my mom's credit, though, she used to drink a lot. Personally, I think the real reason the Santa myth was created was to be a convenient scapegoat for the masses. Not only could immeasurable amounts of children's behaviors be modified, but if mom &/or dad can't afford gifts, blame it on Santa, or in essence, the kids themselves. That's some fucked up shit.
"Sorry Propecia, I guess you were bad this year. Santa didn't bring you anything."
Maybe my parents did themselves a disservice by not letting me believe; perhaps they would've saved tons of money Hot Wheels race car tracks & gadgets that wouldn't survive to see the summer. I've always been fascinated by how America chooses to "control" it's child populous by means of boogie men, but fear is indeed a powerful tool in brainwashi-I mean leadership. Santa may have been the lower classes "get out of Christmas free" card, & they didn't know it. Goes to show the long reach of capitalism, word to Valentine's Day. The whole ideology behind gift-giving is for the gifter to express to the giftee whatever sentiment is implied. In laymen's terms, I want you to know that it's from me.
Or, as my dad always said, "Santa Claus my ass..."
& to think, on a day sanctioned to celebrate Jesus Christ, we expected to buy our bad ass kids $200 worth of reward. I say, fuck Santa, fuck Christmas, & buy your kids all the bull shit they deserve when they deserve it, i.e. good grades. If, as a society, it's up to a stranger to motivate our kids to be the best they can be, we are failing miserably.
When my kids were small, we would go outside & look at the neighborhood Christmas lights on our block. One year, one of them asked me where our Christmas lights were. I pointed at our house, & said "you see those lights on in the house? Merry Christmas." A little later, they unwrapped dinner. All jokes aside, although I've never celebrated what some would call a traditional Christmas, I've always attempted to make sure my kids were happy when they woke up that morning. My parents did it for me, so if nothing else, it's a learned response. Condition stimulus, if you will. A psychological reaction to ambient jingle bells & faux snowfall draped over anything from store window displays to front yard nativity scenes. But, also, as tradition demands, my kids have never received a present from Santa. You haven't lived until you've watched a requisite Christmas movie with a sarcastic six year old who knows better than to believe in this St. Nicholas dude.
Sometimes I forget how gullible & naïve people can be, in regards to what real life is. My son & I were having a rather detailed conversation one day, in a Burger King, about how & why people allow their kids to believe in Santa. I never stopped to survey the folks around us, which there was quite a few, & a mother decided to not only listen, but include herself into our conversation. In front of her kid, she started actually rationalizing why Santa might be real. Instead of dismissing her with a "crazy bitch" label, I engaged in the conversation, with the same intensity as I did with my child. Her final statement, obviously out of sheer frustration was, "Well, you gotta let a kid be a kid though, right?", to which I replied "True, & I teach mine not to lie. What type of example would I be if I didn't follow that simple instruction?". He son was intently listening the entire time. End game.
Happy holidays, people.
How would you feel if, as a kid, you heard rumors of a happy, fat, possibly drunk White dude who, on Christmas Eve, goes from house to house to drop a load of goodies on good kids? To add to the legend, this guy has countless movies, TV shows & sightings, starting the day after Thanksgiving, so there's no doubt in your young mind that he exists. You may even see him at the mall or the grocery store with a friendly smile & an inviting lap, & even if your parents warned you about personal contact with costumed adults, they make an exception with this cat, even leading you by hand to receive his embrace. Really though, I'm not too partial to my own kids sitting on my lap, so one can't help but wonder about this type of guy's agenda. Never mind the fact that your "house" is covered in security bars & devoid of a chimney, urban mythology says that this clown will be there, satisfying all you material needs, no matter the obstacles. My aunt used to tell my cousins that Santa had a spare key, & that's how he got in. No dice. My uncle had the spare key, & in between crack cocaine binges & trips to the pawn shop, he was nowhere to be found. Anyway, if Santa's not there to deliver the goods, you're left with 364 days to ponder your apparent wrong doing, & correct your mistakes.
I was never allowed to buy into the Santa stereotype, as a kid. My father & mother worked damn hard all year long, too hard to hand over credit to some imaginary character for any possible happiness I may receive. That would be like if I was complemented on how cute I was as a kid by a stranger, them pointing at me, & saying "hey, he did all the work!" Some of my fondest Christmas memories are me looking at my gifts, & always finding a few that said "from Santa". Word? To my mom's credit, though, she used to drink a lot. Personally, I think the real reason the Santa myth was created was to be a convenient scapegoat for the masses. Not only could immeasurable amounts of children's behaviors be modified, but if mom &/or dad can't afford gifts, blame it on Santa, or in essence, the kids themselves. That's some fucked up shit.
"Sorry Propecia, I guess you were bad this year. Santa didn't bring you anything."
Maybe my parents did themselves a disservice by not letting me believe; perhaps they would've saved tons of money Hot Wheels race car tracks & gadgets that wouldn't survive to see the summer. I've always been fascinated by how America chooses to "control" it's child populous by means of boogie men, but fear is indeed a powerful tool in brainwashi-I mean leadership. Santa may have been the lower classes "get out of Christmas free" card, & they didn't know it. Goes to show the long reach of capitalism, word to Valentine's Day. The whole ideology behind gift-giving is for the gifter to express to the giftee whatever sentiment is implied. In laymen's terms, I want you to know that it's from me.
Or, as my dad always said, "Santa Claus my ass..."
& to think, on a day sanctioned to celebrate Jesus Christ, we expected to buy our bad ass kids $200 worth of reward. I say, fuck Santa, fuck Christmas, & buy your kids all the bull shit they deserve when they deserve it, i.e. good grades. If, as a society, it's up to a stranger to motivate our kids to be the best they can be, we are failing miserably.
When my kids were small, we would go outside & look at the neighborhood Christmas lights on our block. One year, one of them asked me where our Christmas lights were. I pointed at our house, & said "you see those lights on in the house? Merry Christmas." A little later, they unwrapped dinner. All jokes aside, although I've never celebrated what some would call a traditional Christmas, I've always attempted to make sure my kids were happy when they woke up that morning. My parents did it for me, so if nothing else, it's a learned response. Condition stimulus, if you will. A psychological reaction to ambient jingle bells & faux snowfall draped over anything from store window displays to front yard nativity scenes. But, also, as tradition demands, my kids have never received a present from Santa. You haven't lived until you've watched a requisite Christmas movie with a sarcastic six year old who knows better than to believe in this St. Nicholas dude.
Sometimes I forget how gullible & naïve people can be, in regards to what real life is. My son & I were having a rather detailed conversation one day, in a Burger King, about how & why people allow their kids to believe in Santa. I never stopped to survey the folks around us, which there was quite a few, & a mother decided to not only listen, but include herself into our conversation. In front of her kid, she started actually rationalizing why Santa might be real. Instead of dismissing her with a "crazy bitch" label, I engaged in the conversation, with the same intensity as I did with my child. Her final statement, obviously out of sheer frustration was, "Well, you gotta let a kid be a kid though, right?", to which I replied "True, & I teach mine not to lie. What type of example would I be if I didn't follow that simple instruction?". He son was intently listening the entire time. End game.
Happy holidays, people.
Friday, December 4, 2009
I Can Not Tell A Lie
As a kid, I had the kinda pops that would teach me things in a way that made me want to listen, learn & use that shit in real life. Even if to only be more like him. I guess that's admiration. & I guess I do the same thing to/for my son, because on a regular basis, dude surprises me with the way he handles things. His teacher says he's "very mature", among other positive adjectives. I wish more Black men could experience the fruits of positive, tangible fatherhood.
One of the main things he made sure was planted in my psyche was the importance of honesty. Most kids are told "don't lie!", but my dad went as far as to lead by example. Case in point; I've never, ever in my life believed in "Santa Claus". Never had a reason to. Easter Bunny & Tooth Fairy, same thing. Until I moved out of his house, I stood firm on that value, so much so that, one summer, honesty caused an ass load of headache for my family, including almost jail & death.
Yeah, I got some stories...
It was the summer of 1988, between my 6th grade graduation from 54th Street Elementary & my first year at Orville Wright Junior High. We all know that jump from grade to middle school is one the first big steps towards adulthood. Puberty, a little more freedom, the onset of the teenage years. At this juncture, we begin to realize that the world is our oyster. We may not have the skill to crack that bitch open & have at it's mystic pearl just yet, but we've pulled up a chair to the proverbial table & begun to behold the possibilities.
As if the anticipation of Junior High school wasn't enough, my family & I were also moving that summer, to a bigger apartment. My life was changing right before my eyes. Luckily, I'm the type of lad that can respect the unknown. That shit's exciting, in most cases. The new apartment was roughly a half-mile up the street from the old one, so I wouldn't be moving too far from who & what I knew. That made the transition that much easier to accept. The school bus stop was a block away, & all the small conveniences one could want were in walking distance. Also, I'd already been frequenting these establishments, so it was no surprises. Anyone who knows where Slauson Avenue & Overhill Drive cross, in L.A., knows that, back then, that was a generally "good" area. Funny thing though, two summers after we moved there, a nigga got shot in front of our quadplex over some drugs, stumbled into our alley & bleed to death. That was the first freshly dead body I'd ever see.
[tony's note: real life gunshot wounds are nothing like television ones. & coagulated blood stinks...]
My dad told me he needed my help to make this move go smoothly. No worries. My dad knew he could depend on me, especially since I'd been looking after my little brother since day one. I don't recall my parents ever having a babysitter. So, he tells me what I need to do.
"The gas man is going to the new house in the morning. I need you to let him in."
"Okay."
"But, an adult needs to be there. So I want you to tell them that your mother is next door, & they can g'head on turn it on."
"Okay."
"Are you sure you can do it?"
"Of course, dad."
The next day approaches, & my dad drops me off at the new place on his way to work. My mom had already left for work. My brother & I were latch-key kids anyway, so I had no problem chilling alone, waiting for the gas man. Eventually, he arrived & knocked on the screen. I opened the door, hoping he would mistake me for an adult & handle his business. No dice.
"'Sup lil man. Ya mom's here?"
Damn. I didn't want to lie.
"Umm, she said she'll be right back, but to tell you it's cool. You can start now."
"Nah, gotta be someone here over 18 here."
Figured I'd be able to convince him, even pleaded with him. It wasn't happening. He said sorry & headed back to his truck. Now, in my mind, I knew I was in trouble. Trouble for NOT lying. What kinda shit is that? When I did finally talk to my dad, he was pissed. But, oh well. Back then, I didn't know that we had to be out of the old spot by the end of that day. Hey, I'm a kid. He should've taken off work, instead of asking me to do his dirty work, as if bills & rent pay themselves.
Our furniture was already in the new place, so at least we had that going for us. By the end of the day, we were completely moved in, sans heat & hot water. My dad, who's a mail carrier, needed a shower after work. Me, being a boy going through puberty, needed one also. We still had the keys to the old spot, so him & I went there to clean ourselves. After a five minute ride, & him telling me that all-in-all, I didn't do anything wrong, we arrived. You know how when you live somewhere for a long time, you become acquainted with the logistics of the street. Volume of people walking, amount of cars passing, etc. Two dudes were walking down the street, which was slightly unusual for that time of evening. Of course, I noticed them. We pulled up & I got out first, looking at the dudes who to me, looked like Ed Lover & Dr. Dre. That's old school, youngsters. My dad got out & before I could look at him, I heard a loud, shaky voice.
"Gimme those keys, man!"
What the fuck? Was he joking? Nah, not at all. He repeated his sentence, as he pulled what looked like a .38 out of his pocket. Now, the slo-mo kicks in. I'm assessing the situation. These bum ass niggas were robbing my dad at gunpoint.
"Run, Anthony!"
I was also taught that my dad shouldn't have to repeat himself to me. So, I bolted. I ran around the corner, crying, mortified, hysterical, to a large complex around the corner. I knew a lot of the kids, but adults, not so much. Instinctively, I looked for lights & open doors to find help. Oh, & I'm screaming "HELP!" the whole time as well. First door slams right in my face. Word? Am I not a crying kid? Next door I saw, fuck that, I opened the screen myself. An older lady pushed me out the house, while I'm trying to tell her my dad might be shot & shit. *SLAM* Now, on top of my fear builds anger. Old ass scary bitches need to live in a retirement village or some shit if they can't hack it in the real world. Maybe they should be living in a church, because real life happens out here.
I had one older homie, who was like the coolest older kid in the area. He lived in that complex. We all called him "Teddy Bear" for whatever reason. All I remember was him coming outta nowhere, picking me up & running me back around the corner to find my dad. Like a football player. When we arrived back on the scene, my dad's car was still there, & our old neighbor's who'd heard the commotion were standing outside. My friend Terra's mom took me inside, while the other adults started walking down the street to find my dad. In a matter of minutes, he came walking up the street, sweaty & out of breath. He said when I ran, he ran the other way, & those scumbags followed. He said he thought he heard a click, then the guys just scattered. I was so relieved, I cried even harder than I had been. The adults milled around, Teddy Bear made sure I was cool, & everybody went back home. My dad & I got in the car, & headed home as well.
Never did get that shower, though.
We got home, & my extremely angry father stopped the car, got out, ran inside, & came right back. Now, he seemed even madder. Still in shock of it all, I just sat there. My dad asked me was I okay, for like the hundredth time, & we left again. We headed back to the old apartment. I assumed we were going to finally take our showers. We got to the spot, & kept driving. I was curious, but I wasn't about to ask my dad where we were going. My question was answered without any words being exchanged.
I looked over, & he had his gun on his lap. What?! My dad had every intention of finding & killing these men. He was looking, ever so intently, in every shadow, nook, cranny & possible hiding spot for at least a mile's distance. I couldn't believe this. I knew he'd carry his piece from time to time, as well as I've seen him attempt to kick people's asses if he felt they were wrong, but this was another level I'd not yet witnessed in my dad. He was cursing to himself, ignoring the fact that his son was a foot & a half away from him. Shit was scary, because I know what he's capable. At least, before he got all sensitive with age & grandfather-y.
Of course, God helped those clowns get away. I think that made him even angrier, because he wouldn't be able to exact his revenge. We got home, & him & my mom got into a big argument. I stopped listening once she started quoting bible scriptures & talking about me being in the car. Fuck that shower, man. We were home, & "safe", & my dad didn't kill or get killed, so I was good. in hindsight, I understand why he took me back out with him. I can't say I wouldn't do the same thing. Men are complex creatures. Threats of violence are usually met with reciprocation, even if at a later date. This was no exception. I know for certain what my father's intentions were when he never contacted the police. Hardbody.
My mom talked to some emergency gas people, & the following day, there was a dude out to turn our gas on. My father & I have NEVER spoken about the situation. Probably never will. I'll never forget that shit, really though.
Some years down the line, I was watching a football game with some friends. I saw this face, & lit up. "Oh shit!" I said, "that's my homie from my old neighborhood." It was Teddy Bear, who's name is Marcellus Wiley, of the San Diego Charges, Buffalo Bills & Dallas Cowboys. He was a big ass kid, so it made sense when I saw him plowing down the oppostition, & I also remembered how fast that nigga scooped me up, & jetted down the street. Up until that point, I'd all but forgotten that attempted robbery even took place. Even a few more years later, I saw Marcellus at a grocery store in Ladera Heights. He remembered me, came over, gave me a hug, & asked about my "crazy ass dad".
So, yeah.
One of the main things he made sure was planted in my psyche was the importance of honesty. Most kids are told "don't lie!", but my dad went as far as to lead by example. Case in point; I've never, ever in my life believed in "Santa Claus". Never had a reason to. Easter Bunny & Tooth Fairy, same thing. Until I moved out of his house, I stood firm on that value, so much so that, one summer, honesty caused an ass load of headache for my family, including almost jail & death.
Yeah, I got some stories...
It was the summer of 1988, between my 6th grade graduation from 54th Street Elementary & my first year at Orville Wright Junior High. We all know that jump from grade to middle school is one the first big steps towards adulthood. Puberty, a little more freedom, the onset of the teenage years. At this juncture, we begin to realize that the world is our oyster. We may not have the skill to crack that bitch open & have at it's mystic pearl just yet, but we've pulled up a chair to the proverbial table & begun to behold the possibilities.
As if the anticipation of Junior High school wasn't enough, my family & I were also moving that summer, to a bigger apartment. My life was changing right before my eyes. Luckily, I'm the type of lad that can respect the unknown. That shit's exciting, in most cases. The new apartment was roughly a half-mile up the street from the old one, so I wouldn't be moving too far from who & what I knew. That made the transition that much easier to accept. The school bus stop was a block away, & all the small conveniences one could want were in walking distance. Also, I'd already been frequenting these establishments, so it was no surprises. Anyone who knows where Slauson Avenue & Overhill Drive cross, in L.A., knows that, back then, that was a generally "good" area. Funny thing though, two summers after we moved there, a nigga got shot in front of our quadplex over some drugs, stumbled into our alley & bleed to death. That was the first freshly dead body I'd ever see.
[tony's note: real life gunshot wounds are nothing like television ones. & coagulated blood stinks...]
My dad told me he needed my help to make this move go smoothly. No worries. My dad knew he could depend on me, especially since I'd been looking after my little brother since day one. I don't recall my parents ever having a babysitter. So, he tells me what I need to do.
"The gas man is going to the new house in the morning. I need you to let him in."
"Okay."
"But, an adult needs to be there. So I want you to tell them that your mother is next door, & they can g'head on turn it on."
"Okay."
"Are you sure you can do it?"
"Of course, dad."
The next day approaches, & my dad drops me off at the new place on his way to work. My mom had already left for work. My brother & I were latch-key kids anyway, so I had no problem chilling alone, waiting for the gas man. Eventually, he arrived & knocked on the screen. I opened the door, hoping he would mistake me for an adult & handle his business. No dice.
"'Sup lil man. Ya mom's here?"
Damn. I didn't want to lie.
"Umm, she said she'll be right back, but to tell you it's cool. You can start now."
"Nah, gotta be someone here over 18 here."
Figured I'd be able to convince him, even pleaded with him. It wasn't happening. He said sorry & headed back to his truck. Now, in my mind, I knew I was in trouble. Trouble for NOT lying. What kinda shit is that? When I did finally talk to my dad, he was pissed. But, oh well. Back then, I didn't know that we had to be out of the old spot by the end of that day. Hey, I'm a kid. He should've taken off work, instead of asking me to do his dirty work, as if bills & rent pay themselves.
Our furniture was already in the new place, so at least we had that going for us. By the end of the day, we were completely moved in, sans heat & hot water. My dad, who's a mail carrier, needed a shower after work. Me, being a boy going through puberty, needed one also. We still had the keys to the old spot, so him & I went there to clean ourselves. After a five minute ride, & him telling me that all-in-all, I didn't do anything wrong, we arrived. You know how when you live somewhere for a long time, you become acquainted with the logistics of the street. Volume of people walking, amount of cars passing, etc. Two dudes were walking down the street, which was slightly unusual for that time of evening. Of course, I noticed them. We pulled up & I got out first, looking at the dudes who to me, looked like Ed Lover & Dr. Dre. That's old school, youngsters. My dad got out & before I could look at him, I heard a loud, shaky voice.
"Gimme those keys, man!"
What the fuck? Was he joking? Nah, not at all. He repeated his sentence, as he pulled what looked like a .38 out of his pocket. Now, the slo-mo kicks in. I'm assessing the situation. These bum ass niggas were robbing my dad at gunpoint.
"Run, Anthony!"
I was also taught that my dad shouldn't have to repeat himself to me. So, I bolted. I ran around the corner, crying, mortified, hysterical, to a large complex around the corner. I knew a lot of the kids, but adults, not so much. Instinctively, I looked for lights & open doors to find help. Oh, & I'm screaming "HELP!" the whole time as well. First door slams right in my face. Word? Am I not a crying kid? Next door I saw, fuck that, I opened the screen myself. An older lady pushed me out the house, while I'm trying to tell her my dad might be shot & shit. *SLAM* Now, on top of my fear builds anger. Old ass scary bitches need to live in a retirement village or some shit if they can't hack it in the real world. Maybe they should be living in a church, because real life happens out here.
I had one older homie, who was like the coolest older kid in the area. He lived in that complex. We all called him "Teddy Bear" for whatever reason. All I remember was him coming outta nowhere, picking me up & running me back around the corner to find my dad. Like a football player. When we arrived back on the scene, my dad's car was still there, & our old neighbor's who'd heard the commotion were standing outside. My friend Terra's mom took me inside, while the other adults started walking down the street to find my dad. In a matter of minutes, he came walking up the street, sweaty & out of breath. He said when I ran, he ran the other way, & those scumbags followed. He said he thought he heard a click, then the guys just scattered. I was so relieved, I cried even harder than I had been. The adults milled around, Teddy Bear made sure I was cool, & everybody went back home. My dad & I got in the car, & headed home as well.
Never did get that shower, though.
We got home, & my extremely angry father stopped the car, got out, ran inside, & came right back. Now, he seemed even madder. Still in shock of it all, I just sat there. My dad asked me was I okay, for like the hundredth time, & we left again. We headed back to the old apartment. I assumed we were going to finally take our showers. We got to the spot, & kept driving. I was curious, but I wasn't about to ask my dad where we were going. My question was answered without any words being exchanged.
I looked over, & he had his gun on his lap. What?! My dad had every intention of finding & killing these men. He was looking, ever so intently, in every shadow, nook, cranny & possible hiding spot for at least a mile's distance. I couldn't believe this. I knew he'd carry his piece from time to time, as well as I've seen him attempt to kick people's asses if he felt they were wrong, but this was another level I'd not yet witnessed in my dad. He was cursing to himself, ignoring the fact that his son was a foot & a half away from him. Shit was scary, because I know what he's capable. At least, before he got all sensitive with age & grandfather-y.
Of course, God helped those clowns get away. I think that made him even angrier, because he wouldn't be able to exact his revenge. We got home, & him & my mom got into a big argument. I stopped listening once she started quoting bible scriptures & talking about me being in the car. Fuck that shower, man. We were home, & "safe", & my dad didn't kill or get killed, so I was good. in hindsight, I understand why he took me back out with him. I can't say I wouldn't do the same thing. Men are complex creatures. Threats of violence are usually met with reciprocation, even if at a later date. This was no exception. I know for certain what my father's intentions were when he never contacted the police. Hardbody.
My mom talked to some emergency gas people, & the following day, there was a dude out to turn our gas on. My father & I have NEVER spoken about the situation. Probably never will. I'll never forget that shit, really though.
Some years down the line, I was watching a football game with some friends. I saw this face, & lit up. "Oh shit!" I said, "that's my homie from my old neighborhood." It was Teddy Bear, who's name is Marcellus Wiley, of the San Diego Charges, Buffalo Bills & Dallas Cowboys. He was a big ass kid, so it made sense when I saw him plowing down the oppostition, & I also remembered how fast that nigga scooped me up, & jetted down the street. Up until that point, I'd all but forgotten that attempted robbery even took place. Even a few more years later, I saw Marcellus at a grocery store in Ladera Heights. He remembered me, came over, gave me a hug, & asked about my "crazy ass dad".
So, yeah.
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