Hospitals always had that smell. Couldn't really place it. Sterile, yeah, but it scared me to death. I smelled it that morning as soon as I stepped into the lobby of North Central.
The ride in the gypsy cab to the hospital up on Gun Hill was uneventful, except for my aunt's nervous laughter at all my jokes. I swore I was gonna let Moms have it to no end. Imagine, a woman as strong as she was, laid up in a hospital bed.
But the second those automatic doors shushed open, I ran out of wisecracks. It wasn't so much that my comedic repertoire wasnt as vast at thirteen as it might have been were I a few years older, although that did have something to do with it. Nope, what shut me up was that smell. Like it wiped away everything, leaving me naked, but not squeeky clean, all my sins exposed, ready for my turn on Judgment Day.
Try though I might have to get the smell out of my head while I asked the receptionist for directions to my mom's room, it stuck. I thought more of alcohol wipes than of the look on her face when she asked us to wait there while she went off to consult with who ever it was she needed to consult with before showing us the way. When she returned, she asked us to follow her, and whisked us around a corner and down a corridor, into a waiting room of sorts.
The scent wasn't so bad in there. Or maybe I don't remember it anymore, like I don't remember that receptionist's face. I do remember the young doctor who walked in the room after we were there for maybe 5 minutes or so. He introduced himself to my aunt and proceeded to rap away. She looked at me in panic, so I tapped him on the shoulder and explained to him that because my aunt had only been in the country for three months or so, she didn't speak much English beyond "jess" and "pleece", so he'd have to rap with me.
Young Dr. Ross or whatever was on his nametag asked me how old I was. When I told him I was thirteen, he asked if there was anybody older he could speak with. "Nope. Just me, doc." I had a tendency to talk to grown-ups like I was the cool, disaffected protagonist in an early 80s comedy. Always in control. Kinda like Bill Murray in Stripes or Tim Matheson in Animal House. I had all the answers, baby.
The doc looked around, maybe checking to see if I was lying. Or maybe as if by doing so, he'd see an older person he could speak with who he might've overlooked before.
"Listen, doc," said Otter, main man at Delta House and sometimes just a thirteen-year old Spanish kid from the Bronx, "she's my moms. You can tell me the deal, and I'll pass it along, dig? Its cool."
He shook his head, breathed heavily. The way I remember it now -- better yet, the way I interpret it these days, he probably couldn't believe that he was about to have this kind of conversation with a thirteen-year-old. "Okay, kid," he began, "I have some very bad news for you."
Another breath. Another grave shake of his head. "Your mother was in a very bad car accident," he said.
I smiled. Cool as the Fonz, that was me. See, I'm the one who spoke to the cop who'd called the house with that same news a little less than an hour before. I forgot his name a long time ago, but I remember the phone call:
"Are you related to Altagracia Fernandez?"
"Yes, sir. I'm her son."
"How old are you, son?"
"Thirteen."
A long, slow breath.
"Hello...? Officer...?"
"Your mother was in a car accident, son. She's at North Central Bronx Hospital on Gun Hill Road."
Now, I was the one breathing heavy.
"You there, kid?"
"Yeah..."
"North Central on Gun Hill, okay?"
"Yeah..."
Click.
A quick cab ride up the Concourse later, past the state-of-the-art sliding doors and into the sterilized atmosphere of North Central, into that... smell, and the proto-George Clooney was giving me the same news.
Me, I was ice, baby. In control. In fact, I quickly calculated that, hey, if that was the bad news, then anything after that was rice and beans. Routine. Broken leg or something I could crack jokes about.
"Aaaand?" I prompted.
"Okay, kid," he said. These days, I'd swear he wanted to add "you asked for it," but that's just me feeling sorry for myself. I mean, even a resident fresh out of med school had to know that he was about to change someone's life forever.
"A very, very bad accident. We did everything we possibly could. Everything. But it was just too much, and by the time we got to her, it was already too late."
Pause.
Not that I didn't hear him. I did. But I didn't think I did. So I had to double check.
"You lost me, doc. What does that mean, 'too late?'"
He looked around again, probably hoping my father or brother or somebody, anybody older than thirteen would walk through the door and spare him this assignment. But nobody came.
And all of a sudden, it hit me: that scent, again.
"Your mother is dead, kid. I'm sorry."
...
I hate hospital smells.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Falling Apples
Happy Birthday to my Pops. Turns sixty-seven today. Told me that according to some symbolism or other (Tarot cards? I couldn't really understand what he said), the number 67 means "stabbing."
Sixty seven.
I remember calling him when I turned twenty-eight, so many moons ago. Tough guy that he was (and still is) he just sighed and remarked that I had finally reached the age he was when I was born. Gave one of his Cuban expressions, cracked a joke. But something about me turning twenty eight made him sigh a lot longer and louder than I had ever heard.
Maybe in that one quick exchange he reflected on his own life, his own accomplishments --or the lack thereof. Never thought to ask Pops about his dreams. Don't even know if he ever really had any. Can't remember him ever working towards any goal past the rent money.
What I do remember is him packing his bags one day, and Moms poppin' shit even after we could see his car pull down the block and around the corner from all the way up on our fourth floor window.
His only attempt at a family after that was with a Cuban lady in Miami, but my sis and I deaded that shit right after Moms died and the lady wouldn't stop running her mouth, opinionating on Moms' comings and goings. Or so we thought. For all I know, he might've wanted to break camp long before that, but didn't know how to.
Good thing he didn't have any children with her. No kids to remember him packing his bags. Nope. That one fell to me and Sis.
And so he went, the eternal blue-collar bachelor dude, putting in his hours at the gig, having more than a few Millers with his expatriated homies at the local watering spot after work, flirting with this waitress or that laundromat attendant. Day in, day out. Nigga even scooped up a lady who pushed her own hotdog cart once.
When 'Welo died, and 'Wela was left alone to fend against the wolves, Pops had to slow his roll somewhat. And now 'Wela has Alzheimer's, and seems to believe she's back in Cuba, circa 1940-something, and she can't be left alone. His roll has come to a complete stop.
And Pops, for reasons that I'm only now beginning to really understand, has to spend his birthday watching TV and making sure 'Wela doesn't wander off or otherwise hurt herself, instead of surrounded by his children and their children. His family.
Me, I believe Pops just never had it in him. Just wasn't his thing. Hard enough when you're reluctant.
Helluva thing, to be the constant gardener. You've got to have it in you. And me, I'm only now beginning to understand that sometimes, no matter how hard I try, I can not get the falling apples in my backyard to land far enough away from that tree.
Happy Birthday to my Pops.
Sixty seven.
I remember calling him when I turned twenty-eight, so many moons ago. Tough guy that he was (and still is) he just sighed and remarked that I had finally reached the age he was when I was born. Gave one of his Cuban expressions, cracked a joke. But something about me turning twenty eight made him sigh a lot longer and louder than I had ever heard.
Maybe in that one quick exchange he reflected on his own life, his own accomplishments --or the lack thereof. Never thought to ask Pops about his dreams. Don't even know if he ever really had any. Can't remember him ever working towards any goal past the rent money.
What I do remember is him packing his bags one day, and Moms poppin' shit even after we could see his car pull down the block and around the corner from all the way up on our fourth floor window.
His only attempt at a family after that was with a Cuban lady in Miami, but my sis and I deaded that shit right after Moms died and the lady wouldn't stop running her mouth, opinionating on Moms' comings and goings. Or so we thought. For all I know, he might've wanted to break camp long before that, but didn't know how to.
Good thing he didn't have any children with her. No kids to remember him packing his bags. Nope. That one fell to me and Sis.
And so he went, the eternal blue-collar bachelor dude, putting in his hours at the gig, having more than a few Millers with his expatriated homies at the local watering spot after work, flirting with this waitress or that laundromat attendant. Day in, day out. Nigga even scooped up a lady who pushed her own hotdog cart once.
When 'Welo died, and 'Wela was left alone to fend against the wolves, Pops had to slow his roll somewhat. And now 'Wela has Alzheimer's, and seems to believe she's back in Cuba, circa 1940-something, and she can't be left alone. His roll has come to a complete stop.
And Pops, for reasons that I'm only now beginning to really understand, has to spend his birthday watching TV and making sure 'Wela doesn't wander off or otherwise hurt herself, instead of surrounded by his children and their children. His family.
Me, I believe Pops just never had it in him. Just wasn't his thing. Hard enough when you're reluctant.
Helluva thing, to be the constant gardener. You've got to have it in you. And me, I'm only now beginning to understand that sometimes, no matter how hard I try, I can not get the falling apples in my backyard to land far enough away from that tree.
Happy Birthday to my Pops.
Lies and the Humans Who Tell Them, Part I
time and time again, you'll hear tell of the woman's superiority in crafting lies. men, as the pseudo-metaphor goes, are dogs, therefore, they don't bury their bones too deep in the backyard, oft times digging them up and bringing all types of drama into their lives. the XX-chromosomes, however, are more associated with cats, slinking about in silence, doing whatever it is they do, while the hapless dog is none the wiser.
i don't know, though. pet comparisons aside, what experience has taught me is that both genders are capable of creating fiction the likes of which no Fitzgerald or Hemingway could have imagined. the difference isn't so much between which of the two is more adept at story-telling, but which of the two has the greater need to believe those lies.
and, to para-quote another of the great dreamweavers, therein lies the rub.
from before their chests sprout the first bump along the way to becoming breasts, long before they ever have to keep their eyes on a calendar, little girls are taught that men lie; all of them, be they Little Leaguers or their beer-imbibed pre-cursors in the stands.
"that's just how they are," seems to be the explanation.
as such, by the time they realize --consciously or otherwise-- that tens of thousands of years' worth of men have fought, killed and died for the moist, velvety skin between their legs, young women resign themselves to spending the rest of their lives being lied to.
and with good reason.*
because both genders have socialized themselves and each other into accepting this to-and-fro as the "natural" order of things, a bastardized symbiosis has emerged in which women, conditioned to believe that it's in a man's genetic code to be untruthful, have played the roles of dutiful wife, wifey and girlfriend** on autopilot; while men, who've been the primary beneficiaries of the exchange, have done the same.
need proof? ask around and you'll find how rare is the one cat out of a crew of homies who does not cheat. odds are the attitudes of his compatriots toward his lack of play swing wildly between either end of the pendulum, from the adversarial "that bitch got him whipped" to the admirational "damn, i wish i could do some shit like that."
what most men are not taught***, however, is that their chromosomic counterparts have been playing the same game, only they don't celebrate touchdowns in the end zone; they do so when all the fans have gone home, and the locker rooms are empty of reporters.
the aforementioned rub? well, because men, in general, have become so accustomed to the eons-old arrangement, they simply can not fathom that their beloveds, with their virgin eyes and angelic smiles, the godly mothers of their children or the keepers of their beating hearts, would ever look them in the face, and lie.
it crosses our minds, to be sure. but in our eternal quest to become "better," we ignore instinct and rely on intellect, which tells us we're projecting. we're somehow ascribing our own shortcomings to find fault where it doesn't exist, just to relieve our guilt.
dime-store psychology goes a long way, no doubt. especially when self-diagnosing. but like lawyers who represent themselves and have fools for clients, physicians, even emotional ones, should not be so inclined to heal themselves. especially when they ignore their spirit, screaming at the top of their ethereal lungs that although the numbers seem right, something just ain't adding up.
kinda like swimming with dolphins. they're beautiful to look at, we've told ourselves that they're "smarter" than we are, and we want to believe so, so badly that we can somehow keep up.
my mother, rest her traitorous soul, said there'd be days like this. "don't ever, EVER give us the opportunity to break your heart. we lie. and we will not hesitate to do either."
but i knew it all. and in my need to believe, mom-dukes' admonition and my instincts got the curb.
and i got...
well, when all was said and done, i got smarter, finally.
finally.
-----
*because that is the status quo, if you will, i have no need to elaborate here. if you're reading this, and you honestly can't or won't agree, i suggest you remove the focus off your own life and watch the world as if you weren't the star of today's feature. trust me; it works.
**interestingly enough, the one role in which honesty --in all its raw, brutal power-- plays the motivator is the role which most women do their best to not play for too long. when it matters, it's that of homie/lover/friend; when it doesn't, it's the jump-off.
***the irony is that despite the ever-growing single-parent [usually female-dominated] family, one positive is that young men learn about women from women. and whether directly or indirectly, they are taught that the only absolute about truth is that it is relative.
i don't know, though. pet comparisons aside, what experience has taught me is that both genders are capable of creating fiction the likes of which no Fitzgerald or Hemingway could have imagined. the difference isn't so much between which of the two is more adept at story-telling, but which of the two has the greater need to believe those lies.
and, to para-quote another of the great dreamweavers, therein lies the rub.
from before their chests sprout the first bump along the way to becoming breasts, long before they ever have to keep their eyes on a calendar, little girls are taught that men lie; all of them, be they Little Leaguers or their beer-imbibed pre-cursors in the stands.
"that's just how they are," seems to be the explanation.
as such, by the time they realize --consciously or otherwise-- that tens of thousands of years' worth of men have fought, killed and died for the moist, velvety skin between their legs, young women resign themselves to spending the rest of their lives being lied to.
and with good reason.*
because both genders have socialized themselves and each other into accepting this to-and-fro as the "natural" order of things, a bastardized symbiosis has emerged in which women, conditioned to believe that it's in a man's genetic code to be untruthful, have played the roles of dutiful wife, wifey and girlfriend** on autopilot; while men, who've been the primary beneficiaries of the exchange, have done the same.
need proof? ask around and you'll find how rare is the one cat out of a crew of homies who does not cheat. odds are the attitudes of his compatriots toward his lack of play swing wildly between either end of the pendulum, from the adversarial "that bitch got him whipped" to the admirational "damn, i wish i could do some shit like that."
what most men are not taught***, however, is that their chromosomic counterparts have been playing the same game, only they don't celebrate touchdowns in the end zone; they do so when all the fans have gone home, and the locker rooms are empty of reporters.
the aforementioned rub? well, because men, in general, have become so accustomed to the eons-old arrangement, they simply can not fathom that their beloveds, with their virgin eyes and angelic smiles, the godly mothers of their children or the keepers of their beating hearts, would ever look them in the face, and lie.
it crosses our minds, to be sure. but in our eternal quest to become "better," we ignore instinct and rely on intellect, which tells us we're projecting. we're somehow ascribing our own shortcomings to find fault where it doesn't exist, just to relieve our guilt.
dime-store psychology goes a long way, no doubt. especially when self-diagnosing. but like lawyers who represent themselves and have fools for clients, physicians, even emotional ones, should not be so inclined to heal themselves. especially when they ignore their spirit, screaming at the top of their ethereal lungs that although the numbers seem right, something just ain't adding up.
kinda like swimming with dolphins. they're beautiful to look at, we've told ourselves that they're "smarter" than we are, and we want to believe so, so badly that we can somehow keep up.
my mother, rest her traitorous soul, said there'd be days like this. "don't ever, EVER give us the opportunity to break your heart. we lie. and we will not hesitate to do either."
but i knew it all. and in my need to believe, mom-dukes' admonition and my instincts got the curb.
and i got...
well, when all was said and done, i got smarter, finally.
finally.
-----
*because that is the status quo, if you will, i have no need to elaborate here. if you're reading this, and you honestly can't or won't agree, i suggest you remove the focus off your own life and watch the world as if you weren't the star of today's feature. trust me; it works.
**interestingly enough, the one role in which honesty --in all its raw, brutal power-- plays the motivator is the role which most women do their best to not play for too long. when it matters, it's that of homie/lover/friend; when it doesn't, it's the jump-off.
***the irony is that despite the ever-growing single-parent [usually female-dominated] family, one positive is that young men learn about women from women. and whether directly or indirectly, they are taught that the only absolute about truth is that it is relative.
Saturday, March 18, 2006
Daydream Believer
I guess the best way to put it would be to say that my mind is trying to kill me.
Thought that'd get your attention.
I miss my children.
Just looking at their pics, as I'm doing right now, hurts.
And as much as I don't want to "make that call," for reasons that might be obvious to anyone who knows how painful those calls can be, I sometimes just want to hear their voices.
The baby never wastes her opportunity to run down her latest grievance, as if Daddy's close enough to help make things better.
"I've got a boo-boo!" becomes an emergency if I don't give her the response she wants to hear.
And my lil' man, well, true to his oft-stated desire to be "an actor," getting on the phone with me is his chance to clown around, make funny voices and generally act up.
I barked at him last night, like the selfish piece of shit I can be sometimes. No excuse, but I know why I did it. I felt like a crumb, even as I snapped. I was just in one of my moods (they tend to be "the norm" these days) and I only wanted to have a conversation with him.
But that's what he wanted to do too, in his own, eight-year old way. Only I'm too caught up in my own tiny, insignificant world that I only realized that after I got off the phone.
Dumbest smart nigga I know, that's me.
Sometimes, I convince myself that they're busy, doing their respective things (the baby running around, acting grown or buggin' her brother for attention; and lil' man playing a video game or buggin' his mom for attention too).
I tell myself that they're aiight. And that if they wanted to speak with me, they'd ask their mother to call me.
Right?
So I satisfy myself with a quick look at their pics. My favorite one was taken last summer. Lil man has his hands around his baby sis, and they're both smiling. Kinda like they're telling me not to worry, that everything's gonna be aiight.
All signs point to this "new life" that I keep harping about, this rebirth, this bullshit that I've been telling any and everyone who'll listen, being real. Y'know? That circumstances being what they are, I'm now in the ideal position to make "my dreams come true."
But my mind, she won't let me rest, man. Because as much as those dreams center around writing and producing and telling stories, they've always included family.
I used to believe those daydreams.
Tough-guy wisdom, especially the kind cultivated in the Bronx, says to man-up, choke in that pain, and say, "fuck it." Who needs family? Who needs anyone? All other people do is cause me pain, anyway.
Right?
...
I miss my babies, man.
Thought that'd get your attention.
I miss my children.
Just looking at their pics, as I'm doing right now, hurts.
And as much as I don't want to "make that call," for reasons that might be obvious to anyone who knows how painful those calls can be, I sometimes just want to hear their voices.
The baby never wastes her opportunity to run down her latest grievance, as if Daddy's close enough to help make things better.
"I've got a boo-boo!" becomes an emergency if I don't give her the response she wants to hear.
And my lil' man, well, true to his oft-stated desire to be "an actor," getting on the phone with me is his chance to clown around, make funny voices and generally act up.
I barked at him last night, like the selfish piece of shit I can be sometimes. No excuse, but I know why I did it. I felt like a crumb, even as I snapped. I was just in one of my moods (they tend to be "the norm" these days) and I only wanted to have a conversation with him.
But that's what he wanted to do too, in his own, eight-year old way. Only I'm too caught up in my own tiny, insignificant world that I only realized that after I got off the phone.
Dumbest smart nigga I know, that's me.
Sometimes, I convince myself that they're busy, doing their respective things (the baby running around, acting grown or buggin' her brother for attention; and lil' man playing a video game or buggin' his mom for attention too).
I tell myself that they're aiight. And that if they wanted to speak with me, they'd ask their mother to call me.
Right?
So I satisfy myself with a quick look at their pics. My favorite one was taken last summer. Lil man has his hands around his baby sis, and they're both smiling. Kinda like they're telling me not to worry, that everything's gonna be aiight.
All signs point to this "new life" that I keep harping about, this rebirth, this bullshit that I've been telling any and everyone who'll listen, being real. Y'know? That circumstances being what they are, I'm now in the ideal position to make "my dreams come true."
But my mind, she won't let me rest, man. Because as much as those dreams center around writing and producing and telling stories, they've always included family.
I used to believe those daydreams.
Tough-guy wisdom, especially the kind cultivated in the Bronx, says to man-up, choke in that pain, and say, "fuck it." Who needs family? Who needs anyone? All other people do is cause me pain, anyway.
Right?
...
I miss my babies, man.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
I'm early...
'Bout a week or so.
Just wanted to say, "Happy Birthday."
Wait. I remember your English... :)
So... mejor dicho: "Feliz Cumpleaños."
Estamos sanos. Y si no, estaremos.
Nos criaste bien.
Te quiero.
Bendicion.
Just wanted to say, "Happy Birthday."
Wait. I remember your English... :)
So... mejor dicho: "Feliz Cumpleaños."
Estamos sanos. Y si no, estaremos.
Nos criaste bien.
Te quiero.
Bendicion.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
Karma, Chameleon!
A coupla weeks ago, during a break in the action around here, I browsed through my modest lil’ flick roster and popped in Carlito’s Way.
Despite the sappy love story (hard core Boricua cat from El Barrio gets wide open on some white stripper chick? Gimme a breeeeeeak…), most connoisseurs of top-choice cinema will agree that the flick belongs in any self-respecting movie head’s library, and that Pacino, though not a Puerto Rock, did his thing kinda nicely (even with the chopped up Spanish).
Like any flick with exponential repeat value, Carlito’s Way offers something new at every viewing:
First time I caught it was in a TV room while wearing Dickies with numbers on ‘em. The message I and most of my fellow audience members got from it back then was that falling in love with a stripper will fuck ya mind up but good, leaving you susceptible to all types of mishaps.
Caught it again some time later within a cipher of disgruntled street vets down on their economic luck, and the message became “Man, shit ain’t the same no mo’. These youngbucks done fucked the game all up…”
Another peep and I found myself reminiscing about the time my pops owned a social club/pool hall underneath our building on Hoe Avenue (which got me to thinking that maybe the ol’ man had a little bit more hustle goin’ on than his carpentry gig).
And now this latest screening left me thinking about the scene where Carlito and his lawyer Kleinfeld (played by Sean Penn, who shoulda got the Oscar for that shit!) have just returned from their fateful boat ride on the East River…
Kleinfeld, the attorney with the Ivy League plaques on his wall, has decided to go mano-a-mano with some family-type guys with last names that end in vowels. Only problem, with that particular breed of human, it’s more like, cañon-a-coete.
So Carlito, the war-weary O.G., advises: “You ain’t a lawyer no more, Dave; you a ‘gangsta’ now. You on the other side. Whole new ball game. You can’t learn about it in school. And you can’t get a late start.”
Kinda the same with hip-hop, no? Bottom line is, you gotta live this shit to be this shit. Coppin’ and listening to every CD in the history of Rap is a good start, but that alone won’t do it. Runnin’ to Macy’s for the latest in “urban wear” will help you dress the part, but that alone won’t do it. That’s too easy. And—at the risk of sounding like one of those disgruntled vets mentioned above—paying dues still counts.
Not to say that late-comers aren’t welcome; just give respect where it’s been earned. For too many, hip-hop is an Akademiks shirt or a Nelly album or a fresh pair of Tims. A product. A costume they can rock at will.
Thus, it’s maaad easy to disguise themselves as someone they’re not. “Industry” folk do it all the time. From dick-riding A&Rs, who seem more concerned with catching residue pussy from their signees, to cock-blockin’ publicists, who’re just happy to be SpongeBobbin' at all the parties.
Rappers? They do it all the time. Label execs do it even more. Same with magazine people (with exceptions; they know who they are). As for MTVBETVH1, shit, TV and Hollywood made it a science before any of our parents were a tickle in our grandparents’ nether-parts.
But like the weeds that push through cracks in the sidewalk, the truth always finds a way. Certain heads will stand out. And though most people think they do, the ones who really do don’t even realize it. And if they do, you’d never hear it from them.
--Save your questions, and jot this down instead: If you have to ask, well, 1+1 is always 2, young Stan--
So, yeah, Carlito had his Kleinfeld, and we’ve got a couple million cardboard cut-outs running amok, shootin’ their mouths off a lot more than they’ve ever shot anything else. Fortunately, we learned from Carlito’s Way. And next time Kleinfeld wants to write checks he ain’t built to cash, we’re lettin’ Benny Blanco be the collections man.
In a minute…
**originally published (minus a nip here, a tuck there) a long-ass time ago, while on the plantation, far, far away… and trust me when I say to those of you who’ve followed the saga all these years, the crystal-ball ironies of this mini-diatribe are not lost on me.**
Despite the sappy love story (hard core Boricua cat from El Barrio gets wide open on some white stripper chick? Gimme a breeeeeeak…), most connoisseurs of top-choice cinema will agree that the flick belongs in any self-respecting movie head’s library, and that Pacino, though not a Puerto Rock, did his thing kinda nicely (even with the chopped up Spanish).
Like any flick with exponential repeat value, Carlito’s Way offers something new at every viewing:
First time I caught it was in a TV room while wearing Dickies with numbers on ‘em. The message I and most of my fellow audience members got from it back then was that falling in love with a stripper will fuck ya mind up but good, leaving you susceptible to all types of mishaps.
Caught it again some time later within a cipher of disgruntled street vets down on their economic luck, and the message became “Man, shit ain’t the same no mo’. These youngbucks done fucked the game all up…”
Another peep and I found myself reminiscing about the time my pops owned a social club/pool hall underneath our building on Hoe Avenue (which got me to thinking that maybe the ol’ man had a little bit more hustle goin’ on than his carpentry gig).
And now this latest screening left me thinking about the scene where Carlito and his lawyer Kleinfeld (played by Sean Penn, who shoulda got the Oscar for that shit!) have just returned from their fateful boat ride on the East River…
Kleinfeld, the attorney with the Ivy League plaques on his wall, has decided to go mano-a-mano with some family-type guys with last names that end in vowels. Only problem, with that particular breed of human, it’s more like, cañon-a-coete.
So Carlito, the war-weary O.G., advises: “You ain’t a lawyer no more, Dave; you a ‘gangsta’ now. You on the other side. Whole new ball game. You can’t learn about it in school. And you can’t get a late start.”
Kinda the same with hip-hop, no? Bottom line is, you gotta live this shit to be this shit. Coppin’ and listening to every CD in the history of Rap is a good start, but that alone won’t do it. Runnin’ to Macy’s for the latest in “urban wear” will help you dress the part, but that alone won’t do it. That’s too easy. And—at the risk of sounding like one of those disgruntled vets mentioned above—paying dues still counts.
Not to say that late-comers aren’t welcome; just give respect where it’s been earned. For too many, hip-hop is an Akademiks shirt or a Nelly album or a fresh pair of Tims. A product. A costume they can rock at will.
Thus, it’s maaad easy to disguise themselves as someone they’re not. “Industry” folk do it all the time. From dick-riding A&Rs, who seem more concerned with catching residue pussy from their signees, to cock-blockin’ publicists, who’re just happy to be SpongeBobbin' at all the parties.
Rappers? They do it all the time. Label execs do it even more. Same with magazine people (with exceptions; they know who they are). As for MTVBETVH1, shit, TV and Hollywood made it a science before any of our parents were a tickle in our grandparents’ nether-parts.
But like the weeds that push through cracks in the sidewalk, the truth always finds a way. Certain heads will stand out. And though most people think they do, the ones who really do don’t even realize it. And if they do, you’d never hear it from them.
--Save your questions, and jot this down instead: If you have to ask, well, 1+1 is always 2, young Stan--
So, yeah, Carlito had his Kleinfeld, and we’ve got a couple million cardboard cut-outs running amok, shootin’ their mouths off a lot more than they’ve ever shot anything else. Fortunately, we learned from Carlito’s Way. And next time Kleinfeld wants to write checks he ain’t built to cash, we’re lettin’ Benny Blanco be the collections man.
In a minute…
**originally published (minus a nip here, a tuck there) a long-ass time ago, while on the plantation, far, far away… and trust me when I say to those of you who’ve followed the saga all these years, the crystal-ball ironies of this mini-diatribe are not lost on me.**
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