Can’t Forget About You
All the girls who used to kick me in my kneecaps in grade school (Lisa Alicea, Jenny Something, July Caceido, and Rosa Figueroa), who played lil’ YN out when he was trying to get his puppy love on. My life as a shortie shouldn’t have been so rough. Who’s laughin’ now, bitches? You’ll never touch my riches. Y’all are too old to be making it rain on stage.
Great Neck, Strong Island (I see you Fennessy!). That was the home of industry trade mag CMJ that I spent a few months working at before I got the Source job. Back and forth on the LIRR was hellish. And for 18.5K a year with train fare not included! Rolling Stone’s Jenny E. knows my pain. You fuckers never deserved us.
My grandmother Lucille Clayton Wilson. Every strong Black man has had a kick-ass old lady in his corner from day one. Nanny’s throwin’ her shoe!
Divine “Where Are They Now” Styler for lettin’ a young inexperienced herb ask him lame questions in his career interview jumpoff. Too bad Spiral Walls Containing Autumns of Light was some hot bubblin’ bullshit.
The sounds of Main Source’s Breaking Atoms, Gang Starr’s Daily Operation, Lord Finesse’s Funky Technician, and Showbiz and A.G.’s Runaway Slave which served as the soundtrack to the birth of ego trip magazine.
LL and DJ Run for my arrogance. Queens niggas run you niggas. Ask Russell Rush.
Rob “Daddy Reef” Tewlow for scolding a wet-behind-the-ears, would-be journalist on the importance of fact-checking after reading my Nas feature in Urb magazine.
The bum-ass shit-head who slit a nigga’s pockets with the razor to take my last ten bucks while I was snoozing on the N train. That New Year’s Eve party was off the heezy (WTC was coolin’ in the spot) but it wasn’t worth all that shit.
Cypress Hill for giving a fellow the best contact high of his life in La-La land.
Smif-N-Wessun for trying to teach me how to inhale that ganjah. I’m still Bill Clinton but that was quite hospitable of the BK brethren.
Wyclef Jean for making Lauryn Hill fall in love with him which effectively cock-blocked your boy’s dreams of wifing up a female rap star.
Justin Horatio Smith (That’s not really his middle name, he claims he doesn’t have one) for making sure my special day was a special day. That may sound gay but truth is truth.
My wife Danyel Smith Wilson for not giving me a job at Vibe magazine back when a promo-T-shirt wearin’ young’n’s ribs was touching. Over a decade later, you’ve more than made up for it. Ha!
P.S. Nasir was right: MJ’s moonwalk at Motown 25 was kinda fresh. Un-for-gettable.
Word to Natalie Cole and all the blow she… nevermind.