Sh!t Happens

  Shit happens. I found that out this morning...on the hood of my black Toyota Corolla, which surprisingly didn't move on it's own to get out of the way [...].

I walked to my car to the sight of this large white mound of atrociousness masking the hood. This wasn't your typical bird droppings, folks. This was a bird diagnosed with bird flu and then vomiting diarrhea out of its ass and laughing about it.

Here's what I thought:

  This can either be the work of some fatass bird that was rewarding itself by taking the biggest shit of its life on a black car [because lets face it, it knew what it was doing]

OR

  A bunch of small birds circle jerking [and/or dumping] on the telephone wire that hangs precariously above 4th st., or more appropriately, my car.

  Either way, they could have at least took the courtesy of leaving a note on my windshield; "Sorry about the mess, my nest-mate was MC Hammer'd last night from eating whatever PBR residue from the human vomit outside the Pike". That would have been ideal.

  So thank you bird[s] for showering my car with your fecal matter and for leaving my black Corolla like the good side of the Oreo cookie you twist off with your bff, except the size of a sewer cap.

[Sarcasm Included]

Note to self: It would be awesome if birds shat diamonds. Then I probably wouldn't be so upset.

See you next time, folks.

Wait, No. That's Not What I Meant...

And now, another "Wait, No! That's Not What I Meant..." moment.

On a camping trip with the Johnson family.

"Last time we camped here we stumbled across a bunch of hungry, malnourished 'coons begging for food. They're like robbers, you know, with their black...ribbons......masking their..........eyes...

wait, no. That's not what I meant..."

This has been another installment of "Wait, No! That's Not What I Meant..."

Chatting with Heroes #2: Thor

OhMyGodofThunda: Hello, ol’ friend!

Joleisheckadumb: Thor!!! What’s up.

OhMyGodofThunda: How art thou on this cold crisp evening? Comfy, I hope.

Joleisheckadumb: Please don’t start with the whole Greek jargon.

Joleisheckadumb: No need to pull that charade with me, Donny B.

OhMyGodofThunda: Good, because frankly, I’ve grown quite tired of speaking that way.

OhMyGodofThunda: It has become expected of me.

OhMyGodofThunda: Sometimes it’s just out of habit.

Joleisheckadumb: You’re a Doctor right? I mean, when you’re not turning villains into burn victims via thunder bolts

Joleisheckadumb: and wielding that 10 ton cement block you call a hammer…

OhMyGodofThunda: lol. Yeah, why?

Joleisheckadumb: I need help with this rash I have. It’s been irritating my taint like crazy.

Joleisheckadumb: Probably from trying on Spidey’s suit at the Avengers reunion party.

OhMyGodofThunda: Gross. Are you serious?

Joleisheckadumb: No. jk lol

OhMyGodofThunda: I’m sure you aren’t joking…slut. You probably slept with Black Widow, that rancid wench.

Joleisheckadumb:  Hey what time is it?

Joleisheckadumb: HAMMER TIME! Hahahaha!

OhMyGodofThunda: har har har. Feeble.

OhMyGodofThunda: Can’t TOUCH this.

Joleisheckadumb: Nice.

OhMyGodofThunda: But really, it’s almost 10PM here. I need to go mee mee’s soon.

Joleisheckadumb: Mee mee’s????

OhMyGodofThunda: it means sleeeeeeeeeep.

Joleisheckadumb: it means gay.

Joleisheckadumb: Tim "the tool man" Taylor’s hammer pwns Mjolner!

Joleisheckadumb: jk. Please don’t pound me to the ground with it…

OhMyGodofThunda: Hahaha. Easy young friend, I do not harm civilians.

Joleisheckadumb: So what are you up to?

OhMyGodofThunda: Just relaxing on Asgard.  Here for the weekend.

OhMyGodofThunda: lAhhhkjds YOU’RE A DICK! Alskdjaiweoi2

Joleisheckadumb: wtf?

OhMyGodofThunda: My blunder. That was my brother Loki.

OhMyGodofThunda: Mischievous little bastard.

OhMyGodofThunda: He irritates the crap out of me.

OhMyGodofThunda: I despise the fact that we have to share a room during my visit.

Joleisheckadumb: Why??? Isn’t Asgard huge?

Joleisheckadumb: Do you guys spoon? Or should I say, do you guys Trident? Or do you need 3 people for that?

OhMyGodofThunda: HAHAHA! FTW.

OhMyGodofThunda: Yeah, but Asgard has become a tourist site now that we’re just feet above Oklahoma. Plus my Dad is using another room as a study.

Joleisheckadumb: To study what?

OhMyGodofThunda: Ironically, Norse Mythology.

Joleisheckadumb: HAHAHAHA! That’s hilarious. 

OhMyGodofThunda: g2g. Gonna snack on something before bed.

OhMyGodofThunda: Probably a Cliff bar.

Joleisheckadumb: Hell yeah, get your fiber on.

OhMyGodofThunda: Farewell, my friend.

OhMyGodofThunda: I mean, peace out, son.

Joleisheckadumb: good knight.

OhMyGodofThunda has signed off

Happy Hunting.

They freak out every year I show up to the hunt with a crossbow. It's not my fault these kids don't take this egg-hunting business seriously. I play for keeps; so stay out of my way.

At least there were minimal casualties this year and a whole lot of plastic filled eggs [enough with the hard-boiled ones already]. One plastic egg was actually filled with cocaine, but I won't say which Uncle is easily mistaken as a successful Columbian drug lord; that's another hunt in itself with the FDA...or the Health Inspector.

Win of the day: finding that one, precious, gold egg that I then fertilized with my man love. To my cousin's girlfriend, you're welcome.

Happy Easterz.

April Fools

Nine months ago, I strategically impregnated a foolish-dimwitted young divorcée and pinpointed the exact birth to fall on this day. Not only did she get 15 minutes of shame on the moronic television show, I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant, and experience the best April Fool's joke of her life, but she'll also be living the dream as a MILIAAAAA [Mother I'd Like to Impregnate Again And Again And Again], and will be my personal running gag.

I on the other hand will be basking as the victor of the best prank I've pulled since putting Uncle Jesse's car on the high school roof.

APRIL FOOLS EVERYONE...It was DJ and Kimmy that put Uncle Jesse's car on the school rooftop, not me sillies, I was never on Full House.

P.S. - April Fools...yes I was.

P.P.S. - April Fools again...the baby is black. Just got the text message from another guy in my Nymphos-Anonymous class.

Wait, No! That's Not What I Meant...

A new segment I like to call, "Wait, NO! That's not what I meant..."

"There's something about a child's laughter that brings me to my knees...

wait, no! That's not what I meant..."

end.

Top 10 Ways to Defeat [or stay alive whilst dealing with] an Opponent Armed With a Dagger

Daggers are small. This we know. What we may not know is that they are small, sharp and pointy. Small enough to stow away in you average gym sock [average meaning they are white, long and tube-like, and often accompanied with the stripes around the calf...but that's not important right now--moving forward] and sharp enough for Pan to slay Hook with a single, swift, thrust to his clock ticking heart.

So, me being a retired street fighter [yes, like the video game] I want to equip you with some tips on how to conquer villainous minorities [because white people are nice and they are our future].

1. DON'T LISTEN TO YOUR INSTINCTS. Remember how many times they have failed you, so FIGHT BACK with an imaginary knife. This can lead to the opponent believing you're in desperate need of psychiatric help and will trigger their concernment; often leading to them disarming themselves.

2. RUN, but not into his dagger. [And I assumed the person with the dagger is a male, because they are animals. Girls don't use weapons. Except their nagging, complaining, pots and pans, and other sexist objects...a vacuum]

3. DON'T CALL THE POLICE. they can often mistake you as the suspect and shoot you, which will wound you and leave you prone to dagger attacks. Then you die, and I can't have that kind of guilt on my conscience.

4. DODGE. If he comes thrusting forward, don't just stand there, silly, keep those hips on a swivel.

5. CALL HIM BAD NAMES. Bring up his painful and traumatic childhood of his abusive father and floozy for a mother. This will make the grown man cry and bring him to his knees. He is now vulnerable for rape...dagger rape. [See: #6]

6. [MUST take place AFTER step 5] DO NOT CONSOLE him. He is broken down by the aftermath of a difficult upbringing, steal his dagger and GO FOR THE KILL.

7. DANIEL LaRUSSO injured-ankle crane kick; works every time.

8. PRETEND. Look over his shoulder and slowly [wide-eyed] gaze as if there were, standing ferociously tall behind him, a giant beast waiting to devour all living things that taste like human. He would then turn around [duped by such great role playing] deemed as a sucker; at that point run and text your friend about how clever you are.

9. DO NONE OF THESE THINGS and stick to what they taught you in Kenpo Karate.

10. VOMIT. Just vomit and see where that goes...people don't like vomit.

You're VERY Welcome.

Chatting With Heroes #1: Robin

ThatBoyW0nder (11:05:03 AM): Sup, foo!

Joleisheckadumb (11:05:04 AM): AUTO-RESPONSE: Countin’ my rocks at the end of the block. Holla at me if you need some nose candies!

Joleisheckadumb (11:05:10 AM): Sup, gay.

ThatBoyW0nder (11:06:00 AM): Dude, don't let Batz see your away message, he'll pop ya'.

Joleisheckadumb (11:06:02 AM): Chill out, man. It's a joke. Plus I only do drugs on weekends.

ThatBoyW0nder (11:06:07 AM): HA! What are you doin’ tonight?

Joleisheckadumb (11:06:10 AM): Dude, its not even noon yet and your asking me what I’m doing tonight? Why do you always do that?

Joleisheckadumb (11:06:19 AM): I might be going to a bar. Is Batman there? Tell him to give me a ride.

ThatBoyW0nder (11:06:28 AM): He’s in the shower. Why don’t you drive, you have a car.

Joleisheckadumb (11:07:00 AM): Because I’m planning to drink, son. Plus I’d look badass rolling in the BM, you crime-fighting d00sh.

ThatBoyW0nder (11:07:38 AM): Well, I’m trying to find something to do.

Joleisheckadumb (11:08:06 AM): Look for longer shorts! HAHAHA! LOL!

ThatBoyW0nder (11:08:42 AM): stfu asshole. I know! But Batz is like “I’m the only one who wears pants in this duo”. Like he doesn’t get enough praise from the city people.

ThatBoyW0nder (11:08:59 AM): And I had some longer ones, but it made me look like a cyclist.

Joleisheckadumb (11:09:06 AM): Well the one’s that you wear now make you look pre-pubescent. So, fix that.

Joleisheckadumb (11:09:11 AM): I’m not trying to be seen hanging out with you wearing those ass-hugging green shorts.

Joleisheckadumb (11:09:18 AM): I wouldn’t even want to be seen being saved by you wearing an outfit like that. People might get the wrong idea. HAHAHA!

ThatBoyW0nder (11:10:00 AM): Batz just got out of the shower. He said he’ll swoop you up around 10pm.

Joleisheckadumb (11:10:14 AM): Sweet. I’m gonna go make breakfast.

ThatBoyW0nder (11:10:22: AM): Cool. Is it cool if I come out tonight?

Joleisheckadumb (11:10:23 AM): As long as you don't dress like you're wrestling for Gay Rights, yeah. I mean, it would be fine if you were gay...

Joleisheckadumb (11:10:25 AM): But you're not, right?

ThatBoyW0nder has signed off

ThatBoyW0nder has signed on

ThatBoyW0nder (11:17:04 AM): I had to reset my computer. And NO I'm not gay.

Joleisheckadumb (11:17:05 AM): AUTO-RESPONSE: Makin' Brefuss because Robin likes men.

ThatBoyW0nder (11:17:08 AM): You're a dick.

Shy Ronnie.

Stumbled across this on Hulu last night. Pretty funny stuff. The video here is cut off, so click on it to be forwarded to the site.

My Secret is Out.

I actually harness the quality of what so many vigilant folk yearn for. This odd and quite possibly visually [don't get ahead of yourself, Sanchez] frightening, if noticeable, quality that is seemingly useful and necessary to raise alertness in such moments as rape, surprise attacks, horror film-type situations, or even, checking out "hot" babes, or staring directly at the person inline behind you at the bank. Yes, folks...

I have eyes on the back of my head.

Except all it sees is hair. So... there's that.

[note to self: starting to understand why my parents deem me useless]

End of Side B

Frosted Mini-Rant

What's your favorite cereal? Cool, moving on.

I like to think of myself as a Cereal Connoisseur [sometimes it's all I think about], not because I engage in midnight rendezvous with such nourishment. Not because I can speed read through literature and wacky puzzles on the back. Or because I might have the Lucky Charms marshmallows [before the red balloons] encompassing my belly button as a temporary tattoo at this very moment. Not even because I've collected all 4 micro-machines once [which, btw, I lost]. It is because I have so many choices when it comes down to it. So many favorites. One of those favorites being Frosted Mini-Wheats. So, if you're reading this and have never tasted Frosted Mini-Wheats, please refrain from going on any further because there are spoiler-alerts. So with that said...

*SPOILER ALERT*

They're NOT completely frosted. I know, you're welcome.

I wish they were. Maybe there is a shortage of frosty goodness. Who knows? I love the cereal, I do. It's a great source of Fiber. I just wish they weren't such liars over there at Kellogg's. If they called them Kellogg's Kinda Frosted Mini-Wheats, I would have thought twice before grabbing 3 family-sized boxes at Costco when I don't even have 3 families, let alone ONE. What am I supposed to do with all this Almost Frosted pseudo-goodness? Dowse it with milk until soggy, and make a Nipa Hut out of it? No, because that's exactly what they want you to do, because they're racist.

...Eh, I suppose it won't hurt.

End of Side A

Nine Months Later

Its been nine months since my last blog. I wonder if anyone has noticed. Probably, since I'm well past my third trimester and showing. Go ahead, gently place your palm against the screen; feel it kicking like its anxious to explore the world we have yet to. I guess this is a reminder that I will give birth to future blogs. Blogs that will flourish and campaign towards my/your/our artistic endeavors and creative realms. Blogs that will nurture and nest you in it's intellectual bosom, in hopes of eternal inspirational refuge; typical blog stuff like knitting a scarf or digital arts and crafts. Observations through the eyes of ambitious midgets or the best way to eat pie from Hoff's Hut or how to stare at a human-pest long enough to kill it. Inspirational stuff like that.

So I welcome me back and look forward to writing words to all the internet itinerants.

Cheers mates.

JS

040609 Tokyo!

To put it simply, this film was ravishing.  An outstanding and unique omnibus perspective on the disparate and peculiar lives of those compressed in close quarters of overpopulated city, Tokyo.  Similar to the critically acclaimed ensemble directed Paris, je t'aime, this film was conceived through a manage a trois of visually stunning and imaginative story tellers/directors, Michel Gondry, Leos Carax, and Bong Joon-Ho; each projecting a plethora of memorable moments accompanied by stylized yet intriguing and creative cinematography, dare I say original. 

Each film had its own opening and closing credit sequence (shorter than usual) which I assumed was used to announce the lack of a linear plot or any sort of coherency. I am not sure there was any relevance between the three films despite there being a few similar themes, they stood self-composed and strayed from contradiction; in other words, they all worked very well as separate films, as well as side by side. I strongly advise you movie goers to see this inspirational film as I am positive you'll leave in desperate attempts to analyze what shapes you.

032009 As Decadence Slowly Devours

Long time no bloggy. Pardon my online social-journal hiatus, I've just been more focused on what can be done to ensure the longevity, in my defense, here on our common grounds and I came to the conclusion of cyborgs. More later this week.

Nothing beats being a number amount of beers away from sober then meandering your away home [on a bike] from point A to point B coughing up whatever lungs you have left that the nicotine left you mercifully while thinking, "hey, why not." How was my night last night? Pretty good.

And for my friends here on blogspot (a red squiggly line indicating a spelling error for the word blogspot on blogspot; how ironic) I have yet to read your entries and might get around to it, however, I'm guessing it's not important enough to tell me via phone or company; I say, lets make a date to see each other since I miss you in all sorts of ways.

And if you need to stop believing in something, don't be afraid to do so even if Steve Perry tells you otherwise. 

CHEERS

022609 It's A Boy

My Sister just had her second child today, a baby boy. Congratulations.  Jaylen Makai Smith born at 12:34AM today.  Yay! Now I have a niece to have tea parties with and a nephew I can wrestle!

I'm happy.

021109 Not My Idea Of A Murder Mystery

Last night, I experienced a rare yet discernible dream, a first I think, and very eerie; that in which involved a nuance of puzzles and semiotic relevance to a murder mystery i.e. Clue. Now, when it comes to dreams, I do not recall them in their entirety but rather in fragments or scenes as I'm sure a lot of you do as well. Now the irony in such "dream absentmindedness" is damn near palpable, in respect to this current dream I had about the motif of murders (as I like to consider it). Trying to recollect particular scenes of a dream about deciphering a murder scene seems pretty ironic to me. So lets get to it (caution: this dream isn't scary but may be to readers, it is truly the most eeriest I've experienced, so read carefully...and no, nothing is going to jump onto your screen).

In the corner of an empty small wooden-wall furnished bedroom sits an old theatre teacher of mine from college, and certified genius in my defense, Craig Fleming. There is a single strung light dangling from the ceiling in the center of the room (the kind you would see illuminating a black bagged/hooded victim as they sit in the interrogation/torture seat on a Friday night). I sit at the opposing corner, left of him, behind a white small square table. On it, a newspaper which I haven't looked at yet, I just know through my peripheral and the aroma the uncoated groundwood paper tagged by mineral oil ink gives off.

He tells me to look at the crossword puzzle inside it. I open it up only to find a giant crossword puzzle on the center of the right page that was started but not finished. 17 across catches my eye because it is subtly illuminated, glowing almost. It's 9 letters long, 9 boxes long that is. After the first 2 boxes, 4 of the boxes are traced by a rectangle, as if it were a clue; a word within a word if you will. So it came to my attention that there is a 4 letter word within this 9 letter word but why? I look on the left page for corresponding clues for the empty boxes, nothing but one clue and it was for 17 across, that read "There has been a murder." I look at Craig and ask him if he knows the word. He replies, "You have to figure it out. Not me" So I began to assume that this 9 letter word is the answer to the murder.

Here's where it gets creepy. On the left page above the corresponding clue for 17 across, was a picture of a white bed the murder took place on drawn with blood. It was fresh, not yet settled in fully into the fabric or stained or saturated. I use the word drawn because, the pattern of the blood on the bed was the same exact pattern (but on a larger scale; the bed) of the crossword puzzle, just slightly messier. The extension of lines and the variety of length or sizes of the blood "stain" was almost proportional to that of the crossword puzzle despite the size differential (like a bloody crossword if you will). My eyes kept rallying back and forth from left page to right page as I kept trying to think of the 4 letter word and the 9 letter word. I lowered the newspaper back on the table, and in the room, before my eyes, was the bed from the picture. We stared at it. I got up to examine it, and what was written in the ruddy stained crossword puzzle, on the bed, in 17 across, in 9 red stained boxes, I'll never know, because I woke up.

Fin.

020709 Happy V-Day and by V I Do Mean Vagina

So Valentine's Day is coming up, and cupid is on the prowl ready to shoot his sex arrow ever so gently into your extremities with his Legolas-esque preciseness and accuracy. So if you're not a big fan of V-Day and you're a gigolo (or whore) or you just can't fathom the idea of a relationship, then I strongly advise you to wear a cup on the 14th and get your hand ready for the night of its life. 

Right now Proflowers.com is having a special; a dozen roses for $30 (vase included), but wait, there's more! You'll receive an additional dozen more for free! For that special someone...else. Because nothing says I love you like "please suspect that I am cheating on you with my OTHER girlfriend" OR here are 24 roses stuffed in a small vase, enjoy the plethora of aphids and/or pests. So I'm contemplating on completing my gift with an abundant amount of pesticides. Enjoy. 

As a dominant male (lol, not so much) I wouldn't mind if my "GF" got me roses. I'd take care of them as if they were one of my own. Feed them, bathe them. I'd bring them everywhere and treat them to a nice cone of Pistachio Gelato or take them to see a rousing game of street ball in the ghetto courts of East LA. (Note to self, spray paint some of the roses BLUE just to be safe)

Oh, and on the day of love, don't you dare forget it is still Black History Month. So when you celebrate the love through the majesty of romance, don't forget who invented it, that's right, African Americans. It is their month, so it is their day. Except they call it, ValentiMes day. with an 'M'.  Maybe cupid had a gat? 

And if you're planning to break up with that horrendous annoyance that you call a girlfriend but want to give her one last gift, throw her a card that reads on the front "Roses are red, violets are blue..." and inside "I think we should see other people...bitch"

CHEERS.

020209 I LOVE BLACK PEOPLE/Happy black history month

Today, I saw another young african american college student with the shirt "OBAMA IS THE NEW BLACK" which made me want to revisit this old blog I had from a month ago...

"I saw a black woman, who can easily be mistaken as a sassy gal, with a shirt that read, in post-modern techno font, "OBAMA IS THE NEW BLACK".  Now satyrical or not, what is that suppose to mean? You're disregarding the term "African American". and just because you're a black woman, you're allowed to see color and I'm not? Are you suggesting that FINALLY "your people" have some sort of integrity and intellect because our president is an African American? First of all lady, your shirt is too hip for office, and second, you, wearing that shirt, makes your race as a whole look ridiculous because you're suggesting that before Obama, there wasn't any room for intelligent African Americans. There's this one guy, named Martin Luther King, Jr.  who has a HOLIDAY that lasts an entire month, who changed the course of history and who set the bar for so many black people; ever heard of him? Probably not because your BET channel is on way too loud and you have a subwoofer connected to your 17 inch TV.  Anyway, MLK set the bar, but the latter African Americans took that bar, molded it, welded it into a gun and shot their own kind; some of them took the bar as it is and brought it to the Rodney King riot/beating. People, you need to watch the BOONDOCKS episode called "The Return of The King" and learn a thing or two. Youtube it or Hulu it or something. I am in no way a racist nor prejudice in anyway, just only against black people wearing shirts that read "OBAMA IS THE NEW BLACK" because he's more than that, he's the new PRESIDENT."

Have you seen Stephen Chow's Kung-Fu Hustle? I saw it some years ago, which allowed me to forget how innovatively (not a word but should be) awesome and highly entertaining it was after seeing it again a few days ago. He also did Shaolin Soccer which was creatively enticing enough to recommend but not if it's a toss up between that and Kung-Fu Hustle on a kettle corn filled friday night with some nerd buddies you took Ninjutsu class back in 5th grade with; or if you were like me and your parents frowned upon such "violence"/self-defense classes or just didn't want to spend the money, then you just watched Power Rangers in order to learn how to fight, of course until you put your dukes up with Patrick Douglas, the 6th grade bully, and tried to morph into something spectacularly unstoppable which inevitably lead to THREE things (1)embarrassment, (2)a black eye, and (3)not having a girl to dance with at the school dance.

Super Bowl 43 just ended. Congratulations to the Pittsburgh Steelers and their victory. If I still had my retro Steelers jacket I wore when I was 5 years old, you better believe I'd force that around this stud-like body of mine and celebrate with them.

CHEERS.

012009 I Love It When You Call Me Big Papa

My favorite hip-hop artist of all time has finally had a biopic made of him, not to mention the first hip-hop biopic in film history; Notorious (not to me muddled with Alfred Hitchcock's 1964 film Notorious).  Since I saw the trailer a couple of months ago, I was instantly enlivened to see this film being an avid Notorious BIG fan growing up which inevitably makes it difficult for me to escape the bias when watching, analyzing and critiquing this film. 

The story and short life of rapper Christopher Wallace, also known as Biggie Smalls but better known as The Notorious BIG was brought to life by a first acting gig, unemployed and expectant father, Jamal Woolard who did an impressive job of capturing the voice and talent of Wallace himself; again, this being his first acting job ever. Director George Tillman Jr. did an excellent job capturing the city and souls of Brooklyn of the 90's it was damn near palpable. The film is a strong biopic because of its strong validity; involving his relationship with West Coast rapper Tupac Shakur and the birth of a coast to coast feud as well as the relationship of female rapper Lil' Kim or as I like to refer to her, Slut Mobile. I was skeptical about actor Derek Luke playing Sean "Puffy" Combs, but I realized this was a younger Sean Combs in a different era of hip-hop almost 10 years ago and I honestly was surprised by his performance; it wasn't Oscar worthy but it was good nonetheless. 

Though dead narratives always leave me baffled, it seemed to work coherently well for this biopic and didn't necessarily bother me too much. Tillman took an idea out of Gus Van Sant's Milk and blended stock footage and film together for that more genuine "based on a true story/life" feel/vibe. 

As a fan, I know BIG only as an artist. Though it's just a "movie" (yet a biopic), it allowed me to recognize him as Christopher Wallace; a humbled and harmless, flawed individual who loves and cares for the people close to him. 

If you're not a BIG fan nor a fan of hip-hop I still recommend seeing this movie due to it's candidness and accuracy of the lives and struggles of lower city persons such as Brooklyn, how successful a talented young drug dealer such as Wallace can become which allows us to recognize how much we can pursue with the abilities we have at our current situation of "survival".

cheers.