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mos-def

I was a fan of Mos Def before I interviewed him. Thankfully, I still am.

We waited, the photographer and I, an hour or so for Mos in the office of his label Downtown Records. Located in Soho. I was sitting on the couch in the lounge area, near the elevator. I had my head down for a nanosecond, thumbing at my BlackBerry. I feared he wouldn’t show up. By the time I looked up, the photographer had advised me that Mos, who was already across the room, had entered. As silently as a ninja. Not that I imagined trumpets blaring upon his arrival or anything, but dude was discrete. He wore a cheetah hoodie, the same one he chose for his second appearance on Real Time With Bill Maher, jeans with a trendy wash, a tiny leather jacket and sunglasses. Of course, the sunglasses.

He himself was tiny, as most rappers are in real life. It’s a strange trend. Or maybe we just imagine them big in our minds.

Since Mos was hungry, we decided to hit a local cafe. I preferred a non-restaurant setting for a magazine feature. It’s too typical. But I mean, this was Mos Def in a restaurant so I took it. Before we left, he went over some packaging for his album cover (pictured below). “Aren’t you supposed to have people to do that for you?” I joked.

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This is the published XXL story, one of my favorites: Quiet As Kept

I always like to see the stuff that gets cut out. An article is never a full story and neither is an interview. There are bits and pieces that you put into context. On my Blackberry, I took a lot of notes during my few hours with Mos, which were really quite enjoyable. And enlightening.

Unedited Notes (his quotes in italics):

Listens to “Casa Bey” where he’s singing – The kudlow report on cnbc. Walks over to cubicle area and goes over album packaging with Amanda. Don’t say in stores. That’s cheesy. Just say 6.9.09. Details. Hands on with little details like he’s an exec. Aren’t you supposed to have people to do that for you? Macbook Pro.  Pulls up hood in elevator. On phone on sidewalk, walking from spring on crosby/broome. Nippy outside, blue skull thingy hanging from belt buckle Yeah it does. It better. Sometime. Vans double taps from japan, starts singing, making phone calls. Trip got extended cause had to see some folks, starts singing to someone over phone to demonstrate his artist. Asks to see photos. Huddles in front of fed-ex truck on spring and lafayette. Near 6 train Spring. Pass an old lady walking into her apmt. “Son of on a bitch. I hope you fuckin die. Woman screaming. Oh that was mos def.

To the basement, past the kitchen, dark area, very gloomy, can barely see menu. Two women sitting next to us  Rice and beans, side of avocado 10 days, freezing out “They was tellin me how warm and balmy it was. I almost didn’t wear this hoodie.”

Photographer shows booklet of kids who train surf Walks wIth the pimp lean down the hallway Back to studio GY black cap with orange lettering  Cafe du monde white graphic tee  Red suspenders  Needs cigarettes. Can I order some? Nah that’s some bougie shit. Pack of american spirit yellow. For the tan tumor that you- Explaining to him that studio shots are cliche. “They haven’t seen ME in the studio”  Studio just finished in June  During dinner, Mos staring off at other patrons into distance. Smiling shyly, not looking you in eye.

Seems excited about the tracks in the studio. Black long sleeved shirt underneath tshirt. Plays “casa bey.” Temp stat in studio at 72. Gets up and starts scatting vocals to “Casa Bey” Two rings, one gold, one greenish. Cafe du monde shirt from new orleans – that’s where the spot is  Sings some kind of “Freedom fighters” georgia and murdrow. Like bilal, nina, betty carter, making own beats. Sounds like hymn. Like mj off the wall. Off on tangent, no one knows what saying. Wrote song for stepdaughter. Adele, all of dem, she got all of that. Trying to get her on the album. Either roses or yuriah’s flight. Its that love power cause human beigns we fragile. Everybody wants a hug.

Talks to son Fidel over phone. Its me pop. I’m at work pop. Ima see you later ok. Stop tryna be a teenager, you 60. I love you pop. Ill see you soon  Mos on the phone: How was House? Did you check it? How I do? Cheetah print hoodie. My favorite joint.  Swagger, you can fake it. She’s like, “he’s a control freak, this guy.” Plays Georgia (but sounded like jojo or jomo) “yuriah’s flight” (sounds like.the joints badu has on her album) Talk about album and what people should expect. What artists are you excited about. People on a higher plane just on a higher plane. Through stones throw. When I heard her I was like whoa. This is coming like a female madlib

Outside on the street, after the interview and shoot are complete

Red truck across the street shoveling dirt. Walks back to the building alone as quietly as he came.

Funny: Mos Def Interview with Interview Excerpt:

It’s not that people have to “ball” less, it’s just that they need to do something good. This is what I wanted to tell XXL. They had this cute little girl asking me all these biographical questions, and I was like “what does this have to do with it?” Making people pretend they know me because they know where I was born. I just want to be necessary and do good works.

Which stemmed from this:

Unpublished portion of Mos Interview:

You started rapping at like 9. How did you… Was it a Run DMC song that you heard that made you want to rap?
First rap song I ever heard was “It’s Like That.” I don’t know, it found me and I found it. We found each other.

How did you find each other?
It was everywhere. It was just in the air. Where wasn’t hip-hop. I was born in 73 so 81, 82 I’m 8, 9 years older just absorbing all of this stuff.

But not everybody wants to actually do it and not everybody can.
I didn’t have any type of ambition either. It was just… it was child’s play. It was child’s play but it was an interest that never left so by the time I was 18 people were actually doing it professionally and even then people didn’t have any ambitions of doing it for like 10 years outta they life.

Were you always… Did you start writing your rhymes? When you were 9, did you write poetry?
I always was writing. I like to read. I like writing. So I was always writing so it was just natural for me. It was… I never really had that ambition that other people have. Like, “I’ma go to L.A…” My circumstance was different. It was in my environment and I enjoyed doing it so I did it and as I got older, my main ambition was just to be able to do it professionally and that was like a big dream. Like, wow can you imagine if that was just your job. That’s all you had to do.

So it wasn’t a big deal to you to be a rapper?
I just enjoyed it. You know, I enjoyed it. I was a kid so I never looked at myself as a rapper or… I was just doing the things I do and I was good at it so I kept doing it.

I know you were raised in the Roosevelt Projects.
Roosevelt Projects.

How long were you there?
Well, I lived in Roosevelt with my mother and my grandmother til I was like 13, 12 or 13 and then we moved to Flatbush – back to Flatbush. ‘Cause we had lived in Flatbush—I lived all over Brooklyn.

Were you a quiet kid?
Yeah, I was a quiet kid. I was reserved, shy.

I read somewhere that you got picked on in school.
Oh, everybody gets picked on in school I guess.

And you started rapping to—
I mean, I started rhyming because I liked to do it but it was also a way to… achieve some social status among my peers, you know. Some kids play sports. Some kids draw. I rhymed.

I know you were close to your mom. Were you a momma’s boy?
These questions, they’re not gonna give anybody any more insight into how I am! No…

Why do you think that? What are the questions that—
People know me cause of what I do but they can’t [pause] they don’t really know me. and I don’t pretend to know them or make assumptions about the audience or herd them in a group. I’m just an individual doing what I love to do. I hope that it’s of some use. The biographical facts about me, I guess there’s some interest to some people but they’re not really—

I think it is. It makes up who you are and hip-hop fans—
Yeah, but people read that in a magazine, they’re not gonna get, you know.

You don’t feel like it helps any.
It’s arguable. More or less.

The Burden of Food

This story is crazy. A guy had Crohn’s Disease, an intestinal disorder, so severe that he needed surgery and afterwards, he couldn’t eat.

The Man Who Couldn’t Eat

For the first meals after I was home from the hospital, I tried joining them at the table, a happy-meal family, but my starving presence disturbed the kids, and I’ve been marooned on the love seat or exiled to the bedroom ever since. The silver-dollar-sized burgers and petite seeded buns excite the boys, and they yammer with mouths full of food, their speech garbled by chewed meat and bread soaked in warm juices. One after another the patties fall, cutting down the pyramid of sliders, and I can only watch and listen as the plate gets swept clean. Our six-year-old kneels and turns on his chair. He has taken a momentary break from the carnage, his mouth a juicy mess, and he trains me with a severe look. “When will you eat?” he demands in a voice complicated by vulnerability, the worry that afflicts all children whose parents get sick. “Soon,” I lie. “Tell me about the burgers.” [Esquire]

The Constant Gardener

Check out my guest blog for Aliya S. King. I like to rewrite so I wrote about rewriting…

The Constant Gardener

I’m an obsessive rewriter. Some writers can sit at their computers and pump out a story in one sitting. I can’t. Correction: I’m able to. But I prefer a few days or weeks to work on a lengthy piece.

The first draft is never the best in my eyes, especially if it’s a long story. The more you can revise a story, the better.

When I get to the point where I say: “I HATE this story!” that’s when I know I’m nearly done rewriting. Nearly. I realize that doesn’t work for everyone. But I enjoy the process. More…

Short Story: The Lucid Dreamer Part 2

The Lucid Dreamer: Part 1

He was ugly, and he was short, and so she knew that this was not one of her lucid dreaming sessions. He cocked his head, arms stttretched to hold the top bar on the subway. She exited and he followed.
“Excuse me!”
She hastened her steps.
“Hey girl!”
She turned around. “I’m not a g—“
He was holding up something of hers, wearing a smirk, and he scoffed. “You left your scarf.”
“—irl.”
She grabbed it, face softened. “S-sorry. Thanks.”
She turned to leave. He grabbed her arm. She looked disgusted. “Um, ’scuse me?”
“You’re beautiful…”

“You’re beautiful,” said Jaleel. “But you could lose a few pounds.”
She turned toward him in her queen-sized bed with pink satin sheets in her huge penthouse. Her waist length hair moved with her head. “Excuse me?”
“I’m just sayin’. You should do some yoga. Or something. We can do it together.”
He said the last word louder. TOGETHER. He was buff. She could never resist him. But not in this regard.
“No thanks, J.”
She awoke in her own bed back in Hell’s Kitchen.
Ugh. Lynn did say I’d be able to do this at home now. But this isn’t what I signed up for…

“But I’m supposed to control everything, right?”
“Yes, January. In time. Some things won’t be exactly as you like. But in time, you’ll learn to control—
“Stop telling me that!”
“Sorry January. It’s protocol.”
“Protocol, huh? He should tell me I’m beautiful, not beautiful, but!”
She grabbed her coat and left the office, slamming the door, rattling the framed certificates on either side.
She was on the train again, sitting alone. Mr. Scarf entered her car. He looked at her, recognized, approached, sat, smiled.

“You again?” She groaned.
He cocked his head to the right. “You’re beautiful.”
“Again??”
Her face registered confusion.
Just then, his face started changing, distorted at first, and then…changing. She closed her eyes and then opened them and then closed them and opened them, shocked. Now he looked just like Jaleel. Just like…
But… h-how? Am I lucid?
He extended an arm.
No, this is real.
“Hi,” he said. “Jaleel.”

I Deserve This

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If I like an artist, I like ‘em. Hype doesn’t deter me unless said artist blows. Some people might say that about Drake, but I don’t really care to hate on him just because everyone else is pushing him. You can’t deny his craft and wit. Wrote about him recently in a piece to come. In the meantime, this beat, by Tha Bizness, knocks. As someone who always had my nose in the books while everyone else’s was in the dirt, I can so relate. A bit of modesty with a small pat on the back and a dash of keep-it-moving

Look at where I’m is, it’s only just begun
‘Cause I was stayin’ home when they was havin’ fun
So please don’t be surprised when they announce that I won

Drake, “The Winner

Download

Okay I do it for the love
Bunk bed flow, always one level above
If I’m in your starting five, you will never need a sub
And I’m never lookin’ down, so I always know wassup
A lotta people sayin’ fuck me
Problem is, they be tellin’ everybody but me
But I always got a Starbucks verse bein’ brewed too hot
Please, please double cup me
They never gave me support like Chuck Ts
And I never trust a nigga sayin ‘trust me’
Nick Cannon and Will never did it this ill
So you tell the house band, don’t you dare interrupt me

Is Free the Future?

I’m torn on this issue of the world, and journalism, moving toward “Free.” Mostly because many of my writer friends are losing jobs because of it. Malcolm Gladwell, author and cultural critic, reviewed Chris Anderson’s book Free: The Future of a Radical Price for The New Yorker, basically arguing against the theory that Free is good. Anderson is the Editor of Wired.

Priced to Sell
Is Free the Future?

When you let people upload and download as many videos as they want, lots of them will take you up on the offer. That’s the magic of Free psychology: an estimated seventy-five billion videos will be served up by YouTube this year. Although the magic of Free technology means that the cost of serving up each video is “close enough to free to round down,” “close enough to free” multiplied by seventy-five billion is still a very large number. A recent report by Credit Suisse estimates that YouTube’s bandwidth costs in 2009 will be three hundred and sixty million dollars. In the case of YouTube, the effects of technological Free and psychological Free work against each other. [The New Yorker]

Rotten Beans II

The first time I went to visit Yuri (not her real name), I was greeted with a kiss on the cheek at the door. She grabbed me and hugged me and said, “Thank you. I’m so proud of you!” in thick Bangladesh.

“Come in, come in.”

I smiled and stepped further into the apartment, indeed pleased with my initiative, yet thinking at the same time, that’s a weird thing to say. Standing in the middle of the living room, I surveyed the area as Yuri apologized for the mess.

Her place wasn’t messy. At least not more than the average apartment unprepared for visitors. I had come unannounced, as I didn’t know her number, only her apartment unit. I noticed there was no television in the living area. The walls were off-white and void of art. Furniture, spare. The color theme, bronze and beige. The home looked lived in. Cozy isn’t the word. Dingy, neither. Somewhere in between.

I held up a bag of Lindor truffles that I’d picked up on the way home as an offering.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “You didn’t have to! You don’t have to bring anything when you come here. Just yourself. Yourself is enough.”

“Okay, well, I wanted to bring something.”

I took a few chocolate wrappers out the bag and left it on her counter. In exchange she handed me a banana, which I politely accepted.

“My mom is here,” she said,” ushering me to the bedroom to say hello and apologizing again for the mess to which I insisted, “It’s okay. Really. I’m messy too.”

I’m not.

She introduced me to her mom, who was sitting on Yuri’s bed wearing a pastel colored sari. When Yuri and I returned to the living room, I sat on a sofa that seemed lower than most, and Yuri sat beside me still smiling.

“I’m so proud of you,” she said again.

I knew this was all weird. Entering a stranger’s home in your apartment building just to say hi. Well, for no reason at all. This was abnormal. A language barrier prevented any complex dialogue. The basic things, though, we understood and we empathized and I knew all she really wanted was someone in the building to talk to.

I asked her if she went to work that day. She didn’t work. She received alimony from her husband, whom she recently divorced. The 11 years she mentioned when we first spoke was actually how long they’d been living together in the apartment, not the length of time they’d been divorced as I initially thought.

I would learn more about him and about them the next time I came to visit her.

I told Yuri I had just come from work and just wanted to say hi. Our exchanges were brief and trivial and we talked mostly about her, everything she said lightly coated with depression. A sigh between phrases. A sudden frown. She was lonely. I could tell she didn’t quite comprehend everything I said. She got the gist.

I stayed for about 15 minutes before leaving, banana in hand. Again on my way out she grabbed and pinched my cheek.

“I’m so proud of you for coming!”

“Me too…”

I was sure she didn’t realize what that meant. Or maybe she did. I did hope she realized she wasn’t the only one that needed someone.

Do You Remember

Sometimes you know there aren’t words. just emotions and memories

Michael Jackson, 1958-2009

MJ

J5era124

J5era141

Rotten Beans

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The beans were rotten. So I had to take them out. I’d left the bowl of black beans in the fridge sitting for about a week, too busy, or rather lazy, to pay them much mind. They’re called black beans but they’re really brown. I had left my apartment earlier in the day and when I returned, finally smelled them—and I know this is bad—I knew this was bad so I took the bowl out and lifted the lid. Pungent. A white layer of film atop the beans coated them and made them unrecognizable. I held my breath and threw them into a plastic bag. And into another plastic bag. And into a shopping bag. And another shopping bag. I put the bowl in the sink, soaked it in Joy. I grabbed my keys and left to take the bags outside to the garbage.
On the way to the trash hub at the side of the building, I saw a woman standing in front of the center garden. She looked Middle Eastern, was generously clothed despite the 70-plus degrees, in her 30s probably, petite with shoulder length jet black hair. Looked like she was waiting for someone. I passed her and I looked at her with no smile. Indifference is a New Yorker’s best defense and never smile at strangers. The black beans where they belonged, I headed back to the building. I passed her again.
“Nice shoes.”
She had an accent. I turned around.
“Oh thanks.” Smile. They’re black gladiator sandals I got for free through a Steve Madden hook-up; been getting lots of compliments.
I said thanks and turned back around, keys in hand. Got work to do.
“Do you live in the building?”
I turned back. “Yeah.” I switched to friendly mode, all smiles and nods, eyes squinting in the sun.
“What apartment? I’m in 8A*.”
“2C,” I said.
“I’m in 8A.”
We exchanged names.
“You should come to the apartment,” she said. “If you want to. You know, people in this building… There’s not really many friendships. People don’t speak.”
I stared at her. “Yeah, I know…”
“Do you live by yourself?” she continued.
“Yeah, studio.”
“I live alone,” she said. “In my apartment. Studio.”
“Me too.”
“I used to live with my husband but we got divorced.”
“How long have you been—”
“11 years,” she said.
The divorce, she meant. I meant living in the apartment, but that’s what she wanted to tell me.
“Oh. Ok, I’ll drop by.”
“If you want to,” she said, neither prying nor overly eager. Just wanted to talk. “I’m there any day, night, I’m there. If you want to. Today my mother is coming.”
She looked off to the side.
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“Bangladesh. I was studying fashion design but…” I don’t remember what she said. She extended another offer. “You should come to the apartment. If you want.”
“Yeah I’ll come.”
“If you want to…”
“I will.”

Short Story: The Lucid Dreamer

Lucid dream: A dream in which the sleeper is aware that he/she is dreaming. When the dreamer is lucid, they can actively participate in and often manipulate the imaginary experiences in the dream environment.

The Lucid Dreamer: Part I

She awoke with a stir. Pent up and in, where she was, she could not see the faces she desired. Through the glass window she peered, head tilted clockwise at vacant faces, and then examined her sea green gown open in the back and foreign to her. She arose from the bed, feet finding a cold, damp, unfamiliar, unhomely floor that felt disinviting. Where the hell am I? The white-coated male and female stared through the glass, empty faces turning more concrete – They were old. And White. And in white gowns, holding clipboards. Examining. She tiptoed toward the glass, approaching her reflection, witnessing her tousled mess of a thing called hair, almost reaching up to make it somewhat presentable, but then, presentable to whom? Where the hell am I?
“Your session is complete, January.”
She awoke and fumbled about the air, with skinny arms, aimlessly. Blurry eyes became focused. She rubbed them and groaned, her mouth dry.
“Wha…”
“I said your session is complete, January.”
“Oh. Okay. That was…” she trailed off, “Different. Not what I signed up for.”
“Well, as I said, it takes time to control where your mind takes you. After two weeks or so, the reality in your head will begin to take shape.”
Jan sighed. “That’s what I’m hoping. Thanks, Lynn. See you next week.”

He was gorgeous. Standing in a huge, huge room she hoped to call home, he resembled one of those giant chocolate rabbits that abound around Easter. He was showing her this place, spoke in a deep voice.
“Well. This is New York City. I know you were looking for something, uh, bigger, but well this is what you get,” he joked. Her mouth was agape.
“Are you kidding? This is huge. I’ll take it. Tell me what you need?”
“I’ll get the papers for you.”
He rummaged through his briefcase as she pulled out her checkbook.
“Your session is complete, January.”
“S-sorry, how much do you need?”
He looked at her, quizzically. “You alright?”
“Are you alright, January? Your session is complete.”
Her torso popped up from on the couch, forehead sweaty, Black wavy hair pulled back.
“Y-yeah. That went well. How long before I can stay longer?”
“The more you do it, the more you’ll be able to control where your mind takes you and for how long. You’ll be in complete control.”
Her voice soothed.
Jan recounted in rapid excitement. “I was about to buy this huge penthouse in New York all these windows and the skylight, and the broker—”
“Broker” escaped as a sigh.
Lynn smiled from behind her desk, oak. From behind black frames. “Good.”
“Thanks Lynn.”
Her feet left the couch. She paid Lynn for the service, left for home.

She hated this place, its peeling wallpaper, skittering mice, leaky faucets, soiled ceilings, noisy neighbors, creaky floorboards, screeching babies, idiot landlord, hood boys, dope boys, silly-heeled city girls, cold showers, rusty pipes, dusty corners, hallway dealings late at night, screaming and shouting and no one and nothing, a place not worthy of belonging. So… when she found that money, that rubber-banded wad of money in the hallway, it was the out she needed. She wanted in. It was hers. This is mine.

Weeks passed. The reality in her mind had begun to take shape, and dreams desired manifested for greater lengths of time, the length of time that would lead to true contentment. She wasn’t, for a few bits of time, living in that place with no one, no family, a dead-end job. The lucid dreams made her someone else. She was in control. Lynn helped her do that and all it took was a phone call to a number, written in red marker, on a cardboard box, in an alley, where she wasn’t supposed to be, but somehow ended up, and all it took was that wad of money.
Today was the day mom finally called. She never did.
“Your father’s clean.”
“No, he isn’t. He never is.”
“Jan, he is… Come see us.”
She ended the call, and, yeah, finally, he was when she went home tomorrow, clean. She and the broker, Jaleel, were growing close in this building of a life desired, the reality in her mind. He loved her and she loved him. Until tomorrow.

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Conan O’Brien, who’s brilliant, is taking over The Tonight Show on June 1. Deserves a lengthy profile…

Heeeere’s . . . Conan!!!

“Music and comedy are so linked… The rhythm of comedy is con­nected to the rhythm of music. They’re both about creating tension and knowing when to let it go. I’m always surprised when somebody funny is not musical.” [New York Times]

MJB “Destiny”

MaryJ

Here’s that Mary J. Blige song from the Precious trailer. “Destiny” from No More Drama…not only the soundtrack to our lives but also to movies

Download