By J.J. Colagrande

01_thelonious-horowitz17You know my breeding is impeccable. I come from money, good Manhattan Jewish money. I’ve had a good education. The best money can buy. Sometimes I don’t show it, talk it, act like it, but it’s there. You know Tupac went to the Baltimore School for the Arts. That nigga studied dance and ballet. It’s hip-hop that brings out the side of me you may not understand. Flair, showmanship. But it’s not an act. This shit’s real. Just cause I know this and that doesn’t mean I’m goin to flex it. Like I said I ain’t gonna use a four syllable word cause I know it. That’s fakin the funk. See in hip-hop we have our own lingo because it makes sense to us. When you’re down, you’re down, it’s headie. It ain’t like how can I be down? You-se down. Like a change machine—it just makes sense. But whatevs. So Teflon’s more refined than me. That’s his personality. Dude’s on the DL like Hughley. That’s his steez. Listen, I’ve been on the road like what, not even with Hurricane Clout, I’m tawkin about conducting the underground railroad. Eighty music fests in five years, half the time flyin Han Solo, but nevah alone. Too many brothers and sistas along the way, too much Family. The road and the Big Shitty and the scene and the partyin—it’ll make ya a lil rougher round the edges—but don’t ever think I’m fakin the funk. And don’t underestimate mi intelligence. This is what I feel. I call it keepin it real. I know where I came from. I used to know where I was goin. Stupid cocky motherfucka that I be. I wouldn’t blame you for hatin me. This thing should really be about someone else—someone more innocent, like Melody’s girl-toy. E-h-h-h, goddamn it all. You get hit with the Deer Creek needle and tell me how you feel?

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