I just finished reading 50 Cent's memoir, From Pieces to Weight, which recounts his life as a crack dealer and upstart rapper. The ghostwriter makes a valiant effort to replicate 50's voice throughout, with passages such as Seeing my grandfather cry was like watching one of those horror movies where a statue or a painting comes to life. I was like, that's not supposed to happen sounding as if 50 himself were actually the person typing it. Other times, not so much. I have a really hard time believing that Fiddy wrote the following passages: Childhood on the mean streets of Queens wasn't like those perfect happy families you see on TV. Shit was arduous. I hated school. I realized early on the only math I needed was calculating how to cut my coke. (You use the quadratic formula.) Mom was dead. Oy vey. Life in the hood. If a drive-by doesn't kill you, the ennui will. I used to roll my eyes when Grandaddy would recount his favorite sonnets from memory. Only now do I realize it's where I picked up the meter employed on my Ja Rule dis track "I Smell Pussy." Walking out of that pawn shop without my Bay City Rollers lunchbox was a serious low point. He was my partner in crime. And bridge. We wasn't feeling Clinton's boilerplate Democratic rhetoric in the hood. I kicked in his door. "You owe me money." He looked me in my eyes and said, "Fuck you." I had to laugh. Because crackheads are just funny sometimes, you know? They're just loveable goofballs. Even now, sometimes I'm like, what happened to that guy?!
but we all knew who the real king of New York was: Jay McInerney. I remember my first rap battle. I was so nervous, I felt like I had bullets in my stomach. Looking down, I realized I actually did.
but there ain't no government handouts when you trying to finance a demo. This is why I support dismantling the National Endowment for the Arts. Eminem wanted to sign me, but I was ambivalent about working with such a homophobe. I'll never forget the first time I went to the Grammys. Motorhead won Best Metal Performance. WTF?!!? Bury me in Liverpool.
Jarrett Grode is a writer in Los Angeles. More pieces can be viewed at myspace.com/jgrode