Flatbush's Revenge

Due to the success of my hip hop album and its number one track, “I Don’t Care What Everyone Else is Doing (Get You’re A** On Home)”, it was time to let the press get some face time with me, D.Addy. As you may recall, my last talk with the media did not go so well, with me being accused of not being a real Black man because my video showed a Black couple on a date in a restaurant without a wall posted menu. My Blackness was also questioned because I slipped and mentioned my divorce, which of course meant I had once been married. We know Black men do not marry. My street cred was shot to hell in just one afternoon.

It was obvious that I needed someone to run interference with those wily dogs of the media. Since I only know one real live publicist, and she charges money (the album didn’t do THAT well) I was forced to use those meager, questionable resources that I call friends.

Irwin, my attorney buddy, was busy. In addition to practicing law he is a local elected official for a small village that has tried, unsuccessfully for a couple of decades, to get its own post office. Irwin was drafting a brief to sue the US Post Office for discriminating against Black mail receivers. So he was a no go.

Irwin’s brother, Mo, is a cop. No. He is one of those tactical, M-16 carrying come-through-your- window-on-a-rope -like Shaft cops. As such, he has little patience for the press. After my last interview he gently chided me for not shooting the reporter. When I responded, “I don’t own a gun”, he looked at me as if I’d espoused bestiality. If I have him manage my interview, music reporting could quickly become a high risk job.

My buddy Mark was game, but after a reader suggested we run for governor of California as opposed to taking over a small country, he’s out west doing some due diligence. Plus, he’s a real sensible kind of guy. To boost sales he would have had me have carnal knowledge of a goat at McDonalds, and I ain’t going out like that.

Well, not yet.

My phone rang as I was pondering how to best deal with the media. It was Flat.

“McCallum!”


Flatbush Jones was just a bit too happy to talk to me.

“Uh, hey man. How you?”

“I’d be better, if you let me help you.”

“Say wha?”

When Flat starts talking really slow, enunciating every syllable, you know some bull is in the works. He’s like a drunken person that believes that if they speak slowly and loudly, they will appear sober, as opposed to drunk, retarded and loud.
“I know you’ve been working on this rap thing. Now, while I think you have it all wrong, you feel free to do your little thing and make a name for yourself. I think reaching out to the kids is cool. I think your little blog thing is OK, too, but honestly? Ain’t nobody trying to hear what you saying. The difference between you and me, McCallum, is you want things and people the way they should be. As a nigg…”

“Don’t go there.”

“OK. Fine. That’s part of the problem. You have a problem being what you are. I accept what and who I am, and trust me, life is just fine. You get your drawers in a bunch, talking about people know better. Of course they do! If they really wanted to DO better, they would.”

“What can I do for you, Flat?”

“Let me run your next interview. I got the publication lined up. Understand, you and your little rap/blog what have you really don’t warrant much, but you my boy. I can’t let you just go out like that.”

I agreed. Synchronicity, even with Flatbush P. Jones, is nothing to be ignored. I took down the address and agreed to meet him the next day.

I’ve never done any interviews in a basement apartment on the low end, but perhaps this is what was meant by “underground publication.”

The room was well lit, and an attractive woman sat down and smiled.

“This is really a pleasure…”

“No problem.”

“I mean, you turned to writing, with all you’ve accomplished…”

This made me feel a bit uncomfortable.

“How’s your family?”

“Good.”

“And your other family?”

Huh? Best to roll with it. Flat was nowhere in sight to screen these questions.

“Uh, everyone’s doing great.”

“Good! Look,” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “I just want you to know that I always found you soooo sexy…You look SO good in uniform!”

What the hell?

“Let’s start the interview…” She slid into her seat and asked some very normal questions. It was quite positive. She shared how she had attended my alma mater, as a journalism student, and started her own publication. I was impressed. We had a very good conversation. A photographer took pictures of us sitting down, and one of me alone.

“So, how did I get this arranged?”

“Oh,” the interview over, she was back in vamp mode. If I’d been single, I would have pursued her. Something wasn’t right, though.

“Flatbush and I used to get together, you know?” She made a wringing motion with her hands.

“OK.”

“He really wants me to pub his collection of erotic stories: ‘Never Flat, Even though My Eyes Are Beady’."

Flat a writer? Who woulda thought? Although, if anyone would write something under that title, it’s be him.

“Well, that’s nice.”

“Flat’s not your level of celebrity, though. You know? I mean, you have history, and now you’ve got this positive rap thing and you’re writing under that name…”

“No. JD is my real name. It’s not a pseudonym…”

“I understand. No one in your work uses their real name.”

Huh?

“So anyway, I told Flat I’d give his lil book a mention if he could score me an interview, or even more, with you…”

Uh huh.

“Well, it’s been a real pleasure…”

“Pleasure was all mine…”

“Good luck with your writing, Big Sexy. Flat is SO lucky to have a friend like you. You’ve slimmed down quite a bit over the years too…”

Huh?

“Tell Flat I’ll be including his blurb…it’s not everyday I get to interview the father from ‘Family Matters’. You have a GREAT day!”

This ain’t over Flatbush. Your life is about to become a whole new blog. I got you, man. I got you.