N E W Y O R K C I T Y

[freshpaintnyc]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[PurpleNerple]

Stolen

 

[nycisdead106]

Your house, while you look out your window

Your girl screams, where Kool Keith go?

Walkin, while punks keep talkin

Annoyin me, MC's hawkin

 

<---- The Truth

 

 

[diabete669]

 

 

[freshpaintnyc]

 

 

 

 

 

 

[freshpaintnyc]

 

 

 

 

 

[IrishCarBombs]

 

 

looks like a dope spot

[nycisdead106]

7th st. and 2nd. 1981

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=upHWXigcEf0

 

[diabete669]

 

 

 

#3 coming out next month

[spain9]

[spain9]

[spain9]

[spain9]

[spain9]

[spain9]

[spain9]

[PurpleNerple]

Stolen

 

[nycisdead106]

Haven't seen this on here anywhere yet so I'll post. DOPE shit for a window into old Downtown. I'm sure people wonder why I post club kids on graff websites, but back then it was all a part of the scene. The weirdos made up one half of the culture and RFC kids were like the other half of that scene. Box cutter thugs and flamboyant club kids. NYC was an interesting place.

 

 

 

RUNNING FROM COPS… A HIP HOP ODYSSEY

 

In the ‘90s, Rast RFC was just a little kid writing on things by the time my generation of writers had moved on to life’s responsibilities. And when it was time to knock a few back or holler at some PYTs, Rast was the little kid in the club popping bottles with models. As an older gentleman at the time, Rast’s graffiti crew RFC (or Running From Cops) were in the periphery; a gaggle of young goons in Polo who got high with rich white girls all up in daddy’s Tribeca loft. I would later learn that there was way more to it.

 

The writer Timm Hotep arranged for a meeting with myself and Rast late last year. He was interested in writing something on the autobiographical tip and I was told Rast had some talent as a writer. We met and he kicked what he wanted to write, which is what is attached below. He had a really interesting perspective, and while his tales of thuggery can prove to be both entertaining and sad, there were huge sparkly jewels to be mined from his output.

 

Rast then proceeded to say that he was a rapper— one of the best in the world.

 

This scribe laughed to himself. Yeah, i-ight son. I done heard that one before. Told the cat, “Look, I don’t really fuck with too much rap these days. I can’t really relate to what’s being talked about.” Plus I can’t do the obligatory-head-nod-while-some-rapper-plays-his-demo-for-you shit. The subject changed from there.

 

Later that evening, something told me to go listen to Rast’s music.

 

FUCK! I’d heard MDC— “Mark David Chapman.” Chapman is the douchehole who murdered John Lennon (turns out Rast is deeply inspired by Lennon).”Forgive Me” also became a fast favorite. Eerie, haunting, reflective.

 

Raw. Creative. Sad. Aspirational. Ignorant. Literate. Unnecessary. Necessary. It just felt like punk rock to me. Felt like the blues to me. It felt like the Life’s Blood seven-inch all over again. You can hear bacon sizzling in the background as he spits his rhymes. It feels real. The production— which he handles himself— feels like vintage Wu-Tang. A famous rapper I played if for said he sounded like Jay Electronica meets EPMD, recorded in Astoria projects.

 

This scribe has spent time with some of the greatest rappers in the history of the culture. Rast— who is still developing and growing— he has a shot.

 

Sacha Jenkins SHR

 

 

Words by Rast RFC Illustrations by Adnauseum

 

New York City, 1992

 

It was a smoldering hot summer night; I was 12 at the time and after a long night of tagging our names all over the city, me and my partner in crime CA decided to break into Bellevue Hospital’s city morgue to view some dead bodies. If you asked me why, I couldn’t tell you. Perhaps it was to feed our mischievous, adolescent curiosity of the macabre, or maybe we were simply looking to kill time after consuming copious amounts of Colt 45 malt liquor and smoking blunts.

 

We often gravitated to Bellevue’s morgue when we felt the urge to mingle with the ghosts of New York’s past, or to steal some “embalming fluid,” because we took the slang term for PCP literally and thought we could make our own angel dust supply. I can recall one of our last trips to the morgue when we somehow conjured up the sinister idea to kidnap a baby’s corpse, carve our gang’s initials into the body and strategically place it in the middle of the housing project of a rival gang’s territory. We attempted this, but looking back I’m thankful we couldn’t find the babies’ corpses.

 

On this particular summer night, the police chased us out. And as we ran away in our scuffed up, spray-paint covered Nikes, laughing, CA said to me, “Man we’re always Runnin’ From Cops.” And almost simultaneously, we were like, “That’s it! RFC!” And in that moment the RFC crew was born.

 

We Were The Forgotten Children Of The City

 

RFC is a family — a family that was created by necessity —due to the fact that most of us came from broken homes, drug addicted parents, group homes and homelessness.

 

My mother and father were involved with the Black Panther movement in the ‘60s. Moms once told me a story about my mean old Irish great-grandmother who hated her because she was black. These life experiences led Moms to continue her social activism well into the ‘90s. During this time she exposed my brother Aquarius and me to rallies, marches and protests with the likes of Al Sharpton, Louis Farrakhan and Jesse Jackson. Nonetheless, with all of this knowledge of self, we eventually broke loose and started running wild in the streets. Early on, Aquarius recognized the inevitable consequences of our criminal lifestyle and withdrew from street life. He attained his GED, attended college and delved into acting. I was always proud of him for that. My pops was AWOL, due to mental health issues and drug addiction — a bi-product of Vietnam — so we were dirt poor.

 

One of my earliest memories as a child is of my mother, brother and me living in what people would then refer to as a “welfare hotel.” Two infamous welfare hotels were The Prince George and the Latham which were right next to each other. We lived in the Latham on 28th Street. The funny thing is, we were never actually on welfare. My mother was too proud, and at times this caused us to go hungry or live without electricity.

 

In 1985, I remember the crack epidemic unfolding before my eyes. I remember having a crush on this girl Kay Kay. She was so beautiful, I mean gorgeous, but after that crack hit she completely changed. There were subtle signs at first: like how she walked and talked, and before you knew it she was a full-blown crack addict. It was a sad sight to witness.

 

In 1988 we moved to the Bronx and that’s when I was introduced to graffiti. I lived at 38 West 182nd Street in the Bronx. I loved that neighborhood. The drug dealers, the chicken spot, the smell, all bring back some of my fondest memories of my childhood.

 

My brother and I started writing and that was it; I took the tag RAST(A) because of my dreadlocks and my brother wrote AOS, which was short for Aerosmith. The funny thing is, we unknowingly went to school with the lead singer’s daughter a few years earlier.

 

The 183rd St station on the 4 line was our new jump off point. We rode that train hard and would scope out the bombed rooftops. COPE 2, PJAY and MED were all putting in work at the time. NEAR and the KGB crew were doing it big as well and I eventually became cool with all of them.

 

Guru of Gangstarr and I also became close when I was very young. He used to hang with the drug dealers in the neighborhood (Corky RIP) and he actually knew my mother too. Since I had these long dreads, he would always say, “What up lil’ dread.” And before I knew it, we were cool. Years later when I first started rapping, I ran into him at The Cheetah Club and he showed me crazy love and invited me to the studio with him to be featured on the Baldhead Slick album. We actually recorded a song and everything, but I was horrible back then so of course it didn’t make the cut. But the experience was priceless.

 

For me, graffiti and NYC nightlife culture were passed down through my bloodline from my much older, now deceased brother, BEAS-79. He was the first in the family to tag his moniker across the city. He was also instrumental in spearheading the “club kid” movement in the late ‘80s and early ‘90s, throwing parties at such monumental clubs as Mars and The Sound Factory as well as others that I am too young to remember.

 

Now my mother (RIP), was a great singer and she basically supported us by “street performing” in front of Bloomingdale’s on 59th and Lexington Ave for money. We would go on adventures around the neighborhood causing mischief, coming back hungry and she would give us change out of her cup to buy donuts and candy.

 

During our neighborhood adventures we befriended many of the more well-off and middle class kids that lived in the area; they often made fun of us because of my mother’s “street performing.” It was easy for them to judge. We also became close with some of the tougher kids from that ‘hood — cats like RD, DE3, LACE, CHAX, and CIDE — the 357 crew. 357 was the first real gang we were down with; they took us in and embraced us. We were the only black kids that I can remember being active members, at the tender ages of 9 and 12 no less.

[nycisdead106]

Frienemies

 

CA lived on East 50th in between 3rd and 2nd Ave, nine blocks from Bloomingdales. We actually had beef at first. We would cross out each other’s tags and look for one another with the intentions of inflicting damage. Finally, we crossed paths. Terrified, I said, “Lets just be friends man,” and since that day we were inseparable.

 

CA was born to a loving, tough-as-nails Polish and Italian mother and a Haitian father — but he was essentially raised by his mother. The kid had a genius level IQ and went to quite a few choice schools that were almost impossible to get into, one of which being York Prep. He was a really good-looking kid and always got the girl. Back then I wanted to be like him in every way.

 

CA wanted more though. He wanted to be a part of the subcultures that he was exposed to by watching movies like The Warriors, Wild Style and Colors, so eventually he became entranced by hip hop and obsessed with writing graffiti. His mother Kathy did her best to keep him out of trouble, but CA was a “natural born killer.” He was the first kid in the crew with a gun, the first to set it and he never ran. CA was the kid that would walk by you in the street on some, “What the fuck you lookin’ at?” And if you replied with aggression, you would end up leaving in an ambulance with a gunshot wound or a razor slash. He gave me my heart and the courage to be a fearless soldier. I love him and his mother with all my heart.

 

Anyway, me and CA eventually started writing graffiti every day all over NYC. We hit subway tunnels, abandoned train stations, train yards and of course the streets. Graffiti and hip hop were my escape from a life of poverty. I would go bombing with Nas’s Illmatic playing in my Walkman and visualize and identify with his street tales as if they were my own.

 

I began robbing public and private school kids for their Starter jackets, hats and lunch money just so I could eat. If we weren’t robbing to survive we would go crew deep to supermarkets and steal food to make meals. This was the RFC way of life in the early ‘90s. Crime, violence and graffiti was the way of life we chose. The city was ours.

 

During our early stages of becoming full fledge hooligans, CA and I met Busta: a 6-foot 5, extremely volatile, violent individual with a heart of gold. Busta became the unofficial leader of the pack due to his size and willingness to go above and beyond the call of duty to cause damage. He also had a sharp, organized and business—oriented mind that eventually enabled most of the crew to benefit in many ways, financially and otherwise. When no one else was there for me, he was. Every time.

 

Downtown Celebs

 

Our home base was the corner of West 3rd Street and 6th Avenue in The West Village, in front of McDonald’s. That’s where we would meet, drink, smoke, fight and rob kids for their Polo, North Faces, wallets and jewelry. We would call the pay phone that still stands on that corner to this day, to see who’s out and what club was popping for the night. I still remember the number: 212-674-9444.

 

My crew and I set fashion trends; North Face, Nautica, Tommy Hilfiger, that all became popular in NYC in the ‘90s because we were rockin’ it. Even Polo gear; we all know that the Lo-Lifes started it and made it popular in the ‘80s, but in the ‘90s that was mostly RFC in them Indian-Head knits, Suicide Gooses and Teddy Bear pieces. I was a star in all the local nightclubs: Palladium, Arena, Fever, Velvet, Vertigo, House Nation and Melting Pot, just to name a few.

 

The main RFC crew members in order of hierarchy are as follows —

 

Founders: Rast and CA.

Presidents/Leaders: AOS, BUSTA, MISTRO, RISK and ARK (RIP).

First Lady: Jocelyn (only female member).

Generals/Soldiers: FA (RIP), CASH, DEAL, SABE, SESA, RAY 1, DOUG, ARES, PRT, ASH, PRESS, FOES, BUDA, SEDI (RIP), FED-5, GUESS, ARGUE (RIP), ESO, KEM, DOMS, BETO, EJ, DOA, VAST, KEL and all of 5MH, ESKAY 5×7, REST and SHAZ.

 

We had numbers and notoriety. We had major press coverage in prominent, national magazines. There was the “Teenage Gangland” piece by Nancy-Joe Sales in New York Magazine and a photo-spread on boosting in Stress Magazine. We also got burn in a number of graf magazines.

 

But what did this fame do to us as individuals? If you ask me, I think it made us worse because we were being celebrated for doing wrong. We were selling drugs and hanging out with models. It was fun at the time, but at the end of the day, where did it get any of us? Those models ended up in rehab and most of us ended up in jail.

 

It was fun though.

[nycisdead106]

Hallow’s Eve

 

RFC had a yearly tradition of causing mayhem throughout the city on Halloween night. This was the night that we could purge our aggression towards society and strike back at a system that we felt was neglecting us.

 

We would meet at West 3rd and 6th Avenue in the Village and end up with a mob of at least 100 to 150 soldiers ready for combat. We would simply walk through Manhattan entering clothing stores, delis and bodegas taking virtually anything we wanted: coats, sneakers, jeans and boots, 40s, deuce deuces, six-packs and whatever else we wanted. We gave those Clockwork Orange lads a run for their money. But the violence is where things got way out of hand. We would simply rob, slash or hack anyone that was unlucky enough to cross our paths.

 

One night I remember this dude dressed up as Batman became a victim. He was huge and appeared to be a real threat and somehow he got into it with one of my soldiers, FED-5. Now, FED and his partner RISK always loved razors, I guess they found it to be a more intimate way of channeling their violent tendencies. So this dude just happens to walk by and he must have said something slick, because before I could blink his black Batman costume was blood red with razor rips and tares all over it. It looked like that jacket Michael Jackson wore in the “Beat It” video. Of course the cops came, we scattered like roaches and eventually all ended up meeting up somewhere else, almost as if we were guided back to each other by some unseen force.

 

We Didn’t Always Win

 

At one point my brother KEL and his 5MH (Five Million Hoods) Crew had beef with some cats that called them selves RNS (Rough Neck Soldiers). At the time I had never heard of them but I would eventually find out that they didn’t fuck around. One night we rolled like 30 deep to club Velvet. It was a typical night for RFC: drinking, smoking weed, bagging girls’ numbers and robbing motherfuckers on the way to the club.

 

As we approached the club on 26th Street and 11th Ave, one block from the Tunnel, two kids with hoodies come out of nowhere and shoot a 5MH soldier at point-blank range right in the head, in front of the cops. The message to us was: RFC has some competition. I didn’t like this, I wanted to be number one when it came to viciousness, but for that moment, they took the title. The kid who got shot lived, he was just grazed and I remember saying to him later that night, “Oh shit man, you’re lucky to be alive…”

A couple of weeks later, me and my RFC soldiers were ten deep in club Melting Pot. I was fresh-to-death that night in a yellow and blue RL 2000 Polo Hi-Tech Ski coat with the matching vest under it and some snow goggles on to match.

I remember walking through the black light with my gold teeth glowing feeling like a superstar. I can still envision that feeling of power, control and looking and feeling my best. It was like I was living a Hype Williams video on acid. The moment was just perfect — or so I thought. Shortly thereafter, I spotted some RNS kids. These motherfuckers just shot my boy’s partner in the head, and now here they are standing mere feet from where my whole crew was standing.

 

I don’t know what the hell I was drinking, but I approached these kids and ice-grilled ‘em to instigate an altercation. Some shit talking ensued and a brawl broke out. Within seconds the bouncers had tossed us out of the club. I noticed my man REST had a slash on his hand, but I didn’t notice my injury until my homegirl Liza said, “There’s a rip in the chest of your jacket.” I stuck my finger through the whole and put my finger inside my chest. I’d been stabbed and didn’t even know it.

 

No big deal. I went to the hospital, got stitched up, and continued to party all night back on West 3rd. We took a loss, but it was just one battle in a seemingly never-ending war.

 

But what was the purpose of the war? What were we fighting for and what were we trying to win exactly? Bragging rights? Street credibility? The right to say that I had permanently injured another teenager that talked, walked and looked just like me? In a way it was all pointless, but it was our whole universe at the time.

[nycisdead106]

Karma Strikes

 

Before I go into a specific incident that scarred me for life, I feel it is necessary to explain how karma played a huge part in this life-changing event.

 

My brother and I would bicker back and forth over bullshit; fighting like cats and dogs in the graffiti covered bedroom we shared in the Bronx. One day we were fighting and he bruised my ego pretty badly. At that time I had various guns in the house and that day I pulled one out, right in front of my mother, and placed it directly on his chest and pulled the trigger. I am brought to tears when I write about this…Luckily, there were no bullets in the chamber. But as he left the apartment, I shot at him out the window. I nearly killed my own brother. I am so ashamed of this fact. There is no excuse or explanation that can do this injustice justice.

 

About a week later, me and some of the crew were in the Village. I was 14 at the time and draped in some crazy ill Tommy Hilfiger print button-up. I had just come from hittin’ up a local liquor store and I was walking down West 3rd Street with a huge bottle of Absolut Vodka down my pants. I was lagging behind everyone because I was limping due to the bottle. As we reach McDougal Street I notice like 15 dudes from WON Team (a bunch a crazy, mostly Spanish and black kids from the LES). Now my crew didn’t even notice that this was the main crew we had beef with at the time and they didn’t know that my guys were RFC, so they walked right past each other — until they saw me. Everybody recognized me wherever I went because I had long dreadlocks. This was not always a good thing. I remember looking into the eyes of one of the WON Team kids that I knew from when I was like, ten years old. That’s when he pointed me out to another kid who started viciously slashing my face.

 

My face changed forever. I was deeply traumatized by this because I was always praised for my looks as a “pretty boy.” I even turned down many modeling opportunities because back then I felt that male models were “pussies.” I regret those decisions now. The whole crew went insane after I was cut. My man even slashed one of the WON Team’s girlfriends in the face because of what happened to me. Now, as I reflect back on how deeply and psychologically affected I was by my face being slashed, I can only imagine how this innocent girl must feel living with such a severe facial scar. Even to this day, as a professional, I wonder if people look at me and say, “Look at him, he’s probably been to jail,” or, “I wonder what he did to deserve that?” The truth is, I didn’t deserve this. Nor did that innocent young girl, but it happened. And now we must live forever with these reminders of a dark past that stares back at us in the mirror.

 

After I got cut, I became even more of a “menace to society,” cutting, stabbing and shooting everything. I just didn’t care anymore. My drug use increased, I was smoking PCP every day and I carried a gun and a razor wherever I went.

 

God and Club Flamingo

 

As a kid I use to chill on Roosevelt Island, a tranquil place where a street kid could escape the day-to-day struggle. It was really nice and quiet, all prep school kids and white girls. Later on, through what I guess one could call a Section 8 housing influx, property value decreased and this once beautiful place became the ‘hood.

 

I knew some people on the Island and they knew of me and my street reputation. So when I heard what I’m about to tell you, it would be an understatement to say that I felt violated.

 

One day I got a call saying that some Roosevelt Island kids had run up in my man’s house and robbed him of pounds of weed, cash and jewelry. The dudes who had gotten robbed were high-ranking RFC soldiers. They had gotten away with it for the time being, but about two months later we were in Club Flamingo across the street from Lot 61 in Chelsea. We were only three deep, it was myself, my man Mistro (who is dangerous) and Busta (who is reserved, yet fatal).

 

All of a sudden, we see the dudes who did the robbery. Mistro says, “Fuck that, these niggas can’t live with the shit they did,” and I already had a few drinks and ecstasy pills in me, so I was with it. I said “Fuck it, lets pop these niggas.” Mistro hopped in a cab home, got a gun and was back in ten minutes.

 

By the time he got back, these dudes were just walking out of the club. We follow them around the corner and they get into their car and they’re talking to some girls by their right passenger side window. At this point me and Mistro are plotting to murder these kids for real.

 

So while I’m looking out on the corner, this psycho Mistro walks up to the driver and points the gun, a fully loaded .38 revolver, at damn near point-blank range and all I hear is, “click, click, click.” These dudes didn’t even know that the Grim Reaper was right outside their window. He adjusts the gun and points again: “click, click, click.”

 

The gun is jammed.

 

So now these dudes see us and they’re copping pleas: “yo chill, chill it’s not like that.” But by now Mistro’s infuriated because the gun won’t work. He passes me the gun and starts swinging at these kids. While he’s wildin’; this kid Geo who I was associated with at one point in my life starts walking toward me in an aggressive manner. I pulled out the .38 and point: “click, click, click.”Homeboy wasn’t waiting around to see why the gun wasn’t working, he took off. After that we all took off because now the police are on their way.

 

I often think back to that night and wonder, “What if the gun hadn’t jammed? Would I be doing life in prison right now?” Would I be writing this right now? Who knows. I will tell you this one thing though, there was nothing wrong with that gun. Later that night I took the gun to Eso’s crib and tested it out. The first time I pulled the trigger in the safe environment of his courtyard, POW!, POW!, POW! God saved those kids. The gun worked perfectly. It wasn’t their time to go.

[nycisdead106]

Riker’s Island Funeral

 

For several different reasons, but primarily survival, I started selling drugs and robbing other dealers. The money was good and I could buy anything I wanted. And the girls gravitated. So I took a shortcut and tried to imitate the guys I viewed as superheroes when I was a kid: Alpo, Rich Porter, AZ and Escobar. I wanted in, so I got in. I started in the drug trade doing deliveries of weed, coke and ecstasy for a person who for obvious reasons will remain nameless. All I can say is that her father was a high-ranking mob boss in NYC.

 

After a while I began doing my own thing, I printed up some business cards (The Very Best) and I already had a few of my own customers, so it eventually spread and I was getting good money. I wasn’t the smartest drug dealer though, that’s for sure. You may remember that scene from the film Half Baked with Dave Chappelle, where he was giving out his business cards to just about anybody in the street. Well, I was so desperate to grow my little empire that I was basically doing the same thing. I would bring at least 500 cards out with me whenever I went to clubs or bars and just hand them out carelessly: “weed, coke, ex, I got it.” One day an undercover bought a couple of grams of coke and weed and knocked me for a direct sale. They got me, or I got myself to be perfectly honest.

 

I bailed out on that charge, but two weeks later I caught a robbery case — my strategy of robbing other delivery services in the city caught up to me. I had plotted out a heist, but when the person came to make the delivery, he started tussling and putting up a fight. My man and me searched the dude and couldn’t find anything. As it turned out, it wasn’t the dealer we thought we were robbing. We mistook some random lesbian, that we thought was a man…for the person we were supposed rob. We did the shit right on 23rd and 2nd Ave, and she went running to the police. It wasn’t long before the Boys In Blue had swarmed us.

 

Now I’m on Riker’s Island, looking at two felonies, two sales and a robbery, plus I also caught a case at Club Speed for breaking a bouncer’s nose. I remember sharing a pen with Shyne on my way to court one time. This all happened around the time of that Club New York incident with Puff.

 

So now I’m fighting three separate cases, but while I’m sitting in Riker’s, my mother passes away.

 

“Mommy, where are you? Why did you leave me here in this cold cell? I’m lonely. Criminals surround me. I am not a criminal. I am not a thug, but I have to be, or they will judge me. I’m scared. I don’t want to get cut again. I am already scarred. Help, Mommy, please, come get me out of here. Where are you? You’ve always been there when I needed you most. I remember when I was locked in juvenile detention, way out in Long Island and I was really sad, sitting in the day room watching the news. All I did was think about how much I wanted to see your face, and just like that, I looked up and saw you on the news praying over Yusef Hawkins’ coffin. I’m not sure how that could have possibly happened, but it did. It did happen and you comforted me. But now, you are gone, and I am alone. HELP!”

 

Sadly, I arrived at my mother’s wake shackled and handcuffed. The CO was compassionate enough to let me attend the service and greet my family and friends as if I was free, but with a watchful eye. CA did manage to slip me some weed. Since I wasn’t able to properly say goodbye to my mother, I instead wrote a short poem and slipped it into her coffin.

 

I got a good lawyer and ended up only doing nine months, but as soon as I got home I was back into the same shit, nothing had really changed. I can remember walking out of 100 Centre Street in some dusty old Iceberg sweater with Bugs Bunny on it and I immediately called my homie GUESS who took to me to Transit on Broadway and bought me some kicks and jerseys. Then we smoked some dust and went clubbing that same night. The drugs, the violence, the chaos, the misery was all still there and I was more than happy to jump right back into all of it.

[nycisdead106]

I Wished We Could Trade Places

 

Now, most of my crew were literally “starving artists,” that came from humble means. However, we were also affiliated with the upper class, rich kids from Manhattan that gave us a glance into the lives we could only imagine living. The thing is, some of these “rich kids” were just as ruthless and vicious as us.

 

For instance, Cash RFC — an upper class Jewish kid from Manhattan. This kid was there through the thick of it all and spread the name “all city” with a knack for hitting trucks and representing the crew to the fullest.

 

Another good friend and RFC affiliate was Mecca. He was running the streets with us, getting into the same shit as the rest of us, but little did we know, he was the son of one of the most famous actors of our generation. If I told you who his father was, you probably wouldn’t believe me, but to this day he’s one of the most respected people in Hollywood. Mecca was actually one of the tougher kids back in the days. He was a real dude and he was there as an active participant, holding guns and hustling with the rest of us. Actually he was hustling before us. We were more about robbing and banging and he was on that “get money” tip. The one thing I always respected about Mecca was that I knew him for years and never knew his father was one of the biggest and most respected celebrities in the world. He wasn’t a bragger; he had class, a really good kid.

 

And then there was Davide Sorrenti (his tag was Argue) who was such a dear and close friend of mine and legendary photographer who actually shot some footage of CA hitting trains, decked out in Armani suits with my homey Anthony (his tag was 2Mer). Argue’s own crew was Ske Team, which was basically Shawn (his tag was Hoax), Richie Akiva and Jus-Ske, as well as others; but they all graciously represented with RFC.

 

Argue passed away many years ago as a result a medical condition which was exasperated by drug use. Ironically enough, he is often credited with reintroducing the ‘60s term “heroin chic” into the fashion world.

 

Now, when I think back and consider my associations with a lot of those upper class “cool kids” we were affiliated with, I have to be honest with myself and admit that I wanted to be like them in a way. I wanted to live where they lived, eat where they ate, and shop where they shopped instead of boosting. I wanted to wake up without a care in the world instead of the anxiety and fear of watching my back and hoping I didn’t run into another gang I had beef with. But then I have to ask myself, aside from the select few that I just mentioned, did some of these kids only become “cool” because of their affiliation with us? Were our black and brown faces ornaments for their white collars? Were my scars and pain somehow being worn vicariously by them?

 

 

Addiction

 

At the age of 17, my family was evicted from our apartment in the Bronx and that’s when I turned to selling drugs. I eventually starting abusing the drugs I sold, and for years I struggled with addiction to crack, coke, ecstasy, weed, alcohol and just about everything else in the book.

 

The drugs were my escape from being poor, from being black, from being uneducated and fatherless. In a way, the drugs were my escape from being.

Somehow, after what seemed like an endless cycle of parties, violence, chaos, rebelliousness, anarchy and death, I found life in rehab.

 

Rehabilitation

 

I went to rehab like three times and finally decided that if I wanted to be a success at anything I do, I couldn’t use any drugs whatsoever, or break the law in any way.

 

While in rehab, I met my beautiful wife Celeste. Celeste is French/Irish and was born in New York, but was raised in Charleston, South Carolina. Her father is the famous artist Jean-Marie Mauclet. I have to say this impressed me when we met.

It’s a crazy story; I literally fell in love at first sight. She was this model-esque, bohemian hipster type and I was this rehabilitated gang leader/intellectual and we just clicked. I remember just watching her and fantasizing about kids and marriage, which for me was a completely foreign concept. I would stay up late in my dorm room with my guitar writing love songs about her. Eventually we let our feelings be known after some initial flirting and the rest is history.

 

Celeste came to treatment to address alcohol and cocaine addiction and we’ve been clean and sober since we met. I do believe that our love for each other has enabled us to grow spiritually, mentally and behaviorally, which is the foundation for a healthy recovery.

 

We now have a six-month old son, Lexington Dillinger Mauclet Cheers. I sometimes look at my son and I am brought to tears of joy because I know that he will not have to ask his mother for the spare change she had to beg for. He will not have to run, hide and duck from the police to prove to society that he exists. He will not be me.

 

I received my GED, went to college, and enrolled in a clinical-staff internship to become a substance abuse counselor, so I could earn an honest living by giving back. While working as a counselor I began to hone my craft as an MC; chronicling the street tales of a gritty New York kid who faced death, came back from the dead and lived to tell his story.

 

Peace to my brother, CA RFC, currently doing time upstate. I love you. When you come home, we’ll be rich. I promise.

[nycisdead106]

 

 

Cornballs from Jersey

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V123eVG8yj8

[CILONE/SK]

She was part of the scene back then, but she was from CT.

 

Your right about the club kids.

[Dosis]

stolen

[Dosis]

credit:intospaces devo, o2, trap, noem, skez

[Dosis]

stolen, skez kfa slug, vil, eyt

[nycisdead106]

http://nypost.com/2014/05/17/nypd-told-to-carry-spray-paint-to-cover-graffiti/

 

NYPD told to carry spray paint to cover graffiti

 

The only thing missing are the smocks.

The NYPD is arming its cops with cans of spray paint and giving them art-class-style lessons to tackle the scourge of urban graffiti, The Post has learned.

Shootings are on the rise across the city, but the directive from Police Headquarters is to hunt down street art and cover it with black, red and white spray paint, sources said.

The cops were even given instructions like “spray a square around the tag and then fill it in” — in areas such as Bushwick, Brownsville and Bedford-Stuyvesant, police sources said.

Some officers say the new policy wastes time, puts them in danger and does nothing to make the neighborhoods safer.

“This whole graffiti program is ridiculous. Some of these neighborhoods are really dangerous. There should be more of a focus on serious crime,” said one cop.

A high-ranking officer added, “The summer is right around the corner. Shootings always go up in the warmer months. This year is no exception. You can’t have officers wasting their time on graffiti taggers.”

In the past week, citywide shootings spiked 50 percent compared to the same period last year. It has risen five percent this year as a whole.

Under the new graffiti protocols, cops are instructed to photograph the vandalism, “box it out” and paint over it “in a professional manner,” according to an internal memo.

Officers should cover up only “identifiable tags, not large murals,” according to the memo, sent May 2.

In some precincts, officers are to look for graffiti on storefronts and other businesses — and then persuade the store owner to file a criminal complaint.

Sources said they are trying to send a message to the vandals.

“It’s supposed to discredit their work . . . and break their manhood,” one cop said.

The policy is under way in all five boroughs.

Highway officers are also required to cover up roadside graffiti along thoroughfares such as Long Island Expressway and Brooklyn-Queens Expressway.

“Cops are not happy,” said one officer.

NYPD did not immediately respond to a request for comment.

[nycisdead106]

 

 

 

“If you want to conquer the world, you must move to its capital, New York.” — Quentin Crisp

 

"Legends of N.Y. Nitelife: Photos by John Simone" is a retrospective of over 60 classic images, from 1987 to 1990, hanging in the Antechamber of Buddies in Bad Times Theatre, 12 Alexander St., Toronto, June 21–29.

 

John Simone tells his own story:

 

I left Toronto in 1986, after graduating from the University of Toronto, and New York was more accessible than Rome.

 

In Toronto I had sold Polaroids to approximately 20,000 people at Sparkles disco in the CN Tower, The Copa Nightclub in Yorkville, The Diamond on Sherbourne, and the party boat, Mariposa Belle. That was a gig that I could repeat in New York, so I left Toronto on a quest for glitz and glamour.

 

In New York I set myself up as house photographer at Club 10-18 (The Roxy), after a short stint at the Cat Club in the Village. This club was one of the biggest in Manhattan, attracting the high-end Bridge and Tunnel crowd. They were the top echelon of the drug world, with yards of thick gold chains and medallions, embossed Gucci leather sweat suits and gallons of Cristal. For two years I supported all of my artistic activities in New York with ten hours a week selling Polaroids at 10-18. For a short time, October 1987 – January 1988, I even moonlit at the re-opened Studio 54, where on Halloween and New Year’s Eve, I sold more than 800 photos. At that point, I was willing to do any type of work in order to remain in the city and finance my curiosity about a cut-throat but fertile creative environment.

 

My career as a photojournalist started with the original Details magazine. I began getting invited to club events and I photographed the fabulous, almost-famous people that I met, developing a liking for the subtleties of 35mm. I met Stephen Saban who was the legendary nightlife columnist for Details and he asked me to show him my contact sheets. No-one captured the flavour and zeal of clubland better than Stephen Saban. His taste shaped my approach to the Details material, because he was particular about whom he selected for his column, but honest when it was time to acknowledge people’s transition from wannabe to celebrity.

 

My big move from Polaroid hustler to party hustler came courtesy of Michael Alig, whose promotional talents tapped into the pulse of a Manhattan youthquake. This happened in the nick of time, because Club 10-18 closed following an explosion of gang activity. One patron was found stabbed in the men’s room. At an all-ages event featuring La Toya Jackson, on Christmas Day 1988, gangs had a shootout there; I ran for my life as bullets were flying. I had already been working with Alig as Chief Photographer on his Project X magazine, supplying photos for his Club Rub column, my Celebrity Sheet column, fashion spreads, and the magazine’s covers, so Alig said to me, “John, you know people, bring me parties.”