Before I opine on Watchmen, Hall & Oates, the new federal budget and poet/writer Paule Marshall's new memoir, I figured I'd add my 2 cents--finally--on that sweet lil country boy from Tappahanock, Va.
The Smoking Gun has the affidavit in support of the search warrant on Breezy's Verizon mobile phone account and all affects appurtenant to his abode. The affiant detective is a brother, by the way.
Of course, the people who support Breezy, or who say what did my lil West Indian princess Ms. Fenty do to "provoke" him, won't read the affidavit. Admittedly, cop affidavits aren't meant to be drawn in the suspect's favor. But that's not important. What is important is that Chris is my hero. Yes, I said it. Many times I wished people would not forgive my trespasses, but exault them. Give me a pass. Support me because there are "other considerations" like politics, sex, money, record sales, image, face/rep. So many boys in Tappahanock (this ain't Northern Va., friends) would like to be Breezy. I'm no bamma but I do. Be a performer, dancer, singer, rapper. Or maybe play ball like another of the Old Dominion's native sons--Mike Vick. Expend a little blood on the field, on stage and get paid. Employ or fund my family, my friends (who admittedly don't need it either, but it would be funny to have an entourage of bourgie blacks and Princeton whiteboys! Appear in public with my wife, but them cheat like a mug. Have my Jewish attorneys and asset managers pay into my bitch fund, in case abortions go awry or aren't effectuated as promised. And like Ms. Fenty, Mrs. Nat will stand by me, for often are their own worst enemies, regardless of education, age. My wife's father is deceased, but if he was alive and I beat his daughter and she told him...well, I'd just have my lawyers buy him off, or threaten him, or just shut him down asserting "hearsay" in court. Sure these fool cops who besmirch our young men, our entertainers, will try to get an equally racist judge to admit his statements to impeach his daughter should she lie on understate what happened on the stand or in a statement. But hey, all in the game.
And it's the game that counts. I mean, the odds of becoming the new Breezy or Lil Wayne are worse than trying to be the new Eric Holder. But where's the game in that? There's role model enough in the White House for our children, sure. But no game. Morever, Breezy's such a sweet boy; he's no dirrty South thug clown. A record label's PR dream. Melts even the middle aged chicks, eh, with that smile. The aw shucks mixed with the teen swag and sex. I wish I'd had that at 20. No, I just studied, tried a decnet imitation of cool, did okay with girls. But it was no moveable feast. Had I been my hero, had my parents acted like bammas and provided such a wonderfully dysfunctional example, I would have had groaning branches of low-hanging female fruit to pluck, bite. Smart girls, too. Jack and Jill doctor's daughters. Foot in the ass or a dollar in their purses and they'd stay true to me. All in the game.
Read the affidavit, accordingly, and give a hurrah for my hero.