April 01, 2005
I smoked a blunt with 2Pac
Combat Jack's Top 5 gulliest moments he's experienced first hand in the music industry (that you won't hear about anywhere else on the whole effin planet but here)
#1. The time I smoked a blunt with Tupac (sorta), no homo
Back in 1992, I was working with some more gully Mount Vernon niggas. We were working on a rap group called “Ground Zero” who were supposed to be like the East Coast version of NWA. These niggas had a lil spark and even had a deal on Atlantic Records (don’t worry if you don’t recall hearing about them, they were dropped from the label about a week after this story took place), but these jigs were really crazy, like, not right in the head.
They were all cousins (I think inbred) and when they weren’t rhyming or writing “hot shit,” they would get all drunk and start fighting each other for real. I mean, there was one incident when, in the midst of a drunken spell, they started fighting amongst each other in the streets, which eventually escalated into a lil game of gun play where one of ‘em got shot in the arm. Believe me when I say these cats were effin idjits!!! Anyway, they had a “road manager” (he was actually their weed carrier) who went by the name of “Easy Lee.” Easy was one of those pretty boy (no homo) type of cats who was actually real grimy, so much so that that you wouldn’t trust him near your cash, your girl, your moms, your kids, your CDs, your clothes, you flat out couldn’t trust this fucker. I wonder why he didn’t just call himself Greezy Lee.
Anyways, Ground Zero ended up getting a gig to perform out in this ghetto ass club in Queens, New York. It was a promotional date and they were opening up for the late, great Tupac Shakur. This was around the time that ‘Pac was straight up whack, had just made his acting debut in the film “Juice” and had one hit called “I Get Around”(which was actually the first song of his that I liked (no homo). On the night of the scheduled performance, Me, Greezy, Ground Zero, and a few other cats (no homo) drove to the club and when we got there, the place was packed around the entire block. To make matters worse, this was like the coldest night I ever experienced in my life!!! It was about 2 degrees with a wind chill factor of like negative 25! There was like a thousand chicks waiting on line for hours, waiting to catch a glimpse of Tupac with nothing on but halter-tops and opened toed shoes. I didn’t get it because I was wearing like three pairs of socks and a pair of Timberland boots and it was so cold, my toes felt like I had stuffed said socks with razor blades.
To make shit even more horrific, the bouncers at the door didn’t give a rat’s ass who the eff me and Ground Zero were and were definitely not letting us in. After waiting for like an hour, Tupac arrives with his crew (including the future G.O.A.T., Biggie Smalls, who at the time was ‘Pac’s lowly weed carrier). To this day, I’ll never figure out how, but Greezy Lee managed to slip his greasy ass (no homo) into Pac’s entourage and disappeared inside the club alongside them. Five minutes go by, I know for sure that my feet are frostbitten and that I will probably have to have one of ‘em surgically removed thus becoming gimped up, Ground Zero start getting antsy, cussing at each other, shoving and looking like they’re about to start fighting and shooting at each other when Greezy comes out with a bouncer, points in our direction and tells dude to let the group in. Ground Zero gets escorted in and this other 800 pound cocksmoking bouncer sticks his meaty ass hands in my chest and blocks me from entering. Tearfully (no homo), I watch the posse enter the club.
So here I am, stuck out in the frozen tundra, toes all blue, with about 500 ghetto ass, open toed shoe wearing half dressed crazy bitches, with no ride home and no opportunity to see my group perform. Fortunately, I had the keys to the group’s vehicle , I hop in, turn on the heat and wait for like three hours for the crew to get back. Around four in the a.m., Greezy and Ground Zero wake me up from out of my slumber by knocking on the window and we all head back to Mount Vernon. They inform me that although the bouncer allowed the group into the club, the promoter took one look at them and said there was no way in hell he’d allow them to perform. They did decide to remain inside and watch Tupac and Biggie perform (not giving a flying fuck about my lame ass) and the evening was a wrap.
Anyways, we get to one of the dude’s crib when Greezy proudly announces that while he was “backstage” (how the fuck did he manage to get backstage?), he started “going for his” by grabbing all types of shit - others people’s belongings and stuff - until he came upon this black leather Pelle Pelle jacket with an image of a black stallion embroided on the back. Realizing he “had to have it,” he slipped it on under his coat while Tupac and crew were performing and blended back into the audience. He takes it out and shows us all the coat and I’m like “Yo man, that’s really fucked up, I don’t get down like that!!! ….. Um, what’s in the pockets?” He goes all up in the pockets and produces a wallet containing none other than Tupac Shakur’s driver’s license! I then recognize the jacket because ‘Pac had worn it in “Juice”. We all remain silent, not believing that Greezy just jacked “Bishop” when from the other pocket, he produces the largest, most beautifullest effin bag of Chronic weed I have ever seen in my life. We were all in awe because in New York, we weren’t up on the Chronic other than what Snoop and Dre over on the West Coast were rapping about.
As we smoked the Chronic, Greezy was like our hero for about seven minutes, and I, for the life of me, couldn’t get out of my mind the image of ‘Pac’s tiny ass (no homo) being ushered out of the club, wrapped all up in a blanket and sheets to keep warm, with no coat on and no Chronic to smoke. I don’t know what Greezy ended up doing with the jacket and ‘Pac’s license, I just don’t fuck with cats like that anymore (no homo). I just hope that this incident didn’t trigger that crazy ass nigga Tupac to go off the deep end, resulting in him hating B.I.G., Puffy and just about anything else East Coast related. Good looking out ‘Pac, Thug Life and all that my nigga! R.I.P.
Byron Crawford a/k/a Bol is the celebrated author of several books, most recently NaS Lost: A Tribute to the Little Homey.
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