The Midnight News 07.18.05

hyatte | July 18, 2005 | Archive | 0 Comments

This summer of hyatte thing is a con, isn’t it. You are writing weekly stuff, no difference. A column a day. Now that would be a gimmick!

“Trish Stratus”

No honey, a column a day would end me… spiritually, physically, emotionally, and sexually. I’d go limp… inert… IMPOTENT.

What kind of jerkoff would do a column a day? What the hell is there to write about?

The nice part is, I’m pretty sure she asked me that while naked. Cuz Lord knows I was naked when I answered it! BOYEEEEE

Could the whole Matt Hardy/Edge/Lita be THE greatest “work” of all time?

Just a thought.


Nope, just Matt looking at some CA$H this summer!

Hi8, Okay since bWo and Matt Hardy have appeared within a week, comment on IWC getting into mainstream WWE now please. It’s the only “real” topic this week and you could decipher it better than anyone. Is it just a fluke that the 2 biggest “popular” IWC stories materialized on tv at the same time, or is a sign of things to come in terms of angles? Anyways you have to admit they sold Matt Hardy pretty well on tv. And Meanie and Richards well on

Longtime fan 

blah blah

Catering to the inside is something they are experimenting with… and with all things Vince, it won’t last. Evenutally, he’ll go back to the way he likes to do things.
HHH hates catering to the net too, thus does Stephanie.

This won’t last.

What kind of name is “Blah Blah”?

President Bush could end up super-kicking Tony Blair right in the mouth and jump on a table and say that Bush, along with Haliburton, was responsible for the London bombing, and Keith would claim that he saw it coming all along. 

Of course, he does all of his predictions after the fact, but no matter. 


The Hater Nation

You know… it’s been close to two years since I’ve said a peep about Scott Keith, why is anyone still complaining to ME about the guy? He’s minding his own business and seems to be getting just as sick and tired of this Net nonsense as I am.

What kind of asshole names their kid “The Hater Nation”?

Dude, SmackDown this past week was taped on Monday night after RAW (good ol’ SuperShows), so there was no way that they could have known the bombings in London were gonna go down – or could they…?

Plus people are too f*ckin’ sensitive. Its like ya cant even say the word t*rrorist anymore without getting strip searched n’stuff… t*rrorist, t*rrorist, t*rrorist!

Virgil Wade

They could have edited it down… but they played it up instead. The WWE’s trash is as white as cocaine

Hello T*rrorists! I’m Chris and this is the Midnight News!! Still doing the Summer of Hyatte which will still end with the EXPLOSIVE And Another Thing: Independence on a Saturday Night, which will lead into…. into…. heh, just gonna have to wait and see.

Speaking of yokels, Flea wrote something AGAIN. If you want the full breakdown of John Laurenaitis’s salary contract, and an excellent explaination as to why he deserves it, read that column.

Let’s jam…


It was going to happen, it was just a question of when.

And it was going so well ’til he opened his mouth and… well, Hardy just can’t sell bad-ass, not with that accent.

Anyway, no sense in going over last Monday night… let’s talk about Tuesday morning… 

Tuesday morning will go down in history as the day more indy wrestling promoters were up AT THE CRACK OF DAWN and RAN, not walked, RAN to their nearest bank with one goal in mind… to STOP THE CHECK THEY JUST WROTE TO MATT HARDY!!!

Gabe Saplosky… he was so scared of losing the $3 grand Hardy charged him that he almost offered his wife up to the bank manager in exchange for opening up 3 hours early. Of course, Hardy showed up.. at ROH, but so would you if the check you just tried to cash was turn up by the teller.

“Hey, is this the line to getting tickets to the Stones concert?”

“No, this is the line to get into the banks and stop this f*cking check I sent to Matt Hardy!! Fucking McMahon!!!!!”

(I f*cking told Flea this wouldn’t translate to print.)

Think I’m kidding? How many Indy side deals do you think Matt made before he re-upped with the WWE? Hardy knows the business well enough to demand cash up front… 

Close calls all around… but the real suckers in this is TNA…

See, if you listen to the innuendo, you’ll think that they’re going to Spike in October. Jeff Jarrett is WAAAAY too cocky. It’s as good as done. And they PROBABLY sold Matt Hardy as one of their talent…

And since TNA is FAMOUS for starting angles before everything all set (remember Hulk Hogan vs Jeff Jarrett?), they probably haven’t signed a damn thing with Spike yet. This can still blow up in their face.

I steamrolled over everyone in this company. I’ll steamroll over Hardy too!– Jeff Jarrett

Jeff Hardy?? He’s still suspended!!– Mike Tenay

Who said I was talking about Jeff Hardy??– Jarrett… TNA’s “Impact” webcast, two weeks ago.

And you wonder why this company is going broke.

And you wonder why AJ Styles still has to paint barns to make the rent.

And you wonder why Dixie Carter is considering selling her newborn child to the Asian black baby market.

And you wonder why…

… no one’s encouraging Chris Daniels to give up his studio apartment in California.

… America’s Most Wanted really are wanted for robbing convience stores on their way to the show

… the TNA dancers have been replaced with various second and third cousins of the Jarrett family.

… Mike Tenay can only afford MD 20/20 these days

… Don West switched to “Basic” cigarettes

These broke ass morons keep letting themselves be PLAYED AND PLAYED AND PLAYED OVER AND OVER AND OVER AGAIN

And then the final cherry on this screw job to end all screwjobs… the WWE loudly and boldly announced that they will ALLOW Matt Hardy to work the TNA show to further his WWE angle… I’m totally shocked that TNA didn’t take it.

You know… it’s like a car wreck that you know is about to go down so you just watch and wait… the moment of anticipation when you KNOW what’s coming and KNOW it’s going to be awesome… TNA is like that… it’s GOING to crash out, it’s GOING to crash out beautifully and you KNOW it’s going to be a clusterf*ck… not a matter of if, just WHEN.

TNA is Nitro, all over again. 

Oh, and after Hardy loses to Edge at Summerslam, it’s right back to curtain jerking for him… 


This column isn’t going well… JUST LIKE TNA!!

The company that started out as a PPV ONLY show four times a month has gone back to its roots… except one time a month for four times as much…

And I’m amazed that some people are considering this a viable alternative to being fired by the WWE.

I didn’t watch it… of course not… the f*ck are you thinking… so I read around and have some random thoughts…

-I think its hilarious that they have Mike Tenay get in Jeff Jarrett’s face. Mike Tenay’s ass is so flabby a black man would go homo for it. I like how Tenay sneers too. He’s like the world’s angriest accountant.

-Rhyno? That’s a coupe?

-America’s Most Wanted will never be captured if they stay in TNA… not even John Walsh would watch this nonsense. They are safe.

-Sonjay Dutt, Elix Skipper, Shark Boy, Micky Batts… any one of these names would be PERFECT gay porno names for you aspiring professional fagolas out there.

-Nice thing about the TNA financial woes is that Shane Douglas has been working for free since day 1. 

-Samoa Joe is learning that there is no honor in bouncing checks.

-Jimmy Hart?? I bet he’s there only because he’s still promising them Hogan. “It’s all a swerve, baby! Hulkster’s on his way!”

-some tag team title match involving no one that I give a second’s worth of thought to and have never heard of.

-I hate Sonny Siaki and wish AIDS on his balls.

-Apparently, they are milking the re-union of the New Age Outlaws for about as long as Nitro milked Sting coming down from the rafters. Problem is no one cares.

-Wasn’t Ron Killings supposed to be the King of TNA? Weren’t they going to show up McMahon by pushing this awesome personality to the moon and maiing him a legit superstar to be reckoned with?

-Is Monty Brown black? I swear, I never watch this show.

-Do you realize that X-Pac is only 33 years old and is actually in his wrestling prime right now? He also likes to suck clits that look a LOT like dried, canderous penises.

-Aw okay, AJ Styles is pretty damn good.

-Jerry Lynn… it’s over.

-I hear if he doesn’t start getting paid in real money, Christopher Daniels will really become the “Fallen Angel” after he jumps off a building

-So Raven gets bloody and beats that Mankind rip-off, then Jarrett shows up because he’s the only “Superstar” there… and Rhyno comes out but Rhyno nails Raven and Jarrett clebrates with him and Tenay has the ABSOLUTE NERVE to shout, “THIS IS THE BIGGEST SWERVE IN TNA HISTORY!!”… which after last week with Hardy… only goes to show that… that…

It only goes to show that Vince McMahon doesn’t have to be a genius to run the business… look at his friggin’ competition!!

This recap… this column was supposed to be funnier… but something happened along the way and… and…. now you’re beginning to see why I’m starting to pack it in. 

Gah… f*cking Hyatte sucks.


In the midst of all this hoopla about Cena going to Raw and Batista going to Smackdown and terrorism and Hardy and Lita and where the hell is Stratus, one little thing has been over-looked.

John Cena, up until the last few weeks, was strictly Smackdown, and he wrestled the Undertaker a few times.

And the Undertaker, of course, did nothing to make Cena look good. Squashed him good and proper.


Then, a couple of years ago, Dave Scherer was running off at the mouth about his connections, and said that one source told him, concerning the Undertaker, that the “Taker is respected in the locker room because of who he is, and everyone in the locker room knows that when it’s time to REALLY put Cena over, The Undertaker will do what’s right for the business. Put Cena over, and make it count! He squashes Cena today so Cena going over him tomorrow will REALLY put him over.” 

And right after that… everyone shut up… because we were all lured into thinking that eventually, the ‘Taker wiull “do what’s right” and put Cena over and it will be a HUGE moment for the kid.

And everyone got real quiet.

Tomorrow is today and Cena is at Raw to stay, ‘Taker ain’t leaving Smackdown, and the current WWE Champion has absolutely no wins over the Deadman… and has none scheduled for the distant OR near future…

Heh… and you say Triple H is the Game. HAW!!

The Undertaker… I remembered why I loved the old fart! God Bless the bastard!!



Flea: Only three writers in the world have ever meant anything, Hy-Jubil8
Hyatte: Oh yeah, which ones?
Flea: Stephen King, George Orwell…
Hyatte: And?
Flea: (takes a long, drawn-out, desperate pull from his bong – followed by a nice, generous sip from his glass) and… whoever.
Hyatte: Whoever?
Flea: Yep
Hyatte: Who the f*ck is whoever?
Flea: When you know, then you’ll know


What is a summer without a good book? 

And what better book to take to the beach than a biography of an L.A. Gangbanger??

I saw Sanyika Shakur on 60 Minutes many, many years ago. Morely Safer was interviewing a giant black man clad in an orange jumpsuit and chained to his chair. Sanyika was talking ablut his book, his story as a kid growing up within the L.A. Gangster community where every block was run by a different gang, and all they did was patroll their block, looking for rival gangs to blow away. The kid didn’t just live with gangbagers, he became one. And he loved it.

His birth name is Kody Scott, but he embraced the weights like he embraced the gang life and soon became known as “Monster”, not just in size, but in reputation. He is a stone cold ruthless gangster. It was all he knew and all he wanted.

Monster: The Autobiography of an L.A. Gangmember is his story, and he tells it well. It’s not WRITTEN particularly well, but it’s told in high detail. Monster takes us from his first day as a member of Eight Tray Gangsters through his evolution into Monster, through his many, many, MANY kills, to his many, many, MANY trips to Juvenile Hall and jail, and finally prison. Shakura carefully explains the law of gangland, the rules of the set, the paranoia that comes from having your sworn enemies, who want to kill you just as hard as you want to kill them, and the family love that he got from his crew. He takes us into his world, and does nothing to glamorize it. You get his story and his point of view, which he does an excellent job of describing without making himself too sympathetic, or sympathetic at all, really. He’s not exactly proud of his past, but he isn’t ashamed of it either. In his mind, it was the only life he could possibly have had, and he shows the reader why by deftly describing this world of his. Sanyika doesn’t thrust the hopelessness down our throats, but you get its sense anyway.

Rather than use an excerpt about a gangfight or a shoot-out with many different people involved, I’m going with a scene where Monster is mostly alone. It’s a perfect description of his environment, his mentality, and the hostility that surrounds and engulfs him. In the following excerpt, Monster is just released from Juvee, at night, and boards the bus for the simple task of going home.

Problem is, he got on the wrong bus. Check this out: 

It took most of the night for me to be processed out of L.A. County Jail. Ever leery of the homicide detectives, who might pop out from behind some partition or desk with those “gas your black ass” smirks smeared on their faces, as soon as I was finally released I bolted like a track star to an awaiting bus, Once on the bus I darted straight to the back and crouched down in the seat. The police are notorious for letting you think you have gotten away, and then just when you think it’s safe to go backj into the water – sharks!. So I moved under cover of darkness like I just broken into – or out of – 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. On the bus, traveling through downtown L.A., I began to ease a bit, but not much. I knew if I got into South Central, the police’s chances of apprehending me would be slim, sort of like Marines hunting for Viet Cong in their native habitat. A mere academy-trained soldier-policeman would be put to shame trying to track me in the concrete jungle of South Central.

At Fifth Street a passenger of youthful age boarded the bus. On point, I scoped his dress code: blue khaki pants, white All-Stars, blue Adidas sweat jacket over a blue t-shirt, and a blue baseball cap with two golf ball emblams fastened to the front. He definitely was a banger the two golf balls could signify several sets. Back in the early 80’s, we’d use numbers as codes of affiliation to circumvent police repression. All Trays, including three-time sets such as the Playboy Gangsters, Altadena Block Crips, and Marvin Gangsters, wore three golf-ball emblems on their hats. In contrast, Neighborhood sets and two-time sets like the 5-Deuces, 6-Deuces, and Raymond Avenue Crips wore two-golf ball emblems on their hats. Often, this alone would be a dead giveaway to set allegiance and quite enough to get one’s brains blown out.

The banger paid his fare and started right down the aisle toward the back, toward me. He caught me scoping him and tensed a bit – but not out of fright, but as a result, I’m sure, of an adrenile rush in preparation for a confrontation. I had gotten my rush when I saw him board a bus. before I saw any movement a small caliber weapon appeared in his right hand – a .25 automatic, I thought. He wasn’t holding it in a threatening manner or aiming it at all. He was palming it as if to say “Yo, I’m armed, and if there is to be a confrontation this is my choice of weapon.” He sat across from me and to the left, on the long, four passenger seat. We eyed each other tentatively. All the while he palmed the weapon. After a few minutes that seemed like days, he hit me up.

“Where you from?” he asked in a serious, you-better-not-be-my-enemy voice. For the first time in my life I was scared of being shot, scared to die. Still reeling from the mental strain of being shot six months before, I couldn’t summon the courage to die.

“I don’t bang,” I said and looked away in shame, fighting to keep down the bile pushing its way up. The banger broke his stare and looked elsewhere, totally dismissing me. I felt at a complete loss. Damn, I was trippin’. I couldn’t very well say, “Uh, excuse me, I made a slight error. You see, I’m from Eight Tray.” That would be even worse than not initially saying where I was from. I wanted to make it back to the ‘hood, and not in a body bag. I would gladly die in a couple of months, but not now, not here.

We rode in silense the rest of the way. Then it dawned on me: the banger was probably unmoved by my disclaimer of affiliation and was going to ride the duration of the bus route to see where I got off. Then he’d know I was an Eight Tray and gun me down. Damn, I thought, while in the juvenile tank I had Termite, a Chicano from East Side Clover, write ETG on the back of my neck. For sure when I got off the bus he’d scope the set on my neck and unload his clip on me. Then I would die in shame.

Just as these thoughts were wracking my mind, he reached up and pulled the exit bell. As the bus slowed for his upcoming stop, he stood and pocketed the weapon and walked toward the back exit door. Pausing, he turned around and said, “You should join a gang, ’cause you already got the look. Stay up.”

And he stepped down into the street without a backward glance.

I wanted to shout, “Muthaf*cka, I got a gang!” but that would just fly in the face of what had already taken place, I rode on in silence, though I noted that he had gotten off the bus in an area of downtown where the only gangs were Saladorans. This could mean one of two things: he belonged to one of the Salvadoran gangs, or he was just out riding the bus lines hunting for enemies. I quite possibly would have been one. What number, I wondered to myself?

The bus was now occupied only by myself and two other people, both elderly women. It turned right on Santa Barbara – now King Boulevard – and I wondered where the driver was going. When we got to King and Crenshaw, the driver hollered that this was the last stop. What? Last stop? never familiar with the bus lines in L.A., I had apparently taken the wrong bus. Now I found myself on the corner of King and Crenshaw at 11:30 at night. This was borderline between the Rollin’ Sixties and Black P. Stone Bloods, and I had ETG on my neck and a folder in my hand saying the same thing. Shit, tonight just wasn’t my night. 

I milled around in the shadows, ever-watchful, shifting nervously from foot to foot. “Wasn’t nobody on the street but police and fools, police not givin’ a f*ck and fools doomed by their own ignorance,” Li’l De had said after my shooting. Now karma had reared its damn head and I was an ignorant fool, doomed. Every car was a potential tank manned by opposition troops. I had been dropped behind enemy lines and had to survive, had to get back to “my country”. The mission of going to jail only proved successful if I made it back alive.

I was so far back in the shadows that I almost missed the bus going in the opposite direction. I was going to ride back down King Boulevard to Normandie Avenue, get a transfer, follow Normandie to Florence and then take my chances on foot at getting home. Mom didn’t even know I was out. I could picture the utter surprise in her face when the police called.

“Uh, Mrs Scott, this is Detective Joseph from L.A.’s homicide unit calling to regretfully inform you that your son Kody was murdered tonight.”

Mom would calmly say that the officer was making a dreadful mistake. “My son Kody is in jail,” she would say, probably right up until she had to I.D. my body in the morgue. She would never believe it could happen to me. But we had grown so far apart that if I were dying I would not have called her. Mom was the enemy at home. Mom was, to me, what antiwar protesters were to Westmoreland.

I rode to Normadie without incident, but while I was standing on Normandie and King, which is Harlem Rollin’ Thirties neighborhood, a packed beige Cadillac rolled to a stop in front of me. Looking hard for recognition were the twisted, contorted faces of bangers from I-don’t-know-where. I tried to look as unconnected as possible. The legal folder that held my letters and pictures from China – with the set scrawled blatantly across the front of it – was between me and the back of the bus-stop bench. I was being inspected for any signs of being a banger. Perhaps these cats were Harlems just patrolling their ‘hood, something I have done a lot.

I’ve found some very out-of-the-way people in the ‘hood on some of my patrols. One particular night I rode up on a carload of Miller Gangster Bloods sitting comfortably in an alley behind the Western Surplus. I was able to I.D. them by their loud talking. I was on a ten-speed bike, and once I confirmed they were the enemy, I rolled up on the side of the car and emptied my clip into the faces and bodies of the occupants. Out of bounds, tresspassing, free-fire zone – hell, I had a dozen reasons to fire on them. “Free country” never crossed my mind. Besides, this wasn’t America – it was South Central.

The Miller Gangsters were from clear across town, 120th Street. It’s possible that they didn’t know where they were. Or it could be that they didn’t know where they were. Or it could be that they did know but had little respect for our ‘hood, since they had never had open confrontations with us. I’d tend to believe the latter. This is why it’s necessary to read the writing on the walls. Fuck street signs. Walls will tell you where you are.

Not seeing any clear signs in my face or dress code, the idling Cadillac began to ease forward. For identification purposes the passenger raised one hand out of the window with his thumb and pinky finger extended, the other fingers hidden in his palm. I recognized the sign immediately: Neighborhood Rollin’ Twenty Bloods. No doubt they were on a military incursion through Harlem ‘hood, their worst enemy. “Hurry up, bus,” I found myself whispering. “Hurry up.”

The bus came, and I rode attentively down Normandie, reading the writing on the walls, passing through several ‘hoods. Normandie Avenue can be compared to the Ho Chi Minh trail. It is the main artery of well over forty sets, spanning from Hollywood to Gardena. Normandie is a vital supply route. From dope to dynamite, Normandie has seen it. From King Boulevard to Florence, the bus made its way through the Harlem Thirties, Rollin’ Forties, 5-Deuce Hoovers, 5-Six Syndicate and 6-Deuce Brims. Block after block, set after set, everybody belonged to something. The writing scrawled on the walls told fabulous stories. I knew most of the names written by face, but it was hard to picture the individuals writing them. Bending down, moving, scanning to see who’s watching them… some cats just seemed too sophisticated for that. It’s funny, too, because as much graffiti as covers our city walls, hardly anybody ever sees it done. As much as I have struck up on walls, I’ve never been asked to stop or been asked what I was doing.

On Seventy-first Street, the street before Florence, I reached up and pulled the signal cord to be let off. I disembarked at a walking-run, Florence and Normandie was a hot corner. I turned the corner onto Seventy-first and trotted past Li’l Tray Ball’s house and wondered if I should stop. No, I decided, make it home first. It was now well past midnight. Although there are more murders in the city on the weekends than the weekdays, it has nothing to do with gang members being workers. Gang members work all day, every day. This was a Wednesday, but that didn’t mean I was more likely to survive. No, I was more likely to be killed any time and any place they caught me!

I scurried along, ducking and dodging into driveways and behind trees. Anyone in any other part of this country would have thought I had either stolen something or was a nut. But any resident here who clocked my antics knew I was just trying to get from point A to point B in one piece.

When I got home I went to the back door, but it was locked. So I went around to the front and knocked, but got no answer. I’ve never had a key, never wanted one. I never asked Mom for one, and she never offered me. I knocked again, harder. Still there was no answer, but Mom’s car was there.

Suddenly I heard noises fromn across the street and saw flashes coming from Welow’s garage. I went across the street cautiously. Welow was welding some pieces of metal together and working on his car. he was a civilian who worked at General Motros every day, but on the week-end he’d pull his 1974 Monte Carlo low-rider out and have a ball. he had a lot of tools and welding equipment. In fact, he would saw my weapons off for me and then smooth down the barrels on his grinder, When he saw me his eyes lit up. We rapped a bit before he broke out some pot. My system was clean from not doing any drugs in jail for six months, so one stick of pot blew me over.

When I finally jetted back across the street I was really on paranoid. I banged the door now.


And that’s who Mom thought it was, because before they had come to my cell with the search warrant they’d gone to my house. Not believing Mom when she told them that I was already in jail, they still made her come out of the house and get her on her knees like a common criminal.

I saw her now, peeking from behind the curtain. She couldn’t recognize me, so she hit the porch light, splashing me with light. I freaked and bent down to avoid in-coming rounds.

“The light,” I shouted, pointing, “turn the light out, Mom!”

Hearing my voice, she finally registered who I was. Just as abrubtly as I was splashed with lightm I was now doused with darkness. The light was screaming “Here he is,” but the darkeness said, “Shhh, it’s all right, it’s all right.” Mom opened the door slowly, after undoing more locks than I ever remember having seen on the door.

“Hi, Mom,” I said with a dopey marijuana smile. I know she smelled it all over me.

“You know they going to come get you, don’t you? she said with a look of why-you-keep-doin’-me-like-this.


“The police, that’s who!”

“Fo’ what? I ain’t done nothin’.”

“Boy, you done broke out of jail!”

“Naw, Mom, I beat my case. They let me out.”

Mom assumed that because I was sixteen she had to come and get me, like always. But I was not in juvenile hall anymore. In the juvenile tank they just let you go.

“Boy, are you sure?” she asked accusingly. “Causze I can’t take them trigger happy fools running up in here and treating me like no thug. I work too hard for that shit, you hear me?”

“Yeah yeah, I hear you Mom,” I said with my head down, wandering the length of the hallway feeling like “Damn, ain’t nothin’ changed, I see.” “You been to see Shaun?” I asked, trying to get her off my back.

“Yes, I went last weekend. You know they gave him thirty-six years and life. My poor baby.”

Uh-oh, I thought, here it comes. “Mom, I’m tired, I need some sleep.”

I closed my bedroom door and waited, hoping she wouldn’t come into my room and continue preaching. I knew she meant well, but I wasn’t up to it tonight. I wanted to be loved, to be missed, to be wanted, not scolded.

Now I was angry. I changed into my combat balck, went out the window and into the garage, In a bag under the old chest of drawers, I had a .45 automatic that I had gotten from A.C. Rabbit, our Korean homeboy, before my capture. The .45 had only two shells in the clip. I went across to Welow’s and he gave me eight more shells. I got on Li’l Monster’s new ten speed and rode quickly toward Brim ‘hood, all the while cursing about my mother’s disregard for my feelings, never questioning mine for hers. 

From Sixty-ninth to Sixty-second I pumped furiously, needing to shoot somebody, eager to vent my anger. Rounding the corner on Sixty-second and Denker I encountered what looked to be two couples sitting on the back of a car playing oldies, hugging, being lovers. I slowed my pace and gave them the most evil mad-dog stare I could come up with. All four turned their heads and, I’m almost sure, prayed that I kept going. I made a tight circle in the street to see if any one of them were looking at me, but none were.

I peddled on toward Halldale. When I found no one there, I doubled back. Noticing that the couples had vanished, I peddled on up Sixty-second to the other side of Brim ‘hood by Harvard Boulevard. Getting halfway up the block, I noticed a furtive move to my left in my peripheral vision. Turning abruptly in the direction of the movements, I grabbed for my weapon. Before I could draw, the movement shot out of the shadows like fluid. “Damn,” I said to myself, “a cat.” Shit, the damn cat seemed to be doing just as I had been doing not more than an hour before, trying to get from point A to point B in one piece. I watched the cat momentarily before I continued my scan of the park.

Turning right on Harvard Boulevard, I saw two Chicanos leaning against a brown Gremlin, talking. Both, I guessed, were from FI3. We had no beef with them. Further down the block I saw three cats who looked my age leaning against a van, talking and drinking beer. Bingo – enemies. I rode within a house distance, approximately twenty to twenty-five feet, and made a circle to make sure they saw me. On my final loop I came up blasting.


“Ah, Blood, I’m hit!”

“Run!” screamed a distant voice. “Just keep runnin’!”

One Blood lay motionless in the street. The other two were pinned behind a tree. The van took the majority of my rounds.


The .45 had the low, slow baritone of a big bass.

When I heard no other noise, I took off, retaining one round. Peddling as quickly as possible straight down Harvard, across Gage Avenue, and into the peripheral interior of my ‘hood, I felt like a Native American on horseback retreating back to my camp after slaying the enemy. I made a left on Sixty-seventh Street and relaxed a bit. On Denker I turned right and made my way home. I put the bike in the garage and entered the house. I went to my room and fell asleep. I slept very well.

The book is poorly edited, as you can see, but Shakur doesn’t skimp on the details and he does a good job writing about the gangster mentality. The last third of the book starts getting a bit preachy as Kody finds the “New Afrikan Independance Movement” and changes his name to Sanyika. He also finds a spiritual peace and leaves the gang-life behind. But since he wrote the book from jail, serving a term for assaulting a crack dealer and stealing his van, he clearly hasn’t shook off his upbringing. 

It’s actually a little funny to read the last third of the book as he talks about writing this story, so filled with the pain and harm he inflicted on others, from solitary confinement, placed there because of his political views. He accepts full responsiblity for his actions, but also gives his environment a generous amount of blame as well. He’s probably onto something.

The other nice thing about the book is that he shows no remorse for his past. He tells his story – tells it in a solid, breezy pace – and doesn’t make excuses. That either makes him a dead nuts evil human who belongs in solitary, or it makes him an honest writer. I’m leaning towards the first choice, but I’ll leave that up to you.

Monster was published in 1993. The author may still be in prison, he may not be, and even though I live about as far away from L.A. as humanly possible, it still gave me the chills. Because just because this Monster is in jail doesn’t mean there are other Monsters running around, full of rage, full of hatred, and looking for something to kill.

Strong book.

My name is Chris Hyatte and I will rape your momma if it’ll MAKE YOU READ!!!


*It snows more in the Grand Canyon than it does in Minneapolis, Minnesota.*

And just like that, you’re smarter than you were three seconds ago

Hyatte LIVES to inform.


Whenever we talk, I can always count on Flea to give his opinions on just about anything. And those opinions are usually extremely fascinating to listen to. It also allows me to go to the toilet or something while he lectures on.

So, I decided to grab a pen and paper and start jotting down his thoughts. Everyone likes Flea.

The following is 100% true… more or less:



I look into any one of them and there I am! Ain’t nothing wrong with that!

Flea: Who is actually funny with me one night at of 100 and suddenly he thinks he’s Steve Lawrence.

…. you know, that joke is so inside even I hardly got it.


I, for one, am so sick and tired of HHH bashing. Thus, I give you this ongoing gimmick.

Every week, I shall list one good thing Triple H has done that makes him a much better person than YOU, John Q. LiveJournal Blogging FAG, who has never done anything for anyone… and probably a supporter of Rob Feinstein too, you PERVERT!!

Triple H Is Better Than You Because 

He will NEVER respect the Net enough to work us into a money feud.



You know the drill here… quotes from wrestlers… many of which I’ve received from YOU (mostly Justin Parr, thanks twinkie!)

01): Ahmed Johnson is home watching the semi-finals of the Intercontinental Title tournament.– Jim Ross 

Ahmed Johnson is probably home eating a big ol’ bowl of kidney beans.– Jerry Lawler

02): Yeah, yeah, uh huh, you know what you need? You seem like a fat man who need a little lovin’. I know it’s been many a year since you had that… well since you and your mom moved away from each other.– Ernest “The Cat” Miller 

Well… WHAT?!?– Mark Madden: Thunder 2000

03): Last night this girl came knocking on my door at midnight. Finally, I let her out.– Gene Okerlund: WWF All-American Wrestling, 1989

04): Hey McMahon, your hair is looking better every day. It even had imitation dandruff!– Lawler

05): Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go backstage. I’m proud of myself, I just beat Brad Armstrong!– Arn Anderson, WCW Saturday Night, 1992

06): What’s wrestling about? It’s about a bunch of sweaty men fighting over honor, pride, over women- sex, drugs and rock and roll. Brian Gewirtz has never been laid, he’s never been to a club-he’s a geek he plays Dungeons and Dragons. The best work he ever did was writing for Edge and Christian when they were geeks. He doesn’t know what he’s writing about. – Raven

07): Sid, you’re the ruler of the world? Well I’m the walrus, coo coo cachoo!– Kevin Nash: In Your House I

08): Taz thinks he’s known suffering? I’ve been teaming with Steve Blackman the last year and a half. That’s suffering!– Al Snow: Raw 2000

09): Do you remember Ray Stevens, Tommy? He was a hardcore wrestler and now he needs a liver transplant from forty years of hard living but he can’t get one because he doesn’t have the money. Harley Race is a millionare several times over but he can’t enjoy it because his body is busted up in several different places. And how many of you fans call the Dynamite Kid and say, “thanks kid for diving to the concrete all those times and I know now you don’t have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of but hey, thanks for the memories” And how many of people remember Eddie Gilbert and shed a tear and if you do is it because you miss him or miss the chance to see him bleed one more time. You see Tommy, Raven and I have offered you a way out. I took the time and effort to DDT you on that concrete and man, if a person will take the time to do that then he must have a whole lot of love in his heart.– Mick Foley: ECW ’95 

10): Hurry up before Channel 10 gets here.– Steve Corino after being picked up by Rob Feinstein

I knew this neighborhood looked familiar.– Feinstein’s response: The RF Video Steve Corino “Shoot” video 

Feinstein… HA… all cocky and shit.

Cocky… HAW, the wit.

Speaking of everyone’s favorite (alleged) pedarist… let’s take this puppy home with an always amusing, legally questionable semi-regular feature…


His name is Rob Feinstein and not too long ago he was caught pulling up to the house of an underage young BOY by a news crew. Perverted claimed to have online chat evidence that Feinstein has met the boy online and actively pursued him.

He responded by turning around and getting the hell out of there.

Ever since then, poor Rob was more or less blacklisted from wrestling. Being gay is perfectly okay in this bizness (so long as you keep it fricken QUIET… fag!!), but being gay for young, YOUNG boys… well okay, if you HAVE TO… just don’t be late for the house shows!

But being CAUGHT being gay for young, YOUNG boys… that’ll get you chucked out.

But Rob stayed firm! Stayed optimistic! Was patient, and rode this controversy out. All charges were dropped before they were even filed! He was cleared of anything TECHNICALLY wrong! Hell, he doesn’t even have to report to his new neighbors that he’s a kiddie popper… should he ever move.
And now, Rob is BACK, with his very own Live Journal! He posts on and on about his life, his hopes, his dreams, his comebacks, and how EVERYTHING is wonderful! Perfectly innocent, innocuous posts…

And yet… when read in the right light (ie: when taken completely out of context)… certain things Feinstein says literally SCREAM that he hasn’t changed and NO ONE with a penis who is under the age of 15 is safe!

The following are statements posted by Rob himself that make him sound GUILTIER than Michael Jackson! And gayer than an Italian Waiter:

How annoying was the noise that the aliens made?

I went out with Nick Berk and Eazy E the other night and we had a crazy time. 

It was just a total party atmosphere.

This summer is amazing so far much better than the last three. I can’t wait until Xmas as this will be the best year ever. 

It is time to head out to the city and party like the nature boy ……WOOOOOOOOOO

I spent more time on my cell phone and picking dead skin of my feet than watching the movie.

I saw that coming a mile away about two years ago.

I thought me and our group was fun but did those guys party

I love the guy to death.

Well I just woke up from a long napp and its time to eat some sushi before I party all night long

Life is short and you really have to live life like everyday is your last. 

I hate being sick but I wore myself down over the last 2 weeks

Joe bought a brownie that he could not finish so I got stuck with it.

I was a huge mark for him because he was the one big man 

He was yelling so loud at first I thought we would get kicked out of the hotel from security.

You got to love the story about the two guys on top of the mountain looking down at the sheep and the one guy wants to run down there and get them but the his friend tells him that they will walk down there and get them all. Well I got my walking shoes all ready.

Of course, the story uses the word “f*ck”, not “get”, but ol’ Rob ain’t gonna be talking about “f*cking sheep” publicly anytime soon.

And so ends another column. I’m tired.


Man, this Summer of Hyatte sounded good in theory… but shit, I’m used to one week a month off… this is annoying.

I’ll keep doing it tho’, have no fear. 

I’ll leave you with this little cryptic thought: No matter how hard I try to screw it up, I seem to be making at least one person very, very happy… and… well hell, that’s all I’m going to say.

Unless I’m being jacked, which I’m always suspicious of… but no worries, I’m f*cking Hyatte and I’m ALWAYS on my toes!

Who says a healthy sense of paranoia is a bad thing?

This is Hyatte