WHEN I B ON THA RAPID REALTY LISTINGS

Not to beat a dead horse, but to beat a dead horse, New York City is beat, not unlike a horse that is not living, a horse without pulse, a horse in cell decay - a dead horse. Blame Giuliani, blame David Schwimmer, blame third-way neoliberalism, but the shit is just fucked these days. Walk up Nostrand between Fulton and Flushing and you'll be traversing Maino territory, but it's more like walking down the yarn aisle at Michaels. You'll see as many clogs as Tims. It is what it is.

I been following the degradation of the bodega for a while. I'm sorta like a scholar.

"But mine is doing well!" you say. "They just remodeled and got some flatscreen TVs!"

Pish posh, MF. That shit'll be sold when the property value hits eight figures. Ask mom and pop about the East Village the next time you're at brunch.

But I digress. High on bath salts one poetic night, I passed the RAKIM _ 1997 _SOLO argument through the YouTube search function and viewed the "When I B On Tha Mic" video. Those '90s Rakim solo albums are a tombstone for something, but that's another post. In this video, Rakim and friends are gesticulating and lip-syncing in front of Nostrand Mini Market. I can't verify this, because the Google StreetView for 110 Nostrand Ave. shows a property bordering a parking garage, whereas the bodega in the video appears to be on a street corner, but the Yelp for Nostrand Mini Market sports this as its emblematic image: 

Is it a victory? Giuliani sacrificed children so bike messenger types could ride through Bed Stuy with impunity. But if I was head honcho? This fuck would be wearing a fitted MLB cap, jeans the size of air ducts, and a mustard pair of Tims. The bag would not exist, the coat would be Carhartt or North Face, and he would be putting up a Long Island crew in the most deserted back alley.