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O.G. Bobby Johnson
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gary coleman
about me
The day I was born? Dooms Day is what my mom calls it. I call it my Berfday. Anyway, it was April 1, 1980 -- Martin Luther King Jr. Hospital, Los Angeles, Ca. The first April Fool's day of the 1980's. A fact, my mom says, proves my specialness. Anyway, I guess my story doesn't really begin for another 6 days. It wasnt until April 7th that my parents actually agreed on a name for me. Legend has it that my mother -- whom I call, Mama -- was insistent on the name Robert. My pop was completely against it. My dad - affectionately known in the streets as 'Spin Move' - thought Robert sounded like a cop's name. "This boy will be named Bobby!", he told my mom. Finally, after 6 long days, and a massive smack fight, they reached a compromise. My name would be Bobby, but I could use Robert as a nickname. My dad was satisfied, but my mom never truly got over the 6 days of namelessness. She used to say, "having no name was a name that only the devil could pronounce." I never really understood what she meant by that.

Unfortunately, my father passed away before they could ever make up. Apparently, he was killed by dope dealers in a crack house while conducting research on drug purchases. I was only 8 days old at the time. Due to that, I can't say I ever missed him, but out of respect, I've never allowed anyone to call me by my streetname, Robert. Bobby, and at some points OG, is all I've ever gone by. I heard that some of my dad's croanies immortalized him with a mural on the side of a market on MLK Boulevard. It said, "Spin Move, may your spirit live forever through this wall." Unfortunately, the building was demolished days later to make way for a mall, but still, he was missed and the point was made. With my dad dead and my mother growing bitchier by the day, I took to the streets.

At 13, I joined the gang Duece. Duece was a gang that came out of Hoover Street in South Central. Joining the gang made perfect sense,considering I had been kicking ass all up and down Hoover Street for years. With my new homies, I would finally be able to kick ass and take names. And that's exactly what I did. Ray-Ray, Bear and Loco are a few of the names that I pounded into my book of chumps. It wasn't long after the Loco ass-grassing that I wound up in the jig house on a 4 month - 10 year sentence. I quickly learned that being in prison is a lot different than not being in prison.

First, I learned that Messican inmates are not your friends. Maybe on the outs they are, but up in the beast, those dudes are viscious. If you're not careful -- like, really careful -- they'll try to touch you while you're sleeping. Or in some cases, even in the lunch line. This one dude, La Bunny, would never let me drink from any of the fucking water fountains. Not everyone...just me. I didn't really get it. Dude was an asshole to the billionth power.

Anyway, the second thing I learned was Cereals. Like, all different kinds of Cereals. Believe it or not, but this was actually the first time I had ever had it. This is fucking cool, I thought. Well of course, that didn't last long. Even with all those different breakfast's, the novelty of prison wore off fast. I decided to lay back, mind my business, and get the fuck outta there. I was up for parole in just under 4 months and I planned on getting it. But, my mom told me a long time ago..."Plants die. And, if you take the 't' out of plants, you have plans, which also die." She was right. For one reason or another, I ended up doing the whole 10 years.

Note: 6 months into my stretch I learned that my son was born. I named him Jimmy. His mom wanted to name him James, but I think James is a crap name. Jimmy was much better.

Anyway, while I was locked back, I had a lot of time to reflect. I thought about my girl. I thought about Loco. Did he really deserve to have the shit beat out of him? I decided that he did, but not in church; not on Sunday. That was wrong of me. I had turned a corner. Using my time wisely, I taught myself many special skills like reading, writing and discussion. I also learned web design, silk screening and how to make pizza. High on confidence, I was ready to find and raise my son. I was anxious to teach him the things my dad wasn't able to teach me. Skills like conversation or how to hop a fence. I hit the block a new man with locating Jimmy at the top of my list.

First things first, I went to get some ass. Then some more ass. Then even more ass. After like, 3 or 4 weeks of chasing ass and fine dining, I started thinking about my skills. I was wasting them. I knew it was time to find Jimmy. That night was long. Word on the street was that he was a 10 year-old, full-time, gang banging thief. It had been 3 hours of searching and I was hurtin for a meal. I stopped at a local restaurant to get a bite to eat. After finishing my McChicken, I racked my brain about where my boy could be. He wasn't in the McDonalds on Hoover Street. He wasn't at the bus stop either. I didn't know where else to look.

Walking back to my ride, I noticed my car door was ajar with a pair of legs hanging out. I snapped, resorted to the OG Bobby J way and thoroughly Rodney King'd that sucka. It wasn't until I cooled off that I was able to recognize the features of his face. Features I couldn't mistake. As you've probably guessed...yes, it was Loco. What a sorry sack of shit.

He claimed that he was an author now and was writing a book on auto theft. This was simply, a "case-study", he said. "Just research." I had never heard a more ridonkulous story in my life. I gave him another royal working over for having such a crap excuse. He started to pee his pants like a frightened child. I suddenly felt something. Something that I had never felt prior to my decade in the can. What had just happened here? How could a grown man defer to such pansy activity? It incensed me. I gave him two more kicks to the gut and a chop to the throat for punishment. In the end, I let him go, but not without applying conversation. I asked if he knew of a young boy in the neighborhood named Jimmy Johnson. He said no. I was tired of trying. I had reached my limit. I had spent at least 3 hours searching for that incognegro.

My hopes are, that with this website, maybe he will find me. If you're out there, Jimmy...I'm your daddy...and they call me Bobby


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