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big doe rehab • brooklyn bodega • ghostface • ghostface killah • ghostwriter • hip hop • hiphopdx • sneaker head • spaulding

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The Big Doe Takeover

The Big Doe Rehab pt.4 (Final)

*Last time we left you with Ghost crimping, creasing, and folding hundreds of dollars into eight-inch figaro chains, pinky rings, and even a pair of earrings out of the new big-face fifties so they look like lemonhead diamonds!

*illustrations by Jimmy Blags. As told by Spaulding H. Forsythe. Powered by Brooklyn Bodega.

Yesterday was amazing. Toney and I spent some real quality time together (nh). And now that I have a chance to look back, it all starts to make sense.

After lunch yesterday, I left the cafeteria only to see Ghost in some heavy conversation with one of the nicer Rehab orderlies. Minutes later, Starks came in the room with another duffel over his shoulder. I thought it was just another dose of doe to add to the pile. But it was so much more. Toney emptied the bag on the floor to reveal four pairs of blazing white orderly slip-ons and seemingly thousands of Kool-Aid packets. Ghost had bartered with the non-medical staff for a few pieces of their wardrobe.

“We about to dye these, son!” He said.

We went crazy, like the shoes were 50 cent sodas in the hood. No words. None were needed.

Hours later Ghost showed me his finished product: the Island of Staten, compete with the Verrazano-Narrrows Bridge on the right shoe, the Bayonne Bridge on the left, Stapleton Projects on the toe in amazing detail. A starry sky above that, all blended in, with multi-colored twinkles. And somehow he dyed the sole beige, like a gum sole. His shoes were incredible. Dude is Da Vinci with canvas and Kool-Aid.

Mine are a blazing all-orange pair (I used the Orange Splash flavor), balanced by the bright-white midsole. Ghost liked them with the mint green. I offered a trade, but Ghost deaded that. He was too attached—and rightfully so—to his.

Now, if I was on my Columbo-type intuition sh*t, that should have showed me something. But I was too busy trying to figure out how to steal the Staten slip-ons without getting my neck snapped by the Don. You don’t get more limited then those. One of one until infinity.

When I woke up this morning, Ghost was gone. So was most of his “medication.” A trail of big-face twenties led me to the closet we shared. Inside, perched on the corner of the laundry basket, were another pair of customized slip-ons. These were all gold and white, a maze-like pattern, with a zig-zagging red line running across the side and toe. Inside was a note:

Spaulding,

I had to set myself free like that Martin Luther King sh*t. So here’s how you break out. Follow the cherry line. Wait until dumb early, fam. Also, don’t stress that money bullsh*t whatever whatever whatever. You gots to earn it before you can stack it. Otherwise, you going backwards. It’s like in the shower, you don’t wash your nuts, then wash your face. You feel me?

When you get out, don’t fu*king call me. Ever.

Love,
Toney

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The Big Doe Rehab pt.3

*Last entry we saw Ghost and Spaulding in group sessions, a paper-mache "power animal" and more. Now we're back...

I’ve never been one for jewelry. The only gems I don lace up and have Zoom Air technology. But the Killah with No Face Toney Starks, my Big Doe Rehab roommate, needs both hands crusty like Soulja Boy needs another smash ringtone hit. But if I’ve learned one thing from this rehab experience, it’s that you should never doubt the Macgyver-ness of a gully dude from Staten Island. Ambulances don’t even go there.

So what does Ghost-Deini do to fill his necklace-less void? He folds himself up some.


*illustrations by Jimmy Blags. As told by Spaulding H. Forsythe. Powered by Brooklyn Bodega.

Using his medication—the duffel bags of money, in varying denominations, that arrive to our room throughout the day, that are supposed to overdose Toney’s Big Doe problem—Ghost has crimped, creased, and folded hundreds of dollars into eight-inch figaro chains, pinky rings, and even a pair of earrings out of the new big-face fifties so they look like lemonhead diamonds. Each of his fingers has a different ring, each arm a particular money-bracelet, and his neck is flooded with origami-pendants dangling at the end of paper-fashioned dookie chains. The Don looks like a fire hazard. I asked dude if the Jesus piece was really necessary. Ghost held it up and was like, “Fam, it’s the only joint made in God We Trust.”

In the cafeteria today Starks told me how he remembered meeting me at the 2007 Brooklyn Hip-Hop Festival, down at that park between the Brooklyn and Manhattan bridges. He remembered me backstage, gawking at his buttery Air Maxes and Fat Joe’s eye-searing Jordans. That show, I almost lost my sh*t at the end of his set. Ghostface throwing darts to thousands of people, Manhattan in the backdrop, dusk in the sky. Sh*t was beautiful. I told him so and he thanked me. He also called me a “man-fan.”

I think we’re becoming fast friends.

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The Big Doe Rehab pt.2

*Last time we we're introduced to Ghostface and his new roomate at the Big Doe Rehabilitaion center, Spaulding H. Forsythe. A over-obsessed sneaker head in need of change...

When I was a snot nose, my pops caught me smoking and sat me down on the stoop and pulled out an entire pack of Newports and said “light ‘em up” and watched me smoke each one of those death-delicious mint sticks until my head popped open and I threw up all over his Rod Lavers. That was some embarrassing sh*t right there, but it proved a point. So the question is, how much money does someone have to have before they chirp up last night’s muffin rolls and three-bean salad?


*illustrations by Jimmy Blags.

According to Doctor Rockport-terrible (aka Hardgrasp), Big Doe Rehab prides itself on its rehabilitation techniques. Each individual gets his or her own path to modest spending and establishing a monetary conscience. I bring up the story of my childhood stoop and my pop’s soiled Adidas because Big Doe Rehab is going to fix Pretty Toney Starks––my roommate and the new owner of my beige rehab slip-ons––by over-dosing dude with doe. Like medication, they bring cash to our room by the duffel bag. Last night, he made me watch as he stuffed his pillow full of crisp 100-dollar bills, gleefully pondering when it was the last time he was able to drool on that much money. He figured it was after he cut that track with Beyonce.

Meanwhile, I’m on your typical rehab path: afternoon classes learning Quicken software, morning sessions on how to properly fill out bank deposit slips, one-on-one therapy with Dr. Hardgrasp, and finally group sessions. Ghost and I are in the same group. Sh*t is more frustrating then watching the Knicks try and run an offensive set. The therapists ask crazy-personal questions and you have to answer honestly. But when they get to Ghost, he’s all like, “Next question.” And then we end up getting his opinion on terry cloth vs. 100% cotton bath robes. So at today’s group meeting, I said “Pass” when the doctor asked me to list all that I have sacrificed on account of my addiction. Of course, they weren’t having that. And when I asked why Ghost could do it but not me, the response was, “Because he’s Ghostface. And he gave us ‘Daytona 500’.”

So I end up admitting some salt-of-my-being type ish––like how my feet are all crusted knuckles and deformity since I sometimes have to wear shoes three, four, sometimes five sizes too small because I just have to have them. Like Japanese foot binding, but with some uber-rare pair of Jordans. Gives new meaning to the black-toe pair.

But after the session, Starks approached me and said some tender sh*t. Like how he understands the need to go to extremes to have what you want. He told me to listen to “Shakey Dog” to see what he’s talking about. And then he said he’d have a surprise for me after dinner.

When I got back to the room, a four legged, paper-mache creation was waiting for me, still dripping, all made from big faced 100 dollar bills. I think it’s a goat. The note said, “Spaulding’s Power Animal. Love, Toney.”


*as told by Spaulding H. Forsythe. Powered by Brooklyn Bodega.

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The Big Doe Rehab pt.1

As we all have heard, Ghostface Killah has checked into Big Doe Rehab. Coincidentally, HipHopDX homies, Brooklyn Bodega and their Sneaker editor, Spaulding H. Forsythe has found himself in the same facility trying to curb his own over-spending, the result of a sneaker obsession. Watch how these two juggernauts--one of the rap game, the other of the shoe game--deal with the highs and lows of Big Doe rehabilitation, all told through Spaulding's moving rehab journal entries. Let the healing begin. Powered by Brooklyn Bodega.


*illustrations by Jimmy Blags.

DAY ONE: I wanted to do this on the sneak. I wanted to disappear for a while, hit the gym, read books, then return on some uber-Spauldy-type sh*t. But I have no patience. And I hate waiting.

But that’s what Big Doe Rehab is all about, according to my therapist, Dr. Ulysses Hardgrasp. What dude needs to grasp is that his Rockports are hurting. His game needs to take a step. Preferably up. Real talk: sh*ts disgusting.

The only thing that made up for duke’s bland footwear of choice was a rumor. This morning I heard that Ghostface Killah, Pretty Toney Starks, might check himself into Big Doe Rehab. It makes sense; dude’s medallions once doubled as dinner plates. As much of a fan of his I am, all I could think about was his wallys. Last time I saw him he was wearing a gun-metal-gray pair that looked like Teflon, damn near bulletproof. Which would make sense, matching his wallets and whatnot. But, alas, the whole morning was Ghost-less.

I’m here because they say I have a “severe inclination toward materialism using footwear as a vehicle,” a side effect of Big Doe Dependency—the constant need to get and spend stupidly huge amounts of money. Whatever. They got to sell that slushy to another Eskimo. You don’t go to rehab because of a tireless pursuit to know about and own as many limited edition, quickstrike, and/or over-seas-only kicks as possible. I’m really here because my family and friends bugged out once they realized I was renting five storage units for sneakers (one in each borough) that all dwarfed my own apartment. True hundred.

To calm myself down in the afternoon, I pulled out an extra toothbrush and began cleaning the midsole of my rehab slip-ons. They’re clean, I’ve only had them for three days now, but the routine soothes me. Brush on midsole. Clean it up.

That’s when he walked out of my wallabee dreams and into my life. The man from the place where fish was made, dude who holds the mic like Gale Sayers, the Don Mattingly, Don Baylor, Don King, the Don of everything. Toney Starks, Ironman himself, was standing in the doorway, wearing familiar mint rehab garb, a yankee fitted pon his crown. He came into the room with only a few words, pointing at my rehab slip-ons: “You got the cookies and cream right there?"


*Ghostface Killah is my rehab roommate and he already wants my shoes!

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