Times is hard when kats damn near twenty leagues deep in the conundrum got less of a shot landing a deal than a high-school baller foregoing a free education to make it in the majors. In New York, where the competition is tighter than a pike’s pussy, the odds can be higher than a shot of crystal-meth unstrained to the membrane. How did that Hova hook go? “Ain’t no love in the heart of the city….” Picture that soundtrack to a flick that reads like a Sergio Leone epic entitled, Once Upon A Time In America. But instead of four longshots on the come-up divide by two, with one destined as king of the hill. Sound familiar? Peep DMX and Nas in Belly. There are elements of truth that ring so true to our collective existence the drama is nearly irresistible as it spills into the streets and up in the annals of hip hop. But out west in the land of milk’n honeys shit like this don’t even qualify as a run-of-the-mill, kitchen-sink after school special in a post-OJ landscape where taxin that esophagus don’t even guarantee you a bid. Nah, it ain’t happin, can’t even see it sons, so you might as well fuggedaboutit.

Jaz-O has…well, sort of. The clich