cd backcover, tucked into backseat of bentley pulling away from old money american mansion, whole picture tinted sunset orange. white tee and akademiks between skin and million dollar margarine suede, half-watching meet the parents on seatback screen, balancing notebook on lap. and, further, tucked into upper middle class biodome. soy milk, lexus suv, organic apples, team of mexican laborers cutting front lawn. making transition from aging streetlife philosopher with a ringed pinky still connecting him to the block and a copy of secret resume still saved on hard drive for a quick update if shit goes down to ex-thug of the exurbs. figuring out how to make a clean album, stripped of all unpleasant impulses and club tracks, something that can be held up as an example of the real thing, dusty tome of realness to hold up against invading hordes streaming across mason-dixon line, wild coons with bass and thirty thousand dollar platinum teeth and no respect for new york lyrical conventions. despite cover suggesting another nastradamus, at least another stillmatic. but, no. clean. clean. clean. shameful. but, can't lie, it's still intermittently beautiful and amazing and on a level no one else can touch. it's the truth: he is the greatest. and think about that. think about that for a minute. not just nice, not just a bunch of classics-- the greatest. no one on his level. that's why i can't say anything harsher. that's it. congratulations, i guess, on getting it right.