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Jumpman Toothache

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Jumpman Speed In Progress

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LIFE Magazine, March 5 1965.

Largest Muslim mosque bombed out after Malcolm X's killing.

Death of Malcolm X and the Resulting Vengeful Gang War.

35 Cents.

These are personal scans of my own private collection. All rights reserved.

May Malcolm's family get justice, and may all future generations be taken care of.

Yours for the cause of peace and brotherhood.

We must tell the true story of our past, or it will forever inform the future.

That's Bone. 2025

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Josh Gibson Helmar Brewing Card, personal collection.

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"Collecting, you see, is not just a hobby—it’s a *statement*. A pristine articulation of control, taste, and superiority, all wrapped in the gloss of possession. Picture it: the faint hum of a perfectly climate-controlled room, 68 degrees Fahrenheit, humidity at precisely 45 percent, the air so sterile you can taste the absence of imperfection. That’s where it begins. The ritual. The hunt. The acquisition. There’s nothing quite like the sensation of tracking down a 1984 Château Lafite Rothschild, Pauillac, First Growth—its label pristine, uncreased, the bottle unopened, a liquid relic worth more than the annual salary of some Wall Street drone slaving away in a cubicle. Or perhaps it’s a first-edition *The Fountainhead* by Ayn Rand, hardcover, dust jacket intact, the spine uncracked, sitting on a custom walnut shelf from BDDW, polished to a mirror sheen. The weight of it in your hands, the smell of aged paper—it’s intoxicating, like the faint whiff of Creed Aventus lingering on a Tom Ford suit.

The process, though, that’s where the real pleasure lies. I’ll spend hours—days, even—scouring auction catalogs from Sotheby’s, my Montblanc Meisterstück fountain pen circling lot numbers in a leather-bound notebook. The ink flows like blood, black and deliberate. Online, it’s X, of course—endless threads of idiots arguing over baseball cards or vintage Patek Philippe Calatrava watches, reference 96, rose gold, circa 1952. I sift through the noise, cross-referencing serial numbers, provenance, condition reports. I’ve got a guy in Geneva who texts me when a 1970s Rolex Daytona, Paul Newman dial, hits the market—mint condition, naturally, because anything less is for plebeians. You don’t just *buy* these things; you *claim* them. It’s a conquest, a silent war waged with American Express Platinum and a VPN to mask your IP from the competition.

The display—that’s the climax. My apartment, a minimalist fortress on the Upper West Side, has a dedicated room. No windows, no dust, no mistakes. Glass cases, custom-built by a German firm, hermetically sealed, with LED lighting set to 3000K for that crisp, clinical glow. My collection of vintage switchblades—Italian stilettos, hand-forged, mirror-polished blades—gleams like surgical instruments. Each one’s story is cataloged in my head: the 1950s Sicilian piece I won at Christie’s after outbidding some bloated hedge fund manager who thought he could flex. Then there’s the vinyl—original pressings of Bowie’s *Low*, the Berlin Trilogy years, stored in polyethylene sleeves, unplayed, because actually listening to them would be gauche. It’s not about use; it’s about *having*. The power of ownership, the thrill of exclusivity.

Sometimes I stand there, in my Armani double-breasted pinstripe, staring at it all. The symmetry, the order—it’s better than sex, better than the cocaine-fueled nights at Tunnel with Pierce & Pierce drones. People collect to fill some void, they say. Pathetic. I collect because I *can*, because I’m better than the slobs who settle for mass-produced garbage from SoHo boutiques. It’s discipline. It’s identity. You touch one of my pieces—a 1966 Fender Stratocaster, Olympic White, once owned by some session musician who overdosed in ’72—and I’ll imagine taking a polished axe to your skull, wiping the blood off with a monogrammed silk handkerchief. But I’d smile, of course. Always the smile.

The best part? Knowing no one else has what I have. Not exactly. Not this *condition*. Not this *story*. It’s mine, and that’s the point. Collecting isn’t a pastime—it’s a lifestyle, a mirror reflecting the man I am: flawless, untouchable, and just a little bit dangerous.”

That’s Bone 2025 ©️™️

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Brother Voodoo, scan from the personal archives.

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Overdose #1 by SAWBLADE.

Scan from the personal collection.

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Oblé Reed - HOMETOWNHERO. (Official Music Video)

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Patta Stands for Freedom, Solidarity, and Intersectionality

"At Patta, we believe in the liberation of all people, no matter where they are in the world. We hold a fundamental principle close to our hearts: no human is illegal. In a world filled with divisions, we stand for unity and the right to self-determination for all. In the face of the ongoing injustice in Palestine, Patta feels compelled to speak up. Our commitment to social justice extends beyond borders, and we stand in solidarity with those who seek freedom and justice. We support the rights and dignity of all people, irrespective of their background. As a black-owned brand, we understand the importance of solidarity and allyship. We've been there, shoulder to shoulder, in recent times when our community faced its own challenges and rose up during the Black Lives Matter movement. Now, it's time for us to stand tall again. Just as we've supported each other, we stand with our allies who are seeking peace and justice in the Middle East. Our stance is rooted in the belief that everyone deserves respect and the right to live in a safe and just world. We recognize that our team and community are diverse, and we wholeheartedly support the idea of intersectionality. We understand the complexities of growing up in a diaspora, facing a unique set of challenges, and navigating through the multiple facets of identity. By speaking up on the ongoing injustice in Palestine we reaffirm our commitment to liberation, justice, peace, and the freedom of all people. We stand against hatred, discrimination, and violence in all its forms. Patta will continue to use its platform to educate our community and promote unity, understanding, and the collective pursuit of emancipation for everyone. Because at the heart of our brand, we got love for all, and that's a principle we'll never compromise on."

That's Bone stands with Patta and Humanity.

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On this date, in 1971, the Pittsburgh Pirates fielded the first all Black / Latino starting line-up in NL/AL history.

24 years after Jackie Robinson broke the color barrier, history was made yet again. History I believe deserves celebration of equal measure.

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Black Baseball in Living Color | The Story of the Negro Leagues

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‘What To The Slave Is The Fourth Of July?’

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SERENA

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History nor That’s Bone will forget the true Champions, the Black Caddies of Augusta National.

Willie Peterson

Nathaniel “Iron Man” Avery

Jariah “Jerry” Beard

Willie “Pappy” Stokes

Tommy “Burnt Biscuits” Bennett

John H. “Stovepipe” Gordon

Frank “Marble Eye” Stokes

Matthew “Shorty Mac” Palmer

Willie “Cemetery” Perteet

and so many more..

“They didn’t have no book to go by or no instrument to say how the wind was blowing that day, anything like that. They were the best at what they did.”