Dear Superstar: T.I.

If the hip–hop–superstar thing ever dries up, T.I. would make a fine real estate agent. It’s a sunny spring day in Atlanta, and the biggest–selling rapper of 2006 is piloting a sleek new speedboat around Lake Spivey, noting the various homes of his neighbors. “That one has an indoor pool that connects to an outdoor pool by a slide”; “That one has its own tennis court”; “Look. You could clear these trees out, put up a whole new house right here.” From the private docks to the bazillion–room behemoths that line its shore, Lake Spivey is a long way from the Buckhead streets where Clifford Harris grew up, as he puts it, “a welfare baby.” Now, along with some very wealthy, very white people, he calls it his home.

Not that his appearance here was totally welcomed. “They wanted 2.5 million for that house over there,” T.I. says solemnly, slowing the speedboat to a crawl. “I was ready to pay cash. But once they saw who I was, the house wasn’t for sale anymore. If you ask me, it’s ’cause I’m a young, black man.” Blender says something to the effect of That’s really fucked up. “Nah,” he says, chuckling, and guns the throttle for effect. “I just bought a bigger house.” (A $5 million, 20–room palace across the water, to be precise.)

Domani and Messiah, two of T.I.’s four children, squeal as dad makes the boat bounce like it’s on hydraulics. With T.I. vs. T.I.P., his fifth album, coming out in July, and with his biggest movie role to date in multiplexes this fall — he’s starring opposite Denzel Washington and Russell Crowe in Ridley Scott’s true–crime tale American Gangster — T.I. won’t be able to spend many days like this with his kids for a while. “I wanted them to see you interview me, though,” he explains. “So they know what my job is, and why all this” — he waves his hand grandly across the lake — “is possible.” A family in khaki shorts glides by, waving politely. A goose flies across the stern. “So let’s go. Let’s hear the questions.”



You grew up living with, alternately, your grandmother, your mother and your father. What qualities did you get from each?
500kilohurts, Covington, GA
My family is made up of hustlers. We all self–made, entrepreneur types. My mom flipped credit cards here and there, checks here and there. She wasn’t with the nine to five. She taught me to stay grounded. She just keep it real. You know, we got fancy china and crystal glasses, and she still drinks out of Dixie cups. She washes them out and reuses them. But I also know how to live like I don’t have a care in the world, and that’s what I learned from my pops. He lived in Manhattan — 94th and Columbus, big time, big money. He was running numbers, pimping, doing other things; he always had everything in abundance. And my grandmama, that’s where I learned to be tough. She wasn’t the normal laugh, smile, bake–you–some–cookies–type grandmama. She was the grand­mama your mom would take you to when you were doing bad in school!

What does T.I. mean, and does anyone call you by your real name, Clifford?
eff.ess.eff, Chicago
T.I.’s an abbreviation. My nickname is Tip — it’s something my pops gave me. It coulda been ’cause I was skinny, like a Q–tip … The only people who call me Clifford are lawyers, doctors, bankers, policemen and judges.

I know you’re friends with Lil Wayne. But who’s a better rapper?
sho_u_right, Toronto
[T.I.’s son Domani interrupts to say, “I like Lil Wayne!”] Ha! You like Lil Wayne? I like Lil Wayne, too. It depends on what you’re looking for in a rapper. He’s good at metaphors, punch lines, impactful verses. He’s good for oohs and aahs. I can play both sides of the fence a little more. The pop side, you know, I can suit up and be on some whole other shit aside from “hip–hop urban.” Not to say he can’t do it, he probably just doesn’t have an interest in it right now.

You went to prison for probation violation right when “Rubber Band Man” took off. Did fame make incarceration easier or harder?
reydaprince, Des Moines, IA
A little bit of both. Made it easier ’cause I had a reputation that preceded me, so there wasn’t a lot of standoffish situations. People only gonna mess with you if the shit you kickin’ ain’t real. COs, though, some of them would go out of their way to make my life a little harder sometimes. I’d ask ’em to keep the phone on an extra 30 minutes — they’d cut it off 30 minutes early. Just to say, It doesn’t matter who you are.

In case I ever get locked up, can you tell me how to make a shiv?
henry.gee, Brooklyn, NY
A shank? I don’t know if that’d be proper for a publication like Blender, but sure I can. They gon’ give you a toothbrush, a bar of soap, a county manual, a comb and toothpaste. With that toothbrush — everywhere in jail there’s concrete, so you just file it against the concrete until you make a sharp point. But making it isn’t the hard part, it’s hiding it. I have a few more tricks I can’t tell you. That’s the G–code. It’s like magicians: Don’t give up the trick, no matter what.

I’m a screenwriter with an idea for a hip–hop remake of Turner & Hooch. You play a vigilante cop with a pit–bull partner. It’s called Off Da Chain. You in?
pitch_89, Ontario, CA
Pshhh. Who’s the director? Who’s the ­costar? Who’s the producer? What’s the budget? Once I get the answers, I’ll make a decision. I can’t answer a question without knowing everything about the situation. But that does sound a little Disney Channel to me.

When’s the last time you cried?
beepbeep, Charleston, SC
When my little girl died [T.I.’s off–and–on girl­friend suffered a miscarriage in early 2007]. You never really think about whether the baby’s gonna make it, especially when you’ve had as many as me. It’s a bitter pill to swallow.

What non–hip–hop music do you love?
neva4eva, Chantilly, VA
I love Nirvana. That’s my all–time favorite rock band. They kept it real. The lyrics were clear as mud, but you knew what he was talking about. Not getting along with your parents? Anyone could understand that.

You’ve said you want to act in comedies. Tell us a funny joke.
Harold.Reddy, Boiceville, NY
There’s a mouse and a giraffe in a bar. Mouse is at the bar, ordering heavy. He’s buying it all. And the giraffe’s at the other end of the bar, and she looks at the mouse, you know, winks her eye, gives him some play. So he buys her a drink, and they leave the bar together. Mouse shows up the next day, same bar, comes back in, he looks weathered — he’s tired, beat up, worn out. And the bartender say, “Damn! You look like you been through shit.” And the mouse say, “Yeah, man, with that giraffe last night, between fucking and getting some head, I musta run 30 miles!”