I found out about his death on Yahoo’s news feed. I saw it midmorning yesterday while I was checking my stock portfolio. I had known he was sick, but I didn’t realize it was life threatening. I was to think that if I had known how serious it was I would have called my father before he died.

Abe Johnson was one of the finest hip-hop producers there was. You would never know that by looking at my dad. A short, balding, overweight white guy is what he presented to the world’s eyes. What he was able to present to the ears was a completely different story. He created ghetto rap. It was his idea from day one to bring criminals and hoods into the studio and let the talk — or rap if that’s what you want to call it — about the violence and reckless abandon of their lives. He introduced the world to the ‘pioneers’ — Baby Bling, Shaze, and Thugz. He cultivated the genre and made it sell. It started out on the street corners of the ghettoes. A few years later it was in every white middle school across the nation. That’s when my father, Abe, became a Ghetto King.

That’s also when me and my father started having differences of opinions with what I should do with my life. Of course he had a great big plan for my life. I was going to inherit the kingdom. But I was going to do more than that. He had everything planned out. I mean everything. I was going to transcend him. I was going to become the world’s first Ghetto God. Too bad I wanted to be an accountant.

They lived the good life. I don’t know why my dad didn’t see this. They came in once a month to discuss finances with my dad. There were three of them and it usually took them two days to tell my father about his money. They should have just had to mail him a printout, but my dad was horribly ignorant when if came to money. Shorties, pieces and rock were things he understood. IRAs, mutual funds, and binds were Greek to him. So I sat and listened when the accountants repeated over and over what was happening to my father’s money. It was simple. They were investing using a buy and hold strategy focusing on blue chip stocks. Sometimes my dad had a hard time just understanding what a stock was.

One day I got talking to one of the accountants. I forget his name, probably something like Herbert or Wallace. He was telling me about the life. The glamour and adventures of an accountant. I learned all about cubicles and meetings and power-point. It seemed so great to me. There was purpose to what they did. They had hard goals. It wasn’t just sit around and record some idiot talking — or rapping — about shooting his ex-girlfriend because she was cheating on him with his crack dealer. Accounting was a higher calling that I felt the need to answer.

Instead of jail I went to college. My father was heartbroken the day I left. He hated to see me throw my life away like that. We tried to talk while I was away, but it just didn’t work out. We grew apart. I think there’s a song about that. A real song sung by a real musician.

Over the years we both succeeded. I became a partner in LA’s finest accounting firm. Father Dearest did a stint in prison and became the Ghetto God he wanted me to be. We drifted apart and yesterday I read he was dead. His newest wife — shortie– was making the arrangements, so it would probably be a closed affair that I wouldn’t be invited to.

I only have one regret. I wish I had called him up to say hi and to thank him for being my father. Not that I think he was a great dad, but he did his best. I’ve wanted to tell him for the last couple of years. But I procrastinated and now he’s dead.