Some weddings hand you an invitation. Ours handed you a movie trailer - something simple, mysterious, and stamped with a premiere date. Guests weren’t told much. Just to wear Black, come to San Diego, and be ready for… something. ;)
The idea began with the little things that defined us, my lifelong love of movies and tacos, her love of travel and affinity for Nothing Bundt Cakes. They became compass points, hinting at a celebration meant to be experienced, not observed.
From there, the branding grew - cinematic, intentional, and teasing. Posters featuring friends and family were released like promotional stills for films “now playing.” The invitations resembled one-sheets, pared down to title, date, and tone. Still, no one knew what they were walking into.
When the day arrived, guests buzzed with curiosity. There was the dress code. The date. But they didn’t know why their invite looked like theater tickets, until they reached the venue: a theater.
They were guided to the last auditorium, met with champagne as they found their seats. The room pulsed with anticipation. Then lights dimmed.
A 25-minute film unfolded - our story through hometown footage, family photos, and the Love that carried us between San Diego and DC. Familiar to some, new to others, personal to all. The film played like a season finale: where we met, who shaped us, and the moments that formed our "Yes".
The screen then shifted to an afrofuturistic reflection pool surrounded by white flowers. And we stepped out, “Queen & Slim,” emerging from side entrances as everyone realized they were inside the ceremony they had been watching.
After the applause, guests moved to The LOT restaurant, its glass walls framing a California sunset. Dinner. Speeches. Bundtlets. A DJ spinning our shared playlist. It felt less like a reception and more like a Life launch party.
The night closed softly, like the credits of a film. This was more than a wedding. It was world-building. Our world, created together.
2.0
#TheBestPartSD
dMay 7, 2021.
It felt like a window to the Future had opened. I rolled over late, checked Robinhood, and saw an emerald spike cutting through the noise. It was Dogecoin erupting in real time. I’d been studying Doge chatter for months, tracking patterns, social-sentiment, and the cultural signals forming around the so-called memecoin. I didn’t always have the capital to move with the trends, but I saw the patterns. So when it broke out, something in me whispered, You saw this coming. I screenshotted it and sent the alert to The Futureverse Collective and Robinhood traders who were learning the space with me.
Dogecoin launched in 2013 when Billy Markus and Jackson Palmer fused Litecoin’s tech with the iconic Shiba Inu meme. It wasn’t built to be intimidating. It was built to be human. Within a month, over a million people visited Dogecoin.com, proof that culture drives adoption. The early community turned that culture into impact. They raised enough Dogecoin to send the Jamaican bobsled team to the Olympics, then funded clean-water wells in Kenya. It was crypto at its purest - small donations, big outcomes, and a belief that the internet could move like a village.
With fame though came volatility. Twitter sent the coin to its all-time high in 2021, then the market correcte hard. Developers paused. Critics circled. The inflationary supply and meme-driven pumps became easy targets. But Dogecoin’s transparency is also its power: no hidden agendas, no gatekeepers, or grand manifesto. Just an open-source coin shaped by community.
Even now, its speed and low fees make it ideal for microtipping, remittances, creator payments, and future AR commerce. And if you’ve ever paid attention to cultural waves, you know utility often shows up long before Wall Street recognizes it.
Dogecoin may have started as satire, but its staying power says something about us: people gravitate toward currencies that feel alive. Dogecoin is a reminder that sometimes the underdog is actually the signal.
2.0
#Cryptocurrency #Dogecoin
In 2019, when B.Slade reached out to have me create the cover art for Out The Box 2: Separation of Church & State, I knew the assignment carried weight. At that point, fans had been waiting sixteen years for the return of The Peculiar People. This wasn’t just another graphic but a re-ignition of a movement that shaped an entire generation of underground creatives. I had to get it right.
The visual centered on the U.S. Capitol, split by a bolt of lightning. On the surface, it was national iconography. Beneath that, it doubled as a quiet time-travel nod - the same kind of strike that sent Marty back to “when” he belonged. The deep electric blue wash was intentional as it echoed the energy of The Ryderz Of Nureaumerica, one of the last official releases from the Nureau camp. B.Slade later confirmed on Twitter that the project was indeed Nureau-coded, which felt like a loop being closed.
The album dropped in the Summer of 2020 on Bandcamp, remastered with Nureau alumni like Tiffanie Cross, Piff Herrera, Kimmé, big AL, and Omega Mythologist.
In 2024, it vanished from public access, after a bittersweet message from B.Slade citing lack of support and the end of an era. Four years - a full cycle - mirroring my own journey. I had thrived inside the Nureau current from 2008 to 2012 before stepping into corporate life for a season. The second insallment of Out The Box brought that fire back. It reminded me of who I was creatively, and what I still carried after all these years.
There’s truly nothing like The Peculiar People and the Nureau movement in mainstream music. The sound is a timely Message for the ones tuned into the frequency, a reminder that innovation rarely asks permission, and the next wave always starts with something deemed peculiar.
2.0
#OutTheBox #Nureau #InksetForever
December 21, 2012. While most people were waiting for the world to end, I was uploading one.
Artificial Intelligence, the final transmission in a four-year timeline, landed that day - not as panic, but a coded dispatch for anyone still awake. Where some saw an end of time, I saw the close of a creative life cycle that began with The Anti-Virus in 2008 and Reboot in 2009. This was a message for a remnant, the ones still listening through the noise of religion, conspiracy, and intellectual fatigue.
A year before release, I disappeared into study. No classrooms. No degree programs. Just manuscripts, journals, and late-night rabbit holes. I combed through apocryphal texts, esoteric Christianity, ancient astronaut theories, fringe science - anything that proved the intel of prophecy against Time. I was secretly in desconstruction, not chasing clout but clarity. And somewhere in that pursuit, I realized we weren’t heading into Babylon 2.0. We were already living it.
The title came from that revelation: we were smart enough to build systems, yet foolish enough to be programmed by them. Predictive algorithms shaping desire. Devices surveilling our behaviors. A generation wired to "smart everything," while growing spiritually numb. It felt like a modern echo of Genesis 6 - humanity trading purpose for artificial power, building towers in our own name.
The cover art became its own prophecy: an unfinished ziggurat piercing storm clouds, discs descending from above, and the eye-of-providence reimagined as “AI.” It hinted at tech’s rise as a new form of worship, and the danger of intelligence without wisdom.
Sonically, the project carried that weight - cinematic, glitchy, atmospheric, like tuning a broken radio until a clear voice whispers, “Wake up.” It marked the end of an era, my last chapter of the Nureau Underground. Not a finale , but a shift in audience within The Futureverse, to go "ye therefore and teach all nations", becoming and raising the next generation of Conductors.
2.0
#AI2012 #Nureau #InksetForever
July 8, 2009.
The Anti-Virus had dropped a year earlier, introducing The Futureverse to my voice, my viewpoint, and the spiritual frequency I was broadcasting from. But by 2009, I had crossed through a darker season—one that stripped away illusions and dimmed the lights inside and out. So when I emerged with my sophomore project Reboot, it wasn’t a continuation. It was an evolution.
This wasn’t for mass consumption. It was for the ones navigating their own shadow selves - the depressed, the disconnected, the PKs wrestling with inherited callings, the creatives wandering the early internet looking for connection. Reboot became a lifeline for listeners between identities, systems, and belief structures.
The project opens with a boot-up chime, signaling that it was a system restart. Not a return to innocence, but a recalibration. The cover made it plain - my redesigned logo against a glowing sun. A subtle Superman nod. Because like him, I’m not really from here. And like him, my power comes from the Son.
The sound lived in the shadows, moody and introspective. MySpace was fading, CDs were dying, and the industry was changing. So was I. The Nureau imprint was everywhere: Omega Mythologist laced verses and beats, RoTone brought his signature production, and B.Slade (then "Bizzy") floated hooks that still echoes today. Back then, Bizzy and I worked walking distance from each other in Lemon Grove, just down from The Ink Spot, a hangout/incubator for creatives. Pressure and possibility in drywall.
There were no CD or chart placements. Only transmission. Reboot! lived primarily on MySpace Music, shared digitally like an encrypted message. The industry was rebooting, and the EP mirrored that.
Even my mohawk became part of the mythology, less hairstyle and more declaration. A reminder that I wasn’t the traditional archetype for anybody's youth pastor or recording artist. I was to be a bridge between generations, disrupting and rebuilding through conversational, iconoclastic art.
2.0
#Nureau #InksetForever
April 12, 2008. The day that The Anti-Virus album dropped and The Futureverse had it's public launch.
Its roots were humble: a small bedroom in San Diego, a crib pressed against the dresser, a mic perched on top, and a Message too loud to ignore. I was in survival mode then, freelance design, odd jobs, supporting a young family, building part-time with Nureau. The world felt unstable, but inside I heard a clear signal. I locked myself in that room for seven days with Arizona Green Tea, Hot Pockets, and a stack of Spongebob DVDs. My daughter watched from her crib while I recorded inches away. To this day, if you mute certain tracks, you can still hear Spongebob's signature laugh. But that room didn’t limit me. It refined me.
What emerged was 20 tracks of raw, prophetic sound. The cover art depicted me stepping through a tear in spacetime, mohawk aflame, arriving in the present as 2.0. I bartered design work to get the project mastered through Syntax Records. No budget. Just hustle. Submitting to iTunes then meant fighting through gatekeepers, but I pushed it six weeks early and prayed over the upload.
The night before release, we held an album concert at the Joan Kroc Theatre - a divine setup that fell into place through an old theater connect. That night, with a fresh mohawk warrior cut, I stepped out publicly as Two Point Oh for the first time. A digital prophet with analog roots.
The Anti-Virus was a warning in melody, a message to the 2000's church: Evolve your witness or watch your “Christian City” collapse. The back cover painted the metaphor with post-apocalyptic ruins with the Gospel shining through as the true anti-virus.
Collabs with Omega Mythologist, Law the Hybrid, and Korotha Kofé (then Mic Blu) carried deep intention. CDs moved through San Diego. MySpace amplified the buzz. International listeners found me, even before the algorithm wars.
April 12 was an Awakening meeting futurism. This art would be my response to a clarion call to ministry.
2.0
#Nureau #InksetForever