He’s a certified Crip who rolls with pimps and makes porno flicks. Still, legendary rap artist Snoop Dogg remains one of this country’s most revered citizens. Don King was right: Only in America.

Burbank, California. The last day of November 2004. The studio audience on the set of NBC’s Ellen is enjoying a performance of the country’s hottest song. Snoop Dogg and coconspirator Pharrell Williams coolly deliver the strangely hypnotic, distinctly unorthodox cluck-box block-rocker, “Drop It Like It’s Hot”—which will, a week later, snag a much-deserved Grammy nod. Backed by DJ Jam, the duo works the mild-mannered, Abercrombie & Fitch-loving crowd, who respond enthusiastically to the throw-your-hands-in-the-air instructions. And, man, no matter how passé gags involving senior citizens acting “down” have become, it’s still startling to witness a little old White lady, like the one with the ivory hair in the third row, moving her hips to the beat like that.

Yes, grandmas and gangstas agree: Snoop Dogg is the top dog of them all. In fact, he might be the most famous living rapper on the planet. Just what is it about the Long Beach native that appeals to both gorilla and geriatric units? After all, it’s not every day that a former drug dealer, an ex-con who faced a high-profile murder case (he was acquitted), becomes a regular on the daytime talk-show circuit. (He appeared on The View earlier this year.) How can a man who produces a top-selling, award-winning porn film turn around and star alongside Frankie Muniz, Mandy Moore, Jeff Foxworthy and Whoopi Goldberg in the family-friendly barnyard adventure Racing Stripes? (Snoop provides the voice of a lovably laconic hound dog named Lightning.) And he’s doing his own laundry in that T-Mobile Sidekick ad.  

“I don’t even try to figure it out,” Snoop will say later, sitting in the green room. “Because I’m so busy tryin’ to do things.”

Sure enough, he’s busy right now. After the musical performance, Snoop, dressed in a black Pittsburgh Steelers football jersey and jeans, crosses the set and settles in for a friendly chat with Ellen DeGeneres.

Snoop and Ellen have more in common than meets the eye. For starters, they both have an affinity for blue chucks. (Reports that the 47-year-old blonde comedienne has been spotted Crip-walking at Hollywood parties are false.) But, more importantly, both have achieved success despite strong social stigma. Ellen, an outspoken lesbian, gained mainstream acceptance long before every TV network went bananas looking for the next Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, while Snoop, a heterosexual gangsta rapper with a chronic weed habit and pimpin’ tendencies, has almost single-handedly ushered the nuances of a notorious California street gang’s lifestyle into living rooms all around the globe. The entire sentient world is fascinated by Snoop’s “fo’shizzle”-speak: it’s hard to watch TV for more than 10 minutes, for example, without hearing it.

Ellen inquires about this, and other rap slang. Snoop, in his calm, quiet way, has the audience laughing along with every answer. Ellen asks about the term “Gully.”

“That’s from the East Coast,” says Snoop.

“But what does it mean?” Ellen presses.

“I’m from the West Coast,” he says.

Cordazar Broadus (more commonly known as Calvin growing up) was born on October 20, 1971 at the Los Altos Hospital in Long Beach, California. He’s the middle child of three brothers born to his mom Beverly, who hails from Mississippi. According to his 1999 autobiography Tha Doggfather, Snoop (as he was quickly nicknamed)

didn’t see much of his father, Vernell Varnado, a postal worker also from Mississippi, who served in Vietnam and played in a gospel group in the 1960s. 

Many of Snoop’s earliest memories, he says, are set to a soundtrack of sweet ’70s soul. Al Green, the O’Jays, the Dramatics, Marvin Gaye—music was all around. And while he was tall and thin from an early age, he admits to never being quick enough to be effective on the basketball court. He enjoyed football a whole lot better and started playing Pop Warner at the age of eight and was the quarterback for the Long Beach Rough Riders, who reached two championship games, splitting the contests.

During his teen years, he started to rebel. He dropped out of high school, joined the Rolling 20 Crips and started slangin’ rock. Beverly kicked him out of the house, and he lived for a couple of months out of an old used car that he had bought. He was arrested in 1990, convicted of possession and spent six months in jail, but it was around this time, too, that he started making music with his 213 homies Warren G and Nate Dogg. Most of what happened next has already been immortalized.

t’s going on 14 years since the “Deep Cover” debut with Dr. Dre. Ten years since Doggystyle sold four million. Almost seven years since Snoop left Death Row.

You would think that any trouble left over from those crazy days would be history by now. Think again. On November 15, Snoop was standing on stage with recording legend Quincy Jones when the melee broke out at the 2004 Vibe Awards in Santa Monica, California. Death Row founder Suge Knight (who four years ago put out a collection of old Snoop recordings under the disturbing title Dead Man Walkin) has denied any involvement.

That was two weeks before Ellen. And whatever the case, there’s no denying the heavy presence of security—make that bodyguards—around Snoop since the incident. (“Security will try to talk to you,” as one rather large, black-clad gentleman put it backstage at the Burbank studio. “I’ll whoop your ass.”) Wherever Snoop goes, they go.

The day after the Ellen taping, Snoop’s at the Tabernacle, one of his two home studios. (For safety reasons, let’s just say it’s an hour from Los Angeles.) Every single wall is covered by certified plaques, photos of the teams Snoop’s coached and various sports celebs (the coolest shot might be Snoop posing with the late great Lakers announcer Chick Hearn) and art sent by friends, family and fans alike. (The most intriguing piece is a painting where a pimpified Snoop is escorting Halle Berry, in full Catwoman getup, to some kind of awards show.)

Snoop doesn’t appear to be distracted by any negative energy. His attention is absorbed by a matter dear to his heart—the Rowland Heights Raiders, his 10-year-old son Corde’s Junior All-American football team. Just like his dad did, Corde plays quarterback. Snoop coaches the team, and they went undefeated this season, making the Super Bowl thanks to a dramatic, only-in-the-movies last-second play that saved a wire-tight playoff game. (In fact, the film Coach Snoop is currently in development.)