#MNR: I WAS WRONG
“You get what you ask for. So, get it cuz you asked for it.” Jadakiss & Styles P. “Players fuck up too.” Powder Last Monday night, I jumped on our platform and proudly proclaimed/predicted, after all my analysis for the past three months or so, that Vice President Kamala Harris would easily defeat former President Donald J. Trump and become the 47th president of the United States of America. Kamala offered positivity, hope, and initiatives which would energize the middle class. The polls said she was up. The experts said she was the frontrunner. I awoke early on Election Day and cast my vote, set to be a part of history. I saw and felt the energy. It was time. Boy was I wrong. And much like in 2016, I felt the vibe by 10:00 pm. Election night proved to be a slaughterhouse for Democrats at the federal level. Kamala and Waltz were the choice cuts. Americans overwhelmingly (relatively) rejected her plans in favor of Trump’s dark, xenophobic “America First” agenda. Trump received 312 electoral votes compared to Harris’ 226, claiming every swing state along the way. Did y’all hear me? Clean sweep. Nevada? Check. Arizona? Check. Wisconsin? Check. Michigan? Check. Pennsylvania? Check. The blue wall crumbled. The polling said Harris had slim leads in the three blue wall states, but all were within the margins of error. What happened? How did we get here? The answer to the questions is diverse and nuanced, though I’ve focused on the predominant four factors: improvement on 2020 numbers in key states/counties, Democrats lost the Black and Hispanic young, working-class male vote, white women voted for Trump (again), and woke is a no-go for much of America, especially in terms of sexuality and gender affirmation. If you are a Steve Kornacki disciple like me, you take heed to his words. The smart board further illuminates his talking points, showing raw data in every state, county, and city. From the close of the first states’ polling and throughout the night, he spoke on key areas in swing states where Kamala needed to match or better Biden’s 2020 numbers and where Trump needed to take back 2016 gains he lost in 2020. Damn it, he did just that. Most notably were Wisconsin’s “BOW WOW” counties, which Kornacki said would prove to be a litmus test in the 2024 election. The BOW counties of Brown, Outagamie, and Winnebago are population centers in and around Green Bay, including Appleton and Oshkosh. Trump won the BOW counties in 2016, but with slim margins. The WOW counties of Waukesha, Ozaukee, and Washington were all won by Trump in 2016 with strong margins. A strong night in Wisconsin for Harris would have signaled a strong night for her nationally. She lost all six counties. Checkmate. Every four years, it seems that the Black male vote is a hot button topic for Democrats. I damn near went to war with some of my own on Twitter in the summer of 2020. Many of my younger brothers failed to see any difference between the two old white men, claiming them to be two of the same. I tried to explain how Trump’s brand was far worse than Bidens, citing the racism, xenophobia, and lies that are still the cornerstones of his political existence. They countered with the crime bill of the mid ‘90s, which Biden’s signature seemed to be larger and in a bolder color than the other 95 or so senators on both sides of the aisle who voted along with her. When all the smoke cleared, I couldn’t even get mad at my brothers. They felt how they felt, and that was that. The exit polls told us in bold letters that Hispanic men, both young and old, prefer Trump’s brand of fuckery. We learned in 2016 (as if we didn’t know better) that Latinos aren’t a monolith. South Florida Cubans don’t view their non-American countrymen the same way an El Paso Mexican may view theirs. Trump did an amazing job of telling them something to this effect – hey, you came here legally to escape them. Do you want them here, knowing they stole their way into this very nation you risked everything to come to...legally? Hispanic men view Trump as a celebrity hero of sorts. They love his brand. What do both Black (some) and Hispanic men (especially young men of both races) have in common? They both feel that they had no voice in Harris’ political agenda. Few of her initiatives, aimed at the educated middle class, resonated with both voting blocs. Trump went on the Joe Rogan podcast and amassed over 35M views before the election. Harris declined the invitation. Rogan’s podcast appeals to the “everyday” man, many of whom have grown increasingly disenchanted with the Democratic party and its policies. Many viewed Harris’ snub of the Rogan podcast a mistake. It quite possibly may have been. My take from it all is that most heterosexual men, irrespective of color, hold similar everyday views of America and the world. Now, you could take my word for it, but I came with receipts. About 3 in 10 Black men under age 45 voted for Trump. That number is roughly double the share he got four years ago. Roughly half of young Latino men voted for Harris, compared to about 6 in 10 who went for Biden in 2020. Checkmate (again). The common thread amongst American men of all races is their angst for “woke” policies. This brand of woke is NOT a direct correlation to the struggles of the summer of 2020. It is in correlation to the LGBTQ community and gender reassignment. Most traditional men of monotheistic faiths believe it all to be an abomination. Moreover, they have grown progressively more disgusted with what seems to them to be a “gay agenda.” I can’t blame the white or Hispanic man because I constantly hear these talking points in the barber shop and even in discussions with my brothers. Most men are willing to “put up” with LGBTQ, even though they aren’t fully accepting. But to push an agenda (their sentiments, not mine) is non-cipher. The irony of it all is the Trump ad featuring Charlamagne tha God and DJ Envy of the world-famous Breakfast Club morning show on 105.1 FM New York. It showed clips of the two men speaking on Harris’ support for gender reassignment and maintenance in the prison system. Both men spoke of their disdain, arguing that they didn’t want their tax money going to such nonsense. The ad also spoke on transgenders participating in women’s sports. It showed a big, brutish transgender female on a basketball team full of “normal,” regular sized girls. The ad played incessantly during the World Series and on Sundays during NFL football games. It reminded me of my trip to Richmond three years ago for Homecoming when McAuliffe and Youngkin were at war to be the next governor of Virginia. I saw an infinite number of Youngkin campaign signs on lawns and anywhere there was a piece of grass, from the northside to the southside. I noted this to a few people that weekend. McAuliffe was the frontrunner, but my eye test told me that Youngkin had a freight train of momentum behind him. I was correct. Virginia went with the Republican, shunning the former governor and his liberal agenda. The transgender ad should have issued me a similar warning. It did. I ignored it. White women were the final drop in the bucket that tipped in Trump’s favor. They talked a good one. But at the end of the day, they still backed the man who threatened to further strip them of the rights their mothers and grandmothers fought so hard for. Exit polls said that 52% of white American women voted for Trump (newrepublic.com). So much for cancelling out their husband’s vote. So much for women’s reproductive rights. So much for not looking back. One of my old BCBAs, a decent lady in my estimation, never revealed what her political views were in our diverse conversations. She hinted at a few things, but she always had a blatant cutoff point. Last Wednesday, she posted on snapchat for the first time in over a year. It was a selfie of her smiling, donning (pun intended) the infamous red MAGA hat. Wow. It is what it is. I should have known better. Perhaps America isn’t ready for a woman to run the country. Or perhaps Trump’s message resonated much more than Harris’. Perhaps it was an unhealthy blend of both. One thing is for certain: on 1.20.2025, Donald Trump will return to the White House for his second stint as president. Y’all asked for it. God help us all.
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#MNR: CIVILITY AND THE HATEOCRACY
“Reagan is the pres[ident], but I voted for Shirley Chisolm.” Biz Markie (Sophia Petrillo voice) Picture it. America, 2020: COVID restrictions and closures, police murders and civil unrest. Many of us sat at home and watched as cities throughout the country became hotbeds for protests and atonement. The people expressed their frustrations at the state of the nation by taking it to the streets. Long standing Confederate statues in Richmond, Virginia (home of my alma mater Virginia Union University) were taken down by force. Parts of Minneapolis, Minnesota burned to the ground after crooked policeman Derek Chauvin kept his knee on George Floyd’s neck for nine minutes as he begged for his life, killing a father, a son, and a friend. Whilst riding around with my ladies Brandi and Rhino, I personally witnessed two Manhattan protests. They shut midtown DOWN. I remember Rhino growing impatient one Saturday late afternoon as we sat at a light by Columbus Circle. We hadn’t moved for at least ten minutes. I explained to her that it was more than ok to have all the patience in the world at this very moment, for she was witnessing history. The last time something like this happened, Shareon was a schoolgirl about the same age as Rhino was at the time, and I wasn’t even a thought in her brilliant mind. This had to be the spirit of the movement. In many ways it reminded me of the Civil Rights Movement in its unity and determination. We were fighting for our rightful place at the big table, not the children’s table, apart from the grownups. Change was in the air, and change was imminent. After a summer of epic civil unrest, the country braced for the most consequential election of this generation. The incumbent Donald Trump faced former senator and vice president Joseph Biden. Would the hate continue, or would it be curtailed? That was the question on about 53% of the nation’s minds. After a photo finish election, the former VP edged out the incumbent to become the 46th president of the United States, and everyone lived happily ever after. THE END. Not quite. Trump and his ensemble of attorneys contested every election lost in every state until all legal options were extinguished. Trump and others filed 62 lawsuits contesting election processes, vote counting, and the vote certification process in nine states (including AZ, GA, MI, NV, PA, and WI) and the District of Columbia. Trump and his allies went 0 for 62 and took a corporate “L” back to Mar-a-Lago. Ok – after 62 failures, Trump was certainly done trying to steal an election he’d already lost, correct? Wrong, again. He and his team of educated dummies planned and coordinated a plot to replace several states’ electors (in states he lost) with fake electors, which then VP Mike Pence would recognize as actual electors, thus flipping the result of the election from Biden to Trump. When it became clear that fly guy (I couldn’t help it) Pence wasn’t having it and planned to perform the duty which was specifically set forth by the United States Constitution, Trump took his coordinated plan to the next level. After an incendiary speech on the Ellipse, hundreds of his most ardent and faithful maniacs strolled to the Capitol building, where they would breach the entrance after 1:00 pm on 1.6.2021. I watched it live, having tuned in since the conclusion of my virtual school day at 12:45 pm. Their plan was to “force” Congress to replace a winner with a loser. Naturally, it failed, but it would result in a full-blown attempted coup-d'etat, something this nation hadn’t quite ever seen. Many police were injured. People died. After such disgrace and INSURRECTION, certainly the era of Trumpism in American politics was over. Surprise, surprise. Immediate fallout from the infamous events of January 6 was shorter than Bushwick Bill taking a knee. The outrage soon evaporated. Then House Minority Leader Kevin McCarthy made it a point to visit a disgraced Trump on his home turf. McCarthy left Mar-a-Lago having essentially re-legitimized an otherwise walking political corpse. Within days, the Republican party was again in lockstep with their demagogue, willing players in the MAGA movement. For those unfamiliar with the term cased up, it means that a defendant has a stack of pending charges and court cases on his/her hands. Let’s begin with the federal charges. There’s the January 6 case related to efforts to overturn the results of the 2020 election. In addition, there’s the case related to possession of classified documents and obstructing efforts to retrieve them. I’m not done. The state of New York took Trump to trial over an alleged “hush money” payment to adult film star Stormy Daniels (born Stephanie Clifford) for sexual gratification. He was later convicted of all 34 FELONY counts related to falsifying business records in the first degree. He was given RICO charges in the state of Georgia related to efforts to overthrow the 2020 election results in the state. Although Trump has been able to delay his federal cases (with one being temporarily dismissed), they still loom large should he lose tomorrow. The Georgia case, much like the NY case, theoretically cannot be erased even if he is reelected. That’s if it ever begins. Oh yeah, Trump was civilly convicted of sexually assaulting E. Jean Carroll. He owes her a Larry Johnson Charlotte Hornets contract worth of money. Repeat after me – CASED UP. I almost forgot...Trump was also convicted in a NY civil court for years of fraud relating to the values of properties he owns, to the tune of 355M, appeal pending. 2016 was a forever ago. So was 2020. But it is imperative that we revisit the midterm elections of 2018 and 2022. Democrats won a net gain of 41 congressional seats and reclaimed the House in 2018, stifling Trump’s divisive legislation proposals. They also gained seven governorships while losing none. 2022 will forever be remembered for the failed “red wave,” when gaudy predictions of Republicans winning a net gain of 60+ House seats fell horrifically short. By short, I mean they won a nine-seat majority. One of those seats was lost to our dear and beloved pal George Santos. Hey, if he can lie, so can I. Every state that had an abortion ban bill on the ballots saw its voters reject the measures, preserving reproductive rights for women in certain “red’ states. I guess I should mention that three Trump-appointed Supreme Court justices helped to overturn the landmark Roe v. Wade and Planned Parenthood v. Casey cases that legalized abortion at the federal level, leaving it up to individual states (Dobbs v. Jackson). Yeah. That didn’t sit well with women across the nation. Or champions of civil rights. So, let’s tally all this up. Donald Trump is a convicted felon 34 times over, a convicted sexual abuser, and a convicted fraudster. To clarify things, he’s not running for commissioner of his neighborhood fantasy football league. He’s running for president – of the United States. For the true political zealots, I have closely watched every valid pollster (Times/Sienna, ABC News, Monmouth, amongst others) and looked at all the early voting returns in the swing states. I have also watched Trump implode (even more, somehow) from the infamous MSG rally to now. I have been spot-on with my election predictions at damn near every level of government since 2020. My prediction for tomorrow? Harris wins. And it won’t even be as close as the major news outlets want you to believe it will be. If you haven’t already and if you’re eligible and if you’re registered – go vote. It’s your civic duty. #MNR: THE ONLY ONE (UNB PRESIDENTIAL ENDORSEMENT) “And since we all came from a woman, got our name from a woman and our game from a woman. I wonder why take from our women, why we rape our women, do we hate our women?” Tupac Amaru Shakur Traditionally, making a responsible decision when voting for a President came down to policy. It’s more than fair to make a claim that in the post-Civil Rights era, we really didn’t care about the personal lives of the white men we went to the ballot to vote for – mostly because we weren’t privy to this information. Yes, Kennedy and Clinton had marital infidelities – that we knew of. But even then, we didn’t know until well after the fact. And by "well after the fact," these things came to light AFTER both men were elected. I’d be a fool to assume that the most powerful men in the world don’t play every now and then. In that light, I’m certain most rational people would agree that tipping out on the first lady behind the seal of the presidency doesn't pack the predatory punch that asserting it’s okay to “grab them by the pussy” in entertainment interviews does. Or paying to fuck an adult film star Kojack (think about it) while your wife is home alone, pregnant (and being criminally indicted and convicted of 34 counts related to hush money payment for said incident). Or being convicted in civil court of sexually assaulting a woman. But hey -- who are we to judge? For the third consecutive election, ethics trumps (pun intended) policy. I love to hear conservatives scream that the price of gas and groceries is so ridiculous that we need a change. I love it even more when they continue to insist that “Illegals” are invading our communities. I agree with anger about the cost of damn near everything. The price of common goods is ridiculous. But it is imperative to mention that the COVID pandemic had rippling, lasting effects on the economy. Supply chains were stifled for long periods of time, from the laborers abroad who experienced shutdowns in their own countries (y’all know I mean China and other parts of Asia) to the huge cargo container ships that transport diverse cargo (cars, sneakers, televisions) from one side of the world to us to the people at the ports who unload the shipped cargo to the truckers who transport the cargo from the docks to the employees in the stores who sell the diverse goods. The effects were long reaching and long lasting. Then there’s price gouging and shrinkflation. These evil, dastardly corporate deeds have persisted and continue to rob us blind. Ironically, one candidate has a plan to attack price gouging, but we’ll get to that in a bit. The superseding thought is this: the problems we faced/face post COVID were both unavoidable and had no quick fix. You can’t pin that on the next administration. It doesn’t work that way. You conservatives have it all twisted and conflated. I do not. I clearly discern what’s going on. As for the immigrant issue, I agree that America isn’t equipped to handle the swell of those who have entered the country, whether by illegally crossing a border or through asylum. I love the idea of immigrants having a chance to live the “American dream” – through legal methods, including asylum. Otherwise, you must leave. Irrespective of how immigrants have entered the country, I believe that they should be treated humanely. They are human. Do not separate children from parents (again). That’s past inhumane and insidious. Do not speak of them as if they are of lesser worth than you. Do not dehumanize them for political gain. Outright lies are unacceptable. Some people need to have an earnest talk with God. I love the term “first world problems” because it forces most people to pump their brakes and truly ponder its definition, after which discerning that their problems aren’t really problems. We get mad over things that 90% of the world can’t even fathom. And yet, somehow, they manage to make it without many of the things we bitch and complain about. Many find a way to flourish – through scrupulous methods. People still complain about gas prices. Here are some quick facts for you crybaby ass Americans. The average price of gas in Germany is 3.55 euros. The average price is 4.13 in England. Italy, Denmark, Belgium and Sweden have prices between 5.80-5.90 in U.S. dollars. The price of gas down the street from me is $2.79 a gallon. Electric vehicles cost $0 per gallon. My point? Y’all complain about any and everything, completely ignoring how good you really have it. We Americans have this embellished, macabre mindset, and fail to realize how blessed we truly are. The poorest American has access to public assistance. Third world countries (defined in political science terms as the countries with the highest populations, not strictly economic development) citizens wish they readily and consistently had access to public assistance. Your local grocery store has shelves fully stocked with groceries. Go to a store in Havana. Tell me if you see fully stocked shelves in Cuba. And for every complaint about prices and how they have affected our pockets, we have managed to endure without calamity. And should calamity come knocking upon your door, you can wake up the next day and take your ass down to the welfare office and fill out some paperwork. Don’t feel less than dignity-filled if you must make that type of move. 33% of NYC Jewish households received government benefits, according to the UJA-Federation of New York’s 2023 Jewish Community Study of New York. In sharp contrast, only 4% are even eligible for benefits in Mississippi, according to mississippippltoday.org. In many southern states, politicians undercut the underserved (mostly Blacks) with wanton intent. The point I’m making is that everyone, and I mean everyone has struggles in this country. Blue state, red state, Jew, gentile. Inevitably, it’s deeper than just policy. In voting for a President, the ideal or at least best candidate (in my eyes) should be a champion of civil rights. They should fight for inclusion in all aspects of American life. They should vigorously fight and oppose discrimination and xenophobia of any type, irrespective of the community and/or group affected. And finally, the ideal candidate should fight to protect women’s reproductive and medical rights. Civil rights are simply the rights guaranteed to EVERY American citizen. Race, gender, creed, sexual orientation and political affiliation do not matter. Everyone is awarded and afforded the same set of rights. This is non-negotiable. It is written in the United States Constitution. It doesn’t matter if you think homosexuality is an abomination. It doesn’t matter if you don’t want Blacks moving into your ethnic or religious neighborhood/enclave. It doesn’t matter if that American born Hispanic baby has two immigrants as parents. It doesn’t matter if your coworker wears a hijab and worships at a mosque. It doesn’t matter if that young, white couple is willing to pay $3,500 a month for a one bedroom in Spanish Harlem that your grandmother rented for $120 a month for 34 years before the rent control laws expired and she was given the boot because there was no way in heaven she could even afford $1,750, or half of the $3,500. Every American is entitled to every civil right, implicitly stated or implied. All who are here legally or who aspire to enter legally are welcome in America. This is the original melting pot. Unless you belong to an American Indian (indigenous) tribe, you are a descendent of an immigrant. Inclusion is paramount. No American is “less American” than any other American. You can’t pick and choose who is allowed to prosper and flourish. We all are. Discrimination and xenophobia have no place in society. Having to state this in 2024 is bananas. A woman’s body and reproductive rights are hers and hers alone. No man, whether he be white, Black, or otherwise has any fucking right to tell a woman what she can and cannot do with HER body. How hard is it for you troglodytes to understand this simple concept? A court of nine said it was that way for 52 years until one day the same court with different actors (err umm justices) said it wasn’t. Suddenly, it became a state’s right to decide. Bullshit. Only one candidate checks the boxes I just spoke about. Only one favors civil rights. Only one believes in absolute inclusion. Only one strictly opposes racism and xenophobia. And finally, only one believes a woman’s body and reproductive rights belong to a woman. One candidate has laid out policy for all to see. It consists of economic opportunity and lower costs for families, including middle class tax cuts, rent affordability, attainable home ownership, growing small business and entrepreneurial investment, fighting price gouging, strengthening and lowering the cost of health care, protecting and strengthening social security and Medicare, supporting American innovation and workers, providing a pathway to the middle class through affordable education, investing in affordable child care and long term care, and lowering energy costs and tackling climate crisis. The other has Project 2025. I’ll let you do your own research. The Unbearables Crew/#MNR 2024 presidential endorsement goes to Vice President Kamala Devi Harris. She’s the only one. #MNR: DANCE WITH MY MAMA (SHAREON, NATE & ME)
“We’ll get over like a fat rat. Peas in a pod, bugs in a rug, we’ll never stop. We’ll get over like a fat rat. Snug as a hug in your arms.” Fonda Rae “There’s not a minute, hour, day, or night that I don’t love you. You’re at the top of my list ‘cause I’m always thinking of you.” Luther Vandross “You light my fire. I feel alive with you baby. You blow my mind. I’m satisfied. Outstanding (so outstanding). Girl you knock me out. Exciting (I’m so excited). Makes me wanna shout.” Charlie Wilson (The Gap Band) Shareon Denise Warren (Thompson, Smith) would have been seventy years young last Thursday, October 17. Happy Birthday, mommy. This blog is all about you. And Nate. I’m a guest star, I suppose, a secondary character. My sun Nate celebrated his fifteenth trip around el sol today. Happy earth day, young’n. Nate’s my student and spiritual advisor. He is the first person to point out that my mother’s name begins with “share.” I’ve looked at and spelled Shareon’s name for well over thirty years and never once noticed “share.” I immediately pondered how concise “share” was when it came to Shareon, and I dropped a couple of tears on the spot. Nate knows things about Shareon that only people closest to me know. Like I said, he’s my spiritual advisor. He knows that I wasn’t the best son when I was a bratty, petulant, ungrateful, hoe-ass teenager. I didn’t treat my queen as royalty. Prayerfully, I autocorrected as a young adult and cherished my earth for the rest of her time in physical form. Nate knows all this. He and his mom have an interesting relationship, and when he’s spinning the world on one finger, I try to be a catalyst for discernment. I’m judicious in my approach to dealing with our discussions, but I’m pro-Nate. I’m also pro-mom. One day, I asked Nate to consider his mother in a different light. I reminded him that she too once sat at a desk in a school as a wide-eyed fourteen-year-old. She had her own hopes and dreams. As I progressed as an adult, I always thought about the events that shaped my mother as a human. I’m familiar with more than a few, and wholly aware that there are plenty of things she experienced in life that I have no idea of. But I do know one motherfucking thing... My mama was that girl. My most cherished memories of Shareon & me are from the early ‘80s, when I was young world and Shareon was taller than the floats she took me to see every Thanksgiving day. She was my entire world. She was my protector. She was my best friend. She was my mommy. She was my hero. Friday nights were usually cut and paste, but they were dearest to my heart. Shareon would pick me up from my afterschool program and we’d head back uptown. When we hit the block she always asked what I wanted for dinner. It always came down to Chinese (her favorite) or pizza (my favorite). The question was unnecessary yet enjoyable for her to witness me answer with glee. I always chose pizza. We’d get home, I’d clean up, and she’d set me up in the bedroom – good eats and cable television. I was good for the night. All my aunties and godfathers were on the way. So was Uncle Alan. The grown folk were finna have one good ass night of debauchery. I was oblivious to it all. I was in my cocoon, with nary a care in the world. As I grew older, I delved deeper into music. Naturally, I spun the block and researched all the music I remembered from my childhood, the music Shareon, Ty dem cut a rug all damn night to. Puffer was using old samples all over hip-hop beats anyway, further stoking my thirst for insight on the music. I always gravitated to the early ‘80s, back to my favorite days with Shareon. I came up with three classics she loved, classics which I too love. The three? You have already seen the rollout. Let’s get to it. “Never Too Much” by Luther Vandross (1981) “Over Like a Fat Rat” by Fonda Rae (1982) “Outstanding” by The Gap Band (1982) Shareon and Tyrone had a good damn time in the early ‘80s. I should know. Plenty of my Saturday and Sunday mornings were spent walking past (and over) godfathers and aunts on my way to the kitchen for a bowl of cereal. That was the 12” record era, with the record player on top of the twin cassette deck in something plywood and glass. Record covers doubled as surfaces to deseed and break up reefa. These were the jams that had Shareon on the dance floor all night. Sis had it going on: young, educated, and successful. She had a great job at R.R. Bowker, a well-known publishing company from back then. I’m blessed to say I had a library in my house/apartment/crib my entire upbringing. But back to Shareon. She was a symbol of Black excellence in the first decade that women of all races got a halfway decent shot at making it in the workforce outside of nepotism or fucking and sucking their way up the corporate and every other ladder. NO JUDGEMENT ZONE. Syke. Anyway, I smile when I think about Shareon enjoying herself back then. The world was still at her fingertips. Warrens AND Thompsons know how to party. I’m certain that was part of Shareon and Ty’s attraction for one another. But these and other countless jams blasted from my living room Friday and Saturday nights from my post toddler years through my formative years. I wonder if Fonda Rae knew she had one the moment she stepped out the booth after recording “Over Like A Fat Rat.” I’m inclined to think that she did. I would have known as soon as I heard the bass line and piano drop for the first time. But I think that she couldn’t have fathomed the enduring legacy of the song in her most vivid and lucid dream back in 1982. It didn’t sell 10M records. Naw. It did much more in places where money doesn’t matter. It became an instant smash hit and enduring NYC party classic. This song belongs to New York Fucking City. My mama and every other Black and Boricua NYC resident got super busy to this track. It still rocks. I’m talking right fucking now. Be at a Black function and let this drop like an hour after the function really got lit, right around the time the third and fourth drinks are consumed. This song will shut the venue down. Truly legendary shit. New Yorkers love this song with a special affinity. It holds a special place in their hearts. You had to be there. You had to be outside. Shareon was. I could go on and on about “Never Too Much.” I’ll begin with the fact that Luther was Shareon’s favorite artist. I was literally raised off Luther. I can remember being a bit more than a toddler and “Never Too Much” playing on the stereo. That’s how much it was spun in my house. It is one of Luther’s quintessential songs. It too is a staple at Black familial functions. Shareon loved it. It was her jam. It should come as no surprise that it too is my jam. I can see her now, dancing carefree on an uptown Saturday night, laughing and enjoying stolen moments with those dearest to her. You live on in my spirit, but you come to life when I hear “Never Too Much” at the right time. Yeah, Marvin was still alive and kicking. Luther was killing the charts. Ronald Isley wasn’t Mr. Big yet. He was still with his brothers. Donny [Hathaway] was gone (teary eye emoji). Stevie kept reinventing himself and was on his fourth run. But no one (and I mean no one) was quite like that damn Charlie Wilson. This was way before his solo endeavors, back when he was still 1/3 of the baddest trio on the planet, The Gap Band. He and his brothers Ronnie and Robert had the R&B/funk thing down to a science. The Gap Band had plenty of hits, but “Outstanding” is their gold medal winner. Just like the other two songs mentioned, this is a staple at all Black familial functions and has a good chance of being played before the other two. Shareon jammed to this throughout my life. We were able to enjoy it together at functions when I joined the ranks of adulthood, which came with drankin’ in front of her privileges. But she cut a rug to it from day one. I know it tore WBLS up. Shareon used to record off the radio, and I spent my formative years listening to plenty of these tapes. “Outstanding” was one of her jams. Those were the days. The last family function my mother attended was spring 2016 when her baby sister and my auntie Cynthia received her degree. Everyone came down for the celebration. The after party was at auntie’s house. By that time, my mother needed a wheelchair to get around. She chose to sit inside in the living room while most people were outside dancing as my MAGAt cousin DJ Green spun records for the event. I chose to stay inside and keep my mom company and run an errand if need be. I remember cousin playing “Electric Slide.” All the ladies ages 8-70 hit the patio, which served as the dance floor. I watched my mother as she stared through the patio sliding door at the ladies dancing. She didn’t have to say a word. I knew that she wanted to be out there dancing with her baby sister and family more than anything else. A piece of me perished that day. Shareon was gone 13 months later. I still remember the look on her face. I wish I could have gone outside and danced with her. HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOMMY HAPPY BIRTHDAY NATE I LOVE YOU BOTH. #MNR: THE VAPORS
“But they can’t do it how I do it. Copying Curren$y, that’s counterfeit and useless. And stupid.” “To stand in front this money train doesn’t make sense. I never hustled with no lames, why would I begin?” Curren$y In 14 hundred and 92, Christopher Columbus – brought venereal disease to the new world. What? What you thought I was going to say? And if you take I for joke, go on YouTube. All jokes aside, have y’all heard about the nigga on Beyonce and Taylor Swift’s internet walking around with 3 STDs (one, two, three of them MF), openly promoting the fact that he’s “still fucking bitches” on Instagram Live as he strolls through the club? He is not only unabashed, but he also fancies himself as a figure of atonement, a catalyst for accountability. As expected, he comes off as an ignorant troglodyte, refusing to go to the doctor and get his shit checked. He says he plans to naturally cure himself through diet and self-affirmation. Yes, Niggarachi. Both are available by prescription at the local pharmacy. Smmfh. What in the Dr. Sebi (respectfully)? He also claims that he’s not suffering from “the big one” and knows who infected him. If you reside in the great state of Texas (specifically DFW), be careful. Everybody is a suspect. I swear these stories write themselves... I wasn’t even fishing. I simply went on the Twitter earlier for my daily six minutes of fuckery (I am a former Twitter addict) and the first thing I see is this nigga Gucci Third Leg (yeah, I know) is spreading the herpes simplex virus like Nazi propaganda in Germany in 1938. I didn’t know who this disease-spreading derelict was until today, although I’ve seen his face on the internet in passing. Apparently, he’s a porn actor who makes his own content with Only Fans models, aka [CENSORED]. He brags about having slept with three thousand women (that’s a lot of counting fingers and toes) and has been spreading the herpes since Covid travel bans were lifted (2021). The word on the social medias is that he’s bodied a lot of women that internet celebrities break their necks to fuck. As a journalist I do not spread hearsay, but if you go online you’ll see more than a few celebrity/influencer names caught in this disgusting web, both women and men. It appears we have a superspreader in the building. I’m not his doctor nor have I gone boogemz in any of the women he’s allegedly infected, so I can’t confirm or deny this report. But when there are women on the social medias claiming that after fucking old boy they are infected with the simplex, it’s possibly in the Top Five of the safest bets in the history of betting. Be careful. There are all types of nasty work outside in 2024. Can you feel it? Nothing can save you. Cause this is the season of catching the vapors. I know. I’m the one always talking about keeping it real and always staying loyal to the hood. Yup. That’s what I said. But as soon as they cut the check – I’m gone (Uncle Elroy voice)! I don’t owe not nayah nigga a MF thing. I’m throwing the Tyreek Hill peace sign while I enter the suicide door (I hate that name) of my four wheeled spaceship like that pimp in the old Vine reel. A nigga is going to have to hate on me from three time zones away. Go on ‘head. But make sure you tell your mama and auntie I said hi. I’m not much for coincidence. I believe that it’s all a part of a well-crafted work of tapestry. Earlier today, Ju, Janay, Jorge, Aary and I were in the classroom vibing, chit chatting and listening to music. I played my favorite Ursher (Usher) song, which happens to be “Think of You.” I said that this was the first song of his I’d ever heard. I remembered that he was like 14-15 and that we must be close in age. Ju thought he might’ve had me by a year or two. I too thought that he was older, but only by a cuticle. Surprise, surprise. I went on Wikipedia to check his birth date. He is [in fact] a month and four days younger than me, born 10.14.2024. Today is his 46th earth day. How ironic. Many blessings, Ursh Raymond. It’s your born day, so I’m going to keep it positive. But there are a few questions that I have... “On My Mama” by Victoria Monét is now over a year old. I haven’t heard a better R&B song in that time. I’ve heard more than a few good songs since it was released, but I can argue that none can fuck with “OMM.” It’s the bass guitar for me. And the trumpet. And Victoria got super busy. I guess it was imperative, but her putting Mama in the video touched my soul. I also loved the shot with Mama, Victoria, and lil bit. Three generations of Black excellence. All I need? You know just I want, so do it. A hero ain’t nothing but a sammich. I told you try-hards last week that all that knight in shining armor bullshit is taxing on your health insurance. Look, I respect a man taking up for a female stranger in public – if the situation involves a man that isn’t her man (I stay out of stranger domestic disputes for my own safety). But when it’s two women in disagreement, both of whom are strangers to one another AND you, stay your caping ass the fuck up out of their beef if your aim is anything more than being a peaceful arbitrator. You’ve got to be a damn fool to choose a side after a ten second assessment. Mind your damn business. It promotes good health. It ain’t what you wear, it's what you drive. It ain’t what you drive, it's where you park. It ain’t where you park, it's where you live. It ain’t where you live it’s how you die. It’s either how you died or who you killed. I can’t explain why We do some of the things we do. I know that some things are rooted in tradition while other things are used/implemented to mask or stifle pain and trauma. I never drank lean, which is a mixture of codeine, promethazine and sweet, sugary drinks like Fanta, Faygo, or even Kool-Aid. I was introduced to the term and DJ Screw mixtapes my freshman year of university when I met and befriended my brother Mel Patterson (RIP Pop Patterson). Screw (RIP) was the first known DJ to chop and slow songs down. It went right along with sippin’ drank. Lean slows you down. I’ve seen niggas literally leaned to the side, suspended in time. It inspires driving your slabs extra slow through the city. The double cups keep the ice from melting. Lean is said to have killed several known H-Town artists, from Screw to Fat Pat to Pimp C. I have my own theories, but I’m no doctor. I know outsiders wonder why in the fuck would anyone drink prescription cough syrup mixed with soda. I often reflect on what Bun B. said at the end of “Purple Rain” (Beanie Sigel’s version). The song (of course) is about pourin’ up. Bun’s verse is about the first time he drank lean. Screw put him on. He was extra faded, as stated in his bars. But the end is what captured my imagination, when he saluted all of his fallen palz who “poured up real big when they was here.” How in the duality of self can we affectionately praise the very thing that is the reason our friends are in the essence? Like I said, I have no answer. I suppose Mr. Cheeks said it best at the end of “Renee.” I’m from the ghetto, so yo, this is how I shed my tears. Thank you all for stopping by and supporting the movement. You are all loved and appreciated. I’m a see you when I see you, unless you see me first. Au revoir. #MNR: GUNS & BUTTER “Scared money don’t make money. I got courage, I take money. God don’t like ugly, but he got to love hungry.” Kasino “To the Feds, catch me if you can. I’m a still transport with my man on the Peter Pan.” Styles P. “Spent too many nights on the Henny getting right.” The Firm “At a thousand degrees Celsius I make MCs melt. Fuck my record label, I appear courtesy of myself.” Canibus I don’t know how to start this shit. Well, I do, I suppose. But this is the thing. Folks, we don’t have a set topic tonight. But frankly, we don’t fucking need one. Tonight, we come from the cuff. Tonight, we dine in hell! Or Jimbo’s. Personally, I’d prefer an egg on my bacon cheeseburger over a caliente mug of fire and brimstone. Jimbo’s it is. A nigga like me – I’m a rest the tip of my J on the rim of that hot ass mug and light my shit. I’m currently smoking on a pack of Apple something. I can’t decipher my plug’s unique calligraphy. But, in the words (pun intended) of our Uncle Elroy – It’s the Bombay! Oh yeah. It’s one of those. Ah, yes. Welcome to our show. I’m your host and proprietor, the insatiable, the incendiary, the incomparable Tyrone Monday. Salute to my partner in thought, CEO, your friendly, neighborhood plug. I pray that your day was well. If it wasn’t, oh well. That shit is in the books now. Here. Relax – your body and mind. Take this cheeba. Pull that shit. Hold the smoke in your lungs. Exhale slowly. Repeat the process a few times. Get superhero high. Pass that shit. It’s a cipher. I’m glad you all are here. You could be anywhere on earth, but you’re here with us. Big ups to all the try-hards. You provide so much comedic material. You geniuses really have to touch the frying pan to believe it’s hot. Listen, it’s not a crime to give it the old college try every MF time. But it is stupid to stress yourself for no reason. Relax. Touch grass. Find a Bob Ross episode on YouTube and smoke some grass. Chill the fuck on out. #MNR is a lifestyle blog. We’re not [monetarily] rich – yet. I don’t mean lifestyle from that standpoint, per se. We are perpetual stoners who keep it Boeing fly and casket fresh, even on store runs. We also try our best to see the cup as half-full. We love beautiful women, and we listen to great music. We watch nothing but classic shit on the idiot box and other devices. Salute to every ardent supporter who tunes in to keep their mental blades sharp. May your Nikes forever stay fresh. Gas prices are looking good. Presidential elections tend to do that. Indictment season is on the way. It never fails. Niggas always get locked up en masse during election season. Especially during presidential election years. You see how it manifested on a large-scale level (ask Puffer). It also and most certainly applies to the streets. The powers that be love to send an authoritative message during election season. If you’re outside, keep your profile low. Remember that you are not going to make a million dollars in a day. All money ain’t good money. Don’t go outside with 27 cracks on you to sell three dimes. And if shorty keeps calling you back for hundred-dollar sales and hasn’t asked what the number is on an eight ball or better, curve that bitch immechiately. She’s an undercover DT. Use your fucking head. Stay dangerous. Eric “Teef” Adams. My, my, my. I knew I was gon see you again. I knew I was gon see you again! That won’t hit right if you don’t say it like Bernie in your mind. Anyway – someone tell that ex-pig and part time mayor MF his time is up. I’m so shocked and appalled that you’ve (allegedly) taken favors from Turkish slimeballs (yawns amidst overwhelming sarcasm). I don’t give a fuck about the trips and whatever else you (allegedly) received. That’s how tricking works. Teef is the bitch, and the Turkish slimeballs are the tricks. This type of shit happens every day, B. Nothing is new under the sun. Another pig/politician, another crime. Allegedly. I just want to know what you gave them. Don’t matter. We already know you were on your crooked knees when you gave it up. Bitch. For those of y’all who own The Chronic or owned it at some point in life, sing along with your boy. Bitches ain’t shit but hoes and tricks. Lick on these nuts and... Fuck Eric Adams. Get his crooked ass the fuck up out of here. Everyday I’m a poli ‘bout who’s the best hottie out. And will they ever let Gotti out. It’s so amazing how a song can immediately take you to a particular place in time. I’m a give y’all a few examples. Whenever I hear “I Like It” by Grand Puba (1995), I’m immediately a sixteen-year-old kid again, navigating through Times Square, fully immersed in a New York City summer. That’s close to the last days of old school Times Square. It’ll NEVER be like that again. Trust me. Imagine what it was like running through that shit dolo at 16. Whenever I hear “When You Think of Me” by Eric Benet (2000), I’m reminded of TB and the first time she gave me the buns. Y’all don’t understand. I was on it from freshman year, day two. Early. She curved me. Doc Gooden status. With a smile. We fell out over some dumb shit sophomore year. We beefed smooth through junior year. We saw each other the first Monday back senior year, hugged it out, and laughed about water under the bridge. We flirted throughout our final campaign. I finally got upstairs to her room on a lowkey April weekend on the yard. Eric Benet was the performer on Soul Train that fateful northside Richmond Saturday night. I was negotiating like Chris Sabian while Eric performed “Georgie Porgy” alongside my children’s mother and ex-wife Faith Evans. By the time he began the second verse of “When You Think of Me” during the second half of the broadcast, I was smooth in the cuda. We got it in a few times over the next month, all the way until graduation day (literally). Whenever I listen to Mr. Benet croon one of the greatest and sweetest ahh ha, bitch songs of all time, I get a gleam in my eye. And – whenever I hear “Not Like Us” by Kung-Fu Kenny, I’m immediately taken back to Kendrick’s 6.19.2024 Pop Out Show featuring every gang member/artist in greater Los Angeles (except Game). Kenny performed the song FIVE TIMES CONSECUTIVELY. Five MF times. Back-to-back and tree mo’ after that. He zipped Aubrey’s Canadian ass the fuck up. Body bag. Pastor Kendrick performed Drake’s eulogy that night. I’ll never forget witnessing that moment. Music is soooooooooooo amazing. So is Black history. I saw the new Joker movie. I loved it. I’m hearing that everyone hates it. I don’t want to give away any spoilers, but the musical aspect of the movie served a specific purpose. Read the last section of this blog again. When I think about classic R&B records from my childhood, the first thing I think about is that Shareon cut a rug to it. She was young and vibrant – and healthy. I know what it meant when Arthur and/or Lee sang. Look, I’m not trying to turn a stinker into pure platinum just because I spent some money and time on it. I’m saying that as a human who has had his struggles with mental health, I can appreciate the movie, the same as I did the first one. Wait for it to hit Max, I suppose. I loved it. I embrace the feeling and serendipity of escapism. Even if but for a fleeting moment. Judge me as you may. I welcome it. It’s about time to complete my annual viewing of Krush Groove. The ending song has been on my mind all day. Long live Jam Master Jay, Buff Love, and Prince Markie Dee. #MNR: ETHERIUM
“Bitch please – catch the breeze. The yacht came with two speedboats attached. We don’t do them jet skis. That’s a prom date, I’m big paper. We can travel the world, wine taste, elevate...” “I arrived stoned. Thuggish, Ruggish Bone. For the love of money, loved ones do you wrong. When they see you shining, they feel stunted on. You ain’t e’en know nothing ‘bout it. You were just going along.” Curren$y I light a L for Vernon [Blvd]. For niggas who would burn in hell for Vernon. 10th Street, 12th Street. Nightmares like Elm St.” Nasir Jones Raise your hand if you’re a selfish MF. Keep ‘em high. Don’t look surprised when you see my left hand reach high towards the heavens. I’m guilty AF. The problem is that I never realized it until the other day. God bless Ms. Baeza. She did an amazing job with her 1983-1984 kindergarten class. She taught me how to share. I’m thankful for her. My brand of selfishness is a bit different. Just know that I apologize for the jerk in me. I’m always trying to fit a square peg in a circle slot. You’d think that I would’ve learned better after so many years of insanity, but I haven’t. Not fully. Now that I think about it, the definition of insanity might actually be the definition for relentless, assuming that impossible is nothing. Boss Lady’s going to have fun ruminating on that one. The bottom line is that my desire is unparalleled. There’s a fine line between relentless and insanity, and I regularly straddle and two-step along that motherfucker. If I were much younger, I’d griddy that somabitch. Long live my nigga Rich Homie Quan. I done heard more than a few Atlanta niggas say “iuh” (short “I,” one long ass syllable) instead of “is,” but no one could say it like Rich Homie. I iuh relentless. I iuh a bit insane. But my God’s been known to make a way out of no way, and I’m made in my creator’s image. Like I said, impossible is nothing. But that’s assuming that your faith is at least the size of a mustard seed. I wish that I could take your pain away. I must say that I went from a suspect J roller to a solid spliff twirler in a year’s time. I make no excuses. However, I was raised up rolling blunts. I’m from the, “I left my Phillie at home, do you have another?” era. I went from Phillies to White Owls to Dutch Masters to Dutch cigarillos to Backwoods. I knew I had to let the tobacco go because my chest told me it was time. I used to feel like Tommy Hearns jabbed me in the left titty after a couple of Woods. I studied several great rollers, woman and man, old and young, from old school Black folk to cool ass stoner white boys, from Dominican niggas to Jamaican niggas. I developed my own technique. It works for me. My spliff burns slow like that Target in Minneapolis. I’m happier than Dame Dash’s dentures on their day off. A $2 book of 30 Raw papers beats a $6-$22 five pack of Backwoods every time. Yes, nigga. A pack of Woods in NYC costs anywhere from $17-$25 dollars. They are $6-$8 on the Jerz side. The tobacco tax in NYC is past outrageous. That’s why only rappers and visitors smoke blunts in NYC. Rappers can afford it (they really can’t), and tourists are dumb enough to think that it’s ok to pay the markup price because they’re in the big, fancy city. No, dummy. Bring your Woods with you if you’re traveling to New York. The real already knew that. They ain’t tourists. They come up top when they feel like it. Barry Sanders was one of my childhood heroes. I never took the time to rank my childhood heroes, but it’s possible that #20 was my number one. I’ll never forget calling my Uncle Alan and telling him I made all-stars for my baseball league. He congratulated me and told me how proud he was of me. He told me to be like Barry Sanders. Barry was humble. He wasn’t a showboat. To this day I take my Unc’s word as my bond. He’s dad. But I was already a Barry fan. He was the original human video game, when Michael Vick was a schoolboy in Bad News, #2up2down. If I didn’t see him with my own eyes I would swear he was a product of A.I. He was unreal. He broke ankles (literally) with his moves – in Nikes. Nike ran a series of ads for their Zoom Turf shoes featuring the great, late Dennis Hopper as the “Crazy Ref” whose catchphrase was, “Bad things, man! Bad things!” His commercial with Barry was the most memorable. I just found it on YouTube. I was sixteen all over again. Salute to Barry. He’s my GOAT. I spoke about Barry to set the table for my junior high school bestie Kevin Caudle and his GOAT, who passed today. Kev’s favorite ball player was the incomparable Peter Edward Rose, also known as Charlie Hustle. He played for a few teams, but he became immortal as the cornerstone of the Cincinnati Big Red Machine. He was a Natti boy who grew up to be his hometown team’s most famous player and the most prolific hitter in MLB history. Unfortunately, his penchant for gambling and lying to the powers that be earned him a lifetime ban from the most coveted of Halls of Fame. I know he broke the cardinal rule, but Rob Manfred please let him in. He suffered the last 35 years of his life. We get the fucking point. He’s gone now. I’ve been to that Hall. It’s amazing, but it doesn’t feel right without him there. Big ups to my bro Kev. LONG LIVE CHARLIE HUSTLE #14. We love you Joji. Company A got you. #MNR: NO DIDDY
“Pay me now. Play me, how? That’s one thing I don’t play about. Lay it down.” Curren$y “She my California love, we can Californicate. Want to party with a thug? You might have to take the case.” “He run up on me, I’m a have to let the stick blow. She say she love me, I might have to let that bitch go.” Vince Staples I’m sick and tired of all you hating ass MF. Just admit it. Y’all hate to see a successful Black man. And the nigga was worth a billi? Yeah. It’s obvious that you devils just want to make sure a nigga doesn’t have shit. Y’all been hating on a nigga since Shyne shot the club up damn near a quarter century ago. You bastards wanted to bury him then. But you couldn’t. Why? Because he was Teflon Sean. I thought he told you that he won’t stop. Take that, take that. It’s plain and simple. A Black man built an empire from the mud and you devils couldn’t control him. I’ll say it again: just admit it. Y’all wanted to ruin Puff’s life. Y’all made all this shit up. The Cassie footage was one lone mistake. Puff apologized for his actions ... and he paid her. But that wasn’t enough. Y’all had to ruin his life. I hope y’all are happy. Shit, I am. Fuck Puffer. Oh, y’all thought I was serious in the intro? How dare you think so lowly of me. Keep it a buck. How many of y’all judged me before scrolling down to find out it was the old 52 fake out. How many of y’all said, “fuck that fat ass nigga.” I ain’t mad. That’s why I did it. As for Puffer, I’ve felt a way about Sean Combs since Sunday, March 9, 1997. But we’ll get to that. We finna get to errthang. Everything was all good just a week ago. Or maybe not. Last Tuesday, Sean Jean “Puff Daddy” “Puffy” “Puff” “P. Diddy” “Diddy” “Brother Love” Combs (what a fucking joke) was arrested into federal custody and charged with sex trafficking, racketeering, conspiracy and transportation to engage in prostitution. He was denied bail on Wednesday and remains incarcerated in the dungeons of MDC Brooklyn, where he is said to be on suicide watch. How sad. In the indictment, prosecutors allege that since 2008 Combs has been part of a criminal organization that engaged in or attempted to engage in sex trafficking, forced labor, kidnapping, arson, bribery, obstruction of justice and other offenses. The indictment alleges that between at least 2008 and the present, Combs abused, threatened and coerced victims to fulfill his sexual desires, protect his reputation and conceal his conduct. There are allegedly multiple victims. (CBS News) The Feds seized three choppers (AK-47 assault rifles), extensive footage (he taped the freak-offs and kept meticulous footages for extortion purposes) and a thousand bottles of baby oil into custody – a thousand motherfucking bottles of baby oil. Damn it, man. Puffer has mainstreamed the terms freak-off and tusi. Freak-off is – pretty fucking self-explanatory. These fuck fests are said to have lasted for days at a time and consisted of all types of sex – pick one. Tusi, or pink cocaine, is a concoction of ketamine, MDMA, cocaine, methamphetamine, caffeine, opioids, and other new psychoactive substances (NPS). In the explanation of Prophetess Jaguar Wright, tusi was meant to keep you high out of your fucking face yet able to sexually perform over long periods of time, maintaining great amounts of energy and stamina – all with enough mind-altering shit to make your memories foggy at best. And oh yeah – the Molly keeps you happier and hornier than a fly on horse shit while you’re sucking prolific dick – and I’m talking about DJ Khaled dem. That was a direct shot. Fuck that sucker ass nigga, he doesn’t stand with his people. Free Palestine until it’s backwards. Anyway, I’m sure you Nancy Drews and Hardy Boys have connected the dots and understand that tusi and freak-offs go together like Scoob and Shaggy. If not, ask Khaled, Rozay dem. Hey, that’s what Prophetess Jaguar said, and sister gal ain’t missed yet. Puffer kept tusi on deck like baby oil. They caught his drug runner months ago. The word is that he sang a well-known soprano note when interrogated. How sad. I have so much to say, but so much has already been stated. I didn’t need last week’s arrest to affirm my feelings. I’ve known that Puffer is a piece of shit since 3.9.1997, the day that the BIG fella was gunned down in L.A. I’ve stated in a prior blog why it was unnecessary for him to be in Cali for that long. It’s almost like Bad Boy dared someone from out that way to do something. We know from Gene Deal’s telling ass that BIG didn’t even want to be in Cali. It was at Puff’s insistence. I know from my folk out there that the location of the party he was assassinated outside of wasn’t in a fancy area of the city. It was in an area where shit could have easily gone left, which it did. We have also learned that BIG was about to finish his contract with Bad Boy and do his own thing. He didn’t need Seabiscuit in the mouth or Bad Boy Records. He proved that with his Junior M.A.F.I.A. deal with Un at Undeas Records. Puff did everything EXCEPT pull the trigger. BIG’s blood has been on his hands ever since. You took the BIG fella away from us. I hope they lock your evil ass up in ADX Florence Supermax in the domestic terrorist wing with Moussaoui, Terry Nichols dem. My heart goes out to Usher and Justin Bieber; they were babies. My heart goes out to Mama Wallace. My heart goes out to every artist and staff member he ever shorted or treated inhumanely. Long live Black Rob (Jeff Houses 4L) and Craig Mack. My heart goes out to Cassie. Shit, if you’ve been affected in any way by Sean Combs, my heart goes out to you as well. If you’re a fan of suffering, get the theater sized popcorn, a nice cold beverage and put your feet up. They finna slow roast this nigga. Pulled pork. 14 hours on the grill at a low temperature. From there it's Supermax until hell is his permanent home. Bon voyage, bitch nigga. When recently asked about Puffer, Dapper Dan (I would say IYKYK, but you may not – he’s a Harlem fashion icon), who grew up in Harlem with both of Puffer’s parents, admonished us to understand that Puffer isn’t the first demon of his kind. This type of shit has been going on in music and Hollywood for generations. Just think of all the MF over time who have gotten away with it. But not you, nigga. This is atonement. LONG LIVE BIG. WE’LL ALWAYS LOVE BIG POPPA. #MNR: MISINFORMATION NATION
“I’m a trill motherfucker after all. Haters is dressed in safety nets encouraging my fall.” Curren$y X, the social app formerly (and still widely) known as Twitter, was the ninth most popular social app of 2023, with 142M downloads. In contrast, Instagram was the most popular at 696M downloads. Twitter (fuck it, I refuse to call it X) had 600M active users across the world as of May 2024. I provided each statistic to show that even though its tentacles aren’t as long as some other apps, its reach is still impressive. Once upon a time, a man named Jack Dorsey was the CEO of Twitter. Dorsey was one of four founders (7.15.2008), along with Noah Glass, Biz Stone, and Evan Williams. They made it a public entity in 2013. Unfortunately, Dorsey and company sold Twitter to the world’s wealthiest piece of horse shit, Eli Musk. In October 2022, after months of negotiations, Twitter was sold to Musk for 44B. Well golly gee, Monday. What’s the big difference between when Dorsey dem owned Twitter and now? That’s an excellent question, Sir Scrotum Hair Lint. The answer is simple. When Twitter was owned by the 4 Dorkmen, there was plenty of fuckery. But they fiercely enforced their Community Standards. Shit, I remember being in Twitter Jail, for 12 hours at that. And why? Because I called Dak Prescott a coon. Apparently, calling an Uncle Tom a coon is racially insensitive. Fair enough. I did my bid. I also watched what I said after that. After the contentious Presidential Race of 2020, the fat-ass President who served immediately after Obama was banned from the platform in January 2021 for rampant misinformation. He, along with other MAGAts and all-around troglodytes from the right wing and beyond, were banished from Twitter for lascivious lies and hate. Regardless of like, dislike, or indifference, there were standards. Musk has shown that there is little to no regard for standards, and he often is the first stone thrower. Just recently, he’s pushed an A.I. picture of Kamala Harris in red communist garb speaking before a communist crowd AND told Taylor Swift that he would gladly impregnate her AND protect her cat (we’ll get to that fuckery in a bit). This is the world’s richest human, owner of a social media platform that wields considerable power and influence. Being a conservative capitalist isn’t a crime, but using your influence for malice is a moral crime. But hey, I’m certain Musk doesn’t believe in God. He’ll burn in hell along with tRump when he faces judgement. I believe Nas once said if money’s your religion, sky’s the limit, live life. There’s an amazing and morbid double entendre in that bar. The article “X (Twitter) Statistics: How Many People Use X?” (backlinko.com) shared market research that stated 60.6% of respondents aged 16-64 use Twitter to keep up to date with news and current events. Unfortunately, Twitter is ripe with misinformation. Musk’s Twitter philosophy is wild, wild west style – anything goes. That can have catastrophic results. He knows this. You and I know. So why do you think he does it? That was a rhetorical question. We don’t e’en need to answer that. Twitter shall not be the lone scapegoat for rampant misinformation in the world. Fake news is superfluous in diverse outlets, from Fox News to Discord to YouTube to Parlor, and so on. The standards of journalism have been forsaken, and there is no code. This is extremely painful for a journalist like me. In the 9.2.2024 #MNR, I stated that the story about a Venezuelan gang taking over an apartment complex in Colorado was complete bullshit. I talked about how ain’t no cotton-picking way a 2A state’s residents would let that type of thing fly. Colorado is an OPEN CARRY STATE. That means that most residents 18 or older and legally able to possess a firearm can carry it openly without a license, permit, or registration. Opie and the Country Road Militia could’ve easily handled that after a spirited evening of Coors Light drankin’, doobie puffing, and fentanyl-free cocaine snorting. TRANSLATION: that story was absolute bullshit, and I first guessed it like I ALWAYS do. How did I know? Do I have a cousin who was “trapped” in one of the apartments giving me live updates? Fuck no. I maintained a 4.0 GPA and graduated with honors from the Archie G. Warren School of Common Sense. I smelled bullshit when I read the article, and I knew a bunch of readers were sure to step smooth in it. MF will believe anything that reaffirms and fuels their hate nowadays, especially in racial, political, and socioeconomic realms. People love to hate. Misinformation is supreme unleaded gasoline poured on a 6-alarm fire. Sak pase? N’ap boule on my end. Big ups to all my Haitian folk in the tri state and all over. I love y’all. I’m certain that all you amazing supporters have heard the rampant disinformation regarding Haitian residents in Springfield, Ohio. I won’t waste my time or dignity to address the lies. I will correct the lies about them being here illegally. They are in Springfield on a federal program that enables people from Haiti who have a financial sponsor in the U.S. to apply to enter the country and remain here legally for two years. They do not receive green cards. Others have applied for asylum, allowing them to remain in the country until their case is adjudicated in immigration court. And why have Haitians migrated to Springfield? Because businesses needed workers, there was an overabundance of housing at the time, and Haitians heard living costs were low. Yes, the pace of Haitians immigrating to Springfield has put a strain on the community. That tends to happen when news of opportunity spreads (think California gold rush or Atlanta in the ‘90s). But these folk are far from savages or criminals. The story has long-since been debunked, but that doesn’t matter to the nightmare holders who continue to run with it. All it’s doing is stoking [more] hate toward minorities. That’s how MAGAts want it. Ohio governor Mike DeWine has pledged over 2M in aid to Springfield to help with any difficulties the community is facing because of the influx of Haitian immigrants. But unlike most Rs, DeWine isn’t a scumbag. He is sending money to help with social inequities that the community is facing. He has nothing but respect for the Haitian community. I have heard him praise them with my own ears. His late daughter did missionary work in Haiti, and he and his wife pledged to help the Haitian community in her honor. I don’t fuck with DeWine, but I’ m thankful that he’s a decent human. I don’t find jokes about a minority group eating domesticated animals like wanton savages to be funny in any regard. Frankly, I find it disgusting. Haitians have been through hell the past decade or so, from natural disaster to extreme political corruption. They just want to live the American dream. Shame on you first world American-born fuckfaces for using misinformation as an opportunity to make ignorant Instagram posts about Haitians and cats. And any Black person who can declare that Haitians aren’t your folk, I’m happy to let you know that you damn sure ain’t mine. Fuck you. I’ll spit in your motherfucking face if you ever part your lips to talk shit about Haitians in my presence. Big ups to Haiti AND the Dominican Republic. It’s all one island with no natural border. HAPPY EARTH DAY ACEITO. LOVE YOU BABY BOY. Alright. I’m done talking. I done said all I had to say. Y’all can continue on. #MNR: MY LIFE
“You don’t know how little you matter until you’re all alone.” Frank Ocean “My ‘fit cost a condo. My hip tote a Rondo. I ball like Lonzo and always stay Melo.” Really Jaewon “Staring at the world through my rearview. Go ‘head baby scream to God, he can’t hear you. I can feel your heart beating fast cuz it’s time to die. Getting high, watching time fly.” Makaveli the Don LONG LIVE RICH HOMIE QUAN MY HEART AND PRAYERS ARE WITH YOU RICH AND KIM In an instant, it became apparent how little I matter in this beautiful life. It came upon me suddenly around the midnight hour Saturday. A couple days prior, someone I love asked me what my plans were for my birthday weekend. I replied that I had no plans. She or he was incredulous. I insisted that I hadn’t any, and she or he simply replied “ok”. In the moment, it was no big deal. I don’t usually have people beating my door down to treat me to a good time. But Saturday night, in the solitude of Attica, I pondered it all amidst a by-myself meeting. And suddenly, after years of it not mattering, it mattered. Shit, I’m used to not having people hit my line to get up. I don’t worry about it; I spent so many years running the streets and gallivanting with friends and associates (some of whom are now in the essence) that I’m cool with retirement. But the reality of the question is that I don’t get offers to kick it. I’m a semi-loner, so I can’t sit back and cry when I feel like no one likes me. It’s just that it’s my earth day. But that’s just how it is. C’est la vie. I’ve done a lot of work on self lately. I’m trying to stay in good head spaces when I feel anxiety gently rapping upon the windowpane of my soul. I remind myself that I am blessed. I remind myself that I’m loved, although most of my loved ones are either long distance or on the other side. And, thanks to a talk I had with a colleague, I remind myself that I am a King, even if my reality is that I am a mad king. A solitary king. My right hand is Sgt. Pepper. If no one wants to rock with me, I’m cool with me, myself, and I. And the Sarge. Having said as much, some days are tougher than others. Gloria Gaynor birthed the concept but I’m a fan of Chantay Savage’s interpolation. Translation: I will survive. Thank you Brandi and Marcus for being exceptions to the above paragraph. You both are loved and appreciated. There are generally two trains of thought pertaining to suicide. The first is the traditional Christian belief. For those unlearned, it’s the ONLY thing one can do to eternally damn oneself. God gave you life; who are you to take it? In addition, it’s seen as a selfish act. There are people who will forever be affected by your choice. What about them? And honestly, I could never argue that point. I came up with a pal who took his own life. I would’ve never guessed in a million years that he was going through what he was going through. I wish I would have known. In contrast, I’m not mad about taking autonomy like Anthony Bourdain or Kate Spade chose to do. I have no clue why they chose to do what they did, but I have my theories. For me, it's the beauty of being able to write your own conclusion. It’s the calm of knowing that I’ll never be taken for granted or underappreciated ever again. People say all the cute shit. They babble on about how you’re loved and important. But do they really mean it? They don’t check in out the blue to see if you’ve been able to maintain your sanity for the day or week. They don’t hit you with a random “let’s go out and have a drink” or a let’s go do anything. But they don’t have to. It’s whether they choose to. That’s where the beauty of autonomy comes into play. Don’t e’en worry about it. There’s no need for the superficial “how are you” or once-in-a-blue check-in. It’s all good, coach. I’m calling my own game today. Willie Beamon. I was in a low place, fully amidst an anxiety attack and staring crisis in the eyes. But then I paused for a moment, took a couple of deep breaths, lit a J, and grabbed my Mac. I decided it was better to type my way through it and put it on display to be interpreted and scrutinized. Being able to create is cathartic for me. Perhaps I’m just a petulant neurotic. I’m often caught in the paradox of trying to be a man who has finally embraced the emotions that come with being beautifully human while simultaneously attempting to continually suffocate my emotions because that’s what a man is supposed to do. I’m just glad I didn’t lose my way. I didn’t have anyone to speak with, so I had to land that 757 jumbo jet by my lonely. All the landing gear is in-tact. I pulled up to our spot on the Tarmac blowing kush smoke out the pilot-side window – with tears in my eyes. I thank Andrell for agreeing to take this cross-country journey and see all the spots they told us were beautiful in those geography and history lessons. We’re going to end up in L.A., my spirit origin. Drell wants to see Old Faithful. I want to see those old white men whose visages are etched into a mountain. We both want to drive that highway from Vegas to Los Scandalous, but not before I step into MGM Grand (MY place) and bet it all on Black...or get my driver’s license. Literally. One good spin of the roulette shall determine my fate. If I lose it all, fuck it. Onward to the city of angels. Pass me the chopstick, CEO. Time to catch a few bodies. Allow me to introduce first – Ty Monday, the Don. I drank a fifth of straight Henny, pissed it out, and I yawned. Fuck the Feds and fuck the five-O, [I] was 45, now you can go and add one mo’. Me? A born leader, never leave the block without my reefa. Two, three shades, my eyes you’re not allowed to meet and greet them. I’m on the la until I’m gone. It’s Crew life running through my pen, so I’m strong. Bye, bye, bye, let’s get high and ride. Oh, how we do these lames? Fuck it, not gon cry. I’m a slave master killer, Jesse Waters die, too. Looking for Tamir’s killer, devil when I find you. Bigot motherfuckers don’t deserve to breathe. How many down to freedom ride with me, yay yayee! Eastside rider, the scope on your mata, should a never fucked with T. I want equality and true serenity. I won’t rest until Albert Bradley’s free. Bomb first. We – bomb first when we ride. Please – reconsider ‘fore you die. We ain’t even come to clip a wing tonight. But it’s my life or your life, and I’m a bomb first. Long live Makaveli the Don. Got nothing to lose. I gots nowhere to go. I only got one home, see me stranded on Death Row. I always thought that was one of the illest lines of my lifetime. E.D.I. Mean’s flow was unorthodox yet perfect. Long live Killa Kadafi and Fatal Hussein. Peace to all the Outlaw Immortalz. That’s word to the OUTLAW tatt on my left forearm. Thanks Todd for randomly checking in and sending an early earth day token of love. It blew holes in my theory – somewhat. I just wish the people I speak to everyday had the vision my pal Todd does. But I’m not complaining anymore. It is what it is. Hand me the world on a silver platter, and what good would it be? With no one to share, with no one who truly cares for me. Some people want it all, but I don’t want nothing at all... If it seems like this blog was all over the place it’s because it was. I wrote this #MNR over the course of three days, with this portion being written last. I know I gave a wonderful narrative about how my Mac saved me from the clutches of despair as if it were some mythical healing agent. Yes, it does work wonders. But even those wonders are fleeting. After sleeping it all off, I woke up Sunday, again immersed in a sunken place. Yadda, yadda, yadda – today, 9.9, was a tough day in the life of Ty. I woke up (late AF) with self-checkout all through my mind. I couldn’t shake it. I’m thankful for Brandi, Ju, Lynn, Joji, Marcus, and Drell for keeping me afloat throughout the day. When I reflect on my mother’s last couple of years on this planet, I’m forced to realize that she inevitably threw in the towel. She had her reasons, and I’m not nor was ever upset. My grief came from a selfish albeit genuine place. I didn’t want to lose the most important person in my life – the very one who gave me life. Watching her suffer for the last couple years of her life was devastating. Prayerfully, she prepared me for the end before I even knew the end was imminent. When I was able to set my grief aside, I admired her for finishing the way she did. She had enough of the bullshit. She shut down. But I know why she shut down. She felt that she’d given her all. She gave her all to the Lord and New Arbor Baptist Church. She gave her all to her husband. She gave her all to her son (I’ll include the plural for Sam Jr. tonight). She gave her all to her family. She gave her all to Halifax County Middle School. She gave her all to anyone she felt deserved her all. And for what? For an adulterous, drug addicted husband? A career underachieving son? Unappreciative (at times) family? A school that forced her into early retirement, leaving her short of Social Security by a full year? She had E-fucking-nough. Mama, I too know how it feels to be vastly underappreciated. That, ultimately, is the reason for my pain. I give my all in everything I do. I give my all for everyone I love. There will never be a moment when I half-ass the effort. And, even as an altruist, it hurts because it makes me wonder if I even fucking matter. There’s no glory in this. Only death. Such a sweet reward. There’s no more pain in death. Alright, Sarge, it’s time for us to keep it moving. We pulled up, said what we had to say, and they paid us for our time. Round up the Lonely Hearts Club Band so we can get ready to hit the road. It’s off to the next stop on our Infinity Tour. It’s a shitty gig, but it’s the only one they left us to play. Good night, folks. We’ll visit your amazing city again next Monday night, Lord willing. Until then, I’ll most likely be thuggin inside a project building, smoking that fire weed with them ghetto children. Plotting on a way that we can make a million. Lawd... (Juvy voice) Happy earth day to me. |
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