#MNR: PICTURE ME ROLLIN’
“Dear mama, can you save me? And fuck peace cuz the streets got our babies.” Tupac Shakur I remember when Bad Boy released Life After Death on 3.25.1997. The marketing slogan was “Think BIG.” I remember New York radio at the time, firmly entrenched in the Tupac Shakur hate/smear campaign, talking all types of shit. One DJ (who shall remain anonymous) even had the temerity to say that disc one of Life After Death was better than the entire All Eyez on Me. Fuck was that stupid nigga talmbout? That was pure bullshit. I’ve been laying on this one for a few years now, but now it’s time to talk MY shit. Get your Ls ready. Pour a glass of that good ‘gac. Mask off. Gloves off. Let’s get straight to it. All Eyez on Me is a better [double] album than Life After Death. Sorry, not sorry. BIG got the deserved hype when LAD dropped. We’d been waiting for a while. All the remixes he jumped on and rocked, all the features he SLAUGHTERED, the Junior M.A.F.I.A. album (which he wrote), and the legendary “Death Row Freestyles” (most of y’all don’t even know about those) only made the anticipation of LAD mythical. I remember the Rap City interview BIG had with Joe Claire out in LA like a week or two before he was assassinated. The BIG fella was happy. He was looking forward to his second release. He had perfected the recipe, and it was time for the world to taste the flavor. And then came 3.9.1997. That man died two weeks and two days before he had the opportunity to unleash LAD to the masses. That was the focus of BIG’s interview. He knew that he’d lost favor with some of his west coast fans. He knew that all his fervent fans were literally fiending for his new material because they knew it would cement his legacy in rap history. He knew every artist, producer, executive, and journalist/critic was on it. The Source had already labeled Francis M.H. White (better known as Frank White, one of BIG’s monikers) the KING OF NEW YORK. It was “put up or shut up” time. But the BIG fella was far from scared. He was prepared. He knew he had amazing shit on deck. It was simply a matter of time. Christopher Wallace didn’t disappoint. LAD was classic and then some, even with the leaked tracks. My favorite track is still “Fuck You Tonight” with the late Robert Kelly. He ain’t dead, but he’s kind of dead to the world. But his music lives on. I still play his shit. IDC, IDC. I’m from that era. If that offends you...fuck off. I pretty much liked every song, commercial tracks included. That was BIG’s superpower. He could jump on any track and turn that MF all the way TF out. It didn’t matter. It could be grimy, boom-bap, party, reggae, pop, whatever. He never failed. I’d be wasting all our time listing every hot track, so I will not. BIG set out on a mission and he accomplished said mission. Unless I’m mistaken, LAD was the first album since the seminal classic Illmatic to have an “all-star” production team. In addition to Puff’s Hitmen, the album featured production from legendary producers like Havoc, Buckwild, DJ Premier, RZA, Kay Gee, Easy Mo Be, Clark Kent, and Chucky Thompson. I rate it a 10/10. It’s a perfect album. But AEOM gets the slight edge. I kinda lied. AEOM, the earlier release, too had an “all-star” production team. Pac had DJ Quik, Johnny J, Dre, Daz, DJ Pooh, DJ Bobcat, and DeVante, among others. If we want to get technical, no one on BIG’s production team can fuck with Dre. And don’t sleep on Quik’s influence on west coast production. But I digress. Whereas BIG meticulously plotted every aspect of the project from production to song structure, we know for a fact that AEOM was a whirlwind. Pure fury. The album took only two months to complete. The first bar on his first single states it perfectly. “Out on bail, fresh outta jail, California dreaming.” Pac came home and hit the block running, literally. He sat still for eight months. That’s a long time to ruminate. It’s also a long time to reflect. He knew that everything from then on was inevitably a race against time. Most people conveniently overlook the “out on bail” part. His case was still open. Pac was facing a few years of incarceration if he lost his sexual assault appeal. Every second was of the essence, and Mr. Shakur didn’t waste any. There is so much to take from AEOM. First, Pac didn’t take a single direct shot at BIG, even though he felt the way he felt since he left Quad Studios on a stretcher, riddled with bullet wounds a year prior. He kept it all the way player. That was a strategy within itself. As we know from the incendiary and scathing “Hit Em Up” released in June 1996 and the release of Makaveli only three months later, revenge had been on his mind and would definitely be discussed in his music. But AEOM wasn’t the place, and out on bail fresh out of jail wasn’t the time. He slow walked that one, and he’s a genius for it. BIG and the Bad Boy camp knew war was coming, but he made them wait for a minute. You don’t believe me? Listen to “No More Pain.” That nigga sent a serious shot at BIG at the end, but it went over a few heads and was more of a hint than a pointed finger. Keep it going, Monday. I got y’all. AEOM is the FIRST double album of original material in rap history. For the record, Stevie Wonder’s “Songs in the Key of Life” (1976) is the first double album of original material in MUSIC history. But back to the raps. Y’all don’t think AEOM directly influenced LAD? It did. Pac influenced BIG from day one. We need one more, Monday. What you got for us? I do. “I Ain’t Mad At Cha.” There isn’t a single song on LAD that has the enduring influence that “I Ain’t...” has. Pastors referenced it in sermons. It made a generation of young, burgeoning music aficionados do their research on Debarge. It made mothers and thugs alike cry. And with this last point is my closing argument. Life After Death will always be amazing. Having said as much, All Eyez on Me gets my slight edge every time. Its replay value is heavier IMO. But the fruit is in the contrast of style in both projects. Like I said, BIG wanted to showcase his craft. His songs were glorious temples of vanity. He brought Bone on the “Notorious Thugs” record to spit their style over their type of beat and tempo and show how superior of a lyricist he was. He accomplished the point. But after his verse we don’t even care to listen to the rest of the song. But back to my point. Everything was set up just right, and he was brilliant for his keen insight and strategy. But music is best conveyed to me through free-spirited expression. I think that’s why I love jazz so much. I read Ahmir Thompson’s liner notes for D’Angelo’s legendary Voodoo album. He said every song began as a jam session. When they got their juices flowing and the vibe was right, D’Angelo went into his zone and he and the Soulquarians began to create from there. There was no blueprint, just free expression. That was the spirit of Pac’s sessions after being released from prison. He got some Hennessy, some weed, some ladies, and called the homies to hit the studio. He listened to the vibe the producer provided and went in. [On seemingly] every other track, the Outlawz, Thug Life, his Death Row comrades, and homies from the Bay jumped on and put in work. And I can’t forget Red and Meth’s contributions. It was probably 75% spontaneity, and it showed in the finished product. It’s as vibrant and raw as it was almost 30 years ago. The energy from AEOM is unparalleled, beginning with track one, disc one. “I won’t deny it, I’m a straight rider. You don’t want to fuck with me.” And then the piano loop and beat drop. It’s over from there. Coincidentally, that’s the first song from the first act from the first step show I ever attended. Fall ’96. The Beta Epsilon (Shareon and Kia) chapter of Delta Sigma Theta was the step team. Believe it or not, that was the first tone-setter of my student life experience. I knew it was a different world. I’ll leave y’all with this. Give “Only God Can Judge Me” a spin for the first time in who knows how long. Listen to every word Tupac says. Every word on that song is pure, genuine, and from the heart of a brilliant yet troubled genius. His second verse gives me a chill every time. He was truly candid about his near-death experience and his subsequent fears. I’m from the “keep it real” era. It gets no realer than what he said in that verse and on that song. Flatline... I hear the doctor standing over me screamin' I can make it. Got a body full of bullet holes layin' here naked. Still I, can't breathe, something's evil in my IV. 'Cause every time I breathe, I think they killin' me. I'm having nightmares, homicidal fantasies. I wake up stranglin', danglin' my bed sheets. I call the nurse 'cause it hurts, to reminisce. How did it come to this? I wish they didn't miss. Somebody help me, tell me where to go from here. 'Cause even thugs cry, but do the Lord care? Try to remember, but it hurts. I'm walkin' through the cemetery talkin' to the dirt. I'd rather die like a man, than live like a coward. There's a ghetto up in Heaven and it's ours, Black Power. Is what we scream as we dream in a paranoid state. And our fate is a lifetime I hate. Dear mama, can you save me? And fuck peace 'Cause the streets got our babies. We gotta eat. No more hesitation, each and every black male's trapped. And they wonder why we suicidal runnin' 'round strapped. Mista, Police, please try to see that it's A million motherfuckers stressin' just like me. Only God can judge me. BIG was the better lyricist. His wordplay was legendary. But Pac’s music touched my soul. Give me All Eyez on Me all day. Y’all be cool how y’all be cool. I know I’m going to get some heat for this one, but I said what I said. It’s all preference. Relax. Y’all know where the fuck to @ us.
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#MNR: TAX TIME FXCKERY “Even if it’s for a while (tonight). Enjoy this good lovin’ with a smile. We’ll go out tonight.” Aaron Hall (Guy) Raise your hand if you waited until today, the last day before penalty, to file your taxes. Oh. I guess I’m the only one. Slacker. Shit. At least I’m filing this year. I said fuck it last year. I never got my return from 2021, so naturally, 2022 was a dub. Fuck you, pay me. You heard? Truth be told, I had originally planned to go Saturday. But then I got to thinking...fuck I look like wasting an hour or two of my hard-earned Saturday sweating in an office to see whether I owe Biden or Murphy or both? Oops, my bad. I may get some paper back – enough to pay down on a credit card or cop a pair of kix on retail. Yay. Then came Sunday. I was all set to go. I had all my documents from 2022 and 2023...all except for one. Damn. I have to get in contact with HR Monday morning. No problem. It just means pressing my way Monday after work. In turn, that means writing the majority (if not all) of #MNR on Sunday afternoon/evening. Chilly cool-cool. Anyway, I got to go handle my handle tomorrow. Wish me luck. And a couple of returns. Please and thank you. Fuckers. UPDATE: I went to H&R Block, y’all. Shit went left. I got into it with the agent nigga. I didn’t like his approach from the jump. I kept my dignity. I asked for clarity on certain things because I’m no Leroy Norman Lark Jr. This curry eating asshole treated me like I came to the back of the house to request his services. All the while, I’m hearing the brother in the adjacent cubicle speaking to a client who was freaking out because she was in the red for over six bands. Ouch. He was talking to her in a manner and tone that would have made Chris Sabian (IYKYK) proud. I’ll be got damned if I let a seasonal Amazon customer service rep talk to me like I get paid in buckets full of oily, greasy pennies. I didn’t wild him all the way up, but I talked my shit in a very controlled manner. I did get Haji’s business card and his manager’s contact info. Yadda, yadda, yadda...I’m fucked. Hello, Turbo Tax. I’m Tyrone... Good evening. Welcome to Monday Night R*w, home to numbers hole frequenters, tax evaders, functioning alcoholics, C-list hood celebrities, and others of questionable repute. I’m your host, the honorable Tyrone Monday. The show’s producer is my brother CEO. We come to you live from the #eastside of Ebony Junction, comfortably posted in the colored section. Tonight’s sponsor is Big Brenda’s House of Ribs, home of the famous Big Brenda’s Rib Sammich. This week’s specials are a 2-for-1 rib platter from Monday – Thursday and two complementary "Saturday Spiked Kool-Aid" drinks with orders of $25 or more (Saturday after 6, 21 and over). Salute to Brenda and the good folk down there at Big Brenda’s. I’ll be through shortly, you heard? KENNY & THE TWO LIGHT-SKINS Before I get into it, I’d like to clearly state who I’m with on this one. I’m riding with the one who gave me “Sing About Me.” I’m riding with the one from the trenches. I’m riding with the one with the Pulitzer. Let me make one thing clear; I am a fan of all three. I have most of their material. All three have extensive accolades. But a few things need to be said about this situation. I’m the one to tell it like it is. And I plan to. Drake has dominated Billboard. I didn’t take the time to look at the numbers because I don’t give a fuck about the numbers. They don’t overwhelmingly impact my view of an artist. There have been plenty of multiplatinum trash artists. But still...I do pay attention to sales. Word salad aside, throw sales out the damn window in this situation, solely because all three men are platinum plus plenty of times over. I want to talk about talent. I want to talk about material. I want to talk about impact. And I plan to. Preference plays a huge role in this debate overall, material included. Which do you value more highly: hits (HITS!) or impactful bodies of work? If it’s hits, Drake is the man. Easily. Like I said, I’m not using data today. I don’t need to. There isn’t an artist on the planet in the past decade-plus who can match Drake with hit for hit. And when I say hits, I mean...ok. you get the point. But I’m going to say (write) it again anyway – HITS! Drizzy wins. Ain’t no bout a doubt it. I respect hits. I’d be some type of idiot if I didn’t. But hits can also be a fickle topic. I’m not talking about Billboard. Those numbers don’t lie. I’m talmbout fickle in the minds of fans, long term perspective. Plenty of songs are the shit in the moment, but when they’re spoken about and/or played years later, they border upon corny or cringe. I’ll spare artists the shame of a call-out. I won’t give any examples. My only justification for the fickle part is that I (personally) feel that way about hit(s). I love damn near [if not] all Drizzy’s hits. But I value overall material more than hits. Where I have Drake running away with the hits part of this discourse, he’s at the back of the line when it comes to impactful bodies of work. I don’t feel that any of his albums are classics. NWTS came closest IMO. Damn near all his efforts have been solid, but most of the recent albums have been obvious in their catering to whatever the new “sound” is. Drake has long had a reputation for swag surfin (I think I used that term correctly). Also, Drake’s albums are more like a collection of singles with breakout hits, lacking the cohesiveness of the traditional definition of an album. There’s not a lot of discernable cohesion in Drake’s recent works. GKMC is an album. 2014 Forest Hills Drive is an album. DAMN. is an album. Born Sinner is an album. To Pimp a Butterfly is an album. Get the point? BTW – all the albums I mentioned are classic albums. Drake fans get livid when the “classic” term is introduced to the discussion. Sorry, y’all. Drizzy’s lone classic is So Far Gone, which is technically a mixtape and not a studio release. I’d love to tap in with my bro Armon Sadler and ask his opinion. He’s a preeminent voice in the culture. Ok. We’ve gotten the hits and bodies of work arguments out of the way. The last category is impact. I would love to try and sell you some horse shit about why either of these three are more impactful than the others. I’d be wasting mine and your time. Let me continue by mentioning that they’re referred to as The Big 3. I cannot and won’t try to quantify who wins gold, silver, or bronze. Instead, I’ll take a different approach. Drake is the king of the charts. He’s an international sex symbol. He’s a titan. Kendrick is the west coast parallel to that tree that grew in Brooklyn. He’s that lone star that shone from the darkness of urban inner-city decay. He’s the Piru who changed my outlook on life with one song. He’s the ultimate example of an entire village raising a child, from his parents to aunties/uncles/grandparents to the ball coaches to the junkies to the dope dealers to the gang bangers. Oh, you didn’t know? No one said the village had to be full of scholars and overachievers. I know this personally. Some of my best advice came from dope fiends and bank robbers. Jermaine is the golden child in the lineage of the Native Tongues and their best artist(s) A Tribe Called Quest (my favorite group and the ones who made me fall in love with hip hop). He was a regular kid with a crooked smile, good grades, and a decent jump shot. He didn’t move work. He didn’t carry Teks. He rhymed. He never promoted anything other than the fact that he was a regular kid from a single-parent household (and his strong desire to cheat on his queen) . That’s why we love him the way we do. He was authentic from day one and remains authentic to this day, just like Kenny. HERE'S MONDAY’S BLUNT TAKE: As much as I fux with Drake, I cannot excuse the fact that he was introduced to us as a wide alien-nosed, funny-looking, square mulatto from that Canadian show about horrible adolescents in a way too liberal public high school. He spoke like a geek and dressed like a nigga straight out of TJ Maxx. He threw in the southern drawl, and we allowed it, because we found out that his uncle is Larry Graham. If you don’t know who Larry Graham is, you don’t know music. But one thing that alien-looking MF could always do is spit. I don’t care if you’re square, as long as you don’t play the studio gangster type. Aubrey didn’t. He played a cool kid who spit heavy on EVERYTHING he touched and set the rap world on fire. But, as he continued to mature in the rap game and culture, he moved toward the tough guy persona in between being a lover and University of Kentucky meat glazer. We laughed it off. Not my nigga Aubrey. Not Wheelchair Jimmy. Oh, Aubrey. But now I’m hearing talk about switches in his bars. For those of you who live in Candyland, he’s not referring to hydraulics in a low-low or that carefully chosen branch(es) (Mary Warren would braid hers from time to time) that your nana used to whoop your monkey ass. Switches are small pieces that can be attached to semi automatic pistols to make them fully automatic. A Glock + a switch + a 50-round drum can turn your block into a horrible Call of Duty match. Why is Aubrey, son to a white Jewish woman who is still alive and well, speaking about switches in his raps? It’s that fame, mane. Y’all let that corny shit slide so long that his square ass is comfortable writing rhymes about firing illegally modified automatic weapons in a serious manner. But hey...art imitates life, right? And there are millions of square niggas who never had a fist fight (and damn sure never fired weapons at opps) yet feel empowered because the square became the coolest MF at the cool table...let y’all tell it. I heard all the disses, and I’m going all the way back to Kendricks’ “Control” a decade ago to “First Person Shooter” by Drizzy and Jermaine to Kendrick’s verse on “Like That” to Jermaine’s “7 Minute Drill” to Drake’s “Drop and Give Me 50.” Each and every last one of those tracks are FIRE!!! I love the spirit of the moment. Ain’t none of these niggas finna do anything. The only one with a past that suggests that he would hop out the minivan with a mini-.223 with the homie 2-2 and two more YGs (IYKYK) has been on a journey to being a better human being since good kid, m.A.A.d city. Should he happen to slide, I know that he's the only one who can rest on a flag without having to pay outsiders for help. For the record, I don’t have a problem with Jermaine apologizing for his verse on “7MD.” His reasoning made perfect sense to me. Protect your peace, Jermaine. But damn, you talked very greasy on that track. I guess you’re a shooter too – if they push you. You’re not on trial, my nigga. I’m not judging you. In fact, I relate to you more than the other two, all the way down to the apology. Like I said, protect your peace, my nigga. I’m still riding with you. Matter of fact, I’m still riding with all three. Why would I forsake either of these brilliant MCs? Keep making amazing music, men. As long as you do, I’m going to keep listening. Y’all know where the fuck to @ us. #MNR: SPECIAL DELIVERY
“You want a jewel? Don’t be cruel. It’s authentic. Don’t be fooled by these phony accusations, backlash, and slander. Front, in their publicity stunts and propaganda.” G. Dep The Deputy is home y’all. After thirteen years in state corrections for a cold case murder he committed in 1993 and confessed to 2010, former Bad Boy recording artist and Eastside Harlem native G. Dep is a free man. For a few years now, I’ve been fervent in my support of the state of New York releasing Dep. He did his time. Rest in peace to the man (John Henkel) whose life he took long ago, but I didn’t know that nigga. I know Dep. Welcome home. Caitlin Clark had a historic 2023-2024 basketball season and NCAA career. She led the nation in scoring AND assists (31.7 & 9). She obliterated the NCAA all-time scoring record (3,921). She is certain to be the top pick at 4.15 at the 2024 WNBA Draft. She brought her Iowa Lady Hawkeyes to the brink of immortality. But she fell just short. The South Carolina Lady Gamecocks defeated Iowa 87-75 for their third title in seven years. SC withstood an early 10-0 Iowa run and 18 first quarter points from Super Caitlin. A coaching adjustment on Caitlin and heavy board work were the difference for Carolina. Senior center Kamila Cardoso led the way with 15 points, 17 rebounds, and three blocks. Raven Johnson, the “coaching adjustment,” sacrificed her offensive game to hold Super Caitlin to just 12 points after the first quarter. Freshman sensation Tessa Johnson led the Lady Gamecocks in scoring with 19 points. Nine ladies played 14 or more minutes in a team effort that was indicative of their surprising undefeated season. After all, this was supposed to be a rebuilding season. Coach Staley lost five starters to the WNBA. 38 up, 38 down. Congratulations, ladies. Big ups to 215 legend Dawn Staley on her third national title, putting her in rarified air. Dawn joins Geno, Mrs. Pat (RIP my love), Bigot Kim Mulkey, and Tara VanDerveer as the only coaches with three or more championships. She just pulled even with Tara. She’s one behind Bigot Kim. She’s got a way to go before reaching Mrs. Pat and Geno. My lady won eight of those things. Geno has 11 [and counting]. But hey...this thing Dawn has created is far from over. This was the Gamecocks’ fourth consecutive Final Four appearance. Dawn has won the Naismith Coach of the Year award three years in a row. She has seven ladies returning and a top-rated recruiting class on the way. Freshman phenomenon Juju Watkins and her Lady Trojans of Southern California have the number one recruiting class of 2024. 2024-2025 is going to be as exciting as its predecessor. I can’t wait. Girls rule. I love you, Dawn. #BlackExcellence #BlackGirlMagic The men’s championship will be decided tonight as the defending champion UConn Huskies take on Naismith Player of the Year Zach Edey and the Purdue Boilermakers. This blog will be live in these streets by the time the national championship is decided. I have two predictions. The first was made in October, when I proclaimed that Coach Dan Hurley would repeat and win his second NCAA title. The other prediction is that UConn big man Donovan Clingan is going to have his way with Edey. This past weekend, WrestleMania XL was a nightmare – an American nightmare. But we’ll get to that. WrestleMania XL (40) was a two-night extravaganza, held on 4.6-4.7 at Philadelphia’s Lincoln Financial Field, the home of my beloved Eagles. More than 150K fans attended this year’s event, with crowds of over 72K both nights. Wrestlers braved the elements to provide ardent fans with non-stop action both nights. Night one highlights included Rhea Ripley retaining her world title, defeating Becky Lynch. Sami Zayn finally had his night of serendipity, defeating the seemingly invincible Gunther for his Intercontinental Title, a strap he held for 666 days (a WWE record). In an exciting Six-man Undisputed WWE Tag Team Ladder Match for the Undisputed Tag Team championship (2 sets of belts), A-Town Down Under won the SmackDown titles and Awesome Truth snatched the Raw titles. Big ups to R-Truth. He finally had his signature WM moment. My future wife Jade Cargill made her WM debut in a Six-Woman Tag Match beside Bianca Belair and Naomi. They defeated Damage CTRL. In the Saturday night main event (pun intended, IYKYK) The Bloodline tag duo of Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson and tribal leader Roman Reigns teamed up against Cody Rhodes and Seth “Freakin” Rollins. Yadda, yadda, yadda...The Rock pinned Cody Rhodes, meaning Sunday night’s match with him versus Reigns for the Universal Title would be fought under Bloodline rules, basically meaning Reigns and company could do whatever the fuck they wanted to do. Oh, what a night. For me, night two came after having already watched the Yankees beat the Blue Jays and South Carolina defeat Iowa earlier that afternoon. That came a day after watching night one of WM as well as the Yankees beat Toronto in primetime and both men’s national semifinals. I’d seen plenty of sport by the opening match Sunday evening. I was ready for the main event around 2:30 (hours before the first match of the night). But just for the record, Seth Rollins, fatigued from his tag match the night before, dropped his World Heavyweight Championship belt to Drew McIntyre, who then dropped the belt to Damian Priest. Priest cashed in his Money in the Bank briefcase with the golden ticket to a title match at any time, immechiately. Ha Ha (Nelson from The Simpsons voice). Social media whore Logan Paul retained his U.S. Championship, defeating RKO and Kevin Owens in a Triple Threat match. My vanilla boo Bayley won the WWE Women’s Championship, defeating IYO SKY in a good and well-paced match. Night two was crazy. I loved every minute. But there was one match left to be fought. Cody Rhodes finally defeated WWE Universal Heavyweight champion Roman Reigns to claim the belt for the first time in his career. This has been his mission since his return to the WWE a couple of years ago. He is the winner of the last two Royal Rumbles and fell just short of beating Reigns to claim the strap in WM39. Reigns held the belt for over three years. Whoa, oh! The match was well paced and entertaining from front to back. Errbody and they mama made an appearance (Bloodline rules, remember), from both Uso brothers to one of the Bloodline cousins (I don’t know that nigga’s name) to John Cena to Seth Rollins (in his Shield garb) to The End Boss (The Rock) to the Dead Man (yes, the Undertaker). Taker’s chokeslam on Dwayne Johnson helped to clear the way for three consecutive Cross Rhodes, followed by 1-2-3. It was time for a change. A change has come. Congratulations, Cody. You finished the story. I’m back to business next week. Trust. This one was for the little girl and little boy in us all. Long live sport. Y’all know where the fuck to @ us. P.S. I see you Coach Cal. Arkansas? I'm with it. The swoosh remains. #MNR: POWER
“Bitch I dig it. I eat ice cream with my chicken.” Young Thug First you get that money then you get that power... What, exactly, is power? Well, dictionary.com defines it as “ability to do or act; capability of doing or accomplishing something.” I always try to speak on the positive aspect(s) of ambiguity first, as I consider myself an eternal optimist. Yes, I’m a glass half-full type of guy. I thank the Lord for deliverance from perpetual negativity. I do enjoy negativity from time-to-time (shouts to my ace). Get to the point, Monday. My bad, pardon self. Power, when used in positive and even altruistic methods is amazing. Examples, please. Cool. Got you. I’m rolling with John Calipari. Yes, Coach Cal. Cal has the reputation and juice to recruit 5-star ball players in his sleep. And he does. In his 14-year residency at the University of Kentucky, Coach Cal has one championship (2012). He has had 47 players drafted to the NBA. Of those 47, 35 were first round selections. Calipari is the innovator of the “one and done” athlete, meaning his best players usually only attend for their freshman season before departing for the draft. Anthony Davis, Devon Booker, and De’Aaron Fox are three players on his long list of one-and-done ballers. All three are all-stars. But what makes Cal a beacon of positive power? Well, the trend in college has reversed course. The best teams now actively recruit talent like they did before the late ‘90s, meaning they direct much of their efforts towards recruits who plan to stay a while. They don’t pursue guys who are only attending university because of NBA Draft rules like they routinely did 25 years ago. Cal still vigorously recruits the one-and-done athlete. Why? Because he makes it crystal clear that his primary intention is getting these boys directly to the money. Sure, Cal could go all-out and recruit players to strategically put teams together better suited to win more titles. He can recruit three and four-year lettermen who are these days vital to a championship run. But his biggest reward happens every June, when he’s seated with his boys and their families as their names are announced by NBA Commissioner Adam Silver on draft night. He recruits, cultivates, and develops his guys specifically for that purpose. His mentality is forthright -- if I win it all again cool, but my focus is getting these young men prepared to attain and secure generational wealth. So, in essence, John Calipari has willingly forsaken personal glory for the benefit of others. Good power. But why Calipari, specifically, Ty? Why was he your example? Well, I chose Cal specifically because Kentucky just lost in the first round of the tournament. Again. He lost with an array of blue-chip freshmen on the roster, many in key roles. He hasn’t had a deep tournament run in a good while. The critics were on deck to call for his head on a stick wherever the town square in Lexington is located. But UK already announced Coach Cal would return for season 15. Apparently, the athletic department and boosters are good with Cal. The cycle shall continue. Rob Dillingham and Ross Sheppard are projected first-round picks in the draft this June. Coach will undoubtedly be there with those young men and their families. His game just rewinds. And now for the other side of the coin... Sean Combs is an evil man in the eyes of many. Shit, that’s an understatement. We’re going to get to the latest talk. For now, let’s talk about what we knew prior to the latest developments, while remaining on course with the thesis of power. Diddy is a man who has wielded power for evil for a very long time. My first and ultimate bone to pick came on 3.9.1997, the night Christopher Wallace was assassinated in Los Angeles. Fuck that party, fuck that pussy ass award show, and fuck him being in LA at all. We just lost Pac a half year before. Tension was still EXTREMELY high on that side of things. Back then (I don’t watch award shows anymore so I don’t know about now), it was a regular occurrence to watch an award show and see an artist win an award but not be present to receive the award. There would usually be a bit of recorded film with them in a studio accepting the award while explaining that they were unable to attend because they were finishing up an album or watering their mother’s flowers in the projects– something. The point is that they accepted the award without being present. INSTANT UPDATE: Wow. Biggie wasn’t even at the show to accept an award. He was there to present for the Best R&B Single. At the damn Soul Train Awards (respectfully). Not the Grammys. The MF Soul Train Awards (respectfully). I have learned in the years since that BIG didn’t want to be out there. Puff insisted. Former bodyguard turned tell-all artist Gene Deal said that he tried to do everything he could to keep BIG from attending that after-party. He could not. Puff would have it no other way. Power. I just saw a quote from Ms. Voletta Wallace that went something to the effect of “I think Sean loved my son after he died.” I don’t think you need me to Google Translate that for you, but I will. BIG didn’t become the ultimate asset to Puff until after he perished. The BIG fella was about to finish his deal with Bad Boy and go his own way. He didn’t need Sean. But Sean needed him. He needed all those BIG features on No Way Out and the “Missing You” single to boost record sales AND propel HIMSELF into rap superstardom. Every damn record that we love on that album featured Biggie. Mr. Wallace was the King of New York. He was the heart and soul of Bad Boy Records. Oh yeah, speaking of BBR... RIP Black Rob and Craig Mack. Puff did both of those men slimy. Let’s keep it going. 112. Total. Faith. We can stop there. That’s more than enough artists to comprise a lengthy list of disgruntled employees. Unfortunately, Rob and Mack aren’t alive to voice their angst anymore. But every story is symmetrical. Puff did them dirty. I left G. Dep (MY nigga) off the list because he’s [self] admittedly the cause of his demise. FREE MY NIGGA DEP. IT’S BEEN LONG ENOUGH. I saved the good brother Murda Mase for last. Mase has kept the same energy for a long time now. His issues with his former boss have been well chronicled. Mase kept his story consistent – Sean Combs is a crook and ain’t ‘bout shit. In the words of Brother Malcolm, the chickens have come home to roost. Puff had the hottest label in the game. He had artists shipping platinum on rumor alone. He could have done right by them AND still been as rich as ever. Say what you say about Russell Simmons, but I’ve NEVER heard any story about a Def Jam artist getting jerked in 30 years. You robbed MF for their publishing. You deprived them of the right to eat in perpetuity. You’re a mean one, Mr. Combs. Terrible (Charles Wade Barkley voice). You had all the power. You had the power to do right by your people. You failed them. The cause? Insane levels of avarice (go look that one up). Now for the salacious parts... Damn, Puff. You’re duking Meek Mill in his booty hole? I mean, I don’t want to believe it. But damn, Meek. You let a grown man take you shopping. And y’all dressed alike out in public on several occasions. I’m not saying you’re definitely gay, but you’re definitely gay friendly. Puff, you had Stevie J. fuck a male prostitute in the asshole on camera. You used the footage to convince another impressionable young producer that it was ok to get fucked in his ass. You played with Usher and Biebs when they were little boys. ALLEGEDLY. I learned long ago that rape is not about the actual sexual act. It’s all about wielding power and fear. Fucking an otherwise heterosexual male to buck break him is levels beyond wicked. This MF waved the figurative carrot of more fame over their heads like they were work mules. I too blame those grown men for submitting to that sick fuck for promise of more. Power. This shit is crazy. But then again, is it? This isn’t the first time we’ve heard allegations of this sort of thing. It’s just crazy that we’re talking about Sean Combs. We’ve long known that he’s one of the many devils in the multiverse. It’s also crazy that we’re talking about Meek Mill. Not hungry lil Meek with the dusty ass braids. Not the dream chaser. Not the creator of arguably the greatest album intro ever “Dreams & Nightmares.” Not the first rap nigga to date the Barbz. I can’t believe that you walked through those doors. Not you. I don’t have a problem with you being a Chuck. That’s your business. I do have a problem with you being a liar and a fanboy. You let power turn you into a tool. Hold up, wait a minute. Y’all thought I was finished? I’ve also heard rumblings about my baby Mary J. being an integral part of the sex trafficking allegations. Say it ain’t so, Mary? Not you? But damn. Jaguar Wright’s crazy ass has got me thinking on a few things. Look at all those pics of Puff, Cassie, and Mary J. Puff is holding both of their hands like they’re some type of freaky Jack, Chrissy, and Janet. When Cassie broke from the cult and her oppressor, she was switched out for Yung Miami. Again, there are numerous pics of Puff, Mary, and Miami on the same type of time. The rumblings are that Mary is in some type of madame role. Jaguar made another good point. Faith was the one with the vocal talent. We love Mary, but no one ever mistook her for being a voice. When Whitney (the voice) recruited two young thoroughbreds for “Heartbreak Hotel,” she went and got Faith and Kelly Price. She didn’t get Mary. Mary is my 1A to Faith. But respectfully, I haven’t cared about a complete Mary album since Mary. That was 1999. The album after with “Family Affair” was cool, but not on par with her first four albums. So how did Mary keep her profile so high for so long? Because Puff made her. He gave her the image. He gave her the sound. He gave her her entire career. She’s stayed in the spotlight the last decade or so because she’s regularly by his side. That’s why crazy ass Jaguar said that Mary hated Faith so much. Faith had the vocal talent she lacked. She envied and hated Faith for it. She had to do whatever Puff told her to do to remain afloat. All Faith had to do was go into the booth, put the headphones on, and get busy. Jaguar said that Mary used her bit of power within Bad Boy to oppress Faith. It’s crazy because Mary was never signed to Bad Boy. Puff developed her and created her image, but Mary was Andre Harrell’s signee at Uptown/MCA. Puff was just the help back then. Faith has said that they don’t rock with one another. This shit is deep. What’s the motif? Power. ALLEGEDLY. ALL THIS SHIT IS ALLEGEDLY. I don’t give a fuck about Puff. But do remember this: he hasn’t been arrested – yet. If he doesn’t end up dead, I’m 99.9% sure he’s going to dish all types of dirt on all types of entertainers, athletes, and even preachers (forgive me Lord). Gene Deal already said Puff was a long-time confidential informant. He’s been on point with the dirt thus far. I’m not betting against him. It’s going to get dark. Power corrupts. Take that, take that. FREE THE SLIME YOUNG THUG Y’all know where the fuck to @ us. #MNR: CHELSEA’S MOST HATED
“If you want to be my family, we’ve got to start all over, be friends.” Charlie Wilson “I’ll be patient with you, no more fighting.” Tems “Last night was poppin’ like cop Glocks with hollow tip rounds.” Fatal Hussein (RIP) That’s word to the OUTLAW tat on my left forearm. RIP to Makaveli & Kadafi too. Outlaw Immortalz. I know I’m that motherfucking nigga. I don’t need anyone to affirm that. I’m a handsome, fat, fly nigga with charm, sagacity, and immense intelligence. I talk my shit. I’m battle tested. I’m tried and true. I’m sincere. I’m a good lover. I pay my tax. It comes as no surprise that niggas stay on my dick. Much love to the LGBTQ+ community. This messaging is not for y’all and is in no way intended to disrespect or belittle. This is for allegedly heterosexual MF who nut hug extraordinary gentlemen such as myself. I’m not gay, hoe ass niggas. I knew I loved pussy since my mom caught my best [girl] friend and I butt ass naked in my bed one Saturday morning. Bestie and I were both six years old. I didn’t know what to do, but I knew that we were supposed to be butt ass naked. What can I say? It was an Olympic year. Ever since that day, roll Tide. Having said as much, it came as no surprise that I was told the other day that a MF I know was texting with a lady I know. There’s nothing wrong, right? Wrong. This hating ass nigga threw reference to your boy in his texts, trying to throw salt on my name to boost his profile in hopes of some of that sweet potato pie. You, sir, are a bitch ass nigga. First off, you should know better than to think that she wasn’t going to hit my line and let me know all about your bitchassness. I got that word earlier than the news when they announce snow day school closings. LMMFAO. Typical. Y’all know the routine. A lame, unconfident nigga tries to tarnish your good and solid name in hopes of getting the pussy. SMMFH. This is a MF who I speak to and shake hands with. You hating ass nigga. The nerve of you. I should smack your brim off your MF head. You dumb ass nigga. Don’t you remember you slipping and telling me some of your personal business? I should let the females know how you like to play in your spare time. I’m not, though. I’m not a bitch ass nigga. I’m just going to carry the fuck up out you. In your face. In front of others. You’re just a hoe ass nigga. You’re not worth any trouble. Better luck next time, fuck face. Eat a dick. I still might spit in your face. I know ole boy isn’t the only hater. I’m flattered. We call this blog Monday Night R*w because it’s just that – raw as fuck. We discuss all types of fuckery every Monday night. But this blog is me on 35%. I’m way wilder than this. There were way too many days in this life that I didn’t give a single fuck. Plenty nights, too. Only a few MF know Mr. Monday frfr. If I blogged on some of my escapades y’all would talk about me in the church house. Bad. A few of y’all would hate me. C’est la vie. I wouldn’t blame you, either. You can call me Despicable T. Just don’t call me collect or a liar. But I’m a leave my most vile thoughts in the vault. CEO and I need a Patreon for the true raw shit, LMAO. I can hear my Auntie now. You know I subscribed to your channel. Nigga, you ain’t got no damn sense. Not one bit. Auntie ain’t lying. Neither am I. I’m so sincere. The city is starting to crack down on the dirty weed shops. They recently closed a shop I went to on 38th and Eighth Ave from time to time. They put a sticker on the gate explaining that they busted a dirty shop. My favorite shop had to close for a few days the week before last because their sister shop down in the financial district was raided. Those rich white folk asked questions. I’m guessing they didn’t hear what they wanted to hear so they called the man. Ole boy in my shop was so shook (and rightfully so) that he was sending lil mama down to the shop to reopen because he felt the community would be more friendly and receptive to her face opening that lock for the first time since the raid. The writing is on the wall. It’s only a matter of time before the city runs down on every dirty shop, Manhattan to Brooklyn. Yet, somehow, I know in my heart that my city will always find a way to stay dirty. When one shop closes, another will open. This shit is like bootlegging battle rap events. Them folk will never be able to fully stop the rain from falling. We shall see. I’m good regardless. I know way too many plugs. I get amazing prices. That’s nothing new. I used to move...never mind. Long live the hustle. Don’t make me go, no. I just want to hold you. I need no control, no. Would you let me love you, me love you? It’s all over. I lost my composure. I got love to show you. Would you let me love you, me love you, baby? I love Tems. I love this song. I forgot about how much I played this song a couple of years ago. I just want the DJ to play it back like three times while I dance with a beautiful lady. Then do it again just before the final song. As CEO and I take our curtain call bows for this week, we want to shout out the Eastside of Harlem and the Fourth Ward of #07631. Big ups to the entire #100Blocks and #200Blocks. That’s Uptown Harlem and the entire #BXNYC for those who don’t know. Big ups to every borough. Peace to the entire Benjamin (Bergen) County and New Jerusalem as a whole. Peace to my folk in money earnin’ Mt. Vernon. I can’t forget Y-O and Strong Island. Big ups to VA, Murrland, the Carolinas, Georgia, PA, Delaware, Louisiana, Missouri, the great state of Texas, and Cali. Big ups to every African nation. Roll one more up. Leave the blunts and Grabba alone. Not yet, tRump. I’m going to let this pot simmer a bit longer. The seasoning is just blending in the way I like. But this summer is your Waterloo, Cheesy. I’m here to usher you to political perdition. Not for nothing, but "Scared Money" by Stalley and Kevin Durant (yes, KD35) is my favorite shit from anyone other than Sule' and The Hoodies. Listen to that shit immechiately if you haven't heard it yet. FELIZ CUMPLEAÑOS, TONANTZIN. Y'all know where the fuck to @ us. #MNR: EASTSIDE
“I pumped a 100 pack instead of running for ice cream.” G-Dep (free my nigga, it’s time) “I be the P.D. world tourer, Harlem horror. Catch me in the Lex 470 or the Explorer.” Black Rob (long live Jeff’s greatest) “Empty rumors, ignorant listeners. Petty motherfuckers stuck in hate mode. It’s like I’m Flair with the glittered robe. They want to be me or near me.” Ty Thompson 115 I’m a second half Jefferson Houses, #210, 15th & 3rd Avenue veteran. I’m a Crown’s Fried, La Nueva Caridad, Cuchifritos, Milano’s and Sam’s Famous pizzerias aficionado. Can’t forget Rao’s. I’m a 12th & 2nd with the faded detergent boxes in the window beside the Ak deli, 19th between 3rd & 2nd haze building by Taino, 17th between 3rd & 2nd Steve (RIP), Cutty & Malik cheeba spot endorser. Big ups to my girl Neff (Mendeecees’ sister) and the homie EW. They had shit jumping too. So did the Ari spot on 19th my nigga P.R. put me on to. I’m an Uptown Jiggy/Pegasus & Pelle Pelle spots on 109 & 3rd, VIM on 2-2 & 3rd, and the old mom and pop Pepe spot on 3rd by McDonalds ‘fit copper. I like my steak & cheese and chopped cheese from the same Ak deli on the corner of 12th & 2nd by the old limousine bag reefa spot. I like my baconeggandcheese from the bodega on the corner of 15th & Lex. I was in the Body Shop at 16 in ’95 – G-strings, no pasties on the dancers. Long live P.R. Long live Black Rob. Long live Papote. Long live Desmond. Long live Rosa’s BF Andre. Long live Charles “Chub” Chisolm. Long live Saroya Johnson. Long live Betty Bradley. Some of those spots and people have been gone for two decades and better. But they will always live on in my spirit. It’s a Spanish Harlem thing. Free Albert Bradley. Free G-Dep. #EASTSIDE RANDOM: Please forgive me for all the times I didn’t put my ice sweaty Solo cup on a coaster and left a perpetual ring on your table. I ask that the same grace be extended for all the times I missed the ashtray on the aforementioned table and it and the carpet paid the price. My bad (PB Williams voice). All jokes aside, I spent my daily five minutes on Twitter scrolling as per usual. I don’t remember which day it was. I was high. I saw a tweet showing a Black family sitting on a WalMart floor eating ice cream and chips. I counted four or five chillun, a mother, and a father. The father did the talking, all while eating chips from a bag AND off the floor. In his defense, the dip he had clearly cleansed the chips on the floor of any type of germ or bacteria. And if it weren’t troubling enough that these cotton-picking mongrels (the parents, not the babies) were sitting with their babies on the floor of a supercenter stealing on camera with absolutely no shame, the father explained that this was his go-to when his babies were crying and there was no food to eat. This [CENSORED, with the hard -er] didn’t go to the produce aisle or even steal some deli meat, cheese, and bread for sammiches...you know...something resembling sustenance. Instead, he took his babies AND wife to the junk food aisle to feast. Of course, the whites killed us-skinned folk in the mentions. I don’t even have a rebuttal. Fuck you bigoted, punk bitches is all I have. Why? Because the racists are just doing what the racists do. I expect it from them. But this buck row ass nigga. This bloody idiot. This shine was as ignorant as could be in his indignant diatribe. I guess the coon figured that working to support his family wasn’t a viable option. I do agree with the whites in one regard: this family almost certainly (definitely) receives TANF, SNAP, WIC, Medicaid and everything the government has to offer. There clearly has been a gross mismanagement of allocated funding. But this monkey had to take the fuckery a step further and decided to be an attention-seeking, thirsty ass troglodyte. The nigga felt compelled to shoot the criminal AND pathetic act in 4K. That was historic horse shit. I want to push that nigga out of a moving trolley. I don’t want to kill him. I just want to...if it weren’t for those kids...they need that simple ass MF. Serenity now... Want you to make me feel, like I’m the only girl in the world. Like I’m the only one that you’ll ever love. Like I’m the only one who knows your heart. Only girl in the world. @rihanna This portion of #MNR is dedicated to the goddess Rihanna. I love you Rih-Rih. Your absence from music has shown me one thing: no one currently outside can fuck with you. Yeah. I said it. I love you Queen Bey. But pound for pound, you’re not fucking with Rih-Rih. I have no reservations admitting that Rih-Rih’s songs resonate with my core better than Bey’s. And my baby is the queen of anthems. She can make an anthem in her sleep on an off day. My favorite Rihanna song is “You da One.” I heard it for the first time at an Englewood Raiders cheerleaders’ presentation a decade or so ago. The entire gymnasium went crazy, females (pardon the term but it’s most befitting) from the ages of 8 – 50+. It hit different. All I could do was literally sit back and absorb/enjoy all the exuberance before me. There have only been a few times in my life that I’ve been in a setting amongst scores/hundreds/thousands of people and the entire house exploded when a song came on. This was one of those times. My brain was immediately blown to bits. It was an entire moment in Black history. Baby girl had a decade run comparable to John Wooden with Alcindor & Company and later Walton & Company on the back end. “Sex With Me.” “Work.” “Pour It Up.” “Cockiness (Love It).” The aforementioned “Only Girl (In The World).” There are so many more. I love you @rihanna. It's not that I don’t love Beyonce. It’s just that I love Rihanna more. The city’s been kind of crazy the past week or so. A jealous boyfriend pushed his lady into the tracks in front of an oncoming train. She lost the better parts of her lower legs. Her feet, of course, are no more. This punk ass MF just finished doing a bid for stabbing his ex-girlfriend AND her seed TF up. Marinate on that for a taste. Some bozo got clapped with his own strap on the A train, after he pulled the strap out to fire at the nigga he had drama with. The pigs didn’t even charge old boy who clapped Bozo the Monkey (and they shouldn’t have). We actually witnessed a rare case of New York City self-defense. It’s probably the toughest city in America to successfully beat a case of self-defense. Ask Kay Flock. Ok. Bad example. But only because this is a blue state. Flock wouldn’t have been charged in a deep red state. But back to Bozo the Fuckboy. The footage is 101 bananas. I never want to hear innocent humans scream in the tones I heard. I heard pure and utter fear coming from those straphangers who were desperately pleading with the train conductor to open the doors. Another ass wipe and his folk stabbed a set of twins – one fatally – because they wouldn’t follow them on TikTok. Let me repeat that for those of y’all (like CEO) coasting through this blog and may have missed it. One girl is dead, and her twin is in the hospital because they were butchered for not following two lame MF on the socials. What in the entire fuck? There are more tales of true fuckery to report, but I think those three are enough for today. Welcome to New York, the illest of all places. I walk the streets with absolute impunity and nary a shred of fear. I’m not waiting to see where you’re trying to take it. I’m fucking you all the way up before you get the drop on me. Thee end. It's spring again y’all. Let’s all celebrate and sniff an eighth. I’m just kidding. I don’t want the lethal dosage of fentanyl the punk ass nigga who laced my yay with to silence my heart like a nigga in Twitter spaces when his mic is muted. Let’s celebrate and smoke an eighth. There. That’s better (I guess). Sighs. My dad, uncles, and big cousins had all the fun. I’m just playing, y’all. Don’t set up any damn interventions or sum’n. Lmao. I’m just having a good time amongst myself. I was actually in a good mood when I wrote this blog. I love that for me. Until next time, y’all. Go out and dominate all four quarters. Survive and advance to the weekend. Y’all know where the fuck to @ us. #MNR: 4TH WARD TO FALLUJAH
“Used to ride around in a Crown Vic getting baggies off. Less than twelve months went from Crown’s Chicken to caviar.” Sule’, #07631 GOAT “I just suplexed your bitch like a wrestler. Dog, let it all fly, even the extras.” E-Class of The Hoodies “But still skeptic on who I cling to, cuz every single nigga that swing through ain’t my man just cuz we mingle, too much snake shit.” AZ It’s a beautiful thing when a dream is manifested. I am blessed to have met Sule’ when he was a seventh-grade student at JDMS in Englewood, NJ. I soon learned that he was easily the sharpest blade of all aspiring MCs his age. He always had a great demeanor. He was always willing to listen and to learn. I told him to listen to the greats of my era like Nas and Buckshot. He listened. Yadda, yadda, yadda...he released his first “major” album on Benny the Butcher’s Black Soprano Family label, titled Written On Wides Corner. Released on 2.27.2024, the album is nine tracks in length and features Benny, Inspectah Deck, Fuego Base, Sy Ari Da Kid and The Hoodies. If you know Sule’, you know that he is and has always been super lyrical, and the flow is remarkable. He’s only gotten better with time, from the 4th Ward of Englewood to YF to Eviction Notice to Written On Wides Corner. Every track gets busy, but my clear favorite is “Crown Vic” featuring the duo The Hoodies. Su, E-Class and Young Poppa spit fireworks from front to back. Su set it off in his customary A++ lyrical form, matched by few of his ilk. The Hoodies take over after the hook and proceed to shut it down. I didn’t even know who these guys were before this song. I do now, MF. They remind me of Styles P. and Jadakiss. They sound completely unique, but the way they weave and intertwine their lyrics remind me of 2/3 of the legendary Yonkers trio. Tek and Steele of Smif -N-Wessun also come to mind. The track is 101 bananas. I can spin that shit back like two, tree, six times. Other standout tracks include “Courtesy Inn,” “Made For It” featuring The Butcher of Buffalo, “Wu-Sopranos” featuring Deck and Fuego Base and “Jodie,” a storytelling masterpiece reminiscent of "Julio” off his Eviction Notice EP. I am sincerely happy for my brother Sule’. He had a dream, he worked his ass off, he manifested it. I always saw this day coming because I knew he had everything necessary to be great: the ability, the expertise and the work ethic. He had two of the three when I met him back when. The expertise came with time. I am also happy for Englewood, NJ. Another one of its native sons/daughters has made it big. He’s an inspiration to every kid from this era, too young to remember Bill Willoughby, Bruce Harper, Regina and Bernard Belle and Big Bubba Drakeford and Today. Su joins NFL wide receiver Juwann Winfree (Colts) as role models for this current generation of Englewood’s babies. Keep winning Su. You earned every accolade and penny. Rest in peace to Arthur Lee “AJ” Scott Jr, Tisha Pannell, Acie Francis, Nick Breedlove, Duron Moorefield and Michael Vanney, all members of the Halifax County High School class of 1996, and all gone far too soon. HCHS c/o ’96 seniors voted the Fugees “Killing Me Softly” the song of the year for superlatives. I partied throughout my senior year, from Homecoming to house parties to white boy bonfire parties to prom after party to graduation night. We used to go crazy when Lauryn bellowed the bridge. It was and remains my favorite part of the song. I lost my classmates in diverse ways: auto accidents, heart attack, traumatic head injury, and suicide. Some of my friends have been gone for decades while some passed recently. It hurts when I think about them not getting the opportunity to see how wonderful midlife is; my 40s have been amazing. I miss them. But whenever Wyclef says, “a yo L, take ‘em to the bridge,” my classmates live on for those following 15 or 20 seconds. Long live all my fallen folk. I love y’all. Y’all were on my mind. I rarely get the time to think about you all individually after thinking about you all collectively, but I did today. I am honored to have known you all, even if for the seemingly most insignificant things. Breedlove put us on to No Legs, the plug with the best satin in Halifax County. And yes, the nigga had no legs. Breedlove was a cool ass nigga, an old soul. Acie Francis was the prettiest white boy in the school. You know you’re pretty when the Black girls admittedly want to give you pussy. He was cool as a fan; I never saw any type of hubris in him. All I saw was humility and that $1M smile. He’d speak to the most unsightly girl with the same respect he would the prettiest. Tisha was a classmate in high school and university. I had supreme respect for Tisha on the court and off. Duron was a teammate and my nigga; we never had any type of quarrel. Mike was a rival and a teammate. I always thought the world of Mike. I know I’m not the only one. I wish he knew this in his heart before he took his life. AJ was my nigga. I kicked it in A’s mama’s crib. I smoked too many blunts with A. I competed with A. I admired A. A loved me. I loved my nigga A. ’96 and forever... tRump, you’re on the clock. I’m finna start flame broiling your pathetic excuse for a human being ass in short time. And I’m not going to let up. I want my blue face, Tina Rose. This clown is cooked food in November. Y’all know where the fuck to @ us. #MNR: IT’S ONLY A TEST
“I’m from the ghetto, so yo, this is how I shed my tears.” Mr. Cheeks Life is good. Even if I perish tonight, life is good. I’ve spent far too many days feeling down. I could explain further, but it is of no importance to do so. Pick a reason to be down – I’ve probably been there. I’ve taken every blow life has dealt. Yet, I’m still standing. A wise woman once reminded me of this long ago, when I was extremely low on self-esteem and self-worth. I didn’t have an epiphany (no need to fake). But I did take heed and store it in my mental treasure chest. It has been the best piece of wisdom I’ve ever received, and I’ve received plenty of prudent wisdom. But this time – this time, I got out of my own way and let God. I don’t know who is going to be blessed by this, but to God be the glory. I don’t want to transition directly into f*ckery, so...how about the nice weather we’ve had the past couple of days? Ok. I’m good. How the fuck are y’all doing? I hope everyone is good. If you aren’t, hold it together and see me after class. I got y’all. Now, for those of us feeling like 3.5M in blue faces, grab a seat and pull up to the roundtable. You are free to pour of the libations and are encouraged to roll up. I’m higher than Keith Hernandez during and after a 1981 road trip to New York, just not off the yay. That was that good shit too, 100% fentanyl-free and straight from Pablo Escobar & Associates. Damn...a one-on-one off a glass table from the ‘80s does sound... Chill, nigga. You wildin’. My bad y’all. I was having too much fun. I’m just playing. I’m just serious. But back to the fuckery. Good evening, and welcome to Monday Night R*w, frequented by stoners and bail-jumpers alike. I’m your friendly host, Mr. Ty Nitty Monday. Y’all could be reading any of the 4.74B blogs on Phil Knight’s internet, but you’re here with us. Please tip your hats to CEO as he passes infused snacks and bourbon shots to all. He’s a benevolent and gregarious individual. And he’s a fucking pro with the THC oil. Get at us if you are in need of his services. Supreme love and respect to all the ardent readers of this blog. We do this for y’all. Big ups to any new readers. We appreciate your patronage. Tell a friend, you heard? I even have a message for anyone who doesn’t particularly like us. Eat a dick. And thank you for reading. Yes, this is for you. Heifer. For the record, I was a hater way before it became popular. Y’all MF fake and act like y’all like a MF. I don’t. Fuck him/her and five niggas who like them. I’m not a hater on a person’s success; get yours my nigga. I’m a hater of hoe ass niggas. I refuse to act like a hoe ass nigga is or ever was cool. I’m not mingling with a square in my atmosphere. Y’all can hee-hee with them. I’m going to the bathroom after I go outside to smoke a J. For any of y’all reading this blog and thinking, damn – this sure took a solid left turn from the intro. That’s a fact. In the words of my guy (the great, late) Sean Price, “I’m like that.” It took me a long time to realize that I have an attitude problem, but ever since – Roll Tide! I apologize if I offend you unintentionally. I didn’t mean it. I’m a jerk. To know me is to love me, or something to that effect. If I intentionally offend you, oh well. Tough titties, but somebody gotta suck ‘em. I’m so glad that winter is coming to an end. I need some warmth for my old bones. It didn’t get too crazy this winter, but we had a little bit of action. The week the temperature dipped into the teens was my toughest time of the winter, but once I felt that type of chill, the rest of winter was a breeze. But damn it, come 3.19, I’m kicking winter TF out like Marty Mart. Time to go, bruh. You’ve tormented us for far too long. Ease your punk ass down the damn road. Good riddance. Remember winters past when you had to smoke outdoors? That shit was treacherous. I forgot who said it, but one time someone said that you shouldn’t smoke if you can’t smoke inside during the winter. Fuck that nigga. Shut your punk ass up. If I want to smoke a J in 29-degree weather, pass me a MF lighter and a bonfire. Please and thank you. They said they want that old Monday back. That “piss in the hole where a toilet used to be in a stall in the old GWB bus terminal” Monday. That “light his reefa up in an upscale establishment ‘by accident’” Monday. That “he got put out 20 years ago and still isn’t welcome today Monday.” But y’all aren’t ready for him. Y’all would just read in astonishment and talk about me after prayer meeting Wednesday night. Do what you must. This is for the day one aficionados. Y’all been aboard this train since the @iamdjgreen era. Yes. I’m still ig’nant. And yes, I’m still riding with y’all. “Fuck all that! Shut yo’ bitch ass up!” What if that happened in the break room tomorrow morning while you’re over-sugaring your coffee and fighting the sleep apnea slowly corroding your body? How would you react? Would you stare in astonishment? Would you record it on your phone? Would you too swing on that bitch? Would you do all three at the same damn time? I just want to know for research purposes. Pass me one of those left-hand cigarettes, good brother. Please forgive me if I ever stole out of your medicine cabinet. BLESSED EARTH DAY TO MY BROTHER NICK “BIG DAWG” BROOKS. LOVE, INFINITE. #NFL Y’all know where the fuck to @ us. #MNR: SING ABOUT ME
“If art is a crime may God forgive me.” Ramo Genuine love is almost surreal. We witness and experience so much fake love that it often affects the interactions we have with those we meet in its aftermath. But when it’s real and authentic it is indelible. You and I are a half a generation apart in age. By the time I was figuring out who I was as a human, you were on your way up north on an attempted murder charge. I used to hear some of the stories about you. You got money and held shit down. And you loved to bust your ratchet. You gave the state of New York what you owed it and came home hellbent on picking up where you left off, and you did. Eastside get the money, long time no cash. You and I becoming palz was meant to be. Your family and mine fucked with each other heavy. I learned a lot from you. You loved my moxie and genuine nature. We trooped through the hundred blocks, from Spanish Harlem to Highbridge. You held me down. You made an out-of-town move with the homie and got caught up in some shit, but you returned to the hood after a few months of iron vacation. It wasn’t too much of a stretch (like I’m even qualified to say such a thing), but you weren’t able to properly attend to your health in a county jail five states away. That didn’t improve when you came home. I had no fucking idea. I’ll never forget the last call. It was after two in the AM. You told me that you were on the block and that you wanted to see me. I was on bullshit. I said I was coming down, but I was faking. It was late and my fat, lazy ass had no intentions of putting sneakers on my then edema-swollen feet and walking downstairs. I figured I’d catch up with you next time. Cousin called me three days later and broke the news. I cried so much that my boss gave me the rest of the day off and drove me to the bus stop, and the Lord knows I tried to hold the waterworks back with everything within me. I’ve never fully recovered in all the years since. I’ll never be able to make that one up to you. I apologize, my nigga. I promise to rep your name and essence until the day I am no more. Only you could leave this earth the exact same way Frank White did. How befitting. You were truly a King of New York. You were such a beautiful soul. Your taciturn nature was the polar opposite of your big sister, yet you were just as demonstrative when necessary. You went from little sis to coworker, and children and adults alike were blessed by your presence. Little did we know that you were a talented artist, but we quickly learned. After reliability and a pleasant demeanor, the most important positive trait one can desire in a coworker is that they’re the same person each day. We don’t want to have to decipher which personality a coworker is going to display. You were the same ole D, every single day. It is imperative that I mention the difference you made in lil bro’s life. Your and his personalities meshed perfectly...fire and ice. His loquacious nature was the perfect complement to your lowkey demeanor. You two were a beautiful couple. He has always been a spark plug, but he glowed when he was with you. I knew that you suffered from an infirmity, but I guess (at the time) I was too wrapped up in my bullshit to really ponder its impact. I remember you missing work from time to time, but you always bounced back strong. Then I got the word that you passed. I was devastated. We all were devastated. But my God, I know in my heart that a piece of lil bro perished along with you. I thought of you two today. I texted him to see how he was doing. As always, he quickly flipped the script and made sure that I was ok. He’s amazing. So were you. My biggest battles in life have always been internal. At times the glass mirror gets tough to watch. Am I a good kid from a mad city or a borderline sociopath with a good upbringing? Am I oft underappreciated and overlooked by those I love, or do I even deserve to be loved? Do I matter to anyone, or does it even matter if I’m some John Doe in a coroner’s freezer a few states away? The world has no idea how much I drift back and forth from Black king to Black trash. I know that I am somebody. But does it even matter? I don’t feel like I receive the love I give. I know I’m not a priority in anyone’s life, and that’s ok. I’m well beyond the woe is me treatment. I am at a point where I am acceptive of the ultimate letdown that life can often be. I’ve learned that being altruistic doesn’t matter to most people. I’m not disappointed in that because altruism isn’t based upon reception. I will remain selfless and help others because it’s the right thing to do as a believer. I no longer expect anyone to go the extra mile for me in any regard in life. That’s ok; no one owes me a damn thing. I do hope that the people who loved me tell my story in a proper manner when I am no more. And that’s if anyone even cares to hear it. I sincerely hope they sing about me, but I don’t expect them to. Y’all know where the fuck to @ us. #MNR: PYRAMIDS “My whole persona’s – kind of laid back like a recliner. And since a minor, I been fucking with marijuana.” AZ “Top floor motel suite, twisting my cigars. Floor model TV, with the VCR.” Frank Ocean Good evening, friends. Welcome to tonight’s episode of Monday Night R*w, where we serve nothing but uncut truth with a side of marijuana. I’m the proprietor of this establishment, Tyrone Monday. The gentleman seated directly in the cut is my brother, CEO. Take your coat off and have a seat. Feel free to light as much satin as you wish and pass it pon de left-hand side accordingly. We promise to do the same. There’s nothing better than smoking a J to some timeless, obscure 80s R&B. I’m talmbout “Guilty” by Yarbrough & Peoples. Y’all let your nostalgia run wild and keep it going from there. There’s this thing I do on IG. I recall obscure and/or forgotten R&B tracks from 20+ years ago and use all 60 seconds of “Story” to play an audio clip of the song. It’s all about which minute clip of the song you choose. It’s quite strategic. I use the text to tell a story about what the song means to me mixed in with the contextual history of the song. It’s one thing to know a song and to enjoy/love the song. It’s another thing to have been active when the song first hit the airwaves and had its push. That includes hearing it at cookouts, parties, clubs, in car stereos, every damn where. Back then. Back when. I try to provide context on the vibe at the time and how it relates to the enduring legacy of the song. Check me out on IG. I follow back. I had to block my first cousin on the Gram. I love that nigga like a brother. I’m not mad at the man. He’s very successful financially. He takes care of his sons. He loves his mother. But he’s lost himself. He’s on some other shit. That’s cool. Do you, my nigga. Your opinions are your opinions. But I’m not trying to argue back and forth with you on social media, my nigga. You’ve got it. You also have my math. But as for IG...super blocked. I know you, my nigga. Ease up, selector. I can’t lie, y’all. Popeye’s got the chicken wing game in the cobra clutch with that 6-piece garlic parmesan. Make sure they put on extra garlic parmesan sauce (pause if necessary). That sauce and spicy wing mix is the best one, two since Jason Williams and Mike Bibby. I’d steal out your auntie tip jar for the ends on a 6-piece. Crackhead junkie status. I’m low-down and dirty, but I’m not ashamed. What a fool believes, he sees. The wise man has the power to reason away. What seems -- to be, is always better than nothing, than nothing at all. If love can come, and love can go, then why can’t love return once more? Who’s got the power? So said two wise white men. I’m on the lookout for my baby Conya Doss. “Stay” is one of my favorite songs of the 2000s. If y’all find her, please let me know. I have some things to tell her. INSTANT UPDATE: I found her, y’all. She dropped a single last September, y’all. And she’s still fine, y’all. Yee! I was never the one to need motivation from anyone other than myself. Self-motivation is what has fueled me throughout my life’s journey. It all boils down to desire. I want it more. I want it more and I’m going to work harder for it. I’m relentless. It belongs to me. You cannot have it. If you don’t feel that way about it/her, then why are you even making the attempt? Just get out the way. Just get out of my way. Motivation? Look, nigga. If you don’t feel that way, don’t even worry about it. It’s not meant for you. She’s not meant for you. My favorite high school basketball player in the class of 2024 is my guy Tahaad Pettiford, senior point guard for Hudson Catholic (Jersey City, NJ). Tahaad is a 2024 McDonald’s All-American and the ESPN 27th ranked player in the class of 2024. He’s the number 2 ranked player in the state of New Jersey and an Auburn signee. I saw him play at Kennedy in Paterson in a high school showcase. He’s the truth. Make sure you good folk tune into the Hope Somebody’s Recording This podcast. Check it out on YouTube. Those brothers speak on relatable topics and keep it a hunnit. It’ll help you flow through your workday. You’re on the clock, Cheesy. I’ve stayed away from politics on purpose, but ‘round ‘bout 3.25, I’m on your helmet. Until then, it’s love, peace and hair grease. I’m out through the back door. Catch me on the come-up. tymonday.com: @tymonday on Twitter & IG crewunb.com: @crewunB on Twitter & @theunbearablescrew on IG |
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