MNR: Chico’s Bail Bonds
NYC Legendary ‘90s/‘00s Cheeba Spots Roll Call:
Branson, the 99 cent store on 145 & Broadway, New Lots In BK, 117 & 2nd Ave #eastside, the viper spot on 116 & Lex #eastside, 119 & 2nd (you know the building middle of the block) #eastside, 112 & 2nd beside Waala #eastside (most raids & reopening ever) Gun Hill Rd #BXNYC, the dread chocolate spot on 121 & Lenox, my trap on 1400 Jesup apt 2C #BXNYC, any project plaza or staircase...and to all others unnamed and long forgotten. Thank you.
The last couple months, I’ve been very vanilla with this blog. I’ve dealt with music (as always), love (BFT/TT forever+1day), errday culture, and a splash of sports and politics. Enough to keep the drink cool. But, truth be told, I miss the old Monday from @IAMDJGREEN blog era. The classic #UnB Monday. That ignorant Monday. That disrespectful Monday. That mulatto Monday, half Black, half Ricky Retardo Monday. That eat the last big piece of chicken your mother was saving for daddy Monday. That, “don’t bring that fat nigga back here” Monday (facts). That fuck you, your auntie, and five MF who look like you Monday. Well...tell a friend to tell a friend. He’s baaaaaaack. One night only. Get your Swedish Fish (I detest popcorn), keep the lighting at an ambient level (strictly LED bulbs), gon on ‘head and twist you one of them left hands up, and enjoy. Oh yeah, buckle up. It may get a bit bumpy on this road to mainland Monday World.
Who do you call to drop a dime if you know the head principal is doing the wild thing with the assistant principal? I’m just asking for a concerned colleague. I don’t drop dimes. Ever. But do remember, just because I hate you don’t make you a player. Let me know tho. I’ll pass the message on to the concerned.
If you Saints fans don’t shut theeeeeee fidduck up, stop complaining about that damn NFC Championship game, and get ready for the Conference Tourneys/Big Dance and/or
pitchers and catchers reporting to Spring Training. Go take a long walk off a short pier. Yes. You got jobbed. Big time. But you lost. It wasn’t the last play of the game. You still had the chance to write your own ticket. You failed. Too bad. I seem to recall those same zebras missing an obvious face mask on Goff that woulda put the Rams 1st & Goal from the 1 late in a position to get the dub. Refs fuck up everyday, B. Y’all just mad you lost out on it. I guarantee if the shoe was on the other foot y’all wouldn’t be asking Goodell for a mulligan. Exactly. So just shut the fuck up and live with it. You be aight. Tough titties, but somebody gotta suck ‘em. Who dat? Lmao. Fuck the Saints.
Big ups and love eternal to my favorite Yankee of our five championship run ‘96-‘09, the legendary Mariano Rivera on his UNANIMOUS induction to the MLB Hall of Fame. He’s the first player ever to be unanimously inducted. He’s without doubt the best to ever do it and I couldn’t wait for this day to come. Anyone tryna head to Cooperstown for the event? I’m down. Been once. I know where to cop the room and errthang. We out. #42NYY
Is Pac alive? Smh. I guess it actually is a valid question. I don’t know how or when in the hell it became valid, but I reckon it is. If enough niggas ask the same question enough times, it somehow mythically becomes valid these days. AND Suge’s son outchea testilying to any nigga with a record button on his smart phone ain’t helping to extinguish the rumors. I’ll tell you like dis herre. I was a Pac fan since “Same Song” off Digital Underground’s Sons of the P album. That’s basically day one. Before 2Pacalypse Now. The Pac I knew wasn’t the type to stay quiet...on anything. He had to let shit be known. Go through his history. Look for yourself. No need for me to go in depth. But he had to be heard. So...he’s just been quiet the past 22+ years??? Fuck outta here. And don’t hit me with the he got low in fear of his life mantra. Day one Pac right here. The last thing Pac was afraid of was dying. “My only fear of death is coming back reincarnated...” So please. Miss me with the fantasies and let the great late veteran live. RIP Makaveli the Don.
Big ups to the movie Black Panther on its Screen Actors Guild award. It’s the awards where peers determine the winner, not critics. That means a lot to someone like me. In addition, the first Marvel movie to feature a Black superhero has also received several Academy Awards nominations. Nothing equates to basking in the glory of Black Excellence. Don’t undercut this, y’all. This is major. In my novice opinion, BP stands a good chance of at least one Oscar. Here’s to Black Excellence. About damn time we got a legitimate chance.
Crack is the most fucked up of drugs. It’s a sucker’s bet. You never win. They say the first high is the apex; you spend the rest of your highs unsuccessfully chasing that initial blast. You lose everything in time: your money, your possessions, your teeth. It’s not like back when ‘80s era. MF seldom OD and die off crack nowadays and for sometime now. Credit that to weaker product, from Central America to the nigga adding ammonia to your jums. Naw. Nowadays you just lose errthang. You just hang around and exist. Lord willing, you finally bottom out for the 50-11th time and give it up. You reclaim your life one day at a time. Many of these type folk exist. I’m related to some. My pops is one. Respect. Unfortunately, the man I actually referred to as my real pops is bad off into crack, and it doesn’t look like he’s anywhere close to recovery road. My step pop gave my mother everything she lacked in Tyrone Sr: stability, love, and notgettingherasswhoopededness. He was aight to me. He had his moments of bitchassness early on. But he never put his hands on me. As I got older, we became close. After college, really close. He held my moms down. Whenever I was home down VA we had great times. Then my mom got sick. Shit went downhill from there. He started falling off. There were signs I ignored. That’s on me. Then he started doing my mom dirty, so I suspected. I wanted to step to Goliath. My mom always told me to chill. Then she passed. Then he really showed his stripes. I’ll leave it at that. Even as a Christian, it’d be very easy to hate him, all things considered. But at the end of the day, I still have to leave it all with God, for my sanity and my salvation. The Lord gon do what he do. It’s not up to me. I tried to do my best to love him. He knows that, regardless of how many mistruths he perpetuates. What’s done is done. Vaya con Dios.
MNR: A Hard Day’s Night
Fly Ty, I’m a cosmonaut on OxyCot
Around the time Nextel was chummy with the cops
First time I saw a quarter brick my heart stopped
The homie laughed cuz that was all going to one stop
Dream big my nigga, no time for small potatoes
Watch these bitches and these niggas, boy they’ll try to play you
Never show ‘em what you holding, never pillow talk
When you on they gon notice by the way you walk
If you talk to police go get your own noose
It’s just a matter of time before they cook your goose
Stay off them phones, tell ‘em what they need to know in codes
Before y’all meet RICO and you in sicko mode
If you listen you’ll learn, some jewels are priceless
If you’re itching to earn, limit your vices
A waste of time if you’re discussing who’s the nicest
I’m Mo Rivera with a touch of young Tyson
It’s been years since I attempted to do that. I won’t mention my inspiration. But I didn’t do it to elicit a reaction or response. I was wavy and I wanted to talk. Anyway...
How y’all? Blessed, I pray. I really do pray for all y’all. Well...if y’all good I’m good. So let us proceed...
It was so damn cold today I wanted a cup of hot ass cocoa. With the marshmallows. If it weren’t 32 below zero out I’d scurry to the local supermarket to scoop a box. But it’s entirely too damn cold. I’m not going no damn where.
I heard some mega church just bought their pastor a $1.7M mansion. What in the Creflo Dollar is this shit? I’m going to say this one time so read me clearly. The only way I could ever conceive ANY man or woman of God owning a house of that dollar amount (excluding it being purchased independently and privately) unless they housed the less fortunate in spare rooms and allowed them all the same amenities and luxuries the family personally enjoys. Fuck outta here. My mommy’s baby brother is my pastor. I love him like he’s my own father. I got half of my personality from him. But if anything like this happened at my house of worship I’d immediately be a free agent or one of those college athletes in the transfer portal. Nigga, I’m out. And I’m keeping my offering money. This is the principle reason why many have absolutely no type of trust for the Christian church. How can our urban communities be in peril while some shepherds of houses of worship in these very same communities are living in mansions, driving top shelf foreign cars, riding in private jets, and even starring in reality television? There is no justification that I can deem respectable. Mother Theresa died with three dresses to her name. She spent decades helping and ministering to the downtrodden. Yes. The shepherd is the leader. He’s an anointed man of God. But he is still one man. Personally, I couldn’t drive a BMW as the head of a congregation where a parishioner is barely surviving. My soul would bleed out and die. I’m sorry. I can’t fade that. FOH.
Did I mention how damn cold it is today?
As a journalist, it is particularly disheartening to see how this current presidency has successfully taken what we’ve always known objective truth to be and created a reality in which mistruth and flat-out lies are accepted and embraced. I can speak for every true journalist in saying that we stand by the 5 W’s and H: who, what, when, where, why, and how. That’s all that matters. It doesn’t matter what my party affiliation or political ideology is. The facts are the facts. Anytime opinion is interjected, it is an editorial piece. Simple and plain. This blog is opinion based, as most blogs are. These are my personal beliefs and ideas (some absolutely off-kilter, some outright absurd) with occasional Crew ideology infused. But the facts are the facts. If I’m submitting copy for a pure news article, there is no opinion anywhere in the text. There is no grey area.
“Up late night on their mother’s cordless, thinking a perm or bleach and cream will make them better when they’re gorgeous...”
Nas, “What Goes Around”
I don’t have the power or authority to ever knock a woman for any and everything she does cosmetically to improve herself, presumably for her own well being. And I’m not referring to makeup. I’m referring to cosmetic surgery. It’s crazy how the scope of cosmetic surgery has changed the last twenty years or so. Growing up, cosmetic surgery was something I viewed as being reserved for aging white women with money. It was all about facelifts and nose jobs. And of course the breastesses. That was then. Now, when I think cosmetic surgery I think young women of color, and tummy tucks and booty jobs. From what I hear, the rates are a lot more affordable these days. And I’m not saying it’s fact, but I heard that if you travel to certain Latin countries the rate is even better. Ladies, do what makes you happy. I can’t knock your hustle. I have not one right. I just want you all to know that you’re beautiful just how the Lord made you. And if you don’t feel that way the gym works wonders these days. A great trainer, dedication, and work ethic can do it for you the old fashioned way. I’m always reminded of K. Michelle or Mama Donda West mishaps/tragedies. And they didn’t get back alley procedures done. It’s your thing. Do what you wanna do. Nas and me are just reminding you that you’re already gorgeous. It’s love.
The great Michael Eric Dyson plugged my newest project, In Search of Serendipity, on the twitter a couple days ago. He did the same with 100 Blocks Stories. He’s a heaven of a man. I appreciate him greatly. I’ve never been the type to shamelessly plug my material. At the end of the day, the consumer decides how the consumer pleases. I can’t push a sale on anyone. That’s not something I’m comfortable doing. But I am very confident in the quality of my work. And as I stated, one of this country’s preeminent voices in African American culture agrees. He said it himself. I’m comfortable with the work itself and the co-signs being my collective voice. I say co-sign plural because others have voiced their approval and love for the project. Much love to my fellow Panthers who have supported me, as well as the community and my loved ones. In Search of Serendipity: The Rebirth of Love’s Possibility is available for purchase. Get your copy today. I’ll sign it for you. ###
PS: Thank you Dr. King.
I'm really just running for money
I'm lil Flo Jo chasing a check
I'm really gon run up the money
I'm Carl Lewis really running the best
Calm moving through these hoovers
I maneuver with the bag, baby, never feeling stressed
Calm moving through these hoovers
I maneuver with the bag, baby, never feeling stressed
I’m still on that Innanet James wave. Heavy. His album (EP) Keep It Clean just gets better with time. Every track is crazy. Ev-er-y. I think “Bag” is one of the best songs I’ve heard in YEARS. It always puts me in proper perspective. This isn’t an original idea but I would definitely love an Innanet James and Dreamville collaboration or three. Or ten. Fuck it. A whole damn project. Cole and Innanet need to make that shit happen. The bars are slowly returning to the culture, y’all. AND Lil Uzi announced his retirement from rap...the possibilities are endless.
I omitted one crucial name from my list of 2018 Dearly Departed. Then I forgot to mention the colossal oversight on last week’s blog. RIP Mac Miller the Don. You’ve left an indelible mark on my soul. You were the farthest thing removed from the token white rapper. You were an MC who could hold his own and excel on any track and/or with any MC. Even greater is the type of cat you were. You stayed humble and never stepped out your box or lane. I’m a always rock your work as loud as possible. “Dig That” with Harlem’s Greatest (Cam’ron Giles) gon always be my favorite piece of work from you. “All these people that you love go ‘head and give ‘em a toast. Because if they ain’t here tomorrow you gon miss ‘em the most.” So true bro. So true. Salud, Mac. I really miss you my nigga.
“Only the homies really know me.”
Ras Kass, “Miami Life”
It still amazes me that people feel like they really know a person by the 8-12 or so hours a day they spend together at work. Obviously, there are times and circumstances when a person genuinely befriends a coworker past the confines of the generic work relationship. Obviously. But frfr, there’s prolly only a handful of coworkers that are truly and genuinely people you consider to be friends. You know each other’s kids and family on an intimate basis. You visit the other’s home. You know WTF I’m talmbout. Like I said: handful. But somehow, folk will really believe they know you. I’m sorry, but you cannot accurately gauge the next person’s emotions because you lallygag by the Keurig machine nine point five minutes a morning en la oficina. MF, you don’t know shit ‘bout me other than what I show you at the job. You’ve yet to scratch the surface. To assume that you are a mind reader would further lead me to assume that you are an absolute and utter idiot for choosing your current profession over one that better utilized
your talent. If not, consider being a fluffer. After you hop off my John Shaft. You do not know me.
At this point in my life I’m...well...quite frankly, boring. I’m into laying low, loving on my baby, and polying with squad at the weekly fundamental, aka Eastside (4th) Saturday Night. That’s about it aside from the rare guest appearance in Attica from one of the younger gawds. But once upon a time in ghetto America, Mr. Monday was a project tenement, B-Stairs marauder. Fvck just taking a piss in the stairs. I used to post up in the B-Stairs and hold court with my folk. The piss prolly evaporated, yet the pungent odor lingers. So what. There’s Dutch and Backwoods guts all over the floor and stairs along with plastic baggies. The walls are usually nice and sorta white with the stencil red painted floor number (we lived on 2) with B alongside, aside from a fresh Sharpie tag or the rare lewd message or drawing. Not to worry, housing will get it eventually. We’re burning blunts in multiples, talking shit, laughing, and listening out for 12 in creep mode from above or below. Ground level is the bat cave. The project roof is Pebble Beach. If you’re getting dusty, take that shit up there. The stench is ridiculous. We play the bat cave for big ciphs and to keep an eye on the building entrance from the B-Stairs. See, that’s the door that only has an exit. There’s no outside handle or key code punch in. If they come from above we break out the exit and scatter. You two hit the plaza. You two hit (1)fifteenth. I’m headed to Third Ave. We only had enough work on us to burn. Even if you catch up to me I’m clean. Kick rocks you beat walker. Thank God it wasn’t an undercover DT. If it were you’re going in regardless. And he’ll prolly slam you on your neck before he cuffs you. No cap. Friday night special. You can’t see the magistrate until Monday morning. Say hello to bookings for the weekend. This was my everyday back when. Most of y’all never seen any parts of that. And that’s cool. But we see smooth through you. Leave the game to the present players and pay homage to all us with our jerseys hanging in the rafters. You stick to commentating. With yo’ peeking ass.
Just think: what if you could just...just blink yourself away. Now imagine if you blinked a billion times. Sometimes you just need to get away. I’m thru mane.
One for the money, yes um, two for the show. A couple of years ago on Headland & Delowe...
Special shout to my lil bro Darrell Peebles and his beautiful bride. They did the damn thing this past December. He’s a genuinely great individual. I missed the wedding, but I got you. You already. And Brandi and me gon hit VA sometime this year, Lord willing. We gon stop thru. Many blessings.
We are a full week into 2019...hmm...how many of youse have already scrapped a part or all of your New Year resolutions? Just asking for a friend. Personally, I’m not much for NY resolutions. It all sounds cute. But outside of improving and maintaining my health (I promised my baby a whole 40 after I petitioned the good Lord for another 40) and perpetually striving to better my relationship with Christ, I already know I’m pretty set in my ways. Moreover, I don’t keep a bushel of bad habits like I did when I was speeding through those 100 Blocks with nothing good on the intentions list. So, basically, I feel like NY resolutions are an effing waste of my time...I don’t wanna hear your drunken goals, while yet very achievable, remain virtually impossible because you refuse to put the leg work in. God empowers us to go outchea and get it. Miss me with your empty talk and subsequent disappointment. Show me you desire change. Positive change. Pray on it everyday. Implement a plan, then put a genuine foot forward. Follow with the other. There, see...you are now on your way. Win.
After a few months to let it really set in, long after the back and forth, don’t you agree that “Infrared” is even more phenomenal now than during the beef with Drizzy? Well, Kev Pua and I agree. But I know how hard y’all glaze Aubrey. I love him too. But a L is a damn L. So I don’t tap dance for the pilgrims and sing maame...
I know I’m showing my old age, but I really am looking forward to the Soul Train TV biopic. Other than 60 Minutes (and damn near The Simpsons, end of the day), Soul Train has been a part of my life from day one. And that’s despite the fact that ever since my third favorite rapper ever Cube said, “I'm the illest.
Wanna kill this house nigga Don Cornelius.
Can you feel this?” on Uncle Face’s “Hand of the Dead Body” off the #classicLP The Diary I hated DC. I didn’t even know why Cube said it at the time. It was my nigga Cube...so I was riding with the homie. So basically, fvck Don Cornelius it was. Later I found it was because DC hated on rap music every chance he could from day one, and didn’t hide it. Even when he was forced to let rappers rock on the Train, he hated. So fvck him. I hate when the old heads hate on the youngn’s. Especially when it’s so easy to uplift and promote those worthy. But anyway. I’m a since my day one Soul Train fan. I’m a have all my party favorites ready as I watch, tweet, and text my baby...at the same damn time. They said Don was a thorough nigga. Let’s see.
PSA: It’s 2019. If you’re a grown ass man and you’re still uncircumcised...get your shit cut. With your nasty ass.
For all you accomplished professionals and career overachievers of color, please never forget to treat all employees under your umbrella the same. Show the janitor the same love you show the CEO. Respect the secretaries the same way you do your collaborative coworker. I really have a problem with administrators walking by employees and giving selective “good morning” greetings. Especially after looking a subordinate dead in the face just before. Look. I decided to be a rebel to America long ago. And damn it, I was. Ion have to boost my own stats. Just ask anyone who knows me well enough to call me Nitty or Monday. They’ll tell you. But I’ll tell you this: I suffered for a long time because of my attitude and disposition. I know I was passed up for promotions and such. But that’s the pill I chose to swallow. I never compromised. So I paid the price. But one thing that was never in doubt is my acumen for my craft(s) or my knowledge in general. So bitch, don’t ignore me in those DM hallways and speak to my folk standing right beside me cuz I’m a tell you about yourself. Your title means little to nothing to me when you show no couth. We break before we bend. And we never break. And I ain’t been scared since 1995. So any power you possess is irrelevant to me. I’ll get another job. Refer to the aforementioned Pusha bar.
“I never stole a horse from someone I didn't like. Did I like him? Hell no; I loved the son of a bitch. You asked me if I have scars? Yessir, I have my scars.”
William H. Bonney (bka Billy the Kid) (old)
Young Guns II #squad
In Search of Serendipity, my newest work of love poetry, has received rave reviews. No gas, no cap, I’m not faking. Y’all see how nice I am with this blog shit. My words connect like Lego. So you already know my pen is equally as swift with the prose. Check it out and see. Fifteen cash. If you disagree I’ll refund your ticket price. Psyche. There shall be not a damn refund. But I know you’ll love it. And it’s cool. Go on ‘head and steal a few lines to text your lady when she crosses your mind at work. She gon have that Kut Klose “I Like” playing when you pull up. All the thanks I need is naming your love child Ty. Male or female. Tye is acceptable for the baby girls. Time to shake a leg and get up in the wind, suga.