#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
 
 
 
 

#MNR: SGT MONDAY’S LONELY HEARTS CLUB BAND
 
“Said I left my mojo...left my mojo in my favorite suit.”
D’Angelo
 
“I get by with a little help from my friends. I get high with a little help from my friends. I’m gonna try with a little help from my friends.”
The Beatles
 
We’re Sgt Monday’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. We hope you will enjoy the show.
 
Off the jump ball, big ups to my second cousin Ursherr (Usher) Raymond and his brilliant Super Show Halftime Show performance. Big ups for bringing two of my best tenders along for the performance, my first baby mama Alicia 88 Keys and my newest tender, H.E.R. My boy sang live and bust all his famous dance moves. He definitely freaked it in skates. Salute to the punk ass NFL for putting a real one from my era on the halftime show. I knew won’t no way in hell my favorite Ursherr song was going to be performed during the show, so I’m going to shout out “Seduction” just ‘cause. That’s my shit.
 
Big ups to Fat Andy for his third Super Bowl ring. It’s been a good minute since an NFL team went back-to-back. Reid is my favorite Eagles coach ever; I’ll always big up my guy. Patrick Mahomes is officially the baby GOAT. Three ‘ships at 28 is crazy. Magic/Jeter/Brady type shit. Congratulations to the Chiefs. Fly Eagles Fly!
 
Kobe/Yogi/Russell type shit. Bossy/Jackson/Messi type shit. RIP to Bill Russell, Lawrence Peter Berra and Mike Bossy. My hockey enthusiasts know who Mike Bossy was. The Jackson is Reginald Martinez. There is only one Reggie. And there was certainly only one Yogi.
 
Tell me an album is iconic without telling me it’s iconic. Bet. You don’t listen to the album until you’re into your 40s, but when you do, you realize that throughout your life you’ve heard lyrics and melodies from several songs off the album in advertising and sampled in music from other genres.
 
I feel that Season 3 of Raising Kanan is the best of the series thus far. For full context, I don’t watch anything else in the Power universe. I only watch Que’s boy (IYKYK). I had an immediate affinity for Raising Kanan because 1992 was my freshman year of high school. It’s the clothes, the music, the culture. It was the time when I began to figure out who I am. I like the writing. The characters are well-developed and show layers. Everything revolves around Kanan. We see where his cold nature comes from; Raquel is a southside Jamaica, Queens monster. These three seasons have shown Kanan’s descent into the southside underworld. Jukebox is easily my favorite character. She’s the perfect blend of Thomas family virtues, some good, some bad. Marvin and Lou are the heart and soul of the cast. I love Marvin’s character arc. Unique is...unique. I shalt not droppeth any spoiler alerts. There are still some who aren’t current in their viewing. If you aren’t caught up, catch up. If you’re still sleeping, wake TF up and tune into the series immechiately. Peace to the entire Southside, from Baisley to Guy Brewer.
 
It is imperative that I take the time to properly acknowledge Black History Month. As a scholar of contextual United States history as well as one who is well acquainted with the U.S. Constitution, I feel that BHM is more than the amazing figures who have uplifted and edified our race and culture. It is also about contextual history, in all its ugliness. It is about our plight, struggle and triumphs. It is about never forgetting from whence we came, from Mother Africa to the shores of the Atlantic in shackles and chains in 1619 to present day. It’s about everything we’ve endured in between. It’s about all of us. All of it is Black History. You see it every day. You see it in yourselves. You live it. People love to talk about the Montgomery, Alabama bus boycott, and rightfully so. It was an amazing team effort that showed our moxie and resiliency. But many don’t realize that the boycott lasted exactly 12.5 months, from 12.5.1955-12.20.1956. Few today even know or take the time to consider what it was like to not use the only mode of transportation that would take you to work for over a year. The sacrifice. The struggle. All 381 days. Every single day of that boycott was Black History, not just the first and the last. The triumph is the pinnacle, but the struggle is the essence. Black. History.
 
Reaching the mountain top is the prize, but the journey to it is the glory.
 
Stephen A., please stop simping for these pilgrims. That Clark Kent shit is not it. It’s nasty work. This Megyn Kelly shit isn’t the first incident. Just stay out of the discussion if you aren’t properly informed. That bitch has a history of saying bigoted shit. That bitch is a racist. Fuck outta here. I don’t know what it is that makes you run to the defense of a bigoted, ignorant pilgrim, but get that shit the fuck outta here. Expeditiously.
 
And for all you bigoted, racist ass fuck boys and punk bitches who talk that dumb shit every time “Lift Every Voice and Sing” is performed at a major sporting event, let me enlighten you on a couple of things real quick. The song was written in late 1899 by the brilliant James Weldon Johnson. At the time, Black America was already 20 years deep in Jim Crow segregation. We fought for 250 years for our freedom, only to have it stripped after the 1876 presidential election between Rutherford B. Hayes and Samuel Tilden. Hayes sold Blacks out to the Dixiecrats in exchange for their presidential backing. In return, Hayes guaranteed that the federal government would turn a complete blind eye to whatever the Dixiecrats wanted to do with Blacks. The result was the Great Compromise of 1877, which led to the dismantling of Reconstruction and inception of Jim Crow. We went through damn near a century of Jim Crow until the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Rights Act of 1965. That song meant hope in a time when we were still being openly lynched. Still deprived of our civil rights. A time when our intellectual elite couldn’t attend “white” institutions of higher learning. The song wasn’t written in 2020. Its history is long and deep. Fuck off. You troglodytes make it easy to...
 
Anyway...do some fucking research, you ignorant snow roaches.
 
Peace to all the lovers out there. Wednesday is your day. I can’t hate. Show her how much you care. Send him your love – with some new Apple headphones/pods/whatever. Take her out. Take him out. Buy her chocolate. Buy him kush. It’s that special time of year, baby. Happy Valentine’s Day.
 
Meanwhile, I’ll have some Bobby Womack playing while a Raw cone of kush takes away all the troubles of the day.
I’m gone.
 
tymonday.com: @tymonday on Twitter & IG
crewunb.com: @crewunB on Twitter & @theunbearablescrew on IG

#MNR: AURA
 
“All I need...You know just what I want, so do I.”
Tkay Maidza
 
“Niggas chased my uncle down. Through God’s grace, the gun jammed. I found comfort in his pleasure, meaning I slept the best through gun sounds.”
Ab-Soul
 
“You gon die if they say you touched me. Got used to tucking this iron, but lions will never play with monkeys.”
Benny the Butcher
 
“I’m a cowboy. On a steel horse I ride. I’m wanted (wanted). Dead or alive.”
Jon Bon Jovi
 
My current favorite song on earth is “Show Me the Money” by Snakeships and Tkay Maidza. That is all.
 
I’m from an era when you had to be precise from head to toe to step out of the house. For example, never have I or would I ever make a trip to the bodega in dirty or flimsy clothing. That’s non-cipher. Pure nasty work. I’m not attending the function without a fresh hairline. I refuse to. If the cologne isn’t foreign, I’ll accept it graciously and give it to one of my students when I remember to bring it to work. Strictly foreign. I move a certain way. I always have. I always will.
 
As a portly gentleman and card-carrying member of Fat Niggas of America, it troubles me to see some of my hefty brothers outside in these streets looking extra nasty: stained shirt, dingy sweats, untied cooked sneakers with the tongue flopping, and ashy from lips to elbows. I won’t even mention the natural (hair). From what I see in the movies, niggas in the ‘70s did not get clipper/razor hairlines from their barbers. They just let the natural hairline flow. That doesn’t work for me in regard to every male who has existed since Roger and Dwayne from What’s Happening!! It troubles my spirit when I see my big brothers guilty of all the above at the same damn time. But it’s possible to change the course. They can reclaim their dignity. It is possible. I’m rooting for them. If you know any brothers in need of some good advice, refer them to this blog.
 
Fresh is the minimum, the tags don’t matter. From thrift store shoppers to couture tag poppers, it makes no difference as long as you’re proper. As a fat nigga, I face certain challenges that regular body types don’t have to worry about. For twenty years, all the mall has meant to me is Wetzel Pretzel and cologne shopping. The couture boutiques don’t have my size. Neither do the department stores. Ditto for shoe stores. Online shopping made that issue semi-irrelevant. Sure, I can (and do) shop online, but I lack the ability to try things on before I make a purchase. That doesn’t matter when it comes to Polo or Nike because I know how their products fit my body. I’ve spent more than enough paper over a long enough period of time to know. But still...it ain’t easy.
 
So, basically, all I’m saying is, shouts out to me for being the flyest fat nigga alive. I’m 51 pounds down, and comfortable in an NHL authentic over the tech hoodie. And yes. My Nikes still match my Lo hat. Q-Tip is quite proud of me. I know a kid who was 15 with about 15 pairs of Mike Amiri jeans. He was a fly little nigga. He still is. Ain’t no damn way I’m owning 10-20 of any type of clothing that on the low-end costs $800. But that’s his thing. I do what I do. As an early adolescent, I thought Grand Puba was the flyest nigga ever. He introduced me to Girbaud jeans a half-decade before Cash Money made its affinity for the brand known. He was one of the first to rock Lo and Hilfiger, a couple of years before they exploded onto the scene. For full context, the Lo Life crew (IYKYK) put Polo on the map for NYC Black culture, so I’m not trying to misappropriate credit. I didn’t know about the Lo Life movement back then. I knew who Puba was. He set the standard.
 
Ever since, my goal has always been the three C’s: clean, comfortable and consistent. Clean is the first and most important aspect of being fresh, as they are literal synonyms. It doesn’t matter how fly your clothes are if they’re dirty. If you have to wear clothes to the point that they are a bit dingy, you are not fresh. Get your dirty ass the fuck up outta here and wash your shit. Make sure you wash your ass, too. Change your drawz. Comfortability is paramount. Wear what fits. It doesn’t matter if it’s snug, as long as it fits. I’m a fat nigga who refuses to wear loose, floppy ass clothing. At the same time, I’m not spilling out of my clothing. I’m nice and comfortable. Last is consistency. You must have an extensive wardrobe to be fresh. You can’t be caught out in these streets OR on Instagram regularly wearing the same four outfits. Perhaps the greatest tweet (amongst so many) I’ve ever read was from a Nubian queen who proclaimed that she’d never let a nigga with three outfits hurt her feelings. I cried for about a half-hour. But she was deadass serious AND on point. You ain’t got no clothes, a close relative of baby girl’s declaration, is one of the funniest live-action disses I’ve ever heard. Don’t ever open your broke ass mouth to talk shit to me if you wore the same pair of kix more than once this week. I don’t care if it’s work, going to the Wal Mart, taking your lady out to eat, or whatever. This vitriol is directed towards fake fly niggas, not humble, everyday people. Ain’t a damn thing wrong with wearing the same pair of shoes to work or wherever you go. We are thankful for shoes on our feet. My angst is directed toward fake fly niggas. Don’t embarrass yourself by talking that fly shit. We know your kick collection is way under 25. Way under. Way, way under. And take your dirty ass coat to the cleaners. And please buy another coat.
 
You can buy the whole store, but they don’t sell swag. I believe it was Jewelz Santana who said something to that effect. He was absolutely correct. It doesn’t matter how much you spent if your swagger is on zero. The term hype beast is nasty work. I hate seeing a duck ass MF on the internet with thousands of dollars of shit on while simultaneously looking like a got damn joke. Go sit your lame ass down somewhere. You look extra stupid. Like I said, the price on the tag doesn’t mean a thing. Keep the three Cs in perspective and do your own thing. We all have our own style. There’s nothing wrong with seeing someone wearing something and liking what you see. Just make sure that you add your own flair to it if you want to emulate what you see. Looking like a carbon copy of someone else is a technical foul. Hop off. It’s nasty work.
 
Big ups to all my ladies and my folk who get fresh at all times. It’s a beautiful thing to see.
 
I couldn’t imagine my theme music being anything other than a jazz piece with a trumpet solo. It would be neither happy nor sad; it would just be. Just close your eyes and listen to the sound of the trumpet. As soon as you relax and exhale...there I am.
 
And we are...world, world, world famous.
 
CONGRATS TO MY SUN CHRIS MARTE. HE'S D-1 BOUND. I'M NOW A COPPIN STATE BASEBALL FAN.


RIP SAROYA JOHNSON
 
tymonday.com: @tymonday on Twitter & IG
crewunb.com: @crewunB on Twitter & @theunbearablescrew on IG