“Yo we’re not here to preach, because we’re not ministers…” If you know that bar you were born into hip hop. If you don’t it doesn’t really matter. It doesn’t mean that you aren’t hip hop. It’s just that you don’t know hip hop. But you have Google so it doesn’t really matter. I’m just kidding. It matters, but only in an esoteric sense. Anyways, that bar was from MC Ren on “We’re All in the Same Gang.” That’s MC Ren from NWA, MVP of the EFIL4ZAGGIN album, you non hip hop knowing motherfakers.
If you don’t know anything about myself and @themisterceizzo, do know that we got the, we got the, we got the, we got the vibes. We don’t mean any harm, really. We don’t wish bad on anyone. We just wanna do our thing. We just want our place at the table. It seems like “they” don’t want us at the table; they don’t even want us to have a plate. But see, the thing is, we don’t give a fuck. We’re gonna push through regardless of who is in front of us. No man, no army, no mountain shall deter or daunt us. We’re ultra-focused, we are at a superior talent level to our competition, and we outwork anyone on or off the clock. It’s our time. We don’t mind breaking bread with others, but if that’s not an option, we don’t mind taking all the sustenance from your circumference until you die of famine. We will Charles Darwin all over your area with no second thoughts. So either get down, or lay down. We’re talking to you, Hollywood. When it comes to the hood, from Uptown to Englewood to VA to Italy and back, ain’t nothing but love with us and vice versa. We got crazy love for the hood and all who inhabit it forever plus one day. It’s you MF we don’t like. You stifle good talent (especially black) and feed us crumbs every year. It’s time you open the door up for the new jacks outchea. Your time and way of thinking is about over. We’re up next. You’ve been fairly warned. Watch us work.
Seventeen years to today, the great, late Christopher Wallace released his seminal double LP, Life After Death, the follow up to his multiplatinum, classic smash release Ready to Die. The release came sixteen days after his tragic and untimely death in Los Angeles. The Notorious BIG was arguably at the top of his career, though it seemed that he was destined for even greater heights. I won’t get into his life or death in this blog; I’ll stick to the album. I still remember 3.25.1997 like it was yesterday, and the events leading up to it…
What hurt so much about the album was the fact that after such unparalleled anticipation, the album was actually better than what we even expected. This may sound crazy, but the greatness of the album was a constant and somber reminder that we had heard all that we would hear from the Notorious, glorious. I remember BIG’s interview with Joe Claire on Rap City at some park in Los Angeles days before he passed. BIG continually expressed his desire for the project to be released, he had total confidence and faith that once his shit hit the streets, any ill will or doubt would be forgiven and erased. He realized that the East Coast/West Coast “war” was in fact a war of attrition that had already been tragic. He didn’t wanna see Pac’s fate. He knew he had so much more to give the game, to give the culture. He knew everything. Oh yeah…the slogan for the album campaign? March 25th…think BIG.
On March 25, 1997, my brother Robert “St. Louis” Glaspy, copped a fresh copy of LAD from one of the yard’s (Virginia Union University, Panther Pride) many entrepreneurs, who had stolen an entire UPS box and was selling the double LP for $10. “Louie,” myself, and about ten of our freshman Huntley crew crowded into Louie and Justin’s room and listened to both discs, start to finish. I don’t even really remember a word being uttered the entire 109:12, outside an “oh shit!,” “wow,” or “damn!” It was that amazing. And, seventeen years later, it still is that amazing.
Many say that disc 1 of LAD was better than the entire All Eyez On Me. I find that to be completely disrespectful, and completely biased from a coastal stand point. Anyway, those words were uttered back then. I haven’t heard any of that talk in years. The intro was crazy. Puff knows how to inject maximum drama into a track. He did an excellent job on the intro. BIG finesses “Somebody’s Gotta Die” as only Frank White could, making revenge and murder into a bedtime story of sorts. “Hypnotize” was the lead single, it was played three times consecutive moments before BIG left that after party and was slain. The video was $1,000,000, back when big budgets were the norm. “Kick In The Door” was BIG’s then unknown competitive “diss” record for Nas, his friend and key competition for King of New York. “Fuck You Tonight” was my personal favorite, a smooth ass collaboration with Robert Kelly. From then on the disc maintained its staying power, with guest appearances from the LOX, Jigga, Mase Murda and Puff, but the highlights of the disc were “Niggas Bleed” and “I Got a Story to Tell,” brilliant narratives from the best storyteller since Slick Rick.
Disc 2 just continued the flow. “Notorious Thugs” featured Bone Thug -n- Harmony, a track in which BIG borrowed a bit of Bone’s flow and freaked it to perfection. Sadly, “Miss U,” a ballad for his dead homie and home girl, was played at his own wake. “Going Back to Cali” was BIG’s way of basically giving the west coast his ass to kiss in a flashy manner. “Ten Crack Commandments” was arguably the masterpiece of the disc, as the BIG fella brilliantly gave ten rules to running a successful and profitable yola enterprise to Chuck D’s voice sample from “Shut Em Down.” “Sky is the Limit” was a great inspirational song that featured a memorable hook from 112. The video was original and great. “The World Is Filled” was pimp tight. “My Downfall” was a leaked track (this is the first album I can remember a track being leaked from) that still slapped hard AF when the album came out. I just wished Puff would STFU. Ironically, the disc ended with “You’re Nobody (Til Somebody Kills You),” a song that featured his then wife Faith Evans.
Many argue about whether LAD was as good as or better than RTD. I don’t even entertain that argument. They were both dynamic. On RTD you could hear BIG’s hunger in every bar. He was just a broke nigga trying survive in the ghetto. On LAD, you could hear the voice of a man who had made it, a man that was living the American dream, and enjoying every minute of it. I love what the Source said about the album (they gave it a perfect 5 mic rating, back before they sold their soul to Benzino). They said the irony of LAD was that it would be remembered as much for its radio/commercial trax as it would for its “album classics” (songs which are never released as singles but are just as popular to fans as singles). I agree. That’s what made the BIG fella so special. He mastered every degree. Rest in peace to the only King of New York I ever recognized, the notorious, glorious Francis MH White.
Send all love/hate mail to firstname.lastname@example.org. Follow me on the twitter @tymonday, as well as my bro @themisterceizzo and squadron @crewunB. Pick up some of our fly apparel while you’re on the site. We’re gonna make summer 2014 and unbearable one. To the projects I’m ghost, trill niggas, one love.
DISCLAIMER: THE VIEWS OF @TheMisterCeizzo ARE IN NO WAY TO BE PERCEIVED AS THOSE OF THE UNBEARABLES CREW. IT IS MEANT FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES ONLY, AND IS THE BLESSED FREEDOM OF THE FIRST AMENDMENT.
Why don’t we have any black superheroes movies in this new generation of Marvel/DC super blockbusters?? This is not a racially charged question, I’m just sayin, there are anywhere from 10-100 different types of “power” in the comic book world, be it the super soldier serum or Mutants found in the marvel universe or the alien race and metahumans that exist in the DC universe. Both sides have their overly wealthy characters that can use their money to compensate for their lack of power. There’s even a Wakandan Prince who’s filthy rich and has a backstory rooted in family legacy and an alien power source that only exists in that tiny corner of the world, but somehow African Americans (or any other “minority”) have not successfully made it to the big screen in a big box office release since this 21st Century wave of comic book mega movies has started. And I’m definitely including Mr. July 4th himself, Will Smith as Hancock, not a banger.
First and foremost I must pay homage to the classics from our great writers/comic book fans Robert Townsend ‘Meteor Man’ and Damon Wayans ‘Blankman’, and I’m not neglecting the ass kicking handed out in the hell-soldier themed ‘Spawn’ starring Black Dynamite himself Michael Jai White, but that was 20+ years ago, the first two of those 4 movies were put out during a time when the world was still coming off Christopher Reeves as the Man of Steel and Michael Keaton as the Dark Knight so you tell me? Robert Townsend and Damon Wayans were comedians and even though both of their movies took place in very serious times and in very serious neighborhoods with plots that could have truly spoke to the plight of the characters and settings that were being fictionalized that is usually overshadowed by the comedy that was expected and given from the two greats, but again, that was 20+ years ago. Ever since X-Men started the new wave of superheroes movies in 2000, and we got a glimpse of a blonde wigged Halle Berry (btw Catwoman doesn’t count either) I’ve been waiting for a good character to get revamped and expressed as his African American alternate version. Michael Jai White woulda killed as John Stewart in Green Lantern! That’s what the kids were used to at the time, even the big kids who still watched cartoons, Justice League and Justice League Unlimited had the Marine vet wearing the famed mantle of the Green Lantern, then they had to go and reintroduce and recreate a whole new Hal Jordan attached to a wack cartoon, could’ve just done a spin off cartoon of JL and things might’ve transitioned better.
Maybe Hollywood doesn’t want to open that door all the way quite yet, look what we’ve been presented with, the aforementioned *groans* Catwoman, , Hancock, and Street Fighter, The Legend of Chun-Li (remember I said this is not a racial thing). There is indeed a wide array of superheroes incarnations and any of them could be brought to light on the big screen, but these are big budget films we’re dealing with, lots of money. Is the world ready for the Half Latino- Half African American incarnation of Spiderman introduced in 2011? Well they didn’t cast Donald Glover as Peter Parker for the reboot (Amazing Spiderman) even with his large online campaign and various nods during his role on Community. At the end of the day it all does come back to money, what do the people want to see? Maybe we just need to get somebody like John Favre or Christopher Nolan to take interest in alternative versions of characters from the superheroes universe. Or do they really not care? The majority of our superhero’s are Caucasian male, they are who we grew up reading and watching, and their image is as recognizable as their logo. Would we like Superman anymore if he were a brother? Probably not, he’d still be a “cheat move” in the Superheroes world as far as I’m concerned, so he’d still be a punk bitch. But Hell, the world is different now, Kick Ass showed us that norms aren’t normal anymore, and the decade is still young so perhaps we will see an influx of color being portrayed on the big screens. The kids making their parents pay $22.50 for the big budget films have no sense of history when it comes to the classics, so if the effort is put into revamping a character’s image to go along with a change in his ethnicity the leap might just be worth it, financially. And that would make it good for everybody… that has their hands in the pot.
Black, white, yellow, purple, don’t matter to me as long as the story line matches the effects, that’s why I’m a Ninja Turtles fan, their ethnicity is up to the viewers discretion. and they are mutant which is always code for ethnic. AND they're frickin ninjas and they're frickin Turtles that ate pizza. Even still, I won’t be satisfied until I see a Super Friends movie with politically correct named members; Black Bolt? Apache Chief? Tsunami?? Come on… #IJS
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DISCLAIMER: THE VIEWS OF TYMONDAY ARE IN NO WAY TO BE PERCEIVED AS THOSE OF THE UNBEARABLES CREW. IT IS MEANT FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES ONLY, AND IS THE BLESSED FREEDOM OF THE FIREST AMENDMENT.
I had to do a first in my career as a blogger; I just censored, then revamped an entire blog that I was gonna send down the pike to the presses tonight. I had to. I was on my Jeezy dope boy talk. It wasn’t appropriate. I’m not trying to earn any tough guy points through black and white text. I had to remind myself that those who know, know. Those who don’t, don’t. If you were in it, you were in it. If you weren’t, you weren’t. Those of us who were really and truly in it can talk the lingo. If you weren’t, you’d have no idea. For instance, if I were to tell you good people that I have brought a G-pack of yola across the GWB from the X to the Wood on papi, could you dig it? Some of you could. Most of you wouldn’t (that’s #facts by the way, I’ve done that). But all of you, whether you were never in the game, moved a piece or two, or were full-fledged at one point or another can respect this. You get in the game because you had to, not because of the image or the thrills or just to get fresh. That makes you a MF retard in my eyes. You’re taking felony chances to look good in the eyes of insignificant people, get some type of rush, or to be the flyest nigga on the block? This makes absolutely no fucking sense whatsoever. You’re a complete fucking moron. Ain’t no glamor points in a felony. Anyone with one will school you quickly. Those of us who put in nuff work will testify to how blessed we were that we were spared that setback. Trust, there isn’t one MF incarcerated in any level of corrections that is proud of the fact that they’re doing time for hustling. That’s backwards. But what I hate, even worse than all I’ve already stated, is a privileged MF who decides to hustle for the thrills or perceived street credibility. You mean to tell me that you come from money, yet you feel the need to sell drugs? You’re telling me that you’ve had every opportunity to succeed placed in your lap, yet you choose to move work? You are an absolute moron. Where they do that at? I knew a rich kid I went to school with that used to move weight (green) whose father was a millionaire and man of heavy influence. I mean, I was happy that we could go to his luxury, high rise apartment and cop a half of some good when need be, but I used to wonder why in the world did he feel compelled to move work when his pops was a multimillionaire? I had much love for the homie, and I still do, but I just felt like he was trying to be something he wasn’t. Cuz truth be told, niggas I ran the streets with from Uptown Harlem and the X and kids I came through with in the Hali in Virginia woulda come through on a friendly visit and tied his ass up, took his work, took everything else they felt like taking, and went on about their business. He wasn’t built for any type of war. And it wasn’t like he coulda went to the PIGZ and made a complaint of being robbed for all his reefa. He woulda been ass out. Oh that’s right, he woulda just went back to being a rich kid. That’s what kills me. When the NYPD kicked my door in, I couldn’t go back to status quo shortly after. Shortly thereafter we lost the crib, and I lost damn near everything I grinded so hard for. But at the end of the day, I had options, via my education. But shit, I couldn’t find work and my ribs were touching. I did what I had to do. So I can relate to all the hustlers out there. I know how it feels to have not shit. It doesn’t matter that you went to school if you have no money or legitimate money opportunities. You can’t eat your degree. The only thing I urge any hustler to do is hustle with a purpose, something I didn’t do. I was content with taking care of the bills and my folk in my immediate circle, staying with a full belly and low eyes, and cab fare, and being the freshest nigga on the block (I got plenty chicken on Jesup Avenue in the X, ask about the Big Man). But I had no real stash; just about a band to work with when the walls literally caved in. Then I was homeless for a taste. But that’s the game. I’m always in favor of my hustling niggas as well as females; I lived the life you good hustling MFs are living. All I’m saying is grind smart. Stash whenever you can. Remember what Big Boi said, “Can’t always rely on feeding baby with that dope money, might not always be sufficient.” Stay safe, stay blessed, and stay paid. And oh yeah, the hustle isn’t always illegal. A hustle, by definition, is however you get your money. Legality has nothing to do with it. 100.
Send any love/hate mail to email@example.com. Follow me on the Twitter @tymonday, as well as my squad, @crewunB. Check out our site, theunbearables.com, where we have all types of fly apparel to choose from, as well as a direct link to my classic work of literature, 100 Blocks Stories. I told youse out there that we’d never be outworked. You have the pleasure of being witness to it. We’re up next. It’s our MF time.
(Monday Night Fuckery)
As I sit here and scratch my fat belly with my tatts and chestplate out, I only wish that you could float with me to a land far beyond, where ashy legs and $2 shorts on a bag of aromatics are acceptable at all times. I’m talmbout a place where real niggas don’t have a concern the first about taking a shit in a public toilet, simply because they gotta go, smell me? Ahh, yes, the aroma of pure fuckery. Like serendipitous sex in your friend’s bathroom with someone you had your eyes on the whole MF night, and after you personally twisted like four Ls of dour and took shots from the ever flowing fountain of Hennessy, she followed you into the lavatory for drunken love (never to be mistaken for drunk in love). Basically, what I’m expressing to you good people (and fuckers alike) is that this train has no set destination, yet the ride promises to be project Kool Aid sweet. Buckle up. Matter fact, fuck it. Keep the belts off. Just ride.
“You and Diddy, y’all kill me with that subliminal shit…” Fox Boogie Brown w/CNN, “Bang, Bang”
Foxy said it best, so I’m just gon add on from where she left off. Ion do the sneak dissing shit. Either I’m gonna say your name like Bey, Kelly or Latoya dem, or I’m gonna @ you. I can’t stand that sneak diss shit. It’s the ultimate pussy way in and out of drama. You not trill enough to just state your beef on the straight up. Instead, you throw your little jabs here and there when you think and hope no one’s looking, while at the same time you hope someone’s looking. Then it’s like, “Wow. So and so said so and so about so and so.” But when it gets back to so and so, it’s quiet for you. You type MF deserve to get beat in your ass. Just state your problems with the nigga (whomever he/she is) if it’s an issue. Sure, that nigga might beat five shades of black off your monkey ass, but hey, at least you stepped to your issue. But don’t take the coward’s way out. It’s too many of y’all doing it every day, verbally in the streets and on the blogs. Y’all ain’t low. Don’t be the next victim on that iPhone video camera 4th Ward/Uptown/VA/World Star/wherever ass whooping. Because an ignorant nigga like me will bring it up whenever I get tired of you being in my vicinity or I feel like instigating my own smack the shit outta you “misunderstanding.” Kiss my ass, you, you bitch.
How in the world can a nigga be actively tracking you down to bless you with your just due for your contributions to a team cause, but whenever the nigga sees you, you duck him in the streets like that kid who owed Calogero (yes, bitch, I spelled it right, I research) that $20 in A Bronx Tale? Are you the nigga whose name is on the paperwork of an indictment on a nigga? Did you roll over the nigga grandma’s left pinky toe with the Civil Rights struggle corn on it with your shopping cart in Shop Rite? Did you steal the nigga’s J-Kwon tape in third grade? We don’t get it. But, we’re absolutely sure that as soon as we blow global you gon be in the front of the begging and pleading line, hands out looking like cups as the great, late Robin Harris used to say. And the part that kills us is you’re gonna legally be in the right. I hope you get hit by an Italian icee cart this summer and fall off a cliff. I’m just kidding. But I do hope there’s a way to low ball you when the paper starts to stack. It’s the American way. You sommamabitch.
Just for the record, if you fuck with me and you already got a nigga, Ion have a MF problem with it, at all. What it is, simple and plain, is that you have two niggas. So let that nigga know about your status change on Facebook. We can all go out to eat, you, me, and your other nigga, granted he pays. That’s drinks, appetizers, and the main course. And the cab ride home. Ion e’en want you on the weekends. I’m straight with Tuesday through Thursday. Let that nigga take you to see the new Tyler Perry movie and the other black movie that always comes out ‘round ‘bout Christmas time. Thanks.
Apparently, a man taking a selfie is now considered to be homosexual in popular culture (not that I have a problem with homosexuals, I don’t, I’m just not a member of that club). That kinda puts me in a tough position. I like me. I think I’m a photogenic individual, granted there is sufficient natural light or flash, I’ve got a fresh hairline, and my shirt isn’t tucked under my stomach in a fashion that makes me look like someone’s drunk uncle who recently gave up on life and giving a fuck in general. Most importantly, Ion have a personal photographer on deck like Joe Budden, and I’m not comfortable with getting random people to take a pic of me (or touch my phone…I know where my hands go, I can only imagine where their hands go). But, you new school, homophobic yet possibly homosexual (not that there’s anything wrong with that) niggas out there act like someone just his put Newport out on your Muslim prayer rug. Peace, god. Or just unfollow me on the IG. You new school niggas are just too hard. Yet, snitching is at an all-time high. Go figure.
Follow me on the Twitter @tymonday, where it’s a 24 hour roller coaster of a blog, where these thoughts come out at random and without warning. Also follow my squadron @crewunB. While you’re on the site, pick up some fly attire. We’ve got plenty of a la carte flavors to choose from. If you haven’t already, pick up three copies of my classic 100 Blocks Stories on amazon.com. Send any love/hate mail to firstname.lastname@example.org. If you like what you’ve been reading, tell a friend. Then tell them to tell a friend. It’s my time, y’all. Peace.
MY LIFE (MJB)
Before I begin, I just want to take the time to express my sincere gratitude for the love that you all have shown me as well as my team @crewunB, whether it be my blogs, The Unbearables crew apparel, or 100 Blocks Stories. Love, infinite. We promise not to take a day off until we make the cover of Forbes Magazine.
I’ve done my research, so I can say with certainty that almost no major publication will agree with me in the statement I’m about to make: My Life by Mary J. Blige is the best album released in my 35+ year lifetime. Upon its release, most critics weren’t overly impressed. They didn’t really find anything spectacular with it; save her version of Rose Royce’s 1977 hit “I’m Going Down.” Rolling Stone only gave it 3.5 stars. But the streets told a different story. Mary picked up where she left off from the ultra-success of her debut album What’s The 411? and the remix album of the same name. The radio couldn’t get enough of her, and with the birth of Hot 97, NYC’S avant-garde hip hop and r&B station, her momentum coming into the project was prodigious. Mary went from a “round the way sister” from the projects of Yonkers to the top of the r&b and hip hop charts, and she was immediately dubbed the “Queen of hip hop and r&b soul,” a title she will own for an eternity. As if the pressure of the dreaded sophomore slump wasn’t enough, the success of her talent brought all the problems that money and fame bring: drug and alcohol addiction, “diva syndrome,” an abusive relationship with another star singer (K-Ci Hailey of Jodeci), and all the self-loathing that somehow manages to invade the minds of many brilliant success stories. She could’ve folded, but what she did was the complete opposite. She, with producer Sean Puffy Combs back on board as executive producer, produced the greatest expression of pure soul I’ve ever witnessed and heard. The hits kept coming. First “Be Happy,” then the aforementioned “I’m Going Down,” her interpolation of the Mary Jane Girls” “All Night Long,” titled ”Mary Jane,” “You Bring Me Joy/ I Love You,” and the title track, “My Life”…and those were just the singles (I’m not even gon get into the remixes). But it was the soul that the entire project emitted like a commercial truck emits harmful pollutants; she almost infected you with her indelible brand of pain blended with love. She MADE you feel her. She bore her entire soul on that album, completely unafraid to look beautifully flawed and human, just as we all are. Diddy and his team of mega producers brilliantly sampled classic r&b records of days past and infused a post New Jack Swing, new millennium sound that is still the norm to this very day. But the clincher is the test of time. My Life, twenty whole years old this year (wow), still sounds like it was freshly released when you listen to it today. A wise man once told me that its true test is enduring time and generations while still managing to sound relevant and vibrant. That it has done. My Life is the backbone of my generation of black music listeners. I still listen to it at least once or twice a month, usually in its entirety. I listen to my favorite song “Mary’s Joint” probably every other day. And the “I’m Going Down” remix with Mister Cheeks of Lost Boyz fame on BIG’s “The What” track was so completely different from the original cover version, yet it is equally as brilliant. You can actually feel her soul bleeding through the record. The same goes for the entire album. Like I said, twenty years later and it still sounds like it could’ve been released a week ago. Indelible.
Big ups to my big cousin Akira for putting me up on Mary back when, when she used to play the “Real Love” cassette single like ten times every summer morning when it came out. Big ups to all the true Mary fans all over, including my sister Janay Levy, who totally relates to me when I speak on the brilliance of My Life and Mary period. It’s safe to say that My Life will live on forever. Big ups to Mary. I love you mamma. I always will. You’ll always be my favorite, and you will always hold the crown.
Send any love/hate mail to email@example.com Follow me on the Twitter @tymonday as well as my team, @crewunB. After you read this, pick up some of our fly ass apparel.
My mom would be proud of me. I didn’t really even cuss on this blog. But she’s proud of her baby boy regardless. So is my little sister in heaven. Time to shake a leg, and get up in the wind, suga. Y’all be cool how y’all be cool. Water.
P.S. I promise I will not relent. I’m relentless.
I have a confession: I’m a @twitter whore. I make anywhere from 25-90 tweets a day, I RT (retweet for the twitter challenged) any and everything I see interesting on my TL (timeline), even if I don’t particularly fuck with you like that. I’m perpetually conscious about my number of followers (660+ and counting; I’m proud of my followers…love ‘em), a prestigious list that includes the likes of most of my Englewood, NJ folk, plenty of my #VUU family and folk, Treach, Amel Larrieux, Michael Eric Dyson (whom I just concluded a twitter beef with---another blog, another time), Shock G./Humpty, my manz John “Spider” Salley, my baby girl Cheri “Chericoke” Dennis, the homie Chi Ali, other folk with a million plus followers (like Marquis Trill), and plenty with 100K+. It also includes Tidewater, Virginia legend @IAMDJGREEN, my first cousin and one nigga I’ll do life plus 2 weeks for. Cuzzo put me up on the Twitter, literally. He signed me up, and was my first follower. Love him for that, as well as a million other things. I’m nearing 40K tweets; I can still remember being gassed when I hit the big 10,000 and it finally dropped the last three digits and added the K. I love Twitter much more than any other form of social media, including Facebook (too much family and uppity Negro “friends” who attack my wanton use of the First Amendment; too many people in general), Instagram (too many birds/whores/fake models/posers, too many meme niggas flooding my TL, including my best friend on Earth Jose Cuervo), and basically, I couldn’t even tell you about any of the other shit youse people use like Kik (one of my niggas used the hard “I” mispronunciation by accident once, making it an instant classic moment in comedic history), Snapchat, Vine (I like Vine, it’s just that I’m a print guy) and whatever else there is. But the Twitter, I fux with the Twitter. If you provide a profile, it’s because you put it there yourself. The Twitter asks nothing of you; you can even keep your face and identity anonymous. Your profile pic could be catfish AF; no one cares. The Twitter doesn’t give a shit about where you work, live, or attended high school. It doesn’t matter. It’s all about expressing your thoughts within the 140 character limit. The number 140 alone makes the Twitter an alluring science. You don’t have to worry about reading a blog sized post from some nigga you went to Catholic school fourth grade with about how he can never find parking by his job. On the Twitter, he’d just say the shortest, most harsh and concise thing he can think of, usually in acronym form. And then it’s over, for example: PARKING @ MY MF JOB SUX. ALWAYS LATE CUZ NO SPOTS. FML. That’s a quick 53 characters, 87 to spare. You got the point just fine, didn’t you? Next tweet. Back to the RT. I love the retweet button; it allows you to replicate the thought of another individual while simultaneously attributing credit. Then you can quote the tweet, add to it, and make it a retweet by simply adding RT, provided space within the 140 limit. Brilliant. Some niggas just quote your tweet, simply putting quotation marks around your tweet with your @ and name in front. To me, this is a way of replicating the thought without attributing proper credit, but hey, haters make the fucking world go ‘round. You credit stealing bastards. I ain’t mad at you. Well, maybe a little. Just cuz I feel like it’s some underhanded type shit. But hey, life is cold as the Polar Regions, and twice as nasty. And you follow to unfollow degenerates (a process where someone will follow you in hopes that you will follow back, then unfollow you because they anticipate you to not pay attention, thus giving them an extra follower without having to follow back, as is customary procedure to many). Eat a sick dick. That shit is OD greasy, and a real sucker type approach in my eyes. But hey, this is my blog, so it’s my opinion. Fuck you, you bitches.
At the end of the day, the Twitter is a machine growing by the day. That is evidenced by it recently going public on the Dow Jones Market. Our President has a Twitter. Patti LaBelle has a Twitter. Oprah has a Twitter. Samuel L. Jackson has a Twitter. And these Negroes were old when I was eating two lunches in public schools. Come aboard this train, but only if you’re prepared for any and everything. Add the random thoughts and pics of mostly random people, emojis, memes, vines, IG posts, and anything else you can imagine within 140 characters, and you’ve got a never-ending global bazaar.
Send any love/hate mail to firstname.lastname@example.org. Follow your boy on the Twitter @tymonday, as well as my family, @crewunB. Scoop some of our fly apparel sometime when you stop by to read my blog. I’ll for damn sure be Unberables out this summer. Y’all be cool how y’all be cool. Water.
DISCLAIMER: THE VIEWS OF TYMONDAY ARE IN NO WAY TO BE PERCEIVED AS THOSE OF THE UNBEARABLES CREW. IT IS MEANT FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES ONLY, AND IS THE BLESSED FREEDOM OF THE FIRST AMENDMENT.
REAL NIGGA UPDATE: For those of you brilliant, yet insane folk who actually support a nigga, (From 'a Question of Friendship') The First Bruva made good on the short. It’s still and will always be love between the two Bruvas.
My uncle, a wise man in my biased estimation, always told me that there was nothing wrong with throwing pity parties. But he did advise me to keep them brief. Now, my personal definition of a pity party is a period in which one feels sorry for himself, regardless of the cause. The pity party could be completely warranted, and any of us would immediately empathize, having been in a similar situation and subsequently feeling some type of way in its aftermath. Then there’s the other type, the “I’m sad because the world has done me wrong, will always do me wrong, and life just isn’t fair” type. No matter what happens, regardless of its magnitude or lasting effect, this type of individual will always have the “woe is me mentality.” But at the end of the day, irrespective of the catalyst involved with ushering the pity party in, it’s always best for us to keep them brief. The longer we stay down, the greater the chance of something catastrophic happening.
First, just like that good old gospel song says, “trouble don’t last always.” As dark as it may get, as precipitous as that black cloud may be, the sun will eventually shine in the end. Often, we worry over things that are nowhere near as significant in impact or duration as we initially assess them to be. We have a tendency to panic from jump, when it’s often not as serious as it seems at the moment.
Second, no matter how bad things are for us, there’s a 99.9% chance there are 5,500,000,000 people in a much worse predicament/situation/life than we are. We are blessed, through it all. We are still living, healthy, and in our right minds. If you can agree to the preceding statement, there is no reason to bury your head in the sand. I must admit, when I used to throw my marathon pity parties, I’d get OD pissed whenever someone would say what I’ve stated as reason two. I used to be like, “I could give a fuck about the next person’s plight; I’m going through hell my damn self.” I was an ignorant, narcissistic, short-sighted son of a bitch as well. How dare me? There are children in overpopulated, disease ravaged, famished nations who drink from the same water they bathe, piss, and shit in who never even had any type say over how their life would go. I’ve had my destiny in my hands ever since I believed that I could achieve, and I’m complaining? How dare me. How fucking dare me.
Reason three is quite simple: that’s how life goes from time to time. Just as there is laughter there are tears, as there is joy there is pain, we experience both good and bad. Even the wealthiest, most powerful man on earth goes through his woes. His only exception is that his woes aren’t financial. Be careful in agreeing with that, though. Often time money problems are the easiest, on the grand scale of things. The point is, all of us have our down times. If everything were always perfect there would be no such thing as perfect. It would just be another boring, monotone day in utopian paradise.
The fourth reason is even simpler than the third… (drum roll)…NO ONE GIVES A FUCK. Not a Boeing, 747, jumbo jet, flying fuck. If you’re looking to invite guests to your pity party, good luck. All of us are stuck in the grind. We’ve got our own issues to deal with. Get your shit together. You don’t see us all down and out, do you?
A wise man once stated, “Brevity is the soul of wit.” He was on point with that one. It’s a smart move for us to keep our pity parties brief. That way, we can keep our attitudes positive and ready for productivity, we can stay on point mentally, we can have plenty of storage for the times that catastrophic calamity does rear its ugly head. The key is longevity; it all begins with our outlook on things.
Anyone who knows me will tell you that any type of shit I talk, any type of analysis I give, any type of judgment I express always begins deep within. I’ll scrutinize myself 1,000 times before I cast judgment on the next person, and if I do, it begins with me stating how I too am vulnerable or have suffered through the same thing. Y’all be cool how y’all be cool. I promise to lighten up a bit on the next entry. Thanks for your time.
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The unBearables Store
Speaking of nigga, ESPN Outside The Lines recently aired a special regarding the N-word. It began with longtime host Bob Ley interviewing a panel of black men comprised of rapper Common, journalists Michael Wilbon and Jason Whitlock, and Pittsburgh Steelers safety Ryan Clark. Common and Wilbon readily admitted to using the word in private life, and obviously Common has used the word in his music. Clark admitted that he neither used the word nor allowed it in his house from anyone, but acknowledged that it is used throughout the locker room and on the playing field. He had no problem with the word being used, as long as it wasn’t from white folk. Whitlock was the lone panelist against usage of the word under any circumstance, insisting that those who use it in the “black sense” are basically nothing more than ignorant niggas (you keeping up with me?). The next segment went inside neighboring town Teaneck’s high school (Teaneck High School, Teaneck, New Jersey), the first public school in America to voluntarily integrate students over fifty years ago (a fact I previously did not know). It interviewed both male and female student athletes of diverse ethnic backgrounds on their thoughts of the word, its usage, and its place in popular culture. It also asked them about their knowledge of the history of the word. They were in turn given the opportunity to ask the legendary “Mean” Joe Greene, Kareem Abdul Jabbar, gold medal winner Brianna Scurry, former goalie of the U.S. National women’s soccer team, and Chauncey Billups, all of whom had been victims of overt racism in their lives and careers. To sum the segment up quickly, both sides got to see how the other felt about the word and its usage, both young and old. What I drew from the segment is that education as well as communication amongst different generations is what would be most therapeutic for the hotly debated topic, if possible.
Personally, I use the word nigga approximately 73 times a day, in various ways. My homie is my nigga, several “this nigga” and “nigga please” fly out my mouth time to time, and nigga can and is often substituted for other nouns when I deem it necessary in conversation. For me, nigga is usually confined to my own people, but a nigga can be white, “foo yum” (forgive me, I’m only being honest), or whatever the fuck I feel. A couple things really quick. One set of grandparents was raised in the country woods of Virginia, one in Halifax County, the other in Zuni. The other set originated from the Caribbean and Augusta, Georgia. All four were regularly witnesses to and victims of overt racism. It was nothing strange for my grandfather Archie Warren Sr. to see the aftermath of lynching in Zuni. Both grandfathers fought in segregated armies for their own country. All four used the word nigga from time to time. It was part of their vernacular. The first half of all their lives was lived amidst Jim Crow and overt racism mixed with segregation. They saw nothing wrong with using the word. My mother uses the word from time to time, and she is a woman with a bachelor’s and a master’s degree. My Aunt was raised under the thumb of Jim Crow in segregated North Carolina, and was a member of the first class to integrate Jones Central High School in Jones County, North Carolina. She uses the word too. By the way, she’s a medical billing master with almost 40 years of experience. She uses the word in informal settings when she feels like it’s applicable. So that’s the background on the word as far as my family is concerned. As for me, I am a published journalist as well as author. I stand firmly on the foundation of Amendment I. Nigga has been a part of my culture my entire life, being common to me before I ever left my own home. I’ve always used the word. I have a fucking right to. No one can tell me what word I can and cannot use. It’s my fucking freedom, so fuck you if you have a fucking problem.
My aunt brought up a good point. Most white folk want the word wiped from our mouths because it is a bitter reminder of the savagery of their ancestors, brutal institutionalization that existed in this country for well over three centuries. Just like slavery as a whole, many white folk want the word extinguished from all memory and history, so they don’t have to cringe whenever they hear the word spoken. The fact is, the word nigger is a constant reminder of their own deeply ensconced prejudices that still endure, especially when it’s used by other white folk in a hateful manner. But guess what…too bad. Just like those weeds that Massa threw away and we made collard greens from, just like the scraps Massa threw away from the hogs that we used for chitterlings (chitlins), we found a way to flip the word. It has taken on a different meaning, whether you like it or not. I say the same to black folk who are offended by the term. I respect your opinion. But you have to understand that younger generations don’t share your sentiments. And irrespective of how repulsive you find that, it’s the truth. The kids, adults, myself…we’re never gonna quit saying it. You can’t stop us.
White folk…love y’all. But you never, ever, under any circumstance, are allowed to use the term. At least while you’re around a me, or any nigga like me. Or I’ll fuck you up. So will my niggas.
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Love it or hate it. I only implore you to discuss it. God bless America.
As you read along to the melodic wizardry that is my style, what I want you to do is correlate. I’m gonna be jumping from beam to beam with the grace of Nadia Comaneci. Put a L of that OG flight in the air and peep game.
This is a true story about two bruvas from another. The two met a decade ago on a bullshit job, got cool and stayed down ever since. The first bruva made moves out of state and started a family, the other keeps lookout for the first bruva’s folk back home. The bond was forged when the second bruva, at request, paid a visit to the first bruva’s mom in the hospital, during what would be her final days on earth. The second bruva just viewed his deed as that of a trustworthy, loyal friend, but the first bruva viewed it as the definitive moment of their indelible brotherhood. The two correspond ever so often over the following years. They are both proud men, rarely if ever borrowing money from family or other friends. But they would borrow from the other, from time to time. The first bruva showed love on more than one occasion, blessing the second bruva in the most clutch of situations, and not even asking for a return on the short. This love was never taken for granted or even slight by the second bruva. The love was genuine. My bruva, my nigga. The financial blessing was reciprocated by the second bruva on more than one occasion as well. There was in fact a time when the second bruva took care of a financial matter for the first bruva and asked for nothing in return. Recently, the first bruva called the second bruva for a favor, and without blinking, the second bruva ensured the first that the money would be sent the next day. It was. The first bruva promised to return the short by week’s end. He didn’t. The second bruva didn’t even raise a brow. That was his nigga when push came to shove, after all. My manz, my nigga, my homie, my folk, my famz. The second week passes and the first bruva explains that inclement weather put a temporary halt on a return home from an out of town trip. “No problem” was the second bruva’s response. Ain’t nothing, he figured. “He was my nigga when push came to shove”. Another week passes. All the while, the second bruva did what most real niggas do; he spent the money he did have with the assumption that it was all good because his bruva was gonna hit him with that short within the next day or so anyway. That’s a move that I personally would usually warn against, as it isn’t prudent strategy. After all, conventional wisdom says you never count your chickens before they hatch. But this situation was different. That’s his bruva; he was his nigga when push came to shove. He finally sent a text through to the first bruva, brotherly and cordial. The first bruva apologizes and insists that the short will be sent immediately. The second bruva believes him. It never comes. The next morning the second bruva decides to call first thing and let him know that he never received any type of follow-up call or text with a confirmation number for a wire service. The first insists that it was sent and promises to re-send the confirmation number as soon as he arrived at work, as he was driving at the time of the call. The call never came. My lone question is this: HOW WOULD YOU FEEL IF YOU WERE THE SECOND NIGGA?