#MNR: SHARPEST KNIFE IN THE DRAWER
 
“What I create pulsates, there is no escape. Annihilate your mental mind state.”
Kurupt
 
“Clear the building. Evacuate women and children. Fuck what you feeling, nigga. I came here to kill him.”
Canibus
 
“Who Jah bless, I say, no man curse. Things gettin’ better when they thought it would be worse. Here comes the officers, asking for a search. They found no weapon, just only a draw of herbs. ‘Cause I’m so solid as a rock. They just can’t stop me now...”
Sizzla Kalonji
 
Aye yo, pass that, good brother. You trout-mouth heathen. I don’t recall you putting in on that J, either. Oh shit. We’re live? Oh ok. Howdy, y’all. Good evening. Thanks for joining us. We’re glad to have you. I’m the insatiable Ty Monday, your favorite hood griot, host of this blog, and weed spot specialist (both sanctioned and unsanctioned). I pray all of you good folk are doing well and enjoying the holiday. I’m glad to report on this blessed Memorial Day that I’m still peeing freely. Thank you, Lord.
 
This past weekend was amazing, from the weather to my activities. I made my way to DMV to attend my baby cousin Janae’s graduation party. Congratulations, Nae. I got the chance to see my Warren family. It’s been a minute since I saw my Auntie Cynthia, Uncle Archie, and Aunt Gail. I got to politic with the legend @iamdjgreen. I got to see Adrienne, John, and Johntae. I saw plenty of Bridgehampton and Southampton folk. My sis Jon Jon scooped me from the DC terminal and put me up in her crib during my stay. Shae (my ONLY big sis from Union) gave me a ride to the terminal while we built over a J of Bombay. I even made my way to another earth day function (big ups to Shakita & Ed). Life is good.
 
This nigga Green kept telling me to pass the J while we poly’d at the kick-back. Nigga brought one J with him that he was finishing when I pulled up. Smh. He must have missed the memo. If I roll the J, I pass the J when I feel like it. I do commend his temerity. It’s no coincidence that he’s my blood. We’re both prolific assholes. I love that rich ass nigga.
 
Shout outs to Peter Pan buses. I scooped $15 tickets to and from DC. I would have spent at least $130 more if I took Amtrak. I had both seats to myself leaving and returning. Neither trip was sold out, even with a stop in Baltimore. The only negative was that both buses left about a half hour after the scheduled departure time, but the drivers damn near made the time up each way, so I can’t even complain. Good shit, Peter Pan. I’m not above traveling no-frills. But I’ll be damned if I take a bus past DC.
 
I saw the most beautiful Albino woman on the bus to DC. In addition to her flawless Auburn hair and button nose, the best way to describe her was gorgeous – and her skin glowed. Had I been fifteen years younger, I would have confidently introduced myself and hoped that she understood my story. But she was too young for my karma. Shout outs to her. You’re a superstar, girl. You beautiful thing, you’re beautiful when you glow...
 
RANDOM: I was in love with the Rican dancer in LL’s “Around the Way Girl” video. She was sooooo sexy. My innocent, 12-year-old hormones raged every time Video Soul played the song. That woman is at least 55 years old now. Iono. A lot of mamís don’t keep their looks over time, respectfully. What? Am I lying?
 
I hope all my Nike heads paid attention to the app’s 25% off sale. I certainly did. You already know the Fly Nike Kid (that was my Hotmail tag 25 years ago) copped a couple of tech suits. I’m a tech suit nigga. They work well for me. There were a lot of other worthwhile grabs sprinkled throughout the app, all the way down to socks. As of press time, the sale was still active. It may end tonight. If it does, bummer. If not, take your slow ass to the app/web site and spend some of that money.
 
P.S. The 25% off is in addition to any sale price of an item.
 
Slow motion beats no motion. The past week was love. It was a drama-free week that began modestly and ended with and amongst family and the closest of friends. There was nothing flagrantly egregious happening around the world, other than the fuckery going on in Rafah. Murdering scores of innocent civilians while targeting only a couple of enemies is ridiculous. Netanyahu’s bullshit apologies and excuses are insidious. My prayers remain with Palestine and its people. I stand with you. The last shall be first.
 
I’m not going to talk y’all to death this week. Enjoy your burgers, glizzies, ‘tata salad, fried fish, alcohol, tobacco, and firearms. Salute to all the fallen veterans. Big ups to Al Cowlings. Bro reminded me that he’s the realest homie of all time. 31 years later. No interviews, no tell-all books, no movies, no nothing. OJ left from here and AC still hasn’t parted his lips. He’s still in Southern California with his wife, living strong. Shout outs to Al Cowlings, arguably the realest nigga in the hip-hop era.
 
Happy Earth Day to my Auntie Cynthia. Love you always.
 
I’m a catch y’all next week ‘round the time they send my government benefits check in the mail.

#MNR: SUCCOTASH
 
“I got a question. It’s serious as cancer. Where the fucking safe at? Somebody better answer.”
Shyne
 
“You can’t hear that switch, but you can hear them niggas scream.”
Future
 
“Why you trolling like a bitch, ain’t you tired? Trying to strike a chord and it’s probably A-minor!”
Kendrick Lamar
 
My intention last Saturday morning was to wake up (prayerfully/thankfully), shower, get superhero high, grab a bite to eat, and head to Fairleigh Dickinson University Field to watch their baseball team host Coppin State, who just so happens to feature my DMHS sun Christopher Marte at catcher. He’s been one of mine since his freshman year in high school; the bond is indelible. I made it to Dwight Morrow for a game in his senior and COVID (extra year of HS eligibility in lieu of 2020 seasons being canceled due to COVID) years, and promised him I’d attend the Saturday, 5.11 game. Again, that was my intention. However, I woke up at 6:33 am on Saturday morning (way too early for a Saturday) with an all-too familiar pain in my lower abdomen on the right side, in the general area of my right kidney. The pain wasn’t severe, but it was consistent. I knew it wasn’t normal. I went to the bathroom to pay the water bill. I only let about half my normal stream go, but I didn’t think much of it in the moment. It would be my last urination until Monday evening – after emergency surgery.
 
Before you drop a tear, roll up immechiately, and scream, “Dis tew much!” while lighting that MF, the surgery was simply placing a stent in my kidney to ensure that the exit passage was open for fluids AND my latest round of kidney stones to pass through, much like large container cargo ships do through the Panama and Suez canals. I checked into the emergency room last Monday around 9:30 am, had surgery around 2:30 pm, and had an underwhelming diabetes dietary dinner around 6:00 pm. My general doc told me I pissed 9 liters over the course of the night...through a catheter (three agony emojis). Three turkey bags full of pee-pee. I was released around 2:00 last Wednesday afternoon. I was given the strict order of drinking at least a gallon (yes, gallon) of water a day to flush my kidney and was taken off a couple prescriptions I’ve been using the past few years, most notably Metformin.
 
Oh yeah, I found out that my left kidney is on the verge of being useless. There’s been a staghorn kidney stone which has prevented any activity for an undetermined period of time. Dr. Lee and I will discuss it further when I see him on 5.30. Look at it this way. I can live another 70 years on one kidney (facts). I didn’t plan on living to 115-120 anyway. C’est la vie.
 
Life is good. Now, back to regularly scheduled programming.
 
For those of you on the wrong side of favor in the Kendrick/Aubrey battle, you should’ve read my blogs. Everything I said about both of those men was 100% accurate. Check the timestamp. I said that one of the two was born from and into the struggle while the other was raised in relative affluence by his Jewish mother...in another country. I did everything except implicitly state that Aubrey is not from our culture. I spoke on his lack of respect for the essence of the Black American struggle because he...isn’t Black American. I also said that Kenny was the better artist, point blank. I shot a higher percentage from the field than the Pacers did in the Garden in Game 7 (sighs). For anyone who isn’t aware, “They Not Like Us” was tailored specifically for California and Cali culture. I’ve seen more crip and blood walking to the Mustard beat than I’ve seen pimps with hoes. It’s a California cultural phenomenon. I was walking on 2fifth on the long (No Diddy) stretch between Lenox and Madison (IYKYK) and a group of young Hispanic men were in a small-ass four-door bopping to Mustard on the beat, hoe. The setting is hip-hop’s polar opposite to Compton, LA, California. This is Harlem, NYC, New York. Ponder that. It’s powerful.
 
 Now, ponder how far and how quickly Aubrey has fallen from grace. He’s the laughingstock of the internet. EVERY urban Youtuber is still frying his ass on a daily basis. He got one million DISLIKES for the punk ass song he did with Artificial Intelligence Pac and Snoop (extremely non-cipher). Nike recently released a pair of sneakers from NOCTA, Aubrey’s signature clothing/shoe line. The sneakers are sitting on the shelves and in the warehouses like the Knicks are sitting at home. They’re calling his shoe the Colonizer + whatever number was attached to those feminine gay men’s sneakers. I wouldn’t wear those shits on the way to pick up a check from Aubrey. I’m talmbout six figures. I’m pulling up in a pair of Kobe VI Protro. That light-skinned colonizer would have to respect it. RIP Drake. You’re Aubrey and only Aubrey from henceforth. And we know about those young girls. What in the Jeffrey Epstein...and what’s up with the grown man-headed brother with the baby’s body? I’m too scared to do my due diligence, so I’m just going to pretend that I’ve never seen him.
 
On the way to visit my family in Throgs Neck #BXNYC, I decided to take the A to 2fifth on the 8th Avenue side of town, just like I used to when I was living in Englewood 22 years ago. I usually took the M101 across 2fifth until it reached [1]16th and Lexington, a block away from Jeff. But some days I’d shun the bus for a nice stroll down 2fifth, Black America’s most famous street. Last Saturday I was immediately underwhelmed. There was nothing new and vibrant to report. The only interesting “new” business I saw was a Nike Unite store on 5th Avenue. There were plenty of closed stores along the strip. The Duane Reade on Lenox was Dundee. But so are most Duane Reade locations in the city not associated with Walgreens. Crossing over to the #Eastside had that mid-90s extra grimy feel. There’s still absolutely nothing in that big ass lot on 2fifth and Park. I felt like I was in Fallujah the further east I walked. The former Pathmark on Lexington has been leveled; there’s simply an empty lot (the entire block) and a tall ass fence surrounding the perimeter. The dope fiend McDonald’s across the street has finally ceased operations. The lone bright spot was a weed shop right beside the former Mickey D’s. I got an eighth of decent Gumbo for $25 and a pack of Raw for two cash.  I made my way to 2fourth to get a cheeseburger with an egg on it from JImbo’s. The burger was certainly worth it, but walking on that block felt like I needed the Juggernaut suit from GTA, two pistols (with at least one switch), and a pack of Jolly Ranchers pink lemonade. It immediately went from bright and sunny to overcast and rainy before I could walk down the block.
 
Low key, my trip home was a harrowing experience (lmao). The irony is that 20-25 years ago, I lived for all types of negativity. I had a chip on my shoulder and something to prove. Today, as a human who has doubled his life span since that time, I feel the exact opposite. I crave tranquility. I have no points left to prove. I do miss early 2000s Harlem, when billions in federal aid and corporate tax incentives came through and 2fifth (and Harlem) exploded. I’m talmbout Magic Theaters. Starbucks (gentrification was already on the way). The HMV on 1-2-5 was my favorite record store in NYC (sorry Virgin Megastore in Times Square, I really loved you too). RIP to boffum. Dr. Jay’s was the shit. So was Jimmy Jazz, which apparently is now Snipes (Junisa and/or Nella please verify that for me). House of Hoops was theeeeee shit! Apparently, now it’s just a regular Foot Locker. I’m guessing the midnight releases stopped long ago (sighs). At least Marshall’s is still standing. So is Cap City USA. And Rainbow will never die, so long as it is located in the MF hood. The bottom line is that 2fifth has reverted to pre-2000s squalor. It’s not as bad, but it’s definitely down bad.
 
The one bright spot on the 2fifth stroll was my brothers from the Nation on the corner of Lenox Avenue. I could be cryogenically frozen for 75 years, thaw out, head [back] to Harlem, and purchase the latest copy of the Final Call from one of my brothers. It commemorated Minister Farrakhan’s 91st birth anniversary. There was an article about a 19-year-old Milwaukee Black woman who was murdered on a first date by a white male from an affluent family. Prayerfully, he’s been booked on three felony charges, including murder. But hands down, the most heartbreaking article involved an 11-year-old Louisiana girl receiving a 7-year sentence for her role in a murder with her 12-year-old brother. They killed a white man but there was no reason given. I have all types of questions. There’s an 85-90% chance that I don’t read about these cases in the national press. I’ll leave it at that.
 
I’m a member of the Christian faith but I love and respect my brothers and sisters from the Nation. I also support them.
 
My heart hurts for Harlem.  
 
It feels good to be back at it. I missed y’all. Smoke one with your kinfolk when you see me. I just might be in your hood (IYKYK – Soul!).  I’m out through the dirty ass sliding patio do’ on the left side of the ‘partment. The one across from your auntie dem crib. You heard?
 
Y’all know where the fuck to @ us.

#MNR: EVERYBODY DIES
 
“One day everybody gotta die, one day everybody gotta die, my nigga.’
Jermaine Cole
 
Yeah. We back. Back at G mama crib, nigga, the front porch. The only traffic coming up the old country gravel road is Scott or one of his folk. His house is just out of sight to the left. It’s a blazing August day in South Boston, Virginia, about 97 degrees. 100% humidity. G and I ain’t got shit to do, other than this quarter sack of izm we copped from the first nigga who answered the phone. It’s been more than a quarter century since those days, but it’s just like I remember. I don’t miss the milestones. It’s these times I miss. It’s all good. I’ll see G in short time. I promise it will be soon before long. That’s the vibe for this blog. Leggo.
 
Sike, I lied. Pass me the Raid, CEO. I’m finna bomb on these MF.
 
Some of y’all must really got me fucked up. I’m more than certain that more than a few of you don’t know exactly who the fuck I am, so I’m finna break it all down. I’m the only surviving child of Tyrone and Shareon. Both are reunited with Tamika Latoya in heaven. I’m a native New Yorker. I’m that Brainy Smurf, eight days a week church attendee, all-star in every sport I played, honor roll/accelerated classes/honors classes/Advanced Placement student. I’m a full academic scholarship university attendee and graduate. Yeah MF, I never owed Fannie Mae a dime. As for my street exploits? Ask Mr. Ten and Cuervo about how I used to get to the money. I don’t want you thinking I’m embellishing my statistics. What else? I’m a consummate thinker and reader. I’m Black on both sides. I’m God-fearing. I fear no mammal. If you by chance happen to encounter a bear and me in the woods, help the bear if you feel the need to wear a cape. I’m humble. I’m thorough. I pay my tax. I mind my business. I’m a goodfella.
 
I ain’t no bitch. I ain’t no hoe. I ain’t no snitch. I ain’t no sucker.
 
If you think any different, you definitely got me fucked up.
 
Go visit the Frank stand.
 
The irony of everything I just wrote is that the two MF currently in my scope don’t even read my blogs. I’m certain one can’t read at a high school level. I’m not sure about the other MF. He too is fucking stupid. Him, them, whoever. Everybody dies.
 
Nothing I just wrote was directed at anyone I love. It doesn’t matter if we don’t even fuck with each other like that anymore. Love will always be love. Love is indelible. But things change. I fall out with my folk from time to time, blood and otherwise. C’est la vie. We’re at odds until we’re even, I suppose. Some people enter your life for seasons, and everything that happens is for a reason.
 
Back to the fuckery. Oh yeah. It’s one of those.
 
You code-switching niggas are dangerous to our culture. I kind of feel like y’all are low key the number one threat. My thing is this: I don’t mind if you’re regular. I respect you for being you, whomever you are – if you’re worthy of respect. You earn my respect by being you. Who the fuck am I to try and impress? You ain’t got to lie my nigga. A lot of you niggas are prolific liars. I could 0.5% understand lying to the ladies to try and dip your stick in some sugar. You probably have 0.2% natural game and have to lie to experience a nightcap. But you niggas are more concerned with lying and switching up to catch the attention of...other niggas. It’s nasty work. You sucker ass MF create/embellish street and jail stories to gain the favor of other MF. Nigga, we don’t give a fuck about how you held it down up north. The object is to avoid the prison system, good brother. I have plenty of mine who’ve done their fair share of state time, from NY to NJ to PA to VA. I’m talking numbers. Not nay one of them bragged about their time. They told the stories they wished to share and that was that. I think you niggas are the type that like to throw parties with no DJ. My old heads know the reference/inference. Y’all remember the old Keith Murray song. The bar before the DJ bar. It rhymes with gay. My bad. It doesn’t rhyme with gay. It is gay. I think you niggas are gay.
 
I remember when I first moved to 170th St & Jesup Avenue in Highbridge, #BXNYC. Even though I was very familiar with the block because I used to go see some of my folk who lived up the street, I still paid attention more than I spoke when I first started to hang on the block. Jesup is (was?) strictly JTO Bloody. My nigga Chocolate was the OG and conducted affairs with an iron fist. Anyway, I remember this one young damu kid who had just come home from the Island (Rikers). He was a damu who didn’t live on the block but banged the set. Translation: that bastard was always around. He was all types of extra about everything. Y’all know the type: loud, ignorant, and ignorant. We were standing by 1419 and this duck goes “Yo, I need a 99, son!” Before y’all try to play me, I didn’t think he meant a 9mm strap. I’m not a gun slinger, but I’ve never heard of any damn 99. But being that he was more animated than the X-Men series on Fox in the ‘90s, I was curious as to WTF he was talking about. I asked my manz. Fam was like, “That nigga just want a cigarette. He’s always doing the most” (I could be embellishing the second sentence in that quote). I was like wow. What a sucker ass nigga. An “I’m out here trying to impress other niggas ass nigga.” Sure enough, a couple of weeks later I saw him on the block with a shiner that made Red’s black eye in Friday look almost passable (I’m faking, Red’s shit was fucked up). Somebody popped off on that frail young boy. Word was that he was running his mouth and caught a quick attitude adjustment. Eye jammie. I was more surprised that there wasn’t any dog shit on either side of the block that day.
 
After the negotiation period is over and we sign the ink on our production deal, I’m letting CEO do most of the talking to those suits. Y’all will have given us what we came to an agreement on. I’m already working on the re-up. Leave me the fuck alone. Y’all should have signed us a decade ago. Fuckers.
 
You’ve been quiet lately, Mr. Carter. Shawn Corey. Jiggaman. I watch the blogs. Word is that the Feds are on your ass. I’m not going to speak on any alleged family drama. That’s off limits to me. But both seem to be fruit from the poisonous tree. I’ve been talking my shit since Summer Jam ’02. If anyone knows, it's CEO. He still jokes about my disdain. But it was never hate. I merely sat back and peeped game. Your moves showed me the type of person you are. And I heard a few stories. I could never verify those, but my spirit did the discernment for me. I’m not praying for your downfall, Black man. But if what they’re alleging is true, vaya con...
 
I’ve still got rounds in the clip. Blue tips. Who else wants shots? Strictly dead eye. No strays.
 
Insecurities are highly visible. Don’t ever forget that. You may think you’ve been able to conceal them, but you haven’t. They become ever the more visible over time. If it ain’t authentic, some of us see right through you. But that doesn’t even matter. It all boils down to staring down that MF in the mirror. That’s who you have to reason with. You can’t fool that MF.
 
If you’re not rocking with UnB, kick rocks.
 
I’m out the back do(e) before the po-po get the lo-lo.
 
Oh yeah. One more thing. Aubrey...all the money and number one songs can’t erase all the footage of you being a lame ass nigga in real life. We always knew who you were – who you really were. But you’ve grown into a caricature of yourself. It’s ok. Kenny is walking you down. You can’t even go to sleep without worrying about the next diss record. Leave those little girls alone nigga. I saw the receipts. You’re weird.