​#MNR: SKYWALKER
 
“Please forgive me (please forgive me). Lord, forgive me (Lord, forgive me). For all my sins (my sins). But a man gotta do what a man gotta do.”
Swizz Beatz
 
Karma is undefeated. And, just like the works of the Lord, she too is timeless. She exists in a realm where time does not. We humans get caught up on the premise of time and how long or short the duration between an act of fuckery and retribution/atonement should be. That’s because we want “justice” to be swift, sudden, and costly. But good old karma – she’s a different type of bitch. Baby girl don’t mind dragging her feet – in your eyes. She’s not on your schedule. Mine, either. She may not come when you want her to, but she’s going to show up, word to God. And when she shows up, that hoe shows out.
 
A couple of years ago, I was introduced to perhaps the wildest song I’d ever heard, and that’s saying a lot, considering I’ve listened to Russell Ason Unique Jones (LONG LIVE ODB!), Marshall Mathers (Em will always be my favorite white boy; he earned my respect) along with D12, and Brotha Lynch Hung, easily the wildest Negro I’ve ever heard on a record. Ask Robert Glaspy if you don’t believe me. He put me on to that nigga. I really thought I’d heard it all, until I heard “Who I Smoke,” an “interpolation” of Vanessa Carlton’s “A Thousand Miles,” by Spinabenz, Whoppa Wit Da Choppa, Yungeen Ace, and FastMoney Goon. These esteemed young men, all hailing from Jacksonville, FL, rapped bars about...who the fuck they smoked, over perhaps the most sentimental song of my adult life. Shit, I own the song (I DO NOT stream; I pay for my music). For further intrigue, the video was shot on a golf course, with all participants dressed for 18 holes (no Diddy) of play.
 
I want to say that I was incredulous. I want to say that I was almost subdued by disbelief. But in reality, I was partially intrigued and completely certain that these young niggas were wilder than the insane asylum on Riker’s Island. Fuck that, Arkham (IYKYK). So, in typical Tyrone Monday fashion, I did a deep dive. It immediately took me to a YouTube video about the Jacksonville drill scene and its deadly effects. The video, titled “Jacksonville Deadly Gang War,” has amassed 8.4M views in three years. Its creator, Trap Lore Ross (a blue blood), has become one of the preeminent oracles of the morbid reality of trap music. Almost two hours in duration, Ross documents the sordid history of several Jacksonville drill rappers, detailing their real-life beefs, which they conveyed to the world through music. I’ll be blunt; almost all the young men referenced in the video had been killed – by one another. Most were barely adults. But the focus of the documentary seemed to revolve around two young men: the aforementioned Yungeen Ace and another rapper named Julio Foolio. Ace was shot eight times in a 2018 mass shooting that killed all three of the men he was with, including his brother. He was involved in another shooting less than a year later, again surviving the shooting but losing another close friend. And who was there to troll him both times? None other than Foolio. I mean come on. You can’t expect anything less from a nigga named Foolio. Foolio was extra disrespectful though. He shot videos at gravesites. He made devastated mothers cry even more. But that bitch karma...
 
Yesterday, I turned my television on to find out that Foolio was shot and killed early Sunday morning in Tampa after celebrating his 26th birthday. He had hosted a pool party at an AirBnB but got kicked out. He and his folk left the BnB and checked into rooms at the Holiday Inn. Foolio and three others were in the car in the parking lot around 3:30 am when they were ambushed. He didn’t stand a chance.
 
In typical drill fashion, Ace released “Do It,” a Foolio diss track, hours after his death was confirmed. I just listened to it. That shit hard den a MF.
 
Lord, have mercy.
 
I don’t merely work with autistic learners; it’s my calling. I’ve been blessed to work with children since I was a child, literally. I entered the workforce part-time at age 13, working the chain gang for youth football, under the tutelage of my mentor Brad Ballou (I miss you Big Fella). I’ve been in education for two decades, 18+ in the public school system and 1.25 years in the private sector. I’ve worked AND run summer camps. I’ve worked AND run SACC programs. I’ve had kids call me everything other than a child of God. I’ve wiped tears and asses. There have been times when I’ve questioned my efficacy as an educator. There have been times when I wanted to walk away from education and never look back. One thing has always remained steadfast – my love for ALL my babies. There was my kinship with the AP kids on their way to universities much bigger than my alma mater. They were drawn to my charisma and respect my acumen for journalism, politics, and popular culture. As a paraprofessional, I never sat in a class with them. But I was an AP student in high school. I could relate to what they were going through, especially the pressure. Their eyes would pop out of their heads when I asked them how crazy it was to learn that Advanced Placement exams have five (5) multiple choice answers: A, B, C, D, and E. These encounters happened in lunch cafeterias and gym bleachers, but bonds were forged, nevertheless. There were my future felons. I developed bonds with those young men during my time in middle school. It was clearly apparent that they’d chosen to endeavor upon that path. I told my middle school hard rocks in training that I believed that they had the ability to be anything they wanted to be if they were willing to work for it, and I meant it. However, since you’re stuck on going down that road, there are a few things that you need to know. I’ve got a young man doing life. I’ve got a young man who was slain in prison (LONG LIVE JOSH), I’ve got young men currently incarcerated in New Jersey AND New York state corrections. I’ve got young men who’ve done their time and are productive citizens. And then I have my most precious learners, my autistic learners...
 
I spent my last two years in public school as a one-to-one for an amazing young man named William. He was a transplanted New Yorker whose mother moved to Bergen County in hope of finding a school in which her boy wouldn’t be bullied for his constant scripting (when a child repeats things they see/hear, usually their favorite cartoon or YouTuber) and his high-pitched voice. They placed him with Mr. T. (I hate referring to myself in the third person). William was a blessing to my life in so many ways. The kid was brilliant, in his own way. His parents worked for the airlines, so he had a fascination with airports. He knew the three-letter abbreviation of EVERY airport in the world (well, damn near). He could recite old Nickelodeon, Nicktoons, etc. commercials flawlessly. He inadvertently reminded me that Nickelodeon and its sister channels went black for three hours every Worldwide Day of Play prior to the pandemic. It reminded me of the respect I had for Nickelodeon and the fact that they were willing to sacrifice three hours of getting paid to encourage kids to go out and be active. He scripted the commercial flawlessly. He is an amazing human being. I’m blessed to have had him as my 13th and final one-to-one in public schools.
 
During the same period, I worked part-time as an ABA behaviorist in Bergen County. After a disastrous first assignment, I was blessed to work the same case for the next two years with one of my favorite people on this planet, a now 20-year-old young man named Felipe. My first [of four] BCBA (Board Certified Behavior Analyst – the big dog) told me when I began my journey with Felipe to not expect much (the nerve of her). Boy was she wrong. My guy achieved so much in our time together. He made so many strides. He also made me a better human being. He allowed me to share his world for three hours a day, a serene world oblivious to the evil of this world that you and I are forced to endure (Hawk spoke to my soul at Will’s commencement). I could go on and on about how brilliant Felipe is. It still wouldn’t be enough. I love that guy. And I miss him. I’ll be through the crib for his 21st. He’s a part of my family, and I am a part of his.
 
Pardon my rambling, but if you haven’t picked up what I’m putting down, I’m letting you know I love these kids. All of them. Unconditionally. They are all unique. They are all worthy of being loved. We have no idea what they go through when they’re not in our care, but we know exactly what they’re going through when they’re with us. We have an obligation to teach AND nurture. Anything less is unacceptable. I don’t care who you are. I don’t care what position you hold. What’s done in the dark will eventually come to the light. Trust. Lest we forget...karma is undefeated.
 
I love you Lynn. Thank you for being you.
 
I’ve been typing forever. This was all one contiguous thought, opening paragraph aside. I’m tide. (Slick Rick voice) Goodnight!

#MNR: TY MONDAY & THE MIRACLES

“I been down. But I hope I make it out.”
Brent Faiyaz

“I’m barely standing, and plus my second hand say it’s midnight.”
Makaveli the Don

“You sho’ is ugly!”
Shug Avery


The last time I did this was in college. I’m just going to let my fingers go. Whatever comes to mind is what I’m typing. I’ve got a J lit, two in the ashtray, and it’s whatever. If something I say in the course of this blog upsets you in any way, please go to your local bodega. Walk in. Have a Coke and a smile. Translation: I don’t give a fuck. Shut your sensitive ass the fuck up and enjoy the blog.

For those of us who stay tuned in – howdy. How the fuck are ya? I hope all is well. If not, go to your bed, get in that bitch, get under the covers, and pray that your friendly neighborhood weed man didn’t short you a .5 out of your eighth. My bad. I was having too much fun. All jokes aside, if all isn’t well, take a few deep breaths, exhale slowly, and roll a J. If you don’t have any flower, contact your local cannabis distributor, and...MF I already told you. Pray he doesn’t short you on your package. If he does, take your lazy ass to the dispensary next time and pay rapper prices for proper weight. Go on ‘head and spend some of that money. Good ole Sleepy Joe (and the last 98 job reports) told us the economy is thriving. Show him you agree by spending some of your net gains on that sweet cheeba. And I mean the good shit.

I remember the time I smoked a J with Delores after work and damn near collapsed on my way to Port Authority (LMAO!!!). Ok, I’m dragging it a wee bit, but I was damn near sittin’ sideways. I felt like I was Gumby in his weird little clay world. I felt like my fat clay Gumby legs were going to sink into the clay asphalt of 8th Avenue. I was scared for about ¾ of a block, between like 35th and 36th. After I realized I wasn’t going to pass out, it became fun. I really felt like I was Gumby, y’all. I was geeking. It became an adventure. And low key, I kinda hoped I sank into 8th Avenue – just a bit (sensory!). It would have been like Gumby quicksand. I thought I was in a special scene from The Simpsons or That 70s Show. I wouldn’t call it serendipity, but it was damn near bliss. In typical Ty Monday fashion, my happiness immediately eroded when I got to the top of the escalator in Port Authority and began to walk to my bus. Even though it was air conditioned, my body temperature rose about 2.5 degrees. I was [more] nervous than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. I thought I was going to have a stroke and pass out in the middle of all the commuters. Pass out, fall, crack my water head on the Port Authority floor, and bleed out until it trickled to the escalator I just ascended. Someone please call 911! And grab me a bacon/egg/cheese on a croissant and a medium coffee light and sweet from the Dunkin for my ambulance ride to who knows what hospital? As long as I don’t somehow end up in Lincoln in the X I’m good. I’d damn near rather head to the morgue than Lincoln. Oh, yeah. I made it to my bus. I made it to my bus safely. I put the little vent on me and got that cool breeze. I was good. I was as happy as a runaway slave in northern territory. Nigga, I made it.

Shout out to my ace Ju for imploring me to drink alkaline water. Six bucks for a bottle of water reminds me of my only sour memory of Vegas – the entertainment tax. A tall bottle of Poland Spring was six damn bucks. But damn it, I bought an almost gallon of Poland Spring from the .99 store earlier and the water tasted like plastic. There goes my $2.50. Damn it, man. First Wham! breaks up, and now this. At least I’m pH balanced like a woman (aye yo!). Fuck y’all. My water has a 9.5 pH, is ionically charged, 9-stage purified, has electrolytes, and has no added sodium, chlorine, or fluoride. It tastes like water in a paper cone cup from the water cooler in an 80s doctor’s office. Clean. Crisp. In a cup made for an icee. From an 80s doctor’s office. Totally 80s: Reaganomics, the crack epidemic, Jheri curls, dope man Nikes, and Morton Downey Jr. What a time to be alive.

America is two weeks away from the first of two planned presidential debates. For those of you who haven’t been paying attention, Big Cheesy sounds like a drunk grandpa gone off Adderall with a touch of dementia. He has been reduced to being little more than a sweaty, shitty, diaper wearing buffoon, slurring his way through speeches at MAGAt gatherings. Have you ever noticed that EVERY time tRump speaks against Sleepy Joe and his policies, it’s always something “of the likes which we’ve never seen before.” He keeps painting a picture of some dystopian society, when in reality, it’s the same old macabre society we’ve always known. America isn’t the hell that tRump portrays; it’s the progression of an “equal” society in an ever-changing world.

There’s plenty wrong. There’s plenty that could be better. But, if you really feel it’s the worst place ever, I’m going to tell you what the pilgrims tell us – leave, nigga. Go see how it is abroad. Pick a country in Europe. Asia. Mother Africa. Shit, move to Mexico. I heard the economy is thriving. Move to a town in a region of a country where once a week they drop all the UPS packages off by a post at the end of the dirt road. Wait a month for a 10-day supply of medicine. Wi-Fi? Laughing my motherfucking ass off! No-fi.

The blatant inflation of the crowd numbers at these gatherings reminds me of the night the Expos were near the end of playing baseball in Montreal (late 90s), eventually relocating to D.C. and being renamed the Nationals. Anyway, they were playing a game in Olympic Stadium and the announced crowd was around 6,500, which is HORRIBLE for an MLB game. A camera from behind the center field wall had a wide shot of the stadium. There couldn’t have been any more than about 800 people in that shot, which comprised about 65% of the stadium. What I’m saying is...that’s the same lying ass MF counting the attendance at these MAGAt rallies. Lies, lies, lies. Don’t believe the hype. Everyday people, rather, registered voters with good sense, see all the fuckery. It's all a facade. It’s all a sham. Cheesy is going to get smoked in November. I’m still taking bets. Put a blue face on it.

I’m just high. High and typing my thoughts as they pop up in my Megadome. Don’t mind me. I’ll see y’all next week. I’m doing online training for a PT gig. 6.5 hours. I can’t (Ju voice).  Stay up, player. 

#MNR: god TIER
 
“Whoever said that what I say and portray is negativity, need to come and kick it in the city with me.”
Dr. Dre
 
“I got too many hoes...but they ain’t you. You like to put that shit up your nose...but I still love you.”
Brent Faiyaz
 
Every time I sit before my Mac to create another #MNR, I am in essence a prisoner to my own imagination. In my mind, I want this to be a pavilion, a place of refuge in times of downpour. I want it to be your weekly newsletter, crafted in the spirit of a broadcast. I want it to be your local council meeting. I want it to be an unplanned yet necessitous visit to the museum. I want it to be an excursion deep into the dense foliage of your personal feelings as well as mine. I want it to be the battle cry of our universal community through communication, which inevitably reveals a common unity.
 
I know my brother Mr. Ten can dig it. I’m high as Italian gas prices and eagle pussy.
 
Years before smartphones and Wi-Fi, around the time Google was a relatively unknown web site and Nasir bin Olu Dara Jones ethered Shawn Corey Carter, my uncle proclaimed that we all lived in a microwave society. The essence of his statement was easily discernible. The immediate thought is that society wants things to happen in short time, as microwaves do in fact cook food quickly. But the deeper dive incorporates the microwave’s counterpart, the oven. Damn it, Monday. There you go again. We know that microwaves cook food faster than an oven. Duh. You’re right. But my point is this – which tastes better? And why?
 
You must always put the [proper] time in if you want something, or more concisely, your creation to be its best. That’s the entire point of it taking time. A quick fix is exactly what its name suggests: a fix. A fix that is quick. Junkies need a quick fix. It immediately takes them to the moon [and beyond]. But when their SpaceX pod returns to the filthy ass, vermin infested bando they’re getting superhero high in, they’re right back where they began. Those of us who aren’t drug addicts are still challenged with forsaking quality for the quick fix in other aspects of our lives. We are satisfied for a little while, but it isn’t long before we are yet again displeased. Quality, on the other hand, is long lasting. It is appreciated because it is worth the cost, literally and figuratively. You are more prone to appreciate something you invested time and hard work into than something you “threw together.”
 
I think that the true essence of my uncle’s wisdom is that in addition to wanting things quick, fast, and in a hurry, we also love to rush to judgement. The court of public opinion adjudicates a case waaaaaay before an actual file is charged. I believe that social media has rendered due process outside of the courtroom impossible. Jump on the twitter to defend a celebrity who has allegedly done something amoral and see what happens to your cape wearing ass. They’re going to cook your ass in the same open flame they cook the nigga you dove into the social media cesspool to save. The fight’s rigged. You can’t win. You have no chance.
 
Want nuance on top of nuance? Cool. I brought an extra clip with me.
 
We don’t only rush to judgement on guilt or innocence, we also rush to judgement on who is or isn’t “finished.” We write people off and count people out with no type of sensical reasoning involved, other than the perception (or reality) that their last performance wasn’t epic and/or extremely underwhelming. We immediately negate all the success and hard work a person has achieved up until that point. That’s nasty work. Disgusting. And we all know that it stems from hate. You couldn’t wait to see that man or woman have a slip-up. Now you’re ready to pull up and burn their castle down. Their success is the bane of your existence. Their faux pas is your opportunity to finally have a moment in the sun, with your ole hating ass. Ironically, that’s your quick fix. You’ll go back to hating soon thereafter. You can’t help it. It’s in your blood. You come from a long lineage of haters. Your daddy. Your big booty auntie. Your grandmama dem. Alluvum.
 
If you’re a person in your 40s or older who is compelled to run on social media and tell your personal business, you may qualify for my latest study. Please contact me at [email protected] if interested. Please leave your name, age, sex, and a personal rating of 1-5 of how important you feel you are to random MF who don’t even know who TF you are. There will be no compensation for the study, but you will receive a wealth of blunt yet pertinent self-awareness.
 
Please don’t ever think that genius is limited to academic acumen and mere perception. Genius has many different forms and appears in many ways. That taciturn man who can barely read a restaurant menu can break an engine down and put it back together as easily as a prodigy can solve a Rubik’s Cube. That brother with beer on his breath who is a bit rough around the edges can lay tile with a personal brand of creativity and precision that keeps him in high demand without a social media presence or brick and mortar business. That young woman with purple hair and ten million facial piercings can invade and paralyze a casino’s entire network with a few keystrokes. Stop acting like you can read a person solely based on race, gender, sexual preference, appearance, socioeconomic status, or whatever TF you feel makes a person inferior. Let their work be the standard by which they are judged. Never underestimate anyone.
 
If you think I forgot then you must have forgotten that I rarely, if ever, forget. If you think that I don’t discern nuance, sarcasm, or ignorance you are mistaken. You are ignorant, and there is no sarcasm in my nuance. If you think I didn’t do my homework, I don’t blame you for the thought. You weren’t aware that I read and mastered the unit before it was discussed in class. If you think that I’m ever scared when entering the field of play, you are tragically unaware that I am a master of preparation. If you think that God’s children won’t win in the end, you sadly read the story all the way through and yet misinterpreted its ending.
 
Me: But I thought –
Archie G. Warren, Sr.: Do they pay you to think?
 
Joji, I love how you randomly quote something from the blog in the middle of class. I love you, period. Big ups to Justine for being a real one, from our discussion at the Irish watering hole the other day to casually letting me know you read my blogs. I fux with you a long way. Big ups to all my ardent supporters; there is no #MNR without you. Big ups to all the nickel bag spots in Harlem and #BXNYC in the mid-90s. I miss that era. I was so young and pretty, and my tolerance for mid to low grade reefa was so low. Peace, y’all. I’m out through one of the trap walls in a Scooby episode. A he, he, he, he, he!