#MNR: THE NERVE OF YOU
 
“My next-door neighbor’s having convos with undercovers. Put a surprise in her mailbox, hope she get it. Happy birthday, bitch, you know you shouldna did it.”
Makaveli the Don
 
“They label my vocabulary abusive. I pack more knowledge than Confucius. I’m deadly.”
Kurupt
 
Peace, blessings and prosperity to the entire #MNR Family. Come on in, y’all. I know it’s cold and wet outside. Hang your parkas up. Rest your shoes. There’s hot cocoa on the stove. Come find a seat by the fireplace. Get comfortable. Twirl your aromatics. Let’s get blown. We’ve got some shit to discuss.
 
Last week, ‘round 'bout Tuesday in the evening time, I immechiately took a dumpy as soon as I got in the crib. The bubble guts were on full disrespect mode. It wasn’t near breech mode, but still. Anyway, I was enjoying my evening dumpy when I got a notification. Someone contacted me and told me that they took exception to something I mentioned in my blog. It wasn’t a difference of opinion; I welcome those. The beef was with my mere mention of something...or someone. Don’t e’en matter. Let’s begin with the obvious. Asshole, this is my MF blog. I can talk about whatever/whoever the fuck I want to talk about. You didn’t put in on this, man! You’re wild for that one. Next...if you read my blog in an ardent manner, you know politics/civil rights are a cornerstone of my discourse. Freedom of speech, the most referenced part of 1A, is a damn civil right. Amendment I reinforces my initial point: I can talk about whatever/whoever the fuck I want to talk about. It’s an inalienable right as an American. It's MY inalienable right as an American. Perhaps you should brush up on the constitution, jerkface. Finally...the nerve of you. And me, of all people. Smmfh. You had a better chance of kissing a Yosemite gap-toothed grizzly in the mouth than you had of successfully checking this gap-toothed grizzly for any motherfucking thing I speak on. This is my shit. I play with no referee. You must’ve smoked a K-2 spliff and sniffed a crushed xany on your way to the liquor store to buy crackhead beer. You trout-mouth heathen. Having said what I’ve said (and I mean every word of that shit), ain’t no thang. I forgive you. Just don’t let it happen again. (Baby Joker voice) Fucker.
 
I’m in the process of answering this long ass work survey about the job in general and about the efficacy of the supervisorial staff. These things are always weird to me. Sure, they’re completely anonymous (allegedly). Still, it’s kind of awkward critiquing their performance. I don’t see what they do all hours of the day. I don’t quite know what to say. Irrespective of my sentiments toward my supervisors, I don’t believe in going scorched earth on any type of evaluation: supervisor, coworker, subordinate, whomever. That’s just not my style. Having said as much, I think they do their damn jobs. That’s all I expect of supervisors. My boss lady has been good to me from Day 0. We talk more than just job shit. No human is perfect, but I have no ill words towards her. My lone critique of the supervisors is that they hover. But it’s kind of hard not to when you work in an area as limited in space as ours. I’m the king of pragmatism; I understand. That’s all I have to say.
 
Y’all know me. I couldn’t speak on critiquing others without critiquing myself as well. It is a short, brief critique: I am flawless. No, all jokes aside, I really am. In fact, I’m so flawless that I’ll speak on my greatest quality as a coworker: my ability to “build” the team as well as individuals. What, exactly, do I mean? I’m always going to compliment and encourage. I regularly speak with my coworkers about what they specifically do well. I uplift as much as possible. When I feel it’s time to encourage, I encourage. At times it’s to reinforce their confidence. Other times it’s to motivate them when they’re a bit down. I pay attention to everything, so I can detect when my teammate isn’t herself/himself. My words are fastidious and poignant. The intended result is always the same: let’s win.
 
Uplifting and edifying those who matter to me comes naturally. I make it a habit to encourage my folk as much as possible. Most of the time a simple accolade or acknowledgement goes a long way for someone’s psyche. When I used to live inside my head, I constantly questioned my worth. Having someone validate my efforts was everything, to the point where I actively sought validation. I had a situation where a family member failed to mention me in a shout-out roll call at a big event. It hurt my feelings. It led me to believe I didn’t really matter to them at the end of the day. After I got over that letdown, I promised myself I’d never allow that type of thing to affect me again. It took some time, but that type of thing isn’t that important to me anymore. But I see that that very desire exists in others. It’s natural. I feel that I possess a great deal of sagacity, or at least enough to recognize when someone special to me needs a quick word of encouragement. I’ll shoot a coworker a text of encouragement on a random Sunday afternoon. Why? Because I consider others’ mental well-being. I know that a random word of encouragement can go a long way. I don’t gas anything, either. There’s no hyperbole in my encouragement. If I give you a positive word it’s because I truly feel that way in my heart and spirit. I say what I mean and mean what I say. It’s not that others don’t feel the same way, but sometimes they fail to express these feelings. In turn, people tend to think that they’re not a big deal. If I fuck with you, you are abso-fuckinglutely a big deal. And even if you aren’t a big deal to the rest of the world, you are to me. I’m thankful for you and I’m blessed to have you as my family/homie/friend/lover/coworker. You matter. You matter to me.
 
In case you wonder why validation means little to me [anymore], it’s because the two greatest people in my life told me [in their own words] I’m that MF: Shareon and Me. The Lord is always with me, so whom shall I fear?
 
CEO and I are considering releasing audio versions of #MNR. What y’all think about that? If it sounds like a thing to do, send a quick memo to your boy on the Twitter @tymonday. I don’t half-ass anything I put my name on, so I’ll definitely make sure the audio quality is to my liking before we release anything. Archie Warren Sr. taught me to never halfway do a job. I don’t.
 
 Big ups to my girl Neek, an avid supporter of this blog and great individual altogether. Once upon a time she was the point goddess for the DMHS Lady Raiders. She could make water spill with the rock and had the flyest braids in the whole school. That was back when. These days, she’s one of the flyest with the dress code in the tri-state. She’s still funny AF. Still a real one. Salute.
 
Mobb niggas to the exit, we out (IYKYK).
 
tymonday.com: @tymonday on Twitter & IG
crewunb.com: @crewunB on Twitter & @theunbearablescrew on IG

#MNR: BIG BAMBÚ
 
“Place your eyes on the guy, that has no type of worries if I die. So pussyclot try.”
Trigga the Gambler
 
“When she land she let the whole city know.”
Nasir Jones
 
 
I write for thinkers, reefa heads, fly ladies and street chemists, Jameson sippers and old school niggas with dark tints. When I was a likkle youth, early ‘80s era, at least a decade before I first smoked weed in a Phillies blunt, I remember my dad and uncle rolling their cheeba in Bambú. After decades of polluting my lungs with blunt papers (Phillies & White Owl), natural leaves (Fronto leaves & Backwoods), and a combination of both (Dutch Masters & Optimo), I have finally become an exclusive “papers” roller. I’m done done with the blunts, y’all. My choice of papers? Big Bambú. Pure hemp. Since 1764. Life has come full circle, you heard? I used to get down with Raw paper, but I now prefer Bambú. I’m just carrying on tradition, I suppose.
 
Big ups to all the black market “dispensaries” in NYC, Chelsea in particular. The spot near the corner of my work block has 3.5 of za for $25. My Black Atlas Mafia family and I just discovered a new spot on 22nd & 8th on our way to drankin’ Friday after work. They had 7 of Mac 10 for $30. I feel like I’m in a smoker’s utopia. I’ve still got my main plug, but Chelsea is becoming the best #2 since Earl Morrall. I’m thankful.
 
I read a full back page ad in a recent amNewYork (courtesy of my ace Ju) from a special interest group (don’t remember the name and don’t care to) spewing propaganda about how minorities are missing out on getting into the dispensary market because illegal shops are selling their product tax-free. It posted data that said NY state was missing out on hundreds of millions in revenue because of the illegal shops. Motherfucker, do you think a: we’re stupid? or b: we actually care about lost revenue? It’s a smooth c: for me doggie – I don’t give a Kathy Hochul/Eric Adams fidduck. Y’all don’t give a fuck about minority business owners missing out on the market. Y’all been screwing prospective minority owners since bidding began years ago. Y’all only care about missing out on tax revenue. Fuck you, your taxes, and all the slave owner presidents, GW through tRump (the last fuck was so unnecessary yet so necessary). I’ll kick you one extra...I don’t give a fuck about all the MTA lost revenue either. Keep hopping the turnstiles, savage New Yorkers. (I’m too fat). Fuck the system. I will never campaign for the machine. Power to the people.
 
Big ups to the hackers who shut down portions of Vegas over the weekend. They shut down slots, stole personal information, stopped revolving doors, and kept folk out of their rooms by disabling key cards. I don’t give a fuck. I wasn’t vacationing there over the weekend. And this is coming from an MGM guy (I LOVE the green palace on the Strip). They got hit. So did Caesars. Caesars paid a ransom. MGM did not. I love cyberattacks that affect Fortune 500 companies. F500 robs us daily.
 
Magic 3, the sixth collaboration album in a three-year span between Nasir Jones and all-world producer Hit-Boy, is a galaxy or three past amazing. I play it straight through every damn time although “Blue Bentley, “Superhero Status,” “Japanese Soul Bar” and “TSK” are my immediate favorites. “Never Die,” the only song with a feature, is co-piloted by none other than Lil Tunechi himself. Nasir and Wayne are the 2023 collaboration we didn’t know we needed. I think there are three classic albums in this six-album run: Kings Disease, Magic and Magic 3. Nas is the undisputed GOAT.
 
I’ve mentioned this to Brandi and a couple of other loved ones before, but Magic 3 has compelled me to mention it to you all. Of all the amazing songs over this six-album run, “Dedicated” (the first two verses and first beat) off Magic takes me to a place that I’m not certain a song has ever taken me (if you know me, you know that’s saying A LOT). It’s a bit of the beat Hit perfected, it’s a bit of the lyrics Nas effortlessly delivered, and it’s a bit of Shareon. I’m certain that she would love this song if she were still here gracing the earth with her presence. The first time I heard it on Christmas Eve 2021 (the album was a genuine Christmas surprise – no promo) I felt a bit of fear. In my superhero high thoughts, it sounded like Nas was close to calling it a career. He sounded so content on the track. He said so many things that made me think about this beautiful life I’ve been blessed with. In essence, I feel exactly how I perceived Nas to feel on this record. I’ve been blessed beyond measure. I have/had the best family a human could ask for, from my mommy to throughout both family trees. I don’t have any “true friends” because anyone I consider to be a true friend is my family. I have a few true brothers and sisters from other mothers. I’ve been blessed to have loved and been loved by a handful of amazing, beautiful women. I’ve seen and experienced so many things, from the church to the lecture hall to the B-stairs. “I dedicated my...whole damn life. If I wanted to now, I could live an old man life.” Nasir, you’re the only individual who could ever speak for me. Okay, maybe Marvin, I Want You – Here, My Dear era. But still...
 
“When Carlito was dying, you see the shadow of his girl dancing with the baby, like ‘fuck it, it’s my time’...”
 
“Everything come back like a boomerang. I’m Black as Paul Mooney slang.”
 
“The streets had its hooks in me.” I’ve never heard this point mentioned quite like this. Lord knows that was me. “Before I make a move I think about it karmically.” I’m convinced that this is one of the reasons why I’m still alive on this earth. Mr. Jones spoke to my soul on this one. That’s word to my lady Amy Winehouse. I know you would’ve loved this one too (IYKYK) baby girl. I love and miss you Shareon. I feel your spirit on “Dedicated.” I dedicate this song to you.
 
THANK YOU SHANTEE FOR THE EARTH DAY GIFT!!!
 
HAPPY EARTH DAY TO MY GODSON ASHER. 7 IS MY FAVORITE NUMBER AND YOU’RE MY FAVORITE HUMAN.
 
To the projects, I’m ghost shorty rock, one love.
 
tymonday.com: @tymonday on Twitter & IG
crewunb.com: @crewunB on Twitter & @theunbearablescrew on IG

#MNR: MS. MARCY'S SONG
 
“All these people that you love, go ‘head and give ‘em a toast. Because if they ain’t here tomorrow you gon miss ‘em the most.”
Mac Miller (miss you my guy)
 
 
I was in the safest place in Amerikkka on 9.11.2001 – South Boston, VA, at my mama house. Won’t shit to crash a plane into except tobacco fields and the racetrack. I was working at my alma mater HCHS at the time, getting daily assignments as a substitute teacher. I had the hookup because my favorite teacher Mr. [Pedro] Zamora was the principal whose office oversaw subs. However, I wasn’t working that day because the day before was my 23rd birthday. My guys big Vinny, Rob, some other folk I can’t remember and I celebrated with a bottle of something I can’t remember in the Caravan. We drank. We smoked. We got extra wavy. I left the Hali fucked up (still respectable though) and went home at some point. I basically said all that to say that the next day of work was a dub. Nope. I mos def declined that assignment, or at least my step pop Sam did on my behalf. All I know is I didn’t answer anyone’s phone that sunny Tuesday morning. What I do remember is Sam waking me up from a deep sleep around 9. He simply said, “You need to see what’s happening to your city.”
 
I KNOW Y’ALL ARE UBER INTELLIGENT BUT THAT’S ACTUALLY A DIRECT QUOTE. I’LL NEVER FORGET THOSE WORDS.
 
I got up. Immechiately. I didn’t even wash my face or brush my jibs. Something in Sam’s tone let me know that it wasn’t time for hygiene or horseplay. I entered our den and sat on the couch, wiping boogers from my eyes. All I saw was smoke coming from a puncture in one of the towers. The hole looked like someone stabbed a piece of cardboard with a butcher’s knife or like a fracture in an x-ray. To say what I was watching was surreal would be an understatement. I couldn’t believe it. SOMEONE CRASHED INTO ONE OF THE TOWERS? I thought it was an accident. But how? Who would be dumb enough to fly into a tower? Peter Jennings (RIP KING) pondered similar thoughts. I barely had time to make sense of things when I saw the second plane hit the other tower in real time. I didn’t need Peter or Ms. Baez (my kindergarten teacher) to put one and one together to get two. I knew we were under attack. But who? Why? At the time, I didn’t make the USS Cole correlation because I’d never heard of the Taliban and damn sure didn’t know they were responsible for killing all those young men my age and younger on that ship the autumn prior. I remember the attack, though. As for the “why,” if you know me, you know I didn’t feel that way because I look at Murrica like she can do no wrong. But damn. Fuck we done did for all dis?
 
I immediately began to think about all my family up top. I prayed everyone was ok. Making calls up top was null and void. The grid was jammed OD. My imagination began to run for a minute. What if every plane in America has been hijacked? What if this is the beginning of World War Z?
 
Y’all don’t need me to keep going. If you are old enough to remember, you'll never forget. If you’re too young to remember you’ve read about it like I read about Vietnam as a kid, meaning you’ve probably read as much propaganda as truth from the very history books you were issued. 9.11 is like some Facebook relationships: it’s complicated. I don’t have the time to speak on all the filth, which basically took place from the Cold War until long after 9.11. Instead, I’ll focus on something different. Someone different.
 
9.11, much like the HIV/AIDS crisis and true crimes/missing persons, has captured my imagination. And, as with anything that captures my imagination and heightens my neurosis, I was compelled to do extensive research to develop some discernment from everything we’ve learned about from that day. I had to dig deeper; I have the proclivity to do so. I’ve watched extensive footage and documentaries of that fateful day, including 120 Minutes that Changed America (it’s the best IMO and a definite must watch). In my research, some of the people have become a part of my forever thoughts. One is the firefighter who was en route to the towers but got stuck in the Brooklyn Battery Park tunnel. He got out and ran to the towers, five kilometers to be precise. He helped save lives before perishing. And by the way, he’d just gotten off his shift. He could’ve gone home and watched it on television like I did. He chose to go help. His name was Stephen Siller. His legacy is commemorated by the annual Tunnel to Towers 5K (3.2 miles, you filthy Americans), held every September.
 
Now for the other person.
 
Am I wrong for looking for my-skinned folk in all those documentaries and hours of footage I’ve watched over the past couple of decades? If so, then so be it. The press would have you believe that none of us were in those towers. Fuck that. I’m gonna always check for mine. We tend to be misrepresented when it comes to counts, if you can dig what I’m saying. Anyway, in my studies, I kept coming across a picture of a young Black woman covered head to toe in dust. It appears that she was standing in the lobby of one of the towers. This young woman was as fly as could be; a true Shero. I was a young man at the time. I’ve always had an affinity for the downtown professional [Black] ladies and their fly attire. I’ve always been on that type of time. I could tell, even though she was completely covered, save her eyes and mouth. She had on what looks like a nice fall sweater, a fly skirt, and a mean pair of calf-length steps. Her handbag hung to her right side. Her look in the pic is the ultimate WTF. I always wondered what her fate was. Did she make it out that day? Yes. She made it out “safely.” Is she ok [today]? Sadly, no. She passed in August of 2015 from stomach cancer. It is almost certain the dust from the towers and the air she breathed that day led to her demise. Rest in power, queen. You are forever entrenched in my memory. The press labeled you “The Dust Lady.” I always called you Fly Ma. Respectfully.
 
I know I’m wrong, but candidly, I’ve always had a bit of contempt for 9.11. My reasoning is totally selfish. It’s not about the events. Lord knows it was one of the worst experiences of my middle-aged life. I still mourn folk I’ve never met. My contempt comes because I don’t get to extend my bday high. Whether I want to or not, I’m deflated when the morning of 9.11 arrives. It’s impossible to ignore it. This morning, as soon as I approached the Garden on the 8th Avenue side, I saw about eight FDNY captains in full uniform, almost certainly on their way downtown to the memorial for the ceremony. They all appeared to be in their 60s. I can’t imagine how many comrades they lost that day. Please forgive my contempt.
 
REST IN PEACE TO ALL WHO PERISHED ON 9.11.2001, WHETHER IT WAS THAT DAY OR YEARS LATER FROM HEALTH COMPLICATIONS.
 
tymonday.com: @tymonday on Twitter & IG
crewunb.com: @crewunB on Twitter & @theunbearablescrew on IG

#MNR: THE 4-5 LIKE JORDAN
 
“Suicide drills get your cap peeled. Crossover’s ill, have you think water spilled.”
Shyheim
 
“Funky fresh, dressed to impress, ready to party.”
MC Lyte
 
For those of y’all who have seen the movie Seven, do you remember the scene where Morgan Freeman and Brad Pitt entered the presumed killer’s apartment and encountered volumes of written notebooks the suspect possessed? I’m talking about packed wall-to-wall shelves. Each notebook had its pages (front and back) filled with writing. The shit was crazy. For full disclosure’s sake, that was actually my apartment door they kicked in. Those were my writings. I am the serial killer. Kevin Spacey was the fall guy. I pulled an eleventh hour 52 Fake Out and followed his Usual Suspects script.
 
Correction: cereal killer.
 
What up nuccas, how y’all? It’s Monday, the villain. I’m blessed. I have no complaints. All my needs are met. All my bills are paid. Well, other than the credit cards. But I put something on them. I’m current. Regardless, I’m good. Life is good. I spent most of last week in upstate NY on work-related bit-ness. I enjoyed my tine, but I’m OD happy to be home.
 
As I’m typing this blog, my screen went from light to dark mode. I’m almost certain that it’s coordinated with the day’s sunset. That shit is fly. Salute to all my Apple aficionados. I like uniformity throughout my tech, watch to phone to computer. That is all.
 
I’d rather you just call if you don’t have an iPhone. The green droid text box is nasty work. Plus, I can’t check your temperature with the read receipt.
 
You’re MF right I leave my read receipts on. I want you to know that I read your shit and that I also next your dumb ass. Fuck off.
 
If the Lord sees fit, Sunday will be my 45th trip around the sun. I’m thankful for another year of life. I’m in good spirits. I’m still on my NDO regiment. I’ve added a few more fly kix to my cache. I added some fly new threads to the wardrobe. I’m looking forward to getting out a bit more this year, beginning with the fall. Fall is my favorite season. Life is good. (Ab Soul voice) I just might be in your hood...
 
If you want to hit my CashApp to send a born day gift, reach your boy at $TyMonday. I also accept Zelle, Western Union, USPS, PlayStation gift cards, diamonds, indica, free dinners, and genuine HBD shouts. Give it up for the Virgos.
 
Tens of thousands of festival goers were able to leave the Burning Man counterculture festival in Nevada this afternoon after days of being stranded when rain led to thick mud which closed roads. Chris “Teef” Rock was amongst the attendees, which included artists, musicians and activists. Rock reportedly escaped through the desert north toward Reno, about 110 miles away. The festival has been held since 1986 and has seen its past share of issues/setbacks. There is only one confirmed fatality thus far. Attendees were said to have remained in good spirits, even though they had to ration food and shit in buckets for days. There are a couple of reasons as to why I would not have attended this festival, but none are of pressing importance. If you know me, I’m certain you can think of at least one.
 
I’ve got a couple of #MNR SPECIAL EDITION on deck. I’ve already conceived them. The keystrokes are merely a matter of labor. In addition to being released indiscriminately, #MNRSE always sticks to a lone topic. They are also usually pertaining to a certain special interest or popular culture. Soon come. Stay posted.  
 
It’s mine, it’s mine, it’s mine, who’s world is this?
 
tymonday.com: @tymonday on Twitter & IG
crewunb.com: @crewunB on Twitter & @theunbearablescrew on IG