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A Day in the Life

Before we do anything, I’m pulling the full time Rakim jack move and nominating my DJ President. Well, I’m no rapper. And I don’t have a DJ. But I do have the irreplaceable @TheMisterCeizzo, better known as Christian Eaddy. He doesn’t cut records, but he does handle the ones and twos with ease. Big ups to the CrewunB CEO; he also doubles as my consigliere. We’re making a run for the Black House. Expect it and respect it.

I really do love and enjoy verbal intercourse from a mature woman, and by mature, I don’t mean the homie’s grandmother. I mean a woman who is of age, savvy, acumen, and intelligence to badminton the verbal shuttlecock back and forth. She keeps the pace and even scores from time to time. To me that, as a non-physical attribute, comes second, right after the scent of a woman (she has to smell distinctively alluring). I can’t stand a woman who gets upset at the slightest verbal jab; I love a woman who can take a jab or two and return a blow or two when the spirit hits her. I love a woman who is knowledgeable about diverse topics and can express herself in a clear and concise manner. I don’t want to talk about a damn rap video or what Negro is a member of the illuminati. All that corner talk is played out and does nothing to please me aesthetically. Talk to me about something outside the box. Don’t get me wrong, I need her to have a lil hood in her, just a smidgen, enough to be able to relate to me if I journey down memory lane and make a stop or two. But it all hinges upon her mouthpiece and intellect. I love to get physical just like anyone else, but after sex, there has to be something more if there is a “We.” A relationship cannot flourish or exist on sex alone. That’s what makes verbal intercourse even more ill. You don’t even have to be involved with a woman sexually to shoot gems back and forth. The best is when there is an attraction, but there isn’t anything established or concrete. There hasn’t been any pairing, or even a promise of pairing in the future. There’s just the verbal, the back and forth. I swear it’s really like badminton or in my case, tennis. I use badminton as example for the masses, whose brains are unable to process thoughts efficiently or rapidly enough to spit game on the level I play on. But for us who do, it’s Serena, Nadal, Federer, Sharapova. Every verbal dart is a bull’s-eye strike (ok, most of them), and the level of wit in such a small window of time seems ever the more amazing. Women love a man with a slick mouthpiece; it keeps them on their P’s and Q’s. It’s the same for a man. When it’s played on its highest level, it’s truly a thing of beauty. If you ever want to hear game at its finest, look up Lord Finesse’s 1996 track “Game Plan.” His one-liners are top shelf, delivered with the ease of combat sniper. I feel for youse dumb MF who don’t know how to talk to a woman. “You tryna fuck?” won’t cut it with a real woman, one who’s never seen the inside of the health department or free clinic. But hey, to each his own. But don’t say Uncle Monday never put you up on game.

Shouts to my plug, who’s letting them eighths and sevens fly for thirty five and seventy cash. You are the real MVP (Kevin Durant voice, with the same amount of tears of joy in mine eyes).

Big ups to the homie Murda Mook on his already legendary freestyle during one of the battle rappers segments of the 2014 BET Hip Hop Awards Cipher. I’m not much for trying to regurgitate lines already spit, plus the delivery is always of utmost importance during a live performance. I’ll just say…if you haven’t seen his freestyle, log onto YouTube and run it back like six or seven times. They say he’s the newest king of the battle rap circuit, though we all know he’s no newcomer. I’m not the one to fake on my blog and act like I’m a battle rap head. I’ve got niggas who show up to the events live to see it take place. But I do take a look from time to time, and I fux with Calicoe, Loaded Lux, and Mook. Mook is on fire right now. Ruff Ryders need to get his project on the streets while his industry buzz is up like this. Is he still signed to RR? Me dunno. But either way, Mook is a legend in the battle rap game, and a fierce MC in any realm. Much love to Mook and the entire Harlem, eastside to west.

Send any love/hate mail to [email protected], as well as any legitimate business inquires. Also, check out my classic book 100 Blocks Stories at amazon.com. It’s already certified in the streets. The world is next, naturally. Follow me on the Twitter @tymonday, as well as my family @TheMisterCeizzo and @CraftyLefty57. They blog from time to time when I’m on CR. Follow our squadron as well, @crewunB. We’re also on IG as theunbearablescrew. We provide the flyest in apparel, traditional screen print as well as a la carte design. We’ve got unB hoodies on the way. Pre-order yours today. That’s all for now, world. It’s time to shake a leg, and get up in the wind, suga.

I wanna send a special born day shout to my ace, my heart, my best friend, my #1 fan, my mama. Happy birthday Shareon. You're truly the greatest. I'm gonna make good on my promise very soon.

Greetings on this blessed Friday. We're gonna cover diverse topics today. You know the routine. Buckle up. Put one in flight if you feel the need. Whatever you do, be sure to enjoy. We aim to please.

Time Is Illmatic, the documentary chronicling the twentieth anniversary of Nas' magnum opus Illmatic, has opened to rave reviews. Two decades after he altered the very course of the entire genre of rap music, Nas sat before the camera to speak on not only the album, but also on life events that led to the creation of arguably rap's greatest single piece of work. The cast includes Nas' father, blues legend Olu Dara, fellow artists Alicia Keys, Busta Rhymes, Swizz Beatz, and Pharrell Williams, Illlmatic's production team of super producers (Large Professor, LES, Primo, Q-Tip, Pete Rock), and most importantly his brother Jabari "Jungle" Jones, the most vital mouthpiece for the documentary, Nas included. As Nas' kid bro, Jungle has been a part of greatness literally from day one, serving as Nas' first critic, right hand man, and perhaps closest friend. It was Jungle who was with Nas' best friend Ill Will the night he was murdered in Queensbridge Houses. Jungle's candid and stoic recollection of the events that led to the birth of Illmatic (including Will's death) set the tone for the entire project. Even if Nas isn't your favorite MC, you'll love the documentary. Director One9 did an amazing job, in my completely non objective yet completely biased opinion. Salute to the GOAT Nasir, my favorite MC for the past 21 years.

If you love Batman but haven't tuned into Gotham yet, I should check your pulse to see if there is one. A perfectly cast show, it's poised to be the breakout new show of 2014. Set in Gotham City beginning the night the Waynes are murdered before young Bruce's eyes, it chronicles the widespread crime and corruption that threatens to consume Gotham City about twenty years before the Batman takes to the streets. It focuses around a young James Gordon, new detective for GCPD. Bright eyed and straight laced, he's partnered with the corrupt Detective Harvey Bullock. We are introduced to a young Edward Nigma (Ridler), GCPD forensic scientist and resident asshole at the time, as well as a young Oswald Cobblepot (Penguin) who begins the series as a flunky for vixen crime boss Fish Mooney (Jada Pinkett Smith), a specially created character for the show, Queen of both seduction and terror. Throw in Don Falcone and all types of unknown villains who help make Gotham City a waste basket for corruption. We even meet a teenage Catwoman. Everything is A-1 with this show. Tune in to Fox on Mondays at 8 pm to enjoy greatness.

Law and Order: SVU has returned for Season 16, and just when I personally figured it was gasping for its last breath, it has exploded back onto Wednesday nights at 9 pm. Four episodes in, we've already seen more bodies than some places see in a year. Olivia is back running the show, literally, while being an adopted parent in her off time. Detective Amaro is back from purgatory to rejoin the SVU team. And Ice is still Ice. 16 seasons in, SVU is still must see tv.

I'm notoriously late to everything, but I just jumped on board for FX's fourth season of American Horror Story. This season, titled Freak Show, is equally amazing and frightening. Set in 1952 Jupiter, Florida, it chronicles a collective traveling freak show (one of America's last at that time) and its struggle to be accepted by "mainstream" America. There is plenty of star power, including Kathy Bates, Angela Bassett, and Michael Chiklis. And oh yeah, there's a creepy ass, brolic serial killer clown. Watch this one with the lights on; it's creepy AF.

PS: The League on FXX is easily the funniest show on television. If you haven't peeped game, I just threw you the alley. I'm done.

As always, send all love/hate mail to [email protected], as well as any legitimate business inquiries. Follow me on the Twitter @tymonday, as well as my fam @TheMisterCeizzo and @CraftyLefty57. You might as well follow the team as well, @crewunB. We're also on IG as theunbearablescrew. Check us out for the latest in apparel. Our a la carte original designs are finna hit the streets via sweatshirts and long sleeve crew necks, just in time for the climate change. That's my time y'all. Peace to man, woman, and child.

This is a special, special dedication. RIP to my home girl Jayné's pops.

Death has been a constant part of my life dating back to 1981, when a botched birth resulted in the death of my baby sister. Her name was going to be Tamika. Tamika Latoya Thompson. I won't get into the specifics of what happened. I'll just say that when my mother went into labor, both she and baby were healthy. Three years later I lost my great grandmother Beatrice James, whom I'd spent extensive time with as a little one. I adored that lady. I was too young to fully understand what death was, so when my mom broke the news to me I didn't react at all. But days later, the day of the funeral, it hit me like a ton of bricks. I'll never forget. My mom and I had just walked into Caldor's and I was asking her questions like when my nana was coming back. When I finally realized she was never to return, I immediately broke down, literally. If I try hard enough, I can still see the store, me on the floor, the whole nine. Seven years later, when I was a nobody at HCJHS, a smooth kid from the tougher side of town named Sam "Scooter" Mitchell spotted an outcast kid sitting by himself and invited him to eat lunch at the table with him and his team. He and Fat Reggie ran the most lucrative candy selling ring in the whole school. They had workers and everything. Either they got their inventory at a cut rate price or they outright stole it. Either way, they made plenty money. Scooter was the front man, mouthpiece, and enforcer of the crew. Nobody wanted sauce with Scooter. Even though I played ball for the school and was one of only two black male honor students in eighth grade, I had no identity at all. No swagger, no nothing. Just a kid who hoped no one would bank him in the locker room or on the bus. I was absolutely forbidden to fight or get in any sort of trouble. I'd fought a million times coming up in Uptown NYC, but we were in VA now. Academic excellence was the standard for Shareon; she would settle for nothing less. And I was the drug free, brainiac church boy who never disobeyed his mother. I was a fucking square. I have no problem admitting it. But Scooter took me in. He liked my quick wit and encyclopedia brain. He made me a part of his lunch circle. I finally had a home table in the ultra competitive junior high cafeteria. I idolized Scooter. He didn't take shit from anyone: older kids or teachers. And I feel it's a must to let you know that my junior high included ninth grade at the time. That meant 17 year old men with full beards walking around the school everyday. And there were plenty of guns inside everyday. Halifax County was a war zone at the time, second in the UNITED STATES in murder per capita. But no one fucked with Scooter. No one. One Friday night later that year, Scooter went out with his older friends (he hung out with high school cats outside the school). The car was a hatch back. There were six heads in the whip. Scooter was the youngest and smallest, so by default, he had to sit in the hatch. On the way to the movies on a country road, the car hit a bump. The hatch flew open, ejecting Scooter. He ended up rolling under the wheels, somehow. He was crushed. He died instantly. It also crushed me and so many people. Scooter was a man at 14. I never got over his death; I probably never will. Four years later, I was introduced to Alzheimer's disease. Mary Warren, my brilliant and near perfect grandmother, was diagnosed. She was everything to me growing up. She was the most kind and most giving woman I've ever met, even to this day. Watching her go from brilliant to a vegetable in a matter of less than a decade literally killed my soul. Truth be told, that's the reason why I went to the streets and went so hard for mine. I couldn't rationalize someone so good having to suffer in such a fashion. I lost faith in everything I believed in. I was angry AF. I said fuck it and didn't look back for half a decade. In that time I lost at least a dozen homies to street life, including my big homie Chubb (he died of diabetes, but that came as a result of living two decades of harsh street life) and my homie PR, who was slain while making out of town moves in Bmore. The very MF he pulled the jux with put 14 holes in him. His death marked the beginning of the end of my Jeff crew; we eventually all went our separate ways. As I sit here and think, a lot of that pain resurfaces. Death is the ultimate finality. No one knows the day nor the time. We just know it's coming. And, personally speaking, no matter how often it occurs, you never get over it. All we have are the memories.
Send all love/hate mail to [email protected]. Follow me on the Twitter @tymonday. Follow my bros as well, @TheMisterCeizzo and @CraftyLefty57 and our squadron, @crewunB. As always, we offer the flyest in apparel, whether screen print or a la carte. Check us out on IG at theunbearablescrew. Many blessings

I dreamed that I could paint you with words. But there were no colors bright enough, black or white enough, blue or green enough, it didn’t mean enough. You are the star that touched the earth.

Mary J. Blige feat. Mos Def and Talib Kweli, “Beautiful” (Blackstar remix)

@TheMisterCeizzo and I have discussed doing this for some time, y’all. Buckle up. Matter fact, unbuckle the belts and lean back. Put one in flight. It’s just a fly love story, something I freestyled and put together for your entertainment.

"She"
In retrospect, I guess I can say that it was a perfect love (imagine even the possibility), created in the heavens and birthed in Harlem. It was the summer of 2003. The first time I saw her I was on [1]two-fourth and Seventh, right by the State Building. I coulda sworn she was Jane Kennedy’s daughter, just as golden brown, with natural shoulder length hair in French braids. She stood at a bow legged 5’6”, with a look in her eye that said determination. I swear time froze the very moment our eyes met in a glance that eliminated every other pedestrian on the street. I was stuck in quicksand, but I managed to wink at her. She licked her perfect lips and smiled. In return, I bit my bottom lip and continued to stare her down. Damn it! The light turned green. She quickly gathered her thoughts and began to cross the Avenue along with the other pedestrians. Dribble or shoot, Monday! my inner self screamed from within. That meant to walk her down or continue to go on about my business. I chose the former, and not the latter. By the time I got to the corner, the light was about to change. I jetted across both sides of Adam Clayton Powell Blvd. (Uptown feels me), narrowly escaping oncoming death. Whew! I never took my eyes off her the entire gauntlet; she was halfway up the block, headed to [1]two-fifth. I did my best Olympic power walk while maintaining my cool (I try to refrain from using swag) the only way an Uptown nigga could do it. When I ran her down we were right on the corner. I cut her off (always a feast or famine gesture). Aren’t you bold, sir? Pardon my sense of urgency, but I’m Ty. I’m Eternity. I’m from the eastside, where are you from? I’m from Gambia. Wow. East Africa. How did you know that? I’m a scholar, sweetheart. I don’t doubt that, but Gambia isn’t as well-known as Ghana or Nigeria. Well, I’ve never been to Accra or Abuja, but I’m intrigued by the Motherland. If I ever get to travel the world, I’m going to Africa first. Really? Really. What country? Gambia…I had her heart from there. It just so happened that she was on her way home from school. She interned in the Mayor’s Office and took summer courses at NYU. (Remember that piece of info). She was staying downtown in SoHo with friends of the family. She was uptown, and she wanted to see Harlem. I was her tour guide. We went everywhere. We walked [1]two-fifth. We ate at Manna’s. I took her to the eastside, my side, after we passed through Central Park North at 110th and Lenox. We sat in the plaza of my projects. We discussed life under the stars. Before we knew it, it was 2:30 am. She had class at 9. I flagged down a cab for her. She kissed me passionately right before she got in the cab. I melted. We spent the better part of the next two weeks together. We did things she liked to do. We went to the Guggenheim. We went to the Bowery and took pics in front of CBGB. We lay out in the grass on the Great Lawn of Central Park and had a basket picnic. On the thirtieth night after I met her, we made passionate love throughout the night. She told me that she loved me the next morning. Then she cried. I held her closely. Then I asked her why. She told me she had a dilemma. I asked her to explain. She told me that she’d never been in love. She told me that she’d never felt this way. I interrupted her. I told her that I felt the exact same way. But I explained that it felt right. She cut me off. She asked me to let her finish. I obliged. She explained how she never planned to fall in love, she couldn’t. I asked her what she meant. She told me that she came to America for one reason and one reason only. She came to America to educate herself so she could return to her native country and help the masses. She said it was her calling. It’s been her dream since she was eight years old. That’s when her mom gave her the prophecy shortly before she passed. Her internship would be complete within the next couple days. She’d already finished her summer courses. She’d be returning home to Gambia within the next week. But she didn’t want to go. She wanted to stay and be with me. I wanted to be selfish. I wanted it to be all about me. I wanted her to stay. But she told me how she was the golden child, a national scholar and hero long before adulthood. She was Gambia’s favorite daughter. Staying in America with me would certainly change it all. We were in love with one another, both for the first time. But, as much as it hurt me, I had to let her go. What triggered these memories? After all these years, we finally got back in contact. She is the country’s top educator, the founder of the nation’s first charter school. She fulfilled her mother’s prophecy. She sounded happy. She sounded content. Right before she hung up, she told me she had just had her first child. He was born on September 10. She named him Ty. After I hung up, I paused. Then I smiled. Then I dropped a couple tears