#MNR: By Myself Meeting

“Every evening, I have a by myself meeting.”
Wu Cappadona

All jokes aside, I think the greatest misconception others have [of me] is the belief that I actually like humans. I can’t stand most of you MF. Most of you are self-serving, egotistical, apathetic, cynical, misanthropic, uncouth, incendiary masses of dog feces. You degrade, steal from, and murder your own. You use religion and economics to hate and separate. You have successfully destroyed this planet in under 300 years’ time. Why on earth would I like you MF? Most of you would cut my throat [at] the first chance you get. Unfortunately, I have to deal with you animals for about eleven hours a day. There’s work, and then there’s work (the latter being the best part of my day other than being with my family). So – by the time I finally return home – it’s usually about 20:00. I’m tied (tired). I’m ornery. I’m hungry. The last thing I want to do is answer a damn phone call. No MF, I don’t want to hang out and smoke blunts. Again, no MF, I don’t want to come over and “hang out” in any way (WTF is a damn hang out to grown MF?). I just want to go home, change into my wrestling suit (belly out, drawz, and ashy legs), smoke a left-hand, and decompress. After I smoke, eat, and take my meds, perhaps I’ll consider taking a phone call from a human other than Brandi – perhaps. I’ll hit you back some other time is what I’m usually thinking. Trust, it’s nothing personal. Welp, I’m lying. It’s very personal. Leave me TF alone. It’s just me, myself, and I. I like it that way.

“Hits and stones, in glass homes. You’re smoking stones, in abandoned homes. You hit them stones, and broke your home – crack rock, crack rock.”
Frank Ocean

The other day, my sun Chris approached me in the south building hallway at the beginning of fifth period lunch and flat-out asked me what I knew about the crack era. My reply? I know everything about the crack era. What do you want to know…?

Crack had my dad down bad for a long period of time. Crack tore my home apart. Tyrone was a “day one” NYC crackhead, and we suffered immensely. It took money out of my mom’s pockets (she was the only breadwinner). Shit, it took money out of my pockets too (Pops used to raid my lil wallet whenever he felt the need). Crack made him violent. Well, he was already a violent individual. But crack made him abusive toward us (or maybe that’s the lie I tell myself). The cumulative effect was a broken home and way too many bad memories.

My dad met and befriended a man named Floyd when we lived in Hempstead around ’85 or ’86. Floyd, a military vet, seemingly matched my dad’s zeal for life and megaphone-like vocals. Those two men were as loud as a Black College marching band on Homecoming Saturday. They partied harder than any ‘70s rock band. Crack was their main vice. I remember this one time we were sitting in the back of someone’s vehicle. I was in between my dad and Floyd. Floyd passed a vial of crack over me to my dad, and Tyrone exploded. “Don’t pass that shit in front of my son!” I just remember thinking, “It’s ok dad. I know what it is.” I really felt that way. Fast forward to summer break ’99. My cousin AB had a union (sheet metal workers) check waiting for him in Mineola (Long Island). He invited Floyd, Tyrone Sr., and I along for the $75 cab ride. We obliged. I remember quite a few things from that excursion from the eastside to LI, but a couple of things (other than us smoking and drinking all the way) stood out. First, that was the day I began to develop a level of understanding for my dad and his thought patterns. We spoke on his life, from high school era until my birth. I finally saw his human side. I finally empathized with his shortcomings. Second, I remember the noise Floyd made EVERY single time he took a breath. I could hear massive fluid on his lungs. I could hear the effort it took for him to breathe and talk; it was easy to detect that he was suffering. I’m almost certain all the years of crack smoking in tandem with physical neglect were the culprits. That shit was horrible. Floyd died a few months later. RIP Floyd. You genuinely loved my father (and he genuinely loved you back); you always treated me as a nephew.

I remember standing outside our building (210) one day around the same era. An older Boricua gentleman walked by, clearly in the absolute depths of addiction. I didn’t say anything, but I’m certain my big cousin Eric Bradley the Greatest caught my gaze. He pointed to a couple of tenement buildings across the street on [1]15th. He let me know that the man used to own both buildings. Crack took everything away.

My big homie Chubby was a well-known Uptown shooter, but he made his bones moving that butter. He told me his crack routine in the late ‘80s went something like…he and his boy Mingo (another legendary Jeff MF) would meet up along with a couple of cats from [Jefferson] first half and put their bread together to get a brick of raw from Papí in the Heights. They’d return to the eastside later that morning, each man going his own way. That’s four men, nine ounces of yay apiece. Each man went to the lab to chef his own batch, and then return downstairs to hit their workers off with that yola. Chubby said that at least a couple of days a week they’d link back up around evening news time and catch Papí one more time before he closed shop for the day. Think about it: that’s four men moving a kilo or better of cocaine DAILY. I can’t even give you accurate numbers on how much it regularly cooked up to (I have no way of knowing), but let’s just say that the “comeback” (IYKYK) was crazy. And, of course, they weren’t the only show in town. There was more than enough money to go around.

I’ve yet to introduce Chris to the NY Rockefeller drug laws, Tactical Narcotics Taskforce (TNT), undercover DTs, or my own personal crack dealing tales (I had my time, briefly). That’s material for another day. But when I do speak on it all, I’m going to let him know that’s how damn near every story ended -- with cuffs and state or fed time – if a MF was “lucky.” Quite a few young men never got the opportunity to grow old. And now, we’re three generations deep in crack. I anticipate little to no need to provide any type of closing argument. We (young and old) all know about the cumulative effect of the crack era. Crack rock, crack rock…

This wasn’t the quasi-normal, happy-go-lucky #MNR you may be used to. This blog was derived from pain. The past couple of weeks have been particularly tough on the Crew. Personally, illness has done my pockets extra dirty. I’m already out of sick days for the plantation job. I’m due to get the shaft on a couple of days missed. That pushes every plan I had into relative uncertainty, and all but ensures that I won’t meet a couple of fiscal deadlines I set for myself. I can’t lie. I’m breathing fire RN. I’ve got my queen's born day AND Christmas right around the corner. I don’t even give a fuck about serving self this holiday season. When it rains, it pours, and I’m currently amidst the same damn storm that dumped an ocean of water on the Niners/Colts game last night in Santa Clara. What’s new? But UnB will remain as strong as Everclear chased with Exxon premium diesel fuel. Adversity is commonplace in our world. But so is endurance. We’re built to last. We were born ready. Until next Monday, stay dangerous. Love is love.

P.S.: Let a brother hold five dollars until next Thursday. Y’all know I’m good for it…

tymonday.com: @tymonday on Twitter & IG
crewunb.com: @crewunB on Twitter & @theunbearablescrew on IG

#MNR: Prolific

“I’m not saying I’m perfect, but I’m 99.9%.”
Canibus

My apologies go out to all readers of this blog, whether you read on occasion or as a zealot. I had a medical issue that kept me away from my Mac. But, like Mason Betha on “Get Ready,” “We back. We back, we back, we back. We back, we back again…” I was always told that the show must go on. I’m [a lifetime] two Broadway shows in, so I’ll count my tardiness as a prolonged intermission of sorts. Now, let’s get to the meat and potatoes.

I want to begin by wishing a happy tenth earth day to one of my favorite people on the planet, Riyan the Great. I’ve known Rhino since her preschool era. She was one of mine when Brandi was just a mom who came to pick her kid up at BFC every day. Love you much Rhino. Here’s to eighty more revolutions around the sun. Even if I don’t receive the coveted Pulitzer, I know my baby girl will. She’s gonna be the best investigative reporter on planet Earth.

Big ups to my aforementioned queen Brandi. I love you beyond measure. I got your back, even if it means a detour through West Hell. Big ups to my CEO. Stay strong bro. I couldn’t envision a better brother to occupy a foxhole with. You saved my life back when, literally. And you made me the official godson of your prince. I cherish the responsibility. We gon make it, I swear my nigga (Big Boi voice). Big ups to my sissy Jonyce, err um, Jon Jon. You’re more than just the glue. You’re the closest person to Tamika on this earth. I was in a really bad place when Shareon passed. You were more family to me than any blood family was. You checked in on me on a regular basis, but it was more than the obligatory check-in. You didn’t ask uncomfortable questions or offer the cookie cutter “How you?” type of dialogue. You asked me about sports headlines. You spoke on any and everything OTHER THAN death and coping with death. It got me through some tough days. Cheers to you, sis. You’re so amazing.

Never forsake an opportunity to tell your folk exactly how much you love and appreciate them every time the spirit hits you. We have no idea what tomorrow may bring. Years ago, my big bro Chubby asked me to come downstairs one Friday night and kick it with him on [1]15th St. I told him I was on my way, even though I had no intention whatsoever of coming downstairs. I was high, drunk, and lazy AF. That was a Friday night. Chubby died that Tuesday. I never got the opportunity to tell him how much love I had for him. He knew, but I never got to verbalize it. “All these people that you love, go ‘head and give ‘em a toast. Because if they ain’t here tomorrow you’re gon miss ‘em the most.” My departed friend Mac Miller said it best.

DRAWING (draw · ing)
Origin: Philadelphia, PA
(verb) – to bring (draw) attention to oneself
Example: “Man, you’re doing too much. Stop drawing.”

Big ups to my brother Khalif Stripling, born and raised in the 2-1-5. I’ve heard plenty of folk from Philly use the terminology, but when I hear it in my mind, it’s always Strip saying it. Here’s the point: it’s particularly amusing when coworkers are guilty of drawing. You know the type, the ones that ALWAYS make sure that you know that they know that you are high as gas prices while on the job. Yeah, they began their drawing career in high school, most likely. Their bullshit never really bothered me, way, way, way back when I used to smoke good before school or work. I mean, shit. I WAS high as fuck. But why did you feel the need to broadcast it? My brother Todd is still the smoothest ever when it comes to being the opposite of drawing. Once upon a time, Bro (whose name shall remain anonymous because of his career and image) and I entered the Barco-Stevens Gymnasium for a VUU basketball game, higher than the elevation of Mexico City. We smooth sat on the front row, impervious to any random vitriol. The whole gymnasium knew we were blunted. But Todd, as only Todd could do, leaned forward, and spoke in a low tone, “That fragrance that you’re wearing. It’s so sweet.” I immediately ROTFL. He didn’t draw. That’s how it’s done. If you feel compelled to let me know that you have inside information, please do it with discretion. But when you say something loud AF like, “Hey Mr. T., I see you in your Crocs,” you’re drawing. The entire hallway heard you. That leaves the opportunity for a hater to peep game and do what haters do. Then I’m in line to get fucked with no Vaseline by administration (I guess; I don’t care that much regardless) if they do what haters do. That shit is non-cipher. Stop drawing. The aroma smells exactly like the morbid stench of hate.

My gpa AG Warren Sr. raised me to respect the job. He taught me that a person should always work to the terms of their contract, to hold off on any contract-related issue until the contract has been fulfilled, and THEN establish desired terms when the time comes to renegotiate. His logic? You signed the contract. No one forced you to leave your John Hancock on the solid line. You had every right to refuse. But signage means acceptance. I held that advice dear, and still adhere to it until this day. But damn it, I’m totally with the new school ideology of leaving a job at the drop of a dime when a better position is available. Why? Because today ain’t Pop’s era. There was definitely employer loyalty once upon a time. Good businesses took care of their own. Nowadays? Shit – an employer will cut you quicker than a ‘70s 42nd Street whore on a midtown Saturday night. There is little to no loyalty. So, guess what? Fuck your two weeks’ notice. If the new job tells me what I want to hear…I’m gone (Uncle Elroy voice)! Fuck my company, fuck my boss, and fuck the job. Next, please.

THE NBA IS BACK!

Big ups to #KNICKSNATION. We’re back!!!!!!!!

The 2021-2022 NBA season tipped off this week, beginning Tuesday night in Milwaukee, as the defending champs received their rings and then delivered a critical beatdown to the Nets, the prohibitive favorite headed into the season. Of course, Brooklyn is without Kyrie Irving, my favorite NBA player, and flat-earth believer. We all know why he’s not active. There’s no need to rehash. I don’t know if a Kyrie-less Nets roster will be enough to dethrone the Bucks, and I’m not saying that because of Tuesday night’s result. I’m saying it because I genuinely feel that they’ll be a bit short on firepower. But I could be wrong. I think that my Knickerbockers can definitely finish top 4 in the East again, even top 3. We shall see. Evan Fournier, former Knicks killer, is now one of us. Obi is gonna make leaps and bounds this season. Welcome home, Kemba. DRose is still one of my favorite humans, period. In Julius we trust. I like what the Hawks have cooking, despite the fact that they did us dirty in the Playoffs. Trae is big time. The team is well built around him. Collins is a highlight reel, Huerter is an assassin, Hunter is Baby Kawhi, and Capela is a savant down low. Perhaps they can be the ones to fuck everyone’s long term tickets up and make it to the endgames. Ben has muddied the waters so badly in Iladelph that they’ll get pennies on the dollar back when they actually do ship his ass off into the wild blue yonder. I’m a big Jimmy Butler fan (since Marquette). He, Kyle, Bam, and company could make things interesting for the Heat in the East if they gel and stay healthy. But like I said – Giannis dem vs. the field. I’m taking Giannis dem. Out west, I think the Lakers will solve their chemistry issue in time to handle business and represent the conference in the NBA Finals. I feel that a healthy Bron and a healthy (and determined) AD are still the best combination since General Tso’s and house special fried rice. I love DBook and the Suns, but there’s a difference between being the hunter and the hunted. No Kawhi in the basement of Staples until March means no chance. Joker ain’t ready yet. Neither is Luka. Neither is Spider D45. But in all fairness, neither are their rosters. A healthy Klay and Weisman could propel the Warriors to a return to greatness if Steph plays the way he did last season. Joker played amazing ball and I’m not mad at him winning the MVP Award, but I had Steph with the slight edge. But anyway…I’m calling a Bucks/Lake Show Finals. I’ll pick a winner in June.

I found out today that my coworker Ms. Aniyah Williams and I are damn near related. Her mother’s brother is my GODFATHER! Clarence Shine and Big Ty Thompson were besties at Virginia Union University! He is my actual godfather, no play or pretend. The realization began with a conversation that Aniyah, our classroom teacher TM, and I had regarding jury duty. Somehow, the name Clarence Shine was mentioned. Clarence Shine from Baruch Houses in lower Manhattan? Yes. That played ball at VUU? Yes. Damn it, that’s my godfather!!! And to think, I’ve known Aniyah since she was a middle school student a few moons ago in the 21st Century after school program. It just so happened that years later I ended up in the classroom she ended up in. We’ve been smooth operator since day one. It all makes perfect sense now. We are family. God is so amazing. Now…let’s see if I can get a working number for Tyrone. It’s been a minute.

Here’s to family, love, togetherness, and devotion. I want all my folk to live their best lives, whether we’re blood, or we met in the streets. Life is way too short to waste time over frivolous and dumb shit. Remember my big brother Charles Chubby Chisolm and the Mac Miller bars I quoted. Never forsake the opportunity to show love. Moreover, oftentimes you may have to be the one to extend the olive branch. Sure, the phone works both ways, but if contacting a loved one enters your mind and you allow hubris to cloud your judgement…you may end up regretting your decision for the rest of your life. And if there’s one type of person I absolutely detest, it’s the “jump in the casket” ass MF. Nine times out of nine, all that cap is because all the fuck shit they did [while the loved one in the casket was alive] is now in turn eating them alive. And now, it’s too late to make it right (in their me-centric ass mind). Meanwhile, that sister or brother ain’t worried about your dumb ass or anything else mundane. Their soul is with the Lord. You’re the one who can’t cope. IDGAF – stay the fuck up out that casket. It’s the ultimate bad look. It’s disgusting. But what do I know? I’m just a blogger.

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tymonday.com: @tymonday on Twitter & IG
crewunb.com: @crewunB on Twitter & @theunbearablescrew on IG

​#MNR: It’s a [Huntley] Family Affair
 

(RICHMOND, Va)
 
How does one possibly cram four years of memories and a half of a lifetime of deep friendship into a 48-72-hour time capsule? You take your Black ass to your HBCU Homecoming and have a fucking blast. My alma mater is the jewel of RVA, the hallowed grounds of Virginia Union University. Sure, there’s Virginia Commonwealth University (VCU), which is to RVA what Columbia University is to the upper west side of Manhattan (Harlem). There’s also the University of Richmond, a darling of an institution built by the water in a picturesque, wooded area on the west end of the city. But there’s only one 1500 North Lombardy Street, 23220.
 
Although the COVID-19 virus couldn’t stop the big business of FBS (formerly Division I-A) football, it easily grounded HBCU football conferences like the MEAC and SWAC (both FCS, formerly Division I-AA) and CIAA (Division II). The cold truth is that Black colleges didn’t have the resources to accommodate virus protocols. I’m almost certain most programs couldn’t afford daily virus testing. And as for all the other protocols…I seriously doubt it. These cancellations immediately meant the cancellation of Homecomings, as the game is kinda the turkey on the Thanksgiving table of Homecoming. Thankfully, the Donald Trump COVID vaccine (I could be lying, but I heard ole Cheesy personally came up with the formula for the Johnson & Johnson and Wal Mart Great Value vaccines) has allowed for social gatherings to commence. 2020 was a life changing year for me. Anyone who knows me or regularly reads this blog knows about my health scare. I did a lot of thinking in that damn bed over the course of 13.5 days. I returned to regular life determined to stay connected with all my extended family. Sure, there’s social media, Zoom, etc., but I’m not the virtual type. I like to hug necks in person. So, as soon as I learned that VUU Homecoming 2021 was a go, I began to get my ducks in a row. I asked Brandi if she wanted to roll, and she obliged. I asked the squad who was coming. Everyone said they were. Bet.
 
A few weeks before the scheduled date for VUU Homecoming 2021, other HBCU abruptly cancelled 2021 HC festivities for alumni, including Howard, Hampton, Morehouse, and Spellman (the Ivy League of HBCU, allegedly) due to COVID-19 concerns. A bit of uneasiness set in, as I expected VUU to follow suit. But, in typical recalcitrant Union fashion, the show was not canceled. Instead, there was a site set up to show proof of vaccination which in turn meant alumni wristbands for HC related activities on the yard. Cool. Having said that, we registered but never picked our bands up. Did we still join in on the festivities? Fuck yeah. I’ll let you draw your own conclusions. But anyway…it was good to see old faces who you only see on social media. I saw my big bro George “DPG” Saidu, I saw my School of Journalism pals Nehkondeh (forgive me if I butchered your name mama) and Byrd, with whom I spent a lot of time in those classrooms in Ellison Hall. I saw the homie Boo for the first time in twenty years. Boo was 1/3 of the legendary St. Louis “Road Trip of 1999” along with Louie and myself. I saw the Sigma homies, including my brother from another mother and former housemate Marvelous Hymes. I regret not seeing my brother Dr. Andre “Dre Doggs” Hudson (and a few other blessed folk), but I saw a lot of people. I had a good time reminiscing. But HC ’21 was all about the Huntley World Family. And we did our damn thing.
 
Rock, St. Louis, Keith Murray, Darrell, Lil Kia, Jon Jon, Six One, Lisa, Mic (Tamica), Apryl, and so on… I was blessed to see the majority of the Huntley World extended family and ALL of my closest folk. Sure, we’re twenty years older, but we are also twenty years wiser. Many of us are parents. Many of us are successful. But all of us are living. And, although it seemed like I’d be the first one to be the reason that we all got our Voltron on in mourning, I’m still here, better than ever and determined to stick around for many moons to come. I introduced Brandi to everyone before she actually met them; she said my descriptions were dead-on accurate. What can I say? I know my personnel. We all got to talk about all the things going on in our worlds. I apologize for the couch Rock. What can I say? I’m fat AF. Thank you, Brandi for being the driver to and fro, as well as my love and best friend. You really are my MVP.
 
I used to get all down and depressed when these types of events ended, and it was back to everyday life. I hate leaving my folk. But since Shareon passed, I don’t “miss” folk anymore. I’m happy and content that they’re alive and healthy. A century is only a matter of time. I know we’ll get together eventually. That’s what makes reunions so amazing. I hope it doesn’t take another five years for us to Voltron again. Time is so precious. But one thing I know for certain is that irrespective of life or death, we will always be family – not just any family – we are Huntley Family. I love youse colored folk with everything within me. Until next time…stay dangerous.
 
tymonday.com: @tymonday on Twitter & IG
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#MNR: God’s Plan

“You keep waking up every morning, you gon be old one day too.”
Dennis Maull, my OG

“Wu Tang is for the children.”
“The Black man is God.”
Russell Ason Unique Jones

I’m certain that I’ve mentioned this in a prior blog or three, but until recently (within the past five years or so), I never envisioned growing old. I assumed some type of tragedy or me fucking around in the streets would have pulled my mortality card early in life, definitely before I reached 30. I’m from an era and a place where men die young. Some don’t even make it to adulthood. Luckily, Shareon got me out the jungle and transplanted me to the country where – the murder rate was the second highest in AMERICA in 1991. But, through the grace of God, I made it (Hali wasn’t bad at all if you played your position). Fast forward past all the dumb shit I did in my 20s; I’ve spoken on it extensively over the years. I cried the night of my 30th birthday. I cried tears of joy. I cried because I made it to 30. I lost quite a few homies before they reached three decades. There were no tears for my 40th a few years ago (just joy), but there was heavy thanks to the Lord for keeping me amongst the living. My medical condition almost two years ago and subsequent recovery forced me to be even more mindful of the possibility of growing old. Before my brush with death and before I was blessed with Brandi, I really couldn’t say whether I cared if I lived or if I died. Having to lay my mother to rest damn near soured me to the point that making CNN in infamy was a viable ending in my formerly jaded and warped mind. But God delivered me from the murky depths of my think tank. He placed me in an area of mental comfort, allowing me to appreciate every second of life. Nowadays, I ponder growing old quite often. Shit, I’m 43 years of age. Science says my journey is more than 50% complete. Black life says I’m damn near 70% or better. Candidly, I’m cool with that (the 50, not the 70+). I still feel fairly young in spirit. Not 19 young, but a galaxy away from wearing Depends and waking up at 4:30 or 5:00 on the daily. So, after a couple of decades of living my life on the edge, I’m now staring old age in the face. Quite honestly, it’s frightening. But not for the reasons you’re probably thinking.

I am a fervent believer in Christ. I live my life the way a man of God should live, for the most part. I help others whenever I can. I tithe EVERY Sunday. I treat others the way I want to be treated. I know my name is already written in the Book of Life. Death doesn’t scare me. At all. It’s the getting old part that terrifies me. More concisely, it’s the process of getting old and then being old. I was in my barber shop Saturday. I had an 11:30 appointment, but JP asked me to let an older gentleman go ahead of me. I obliged (of course). Not a problem. JP let me know that the cut was a quick job. JP always treats every customer with respect, young to old. This isn’t any type of slight toward my barber of almost 25 years. This is a blunt examination of reality. I know how some of the older gentlemen tend to act in the shop. They’re impatient as fuck; if they’re not immediately up next in the chair they ask a bunch of needless questions and at times begin to pester JP. He knows, as well as I, that it’s nothing nefarious from the old men. It’s just how it is. He grits his teeth, smiles, and begrudgingly obliges the old men as best he can. I’ve always been the type of person that doesn’t want to bother or inconvenience anyone. I damn sure don’t want to be THAT GUY in the barber shop or anywhere else. You know, the type that folk wish was in-and-out ASAP. The type that makes his barber grimace as soon as he enters the shop. I don’t want to take all day walking to and getting in the chair. I don’t want to be the old man in the shop asking my barber 50-11 random questions, most rooted in impatience. I don’t want to be a burden to anyone, especially Brandi. Last, I don’t want to be the object of anyone’s pity. I felt sorry for the old man, of how dependent he was of his cane and how slow his steps were. I think that man would have struck me with his cane if he knew how I viewed him. If he’s anything like my grandfathers Dornal Thompson Sr. and AG Warren Sr. were, he’s a proud old man. He’s lived a full and productive life. I’m sure the last thing he would want is to know that I or anyone is looking at him from a standpoint of pity, but I can’t help it. I hate to see anyone who’s alone, and seeing old folk alone especially troubles me. Seeing an old person eating alone in a restaurant ALWAYS hurts my soul. I want to go over and eat with them. I guess it’s in direct correlation to growing old…alone. I’ve spent most of my life alone. My sister died before she got a chance at life. I grew up an only child. I’m blessed to have a queen to grow old with. I pray that old age is kind to us. I can speak for Brandi in saying neither of us want to be a burden to Riyan, Riyel, or anyone else. I just want us to grow old together, gracefully…

Lord knows we’ve lost too many rappers to early deaths. There’s definitely a long list of dearly departed, too many to list in this blog. But there are a few that consistently come to [my] mind: Prodigy, Heavy D., Sean Price, and Ol’ Dirty Bastard (Ason Unique). I really miss those gentlemen. I came up listening to all four. It is no coincidence that ODB has been on my mind, as the second season of Wu Tang: An American Saga is in full swing. Now, before you treat me like sliced bread and assume that I don’t know that the show embellishes from time to time, please know that I do [dickhead]. I don’t think that Ason took a cocked sawed-off shotgun out of a man’s hands, just before that man would have turned Dirty’s dome into a thousand-piece puzzle on the streets of Brooklyn. I’m not slow. I’m not focusing on particular moments from the show. We already know that a lot of the shit we’ve seen thus far never took place. But the one thing we are consistently seeing that we know to be true is the portrayal of character traits amongst the various members of the Clan. When it comes to Dirty IRL, we were blessed with years of unforgettable moments, from his legendary limo ride to cash his welfare check to the insanity that was Mariah’s “Fantasy” video shoot (lmfao) to that one particular night he temporarily shut the Grammys down (again, lmfao). Ason was truly unique. I love the way his character is portrayed. TJ Atoms has the spirit of ODB down pact. I take a nostalgic trip down memory lane every Wednesday night. Dirty was not the cliched “one of a kind.” He was truly one of a kind, which is the definition of unique. I miss you Ason. I’ve been banging Return to the 36 Chambers all week.

Autumn is here, in full effect. It’s dark AF around 19:00. I love it. It’s my favorite time of year (I’m an equinox type of guy). This is the time for hoodies and pullovers and light jackets. Tims are coming out of the closet. It’s the time of year when you can best show the versatility of your wardrobe. It’s the time of year when damn near every sport is in full swing. I love it. But it’s also close to election time. As a retired street nigga, I can attest that this is also the trickiest time of year. I lived about four consecutive nervous autumns. With elections only a month away, incumbent politicians are trying to drive points home and look good to prospective voters. That means there will be increased police presence and activity. Expect a few indictments to touch down in a hood near you. For all my young niggas in the streets – be especially careful. Both New York and New Jersey gubernatorial elections are in a month. NYC has a mayoral election. Expect the streets to get especially messy. This is the time when I tell you that I hope that I’m wrong. I am. But I’ve been around the block a time or two. I’ve seen and lived it. Stay dangerous young niggas. Keep all three eyes wide open.

Enjoy every day of your life. Only puff what’s right; leave the poison alone. Drink plenty of water. Stay the fuck up out those cop cars. Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good and merciful. Build. Never destroy, unless the time calls for it. I love y’all. Until next Monday…

tymonday.com: @tymonday on Twitter & IG
crewunb.com: @crewunB on Twitter & @theunbearablescrew on IG