#MNR: THE ONLY ONE (UNB PRESIDENTIAL ENDORSEMENT)
 
“And since we all came from a woman, got our name from a woman and our game from a woman. I wonder why take from our women, why we rape our women, do we hate our women?”
Tupac Amaru Shakur
 
Traditionally, making a responsible decision when voting for a President came down to policy. It’s more than fair to make a claim that in the post-Civil Rights era, we really didn’t care about the personal lives of the white men we went to the ballot to vote for – mostly because we weren’t privy to this information. Yes, Kennedy and Clinton had marital infidelities – that we knew of. But even then, we didn’t know until well after the fact. And by "well after the fact," these things came to light AFTER both men were elected. I’d be a fool to assume that the most powerful men in the world don’t play every now and then. In that light, I’m certain most rational people would agree that tipping out on the first lady behind the seal of the presidency doesn't pack the predatory punch that asserting it’s okay to “grab them by the pussy” in entertainment interviews does. Or paying to fuck an adult film star Kojack (think about it) while your wife is home alone, pregnant (and being criminally indicted and convicted of 34 counts related to hush money payment for said incident). Or being convicted in civil court of sexually assaulting a woman. But hey -- who are we to judge? 
 
For the third consecutive election, ethics trumps (pun intended) policy. I love to hear conservatives scream that the price of gas and groceries is so ridiculous that we need a change. I love it even more when they continue to insist that “Illegals” are invading our communities. I agree with anger about the cost of damn near everything. The price of common goods is ridiculous. But it is imperative to mention that the COVID pandemic had rippling, lasting effects on the economy. Supply chains were stifled for long periods of time, from the laborers abroad who experienced shutdowns in their own countries (y’all know I mean China and other parts of Asia) to the huge cargo container ships that transport diverse cargo (cars, sneakers, televisions) from one side of the world to us to the people at the ports who unload the shipped cargo to the truckers who transport the cargo from the docks to the employees in the stores who sell the diverse goods. The effects were long reaching and long lasting. Then there’s price gouging and shrinkflation. These evil, dastardly corporate deeds have persisted and continue to rob us blind. Ironically, one candidate has a plan to attack price gouging, but we’ll get to that in a bit. The superseding thought is this: the problems we faced/face post COVID were both unavoidable and had no quick fix. You can’t pin that on the next administration. It doesn’t work that way. You conservatives have it all twisted and conflated. I do not. I clearly discern what’s going on.
 
As for the immigrant issue, I agree that America isn’t equipped to handle the swell of those who have entered the country, whether by illegally crossing a border or through asylum. I love the idea of immigrants having a chance to live the “American dream” – through legal methods, including asylum. Otherwise, you must leave. Irrespective of how immigrants have entered the country, I believe that they should be treated humanely. They are human. Do not separate children from parents (again). That’s past inhumane and insidious. Do not speak of them as if they are of lesser worth than you. Do not dehumanize them for political gain. Outright lies are unacceptable. Some people need to have an earnest talk with God.
 
I love the term “first world problems” because it forces most people to pump their brakes and truly ponder its definition, after which discerning that their problems aren’t really problems. We get mad over things that 90% of the world can’t even fathom. And yet, somehow, they manage to make it without many of the things we bitch and complain about. Many find a way to flourish – through scrupulous methods.
 
People still complain about gas prices. Here are some quick facts for you crybaby ass Americans. The average price of gas in Germany is 3.55 euros. The average price is 4.13 in England. Italy, Denmark, Belgium and Sweden have prices between 5.80-5.90 in U.S. dollars. The price of gas down the street from me is $2.79 a gallon. Electric vehicles cost $0 per gallon. My point? Y’all complain about any and everything, completely ignoring how good you really have it. We Americans have this embellished, macabre mindset, and fail to realize how blessed we truly are.
 
The poorest American has access to public assistance. Third world countries (defined in political science terms as the countries with the highest populations, not strictly economic development) citizens wish they readily and consistently had access to public assistance. Your local grocery store has shelves fully stocked with groceries. Go to a store in Havana. Tell me if you see fully stocked shelves in Cuba. And for every complaint about prices and how they have affected our pockets, we have managed to endure without calamity. And should calamity come knocking upon your door, you can wake up the next day and take your ass down to the welfare office and fill out some paperwork. Don’t feel less than dignity-filled if you must make that type of move. 33% of NYC Jewish households received government benefits, according to the UJA-Federation of New York’s 2023 Jewish Community Study of New York. In sharp contrast, only 4% are even eligible for benefits in Mississippi, according to mississippippltoday.org. In many southern states, politicians undercut the underserved (mostly Blacks) with wanton intent. The point I’m making is that everyone, and I mean everyone has struggles in this country. Blue state, red state, Jew, gentile. Inevitably, it’s deeper than just policy.
 
In voting for a President, the ideal or at least best candidate (in my eyes) should be a champion of civil rights. They should fight for inclusion in all aspects of American life. They should vigorously fight and oppose discrimination and xenophobia of any type, irrespective of the community and/or group affected. And finally, the ideal candidate should fight to protect women’s reproductive and medical rights.
 
Civil rights are simply the rights guaranteed to EVERY American citizen. Race, gender, creed, sexual orientation and political affiliation do not matter. Everyone is awarded and afforded the same set of rights. This is non-negotiable. It is written in the United States Constitution. It doesn’t matter if you think homosexuality is an abomination. It doesn’t matter if you don’t want Blacks moving into your ethnic or religious neighborhood/enclave. It doesn’t matter if that American born Hispanic baby has two immigrants as parents. It doesn’t matter if your coworker wears a hijab and worships at a mosque. It doesn’t matter if that young, white couple is willing to pay $3,500 a month for a one bedroom in Spanish Harlem that your grandmother rented for $120 a month for 34 years before the rent control laws expired and she was given the boot because there was no way in heaven she could even afford $1,750, or half of the $3,500. Every American is entitled to every civil right, implicitly stated or implied.
 
All who are here legally or who aspire to enter legally are welcome in America. This is the original melting pot. Unless you belong to an American Indian (indigenous) tribe, you are a descendent of an immigrant. Inclusion is paramount. No American is “less American” than any other American. You can’t pick and choose who is allowed to prosper and flourish. We all are.
 
Discrimination and xenophobia have no place in society. Having to state this in 2024 is bananas.
 
A woman’s body and reproductive rights are hers and hers alone. No man, whether he be white, Black, or otherwise has any fucking right to tell a woman what she can and cannot do with HER body. How hard is it for you troglodytes to understand this simple concept? A court of nine said it was that way for 52 years until one day the same court with different actors (err umm justices) said it wasn’t. Suddenly, it became a state’s right to decide. Bullshit.
 
Only one candidate checks the boxes I just spoke about. Only one favors civil rights. Only one believes in absolute inclusion. Only one strictly opposes racism and xenophobia. And finally, only one believes a woman’s body and reproductive rights belong to a woman.
 
One candidate has laid out policy for all to see. It consists of economic opportunity and lower costs for families, including middle class tax cuts, rent affordability, attainable home ownership, growing small business and entrepreneurial investment, fighting price gouging, strengthening and lowering the cost of health care, protecting and strengthening social security and Medicare, supporting American innovation and workers, providing a pathway to the middle class through affordable education, investing in affordable child care and long term care, and lowering energy costs and tackling climate crisis. The other has Project 2025. I’ll let you do your own research.
 
The Unbearables Crew/#MNR 2024 presidential endorsement goes to Vice President Kamala Devi Harris.
 
She’s the only one. 

#MNR: DANCE WITH MY MAMA (SHAREON, NATE & ME)
 
“We’ll get over like a fat rat. Peas in a pod, bugs in a rug, we’ll never stop. We’ll get over like a fat rat. Snug as a hug in your arms.”
Fonda Rae
 
“There’s not a minute, hour, day, or night that I don’t love you. You’re at the top of my list ‘cause I’m always thinking of you.”
Luther Vandross
 
“You light my fire. I feel alive with you baby. You blow my mind. I’m satisfied. Outstanding (so outstanding). Girl you knock me out. Exciting (I’m so excited). Makes me wanna shout.”
Charlie Wilson (The Gap Band)
 
Shareon Denise Warren (Thompson, Smith) would have been seventy years young last Thursday, October 17. Happy Birthday, mommy. This blog is all about you. And Nate. I’m a guest star, I suppose, a secondary character.
 
My sun Nate celebrated his fifteenth trip around el sol today. Happy earth day, young’n. Nate’s my student and spiritual advisor. He is the first person to point out that my mother’s name begins with “share.” I’ve looked at and spelled Shareon’s name for well over thirty years and never once noticed “share.” I immediately pondered how concise “share” was when it came to Shareon, and I dropped a couple of tears on the spot. Nate knows things about Shareon that only people closest to me know. Like I said, he’s my spiritual advisor. He knows that I wasn’t the best son when I was a bratty, petulant, ungrateful, hoe-ass teenager. I didn’t treat my queen as royalty. Prayerfully, I autocorrected as a young adult and cherished my earth for the rest of her time in physical form. Nate knows all this. He and his mom have an interesting relationship, and when he’s spinning the world on one finger, I try to be a catalyst for discernment. I’m judicious in my approach to dealing with our discussions, but I’m pro-Nate. I’m also pro-mom.
 
One day, I asked Nate to consider his mother in a different light. I reminded him that she too once sat at a desk in a school as a wide-eyed fourteen-year-old. She had her own hopes and dreams. As I progressed as an adult, I always thought about the events that shaped my mother as a human. I’m familiar with more than a few, and wholly aware that there are plenty of things she experienced in life that I have no idea of.
 
But I do know one motherfucking thing...
 
My mama was that girl.
 
My most cherished memories of Shareon & me are from the early ‘80s, when I was young world and Shareon was taller than the floats she took me to see every Thanksgiving day. She was my entire world. She was my protector. She was my best friend. She was my mommy. She was my hero.
 
Friday nights were usually cut and paste, but they were dearest to my heart. Shareon would pick me up from my afterschool program and we’d head back uptown. When we hit the block she always asked what I wanted for dinner. It always came down to Chinese (her favorite) or pizza (my favorite). The question was unnecessary yet enjoyable for her to witness me answer with glee. I always chose pizza. We’d get home, I’d clean up, and she’d set me up in the bedroom – good eats and cable television. I was good for the night. All my aunties and godfathers were on the way. So was Uncle Alan. The grown folk were finna have one good ass night of debauchery. I was oblivious to it all. I was in my cocoon, with nary a care in the world.
 
As I grew older, I delved deeper into music. Naturally, I spun the block and researched all the music I remembered from my childhood, the music Shareon, Ty dem cut a rug all damn night to. Puffer was using old samples all over hip-hop beats anyway, further stoking my thirst for insight on the music. I always gravitated to the early ‘80s, back to my favorite days with Shareon. I came up with three classics she loved, classics which I too love. The three? You have already seen the rollout. Let’s get to it.
 
“Never Too Much” by Luther Vandross (1981)
“Over Like a Fat Rat” by Fonda Rae (1982)
“Outstanding” by The Gap Band (1982)
 
Shareon and Tyrone had a good damn time in the early ‘80s. I should know. Plenty of my Saturday and Sunday mornings were spent walking past (and over) godfathers and aunts on my way to the kitchen for a bowl of cereal. That was the 12” record era, with the record player on top of the twin cassette deck in something plywood and glass. Record covers doubled as surfaces to deseed and break up reefa. These were the jams that had Shareon on the dance floor all night. Sis had it going on: young, educated, and successful. She had a great job at R.R. Bowker, a well-known publishing company from back then. I’m blessed to say I had a library in my house/apartment/crib my entire upbringing. But back to Shareon. She was a symbol of Black excellence in the first decade that women of all races got a halfway decent shot at making it in the workforce outside of nepotism or fucking and sucking their way up the corporate and every other ladder. NO JUDGEMENT ZONE. Syke. Anyway, I smile when I think about Shareon enjoying herself back then. The world was still at her fingertips. Warrens AND Thompsons know how to party. I’m certain that was part of Shareon and Ty’s attraction for one another. But these and other countless jams blasted from my living room Friday and Saturday nights from my post toddler years through my formative years.
 
I wonder if Fonda Rae knew she had one the moment she stepped out the booth after recording “Over Like A Fat Rat.” I’m inclined to think that she did. I would have known as soon as I heard the bass line and piano drop for the first time. But I think that she couldn’t have fathomed the enduring legacy of the song in her most vivid and lucid dream back in 1982. It didn’t sell 10M records. Naw. It did much more in places where money doesn’t matter. It became an instant smash hit and enduring NYC party classic. This song belongs to New York Fucking City. My mama and every other Black and Boricua NYC resident got super busy to this track. It still rocks. I’m talking right fucking now. Be at a Black function and let this drop like an hour after the function really got lit, right around the time the third and fourth drinks are consumed. This song will shut the venue down. Truly legendary shit. New Yorkers love this song with a special affinity. It holds a special place in their hearts. You had to be there. You had to be outside. Shareon was.
 
I could go on and on about “Never Too Much.” I’ll begin with the fact that Luther was Shareon’s favorite artist. I was literally raised off Luther. I can remember being a bit more than a toddler and “Never Too Much” playing on the stereo. That’s how much it was spun in my house. It is one of Luther’s quintessential songs. It too is a staple at Black familial functions. Shareon loved it. It was her jam. It should come as no surprise that it too is my jam. I can see her now, dancing carefree on an uptown Saturday night, laughing and enjoying stolen moments with those dearest to her. You live on in my spirit, but you come to life when I hear “Never Too Much” at the right time.
 
Yeah, Marvin was still alive and kicking. Luther was killing the charts. Ronald Isley wasn’t Mr. Big yet. He was still with his brothers. Donny [Hathaway] was gone (teary eye emoji). Stevie kept reinventing himself and was on his fourth run. But no one (and I mean no one) was quite like that damn Charlie Wilson. This was way before his solo endeavors, back when he was still 1/3 of the baddest trio on the planet, The Gap Band. He and his brothers Ronnie and Robert had the R&B/funk thing down to a science. The Gap Band had plenty of hits, but “Outstanding” is their gold medal winner. Just like the other two songs mentioned, this is a staple at all Black familial functions and has a good chance of being played before the other two. Shareon jammed to this throughout my life. We were able to enjoy it together at functions when I joined the ranks of adulthood, which came with drankin’ in front of her privileges. But she cut a rug to it from day one. I know it tore WBLS up. Shareon used to record off the radio, and I spent my formative years listening to plenty of these tapes. “Outstanding” was one of her jams. Those were the days.
 
The last family function my mother attended was spring 2016 when her baby sister and my auntie Cynthia received her degree. Everyone came down for the celebration. The after party was at auntie’s house. By that time, my mother needed a wheelchair to get around. She chose to sit inside in the living room while most people were outside dancing as my MAGAt cousin DJ Green spun records for the event. I chose to stay inside and keep my mom company and run an errand if need be. I remember cousin playing “Electric Slide.” All the ladies ages 8-70 hit the patio, which served as the dance floor. I watched my mother as she stared through the patio sliding door at the ladies dancing. She didn’t have to say a word. I knew that she wanted to be out there dancing with her baby sister and family more than anything else. A piece of me perished that day.
 
Shareon was gone 13 months later.
 
I still remember the look on her face.
I wish I could have gone outside and danced with her.
 
HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOMMY
 
HAPPY BIRTHDAY NATE
 
I LOVE YOU BOTH.

#MNR: THE VAPORS
 
 
“But they can’t do it how I do it. Copying Curren$y, that’s counterfeit and useless. And stupid.”
 
“To stand in front this money train doesn’t make sense. I never hustled with no lames, why would I begin?”
Curren$y
 
In 14 hundred and 92, Christopher Columbus – brought venereal disease to the new world. What? What you thought I was going to say? And if you take I for joke, go on YouTube.
 
All jokes aside, have y’all heard about the nigga on Beyonce and Taylor Swift’s internet walking around with 3 STDs (one, two, three of them MF), openly promoting the fact that he’s “still fucking bitches” on Instagram Live as he strolls through the club? He is not only unabashed, but he also fancies himself as a figure of atonement, a catalyst for accountability. As expected, he comes off as an ignorant troglodyte, refusing to go to the doctor and get his shit checked. He says he plans to naturally cure himself through diet and self-affirmation. Yes, Niggarachi. Both are available by prescription at the local pharmacy. Smmfh. What in the Dr. Sebi (respectfully)? He also claims that he’s not suffering from “the big one” and knows who infected him. If you reside in the great state of Texas (specifically DFW), be careful. Everybody is a suspect.
 
I swear these stories write themselves...
 
I wasn’t even fishing. I simply went on the Twitter earlier for my daily six minutes of fuckery (I am a former Twitter addict) and the first thing I see is this nigga Gucci Third Leg (yeah, I know) is spreading the herpes simplex virus like Nazi propaganda in Germany in 1938. I didn’t know who this disease-spreading derelict was until today, although I’ve seen his face on the internet in passing. Apparently, he’s a porn actor who makes his own content with Only Fans models, aka [CENSORED]. He brags about having slept with three thousand women (that’s a lot of counting fingers and toes) and has been spreading the herpes since Covid travel bans were lifted (2021). The word on the social medias is that he’s bodied a lot of women that internet celebrities break their necks to fuck. As a journalist I do not spread hearsay, but if you go online you’ll see more than a few celebrity/influencer names caught in this disgusting web, both women and men. It appears we have a superspreader in the building. I’m not his doctor nor have I gone boogemz  in any of the women he’s allegedly infected, so I can’t confirm or deny this report. But when there are women on the social medias claiming that after fucking old boy they are infected with the simplex, it’s possibly in the Top Five of the safest bets in the history of betting. Be careful. There are all types of nasty work outside in 2024.
 
Can you feel it? Nothing can save you. Cause this is the season of catching the vapors. I know. I’m the one always talking about keeping it real and always staying loyal to the hood. Yup. That’s what I said. But as soon as they cut the check – I’m gone (Uncle Elroy voice)! I don’t owe not nayah nigga a MF thing. I’m throwing the Tyreek Hill peace sign while I enter the suicide door (I hate that name) of my four wheeled spaceship like that pimp in the old Vine reel. A nigga is going to have to hate on me from three time zones away. Go on ‘head. But make sure you tell your mama and auntie I said hi.
 
I’m not much for coincidence. I believe that it’s all a part of a well-crafted work of tapestry. Earlier today, Ju, Janay, Jorge, Aary and I were in the classroom vibing, chit chatting and listening to music. I played my favorite Ursher (Usher) song, which happens to be “Think of You.” I said that this was the first song of his I’d ever heard. I remembered that he was like 14-15 and that we must be close in age. Ju thought he might’ve had me by a year or two. I too thought that he was older, but only by a cuticle. Surprise, surprise. I went on Wikipedia to check his birth date. He is [in fact] a month and four days younger than me, born 10.14.2024. Today is his 46th earth day. How ironic. Many blessings, Ursh Raymond. It’s your born day, so I’m going to keep it positive. But there are a few questions that I have...
 
“On My Mama” by Victoria Monét is now over a year old. I haven’t heard a better R&B song in that time. I’ve heard more than a few good songs since it was released, but I can argue that none can fuck with “OMM.” It’s the bass guitar for me. And the trumpet. And Victoria got super busy. I guess it was imperative, but her putting Mama in the video touched my soul. I also loved the shot with Mama, Victoria, and lil bit. Three generations of Black excellence.
 
All I need? You know just I want, so do it.
 
A hero ain’t nothing but a sammich. I told you try-hards last week that all that knight in shining armor bullshit is taxing on your health insurance. Look, I respect a man taking up for a female stranger in public – if the situation involves a man that isn’t her man (I stay out of stranger domestic disputes for my own safety). But when it’s two women in disagreement, both of whom are strangers to one another AND you, stay your caping ass the fuck up out of their beef if your aim is anything more than being a peaceful arbitrator. You’ve got to be a damn fool to choose a side after a ten second assessment. Mind your damn business. It promotes good health.
 
It ain’t what you wear, it's what you drive. It ain’t what you drive, it's where you park. It ain’t where you park, it's where you live. It ain’t where you live it’s how you die. It’s either how you died or who you killed.
 
I can’t explain why We do some of the things we do. I know that some things are rooted in tradition while other things are used/implemented to mask or stifle pain and trauma. I never drank lean, which is a mixture of codeine, promethazine and sweet, sugary drinks like Fanta, Faygo, or even Kool-Aid. I was introduced to the term and DJ Screw mixtapes my freshman year of university when I met and befriended my brother Mel Patterson (RIP Pop Patterson). Screw (RIP) was the first known DJ to chop and slow songs down. It went right along with sippin’ drank. Lean slows you down. I’ve seen niggas literally leaned to the side, suspended in time. It inspires driving your slabs extra slow through the city. The double cups keep the ice from melting. Lean is said to have killed several known H-Town artists, from Screw to Fat Pat to Pimp C. I have my own theories, but I’m no doctor. I know outsiders wonder why in the fuck would anyone drink prescription cough syrup mixed with soda. I often reflect on what Bun B. said at the end of “Purple Rain” (Beanie Sigel’s version). The song (of course) is about pourin’ up. Bun’s verse is about the first time he drank lean. Screw put him on. He was extra faded, as stated in his bars. But the end is what captured my imagination, when he saluted all of his fallen palz who “poured up real big when they was here.” How in the duality of self can we affectionately praise the very thing that is the reason our friends are in the essence? Like I said, I have no answer. I suppose Mr. Cheeks said it best at the end of “Renee.” I’m from the ghetto, so yo, this is how I shed my tears.
 
Thank you all for stopping by and supporting the movement. You are all loved and appreciated. I’m a see you when I see you, unless you see me first. Au revoir. 

#MNR: GUNS & BUTTER
 
“Scared money don’t make money. I got courage, I take money. God don’t like ugly, but he got to love hungry.”
Kasino
 
“To the Feds, catch me if you can. I’m a still transport with my man on the Peter Pan.”
Styles P.
 
“Spent too many nights on the Henny getting right.”
The Firm
 
“At a thousand degrees Celsius I make MCs melt. Fuck my record label, I appear courtesy of myself.”
Canibus
 
I don’t know how to start this shit.
 
Well, I do, I suppose. But this is the thing. Folks, we don’t have a set topic tonight. But frankly, we don’t fucking need one. Tonight, we come from the cuff. Tonight, we dine in hell! Or Jimbo’s. Personally, I’d prefer an egg on my bacon cheeseburger over a caliente mug of fire and brimstone. Jimbo’s it is. A nigga like me – I’m a rest the tip of my J on the rim of that hot ass mug and light my shit. I’m currently smoking on a pack of Apple something. I can’t decipher my plug’s unique calligraphy. But, in the words (pun intended) of our Uncle Elroy – It’s the Bombay!
 
Oh yeah. It’s one of those.
 
Ah, yes. Welcome to our show. I’m your host and proprietor, the insatiable, the incendiary, the incomparable Tyrone Monday. Salute to my partner in thought, CEO, your friendly, neighborhood plug. I pray that your day was well. If it wasn’t, oh well. That shit is in the books now. Here. Relax – your body and mind. Take this cheeba. Pull that shit. Hold the smoke in your lungs. Exhale slowly. Repeat the process a few times. Get superhero high. Pass that shit. It’s a cipher.
 
I’m glad you all are here. You could be anywhere on earth, but you’re here with us.
 
Big ups to all the try-hards. You provide so much comedic material. You geniuses really have to touch the frying pan to believe it’s hot. Listen, it’s not a crime to give it the old college try every MF time. But it is stupid to stress yourself for no reason. Relax. Touch grass. Find a Bob Ross episode on YouTube and smoke some grass. Chill the fuck on out.
 
#MNR is a lifestyle blog. We’re not [monetarily] rich – yet.  I don’t mean lifestyle from that standpoint, per se. We are perpetual stoners who keep it Boeing fly and casket fresh, even on store runs. We also try our best to see the cup as half-full. We love beautiful women, and we listen to great music. We watch nothing but classic shit on the idiot box and other devices. Salute to every ardent supporter who tunes in to keep their mental blades sharp. May your Nikes forever stay fresh.
 
Gas prices are looking good. Presidential elections tend to do that. Indictment season is on the way. It never fails. Niggas always get locked up en masse during election season. Especially during presidential election years. You see how it manifested on a large-scale level (ask Puffer). It also and most certainly applies to the streets. The powers that be love to send an authoritative message during election season. If you’re outside, keep your profile low. Remember that you are not going to make a million dollars in a day. All money ain’t good money. Don’t go outside with 27 cracks on you to sell three dimes. And if shorty keeps calling you back for hundred-dollar sales and hasn’t asked what the number is on an eight ball or better, curve that bitch immechiately. She’s an undercover DT. Use your fucking head. Stay dangerous.
 
Eric “Teef” Adams. My, my, my. I knew I was gon see you again. I knew I was gon see you again! That won’t hit right if you don’t say it like Bernie in your mind. Anyway – someone tell that ex-pig and part time mayor MF his time is up. I’m so shocked and appalled that you’ve (allegedly) taken favors from Turkish slimeballs (yawns amidst overwhelming sarcasm). I don’t give a fuck about the trips and whatever else you (allegedly) received. That’s how tricking works. Teef is the bitch, and the Turkish slimeballs are the tricks. This type of shit happens every day, B. Nothing is new under the sun. Another pig/politician, another crime. Allegedly. I just want to know what you gave them. Don’t matter. We already know you were on your crooked knees when you gave it up. Bitch. For those of y’all who own The Chronic or owned it at some point in life, sing along with your boy. Bitches ain’t shit but hoes and tricks. Lick on these nuts and...
 
Fuck Eric Adams. Get his crooked ass the fuck up out of here.
 
Everyday I’m a poli ‘bout who’s the best hottie out. And will they ever let Gotti out.
 
It’s so amazing how a song can immediately take you to a particular place in time. I’m a give y’all a few examples. Whenever I hear “I Like It” by Grand Puba (1995), I’m immediately a sixteen-year-old kid again, navigating through Times Square, fully immersed in a New York City summer. That’s close to the last days of old school Times Square. It’ll NEVER be like that again. Trust me. Imagine what it was like running through that shit dolo at 16.  Whenever I hear “When You Think of Me” by Eric Benet (2000), I’m reminded of TB and the first time she gave me the buns. Y’all don’t understand. I was on it from freshman year, day two. Early. She curved me. Doc Gooden status. With a smile. We fell out over some dumb shit sophomore year. We beefed smooth through junior year. We saw each other the first Monday back senior year, hugged it out, and laughed about water under the bridge. We flirted throughout our final campaign. I finally got upstairs to her room on a lowkey April weekend on the yard. Eric Benet was the performer on Soul Train that fateful northside Richmond Saturday night. I was negotiating like Chris Sabian while Eric performed “Georgie Porgy” alongside my children’s mother and ex-wife Faith Evans. By the time he began the second verse of “When You Think of Me” during the second half of the broadcast, I was smooth in the cuda. We got it in a few times over the next month, all the way until graduation day (literally). Whenever I listen to Mr. Benet croon one of the greatest and sweetest ahh ha, bitch songs of all time, I get a gleam in my eye. And – whenever I hear “Not Like Us” by Kung-Fu Kenny, I’m immediately taken back to Kendrick’s 6.19.2024 Pop Out Show featuring every gang member/artist in greater Los Angeles (except Game). Kenny performed the song FIVE TIMES CONSECUTIVELY. Five MF times. Back-to-back and tree mo’ after that. He zipped Aubrey’s Canadian ass the fuck up. Body bag. Pastor Kendrick performed Drake’s eulogy that night. I’ll never forget witnessing that moment. Music is soooooooooooo amazing. So is Black history.
 
I saw the new Joker movie. I loved it. I’m hearing that everyone hates it. I don’t want to give away any spoilers, but the musical aspect of the movie served a specific purpose. Read the last section of this blog again. When I think about classic R&B records from my childhood, the first thing I think about is that Shareon cut a rug to it. She was young and vibrant – and healthy. I know what it meant when Arthur and/or Lee sang. Look, I’m not trying to turn a stinker into pure platinum just because I spent some money and time on it. I’m saying that as a human who has had his struggles with mental health, I can appreciate the movie, the same as I did the first one. Wait for it to hit Max, I suppose. I loved it. I embrace the feeling and serendipity of escapism. Even if but for a fleeting moment.
 
Judge me as you may. I welcome it.
 
It’s about time to complete my annual viewing of Krush Groove. The ending song has been on my mind all day. Long live Jam Master Jay, Buff Love, and Prince Markie Dee.