#MNR BAG

MNR: Bag

I'm really just running for money
I'm lil Flo Jo chasing a check
I'm really gon run up the money
I'm Carl Lewis really running the best
Calm moving through these hoovers
I maneuver with the bag, baby, never feeling stressed
Calm moving through these hoovers
I maneuver with the bag, baby, never feeling stressed

I’m still on that Innanet James wave. Heavy. His album (EP) Keep It Clean just gets better with time. Every track is crazy. Ev-er-y. I think “Bag” is one of the best songs I’ve heard in YEARS. It always puts me in proper perspective. This isn’t an original idea but I would definitely love an Innanet James and Dreamville collaboration or three. Or ten. Fuck it. A whole damn project. Cole and Innanet need to make that shit happen. The bars are slowly returning to the culture, y’all. AND Lil Uzi announced his retirement from rap...the possibilities are endless.

I omitted one crucial name from my list of 2018 Dearly Departed. Then I forgot to mention the colossal oversight on last week’s blog. RIP Mac Miller the Don. You’ve left an indelible mark on my soul. You were the farthest thing removed from the token white rapper. You were an MC who could hold his own and excel on any track and/or with any MC. Even greater is the type of cat you were. You stayed humble and never stepped out your box or lane. I’m a always rock your work as loud as possible. “Dig That” with Harlem’s Greatest (Cam’ron Giles) gon always be my favorite piece of work from you. “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.” So true bro. So true. Salud, Mac. I really miss you my nigga.

“Only the homies really know me.”
Ras Kass, “Miami Life”

It still amazes me that people feel like they really know a person by the 8-12 or so hours a day they spend together at work. Obviously, there are times and circumstances when a person genuinely befriends a coworker past the confines of the generic work relationship. Obviously. But frfr, there’s prolly only a handful of coworkers that are truly and genuinely people you consider to be friends. You know each other’s kids and family on an intimate basis. You visit the other’s home. You know WTF I’m talmbout. Like I said: handful. But somehow, folk will really believe they know you. I’m sorry, but you cannot accurately gauge the next person’s emotions because you lallygag by the Keurig machine nine point five minutes a morning en la oficina. MF, you don’t know shit ‘bout me other than what I show you at the job. You’ve yet to scratch the surface. To assume that you are a mind reader would further lead me to assume that you are an absolute and utter idiot for choosing your current profession over one that better utilized
your talent. If not, consider being a fluffer. After you hop off my John Shaft. You do not know me.

At this point in my life I’m...well...quite frankly, boring. I’m into laying low, loving on my baby, and polying with squad at the weekly fundamental, aka Eastside (4th) Saturday Night. That’s about it aside from the rare guest appearance in Attica from one of the younger gawds. But once upon a time in ghetto America, Mr. Monday was a project tenement, B-Stairs marauder. Fvck just taking a piss in the stairs. I used to post up in the B-Stairs and hold court with my folk. The piss prolly evaporated, yet the pungent odor lingers. So what. There’s Dutch and Backwoods guts all over the floor and stairs along with plastic baggies. The walls are usually nice and sorta white with the stencil red painted floor number (we lived on 2) with B alongside, aside from a fresh Sharpie tag or the rare lewd message or drawing. Not to worry, housing will get it eventually. We’re burning blunts in multiples, talking shit, laughing, and listening out for 12 in creep mode from above or below. Ground level is the bat cave. The project roof is Pebble Beach. If you’re getting dusty, take that shit up there. The stench is ridiculous. We play the bat cave for big ciphs and to keep an eye on the building entrance from the B-Stairs. See, that’s the door that only has an exit. There’s no outside handle or key code punch in. If they come from above we break out the exit and scatter. You two hit the plaza. You two hit (1)fifteenth. I’m headed to Third Ave. We only had enough work on us to burn. Even if you catch up to me I’m clean. Kick rocks you beat walker. Thank God it wasn’t an undercover DT. If it were you’re going in regardless. And he’ll prolly slam you on your neck before he cuffs you. No cap. Friday night special. You can’t see the magistrate until Monday morning. Say hello to bookings for the weekend. This was my everyday back when. Most of y’all never seen any parts of that. And that’s cool. But we see smooth through you. Leave the game to the present players and pay homage to all us with our jerseys hanging in the rafters. You stick to commentating. With yo’ peeking ass.

Just think: what if you could just...just blink yourself away. Now imagine if you blinked a billion times. Sometimes you just need to get away. I’m thru mane.