#MNR: ABI SAID
 
“And it’s no competition, pool of blood for any opposition. You can be a known driller and be a fake politician. I can’t wait for it...the clock ticking. Can’t take my soul bitch, it’s God given.”
Hitta J3
 
"And if you can hear, smell, see, touch, and taste then you don’t need six senses to feel me punch you in the face.”
Canibus
 
I lost my light a while ago. Without my light, a #MNR blog or anything constructive is near impossible. I was done. ###, -30-, all that. It’s hard to see in the dark. But God is still merciful. He is still undefeated. He is still the greatest. After a prolonged pity party, He picked me up out of the dirt, dusted me off, and recalibrated me. He let me know that I’ll get through this. He told me what’s meant to be, will be. And then he allowed me to tap into my left brain. It told me that I may have lost my light in the traditional sense, but to explore other colors. Enter black light mode.
 
Tyrone [to many] was a good man. He was sho nuff my dad, but he wasn’t much of a father type. I don’t think he had much time for that type of shit. He was a hell of a drankin’ partna (AND druggin’), a hell of a foxhole mate, and a dear friend. But unfortunately, being a good father wasn’t on his list of accolades. Don’t worry, I got over my daddy issues 26 years ago. And it’s not like he didn’t teach me a thing or three here and there. But, by far, the best advice he ever gave me was to let her be if she wants to leave. If you love her, love her enough to get out of her way. Bear in mind that my dad was a controlling, abusive lush who terrorized the women he loved, but he certainly gave some solid advice. Thanks, Ty. Rest in peace, my nigga.
 
Hold on, Monday. I can’t let you get away without asking. What the fuck, exactly, is black light mode?
 
If you turn on a black light bulb in a dark room, you see a purplish glow. The black light bulb produces UVA light.
 
It ain’t that. But I wanted all you scientific MF to know that I’m not slipping. Relax.
 
Black light mode is figurative. When faced with blackness and zero visibility, we are forced to lean on our other four senses. Our hearing is especially heightened. We are forced to tap into ourselves a bit more than normal. We are forced to move with caution. We are forced to focus up. I am currently in the process of all the above. But my steps are ordered and measured. It’s a different feeling. I also feel like Carlito standing before the judge at the beginning of the epic and eponymous piece of cinema. This is where I talk my shit like he did. I hope I don’t get my goose cooked in a similar fashion to Señor Brigante from the #BXNYC. I’ll take living into my late ‘70s, early ‘80s in Virginia Beach or Hollywood Hills or somewhere on Oahu. Let me die in my sleep on my beach chair in the back of my beach house on a sunny and warm Ty Monday, an hour or so after lunch.
 
Ok. I got all that introspective shit out the way. Let’s dance.
 
This blog is dedicated to all degenerate gamblers, 1.5-star hotel frequenters, 0-3.25% tippers, peep show devotees, recidivist Bic lighter thieves, and niggas who eat all the damn school snacks of the kids whose mother they’re fucking – in the late night, right after they finish fucking. I think each and every one of youse are wretched and vile humans, but I respect the fact that youse move with impunity. Youse types are heroes to scumbags worldwide. As a former scumbag, I ain’t mad at youse.
 
Sometimes, when the lights are low, the room is full of Bombay (Uncle Elroy voice), and all the sick thoughts slowly enter, I drift deep into the cosmos. I think about how fly I am. I’m probably the flyest fat nigga you’ve ever met. Nah, fuck that. I definitely am. All my colognes are foreign. I’m tied in to Phil Knight and Uncle Ralphie like Jesse was tied into MLK. I’m slick as Nu-Nile on a sliding board and smooth as a silkworm’s finest tapestry halfway draped over your girl’s bare ass after we finish frogging. Fuck a chill button because the god told me the sun don’t chill. I can empathize with Anakin when he took that slow walk toward the Darkside. But I’m not finna mask up. I’m finna craft this next masterpiece, let my ace manage the project and step with the steppers, get this chicken, porcelain my teeth, and smile all on camera as your auntie watches while we skate to a Pulitzer. And me and CEO gon tell two streaming services to suck our dicks before we take a deal from the third. Picture me rollin’. F.A.M.E. You heard?
 
I love the fact that my first cousin is a bloody MAGAt. I find it intriguing as a motherfucker because I know that nigga. He sings all the MAGAt notes and chords. He’s ardent in his allegiance to that fat, cheesy skinned, diaper wearing, bigoted ass troglodyte. One thing about cuzzo, he’s going to go extra hard for any and everything he believes in, same as me. I admire him for that. And, at the end of the day, I don’t give a fuck what he thinks. He’s still my blood. You’d be a damn fool to think I’d kick him to the curve over his political ideology. He’s my lil nigga. We are always going to be good. Rich ass nigga.
 
Speaking of tRump...
 
Sleepy Joe, you dropped the ball in front of the entire free world. A good debate would have been a layup. Now, I’m not going to go extra hard in hindsight. I watched the entire debate. Of all the facts that were spoken from either man that night, approximately 95% came from the incumbent. The problem was that it took him way too long to land the plane. Shit, it often took way too long to get that MF off the runway. Cheesy was his usual bombastic self. He lied, lied, and did a little more lying to finish the night. But he lied with confidence and conviction. Joe sounded hoarse and faint. Half of the time he looked like a UFO had dropped his ass off at the lo[cation] five minutes before the debate began. It was a failure, but I don’t consider it to be an absolute failure. All hope isn’t lost. 45 has an entire summer of rope to hang himself with. I don’t think this is a fete accompli. I’ll know for sure by the Democratic Convention. Until then, y’all better coalesce around him, Dems. This isn’t the time to abandon ship, unless y’all feel like either Gavin or Gretchen is ready.  I don’t think Kamala can defeat Cheesy, plain and simple. Like I said, there’s plenty of time to go. Just wait until the masses do a deeper dive into Project 2025...
 
I must take the time to thank all of you who checked in last week to see what was up with the blog...and your boy. It meant a lot. My young’n Alex always checks in on the Twitter when something seems to be awry. He’s a good guy. We have to smoke a haystack, have a couple of steaks, or go in on a bottle or sum’n. Being able to express myself in this medium is therapeutic, cathartic, and vital to my mental well-being. I can always come here with all my bullshit and you wonderful folk listen to my dumb ass. Imagine that. I feel like Micheal Corleone in Godfather III. But it’s not that I’m being pulled back in. I am willingly reapproaching because it’s as innate as breathing. As long as the good Lord allows my brain to function and my fingers to move and my Mac is operable, I’m going to deliver #MNR. Or at least until the next time I’m disenchanted with all this mortal shit and want to blink myself away.
 
And then I’ll still be back after that.
 
Big ups to Andrell and the entire Flatbush, Medina. More fiyah!
 
Congratulations, Janay. I love you, sis. Let’s win.
 
#Desi (1M heart emojis)

​#MNR: SKYWALKER
 
“Please forgive me (please forgive me). Lord, forgive me (Lord, forgive me). For all my sins (my sins). But a man gotta do what a man gotta do.”
Swizz Beatz
 
Karma is undefeated. And, just like the works of the Lord, she too is timeless. She exists in a realm where time does not. We humans get caught up on the premise of time and how long or short the duration between an act of fuckery and retribution/atonement should be. That’s because we want “justice” to be swift, sudden, and costly. But good old karma – she’s a different type of bitch. Baby girl don’t mind dragging her feet – in your eyes. She’s not on your schedule. Mine, either. She may not come when you want her to, but she’s going to show up, word to God. And when she shows up, that hoe shows out.
 
A couple of years ago, I was introduced to perhaps the wildest song I’d ever heard, and that’s saying a lot, considering I’ve listened to Russell Ason Unique Jones (LONG LIVE ODB!), Marshall Mathers (Em will always be my favorite white boy; he earned my respect) along with D12, and Brotha Lynch Hung, easily the wildest Negro I’ve ever heard on a record. Ask Robert Glaspy if you don’t believe me. He put me on to that nigga. I really thought I’d heard it all, until I heard “Who I Smoke,” an “interpolation” of Vanessa Carlton’s “A Thousand Miles,” by Spinabenz, Whoppa Wit Da Choppa, Yungeen Ace, and FastMoney Goon. These esteemed young men, all hailing from Jacksonville, FL, rapped bars about...who the fuck they smoked, over perhaps the most sentimental song of my adult life. Shit, I own the song (I DO NOT stream; I pay for my music). For further intrigue, the video was shot on a golf course, with all participants dressed for 18 holes (no Diddy) of play.
 
I want to say that I was incredulous. I want to say that I was almost subdued by disbelief. But in reality, I was partially intrigued and completely certain that these young niggas were wilder than the insane asylum on Riker’s Island. Fuck that, Arkham (IYKYK). So, in typical Tyrone Monday fashion, I did a deep dive. It immediately took me to a YouTube video about the Jacksonville drill scene and its deadly effects. The video, titled “Jacksonville Deadly Gang War,” has amassed 8.4M views in three years. Its creator, Trap Lore Ross (a blue blood), has become one of the preeminent oracles of the morbid reality of trap music. Almost two hours in duration, Ross documents the sordid history of several Jacksonville drill rappers, detailing their real-life beefs, which they conveyed to the world through music. I’ll be blunt; almost all the young men referenced in the video had been killed – by one another. Most were barely adults. But the focus of the documentary seemed to revolve around two young men: the aforementioned Yungeen Ace and another rapper named Julio Foolio. Ace was shot eight times in a 2018 mass shooting that killed all three of the men he was with, including his brother. He was involved in another shooting less than a year later, again surviving the shooting but losing another close friend. And who was there to troll him both times? None other than Foolio. I mean come on. You can’t expect anything less from a nigga named Foolio. Foolio was extra disrespectful though. He shot videos at gravesites. He made devastated mothers cry even more. But that bitch karma...
 
Yesterday, I turned my television on to find out that Foolio was shot and killed early Sunday morning in Tampa after celebrating his 26th birthday. He had hosted a pool party at an AirBnB but got kicked out. He and his folk left the BnB and checked into rooms at the Holiday Inn. Foolio and three others were in the car in the parking lot around 3:30 am when they were ambushed. He didn’t stand a chance.
 
In typical drill fashion, Ace released “Do It,” a Foolio diss track, hours after his death was confirmed. I just listened to it. That shit hard den a MF.
 
Lord, have mercy.
 
I don’t merely work with autistic learners; it’s my calling. I’ve been blessed to work with children since I was a child, literally. I entered the workforce part-time at age 13, working the chain gang for youth football, under the tutelage of my mentor Brad Ballou (I miss you Big Fella). I’ve been in education for two decades, 18+ in the public school system and 1.25 years in the private sector. I’ve worked AND run summer camps. I’ve worked AND run SACC programs. I’ve had kids call me everything other than a child of God. I’ve wiped tears and asses. There have been times when I’ve questioned my efficacy as an educator. There have been times when I wanted to walk away from education and never look back. One thing has always remained steadfast – my love for ALL my babies. There was my kinship with the AP kids on their way to universities much bigger than my alma mater. They were drawn to my charisma and respect my acumen for journalism, politics, and popular culture. As a paraprofessional, I never sat in a class with them. But I was an AP student in high school. I could relate to what they were going through, especially the pressure. Their eyes would pop out of their heads when I asked them how crazy it was to learn that Advanced Placement exams have five (5) multiple choice answers: A, B, C, D, and E. These encounters happened in lunch cafeterias and gym bleachers, but bonds were forged, nevertheless. There were my future felons. I developed bonds with those young men during my time in middle school. It was clearly apparent that they’d chosen to endeavor upon that path. I told my middle school hard rocks in training that I believed that they had the ability to be anything they wanted to be if they were willing to work for it, and I meant it. However, since you’re stuck on going down that road, there are a few things that you need to know. I’ve got a young man doing life. I’ve got a young man who was slain in prison (LONG LIVE JOSH), I’ve got young men currently incarcerated in New Jersey AND New York state corrections. I’ve got young men who’ve done their time and are productive citizens. And then I have my most precious learners, my autistic learners...
 
I spent my last two years in public school as a one-to-one for an amazing young man named William. He was a transplanted New Yorker whose mother moved to Bergen County in hope of finding a school in which her boy wouldn’t be bullied for his constant scripting (when a child repeats things they see/hear, usually their favorite cartoon or YouTuber) and his high-pitched voice. They placed him with Mr. T. (I hate referring to myself in the third person). William was a blessing to my life in so many ways. The kid was brilliant, in his own way. His parents worked for the airlines, so he had a fascination with airports. He knew the three-letter abbreviation of EVERY airport in the world (well, damn near). He could recite old Nickelodeon, Nicktoons, etc. commercials flawlessly. He inadvertently reminded me that Nickelodeon and its sister channels went black for three hours every Worldwide Day of Play prior to the pandemic. It reminded me of the respect I had for Nickelodeon and the fact that they were willing to sacrifice three hours of getting paid to encourage kids to go out and be active. He scripted the commercial flawlessly. He is an amazing human being. I’m blessed to have had him as my 13th and final one-to-one in public schools.
 
During the same period, I worked part-time as an ABA behaviorist in Bergen County. After a disastrous first assignment, I was blessed to work the same case for the next two years with one of my favorite people on this planet, a now 20-year-old young man named Felipe. My first [of four] BCBA (Board Certified Behavior Analyst – the big dog) told me when I began my journey with Felipe to not expect much (the nerve of her). Boy was she wrong. My guy achieved so much in our time together. He made so many strides. He also made me a better human being. He allowed me to share his world for three hours a day, a serene world oblivious to the evil of this world that you and I are forced to endure (Hawk spoke to my soul at Will’s commencement). I could go on and on about how brilliant Felipe is. It still wouldn’t be enough. I love that guy. And I miss him. I’ll be through the crib for his 21st. He’s a part of my family, and I am a part of his.
 
Pardon my rambling, but if you haven’t picked up what I’m putting down, I’m letting you know I love these kids. All of them. Unconditionally. They are all unique. They are all worthy of being loved. We have no idea what they go through when they’re not in our care, but we know exactly what they’re going through when they’re with us. We have an obligation to teach AND nurture. Anything less is unacceptable. I don’t care who you are. I don’t care what position you hold. What’s done in the dark will eventually come to the light. Trust. Lest we forget...karma is undefeated.
 
I love you Lynn. Thank you for being you.
 
I’ve been typing forever. This was all one contiguous thought, opening paragraph aside. I’m tide. (Slick Rick voice) Goodnight!

#MNR: TY MONDAY & THE MIRACLES

“I been down. But I hope I make it out.”
Brent Faiyaz

“I’m barely standing, and plus my second hand say it’s midnight.”
Makaveli the Don

“You sho’ is ugly!”
Shug Avery


The last time I did this was in college. I’m just going to let my fingers go. Whatever comes to mind is what I’m typing. I’ve got a J lit, two in the ashtray, and it’s whatever. If something I say in the course of this blog upsets you in any way, please go to your local bodega. Walk in. Have a Coke and a smile. Translation: I don’t give a fuck. Shut your sensitive ass the fuck up and enjoy the blog.

For those of us who stay tuned in – howdy. How the fuck are ya? I hope all is well. If not, go to your bed, get in that bitch, get under the covers, and pray that your friendly neighborhood weed man didn’t short you a .5 out of your eighth. My bad. I was having too much fun. All jokes aside, if all isn’t well, take a few deep breaths, exhale slowly, and roll a J. If you don’t have any flower, contact your local cannabis distributor, and...MF I already told you. Pray he doesn’t short you on your package. If he does, take your lazy ass to the dispensary next time and pay rapper prices for proper weight. Go on ‘head and spend some of that money. Good ole Sleepy Joe (and the last 98 job reports) told us the economy is thriving. Show him you agree by spending some of your net gains on that sweet cheeba. And I mean the good shit.

I remember the time I smoked a J with Delores after work and damn near collapsed on my way to Port Authority (LMAO!!!). Ok, I’m dragging it a wee bit, but I was damn near sittin’ sideways. I felt like I was Gumby in his weird little clay world. I felt like my fat clay Gumby legs were going to sink into the clay asphalt of 8th Avenue. I was scared for about ¾ of a block, between like 35th and 36th. After I realized I wasn’t going to pass out, it became fun. I really felt like I was Gumby, y’all. I was geeking. It became an adventure. And low key, I kinda hoped I sank into 8th Avenue – just a bit (sensory!). It would have been like Gumby quicksand. I thought I was in a special scene from The Simpsons or That 70s Show. I wouldn’t call it serendipity, but it was damn near bliss. In typical Ty Monday fashion, my happiness immediately eroded when I got to the top of the escalator in Port Authority and began to walk to my bus. Even though it was air conditioned, my body temperature rose about 2.5 degrees. I was [more] nervous than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. I thought I was going to have a stroke and pass out in the middle of all the commuters. Pass out, fall, crack my water head on the Port Authority floor, and bleed out until it trickled to the escalator I just ascended. Someone please call 911! And grab me a bacon/egg/cheese on a croissant and a medium coffee light and sweet from the Dunkin for my ambulance ride to who knows what hospital? As long as I don’t somehow end up in Lincoln in the X I’m good. I’d damn near rather head to the morgue than Lincoln. Oh, yeah. I made it to my bus. I made it to my bus safely. I put the little vent on me and got that cool breeze. I was good. I was as happy as a runaway slave in northern territory. Nigga, I made it.

Shout out to my ace Ju for imploring me to drink alkaline water. Six bucks for a bottle of water reminds me of my only sour memory of Vegas – the entertainment tax. A tall bottle of Poland Spring was six damn bucks. But damn it, I bought an almost gallon of Poland Spring from the .99 store earlier and the water tasted like plastic. There goes my $2.50. Damn it, man. First Wham! breaks up, and now this. At least I’m pH balanced like a woman (aye yo!). Fuck y’all. My water has a 9.5 pH, is ionically charged, 9-stage purified, has electrolytes, and has no added sodium, chlorine, or fluoride. It tastes like water in a paper cone cup from the water cooler in an 80s doctor’s office. Clean. Crisp. In a cup made for an icee. From an 80s doctor’s office. Totally 80s: Reaganomics, the crack epidemic, Jheri curls, dope man Nikes, and Morton Downey Jr. What a time to be alive.

America is two weeks away from the first of two planned presidential debates. For those of you who haven’t been paying attention, Big Cheesy sounds like a drunk grandpa gone off Adderall with a touch of dementia. He has been reduced to being little more than a sweaty, shitty, diaper wearing buffoon, slurring his way through speeches at MAGAt gatherings. Have you ever noticed that EVERY time tRump speaks against Sleepy Joe and his policies, it’s always something “of the likes which we’ve never seen before.” He keeps painting a picture of some dystopian society, when in reality, it’s the same old macabre society we’ve always known. America isn’t the hell that tRump portrays; it’s the progression of an “equal” society in an ever-changing world.

There’s plenty wrong. There’s plenty that could be better. But, if you really feel it’s the worst place ever, I’m going to tell you what the pilgrims tell us – leave, nigga. Go see how it is abroad. Pick a country in Europe. Asia. Mother Africa. Shit, move to Mexico. I heard the economy is thriving. Move to a town in a region of a country where once a week they drop all the UPS packages off by a post at the end of the dirt road. Wait a month for a 10-day supply of medicine. Wi-Fi? Laughing my motherfucking ass off! No-fi.

The blatant inflation of the crowd numbers at these gatherings reminds me of the night the Expos were near the end of playing baseball in Montreal (late 90s), eventually relocating to D.C. and being renamed the Nationals. Anyway, they were playing a game in Olympic Stadium and the announced crowd was around 6,500, which is HORRIBLE for an MLB game. A camera from behind the center field wall had a wide shot of the stadium. There couldn’t have been any more than about 800 people in that shot, which comprised about 65% of the stadium. What I’m saying is...that’s the same lying ass MF counting the attendance at these MAGAt rallies. Lies, lies, lies. Don’t believe the hype. Everyday people, rather, registered voters with good sense, see all the fuckery. It's all a facade. It’s all a sham. Cheesy is going to get smoked in November. I’m still taking bets. Put a blue face on it.

I’m just high. High and typing my thoughts as they pop up in my Megadome. Don’t mind me. I’ll see y’all next week. I’m doing online training for a PT gig. 6.5 hours. I can’t (Ju voice).  Stay up, player. 

#MNR: god TIER
 
“Whoever said that what I say and portray is negativity, need to come and kick it in the city with me.”
Dr. Dre
 
“I got too many hoes...but they ain’t you. You like to put that shit up your nose...but I still love you.”
Brent Faiyaz
 
Every time I sit before my Mac to create another #MNR, I am in essence a prisoner to my own imagination. In my mind, I want this to be a pavilion, a place of refuge in times of downpour. I want it to be your weekly newsletter, crafted in the spirit of a broadcast. I want it to be your local council meeting. I want it to be an unplanned yet necessitous visit to the museum. I want it to be an excursion deep into the dense foliage of your personal feelings as well as mine. I want it to be the battle cry of our universal community through communication, which inevitably reveals a common unity.
 
I know my brother Mr. Ten can dig it. I’m high as Italian gas prices and eagle pussy.
 
Years before smartphones and Wi-Fi, around the time Google was a relatively unknown web site and Nasir bin Olu Dara Jones ethered Shawn Corey Carter, my uncle proclaimed that we all lived in a microwave society. The essence of his statement was easily discernible. The immediate thought is that society wants things to happen in short time, as microwaves do in fact cook food quickly. But the deeper dive incorporates the microwave’s counterpart, the oven. Damn it, Monday. There you go again. We know that microwaves cook food faster than an oven. Duh. You’re right. But my point is this – which tastes better? And why?
 
You must always put the [proper] time in if you want something, or more concisely, your creation to be its best. That’s the entire point of it taking time. A quick fix is exactly what its name suggests: a fix. A fix that is quick. Junkies need a quick fix. It immediately takes them to the moon [and beyond]. But when their SpaceX pod returns to the filthy ass, vermin infested bando they’re getting superhero high in, they’re right back where they began. Those of us who aren’t drug addicts are still challenged with forsaking quality for the quick fix in other aspects of our lives. We are satisfied for a little while, but it isn’t long before we are yet again displeased. Quality, on the other hand, is long lasting. It is appreciated because it is worth the cost, literally and figuratively. You are more prone to appreciate something you invested time and hard work into than something you “threw together.”
 
I think that the true essence of my uncle’s wisdom is that in addition to wanting things quick, fast, and in a hurry, we also love to rush to judgement. The court of public opinion adjudicates a case waaaaaay before an actual file is charged. I believe that social media has rendered due process outside of the courtroom impossible. Jump on the twitter to defend a celebrity who has allegedly done something amoral and see what happens to your cape wearing ass. They’re going to cook your ass in the same open flame they cook the nigga you dove into the social media cesspool to save. The fight’s rigged. You can’t win. You have no chance.
 
Want nuance on top of nuance? Cool. I brought an extra clip with me.
 
We don’t only rush to judgement on guilt or innocence, we also rush to judgement on who is or isn’t “finished.” We write people off and count people out with no type of sensical reasoning involved, other than the perception (or reality) that their last performance wasn’t epic and/or extremely underwhelming. We immediately negate all the success and hard work a person has achieved up until that point. That’s nasty work. Disgusting. And we all know that it stems from hate. You couldn’t wait to see that man or woman have a slip-up. Now you’re ready to pull up and burn their castle down. Their success is the bane of your existence. Their faux pas is your opportunity to finally have a moment in the sun, with your ole hating ass. Ironically, that’s your quick fix. You’ll go back to hating soon thereafter. You can’t help it. It’s in your blood. You come from a long lineage of haters. Your daddy. Your big booty auntie. Your grandmama dem. Alluvum.
 
If you’re a person in your 40s or older who is compelled to run on social media and tell your personal business, you may qualify for my latest study. Please contact me at [email protected] if interested. Please leave your name, age, sex, and a personal rating of 1-5 of how important you feel you are to random MF who don’t even know who TF you are. There will be no compensation for the study, but you will receive a wealth of blunt yet pertinent self-awareness.
 
Please don’t ever think that genius is limited to academic acumen and mere perception. Genius has many different forms and appears in many ways. That taciturn man who can barely read a restaurant menu can break an engine down and put it back together as easily as a prodigy can solve a Rubik’s Cube. That brother with beer on his breath who is a bit rough around the edges can lay tile with a personal brand of creativity and precision that keeps him in high demand without a social media presence or brick and mortar business. That young woman with purple hair and ten million facial piercings can invade and paralyze a casino’s entire network with a few keystrokes. Stop acting like you can read a person solely based on race, gender, sexual preference, appearance, socioeconomic status, or whatever TF you feel makes a person inferior. Let their work be the standard by which they are judged. Never underestimate anyone.
 
If you think I forgot then you must have forgotten that I rarely, if ever, forget. If you think that I don’t discern nuance, sarcasm, or ignorance you are mistaken. You are ignorant, and there is no sarcasm in my nuance. If you think I didn’t do my homework, I don’t blame you for the thought. You weren’t aware that I read and mastered the unit before it was discussed in class. If you think that I’m ever scared when entering the field of play, you are tragically unaware that I am a master of preparation. If you think that God’s children won’t win in the end, you sadly read the story all the way through and yet misinterpreted its ending.
 
Me: But I thought –
Archie G. Warren, Sr.: Do they pay you to think?
 
Joji, I love how you randomly quote something from the blog in the middle of class. I love you, period. Big ups to Justine for being a real one, from our discussion at the Irish watering hole the other day to casually letting me know you read my blogs. I fux with you a long way. Big ups to all my ardent supporters; there is no #MNR without you. Big ups to all the nickel bag spots in Harlem and #BXNYC in the mid-90s. I miss that era. I was so young and pretty, and my tolerance for mid to low grade reefa was so low. Peace, y’all. I’m out through one of the trap walls in a Scooby episode. A he, he, he, he, he!

#MNR: SHARPEST KNIFE IN THE DRAWER
 
“What I create pulsates, there is no escape. Annihilate your mental mind state.”
Kurupt
 
“Clear the building. Evacuate women and children. Fuck what you feeling, nigga. I came here to kill him.”
Canibus
 
“Who Jah bless, I say, no man curse. Things gettin’ better when they thought it would be worse. Here comes the officers, asking for a search. They found no weapon, just only a draw of herbs. ‘Cause I’m so solid as a rock. They just can’t stop me now...”
Sizzla Kalonji
 
Aye yo, pass that, good brother. You trout-mouth heathen. I don’t recall you putting in on that J, either. Oh shit. We’re live? Oh ok. Howdy, y’all. Good evening. Thanks for joining us. We’re glad to have you. I’m the insatiable Ty Monday, your favorite hood griot, host of this blog, and weed spot specialist (both sanctioned and unsanctioned). I pray all of you good folk are doing well and enjoying the holiday. I’m glad to report on this blessed Memorial Day that I’m still peeing freely. Thank you, Lord.
 
This past weekend was amazing, from the weather to my activities. I made my way to DMV to attend my baby cousin Janae’s graduation party. Congratulations, Nae. I got the chance to see my Warren family. It’s been a minute since I saw my Auntie Cynthia, Uncle Archie, and Aunt Gail. I got to politic with the legend @iamdjgreen. I got to see Adrienne, John, and Johntae. I saw plenty of Bridgehampton and Southampton folk. My sis Jon Jon scooped me from the DC terminal and put me up in her crib during my stay. Shae (my ONLY big sis from Union) gave me a ride to the terminal while we built over a J of Bombay. I even made my way to another earth day function (big ups to Shakita & Ed). Life is good.
 
This nigga Green kept telling me to pass the J while we poly’d at the kick-back. Nigga brought one J with him that he was finishing when I pulled up. Smh. He must have missed the memo. If I roll the J, I pass the J when I feel like it. I do commend his temerity. It’s no coincidence that he’s my blood. We’re both prolific assholes. I love that rich ass nigga.
 
Shout outs to Peter Pan buses. I scooped $15 tickets to and from DC. I would have spent at least $130 more if I took Amtrak. I had both seats to myself leaving and returning. Neither trip was sold out, even with a stop in Baltimore. The only negative was that both buses left about a half hour after the scheduled departure time, but the drivers damn near made the time up each way, so I can’t even complain. Good shit, Peter Pan. I’m not above traveling no-frills. But I’ll be damned if I take a bus past DC.
 
I saw the most beautiful Albino woman on the bus to DC. In addition to her flawless Auburn hair and button nose, the best way to describe her was gorgeous – and her skin glowed. Had I been fifteen years younger, I would have confidently introduced myself and hoped that she understood my story. But she was too young for my karma. Shout outs to her. You’re a superstar, girl. You beautiful thing, you’re beautiful when you glow...
 
RANDOM: I was in love with the Rican dancer in LL’s “Around the Way Girl” video. She was sooooo sexy. My innocent, 12-year-old hormones raged every time Video Soul played the song. That woman is at least 55 years old now. Iono. A lot of mamís don’t keep their looks over time, respectfully. What? Am I lying?
 
I hope all my Nike heads paid attention to the app’s 25% off sale. I certainly did. You already know the Fly Nike Kid (that was my Hotmail tag 25 years ago) copped a couple of tech suits. I’m a tech suit nigga. They work well for me. There were a lot of other worthwhile grabs sprinkled throughout the app, all the way down to socks. As of press time, the sale was still active. It may end tonight. If it does, bummer. If not, take your slow ass to the app/web site and spend some of that money.
 
P.S. The 25% off is in addition to any sale price of an item.
 
Slow motion beats no motion. The past week was love. It was a drama-free week that began modestly and ended with and amongst family and the closest of friends. There was nothing flagrantly egregious happening around the world, other than the fuckery going on in Rafah. Murdering scores of innocent civilians while targeting only a couple of enemies is ridiculous. Netanyahu’s bullshit apologies and excuses are insidious. My prayers remain with Palestine and its people. I stand with you. The last shall be first.
 
I’m not going to talk y’all to death this week. Enjoy your burgers, glizzies, ‘tata salad, fried fish, alcohol, tobacco, and firearms. Salute to all the fallen veterans. Big ups to Al Cowlings. Bro reminded me that he’s the realest homie of all time. 31 years later. No interviews, no tell-all books, no movies, no nothing. OJ left from here and AC still hasn’t parted his lips. He’s still in Southern California with his wife, living strong. Shout outs to Al Cowlings, arguably the realest nigga in the hip-hop era.
 
Happy Earth Day to my Auntie Cynthia. Love you always.
 
I’m a catch y’all next week ‘round the time they send my government benefits check in the mail.

#MNR: SUCCOTASH
 
“I got a question. It’s serious as cancer. Where the fucking safe at? Somebody better answer.”
Shyne
 
“You can’t hear that switch, but you can hear them niggas scream.”
Future
 
“Why you trolling like a bitch, ain’t you tired? Trying to strike a chord and it’s probably A-minor!”
Kendrick Lamar
 
My intention last Saturday morning was to wake up (prayerfully/thankfully), shower, get superhero high, grab a bite to eat, and head to Fairleigh Dickinson University Field to watch their baseball team host Coppin State, who just so happens to feature my DMHS sun Christopher Marte at catcher. He’s been one of mine since his freshman year in high school; the bond is indelible. I made it to Dwight Morrow for a game in his senior and COVID (extra year of HS eligibility in lieu of 2020 seasons being canceled due to COVID) years, and promised him I’d attend the Saturday, 5.11 game. Again, that was my intention. However, I woke up at 6:33 am on Saturday morning (way too early for a Saturday) with an all-too familiar pain in my lower abdomen on the right side, in the general area of my right kidney. The pain wasn’t severe, but it was consistent. I knew it wasn’t normal. I went to the bathroom to pay the water bill. I only let about half my normal stream go, but I didn’t think much of it in the moment. It would be my last urination until Monday evening – after emergency surgery.
 
Before you drop a tear, roll up immechiately, and scream, “Dis tew much!” while lighting that MF, the surgery was simply placing a stent in my kidney to ensure that the exit passage was open for fluids AND my latest round of kidney stones to pass through, much like large container cargo ships do through the Panama and Suez canals. I checked into the emergency room last Monday around 9:30 am, had surgery around 2:30 pm, and had an underwhelming diabetes dietary dinner around 6:00 pm. My general doc told me I pissed 9 liters over the course of the night...through a catheter (three agony emojis). Three turkey bags full of pee-pee. I was released around 2:00 last Wednesday afternoon. I was given the strict order of drinking at least a gallon (yes, gallon) of water a day to flush my kidney and was taken off a couple prescriptions I’ve been using the past few years, most notably Metformin.
 
Oh yeah, I found out that my left kidney is on the verge of being useless. There’s been a staghorn kidney stone which has prevented any activity for an undetermined period of time. Dr. Lee and I will discuss it further when I see him on 5.30. Look at it this way. I can live another 70 years on one kidney (facts). I didn’t plan on living to 115-120 anyway. C’est la vie.
 
Life is good. Now, back to regularly scheduled programming.
 
For those of you on the wrong side of favor in the Kendrick/Aubrey battle, you should’ve read my blogs. Everything I said about both of those men was 100% accurate. Check the timestamp. I said that one of the two was born from and into the struggle while the other was raised in relative affluence by his Jewish mother...in another country. I did everything except implicitly state that Aubrey is not from our culture. I spoke on his lack of respect for the essence of the Black American struggle because he...isn’t Black American. I also said that Kenny was the better artist, point blank. I shot a higher percentage from the field than the Pacers did in the Garden in Game 7 (sighs). For anyone who isn’t aware, “They Not Like Us” was tailored specifically for California and Cali culture. I’ve seen more crip and blood walking to the Mustard beat than I’ve seen pimps with hoes. It’s a California cultural phenomenon. I was walking on 2fifth on the long (No Diddy) stretch between Lenox and Madison (IYKYK) and a group of young Hispanic men were in a small-ass four-door bopping to Mustard on the beat, hoe. The setting is hip-hop’s polar opposite to Compton, LA, California. This is Harlem, NYC, New York. Ponder that. It’s powerful.
 
 Now, ponder how far and how quickly Aubrey has fallen from grace. He’s the laughingstock of the internet. EVERY urban Youtuber is still frying his ass on a daily basis. He got one million DISLIKES for the punk ass song he did with Artificial Intelligence Pac and Snoop (extremely non-cipher). Nike recently released a pair of sneakers from NOCTA, Aubrey’s signature clothing/shoe line. The sneakers are sitting on the shelves and in the warehouses like the Knicks are sitting at home. They’re calling his shoe the Colonizer + whatever number was attached to those feminine gay men’s sneakers. I wouldn’t wear those shits on the way to pick up a check from Aubrey. I’m talmbout six figures. I’m pulling up in a pair of Kobe VI Protro. That light-skinned colonizer would have to respect it. RIP Drake. You’re Aubrey and only Aubrey from henceforth. And we know about those young girls. What in the Jeffrey Epstein...and what’s up with the grown man-headed brother with the baby’s body? I’m too scared to do my due diligence, so I’m just going to pretend that I’ve never seen him.
 
On the way to visit my family in Throgs Neck #BXNYC, I decided to take the A to 2fifth on the 8th Avenue side of town, just like I used to when I was living in Englewood 22 years ago. I usually took the M101 across 2fifth until it reached [1]16th and Lexington, a block away from Jeff. But some days I’d shun the bus for a nice stroll down 2fifth, Black America’s most famous street. Last Saturday I was immediately underwhelmed. There was nothing new and vibrant to report. The only interesting “new” business I saw was a Nike Unite store on 5th Avenue. There were plenty of closed stores along the strip. The Duane Reade on Lenox was Dundee. But so are most Duane Reade locations in the city not associated with Walgreens. Crossing over to the #Eastside had that mid-90s extra grimy feel. There’s still absolutely nothing in that big ass lot on 2fifth and Park. I felt like I was in Fallujah the further east I walked. The former Pathmark on Lexington has been leveled; there’s simply an empty lot (the entire block) and a tall ass fence surrounding the perimeter. The dope fiend McDonald’s across the street has finally ceased operations. The lone bright spot was a weed shop right beside the former Mickey D’s. I got an eighth of decent Gumbo for $25 and a pack of Raw for two cash.  I made my way to 2fourth to get a cheeseburger with an egg on it from JImbo’s. The burger was certainly worth it, but walking on that block felt like I needed the Juggernaut suit from GTA, two pistols (with at least one switch), and a pack of Jolly Ranchers pink lemonade. It immediately went from bright and sunny to overcast and rainy before I could walk down the block.
 
Low key, my trip home was a harrowing experience (lmao). The irony is that 20-25 years ago, I lived for all types of negativity. I had a chip on my shoulder and something to prove. Today, as a human who has doubled his life span since that time, I feel the exact opposite. I crave tranquility. I have no points left to prove. I do miss early 2000s Harlem, when billions in federal aid and corporate tax incentives came through and 2fifth (and Harlem) exploded. I’m talmbout Magic Theaters. Starbucks (gentrification was already on the way). The HMV on 1-2-5 was my favorite record store in NYC (sorry Virgin Megastore in Times Square, I really loved you too). RIP to boffum. Dr. Jay’s was the shit. So was Jimmy Jazz, which apparently is now Snipes (Junisa and/or Nella please verify that for me). House of Hoops was theeeeee shit! Apparently, now it’s just a regular Foot Locker. I’m guessing the midnight releases stopped long ago (sighs). At least Marshall’s is still standing. So is Cap City USA. And Rainbow will never die, so long as it is located in the MF hood. The bottom line is that 2fifth has reverted to pre-2000s squalor. It’s not as bad, but it’s definitely down bad.
 
The one bright spot on the 2fifth stroll was my brothers from the Nation on the corner of Lenox Avenue. I could be cryogenically frozen for 75 years, thaw out, head [back] to Harlem, and purchase the latest copy of the Final Call from one of my brothers. It commemorated Minister Farrakhan’s 91st birth anniversary. There was an article about a 19-year-old Milwaukee Black woman who was murdered on a first date by a white male from an affluent family. Prayerfully, he’s been booked on three felony charges, including murder. But hands down, the most heartbreaking article involved an 11-year-old Louisiana girl receiving a 7-year sentence for her role in a murder with her 12-year-old brother. They killed a white man but there was no reason given. I have all types of questions. There’s an 85-90% chance that I don’t read about these cases in the national press. I’ll leave it at that.
 
I’m a member of the Christian faith but I love and respect my brothers and sisters from the Nation. I also support them.
 
My heart hurts for Harlem.  
 
It feels good to be back at it. I missed y’all. Smoke one with your kinfolk when you see me. I just might be in your hood (IYKYK – Soul!).  I’m out through the dirty ass sliding patio do’ on the left side of the ‘partment. The one across from your auntie dem crib. You heard?
 
Y’all know where the fuck to @ us.

#MNR: EVERYBODY DIES
 
“One day everybody gotta die, one day everybody gotta die, my nigga.’
Jermaine Cole
 
Yeah. We back. Back at G mama crib, nigga, the front porch. The only traffic coming up the old country gravel road is Scott or one of his folk. His house is just out of sight to the left. It’s a blazing August day in South Boston, Virginia, about 97 degrees. 100% humidity. G and I ain’t got shit to do, other than this quarter sack of izm we copped from the first nigga who answered the phone. It’s been more than a quarter century since those days, but it’s just like I remember. I don’t miss the milestones. It’s these times I miss. It’s all good. I’ll see G in short time. I promise it will be soon before long. That’s the vibe for this blog. Leggo.
 
Sike, I lied. Pass me the Raid, CEO. I’m finna bomb on these MF.
 
Some of y’all must really got me fucked up. I’m more than certain that more than a few of you don’t know exactly who the fuck I am, so I’m finna break it all down. I’m the only surviving child of Tyrone and Shareon. Both are reunited with Tamika Latoya in heaven. I’m a native New Yorker. I’m that Brainy Smurf, eight days a week church attendee, all-star in every sport I played, honor roll/accelerated classes/honors classes/Advanced Placement student. I’m a full academic scholarship university attendee and graduate. Yeah MF, I never owed Fannie Mae a dime. As for my street exploits? Ask Mr. Ten and Cuervo about how I used to get to the money. I don’t want you thinking I’m embellishing my statistics. What else? I’m a consummate thinker and reader. I’m Black on both sides. I’m God-fearing. I fear no mammal. If you by chance happen to encounter a bear and me in the woods, help the bear if you feel the need to wear a cape. I’m humble. I’m thorough. I pay my tax. I mind my business. I’m a goodfella.
 
I ain’t no bitch. I ain’t no hoe. I ain’t no snitch. I ain’t no sucker.
 
If you think any different, you definitely got me fucked up.
 
Go visit the Frank stand.
 
The irony of everything I just wrote is that the two MF currently in my scope don’t even read my blogs. I’m certain one can’t read at a high school level. I’m not sure about the other MF. He too is fucking stupid. Him, them, whoever. Everybody dies.
 
Nothing I just wrote was directed at anyone I love. It doesn’t matter if we don’t even fuck with each other like that anymore. Love will always be love. Love is indelible. But things change. I fall out with my folk from time to time, blood and otherwise. C’est la vie. We’re at odds until we’re even, I suppose. Some people enter your life for seasons, and everything that happens is for a reason.
 
Back to the fuckery. Oh yeah. It’s one of those.
 
You code-switching niggas are dangerous to our culture. I kind of feel like y’all are low key the number one threat. My thing is this: I don’t mind if you’re regular. I respect you for being you, whomever you are – if you’re worthy of respect. You earn my respect by being you. Who the fuck am I to try and impress? You ain’t got to lie my nigga. A lot of you niggas are prolific liars. I could 0.5% understand lying to the ladies to try and dip your stick in some sugar. You probably have 0.2% natural game and have to lie to experience a nightcap. But you niggas are more concerned with lying and switching up to catch the attention of...other niggas. It’s nasty work. You sucker ass MF create/embellish street and jail stories to gain the favor of other MF. Nigga, we don’t give a fuck about how you held it down up north. The object is to avoid the prison system, good brother. I have plenty of mine who’ve done their fair share of state time, from NY to NJ to PA to VA. I’m talking numbers. Not nay one of them bragged about their time. They told the stories they wished to share and that was that. I think you niggas are the type that like to throw parties with no DJ. My old heads know the reference/inference. Y’all remember the old Keith Murray song. The bar before the DJ bar. It rhymes with gay. My bad. It doesn’t rhyme with gay. It is gay. I think you niggas are gay.
 
I remember when I first moved to 170th St & Jesup Avenue in Highbridge, #BXNYC. Even though I was very familiar with the block because I used to go see some of my folk who lived up the street, I still paid attention more than I spoke when I first started to hang on the block. Jesup is (was?) strictly JTO Bloody. My nigga Chocolate was the OG and conducted affairs with an iron fist. Anyway, I remember this one young damu kid who had just come home from the Island (Rikers). He was a damu who didn’t live on the block but banged the set. Translation: that bastard was always around. He was all types of extra about everything. Y’all know the type: loud, ignorant, and ignorant. We were standing by 1419 and this duck goes “Yo, I need a 99, son!” Before y’all try to play me, I didn’t think he meant a 9mm strap. I’m not a gun slinger, but I’ve never heard of any damn 99. But being that he was more animated than the X-Men series on Fox in the ‘90s, I was curious as to WTF he was talking about. I asked my manz. Fam was like, “That nigga just want a cigarette. He’s always doing the most” (I could be embellishing the second sentence in that quote). I was like wow. What a sucker ass nigga. An “I’m out here trying to impress other niggas ass nigga.” Sure enough, a couple of weeks later I saw him on the block with a shiner that made Red’s black eye in Friday look almost passable (I’m faking, Red’s shit was fucked up). Somebody popped off on that frail young boy. Word was that he was running his mouth and caught a quick attitude adjustment. Eye jammie. I was more surprised that there wasn’t any dog shit on either side of the block that day.
 
After the negotiation period is over and we sign the ink on our production deal, I’m letting CEO do most of the talking to those suits. Y’all will have given us what we came to an agreement on. I’m already working on the re-up. Leave me the fuck alone. Y’all should have signed us a decade ago. Fuckers.
 
You’ve been quiet lately, Mr. Carter. Shawn Corey. Jiggaman. I watch the blogs. Word is that the Feds are on your ass. I’m not going to speak on any alleged family drama. That’s off limits to me. But both seem to be fruit from the poisonous tree. I’ve been talking my shit since Summer Jam ’02. If anyone knows, it's CEO. He still jokes about my disdain. But it was never hate. I merely sat back and peeped game. Your moves showed me the type of person you are. And I heard a few stories. I could never verify those, but my spirit did the discernment for me. I’m not praying for your downfall, Black man. But if what they’re alleging is true, vaya con...
 
I’ve still got rounds in the clip. Blue tips. Who else wants shots? Strictly dead eye. No strays.
 
Insecurities are highly visible. Don’t ever forget that. You may think you’ve been able to conceal them, but you haven’t. They become ever the more visible over time. If it ain’t authentic, some of us see right through you. But that doesn’t even matter. It all boils down to staring down that MF in the mirror. That’s who you have to reason with. You can’t fool that MF.
 
If you’re not rocking with UnB, kick rocks.
 
I’m out the back do(e) before the po-po get the lo-lo.
 
Oh yeah. One more thing. Aubrey...all the money and number one songs can’t erase all the footage of you being a lame ass nigga in real life. We always knew who you were – who you really were. But you’ve grown into a caricature of yourself. It’s ok. Kenny is walking you down. You can’t even go to sleep without worrying about the next diss record. Leave those little girls alone nigga. I saw the receipts. You’re weird.

#MNR: THE BLACK POOL OF GENIUS
 
“I’m Black – which means I like to sing, laugh, and tell jokes. Eat good food and be around Black folk.”
Styles P.
 
“It’s the things that you do, that makes me keep running to you. Keep on loving me the way you love me, ‘cause in love is where I ought to be.”
Gina Thompson
 
Say it loud, I’m Black and I’m proud.
 
I have never at any moment in life regretted or been ashamed of being Black. Five-fifths Black (IYKYK). Black on both sides. Unapologetically Black. That doesn’t mean that I’m a bigot; I am not. It does mean that I wear my Blackness on my sleeve and promote Blackness whenever possible. It also means that I speak, teach, and stress contextual American history, in all its ugliness. Every part, from 1619 until the moment your eyes read this blog. It does not entail anger; it entails hubris-free pride. At times I’m temporarily overwhelmed when I ponder how far we’ve made it, from those shackles, slave ships, auction blocks, and cotton fields to the top of the world: world championships, Pulitzers, Emmys/Grammys/Tonys/Academy Awards, Nobel Prizes, and even the White House. We ain’t invincible. But Lord knows we are beautiful and blessed. Check the affirmative...We’re fabulous, brilliantly blessed in every way. Y’all can’t touch we.
 
You’re my beginning, my end. You’re my sister, lover, and friend.
 
I wish you all knew exactly how beautiful you are. Every shade. You don’t need collagen, silicone, saline, or anything artificial to enhance your beauty. I love you just the way you are. God made you perfect in every way. I’m so proud of you. You balance the weight of the world on your shoulders every second of every day, yet make it seem effortless. You are the epitome of a queen. I literally think the world of you, for you are queen mother earth. I love every little thing about you. I cherish every breath you breathe. You mean that much to me. You birthed me. You cultivated me. You encourage me. You care for me. You educate me. You motivate me. You inspire me. You love me. Without you there is no me. I thank the Lord for you every single day.
 
Black man with the permanent tan...
 
My god-body brothers and sisters proclaim that we are gods, as we were made in the image of our God. We are given free will to make our own decisions and choose the path to righteousness. A man either builds or destroys. We are brothers. We are not enemies. There’s plenty of money out here for all of us. Your brother’s success should never be a reason for contention. It should be motivation if nothing else. You too can have it all. You have to work for it. Hating on your brother and/or plotting on his demise is just a temperature check. It innately means that you feel in your heart that you don’t possess what it takes to be great. But that’s just a trick of the enemy. He initially comes to sow the seed of doubt. Sadly, these days, this is usually enough to lead to calamity. But like I said, it is only a trick. You have everything it takes to be amazing and great. It is in your genetic code. You built the pyramids. You taught the Greeks the great knowledge that his-story books proclaim originated from them. You, through blood and sweat, built the American economy and ALL of lower Manhattan. You have everything it takes to be great. You are a king. Be great.
 
I’d give anything to be that innocent again.
 
Let me have your ear for a minute, baby boy. There are a few thoughts that I’d like to share with you. I will never do anything other than encourage you to be the best human you can be. Trust me when I tell you that I know exactly how you feel. It’s not easy trying to find your balance in this world. It’s ok to be you. You don’t have to be anything you don’t want to be. Remain comfortable in your own skin and in your own lane. You don’t have to be a follower. You were born a prince and will one day be a king. The only point you ever have to prove to anyone in this life is to yourself. Be you. Everything ain’t for everybody. It’s cool to take the road less traveled. It’s going to pay off in the long run. Trust.
 
Baby girl, you are so amazing. You’re beautiful, intelligent, motivated, and worthy of everything you’re willing to work for in this life. It’s ok to be a kid. You don’t have to participate in anything that will compromise your integrity. As you progress toward adulthood, be mindful that the women who spend tons of money having their faces and bodies sculpted spend all that paper trying to emulate you. You don’t need a tanning bed. Your melanin is more than enough. Your natural, curly, locks, and even nappy hair is beautiful because it’s yours. You don’t need to put anything in it to straighten it or put a wig over it to look like someone other than you. But if you do, I respect your right to do so. You are your own free-thinking work of art. You are a rose. Protect your petals.
 
Until the day that you are me and I am you...always.
 
All I ever wanted to do with #MNR was show you all the pieces of a man. This man. This Black man. Every layer. I’ve never had a problem with being candid about my fears. I’ve been forthright in taking accountabilities for all my shortcomings and disappointments. I share my personal stories and display vulnerability to show that we all endure struggle. You and I are one in the same. We are beautifully human. I want all my brothers to know that it’s ok to speak candidly and openly about your trepidations and feelings. That doesn’t make you less of a man, my brother. It makes you a king of discernment. I want my sisters to know that not every Black man sees you simply as a physical object made for his sexual gratification. Plenty of us see you as the amazing being that you are. You are my equal. You are my rock. I make Black pride and unity motifs in my writing because this era has taken a sharp turn away from all the efforts of the Movement. It seems like [finally] being granted our civil rights came at the heavy cost of slowly eroding our unity. I live with the spirit of Fred Hampton flowing through my veins. It’s ALWAYS we. I don’t care what happens; I will always feel this way. Too many of us died for us. We owe them. We owe ourselves. I don’t care what the UCR says about our violent crime rate against ourselves; I still have faith in us. I always will.
 
Black is beautiful.
 
Blood of a slave, heart of a king. I don’t believe in reincarnation (and would not want to experience it if it were reality), but if I were born a thousand times, I would want to be born Black 1 + 999 times. We are amazing. We came Up From Slavery, and The Souls of Black Folk have laid the foundation for all popular culture. We set almost every trend. Don’t ever let the enemy tell you differently. You are brilliant. You are amazing. You are beautiful. I love us infinitely.
 
Catch us in the streets. If not, y’all know where the fuck to @ us.

#MNR: PICTURE ME ROLLIN’

“Dear mama, can you save me? And fuck peace cuz the streets got our babies.”
Tupac Shakur

I remember when Bad Boy released Life After Death on 3.25.1997. The marketing slogan was “Think BIG.” I remember New York radio at the time, firmly entrenched in the Tupac Shakur hate/smear campaign, talking all types of shit. One DJ (who shall remain anonymous) even had the temerity to say that disc one of Life After Death was better than the entire All Eyez on Me. Fuck was that stupid nigga talmbout? That was pure bullshit. I’ve been laying on this one for a few years now, but now it’s time to talk MY shit. Get your Ls ready. Pour a glass of that good ‘gac. Mask off. Gloves off. Let’s get straight to it.

All Eyez on Me is a better [double] album than Life After Death. Sorry, not sorry. BIG got the deserved hype when LAD dropped. We’d been waiting for a while. All the remixes he jumped on and rocked, all the features he SLAUGHTERED, the Junior M.A.F.I.A. album (which he wrote), and the legendary “Death Row Freestyles” (most of y’all don’t even know about those) only made the anticipation of LAD mythical. I remember the Rap City interview BIG had with Joe Claire out in LA like a week or two before he was assassinated. The BIG fella was happy. He was looking forward to his second release. He had perfected the recipe, and it was time for the world to taste the flavor. And then came 3.9.1997. That man died two weeks and two days before he had the opportunity to unleash LAD to the masses. That was the focus of BIG’s interview. He knew that he’d lost favor with some of his west coast fans. He knew that all his fervent fans were literally fiending for his new material because they knew it would cement his legacy in rap history. He knew every artist, producer, executive, and journalist/critic was on it. The Source had already labeled Francis M.H. White (better known as Frank White, one of BIG’s monikers) the KING OF NEW YORK. It was “put up or shut up” time. But the BIG fella was far from scared. He was prepared. He knew he had amazing shit on deck. It was simply a matter of time.

Christopher Wallace didn’t disappoint. LAD was classic and then some, even with the leaked tracks. My favorite track is still “Fuck You Tonight” with the late Robert Kelly. He ain’t dead, but he’s kind of dead to the world. But his music lives on. I still play his shit. IDC, IDC. I’m from that era. If that offends you...fuck off. I pretty much liked every song, commercial tracks included. That was BIG’s superpower. He could jump on any track and turn that MF all the way TF out. It didn’t matter. It could be grimy, boom-bap, party, reggae, pop, whatever. He never failed. I’d be wasting all our time listing every hot track, so I will not. BIG set out on a mission and he accomplished said mission. Unless I’m mistaken, LAD was the first album since the seminal classic Illmatic to have an “all-star” production team. In addition to Puff’s Hitmen, the album featured production from legendary producers like Havoc, Buckwild, DJ Premier, RZA, Kay Gee, Easy Mo Be, Clark Kent, and Chucky Thompson. I rate it a 10/10. It’s a perfect album. But AEOM gets the slight edge.

I kinda lied. AEOM, the earlier release, too had an “all-star” production team. Pac had DJ Quik, Johnny J, Dre, Daz, DJ Pooh, DJ Bobcat, and DeVante, among others. If we want to get technical, no one on BIG’s production team can fuck with Dre. And don’t sleep on Quik’s influence on west coast production. But I digress.

Whereas BIG meticulously plotted every aspect of the project from production to song structure, we know for a fact that AEOM was a whirlwind. Pure fury. The album took only two months to complete. The first bar on his first single states it perfectly. “Out on bail, fresh outta jail, California dreaming.” Pac came home and hit the block running, literally. He sat still for eight months. That’s a long time to ruminate. It’s also a long time to reflect. He knew that everything from then on was inevitably a race against time. Most people conveniently overlook the “out on bail” part. His case was still open. Pac was facing a few years of incarceration if he lost his sexual assault appeal. Every second was of the essence, and Mr. Shakur didn’t waste any. There is so much to take from AEOM. First, Pac didn’t take a single direct shot at BIG, even though he felt the way he felt since he left Quad Studios on a stretcher, riddled with bullet wounds a year prior. He kept it all the way player. That was a strategy within itself. As we know from the incendiary and scathing “Hit Em Up” released in June 1996 and the release of Makaveli only three months later, revenge had been on his mind and would definitely be discussed in his music. But AEOM wasn’t the place, and out on bail fresh out of jail wasn’t the time. He slow walked that one, and he’s a genius for it. BIG and the Bad Boy camp knew war was coming, but he made them wait for a minute. You don’t believe me? Listen to “No More Pain.” That nigga sent a serious shot at BIG at the end, but it went over a few heads and was more of a hint than a pointed finger. Keep it going, Monday. I got y’all. AEOM is the FIRST double album of original material in rap history. For the record, Stevie Wonder’s “Songs in the Key of Life” (1976) is the first double album of original material in MUSIC history. But back to the raps. Y’all don’t think AEOM directly influenced LAD? It did. Pac influenced BIG from day one. We need one more, Monday. What you got for us? I do. “I Ain’t Mad At Cha.” There isn’t a single song on LAD that has the enduring influence that “I Ain’t...” has. Pastors referenced it in sermons. It made a generation of young, burgeoning music aficionados do their research on Debarge. It made mothers and thugs alike cry. And with this last point is my closing argument.

Life After Death will always be amazing. Having said as much, All Eyez on Me gets my slight edge every time. Its replay value is heavier IMO. But the fruit is in the contrast of style in both projects. Like I said, BIG wanted to showcase his craft. His songs were glorious temples of vanity. He brought Bone on the “Notorious Thugs” record to spit their style over their type of beat and tempo and show how superior of a lyricist he was. He accomplished the point. But after his verse we don’t even care to listen to the rest of the song. But back to my point. Everything was set up just right, and he was brilliant for his keen insight and strategy. But music is best conveyed to me through free-spirited expression. I think that’s why I love jazz so much. I read Ahmir Thompson’s liner notes for D’Angelo’s legendary Voodoo album. He said every song began as a jam session. When they got their juices flowing and the vibe was right, D’Angelo went into his zone and he and the Soulquarians began to create from there. There was no blueprint, just free expression. That was the spirit of Pac’s sessions after being released from prison. He got some Hennessy, some weed, some ladies, and called the homies to hit the studio. He listened to the vibe the producer provided and went in. [On seemingly] every other track, the Outlawz, Thug Life, his Death Row comrades, and homies from the Bay jumped on and put in work. And I can’t forget Red and Meth’s contributions. It was probably 75% spontaneity, and it showed in the finished product. It’s as vibrant and raw as it was almost 30 years ago. The energy from AEOM is unparalleled, beginning with track one, disc one. “I won’t deny it, I’m a straight rider. You don’t want to fuck with me.” And then the piano loop and beat drop. It’s over from there. Coincidentally, that’s the first song from the first act from the first step show I ever attended. Fall ’96. The Beta Epsilon (Shareon and Kia) chapter of Delta Sigma Theta was the step team. Believe it or not, that was the first tone-setter of my student life experience. I knew it was a different world. I’ll leave y’all with this. Give “Only God Can Judge Me” a spin for the first time in who knows how long. Listen to every word Tupac says. Every word on that song is pure, genuine, and from the heart of a brilliant yet troubled genius. His second verse gives me a chill every time. He was truly candid about his near-death experience and his subsequent fears. I’m from the “keep it real” era. It gets no realer than what he said in that verse and on that song.
Flatline...
I hear the doctor standing over me screamin' I can make it.
Got a body full of bullet holes layin' here naked.
Still I, can't breathe, something's evil in my IV.
'Cause every time I breathe, I think they killin' me.
I'm having nightmares, homicidal fantasies.
I wake up stranglin', danglin' my bed sheets.
I call the nurse 'cause it hurts, to reminisce.
How did it come to this? I wish they didn't miss.
Somebody help me, tell me where to go from here.
'Cause even thugs cry, but do the Lord care?
Try to remember, but it hurts.
I'm walkin' through the cemetery talkin' to the dirt.
I'd rather die like a man, than live like a coward.
There's a ghetto up in Heaven and it's ours, Black Power.
Is what we scream as we dream in a paranoid state.
And our fate is a lifetime I hate.
Dear mama, can you save me?
And fuck peace
'Cause the streets got our babies.
We gotta eat.
No more hesitation, each and every black male's trapped.
And they wonder why we suicidal runnin' 'round strapped.
Mista, Police, please try to see that it's
A million motherfuckers stressin' just like me.
Only God can judge me.

BIG was the better lyricist. His wordplay was legendary. But Pac’s music touched my soul. Give me All Eyez on Me all day.

Y’all be cool how y’all be cool. I know I’m going to get some heat for this one, but I said what I said. It’s all preference. Relax.

Y’all know where the fuck to @ us.