#MNR: A CHRISTMAS STORY “Someday all our dreams will come to be. Someday in a world where men are free. Maybe not in time for you and me, but someday at Christmas time.” Stevie Wonder “In my mind...I want you to be free.” The Temptations Shareon was a holidays type of lady. She lived for this time of year. It began with her faithful viewing of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade and concluded with December 25. As an adult, the holidays were usually the time I took my annual trip to VA to visit her because both our schedules were clear. For her, the holidays were always about spending time with loved ones. The gifts and food were great perks, but nothing compared to kinship. Shareon (and damn near everyone else) is gone, but her spirit lives on. My mother was heavy on spinning her holiday music. It has been the inspiration for past #MNR blogs on the greatest holiday songs in Black American culture. “Silent Night” by The Temptations will always finish number one, but several others are staples in my culture as well. “Let It Snow” by Boyz II Men and Brian McKnight is my personal favorite, as it is a song that was released while I was an eclectic music-consuming adolescent with a porn star’s libido. I’m almost certain that if you asked 100 random colored folk their favorite holiday song the consensus would be “This Christmas” by my great uncle Donny Hathaway. All these songs are GOAT status. I’ve got to keep it all the way real and include “All I Want For Christmas is You” by Mariah Carey. I say I’ve got to keep it real because I resented the song for years. I LOVE Mariah and liked the song when it was originally released (Shareon had the CD, of course) but I couldn’t embrace the song after its reemergence into Billboard. It pissed me off that because white folk discovered a 30-year-old song a decade ago, it gets to claim #1 every damn year. For the record, I feel that every song I mentioned in this paragraph and a handful of others are all better than “All I Want For Christmas is You.” But a new generation of whites found it to be cute, so it gets to outshine other Christmas songs from other Black legends. This isn’t a knock to my baby Mariah or the song. She deserves every penny and every accolade. This is a knock against dickriding as a movement, sport and culture. Merry Christmas, you filthy animals. I took my Auntie Sandra and a loved one to see The Color Purple Christmas morning. I was very impressed with the film, outside of a couple of aesthetic miscues. The men had their hats on inside the first church scene and the cross on the church wall had Christ hanging from it. As a lifelong churchgoer and believer, men NEVER wear hats inside the church. In addition, my Christ is living; he got off that cross a long time ago. Our crosses do not have Christ crucified and hanging on them. That’s Catholicism. Aside from those noticeable errors, the movie was amazing. It followed the original storyline but took a musical approach. I don’t watch a lot of musicals, but I’m pretty sure that was the vibe. I loved Tasha Jefferson’s portrayal of Sophia; she popped the most to me. She stole every scene. The dinner table (Thanksgiving) scene was arguably as good as the original. I’m a big Fantasia fan, and she did her thing this time around as adult Celie. My baby girl H.E.R. made an appearance as Squeak, whose character had a bigger role in the 2023 adaptation. Colman Domingo did his damn thing as Mister. He didn’t have the same evil aura as Danny Glover’s hardface did, but he was mean enough. Watching the original version as a kid was one thing. I knew it was a classic because all the adults around 9-year-old me raved about how much of a classic it was. But watching the storyline as a grown ass adult hit different. I understood the incest first time around; that’s not what I’m referring to. As a kid I didn’t fully realize that Celie really felt that she was alone and unloved in the world and how much her bond with Shug meant to her psychological development. I also didn’t realize that Celie and Shug munched each other’s carpet, either. Don’t get it twisted, I’m not mad at all (insert eyes emoji). I’m just saying... All jokes aside, I loved the movie. It was much more than I expected. I recommend taking a loved one to see it. Ty Monday #MNR Official Movie Rating: 9.1/10. (new classic) I hope that you all are smoking the finest of Christmas trees this holiday season. As I gather around the yuletide fire and light my holiday tree, my wish is that every human could be free. I wish that WE loved OURSELVES the way WE did before desegregation. I wish that every kid had presents under the Christmas tree. I wish Israel would stop massacring Palestinian civilians and desecrating their communities. I wish that Republican governors would reverse their insidious intentions and restore SNAP benefits to the downtrodden children who call the states they govern home. Feeding a hungry child has never been nor will it ever be political. I wish that every man could love his neighbor the same way he loves himself. And if he doesn’t love himself, I wish he knew that God loves him and always will. I wish that all missing children were returned home safely to their loved ones. I wish that quality education was attainable for all, irrespective of socioeconomic background. I wish United States and World History were taught from a 100% contextual standpoint in every classroom and lecture hall around the world, from elementary school to postgraduate school. I wish that Shareon were alive to receive this Pulitzer Prize I’m going to win from my next work of fiction. I wish I would have gone downstairs the night that Chubb called me and told me that he was on the block and wanted to see me. I wish Tamika were here to go through the ups and downs of this beautiful struggle called life with me. I wish that I could see the day that the last are the first. Happy Holidays from The Unbearables Crew to you and yours. tymonday.com: @tymonday on Twitter & IG crewunb.com: @crewunB on Twitter & @theunbearablescrew on IG
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#MNR: IF MY HOMIE CALLS “Born alone, die alone. No crew to keep my crown or throne.” Nasir Jones I’m deep by sound alone... I lost my sister at birth. She was completely healthy, but the doctors botched the delivery. Therefore, I am an only child by default. I have a stepbrother; we aren’t close. We lived together during my high school era; he was a nuisance. He’s not a bad human, but he is an incessant mistruth teller. Me no like. The humans closest to being my blood brothers are my first cousins @iamdjgreen and Reggie, sons of Uncle Archie and Auntie Cynthia. I love both as brothers and spent extensive time with them at certain points in my life. I’ve been blessed with more than a few brothers from another mother. There’s my day one Nick Thomas from Bridgehampton, my bro Rahgie from the Hali, the NFL clique, the Rat Pack (including D. Peebles – my last shining star at VUU), The 210 Squad/4 Cornaz (RIP Chubby), CEO, Twin, Moats Jr., Murda, Milt and my brother Sean. I’ve lost at least 13 homies at last count, for diverse reasons. Quite a few were victims of gunplay. One was a domestic violence victim. One had health issues. One died on a bike. One had an unfortunate slip and fall. One took his own life. LONG LIVE ALL MY DEAD. I have several sisters from another mother whom I love dearly, most of whom date back to 1500 North Lombardy Street. Jon Jon is my heart. Some of the plutonic women in my life are from diverse jobs I’ve had. Karen Gianetti is my heart and foxhole partner. Murph is my dawg. KP is precious. I love my current work fam: my ace Ju and my classroom team Lynn and Joji. Man or woman, I’m genuine to them all. They. Are. My. Friends. I don’t take or use the word friend lightly. If I consider you to be my friend, I love you. I’m down for you. I’m going to ride for you. I’ll never snake you. I’ll never kick your back in. I’ll never try to get with your old lady. I’ll never steal out of your wallet. I’ll never front on you. If I speak on your name without your presence, I’ve already told you to your face. All I ask is for the same in return. I think I deserve that much. Perhaps I’m delusional. Maybe I’m not a good friend. Maybe everything I’ve said is a complete and utter lie. See, the thing is, I’m done pondering. If I’m not your friend, if I’m not shit to you, make it known. I’m good with all that. I can live with it. I have no choice. Sike. FOH. My love is eternal for my true friends. We’ve been through so much together. We continue to live and grow. I don’t want to underscore what you all mean to me. I love you all. I know you all love me. I know that our love is indelible. I am thankful for you all. Next Monday is the annual Christmas blog. CEO and I will probably drop it a day or two early. I want to be in a good mood and head space when I write it. The Lord deserves that. Shareon loved the holidays; she deserves that. We’ll come back next week, slate clean. Here’s to last minute shopping. Spend time with your loved ones. They won’t be here forever. I apologize to my faithful for the tone and brevity of this blog, but it’s the type of time I’m on tonight. It was either this or betraying my promise of delivering a fresh blog every Monday. I’m always going to keep my word. My word is my bond. My name is my name. I still remember hearing Mr. Cheeks’ voice for the first time on “Straight From Da Ghetto.” It was the sincerity; it spoke to my soul. There was no bravado. There was no pretense. Just sincerity and pain. I’ll never forget that feeling. I felt like I knew all those folk he mentioned who were in the essence. That’s the tone in which I wrote this blog. One more time from the top... tymonday.com: @tymonday on Twitter & IG crewunb.com: @crewunB on Twitter & @theunbearablescrew on IG #MNR: IF MY HOMIE CALLS “Born alone, die alone. No crew to keep my crown or throne.” Nasir Jones I’m deep by sound alone... I lost my sister at birth. She was completely healthy, but the doctors botched the delivery. Therefore, I am an only child by default. I have a stepbrother; we aren’t close. We lived together during my high school era; he was a nuisance. He’s not a bad human, but he is an incessant mistruth teller. Me no like. The humans closest to being my blood brothers are my first cousins @iamdjgreen and Reggie, sons of Uncle Archie and Auntie Cynthia. I love both as brothers and spent extensive time with them at certain points in my life. I’ve been blessed with more than a few brothers from another mother. There’s my day one Nick Thomas from Bridgehampton, my bro Rahgie from the Hali, the NFL clique, the Rat Pack (including D. Peebles – my last shining star at VUU), The 210 Squad/4 Cornaz (RIP Chubby), CEO, Twin, Moats Jr., Murda, Milt and my brother Sean. I’ve lost at least 13 homies at last count, for diverse reasons. Quite a few were victims of gunplay. One was a domestic violence victim. One had health issues. One died on a bike. One had an unfortunate slip and fall. One took his own life. LONG LIVE ALL MY DEAD. I have several sisters from another mother whom I love dearly, most of whom date back to 1500 North Lombardy Street. Jon Jon is my heart. Some of the plutonic women in my life are from diverse jobs I’ve had. Karen Gianetti is my heart and foxhole partner. Murph is my dawg. KP is precious. I love my current work fam: my ace Ju and my classroom team Lynn and Joji. Man or woman, I’m genuine to them all. They. Are. My. Friends. I don’t take or use the word friend lightly. If I consider you to be my friend, I love you. I’m down for you. I’m going to ride for you. I’ll never snake you. I’ll never kick your back in. I’ll never try to get with your old lady. I’ll never steal out of your wallet. I’ll never front on you. If I speak on your name without your presence, I’ve already told you to your face. All I ask is for the same in return. I think I deserve that much. Perhaps I’m delusional. Maybe I’m not a good friend. Maybe everything I’ve said is a complete and utter lie. See, the thing is, I’m done pondering. If I’m not your friend, if I’m not shit to you, make it known. I’m good with all that. I can live with it. I have no choice. Sike. FOH. My love is eternal for my true friends. We’ve been through so much together. We continue to live and grow. I don’t want to underscore what you all mean to me. I love you all. I know you all love me. I know that our love is indelible. I am thankful for you all. Next Monday is the annual Christmas blog. CEO and I will probably drop it a day or two early. I want to be in a good mood and head space when I write it. The Lord deserves that. Shareon loved the holidays; she deserves that. We’ll come back next week, slate clean. Here’s to last minute shopping. Spend time with your loved ones. They won’t be here forever. I apologize to my faithful for the tone and brevity of this blog, but it’s the type of time I’m on tonight. It was either this or betraying my promise of delivering a fresh blog every Monday. I’m always going to keep my word. My word is my bond. My name is my name. I still remember hearing Mr. Cheeks’ voice for the first time on “Straight From Da Ghetto.” It was the sincerity; it spoke to my soul. There was no bravado. There was no pretense. Just sincerity and pain. I’ll never forget that feeling. I felt like I knew all those folk he mentioned who were in the essence. That’s the tone in which I wrote this blog. One more time from the top... tymonday.com: @tymonday on Twitter & IG crewunb.com: @crewunB on Twitter & @theunbearablescrew on IG #MNR: I GOT NOTHING
“Bitch got the nerve [to] say she don’t like rubbers. She don’t know that I know she be fucking my brother, bitch. I ain’t going out like no sucker.” Lil Baby “Going through the emotions of gun holding. Long shotgun down my pants leg, limping. Killer B you still living, even my pops too. He taught me how to shoot when I was seven.” Prodigy – RIP Bandana P. Love you, my boy. Always. “Try me. You can hit me, I’m gon keep coming. Grimy. All a nigga could do is stash doe.” Max Bigavel “And you liable to see me dolo, ice in the Rolo. Burner under the Polo. A lot of y’all is homos. Funny-style niggas, never down with me. Type to go to the bathroom, sit down and pee.” Jadakiss In the words of my former coworker and dear friend T. Murphy, “I got nothing.” I was politicking with my ace yesterday and I mentioned I had nothing for this week’s #MNR. Well damn. Yup. I know. I always got something. I guess my always isn’t perennial because I’m fresh outta ideas this time around. No worries. I can always put something together. “It’s just a little something that I had wrote. Put it together.” I took that line from Mic Geronimo, the coolest nigga from the Wasteland of Queens. I loved it because he then proceeded to blow my MF mind. His song “Sharane” off his debut album The Natural is one of the most original songs I’ve ever heard. It’s got the greatest plot twist in rap history outside of “I Gave You Power” by Nasir bin Olu Dara Jones. But yeah. That man Mic Geronimo is a genius. It was good seeing him on Math Hoffa’s My Expert Opinion podcast a little while back. He’s not gone and he’s damn sure not forgotten. That line was smoother than a new Gem Star through tender flesh. Yup, the origin of the buck-fifty. I’m all over the place, right? Good. That means it’s up. 21 Bunkhouse. No rules, no ref. I’m going GWB lower-level tonight. Ignorance and negativity are on deck. Word to my ace. Meth & Red “Da Rockwilder” is tonight’s theme song. I’ll smack the shit out an industry nigga. Respect to my nigga Lil Uzi Vert (yeah, I fuck with some of his work – all my friends are dead), but the Philadelphia anthem remains “Dreams and Nightmares.” Y’all gotta relax. Big ups to my nigga Meek Mill. I’m still a supporter. My nigga Tyrese Haliburton, my third cousin Obadiah Toppin and the rest of the Indiana Pacers had me gassed up during the in-season tournament, gassed to the point I bet my cousin Davonne a dub on the final. Fuck was I thinking? Bron and AD looked good out there. I don’t watch much basketball that isn’t aired on MSG Network before Christmas Day. From then on, I’ll watch a bit more, especially down the stretch post all-star game. But the Lakers look scary. The length (pause if necessary) of their roster is menacing to opposing teams and AD is looking like he wants serious DPOY consideration. We all know their issue: health. If somehow they remain healthy for the duration of the season (without the help of a three-month COVID pause – yeah I said it), it could get dark for the rest of the Association. I’m a tell you the same thing Ray Charles Robinson told Stevland Morris (Stevie Wonder) before he passed...we shall see. Respect to the Los Angeles Lakers, winners of the inaugural in-season tournament. But fuck Bron, AD dem. It’s #KNICKSNATION in this bitch. Bing, bong! I’m looking at the front door. A lot of y’all breath is three steps past horrible. I don’t know what it is that you aren’t doing but figure the shit out. Brush your damn teeth at least twice a day. Use Listerine – the piss-colored Listerine. Keep a pack of Orbit on deck. Please. I smelled a MF breath the other day that sacked my ass like the MF Steel Curtain on a jailhouse blitz. I damn sure would’ve caught a standing eight count if I was boxing. I was on the way to the flo’ (floor). Luckily, I tend to stand in a boxer’s stance for some reason when I’m speaking in proximity to someone. It’s not for physical aggression; it’s to make sure I keep my balance if their breath is trying to catch me slipping with a flash KO. I damn near banged my chin on the desk amidst a sudden bailout. I stepped back with the Garfield eyeballs and took a deep breath. Through the blessings of the Lord, I safely escaped without injury, other than the majority of my nose hair melting and fusing into my inner nose. I love Black women. I don’t see how you Negroes go out into the community and seek a Caucasian woman. I’m not saying some aren’t attractive. I am saying that brown sugar is the only sweetener I need. I get it. I know what it is. Y’all are afraid of a Black woman’s mouth. Y’all don’t want to hear the real. Y’all want to dominate. Go on ‘head and taste of the forbidden fruit. See if her daddy will allow you in his crib to drink a beer and watch a sporting event. I’m a be smoking a J with my ole girl’s pops, talking shit about the game on television. I pulled a muscle in my back while moving some things on Saturday. I felt it throughout the day yesterday and whenever I moved in the bed throughout the night. I thought it was going to get late early. It wasn’t quite General Hospital theme music, but it could have meant taking a sick day. But, thanks to my Logan/Wolverine-like rapid regeneration, I feel much better. And this is after walking my walk from the Deuce to 29th Street before work, a full day of work and walking back to Port Authority after. I’m a keep it taller than Bol Bol standing on his father’s shoulders. I thought it was the Tylenol Extra Strength I took this morning, but that had to have worn off hours ago. No, I’m certain. It’s my rapid regeneration. I wonder if I can extract Adamantium claws like my boy Wolverine. If so, that’s y’all motherfucking asses. I’m definitely finna set it on Cyclops. Hating ass nigga. Jean Grey wants to fuck with a real one like myself. Not a simp like him. [FADE OUT TO X-MEN 90s CARTOON THEME SONG]. I’m high as a Black star of Ghana flag at full mast. Y’all ever went to the bar, got drunk as a church trustee on Saturday night and pissed on yourself at some point on the way home, even after you pissed twice, including right before you left the bar? Yeah, me either. I remember one time when I was a teenager riding the 6 train and a homeless woman squatted her nasty ass and pissed in between moving subway cars. My dumb ass was baffled that her piss stream didn’t reach the third rail and electrocute her cooch. I think she survived the incident. Nasty ass (J. Anthony Brown voice). Now it’s time to say goodbye to all my Negro friends. N-E-G – gee, we’re out of time. Lolololol. This was fun. I had no blueprint, just a J of some good ass kush. I just unlocked the Mac, opened Word and let my fingers go. It’s been real. Go out into the community and sin again. tymonday.com: @tymonday on Twitter & IG crewunb.com: @crewunB on Twitter & @theunbearablescrew on IG #MNR: NATE, THE GREAT
“Cops coming. Shots fired. Babies cried. I cried. Wishing I – could change but – this is just my life.” Pharoahe Monch “Be – very afraid, I carry a gauge. My new bitch, she get the most cuz she barely complains.” Benny the Butcher “Just me and you evading enemies, let you get my last shot of Hennessy, ain’t never had a friend like me.” Makaveli the Don Ardent readers of this weekly blog will attest to my candid nature regarding mental health and my journey through its perils. The mind is so fragile. I’m blessed to say that the past few years have been some of the best of my life. I have my days, but my disposition and outlook have remained positive and upbeat. Yet and still...I have my days. My perpetual wrestling partner is anxiety. Lady A and I have tangoed many a day, many a night. It’s extra shitty for me because she usually comes from no damn where. She, it takes a while to mitigate. I don’t mind the attacks in the privacy of my home. I do mind the public attacks (that almost always happen on the bus). Thankfully, wearing sunglasses is one of the greatest anxiety blockers available. And the hoodie. We all maintain a healthy partnership. They protect me like the Secret Service. Before I get too far off into this, please note that these attacks are few and far in-between. Ironically, that’s what makes them prime Clayton Kershaw curveballs to my overpowered sanity standing helplessly in the batters’ box on the field of mental health. For me...for me personally (Harlem Legend voice), it’s easiest for me to just let the avalanche tumble. Let the floodgates open. Ride the wave. It is what it is. Trying to fight all that emotion only makes it worse. It’s easiest for me to pull a Frankie Ocean on “Super Rich Kids” – close my eyes and feel the crash. Please understand that me speaking on how I cope is in no way undermining the next person’s method(s) of dealing with anxiety. I know that it’s easier for me to just let the emotions flow rather than repeatedly bottle them up until they explode. That’s why I’m super cool with them happening amongst myself. I let it flow. I give it time to run its course. Then I move on. It’s therapeutic for me. When Black Thought said, “Just think, what if you could just, just blink yourself away,” my 15-year-old brain was immediately blown to bits. Wow. Imagine the possibility! What if you could, in the blink of an eye (0.1/0.2 seconds?), immediately escape your current location and situation/crisis? Every shitty situation could instantly desist at your behest. Imagine the possibilities. Imagine what it could do for mental health. Yeah I know, you have already poked holes in my balloon. But their problems would still be there. They haven’t escaped anything. Monday, shut your dumb ass up (Angry Man voice). I know that, got damn it. But it’s my 15 y/o vision. But skepticism (and reality) aside, what if you could? I’ll tell you what. If you could, life would be ever the more serendipitous. I’m heavy on the reference of 15 years of age because that was a perilous period for my young mind. I was all over the place. I didn’t have anyone to speak freely and candidly with. And back then, mental health was see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil in the Black community. It was especially horrible for the Black boy/young man/man. Any show of emotion meant being soft. Pussy. Gay. Way too many Black males suffered immensely. I was one of them. I masked it. I hid it. I bottled it up. But it never went far away. Many a day I wished I could have just blinked myself away. Sorry, Tyrone. You can’t just blink yourself away. You must remain ten toes down, or at least attempt to. I know, I know. But I am absolutely in favor of seeking the therapy of a mental health professional if need be. Someone very dear to me is doing exceptionally well in their journey. Don’t think I don’t see it. You are amazing. Keep pushing. At some point, you may have wondered why TF I titled my blog what I did and haven’t mentioned anything about a Nate. It’s not NBA legend Nate “The Great” Thurmond. It’s one of my students named Nate. He’s amazing. I wanted to make this blog all about Nate. I was going to explain my journey with him and what we speak on. But that would betray his confidence, and I’m almost certain it would invade his privacy. I’ll leave it at this. I think he’s brilliant in his own unique way. I also think he has a chance to go farther than anyone in the community I serve. So, my classroom captain Lynn and I are going to give him a push. We’re going to spot his every repetition. He’s got a chance to make it. I have faith in him. He has my vote – for President. Happy earth day Brandi. Love you always. tymonday.com: @tymonday on Twitter & IG crewunb.com: @crewunB on Twitter & @theunbearablescrew on IG #MNR: BUYER’S REMORSE
“You feel this deep in your torso. Feel like someone’s reading your horoscope. Some shit only me and the Lord knows.” Travis Scott “Emotional luggage, nothing of it, I don’t check bags. I just carry on, leave that bullshit in the past.” Curren$y “You know your town is dangerous, when you see the strangest kid come home from doing a bid and nothing changes.” GZA Ok, y’all. Your boy has been quite proactive this holiday season. I copped some gifts and all that, you heard? Usually...usually I don’t give one fuck. I’m not Kris Kringle. I’m a poor Black man that works OD hard for my rupees. In other words, I ain’t got it. But, you know what? Even though I’m a single man with no earthly mother, my holiday assignment has not waned. It has only increased. Obviously, I’m crying like a rat eating raw onions because I’d much rather spend that bread on myself. What? Did I say something wrong? At least I kept it a buck. No one loves me like I love me. But I’ve got to do what I’ve got to do. Let’s get our holiday on, y’all. I’m just bad news... As much as I hate to admit it, I am. I’m a good human. That I know in my spirit. But I am bad fucking news. I’m Brainy Smurf meets Kevin Sabian meets Keyser Söze. I’m a got-damned know-it-all who always tries to negotiate peace yet exhibits underlying sociopathic tendencies. I could’ve played the lead in American Psycho. I exhibit levels of narcissism, often used to counteract bouts of self-loathing. I’m all over the fucking place. I crack jokes and maintain an amicable exterior to mask my morose view of reality. I’m not the best at communicating with my blood family. I love them all dearly, but I’m not the type to reach out just to say hello at this stage of life. As long as they’re in good health and spirit...cool. I’m fair; I don’t expect anything different in return. I have emotional issues I can’t really express because I can’t fully interpret them. Plus, they’re dormant. They are suppressed somewhere just below the 1 train 191st Street Station (IYKYK) in the Heights. After saying all that, I’m sure you’re thinking that I’m depressed. I’m far from it. I feel like a million euros, cash money. Life is good. Sure, my short term economic outlook is shaky (exacerbated by holiday shopping), but I’m ten toes down on my grind and I like the long term outlook. Every day is a blessing that I am grateful for and attack with voracity and grit. I have nary a complaint. But every now and then, around the time I sit and let the sick thoughts enter, I take it to DEFCON 1. PRAY FOR PALESTINE. I don’t pick sides, but I’m on y’all side. In a recent interview, Bryce Wilson said that Groove Theory’s second album would have easily gone multiplatinum. He felt that they had perfected the recipe after their self-titled debut album. That album was a solid 7.5 in my book. It had two classic tracks (if you must ask, ask me later) and another lowkey classic. I’ll give you the lowkey classic: “Ten Minute High.” I also love their Todd Rundgren/Isley Brothers cover “Hello, It’s Me.” Amel had the perfect voice for that track. Ok, ok. Y’all pulled my damn right leg. Y’all pulled the one that twitches when I’m nervous and ‘bout to split a MF forehead wide open. I’ll tell you. The other classic song is “Keep Tryin’.” Winter 1995 – what a time to be alive. “Tell Me” went global in my book. I don’t give a fluff what RIAA says. It played at every party senior year. Ev-er-y. After they dropped the dance hit of the winter, they slowed it down on the second single. “Keep Tryin’” is an amazing song. Amel Larrieux flows so effortlessly over Bryce’s production. It’s sultry in a nonsexual way. Listening to that track will inspire you to work a double shift after going on an all-night cocaine bender. But back to the sophomore album. Bryce said they would have done something similar to what The Fugees did. I’m jacking it because their debut was leaps and bounds above that bullshit The Fugees put out the first time around. What prevented the sophomore album from being their The Score, you may ask? Bryce said Amel was on her ultra-diva shit. The man said she wanted production credit even though she didn’t lay not one damn beat. She wanted 60% of their publishing after agreeing to a 50-50 split. Non-cipher. Remember this: Amel was relatively unknown outside of Philadelphia before Groove Theory came to be. Bryce had production credits with Mantronix at like seventeen years of age. His name was the one that carried weight going into the project. He also said Amel had first crack at “You’re Making Me High.” YES, that “You’re Making Me High.” She had dibs before Toni. The man said Amel wanted production rights on the track. He told Amel and her entourage to get the fuck out of his studio – over the phone. I love Amel Larrieux. I always will. She follows me on the Twitter. But I’ve heard about her diva mentality for a long time. I’m not mad at her or Bryce. They gave us a classic. But damn...what could have been. RANDOM: I didn’t feel sorry for the fat Puerto Rican kid who got killed in Fresh, even though he was Fresh’s manz. Fat boy had it coming. But, in direct contrast, I damn near cried when teenage Donald Faison got killed in Sugar Hill. When you think on it for a taste, he too had it coming. And when you really think about it, both died for the same reason – wanting to be down. The fat kid thought he could run with and outsmart grown wolves on some drugs shit; he had an anchor tied to his ankle off jump. And Fresh warned his dumb ass. But Donald’s character...I will always feel empathy for him because all he was guilty of was wanting to be down. He shouldn’t have had his ass on the block that night. He should have been in his new crib in the ‘burbs. And just like Fresh shot fatty a warning, Roemello basically suggested that Donald had no purpose in coming back around the block. But he had a good heart. He just wanted to be down. There was nothing insidious in his approach. He would’ve held it down for Roemello if need be (or at least attempted to). But, at the end of the day, he should have had his ass in the crib. Quiet hours. The shit is kind of deep when you think about it. This is the type of shit I ponder from time to time. Fuck is my problem? NOT RANDOM: The scene in Fresh at the basketball court when the bitch ass nigga shoots the younger kid (because he was doing him dirty with the handles) and lil mama who Fresh had mutual feelings for (she caught a stray) will always haunt my soul. I’ll never forget that slug stuck in her neck, her little leg twitching, or Fresh’s empathetic yet stoic reaction. Fresh is one of the best movies I’ve ever seen. It's been a minute since I gave you good folk an outro paragraph to conclude the blog. I’ve just been dropping the microphone and walking off after a Dame Lillard buzzer beater from 32 feet. Swish. All jokes aside, I hope y’all had a good Turkey Day and extended break from the slave (if you read Malcolm’s autobiography you know). It was back to work today. My day. Ty Monday. But look at it this way, as shitty as the prospect of the beginning of an arduous work week can seem, we’ve already got one in the books by the time you read this. And just like that, 20% of the shit is done. Now comes the rest of the gauntlet before the next weekend begins. I live for the weekends, but I fret over the work week. Why? Because for many a year now, I’ve made sure that I do my best to treat every evening like a Friday evening – until it’s time to go to bed. What I’m saying is that I don’t deprive myself of capricious fuckery during the week. I galavant through the evening on my Don Quixote de la Mancha type shit. I turn my brain and phone off (unless you really, really matter), then I enjoy myself. The point is this: live before you die. Don’t deprive yourself. Now, make sure the kids are straight. Don’t go AWOL and all. But find the time for a daily by myself meeting. We only have one life to live. Enjoy this shit. And spread the word. #MNR is the best 5-minute read in America. I stand on that. Until next time, y’all. I’m out through the back dough (door). tymonday.com: @tymonday on Twitter & IG crewunb.com: @crewunB on Twitter & @theunbearablescrew on IG #MNR: CORPORATE BAILOUTS
“The Chinaman built the railroad. The Indian saved the pilgrim, and in return the pilgrim killed him. They call it Thanksgiving; I call your holiday Hell Day. ‘Cause I’m from poverty, neglected by the wealthy.” Nasir Jones “You no kin to me so how the fuck you inherit my style?” Kurupt My nigga @BigRich1128, you know he’s down with us. @Damn_she_tall_2 and @DirttMcGirt, down with us. The good brother @alexjuli6n is down with us. @Devinpsu and @carribeanflavaz, you know they’re down with us. The one and only @iamdjgreen, he’s down with us. @GrBest1yet and @_RMCMB are down with us. My nephew @FourCornerConvo is down with us. @TakeALSmoove and @BrightBlueSlang, you know they’re down with us. Fly mama @designer_clothe – down with us. @LeekMJB and @RealMalcB are down with us. My nigga @PayHomage is down with us. My bruva @MELVVLN, you know he’s down with us. It’s UnB, nigga, we’ve got the game in the tuck. We’re number... One. Big ups to all my folk who don’t fuck with the social medias but support this blog. Y’all are most definitely down with us. Big ups to the ladies of the Black Atlas Mafia: JuJu, ShanT and Nella. They don’t fuck with that Twitter shit, but they tune in. You three are loved and appreciated. Just wait until Nella starts her blog up. She’s going to get super busy. I love her sagacity. We’re going to drop the next great YouTube Black politics channel one day. I know y’all finna tune in. When we go global I’m a have to get my teeth fixed. I think I’m going to go with the Cameron Giles model. Pause, if necessary. It just so happens that I got a jump on this week’s blog. I’m up into the wee hours on a Saturday night. My creative juices are flowing, and I’ve got enough reefa to get the 2000 Portland Trailblazers from Oracle Arena in Oaktown to Staples Center in downtown Los Scandalous on a Greyhound bus with the AC on “fuck you” and the “check engine” light on the entire MF ride. I love to write deep into the late night. I take a few pulls of the J, sit back, and let the sick thoughts enter. I always have the deepest affinity for blogs that are birthed simply through sitting at the Mac and letting my fingers go, sort of how Sugar Ray flurried at the end of each round the night Marvelous Marvin Hagler was cheated. The difference between Sugar Ray and your boy Monday is that I’m not stealing points. There’s no chicanery on this side. This shit is authentic, like the Washington Capitals Alexander Ovechkin alternate jersey with the captain patch I procured through scrupulous means. It’s only right that I mention a hockey jersey because I skate all over the keyboard – effortlessly. I make love with each keystroke. This is very serious business. Supreme shouts out to those of y’all who tune in every Monday like we’re broadcast on ESPN. That’s a beautiful thing. And hey...even if it’s Tuesday morning, afternoon, evening, or whenever the fuck you get a few minutes to yourself to tune in...we appreciate you. You heard? We are in the fourth quarter of 2023. We’re looking 2024 dead in the face. I’m talmbout the Olympics and errthang. Look, I’m finna get straight to the point. If you’re wearing a du-rag and it’s not a silky, I’m a need you to make moves to the beauty supply store and rectify the situation. Immechiately. It’s non-cipher, and frankly, I feel that it’s nasty work. I don’t think it’s fair that you have us all in a long-ass Target checkout line staring at your $2.99, two-tone, porous, short-string nylon dooey with the minimum hangtime cape. Shit looks like a restaurant dinner napkin. The whites are looking at you like you’re dirty and you stink. The college kids standing in line with 246 pair of pajama bottoms are pondering if you gave up on social conformity and went smooth into fuck-it mode. I’m looking at you like you have crumbs in at least two of the pockets on your clothing. Flagrant #1 foul. Two shots and the ball. I’m a need you type of Negroes to stay in the crib. Looking like Hustle Man with those damn pigeons on a stick. UPDATE: Speaking of Hustle Man, I saw/met/? Tracey Morgan in my friendly neighborhood ShopRite during my Sunday afternoon grocery store experience. That is all. Big ups to my brother, the CEO. 11.19 was his born day. That man is getting old, which is a blessing. He and I go back quite a few years now. He’s still the same person I met 20 years ago. He’s a benevolent man who would literally give his last for his folk. This is completely random, but when that man was the Assistant Director of an old after school program I was a part of, he knew the first and last names of EVERY student in the program, more than 300 altogether. He also knew where they were located. Always. That’s why I call him CEO; he has key traits found in CEOs. The only thing he lacks is true belief in self. He’s brilliant. I’ve seen it for years. But it’s cool. That’s why I’m around. One thing I know how to do is remind my folk of how great they are. He’s the only creative partner I’ve ever had; he is one half of 2NN. We’re going to have our time. Just keep the faith. More life, my brother. On Thursday, most filthy Americans will sit at a familial dinner table and celebrate a holiday known as Thanksgiving to the United States of America. The white folk taught us in public schools that the Indian and white man one day decided to sit down and commune. The books say the white man gave thanks to the indigenous man for saving his unprepared, ignorant ass from calamity. He arrived in the Americas with no type of strategic plan, suffered like a MF, and needed the first corporate bailout in American history to avoid extinction on this side of the Atlantic. God bless the indigenous man. Now, most civilized folk would have cherished the indigenous man forever and a day. Not the white man. The white man went on to rape, pillage, kill and steal the indigenous man’s land. Yadda, yadda, yadda...we celebrate Thanksgiving. Fuck Thanksgiving. I’m with Nasir. I call your holiday Hell Day. I will never celebrate Thanksgiving. I will eat and watch football, however. I will also watch the virtual battles CAPS is hosting on Angryfan007. I call it a day of thanks. I give thanks daily, so every day is a day of thanksgiving. Eat, drink and be merry. Just don’t forget the perpetual savagery of the white man. The yadda, yadda, yadda line really works if you’ve seen the Seinfeld episode. Jerry and Larry were brilliant. Enjoy your time with loved ones this week. Nothing is for sure, nothing is for certain, nothing lasts forever. But until they close the curtains... tymonday.com: @tymonday on Twitter & IG crewunb.com: @crewunB on Twitter & @theunbearablescrew on IG #MNR: MAKES ME WANNA HOLLER
“As I recall, I know you love to show off. But I never thought that you would take it this far. What do I know? (FLASHING LIGHTS) What do I know? (FLASHING LIGHTS) Know.” Dwele (Yeezy) “If we can take off now, we can catch the sun. Maybe watch it set, have sex, get some rest.” Lil Baby Good evening. How y’all? It’s Monday, your friendly neighborhood playboy. I’m higher than NY sales tax, you heard? That’s always a great thing, err umm, the me being high part. NY sales tax ain’t nothing but the Albany devil. I just finished talking to my ace and I’m pumping “Flashing Lights” through my soundbar. So much has changed since 210 E. 115th Street apartment 2A. But this song, this album...I miss those days. I remember a particular Friday evening. I just got back from work in the Wood: NJ Transit 186 Bus to the MTA M98 Limited Express Bus to 116th St and Lexington Ave to the weed spot to the [pick one] eatery to the bodega to the block. I hit the block. I dapped up whoever was standing outside the building. I walked my ass up the A-stairs because it’s shameful waiting for a pissy elevator to travel one flight; take the possibly pissy staircase. In all fairness, most stairway pissers prefer the B-stairs (see 100 Blocks Stories: “B-Stairs Prelude” for further context) out of whatever respect they do have for the building. Anyway, as soon as I get to the 2nd floor landing I can hear Yeezy and my nigga Dwele blasting through the hallway door. At that moment, the weekend officially began. I already knew it was Jose blasting the sounds. I already knew he was semi-litty. I have no idea what I ate for dinner that night. I have no idea how many blunts I smoked. I have no idea what alcohol I drank. I do know that those were some of the happiest moments of my life, all of us in one apartment. Aunt Betty had transcended, but my mom and dad were still alive and relatively healthy, living their respective lives in Virginia and North Carolina. The older I get, the more I embrace random memories that occurred while my mom and dad were alive. Innately, it makes my own mortality an afterthought for those fleeting moments of nostalgia. Let me tell y’all something. I really love y’all and I’m dedicated to this blog, through it all. I have a prospective freelance position and need to produce one more article in short time. I also need to tweak my resume to only include my Communications experience. But fuck all that. I promised my folk that I was going to stay consistent. That’s what I plan to do. I hope y’all got y’all cheeba rolled in the finest paper. Light that shit up. We L riding in a low-low from Benny’s with all the Benny enhancements. I’m talmbout downtown Los Santos to deep out Blaine County...on the freeway by the casino...with the radio on Frank Ocean’s station. Crack rock, crack rock... I really do love y’all. The very thought of people reading, accepting and appreciating my craft is so amazing to me. It instantly humbles me. To God be the glory. Respectfully...I’m nice as [CENSORED]. Fuck is the censored word. I just didn’t want to put it directly under “To God be the glory.” I give all praises to Him. He blessed me with this craft. I’m not bragging. I’m merely asserting my brilliance and command of the lexicon and all dat, youknowI’msaying? You do? Well alright (Nipsey from Martin voice – RIP). First things first. CONGRATULATIONS TO THE VIRGINIA UNION PANTHERS, 2023 CIAA FOOTBALL CHAMPIONS! Coach Alvin Parker’s men defeated defending conference champion Fayetteville State, 21-10. VUU (10-1) was led by First-Team All-CIAA back Jada Byers, who found his way to paydirt twice during the contest. He carried the ball 40 times for 135 yards. His carries set the tone on offense and the defense brought their best to the field in Salem, as the lone FSU touchdown came on a kickoff return. The win also meant that the Panthers avenged their only loss of the season, a September game played in typhoon-like conditions. This is Virginia Union’s first conference championship since the 2001 team led by QB Jasun Thompson. As an alumnus of VUU, I’m very proud of this team. 1865 Panther Pride. I would like to revisit a portion of the 3.22.2022 #MNR, titled “To the East, Blackwards.” There have been seven military coups and conflicts on the continent of Africa in the past six years: Guinea, Mali, Chad, Sudan, Burkina Faso, Cameroon, and Ethiopia. The last two are currently engaged in civil war. Cameroon is engaged in the Anglophone Crisis, and Ethiopia is engaged in the Tigray War. Each coup and conflict tears at the fabric of its respective nation, and deep humanitarian crises (including sexual violence) have developed. It comes as no surprise that the United States has done the bare minimum by way of direct support to many (or all) of these countries. tRump outright blocked aid to Ethiopia; Biden’s merely done a lot of talking. Look, I’m not saying America owes these nations a damn thing. I’m just seeing and recognizing the apathy when it comes to Mother Africa and absolute empathy when it comes to lighter skinned [European] nations in peril. It shouldn’t be and isn’t a surprise. America has already [REDACTED] the continent for all it wanted to plunder. What may come as an absolute surprise is that Russia has given aid to several African nations in peril. They’ve helped with infrastructure, amongst other things. This is likely the reason that sixteen African countries who are members of the United Nations gave a no vote/abstained from taking sides on Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. They’ve chosen to mind their damn business. And, in the most polite manner, they’re showing that they could care less about the Russia/Ukraine war. They’ve got more than enough on their own plates to deal with. Why did I choose to revisit this blog from a year-and-a-half ago? Because I have inner visions. I see things before most eyes get the opportunity. I pay attention with soft eyes. Last week, the United Nations warned that violence amongst civilians in Sudan is “verging on pure evil.” More than half of the Sudanese population, or about 25M people, need humanitarian help and more than 70% of health facilities in the conflict areas are now out of service, resulting in outbreaks of cholera, dengue, malaria and measles, and high levels of malnutrition among children. The UN is targeting about 12M people for aid and has appealed for another $2.6B. There are numerous reports of sexual and gender-based violence and forced disappearance, arbitrary detentions and grave violations of human and children’s rights. The war is nearly seven months old. My 3.22.2022 blog predates the war by almost a year. I spoke on the problems Sudan and several other African nations were facing way back then. Nothing has changed. The UN must do all the bidding because African nations in peril are not close friends or allies of the United States and its wealthy allies. I don’t remember any Sleepy Joe State of the Union Address where he directly appeals to congress for monetary aid to any of the previously mentioned nations. Not one damn dollar. Translation: he and America don’t give a fuck. But I do. The African nations are my people. Don’t mention anything about Ukraine or Israel to me, respectfully. My concern is with my folk. It always has been. It always will be. I stand with us. I always will. tymonday.com: @tymonday on Twitter & IG crewunb.com: @crewunB on Twitter & @theunbearablescrew on IG #MNR: MAUNA KEA
“I’m stuck in your claws. I try to run but I don’t get far.” Brent Faiyaz “Mama – I just killed a man.” Freddie Mercury What up, niggas, how y’all? It’s Monday, the villain. It’s another beautiful Monday morning in the melancholy metro. The sun shone so bright through the Hudson Yards skyscrapers during my ride into midtown that I couldn’t get my good eye on One and Two Manhattan West, the twin towers on 31st Street and 9th Avenue. Though they are only 58-stories tall, they are aesthetically pleasing to a skyscraper enthusiast such as myself. Their glass exteriors make them a sight to behold, but the intrigue lies within actually seeing the two towers. Depending on your angle of sight, you may only be able to see one of the towers, as the other would be hiding directly behind. Like I said, though they are less than 60-stories tall (996 ft), they are a lovely sight. They’re no 270 Park Avenue, but they are beautiful. I’m eager to visit Dubai, only so I can return home and proclaim with absolute certainty that even though it has the most skyscrapers of any city on earth, it’s not fucking with my hometown. If I start a GoFundMe to raise the Fly Emirates travel and 5-star luxury hotel stay, would y’all contribute? The only acceptable answer is yes. Appreciate y’all. The following segment of #MNR is dedicated to all the try-hards out there. Peace to all you MF out there doing the most for no damn reason at all. We can always count on you to turn a grain of sand into Mauna Kea. In the exact moment when no one asked you a got damn thing whatsoever, you made it your business to share your primitive thoughts. You always find a way to make nothing into something. You’re a grade-A try-hard. I, on behalf of all of us out there who are subject to this type of bullshit from time to time, implore you to sit your dumb ass the fuck down and shut your dumb ass the fuck up. No one asked you. No one gives a fuck. No one sought your opinion. No one gives a fuck. Go find a rock to kick. Fucker. I’m sooooooooo glad I got off those blunts, y’all. That tobacco ain’t nothing but the devil. I’m convinced that I was as addicted to the leaf as I was to the flower. It took some time to completely shake the tobacco leaf, but I’m good frfr. Nah, like really good. Louie copped a two-pack of cigarillos the first time we ciphed during the homecoming trip, thinking I still smoked blunts. I informed him that I too had moved on from ‘em. I struggled through that damn L. I felt like George Foreman (old ass man George) jabbed me straight in the middle of my breastplates. Then a Tuesday ago I smoked a J with a coworker on my way to Port Authority after work and this nigga smokes Grabba. I damn near passed out on 38th. I felt a wheeze in my chest, followed by a pain akin to being stabbed in a rumble by Pony Boy in The Outsiders. For those who are unacquainted, Grabba is ground tobacco. Plenty of people up top who smoke J’s like to add Grabba to their flower in a white boy. The only reason I can even comprehend smoking ground tobacco is that NYC tobacco prices are so high that only a fool or rapper smokes blunts. A pack of Backwoods is $17.50 at Gardenia on 30th and 8th Avenue (my favorite deli in Chelsea). Packs go for more than twenty cash in certain spots downtown. I’m guessing that Grabba gives some smokers the blunt feeling. Fuck if I know. I just know that if I wanted to smoke tobacco, I’d smoke blunts. And if I couldn’t afford to smoke blunts, my J’s would be anti-Grabba. But that’s me. Carry on, mongrels. Continue to pollute your lungs with the tobacco leaf. I put my 30 in. I’m through, mane (Sly Stone voice). Look, I don’t give a fuck who you vote for. I don’t. I just want you to take your sorry ass down to your precinct and vote tomorrow. It’s not a presidential election year, but plenty of state and local ballots will be ripe with candidates and legislation. These candidates and potential legislation have a direct effect on your everyday life. Virginia is voting for every seat in their state legislature. That’s 40 state Senate seats and 100 state House seats on the ballot. Reproductive rights are a hot-button topic. Loudoun County, VA, home to one of America’s best public-school systems, has school board elections on the ballot Tuesday. Why does this matter? Because since 2020, far-right lawyers, politicians and parents have pushed to drastically reshape the objectives and curriculum of the school district. Education (and a Freudian slip) cost Terry McAuliffe the Virginia governor’s race two years ago. Stakes are high all over the country. MAGAt is relentless in its attempt to turn America back into Little House on the Prairie. I don’t ever recall seeing a colored on nay episode, get what I’m saying? It all comes down to this: one side is steadfast in its attempt to strip Americans of rights while the other side is steadfast in its attempt to protect rights. The choice is yours from there. Shout out to my old coworker Carla. She texted me last week and told me she was looking forward to #MNR. That meant a lot. I do this for y’all. I appreciate y’all. With no audience, #MNR doesn’t exist. I’ll see y’all next week. I promise I’m a be on the exact same shit. Ain’t nothing changed but the drawz. Keep your eyes off mine ma, while I watch yours. RIP Chico Del Vec. FUN FACT: Mauna Kea’s (HI, USA) total height is 30, 610 ft, making it a full 1.5K ft taller than Mt. Everest. Only 13,796 ft of Mauna Kea is above sea level. All 29,032 ft of Mt. Everest is above sea level. tymonday.com: @tymonday on Twitter & IG crewunb.com: @crewunB on Twitter & @theunbearablescrew on IG #MNR: IMMERSIVE “Back in the days when I was a teenager, before I had status and before I had a pager. You could find the Abstract listening to hip-hop. My pops used to say it reminded him of bebop.” Queens Tip “You say you love me, but is it really real? Would you -- fix me green tea if I’m feeling ill? Could you -- give me a back rub to soothe after a long day? Dinner by candlelight but you’re the main entrée.” Elzhi “I shot a gangster and he told. Now a nigga on the run – nigga better have his gun.” Waydah Blacc This opening segment of #MNR is dedicated to every New Yorker who actively smoked weed outside during the stop-and-frisk era of NYC, mostly during the 2000s decade. Big ups to those of us who risked it all to light a Dutch or Owl up in the project plaza, on the block, or in the neighborhood park. Too many of us took L’s for no fucking reason, getting screwed by Bloomberg’s carryover of Adolph Giuliani’s mid-to-late 1990s fuckery. Quality of life my dick. Fuck you punk ass pigs who tackled, cuffed and jailed kids for smoking a tree outside in the comfort of summertime weather. I’m overjoyed by this current era of weed being smoked freely. It makes my heart smile. I light up in proximity to the fuzz every chance I get. Fuck ‘em. New York is New York again. Instead of a true purge, my macabre fantasy is a 24-hour day once a year in which every internet troll who crossed the line gets exposed and can get their shit rearranged, penalty-free. I’m talmbout 100%, absolute impunity. If you bust a nigga head to the white meat, chilly cool cool. If you take it three steps past that and leave a nigga where he stood, I’ll allow it. We can attend his funeral together and coordinate spitting in his face while he’s snuggly in his casket. Way too many Twitter fingers have been out of line for years. But this type of shit predates the Musk platform I will always call Twitter. I don’t mind the good-natured trolling. That’s merely entertainment. No malice intended. I take issue with the MF spewing personal disrespect and hate toward people through the safety and anonymity of the virtual universe. I’d love to have a day when the virtual fourth wall is broken, and atonement is on the table. Keep that same energy, Tough Tony. Hoe ass niggas. Yeah...y’all should be able to see that I’m on my bullshit tonight. This one is for day one #MNR readers. No worries. Even if you’re just a casual or a newcomer, you’re super valid. Roll that shit up, doggie. This is one of those. Are they still killing those innocent Palestinian civilians in the name of war? I’m still in agreement with the MAGAt collective on sending NOT SHIT more to Ukraine. They don’t fuck with my kind, and I didn’t forget. Yes, we kept the receipts. I don’t give a flying Boeing 757 fuck how many times Zelensky finds his way to Washington to give old Sleepy Joe a reach-around on national television and give his best “Puss in Boots meek eyes” speech to Congress or the United Nations. HOLD THE LINE, MARJORIE!!! You bigoted, dog-faced pilgrim. I don’t fuck with you either, bitch. The only pilgrim I fux with is the MF in that upcoming Thanksgiving slasher horror movie. If you don’t know the movie, find out the name for the both of us. There are currently over 60K [verified] migrants in the care of NYC seeking asylum, although I’ve heard the number to be triple that amount. Y’all remember the DeSantis (FL) and Abbott (TX) bus fuckery. Those egregious acts were just a small piece of the pizza pie. There are enough asylum seekers in the city to populate an entire other city. Think about the strain that’s putting on the rotten apple. Mayor Eric “Teef” Adams has already advised several departments in the city to expect at least 10% budget cuts for 2024 because the city is going to need all types of resources to accommodate these people, and Sleepy Joe has basically done little more than wish Adams and the city good luck. I wish no ill will on those folk. Many of them have the same color skin as I. I get it. They just want the opportunity to exist and to thrive. I love, respect and appreciate that. However, there is a certain way to do this – legally. Send all of them back to where they came from and send them yesterday. I’m not the type to keep quiet for the sake of courtesy. NYC cannot afford to support them. Come correct. And yes, I’m fully aware that most, if not all do not have the financial means to do so. That’s tough titties but somebody gotta suck ‘em. C’est la vie. I don’t care who has a problem with what I’m saying. But I know for certain that I’m speaking for plenty of people. I am not a dreamer. I cannot save everyone. That’s just how it is. God bless them folk. See ya. If you don’t fuck with Sleepy Joe because of his past senate dealings and polarizing philosophies, I respect it. It is what it is. But don’t cut that man short on his accomplishments while in office @ 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. And before you uncouth, uneducated idiots lose your shit because tRump gave you tax cuts for a couple of years, do know that those cuts will only favor the wealthy as time goes on. You’re (we’re) going to pay for those cuts and then some in the long run. AND he added $7.9T (that’s trillion) to the national debt with those tax cuts. Now, hop off his orange testicles and pay attention. Biden has given America the CHIPS and Science Act of 2022, which provides $280B in new funding to boost domestic (American) research and manufacturing of semiconductors in the US, aimed at competing with China. That will bring jobs to America immediately and in the long term. Biden also signed the Infrastructure Investment and Jobs Act (IIJA) of 2021 (fuck the alternate bipartisan title because only a handful of R’s voted in its favor), providing $1.2T in spending for everything from highways to tunnels (like the 125-year-old North River [Hudson] Tunnels that could go at any moment) to transit programs to research to the electric grid. I’ve already seen a sign on I-87 touting that the repair of a particular stretch of the highway was a result of the IIJA. Biden’s Inflation Reduction Act of 2022 addressed deficit reduction, climate change, healthcare and tax reform. #46 also pushed to permanently raise the current maximum child credit from $2,000 per child to $3,600 per child under age 6 or to $3,000 per child ages 6 and up. He and a Democrat-led House and Senate passed legislation in 2021 giving qualifying parents $3,600 per child through the American Rescue Plan. Guess who crushed that legislation when Biden tried to spin the block in perpetuity. Your friendly Republican elitist bigots, homophobes and xenophobes, as soon as they gained an advantage in the House. The man tried. Everything I just stated about Sleepy Joe is documented fact. That’s three major pieces of legislation passed within two years of office. Find the last president who can say the same. I’ve got time. I’ll wait. And let’s look at that child credit legislation. That helped a lot of families out. I know personally. It helped MOST American families. Biden wanted it to become commonplace. Yet, elitist politicians said no. Once again...that man tried. Say what you say, but facts are irrefutable. And after all that I’ve listed, if you’d rather vote for a man with four criminal indictments and 91 charges, go right the fuck ahead. Might I add that he’s already been proven guilty of massive tax fraud in his New York state civil case. The motherfucker stole classified documents, tried to overthrow the fucking federal government through insurrection, pressured a state to reverse election results and...oh yeah...that’s right...gave hush money to a silicone-laden porn actress for letting him get his schmeat wet in all holes. But if you feel that he’s the man to make Amerikkka great again, el mundo es suyo. Cabrón. Brent Faiyaz’ new project Larger Than Life is my shit. I’m not going to provide a detail the first. Go cop his shit because I threw you the alley. Thank me later. I’m out this bitch. tymonday.com @tymonday on Twitter & IG crewunb.com: @crewunB on Twitter & @theunbearablescrew on IG #MNR: 23220
“Nothing should come before your fam, from ki’s to quarters, grams.” Nasir Jones My apology for the blog being a day late, y’all. I was tired then a MF last night. I was so tired I didn’t even smoke a J after work. AND I only worked a half day (second half). Yeah, I know. That’s some shit. But anyway... Amtrak cars smell like old, stale white men. And they never turn the cabin lights off. It’s hard to go to sleep under interrogation room lights. “You know you done fucked up, right?” Type shit. But damn it, I had both seats to myself for the duration of the trip and we made perfect time. Shouts out to Moynihan Train Hall and Amtrak Lounge. Shoutout to Amtrak. I’m finna take one to Hawaii next summer. Who’s coming with me? Oh, ok. Well bump y’all then. No souvenirs for none of youse. Homecoming is a cherished Negro tradition, whether it be the church house or university hall. It’s an annual opportunity to return to home base and coalesce with loved ones. Homecoming is perhaps the most important event on the HBCU calendar after graduation. There’s the obligatory step show, parties for students AND alumni, a concert (if it’s in the budget) and the football game. The game is usually against a pushover, all but guaranteeing a win for the home team (unless they’re completely ass). I’ve had the privilege of going to a few different homecomings, and they had their own unique flavor. Howard University, the Harvard of HBCU, probably has the most well-known homecoming, immortalized by the BIG fella’s bars, “may see me in DC at Howard’s homecoming with my man Capone dumbing, fucking something.” If you didn’t attend an HBCU, there’s a good chance that you’ve never been to a homecoming. I’ll leave it at this: If you know someone who didn’t attend an HBCU but who’s been to an HBCU homecoming – ask them. Let them tell you what it’s like. Shouts out to Coach Alvin Parker (my era) and the Virginia Union University Panthers football team. They beat the horse shit out of Lincoln University. When we left Hovey Field with about 1:57 left in the 4th Quarter, they had just scored to go up 56-0. Shout out to RB Jada Byers, the best back in Division II football. Word is he may play on Sundays in the future. VUU Homecoming ’23 was an amazing affair. The yard was filled with alums and coeds, more of the former than the latter. The kids were extra litty. I saw bottles getting drunk and big J’s getting smoked. They woulda sent us home forever with our mamas had we smoked in the wide like that 25 years ago. Instead, we smoked in the dorms. And we smoked at cribs off the yard. But back to the point. The kids were lit like they were on Bourbon St. during Mardi Gras. Shouts out to them. I’m happy they can do their thing without having to worry about the campus fuzz getting crazy. I didn’t see a single campus police walking the yard. I only saw a few officers from the sheriff’s department here and there, but they weren’t there to harass students and alums for the trees. Having said all that, I didn’t smoke a chronic bud on the yard at homecoming. I didn’t have to. We smoked too many J’s and drank before we hit the yard. And we took edibles. I was wild loopy, mellow AF. The fraternities and sororities were out heavy. I saw a Delta (Delta Sigma Theta) or three (RIP mommy) who looked to be north of 70. Shouts out to Beta Epsilon. Shout out to Shareon. My classmate Kim’s daughter continued the legacy and crossed Alpha Kappa Alpha (AKA) days ago. Big ups to Kim, her daughter, my sisters (Jon Jon, Lisa, Apryl, Daisy, Shay, Meek) and the Alpha Eta chapter. I saw 8,000,001 Ques (Omega Psi Phi), including one of my closest brothers Rock and my big bro A-Wax. Do willie. Shout out to Z-Squad. I saw legend and NBA Hall of Famer Ben Wallace. My sis Jon Jon took a pic with Charles Oakley, but I didn’t see him on the yard this time. I saw plenty of people from my era. I’m not much of a party guy at this point in my life, but I did attend a rooftop party at The Graduate hotel. Keisha from my class threw the party. It was age appropriate for me, which is the only way I can fully enjoy a function in my old age. Keisha was a sweetheart all night. I’d definitely attend another event if she’s throwing it. The squad had an Airbnb. I chose to stay by my lonely in a telly. Y’all know I’m a semi-recluse. And, just like senior year when I interned at WRIC-TV8 (ABC) all the way down Midlothian on Arboretum (southside), my Huntley family made sure I got scooped and dropped off every damn where from the moment I got off the Amtrak 10:30 AM Thursday. Big ups to my fam, especially Rock, Louie, Keith, Jon Jon and Darrell. There are so many of us, but I spent the most time with them. I love spending time with my friends of 25+ years. They are true sisters and brothers. We’ve been through damn near all aspects of life together – even when we are apart. I can always count on my Huntley Family. Case in point: Rock lives in Philly. I had a round trip ticket on Amtrak, purchased a month ago. He insisted that he take me up the Turnpike to the crib in the black Suburban. He really is the greatest. AND I just received an email from Amtrak tonight apologizing for the delay Sunday night. That would have meant a $70 Uber trip to travel about 8 miles (7.6) from Moynihan Train Hall to the crib . God is the greatest. But back to the ride home. We didn’t listen to the radio one second up I-95. Facts. We talked all the way up. That’s my dog for life. RIP to Shareon and Moses. I’m going to end this blog here because I want to keep it positive. My family knows why I’m going to end it here. But hey. Some beef is everlasting. Sides get taken. Those of us caught in the middle suffer the most. C’est la vie. LONG LIVE MEEK. I miss you girl. tymonday.com: @tymonday on Twitter & IG crewunb.com: @crewunB on Twitter & @theunbearablescrew on IG |
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