Random Thoughts

Ready? It's time for another edition of "Random Thoughts".

Instructions: Read each thought. Some you may not agree with. Some you may or may not get, depending on how in tune with my life you are. (And really, if you get everything, you're a little scary and I think we need some time apart.) You all tucked in? Heeeeere we go...


I just want to learn spanish so I can sing salsa songs and get it. When Latinos sing salsa songs (especially the slow ones) don't they look like they are saying something really DEEP? Hell..even when they are reciting reaggaeton. I know the beat is hot, but the lyrics? I know it has something to do with being proud to be Puerto Rican (because all the songs have that in them...) but how proud are you? I wann know. Or at least sound convincing when I say that part in "Hips Don't Lie". You know...towards the end.... when Shakira says "Mira en Barranquilla se baila así!". Cuz that shit just sounds hot. Yeah. That's why I want to learn it. But let's be clear. This does not mean I want to understand J.Lo's new album. Whining is whining in any language. Her husband...now THAT mutherfucker BLOWS. (In the black way...not the white way. Not "bad" meaning "bad" but "bad" meaning "good". You hip?) Anyway...yeah Mark blows...and I want to know what he's saying. And when he's banging out Jenny, does he whisper in her ear in spanish? (It happened to me once. I HIGHLY recommend this.) And when she says "Ay"...(because you have to when a Puerto Rican is banging you out...trust me.) ...does she now try to sound like Beyonce' and Shakira on "Beautiful Liar."? I would.

AND I want to be in on the joke when George Lopez does stand up. Listen to it. You'll see what I mean.

I just want to learn guitar because when I'm sad, I want to strum that shit and sing a song that matches my mood. I also want to learn as many kid songs as possible because Jayla and Vanessa are three, and to them...when I finish playing "Wheels On The Bus"...I'll be a fucking ROCK STAR. My next door neighbor is my teacher, but on ice right now and his wife avoids me...which is awkward, because I'm avoiding her at the same time. And we both know it.

Shakira sounds like shit in English.

I think the prescription in my new glasses is too strong, but I refuse to take them off becuase they look fucking great. And I realize that I only did this shit(got glasses) because I need a drastic change...which is why I get my braces next week. (Don't ask why I'm getting braces. You know why. Let's not play this game.) So it's either braces and glasses, or a tattoo on my arm and I shave my head. But the latter is so Britney Spears.

Twenty-Six songs come on the Motown 1's cd. Now, the funny thing about Motown is you never want to hear it when you conciously make a decision to play it. You only want to hear it when you stumble on that shit. OK...except "The Temptations" and "Four Tops". That shit is good no matter what. Especially "Ain't Too Proud To Beg". ("I KNOW you wanna leave me...but I refuse to let you go..." SING THAT SHIT DAMN IT! Will somebody go find "The Funk Brothers" STAT!

Amy Winehouse is the closest we've come. Sad.

Yo Momma's so fat when the Lord said, "Let there be light..." ...and there wasn't any, He sucked his teeth, looked at yo Momma and said, "Move Bitch!"

The next time I do karaoke...I'm doing "Shout". And I dare you not to join in. Triple Dog Dare you. (Name that movie.)

Love is not an act of will. So doing stupid shit in the name of it is quite beyond your control. You can't start love, or end it whenever you want it. Trust me. Had I been able to fall in love when I wanted to, with who I wanted to... I wouldn't be working right now. Church.

Who came up with "Church"? My bet is Snoop.

NOW WAAAAAAAAAAIT A MINUTE! I FEEL AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLL RIIGHT.... (wait for it...)





YOU KNOW YOU MAKE ME WANNA.....

KICK MY HEELS UP AND ...

THROW MY HEAD BACK AND ....

THROW MY HANDS UP AND ...

HEYYY-EH-AAAYYYYY....

...want me to keep going...don't you?



White people don't know they are white. OK...some of them do. But most of them don't. Crazy, right? Because everyone who isn't white is fully fucking aware they are not. ALL DAY.

I officically have a headache thanks to my glasses. But they are Vera Wang. I'm ruining my eyes for fashion. I'm turning into a gay man.

...a little bit softer now...


a little bit softer now...
a little bit softer now...
a little bit softer now...


..A LITTLE BIT LOUDER NOW...
A LITTLE BIT LOUDER NOW...
A LITTLE BIT LOUDER NOW...



..and I love Jude. Go to Paris baby. America doesn't appreciate you.

-Nye

How To Be Black This Week

My given name is Nyree Taratibu-Daima Emory. My mother gave me this name and I like it. Actually, I like it alot. (The chick who fitted me for eye-glasses...her name was Millicent.

(beat)

Like I said, I like my name...a lot.

You know what I really like about it? Whenever I hear "Wow. That's pretty. Where is that from?" and I hit them with "New Zealand". HA!! Take THAT!(Insert the "Wow. That's not African?" look here.) I tend to follow it up with the story of "Nyree Dawn Porter", whom which every Nyree born within the last 35 years is familiar.
She's an actress...and long story short...my Moms bit her name. I'm not mad at it.

Now, the Taratibu-Daima part, well, we can blame that on a pot-smoking, post-'Nam vet loveable cat I like to call my father. My paternal aunt Maurica was seeing an African, and since black people were fresh off of the Civil Rights movement, my father wanted me to have an African name. And he was high. So mystery African pulled "Taratibu-Daima" out his ass, and had my father not been out banging some chick that lived in Parkchester while my mother was pushing me out (true story..I met her. But that's another post...) there's a chance that my first name would be "Taratibu-Damia". And I'm pretty sure he would have held me up in the air butt-ass naked as an infant and said, "Taratibu-Daima. Behold...the only thing greater than yourself." (Like I said, he smoked a lot of pot back in the day, I'm sure it would have happened.)

Now "Taratibu-Daima" actually does mean something. "Everlasting Peace", or so I was told. Every African I've asked has never heard of these words...stating "must be a dialect I'm not familiar with." So it could very well mean, "Neice of American Bootie Call", but I prefer to be optimistic.

Why all the set-up Nye? This is why.

Sunday night, I started watching "Roots" on TV One. Now, I'm pretty sure you've seen it...and so did I...however, I was four years old. The only images I could remember were the following:

1)Kunta in a net.
2)Kunta eating some white stuff out of his hands.
3)Kunta dancing on a ship.
4)Kunta being whipped till he said his name was "Toby".
5)Louis Gosset Jr.'s bad teeth.
6)James Evans getting his foot chopped off.

So I get through night one and the whole thing is pretty familiar, right? Kunta gets caught and strapped on to a ship, preparing for the Middle Passage. I know all this. It's fine. I'm used to it. However, I'm now at an age where I can understand complex English. So the images are familiar, however, the dialouge? Brand fucking new.
For instance, the heartwarming Middle Passage phrase, "we use the nigger wenches for crew relief". ("Nigger wench" translated for modern times is "Nappy Headed Ho", just so you're aware. Ahem.)

So anyway, I watch the whole episode, and I'm bothered, but it's the usual "bothered". Nothing I'm unaccustomed to. Then I come to work and have to deal with this Don Imus shit.

I'm not going to get into it, but the asshole lost his MSNBC gig behind it. Good. Great. However, I had a day long email discussion that spilled over into an evening discussion at home that lead right into the second night of "Roots"...which I refused to watch. I wanted something light. That's right. "Dancing With The Stars."

Now, Laila Ali goes first, and she's good. Not as great as she's been before, but good. She gets shitty marks. I'm subconciously screaming "racism", but keeping it cool. I just dealt with slave raping and Imus in the last 24hrs. Don't take it personally Nye.

BUT THEN... Clyde Drexler gets shitty marks. I mean, he gets a "4"...which is un-fucking-heard of!!! So now, I'm just WAITING on Billy Ray Cyrus right, because this man moves as if he's autistic. And during the pasa doble... he does exactly what I thought he was going to do. He silently counts...he fucks up his foot work...flailing arms like a dying chicken od'ing on a gram of coke. So I think...OK. He's going to get shitty marks to...and that motherfucker gets "7"'s across the board!! So I turn to TV One. Fuck this...I'm watching "Roots".

And so I did. And the replay to catch everything I miss. And I get some more goodies...like "Breeding Wenches", "Nigger Gossip" and a few great groveling scenes that sorta went like "No boss! Toby be a good nigger for massa! You see! Toby be a good nigga boss!" with big wide grins on James Evans. JAMES EVANS kid! That's like seeing your father on the ground begging and shit...ooh, I'm mad.

So the next day, I grab my copy of "Voices From Slavery" and start reading some narratives on my way to work. And I can't lie, though I did come across some where the former slaves were treated well...I skimmed them. Who wants to hear about how "Massa sho was good. Us had plenty to eat, and new shoes every winter."? Not me. That just pissed me off, more so than the narratives about those who got whipped and had salt rubbed in the wounds...then left in the sun. (No lie.)
I was probably pissed because these slaves had no idea they weren't being treated well no matter how many shoes they got..because, um...hello... they were SLAVES.

So I'm on the Metro North and I'm hot and everytime I see someone trying to peek at my book title, I close it so my fellow passenger gets a good look at the title. That's fucking right.

I'm walking through Grand Central Station, and no longer do I see the random faces in the crowd that I ignore every morning. Suddenly, I'm fully fucking aware that I'm a decendant of slaves (who couldn't do shit about it), walking amongst decendants of slave owners. And I get angrier. Because NOW, I'm thinking, this sense of entitlement whites have is begat from their former status as slave owners and on a very elementary level, most still believe that shit. So now... I'm a lip curl and moan away from growling.

I get to work...and my next door neighbor says, "What's up Yo?" and he's not black.
Nothing new. It happens every day, but today, I HEAR it...and dig my nails into my flesh to prevent myself from going in his office and saying in my best Bobby DeNiro, "OHHH!...Paisan. You mouilan now? Then stop talking like us already! Fuggetabout it!!".

But I don't. Nor do I leave my office much. Especially so I don't have to talk to th co-worker who shared her family had "so much more" until the slaves on the plantation revolted. To which I replied, "Well, maybe if ya'll treated them better, they wouldn't have revolted." She laughed. I wasn't trying to be funny.

Back home...at 8pm. The next installment of "Roots".

Now in this one, Kunta has all the "run" beat out of him. He's old. He's broken. His daughter "Kizzy" (which means "stay put" in Mandika) is taught to read by Sandy Dunkin, and helps her man escape. Dude gets caught, confesses Kizzy forged a slave pass and Kizzy gets sold off. That bitch didn't even unpack and Massa rapes her while Helen Willis cleans her wounds. Kizzy then becomes...guess what? An "angry black woman", while her coon-ass son Chicken George dances and smiles.

At this point, I'm just sick. Yeah, men had it hard, but the women. DAMN. We were getting raped left and right and had no choice.

So I thought about it ya'll.

Like I said, I like my name. What if...at some point, some dude from, I don't know,
Kazakstan snatched me up on my way to work, strapped my ass to the bottom of a boat for three months, in which I was raped on a regular, forbade me to speak English, called me "Binti" and kept on raping me till I got knocked up. Then put me to work...
everyday...all day. Or just made me a "breeder". Or my owner's "Nigger wench"?

I used to hear about all of the mess going on in Africa and say, "Thank God for slavery" as a joke. I now realize that saying that, is a slap in the face to every woman in my maternal linage, from my mother...all the way up to that one young girl who survived being snatched away from her family in Africa, being raped repeatedly on a boat for well over three months, and then raped some more. She was so...unbelievable strong ...because she fucking SURVIVED it. Wow.

So from this day forth, you will not hear the word "Nigger" escape my lips. Nor will I tolorate mockery of my people from anyone else. ESPECIALLY my own. I hold my own more accountable than any other race. Oh...and if I hear "the N word", I will politely ask the person to say "Nigger" or nothing at all. If you are just using it to reference with no harm intended, there should be no shame in saying it. Should there?

And no, I'm not all of a sudden hating white people guys. They have nothing to do with the bullshit their ancestors put my ancestors through, so we can call it even and move on from this point. And I'm not an "angry black woman" either. It happened. I'm sure the Japanese, Irish and the Jews can meditate on what happened with their people as well and be quite pissed off too. Quite. Sure, the recovery time varies, but injustice has been done. So let's just say I'm a little more...aware now. And it feels fucking great.

So like I said, I love my name. It think it fits me. My parents gave me my name, and I'm very proud of it....(even if it does mean "New Zealand African American Bootie Call". Ha. Ha.) I'm also fully aware that I'm a hybrid of two or more cultures...be it by rape or consent. No need to be angry about it... because, hell, I'm here. And that's not because of Massa being in the slave quarter...that's because Charles and Loretta got hot in the pants, got busy and decided to ignore the "Roe Vs. Wade" verdict. (THANKS AGAIN!!)

Part Four is tonight. Check it out if you get a chance.

...Or at LEAST vote for Clyde Drexler....cuz that Billy Ray Cirus pasa doble was bullshit.

-Nye

This Did Not Happen On My Birthday

I just want to thank my friends. All of them...for not letting this happen on my birthday. And knowing you guys...had the Koreans granted us access to the
RIGHT room...it was possible. (Blow up doll not included.)
Thank you guys for a fantastic bday. Love you all...
-Nye

Respect My Gangsta

Scored 19 out of 20 on my permit.

Warning: Stay off the roads.

-Nye

PS..

Shervon (my sister and driving nemisis...) has a film entered in a film festival.

Here are the details.

Hell yes I'll be there...and I hope you will too. Come on. Support a sista. Especially mine.


The BE Underground Film Festival
Title: Rush
Place: The Park Avenue Screening Room
Address: 500 Park Avenue on the SW corner of 59th Street
Time: 7-9pm
Date: May 2
Price: $10
Train: A, E, N, R, W, 4, 5, 6

website: http://www.befilm.net/

Extreme Makeover - Home Edition

"Times have changed. Our kids are getting worse. They won't obey their parents they just want to fart and curse.
Should we blame the teachers? Or blame society? Or should we blame the images on TV? NO! Blame Canada! Blame Canada!
It seems that everything's gone wrong since Canada came along! Blame Canada...shame on Canada! ..they're not even a real country anyway." - "Blame Canada" Residents of South Park. (Sigh..yes, again.)

"Your karma is fucked up. I'm watching out for falling pianos." - Demps



OK. So maybe it is.

My passport arrived one day...ONE DAY after my plane took off for Paris.

Now, most people would look outward. Blame the government. Say it was an act of God.

"Wasn't meant to be..."

"Everything happens for a reason..."

"If it don't fit...don't force it."

All of these little sayings are designed to make you feel better about things that are "beyond your control". Perfectly designed to help you forget what went wrong...and instead, keep going with hope and faith that it's "not your fault". And I appreciate it from the bottom of my heart...from everyone who offered it. They were just trying to make me feel better by convincing me this whole thing was out of my hands and not my fault.

...When it just might be.


Now I'm not saying the passport office had their shit together...because they didn't. However, I could have had my passport expidited in case of unforseen circumstances. Ahem. I thought about it...but didn't think I'd have to. Slightly over confident...you think? Lesson learned.

Not to mention karma. You may not believe in it, but I do..and I can't lie, it hasn't been squeaky. I don't kick cats (I just move them with my foot) and I've stopped publically bashing Tom Jones, but I've also stopped doing positive things lately. I actually thought I had the karma thing back on track, but I can see I'm going to have to roll up the sleeves...again.

That's right. Another race. (Hey..it worked last time.)

The Lincoln Tunnel Challenge 5k on April 22nd.

1..it benefits the Special Olympics (which gives me DOUBLE kudos because I'm not directly connected or effected by this cause) and 2...

Ummm...how cool is it to run the Lincoln Tunnel?!!!

But wait...there's more.

The drivers license thing. (Monday, permit test. Yeah, I know you don't believe me. Just watch.)

And the health thing. (I began a very intense detox. Not getting into details but it's not pretty...or pleasantly fragrant.)

All these things and another really important step.

Take a look at the people around me. Haven't exactly been surrounded by positivity lately, and laugh if you want, but I think that negativity fog has been seeping into my world...like "The Nothing" from "The Neverending Story".

...and right about now, I could use a Luck Dragon like a muthafucker.

Now one thing I do know. You can't change anyone...you can only change yourself. So I'm fixin' to do just that.

I've got one week off from work...and one week to do some good making-over before my Thirty-(wow...) fouth (ouch) birthday.

Not a lot of time, but hey. If the world can be built out of nothing in six days, I can change my vida loca in seven.
(..Six, if I'm as gangsta as I think I am.)


On another note... how much money would you spend to find out who you really are?

For someone who may be adopted or...I don't know..Black...this is life altering. It's something other cultures take for granted, I think. They know their heritage...where they come from. So it's easy to take pride in that and in themselves.
And if you think about it, self love has a lot to do with knowing who you are.

I want to be able to say, "I come from from _________________."
And yes..I know. It's Africa. But that's way too damn generic.
That's like a white person being satisfied with "My people come from Europe."

So that's another thing I'm aiming to find out this week. Where I belong.

...belong.

Wow.

The ideaI is...well, pretty mind-blowing. And terrifying. And, pretty damn emotional.

I've purchased a DNA test that will tell me exactly where in Africa my anscestors are from.
My mother was born in Virgina, but she's not "Virginian".
My father's family is from "St. Kitts", but they got there, from where?
(Africa. Sure...but WHERE? What tribe? What people were we taken from?)

Once I find out...instead of my story being, "I'm half black and half Carribean..."
The story suddenly becomes, "My ancestors come from ___________, Africa. They were stolen from their land, and brought to the Carribean and America to work as slaves for hundereds of years. Eventually, my mother's side settled in Virginia, and my father's in New York. My mother's family then moved to New York...and here I am."

It's a great fucking story. I just need to fill in the blank.

And so, for my birthday this year....I could care less about cake or drinking or expensive gifts.

I'm going to find out who I am.

And what I'm made of.

...and see "The Lion King".

Because it's up there with Paris on my "things I want to see" list. Since I'll be here, why not?

As for Paris, don't cry for me Argentina.

I'll get there...exactly when I'm supposed to.

...but I think I want to go to Thailand first. (You know I'm not kidding...don't you?)

-Nye


Oh. And on my birthday, I want good pizza (no less than three toppings with at least two of them coming from a pig) and cold beer. Really cold fucking beer.

The Cure...part 2

Paris has been post-poned thanks to Uncle Sam and the Passport office.

So this is for you.

Feeling better...

The Cure

You know how "The Secret" made all this cake by jacking common sense? Well...I'm a little short on rent this month too...so I'm going to come up with my own "Secret".

It's called "The Cure".

And it's not based on common sense... it's what you were taught when you were a kid.

Here it is. Are you ready? Two words.

Immature cruelty.

But it's used for good....pinkie swear.

Let me explain.

You know how you have those days when shit just won't go right... and try as you might to be optimistic, you just hate everyone. Know that day? Yeah. Yeah. Me too.

But what do you do? Be optimistic? Sing "No Day But Today", and hope the sun will come out...tomorrow? Sure. You could do that...but you know what is even MORE fulfilling? Name calling. Yeah...

Now let's just say that your day is just leaning on you, like a sleeping fat person on the train. And during this day, there's just ONE person in particular that you wish would get shit on by a pigeon.

Yeah. You know who it is...but what do you do about it?

Well...the way I figure, having that kind of projected resentment towards a person isn't healthy...and if you hold it in...you'll spew that poison onto someone who doesn't deserve it...like the bitch with the really bad make up at Sephora. ...ahem.

So to "CURE" you of all that attitude sickness, here's all you have to.

Go Grade School on 'em.

Sing a nasty song about whoever you are hating at the moment...insert their name and VOILA!....you will be cured by the time you stop singing. Believe me...it really works. Really.

For example....

I'm off to Paris in a few days and Judes' boss won't let him go.

I'm really fucking pissed at her.

So, instead of just being angry...I've decided to sub "Kyle's Mom" with "Judes Boss" in this little diddy.

And to get the full effect, don't be shy. At the end...you HAVE to do the big finish. You HAVE to.

Oh..you'll also have to squeeze that name into two syllables. For example...Jennifer Lopez becomes J. Lo...George W. Bush gets shortened to "Ass-hole" ...you get the idea.

So happy singing...and please tell all your friend about "The Cure" and how it's changed your life.

That'll be $12.87.

(We'll miss you Judes!)

Not Everybody Starts Off Sexy

...I'm just sayin.

Ahh....I Feel Better Now

OH...MY...GOD.

Thank you Spartans.

One hour and fifty-seven minutes of 300 rock hard abs coming at you with testosterone-induced aggression spilling out all over the screen...in effin' IMAX.

I'm so grateful. So ...very...very...grateful.

Eff chick flicks. All you need is 300 Spartans in some leather Hanes, flip-flops and capes yelling "NEVER GIVE UP...NEVER SURRENDER!!" to calm the "bitch" in you right down. I'm purring.

So...ummm...sorry for that little outburst earlier. My bad. I'm gonna go cook now.

Would you like a beer while you watch "Sportscenter" baby?

-Nye

I Am Not Mr. T Or Whateverthefuck - A PMS Post

**Lots of profanity in this post. Not my fault. Hormones. Viewer discretion is advised. (...Ma.)

com·pas·sion (kəm-pāsh'ən)
n. Deep awareness of the suffering of another coupled with the wish to relieve it. (See Synonyms at pity.)

—Synonyms 1. commiseration, mercy, tenderness, heart, clemency. See sympathy.
—Antonyms 1. mercilessness, indifference.

"Have a little compassion! Sometimes a nigga just needs a hug." - My ex-fiance

"You don't care, do you? You really don't. Can you just at least ACT like you?" - Yet another Ex

"Bitch. Bitch. Bitch." - Carl


I am not Mr. T, because Mr. T was a pussy.

I saw beyond all that pseudo angry black man bullshit...looked past the fro-hawk and the truck jewelry, and paid attention to what he said. He pretty much called himself a bitch weekly for all of America to hear, and if you paid close attention...you knew that there was NO reason to fret. One phrase in particular melted any sort of intimidation from my pre-teen "A-Team" loving heart.

"I pity the fool...(insert reason why said "fool" is pitied here.)"

(Teeth suck.)

Look.

What angry black man you know (and I don't know about you, but I know plenty) let his crew drug him up on a regular basis to get his bitch ass on a plane? An angry black man don't give a fuck about getting on a plane, and let's just say he did. The minute he woke up, he'd commence to ass kickin. He would knock his boy Murdock right the fuck out because that was the only dude who came close to his pork rinds or whateverthefuck.

But not B.A.

He'd wake up in Cambodia and say some shit like ..."Where am I?"
Then, before he got too riled up, George Peppard would blow smoke out of his cigar and cooly say "Nevermind that. Here's a blow torch...we've got a bridge to build." (And by the way, the whole "drug the negro, drag him across the world and make him build shit" thing didn't sit right with me either...but I'm not going there. Not in this post anyway.)

Anyway, so then, while he's building the bridge or whateverthefuck, here comes a little Cambodian girl who smiles and hands him a hammer or whateverthefuck. B.A.'s heart melts...and now, for the next 40 minutes, he's trying to breast feed little Sim Leh or whateverthefuck her name is and...

Wait a second. Hold up. I'm getting way off track.

Here's my point.

Mr.T constantly said he'd "pity", right?

"Pity", is synonymous with "compassion".

And I'm lacking in that department.
And, (so I've been told), this is a problem.

Because when one lacks compassion, one is automatically labeled other things...

1. Bitch (in a "Devil Wears Prada" kinda way)
2. Mean
3. Cold

Which, I think is unfair. Because we don't label those with abundant compassion;

1. Bleeding Heart Pussies
2. Bitch (in a "Jack" from "Will And Grace" kinda way)
3. Mr. T

No. Noooooooooo. Of course not.

Look.

I was raised in a household where the mantra was ...
"..Oh well. What do you want me to do about that?"

Two hard working parents, four kids, one missing paycheck away from "Good Times" and no time to be kissing boo-boo's.

Insert any scenario where most kids would get some "compassion" and I'll tell you what we got.

Scenario 1: You were riding your bike. You fall...on concrete.

Most kids - Run home to Mom...crying hysterically. Mom hugs, kisses the boo-boo, makes your favorite lunch to calm you down.

Loretta's kids - Inspect the cut and make an informed decision as to what your next step will be, in an effort to prempt any scolding. Ask yourself, how bad is this cut? Will I live? Will it bleed through my clothes, and if so, do I need to go home and get a band-aid so that I don't mess up perfectly good playclothes? If not too bad, continue playing. If bad, (is she sleeping?)...quietly..QUIETLY..come back into the house (ALONE. DON'T YOU BRING THE NEIGHBORHOOD!) ...pull out the Hydrogen Peroxide and the cotton. Fix yourself up, head back out..QUIETLY.

Scenario 2: You were supposed to take out the garbage. You didn't.

Most kids - The garbage has been taken out while they were out playing and they've gotten a lengthy lecture on responsibility.

Loretta's kids - Walk into the apartment from playing, and no one in the house makes eye contact. Upon entering the bedroom, you notice the garbage...which is on your bed.


Now don't get me wrong. I've got LOADS of compassion for the big things.
You lost your job? Did somebody pass away? Starving kids in the Midwest?

Aww...man. I'm soo sorry. Soooo...soooo sorry. What can I do?

But for the little everyday shit that everyone...EVERYONE has to deal with at one point or another...um, no.

Bad day? Cramps? Balls itch? I don't care. I really don't.

And I've been told I have to care.

WHY DO I HAVE TO? Ughhh!!!!Why couldn't Loretta raise everyone?

Bad day? - Well...there's always tomorrow. (light a Kool.)
Cramps? - Take some pills and lie down somewhere. (light a Kool.)
Balls itch? - Scratch em, wash better or go to the doctor. (raise an eyebrow, light a Kool.)

Done. What's next?

Heavy sigh...so I've been told that I'm going to need to be enrolled in the
"Judes School Of Compassion"...so I'm pleading publicly for an intervention.

And maybe one day, one day...I'll give a fuck about you having to wait 20 minutes to be seated at brunch. Or get my own Saturday Morning Cartoon. Either one.


OK. Enough of that. Now the real reason I'm posting.

Shervon (my adorable younger sister) is starting driving lessons within the next week.

Which makes her not-so-adorable, but now, my arch enemy.

I'm fully aware that I can't accomplish anything unless I look at it as competition, so I'm throwing myself back into the goal full steam ahead.

BECAUSE THERE'S NO WAY IN HELL Shervon is getting a license and I don't have one.
I mean, that means all of Loretta's kids will be driving, except me. The last one.
Which means convos like this will happen "So. Who's gonna give Nye a ride?"...snicker...snicker.

OH HELL NO!! It's bad enough I'm the middle child and born out of wedlock, but I gotta be a non-driver too? Not gonna happen.

So I'm back on it people. And to show you I'm serious... I'm putting my money where my mouth is.

Shervon... I got $50 bucks on the table. CHALLENGE! (Like on the Cosby show...)

Bet you I get it first... nah-nah-nah-nah-nah-naaaaaaahhhhhhh.....

You accept? Or are you a Mr. T?

Today...I'm 14.

OK...I'm only going to say this once. Don't send it to me again.
This answers everything. Everything.


Three Things That Scare Me
1.Pigeons
2.Zombies
3.Being the first to say the following: I'm in love with you

Three Inevitabilities That Terrify Me To My Core
1. Becoming a parent...or not.
2. Losing the ability to orgasm.
3. Laying my parents to rest.

Three People Who Make Me Laugh
1. Esso
2. Not Available
3. Yarnell & Big (Sorry...they must be combined for the full effect.)

Three People Who Make Me Feel Like Everything Will Turn Out OK in the End
1. Mom
2. Judes
3. Oprah

Three Things I Love
1. 3 great courses with great company ending with great coffee
2. Any unexpectedly long and fantastic late night phone convo
3. Action movies

Three Things I Heart
1. Fresh soft pretzel nuggets w/ cheese (only available in theaters)
2. The endorphin rush after a workout
3. Spring

Three Guilty Pleasures
1. Sex. (Even when it's bad it's good.)
2. Sex And the City
3. Newports Lights (damn I miss smoking.)

Three Decadent Indulgences
1. Origins Microdermabrasion Scrub
2. Bliss full body massage
3. Those pricey ass chocolates Aaron gets me for my birthday. (April 6. I'm just putting it out there.)

Three Things I Haterade
1. Rent. (The actual bill...not the play or movie. No...those rocked.)
2. Country music.
3. Adult acne.

Three Things I Don't Understand
1. The Caucasian resistance to the cold. (That shit is amazing.)
2. "Early Birds" You mean..you WANT to get up at 6AM?
3. Faking orgasms. (Nobody wins people. NOBODY wins.)

Three Things on My Desk
1. A stone that says "patience"
2. Treasure chest
3. A lava lamp

Three [Innocent] Crushes
1. Bradgelina (I don't care your gender or sexuality. SO DO YOU.)
2. Dylon (He's two years old and the cutest thing I've ever seen.)
3. Anderson Cooper

Three People I'd Be Semi-Powerless Against
1. Prince
2. Vanessa & Jayla ( They're twins...they count as one. Three year old cuteness in surround sound)
3. Not Available

Three Things I Want To Do Before I Die
1. Get published
2. Own a house overlooking water somewhere
3. Get a freakin' drivers license dag nabit!!

Three Things I Can Do
1. Sing
2. Cook
3. Make people laugh. Hard.

Three Things You Should Listen To
1. "Music Of The Night" On Babs' "Back To Broadway" album.
2. My advice.
3. What his/her eyes say.

Three Things You Should Never Listen To
1. A man with a hard dick
2. Anyone who tells you how to change another person. They're lying.
3. Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam

Three Things I'd Like to Learn
1. Guitar
2. Organization skills
3. HOW TO DRIVE A DAMN AUTOMOBILE DAG NAMBIT!

Three Jobs I'd Love to Try Out
1. Madame of a brothel
2. Lead role in a Broadway musical
3. Movie Critic

Three Favorite Foods
1. Fried chicken. (Shut up.)
2. Macaroni and Cheese (Zip it.)
3. NEW ADDITION: Masterpiece BBQ Beef Jerky. (I promise you...the shit is made with crack.)

Three Favorite Quotes (This is when my mind goes blank, by the way.)
1. "Life is either a daring adventure or nothing. Security does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men as a whole experience it. Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than exposure." - Helen Keller
2."Most folks are about as happy as they make up their minds to be" - Abraham Lincoln
3. "You don’t have to specialize - do everything that you love and then, at some time, the future will come together for you in some form." - Francis Ford Coppola

Three OnScreen Moments [That Always Make Me Feel Better]
1. "The Color Purple" When Shug Avery busts into the church...tearing apart "God's Trying To Tell You Something", she hugs her father on the pulpit and says "See Daddy? Sinners has soul too.." and waits for him to return the hug...and slowly...he does. Yep. Tears.
2."Purple Rain" When Prince bitches out after singing the title song, runs like a girl to his motorcycle...unchains it...suddenly hears the applause. Wait a second... and he heads back through the crowd, kisses a sobbing Apollonia, heads to the stage...grabs a couple of tambourines...bows...tosses them and launches into "I Would Die For You" and "Baby I'm A Star".
3. "The Lion King" From the start of the opening number "Circle Of Life"...to the finish and everything inbetween. The birds flying over the river, the fish jumping, the giraffes bowing, Simba getting some weird fruit juice smeared all over his head by Rafiki...who then lovingly cradles the cub, giving a proud look to Mustafah then shoving the baby in the air for all the animals to see. The music swells at the end..and the final verse.."In the circle..the circle of liiiife..." and then WHAM!! The title.
Ahhh...

Three Songs I'm Always in the Mood For
1.Prince "Power Fantastic"
2. Faith Evans "Reasons"
3. Stevie Wonder "Rocket Love"

Untapped Balls

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It is not just in some of us; it is in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others." - Marianne Willamson

I know. Crazy long quote...but if you read it, then it probably hit your right in the center of your insecurity as it did me.

(Don't worry. I'm going to get to the "Aunt Jemima" chick in the earlier post. Gimme a minute to warm up and let it breathe ...as Mary said.)

I'd heard this quote before, and when I heard it, I thought it to be utter bullshit. Why? Because my deepest fear IS that I'm inadequate. It's always been that. You know...not good enough to _________ or smart enough to ___________ or creative enough to____________or talented enough to___________. You get the picture.

Now, I belived this whole heartedly, so much, that I'd actually stopped myself from doing shit that I KNOW I can do. So much better than those who ARE doing shit...mind you. (You know what I mean, don't you?)

Driving for instance. (Insert laughter here and maybe a smirk if you really wanna be an asshole about it.)

I honestly think I was crippled by the idea of driving because 1) I don't have a car and 2) I don't need one and 3) I may crash and not only kill somebody, but myself in the process.

...However, I had no problems with being drunk (really drunk) in third world country, dancing in a street river of sewage and dirt, with absolutly NO ONE around me who spoke a drop of English. The point is...there are balls I have that are untapped.

And so do you. They are big, hairy, swinging and hanging out like an old drunk Italian man wearing boxers...sitting on a small stool. (I don't know where that image came from. It just fit. Rock with it.)

So a couple of weeks ago, I'm watching Oprah and not working (shhhh) and she's rocking with this follow up show to a book she introduced called "The Secret". Guests are nodding together and smiling...sorta the way J.W's do when you say the latest issues of "The Watchtower" was fascinating. (It's OK. I can eff with the J.W's. My dad's one and so's Prince. I've got an honorary membership.) And since I'm a sucker for self help (and Oprah...keepin it real) I read the book.

The "Secret" isn't a secret at all.

The premise is "The Power Of Attraction", which, we already knew. Shit. My Mom taught me that a long time around. "You are who you hang around." Or... "Birds of a feather flock together." Or "Karma's a bitch." All the same thing.

Whatever you put out into the universe is exactly what you'll get back. If you hang around rapists and cannibals (combined or otherwise) eventually, you're gonna want to try ignoring "no means no" and frying up some brains with fava beans a nice Chianti.

The point is...like attracts like. If you're into wealth and fine dining, eventually, you'll attact that. If you're into sex and drugs, guess who your friend will be?

But this isn't just about people. The book takes it even further, in that they believe the actual thoughts you think manifest.
So if you say "I'm a loser, and I'll always be a loser." Guess what you'll be until you change that thinking?

Once upon a time, a producer asked me, "So what's your story? What do you do aside from this?"

I answered, "Well..I write."

He said, "You write, or are you a writer?"

I thought about it and said, "I'm a writer." Cuz fuck that. I am.

Guess what I've attracted?

Yep. Other cocky writers who don't do shit about it either.


So, since it's a new day, and it's almost the end of Black History Month and all...I'll try something new. Something that black people as a collective haven't seemed to be able to do.

And fucking believe it.

Because it's already true.


As for the silly bitch in the pancake outfit...

Well...she's no more delusional than a woman in the projects rocking a fur coat...who thinks that's life at it's BEST.

Thought I was going somewhere else with that, didn't you? Yeah...well it's the same thing. That pancake outfit is going to hold her back in ways she could never see right now.

Hell. It's not a secret if everyone knows it.

-Nye

Coming Soon...

Sorry guys. I've been preoccupied.

Break ups, Black History Month and my nephew's tattoo have taken up alot of my quality time. I know. Quick way to lose you.

But never fear...I'll be back soon. Like my new look?

In the meantime...discuss her silly ass..and I'll tell you where I found her.

HEAVY SIGH...

See you soon.

-Nye

Right Now

"I pull your ponytails because hurting you is easier

Than suffering the possiblity that you

Don't want to share my coloring book

So I angrily scribble

in yours.

Passionate response from you

in any direction

matching mine

Would be a relief. A comfort to know

I don't burn alone. "

-E. Eryn (Def Poet)

OK. We may now continue with our regularly scheduled blog.

Mean Sleep

Hey slacker get it movin. Write something in there, lady.

- Shervon Ratcliff


Actually, I have nothing to say. However, a writing teacher once told me that even if I don't have a damn thing to say, that I should write anyway...and what I mean to say will eventually find it's way onto the page. Even if it's bullshit.

So here it goes. (You guys can thank Shervon for riding me to get something on the page. See above quote.)


Sigh..OK. So I managed to do anything I could think of...except what I was supposed to do.
(Not one word...not one.)

Here are a few things I decided to do INSTEAD of taking my permit test. Ready?

1)Learn guitar. (Yes, I have one. My fingers are numb.)
2)Take a stripper class. (In which the instructor exclaimed,"You've done this before." Um...I'll just take it as a compliment. No Ma...I didn't. Just to be clear...)
3)Make my neices cry. (In a good way. They didn't want me to leave. Awww...)
4)Quit smoking. for good this time. (A bitch is CRANKY. Stay away. I'm warning you.)
5)Self Wax. (Won't do that again. I'm forced to suppress the "I want to slap the shit out of you" response when I'm ripping hair out of my OWN body.)


Actually doing all these things are a complete distraction, and I fully admit this.
And I fear few things. Few. But at some point...some point, life is supposed to begin. This is where The Wiz comes in. (insert collective groan here..)

Yes...yes. It's The Wiz again.

At some point I was walking down 125th street and here comes this tornado see...(yeah...I know. Just go with me,OK?) and the next thing I know I'm surrounded by kids who popped out of graffiti with hoola hoops, and soon, this numbers runner tells me to see the Wiz in order to get back home. I run into Michael Jackson with a Reeses Peanut Butter cup nose, Nipsey Russell who keeps snivling over a fat woman named "Teeny", and a Lion named "Fleet". (Don't test me...it's gospel.)
So anyway...we're happily skipping along, I'm on my way "home" with my three friends, pretty shoes and in the meantime, I run a 5K. After that, I'm not only ease'n on down the road, I'm jogging at a nice ten mile pace.

...then I hit the Posion Poppy feild...(get it? Poison Poppy? You do? Damn. Why didn't I get this when I was a kid?) Anyway, they look like 1970 Pussy Cat Dolls and keep blowing glitter-shit in my face...I fall right asleep...and get the munchies like you wouldn't believe. (ha ha.)

So busy in the field...I completely fucking forgot what "home" was, why I'm trying to get there, and that I have a KILLER solo to close out with. Oh..and you know what? Your feet KILL after running in silver slippers. (Yes, silver. This is The Wiz, not the other one. Just trust me, OK. I have it tattooed for a reason.)

So I think I've been asleep for a minute. At least for the month of December.

But don't worry...I just yawned and I'm rubbing my eyes. I'm up now...I'm up.

But wow. I had a mean sleep...( Download the song if you've never heard of it. It's hot. Cree Summer/Lenny Kravitz's version. Not Van Hunt/Nikka Costa. Love for Nikka and Van, however, I love fried plantains and strawberry ice-cream and they should NEVER get together either.)

So all that said, I'm sorta back on track.

Sorta.

I mean, I can play India Arie's "Good Mouring"...so all that sleeping wasn't wasted. Right?

OK... I really meant to say... I'm afraid to drive in New York.
Whew. There...I said it. Now. While I analyze and figure out WHY this thing is crippling me...here's an excerpt from a book I plan to read very soon.
Some DAMN good advice but it doesn't say shit about driving in New York City...unfortunatley.

I Feel Bad About My Neck
-Nora Ephron


What I Wish I’d Known

People have only one way to be.

Buy, don’t rent.

Never marry a man you wouldn’t want to be divorced
from.

Don’t cover a couch with anything that isn’t more or
less beige.

Don’t buy anything that is 100 percent wool even if it
seems to be very soft and not particularly itchy when
you try it on in the store.

You can’t be friends with people who call after 11 p.m.

Block everyone on your instant mail.

The world’s greatest babysitter burns out after two and
a half years.

You never know.

The last four years of psychoanalysis are a waste of
money.

The plane is not going to crash.

Anything you think is wrong with your body at the age
of thirty-five you will be nostalgic for at the age of forty-
five.

At the age of fifty-five you will get a saggy roll just
above your waist even if you are painfully thin.

This saggy roll just above your waist will be especially
visible from the back and will force you to reevaluate
half the clothes in your closet, especially the white
shirts.

Write everything down.

Keep a journal.

Take more pictures.

The empty nest is underrated.

You can order more than one dessert.

You can’t own too many black turtleneck sweaters.

If the shoe doesn’t fit in the shoe store, it’s never going
to fit.

When your children are teenagers, it’s important to have
a dog so that someone in the house is happy to see you.

Back up your files.

Overinsure everything.

Whenever someone says the words “Our friendship is
more important than this,” watch out, because it almost
never is.

There’s no point in making piecrust from scratch.

The reason you’re waking up in the middle of the night
is the second glass of wine.

The minute you decide to get divorced, go see a lawyer
and file the papers.

Overtip.

Never let them know.

If only one third of your clothes are mistakes, you’re
ahead of the game.

If friends ask you to be their child’s guardian in case
they die in a plane crash, you can say no.

There are no secrets.



Church Nora.

See you guys in a bit.

-Nye

The Difference Between A Love Story And A Romantic Comedy

The sun set in my mind this evening. For someone who said they'd die for me sold some old pictures of all my memories. Chump change just to unravel the mystery. But life ain't no fun without fantasy. Some things are better left unsaid. And some people are better left untrusted. Maybe...maybe...it'll all make sense....when I'm dead. Old friends for sale. Get 'em while the gettin' is hot. Watch out, they'll kiss you to get what you got. And they'll show you the friends that they're not. Old friends...for sale.

-
Old Friends For Sale - Prince

My heart is a little sore so I'm afraid this isn't going to be good. Sorry.
Just trying to keep it honest.

This shit actually may just make you wanna blow your brains out, but I'm gonna try my damnest to brighten it up by the end OK? So if you stick in there, and make it past the hard candy shell...you may be treated with chewy chocolate goodness. Maybe.

I know it's been a while since I've posted. There's been a lot going on.

Holiday plans, Mom's 60th birthday coming around the corner, the monthly relationship arguement, and pretty much being an emotional rock with wobbly legs,...I've sorta been weary.... with a WICKED case of writers block. And oh yeah, I was supposed to be getting my driver's license, right?

Heavy sigh...I know. I know.

And do you ever get the feeling your life is just heading full speed ahead into a brick wall? (...not over a cliff...that's too romantic.) So, I'm kinda in that place where you're pumping the breaks rapidly, disbelieving they are out,... bracing.

Please ignore the fucking AFLAC duck in the passenger seat.

Not to say the crash will be bad.
I'm sure I'll come out just fine...it's just...knowing it's coming.

And that's where the title comes from. Because I have NO idea what in the hell is in store for the next year, but for the first time, I'm actually apprehensive about it.
Sorta like when you're trying to figure out if you're watching a romantic comedy or a love story. You want to know how it ends so bad because you have no idea WHICH one you might be watching.

What am I talking about?

What's the difference?

Well...let me learn ya.

In the romantic comedy... boy meets girl(or vice-versa)/ circumstance keeps them apart/somebody has an epiphany or the "oh fuck. I love him" moment/the boy/girl does an impossibly desperate and/or embarrassing act to prove that the love is real and love doesn't wait for pussies who won't take a shot/boy gets girl (or vice-versa).

Love conquers all.

The End.

In the love story....meets girl(or vice-versa)/ circumstance keeps them apart/somebody has an epiphany or the "oh fuck. I love him" moment/the boy/girl does an impossibly desperate and/or embarrassing act to prove that the love is real and love doesn't wait for pussies who won't take a shot/....but it's too late. Boy/girl is a)dead b)married c)not in love anymore.

True love denied.

The End.

And it doesn't matter how it starts off... doesn't even matter if it's funny.
It's the ENDING that defines the story.

The last time I had this feeling, I was in high school. We'd just returned from the Christmas break. I'd suddenly realized that life as I knew it, would end, for sure...on June 15th. Graduation day. Shit was gonna change dramatically...and,aside from the obvious things...moving to Delaware, starting college, I had no idea how it would change my perception of "Me". I just knew it would.

OK, fine. I shouldn't have worried so much because all things considered, things turned out pretty good. I skipped crack, jail, prostitution, and the parents are pretty proud. Which basically left me optimistic about...well...fucking everything. (Yes, the optimism gets annoying. Even to me.)

Which is why it's just... unsettling when I'm not. When I'm sure the storm cloud is heading my way and will stay fixed above my dome till it's good and ready.

Not good.

(You wanna bite though that candy and get to the chocolate now, don't you? OK. Fine. Go ahead.)


I have decided to take this permit test on Friday. Then immeditatly after, I'll be heading to driving school to take the five hour class. THEN I'm scheduling the road test. That's right. All in one day. Gangsta.

Oh. I'm also seriously looking into buying a condo. I'll be checking it out on Saturday. Though, there's something really unsettling about buying a peice of the rock and not having that "Honey...it's PERFECT!" hand clasping/hugging moment you SHOULD have when you both sign on the dotted line. It's a kind of independence that, I can't lie...I'm not sure I'm 100% OK with. The romance of buying is totally sucked out of the experience. (I blame this Disney-esque image that's seared into my brain on real estate commercials. Fuckin' Century 21.)

Yeah I'm stettin' (as Grandma would say) things that are beyond my control. I just wonder how my perception of "Me" will change...again. Because it has. Again...and more frequently than I'm comfortable with.

However, (as Grandma would say) "Ain't no use stettin' bout it." So I won't.

Because if nothing else I know this for sure....

The duck survives the crash...(with little duck-sized crutches).

And damn it, I'm psyched about that cuz that duck makes me laugh.

Hard.


See you after the test.

-Nye

Social Security

Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing at all. Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature.

-Helen Keller

I'm sure I've used this quote before, but after this week...I felt the need to revisit.

A hell of a week ladies and gents.

But let me start with the burning question you all have been asking via text, email, phone calls...

No. I did not take my permit test. I'll get into why in a second, and then maybe, by the end of the Pity-party violin quartet concerto, you won't even care.

(Baton up...and...)

I was going through a break up.

In retrospect, it was pretty much the worst argument we've ever had. And you know when you reach that "Tina Turner" moment where you're just kinda feeling like.."fuck it"! I won't take a raw fist punch from you and keep my gloves on just because I'm aware that you bruise easily. Punch me again and here's what you get..."

And so I let it rip. ...logically. It was sorta like...

You know how Cosby could (past tense) be funny without cursing?
Yeah...well I fully know I can be brutal without calling one single name, or using profanity.

I'm not proud of this, but it's a defense mechanism finely tuned over the years.

So things were...out of wack. So out of wack, that I could feel the water slowly creeping above that crack in the ice-pond. Nobody fell through and in the end...though I'm not sure if either of us feel it was the 100% right decision, we're still walking. Gingerly.

However....

THIS did not stop me. I had shit to do and a blog to write damn it!

I still geared up...but first, I'd need to shake off the uglies.

I met up with some good people Friday night (happy birthday Judes!) had too much to drink and decided that Beyonce's "Irreplaceable" would be my theme song for the moment.

Because fuck it. It's true.

I also decided that I'll need to reconnect with a few more good people, slap a perm in Shervons head and make some amends. Which I did....all with a big unsure pain in the center of my chest.

NOW...

Monday rolled around, and we're back in peaceful negoiations. And I begin thinking "Shouldn't I be doing something to make things...solid again?"
So I get busy trying to think of this new realtionship-solidifying tactic. Real busy.

On the other hand, I've got shit to do....with this nagging feeling that I shouldn't take the test...

Earlier that day, I'd gone online just to take a practice quiz one more time, and the DMV site was down.

So I figured I'd just...you know...refresh my skills by reading... fuck.

I'd left my book home.

Bad ju-ju...but I headed to 34th street anyway.

"The test costs $65. This includes two road test tries..." the woman with red and white George Clinton braids informed me.

WHAT? When in the hell did this test get so damn ....?

I mentally scanned my bank account balance and I could see Prince lighting a cigar with my test money. Shake that off Nye. It was well spent bonding time. (Yes, but what about the tambourine and the tank-top stupid?- SHUT UP!)

My bank account vision was soon replaced with one of my apartment, lit only by candles, because hey...lights are overrated. Yep. That got me.

OK. I guess today may not be the day...

Defeated? Sure. But being the Tenacious Ree I am, I vowed to return the following week...(dough permitting). Oh and while there, I got another book, just to leave in the office.

Then Tuesday came.

Earlier that day, I got smacked with a batch of some cold hard truth-cakes and this, my friends, had me contemplating a lot of things. Long story short, I was decieved and that shit never feels good. And what sucks is, I couldn't reason it, rationalize it, make it what it wasn't. It was exactly what it was... and hey Nye...deal.
So I did. Nothing more to it...it's just... life, right?

Right.

So now Wednesday, while catching up with Esso over dinner trying to talk each other off the ledge, my phone rings.

Fuck.

Emma Johnson was so much to so many. The last time I visited her in the nursing home, she was humming this tune that will forever stay seared in my brain...and in the minds of the entire nursing home staff. She'd sing it over and over. It made her happy...and hearing it made the staff happy. They all vowed to find this song. So did I.

A massive stroke left her speech sporatic. Full of stutters and incomplete thoughts and a huge lack of vocal control. She wanted to join the conversation. Tell you she was happy. Annoyed. Hungry. Loved you. She couldn't. And it angered her...so she'd just hum her tune...and tune out the pain...for three years.

Though one time, an employee sat outside with us on a warm fall day with a guitar and began strumming old R&B...and Emma, to our suprised, finished each and every song with such clarity...we knew, just KNEW...she was 100% with it, no matter what the doctor said. It was then we understood. She was just...tired of trying.

Emma suffered another stroke. Her breathing was labored.
At around 5AM yesterday, we'd get the news that Emma was gone.


The funeral director was NOTHING like David from Six Feet Under.

He wore a cheap suit, his empathy came across as an empty fake pain, and the whole experience was sorta like buying a car, except this deal MUST be made before you leave the office.

"Small chapel fits 75 or you can upgrade..."
"Will you be creamating or burying?"
"You can get this pressed wood casket in greyish-blue, white..."
"Will the family witness the cremation?" (Oh hell no.)
"How much will the insurance cover...?"

...a whopping grand. Which meant we only had to kick up four G's to get it all done.
Yikes.

The women at the nursing home were devestaed.

"We really loved Ms. Emma."
One even sang the song. The song I'd failed to find.

We dropped to our knees to open her boxed up belongings, which read, "Johnson, Emma. Expired 12/7/06". Getting back up was not easy.

At 6pm, Lito and Delores were in the air. Leaving from JFK airport on their way to Barcelona, Spain. I was supposed to be on that plane, but of course, I would have missed...everything.

Seriously beginning to wonder if everything happens for a reason or if shit is a HELL of a co-winkie-dink. I mean, I didn't go Christmas shopping yet...and I'm usually done by now. I just kinda felt like...I shouldn't. Just like I felt like I shouldn't go on that trip.

I don't know how to end this one guys, I'm sorry. I usually have a neat little bow at the end, but this really is about re-learning (again) that you can't be afraid to let things go. No matter what it is.

Maybe it's your metrocard.
Maybe it's your relationship.
Maybe it's your faith in another's word.
Maybe it's this wonderful woman who's life touched so many.

Whatever it is...sometimes, you gotta be fearless. Stare it striaght in the eye and say "goodbye."

What I'm looking forward to is saying "hello"...

To what? I have no idea. LOL...

So it's a do-over people. Save your pennies.

It's going down for sure next week.

Yo quiero Taco Bell...

-Nye

But I KNOW THIS already!

"Train him I cannot. He has no patience." - Yoda
The Empire Strikes Back


You know, I can't lie.

I'm not motivated at ALL to get this damn driver's license.

I just thought about this while I stared at this blank page for ten minutes thinking, "what should I write."

And the truth is, I had nothing.

Nothing.

Because at this point, the very beginning of this 8 week challenge, I feel I should have some sort of motivation.

And I'm having trouble finding it....so I'm hoping that somewhere along this challenge...it'll find me.


So I got the book...and the permit forms and as soon as I cracked it open, I could just feel my eyes glaze over.

I was reading the literary equivilant of "The Peanuts" teacher's voice...but with symbols.

And just like one of the Peanuts, I fully understood, but wasn't paying attention, because, though I'm sure all that information is crucial to my becoming the greatest female drivers since Danica (...see? My NASCAR hotel paid off...) I just don't think it's...I don't know...FAIR ....that most of the drivers I KNOW ignore a good 75% of the shit that's in the book.

I mean seriously. We know the basics. Stop. Go. Yeild. Hospital. Children Crossing. Hill Ahead. Sharp Curve. Amish. (In Delaware. I swear...this is really a sign.)

But aren't these basic symbols something you learned in ...oh, I don't know... the first grade? And yeah, I'm sure this is for new Americans who may not be familiar, but can they get another version with all that elementary stuff and just give me the book with the good parts?

Like the weight of a baby vs. the type of car seat you should use?
Or the maxium alcohol level I can get away with consuming before I get myself knee deep in some serious accident bullshit?
Or, when bad guys are chasing you, how to spin that bitch into a 180...put the car in reverse, drive backwards with your right hand steering... shooting with your left...hitting every target, then spin that bitch another 180...while putting the car back in drive then hauling ass... with a stick shift.

Yeah. What page is THAT on?

But still...I read on. Or try to, eventhough this book is making me want to make paper airplanes from the pages, because that's the ONLY way this is gonna be fun.

And I notice, by the time you get through the mundane stuff, shit gets complicated.

If you enter an intersection from the far left lane, what should you do? BUZZ! WRONG...you should NEVER be in your far left lane unless you are going straight ahead or are making a left turn. Oh. You were making a left? You CAN'T...it's a one way street! You didn't know this? Then I suggest you read this chapter again you simple bitch. DO NOT move on till you've mastered this quiz.


So I closed the book and just said...screw it. I'll wing the permit test. Worked the last time.

And then suddenly, I realized something very disturbing about my "jack of all trades...master of none" attitude.

I don't finish a damn thing...and that's exactly why.

Somewhere along the line, I get bored. REALLY bored. I end up with a bunch of "started..." and not a lot of "finished".
The goal list gets checked off every now and then...and it's usually because I made a revision that made the task less daunting. Actually, I'd adjust my goal to meet my level of effort. You know. Shoot for the stars...but if I only make it to the moon...not bad for a days work.

And I figure, unless this book is made into a full length feature starring Adrian Brody as "Guy trying to get his license" ...
I may not make it all the way through...which says a lot about my scholastic performance. But that's neither here nor there...as my Mom would say.


So now that I've owned up to my crap...it's time to do something about it.

I picked up the book, put it my bag and head to work...only to instead, pull out Dan Brown's book and continue on the journey to find out why in the hell the Illuminati want to destroy the Vatican.

Heavy sigh.

Well..it's do or die time kids because MONDAY...ready or not, I take the permit test. (Again.)

And seriously, nothing is more embarrassing than not passing the permit test. Nothing.

So if you're still with me...I'll send you the time and location.

Oh..and I hope your Thanksgiving was beautiful.

Mine? Yeah. It was.

-Nye

Freedom - Let The Challenge BEGIN!

"Close the shop, let's take a drive. Take a break from 9 -5. It's so great to be alive...oh yeah."
- "Strollin'" Prince & The New Power Generation

I've always wanted to pop in this song and just...drive. Preferably up North somewhere. The route has to be scenic and the company...more than willing to sing along.

However, at thirty-(cough cough) years old, I fully realize why I haven't accomplished this goal.

It's because I'm a pussy.

Sure. I can jump on a turbulant flight to Vegas at the last minute and let fate decide if I pay rent on time next month...

However. Put me in the drivers seat of any automobile and ask me to back it up a few feet...and something happens.

My palms begin to sweat.
Heart pounds.
I get visions of slamming on the gas, when I meant to hit the break.
...in reverse, when I meant to go forward.

The steering wheel slips and I run over a old lady with a shopping cart.

OR WORSE...

I bang up somebody's car and they will constantly point out the "ding"...and re-tell the story by saying, "Yeah. I was helping Nyree out. Teaching her to drive and she slammed on the gas insted of the break...."

OK. I'm not that bad.

I CAN operate an (automatic) car. I know this much...
(Check mirrors for animals, old ladies...)
+
1) Turn it on by turning the key in the ignition.
2) Foot on the break, take it out of neutral.
3) Put it into drive, foot off the break, on the gas.
4) Don't slam down... press gently on the gas..
5) Steer.

It's when other cars have to nerve to want to drive near me, I get nervous.

..VERY nervous.

Now, Dana (my older sister) has let me drive her cars for years...in parking lots.
And when I say years, I mean...YEARS. (I've had my permit renewed twice. Sad. I know.)
Ex's...friends...Dad...you name it. They've all tried to help me.
And in the end, Nyree still hails cabs and can tell you how to get ANYWHERE by Subway. ANYWHERE.

So one winter, after a break-up, I decided I was gonna get my freedom (damn it!).
I was gonna get a drivers license. (Finally.)

So I enrolled in driving school.
I took three lessons....instructed by a very nice old man with a very calm, soothing voice, who loved reading his newspaper.

"OK.", he'd say. "Now make a left here. Nice. Nice. Now make a right. Very good. Very good." Then he'd go back to his paper.

"Ummm...do you want me do anything? Park?"

"Nope. Just drive till you can't anymore and turn when you have to."

And so I did.

I mastered the "drive till you can't anymore and turn when you have to."

However, I did NOT master parallel parking.

OK. I did. Sorta.

I can get in a parking spot like nobody's business....it's getting out that's tricky.

The day of my road test, I truly believed I had this shit in the bag.

The very nice old man with the soothing calming voice suddenly turned into "Coach" from "Cheers".

"You have nothing to worry about. As a matter of fact, if you worry, you'll fail. So don't worry. Don't worry. Are you worried?"

"Yes."

"Good. You should be. Kidding! Kidding...don't worry kid. You'll be great."

And I was great...till the tester didn't watch his tone. God.
NOTHING urks me more than a prick in a position of power.

"Pull OFF Miss..."

"I can't. There's a car coming." (car passes.)

"There's no car coming NOW, is there? What are you waiting for?"

At this time, I could just see my drivers license spreading wings and flying away from me.

Despite this...I drove as instructed. Exaggerated my glances, so he could see I was looking...explained why I did everything. I was a model driver.

Time to parallel park and mind you..I'm two feet from the curb thanks to left-over hardened snow. And I STILL parked that bitch! WHAT!

...I pull out...way out. Too way out... and suddenly, the tester slams on the breaks.

"Head back to the testing site please."

"It's over?"

"Head back to the testing site please."

"But I didn't u-turn..."

"You lost control of the car."

"No I didn't."

"Yes you did."

"If I did, we'd be dead, wouldn't we? You didn't need to slam on the breaks. No need to overreact."

"Head back to the testing site Miss."

"Sure. Sir"

...Needless to say, I failed.


And I hate failing. Especially at the mercy of a prick in power.
ESPECIALLY at the mercy of a prick in power who's trying to deny me my freedom.

However, I fell back into my old habits.

Cabs. Subway. Other people driving.

But no more.

Now...I will get my freedom. (Please resist the urge to sing "We Shall Overcome". )

And here's the thing.

I know most of you...(born and raised in the City) don't have your license either.
And I'm not sure what your story is...but feel free to tell me.

However, no matter the story...things are about to change.

You've been there through my strive to finish a race, rid myself of toxins, improve my credit. Be a better Nyree.

Now... I urge you to join me in this 8 week task.

Get your freedom. And here's how.

For the next 8 weeks...we are going to embark in an epic quest. (Sounds dramatic...huh?)

THIS WEEKS MISSION:
Get the NYS Drivers Manual...and read it.

Where Nyree? Where do I get this magical book?
Start here.

http://www.nydmv.state.ny.us/index.htm

Don't get all crazy looking at forms and shit...all you need is your nearest DMV location.

AND if you work in Manhattan (and you probably do...) you can drop by the DMV-Xpress on 34th street and cop the book real quick.

Now. Once you get it... read it.

I mean, really dig in. Act like it's (women) porn (men) porn.

Take the quizzes at the end of each chapter. And next week...well...that's next week.

But don't worry...you won't be alone.


OK. So the challenge has begun.

Get the book. Start reading...and I'll see you next week.

(It's gonna be fun. You know if I promise fun...it's gonna happen.)

-Nye

The Lady Without Make Up (Vegas Re-Cap)

(We begin the license challenge this Thursday. Check back for the first entry.)

"Illusions are, of course, by their very nature sweet."
"I have no illusions. I lost them in my travels. "-Dangerous Liaisons


So. Shervon (who is henceforth to be known as the best "roll wit me" partner on Earth) and I were in a cab the next day,...the day AFTER...headed to the Rio Hotel and Casino again...but this time, for brunch.

And it's BRIGHT out.

Very bright.

Las Vegas in the daytime is a fucking comedian...and the joke is on you. It seems designed to catch you in the middle of "the walk of shame". Something you'd never know at night.

All of the buildings are light colored or covered in glass, thus reflecting light everywhere, so as to shine a spotlight on your sorry, hung over ass....I KNOW WHAT YOU DID LAST NIGHT! YOU CAN'T HIDE....now go find a buffet somewhere.

Our third cab driver of the trip is from Yugoslavia. Sorry...don't remember his name.

"You ladies win anything?"

"We don't gamble." I say.

"GOOD FOR YOU!" he replies. "Very smart."

These words of wisdom will be echoed by every cab driver that we employ...so we begin to think it may just be true.

"The city almost looks...innocent." I say.

"Yes, you never recognize her in day." he says. "She is like lady without make-up."

Shervon and I both laugh...thinking about what this place looked like last night. Actually, I couldn't give a shit about what this place looked like the nightbefore. I mean, I think I might have noticed it... or given it a sweeping glance, but I didn't really check it out from head to toe. I wasn't paying attention... too busy trying to catch up to my mind (...which was looking at it's watch...tappin' it's toe...standing in front of the stage wondering..where the fuck was my body...since my mind had been there since I clicked "buy tickets").

..............................

My body...clean and primped...was in a cab, on the way to the Rio.

"NO. I DON'T NEED A PEN THAT BAD SIR. DRIVE! DRIVE!"

He was a nice guy. Ethiopian. Our first cab driver in Vegas. Very patient (to be read as SLOW)...and a gentleman (to be read as...forced me to be a lady instead of allowing me to jump out and break into a frantic sprint). Insisted that he drive us to the front of the Rio Hotel and Casino... got out of the cab to open my door, and as I stepped out, I was instantly glad I'd worn the almost non-existent mini.

The girls (to be read as "3ft of leg") stepped out of the cab first. The outfit was titled "I'm gonna see Prince". Or better yet..."Prince is gonna see me." (Did I mention Shervon was doing the damn thing too? New hair-do...new dress...wearing the cha-cha heels. Doing it.)

Um... OK. Out of the cab.

Shit.

Where is it? WHERE IS...

"Excuse me...where is "3121"?" TELL ME! TELL ME NOW DAMNIT!!!

"Go straight ahead. You'll see all the people...you can't miss it."

"Thanks." ..don't run Nye. Don't run. Stay cool.

Shervon and I click and stride through the lobby...then it hits me. Knocks me upside the head, actually.

"Wow. I'm here."

"I was wondering when you were going to get excited..." she smirked.

"It just hit me...JUST hit me. Wow. I'm pretty fucking excited. Are you excited?"

"I'm excited."

"Yeah. Pretty fucking excited. Pretty damn...oh no. Will you look at that line..."

"Oh man..."
.................................................

My eggs are horrible. So's the coffee...but that's not what's bugging me. And now that the whole trip is almost over...I can settle in...be quiet and put my finger on it.

Oh...I get it. There are a lot of white people in this hotel.

And I know what you're thinking. 1) This sort of thing is not something I'd normally point out, notice or care about and/or 2)There are a lot of white people everywhere...blacks are called a "minority" for a reason. Yeah..yeah..boo-hoo.

But listen.

Vegas is pretty multi-cultural in terms of tourists. It's also pretty class-blind, where the poor mingle with the rich. The poor dreaming of becoming rich and the rich getting off on knowing no matter how much they blow here...they won't ever be poor.

So isn't it kinda...I don't know...ODD...that there's not an Asian or Latino in sight? We were the only two minorities...PERIOD. (Ok. There were two other black people. And we met them. They noticed it too. You'll see what I mean.)

Yeah so ...um...seriously. I'm thinking...wow. There are a LOT of white people here.

But here's the real issue... they are making me uncomfortable.
Here's why.

Mullets and buzz cuts. Frizzy perms with bad dye-jobs and bangs. Mom-jeans and suspenders...southern accents....and most importantly... "The Look".

But my mind wouldn't process this..actually, it straight up refused to accept this because I'm in VEGAS. I mean, you can't get "The Look" in Vegas. You get the "The Look" in Georgia. In that little rest-stop you walked in to get some Doritos...where, if it were still legal, they'd call you "Gal", tell "you people" come in through the colored entrance...and when you leave, talk about how "well spoken" you were.

OK. We didn't get this vibe from all...to be fair. But some. OK. Most. And when you get it from most...it's cause for alarm.

Now racism radiation I can handle...not a problem. Happens everyday. (Though in the North, it's masked.)
However, today, this is totally fucking up my buffet experience because I'm really hung over, and I could use all the hydration I can get, but I'll be DAMNED if I get some watermelon. And damn it...I REALLY wanted it. So, slightly defeated and just...aware...I head to the buffet and begin to dig into some peaches. Suddenly, I think...fuck that.

I double back to the watermelon and load up. LOAD up. And head back to the table.

Bad-dye-frizzy-bang-mullet-tee shirt-baseball hat-missing teeth stares and smirks.
I bite and fight the urge to say "dis sho am good." and grin...exposing all of my ORIGINAL teeth.
Too bad there wasn't any fried chicken.

Now...we're trying to figure out how in the hell did we end up in the middle of Burmingham, Alabama when, on our way back to our room, we get it.

The floor is checkered. Dale Earnheart Jr. is grinning from a signed autographed picture.

The signs... NASCAR Cafe/Bar/Arcade/Gift Shop.... wow.

Screens showing the races are everywhere. There's even a NASCAR test track in the hotel.

Great.I've booked us a room at the "Lynch 'Em Inn". Way to go Nye.

Again, to be fair...not ALL NASCAR lovin, mom-jean wearing, mullet sporting, teeth missing whites from the South are card carrying members of the K-Krew...but um. Why chance it? Fans were already at the bar, sucking back a few buds, watching the cars go round...and round...and round...and...

Avoiding eye contact, we break into a quiet brisk walking pace back to our room...now FULLY aware of radiation on our backs and most importantly, the knowledge that beer, riled up NASCAR fans and black people are not the greatest combination in the world.......and then suddenly, I stop. And lift my head...that I actually didn't realize I'd lowered.

Cuz fuck that.

"Hey. We're not going upstairs yet."

"Uh...OK."

"Cuz fuck that."

Shervon giggles. She knows me way too well.

..........................................................................

Vince Carter launches a 3pt'r at the buzzer...and mouths "Fuck you! WHAT!"...pushing the game into overtime....which is perfect, because it coincedes with the start of the Giants game....that gives me something to do.

Shervon is a big fan of the NBA, I've got the NFL locked down on my monitor, and I'm loudly representing for New York. However, when Chicago makes a field goal I fully understand that, at this Belliago sports bar, I'm clearly outnumbered.

Patrons clearly put their money on Chicago, and I can't lie...I would have too.

I check my watch. The Amazing Race should have just ended in New York. I call Petey for the recap...

"No cell phones." The snotty bartender could have said it nicer, but hey.

"Out of curiosity...why not?"

"Nevada State law says no cell phones are allowed at sports bookings. This is technically a sports booking."

"Wow. Learn something new everyday."

Shervon's drink is gone, and all screens are now tuned to the Giants game. She's lost interest.
The Giants scored, but are immediatly bitch slapped for bad sportmanship (idiots) and I realize something.

"I can't do Cirque Du Soliel". I say...giving in.

No matter how pretty "O" would have been...in this condition, it would have been a complete waste of money. I could barely form sentences. It then occurred to me that we'd been up for 24 hours, I hadn't rid myself of my amazing hangover, we'd gotten three hours of sleep and been sight-seeing the Las Vegas Strip for eight hours.

Enough Nye. Enough. (My body said that. Not me.)

"Cool." Shervon said. "I'm tired anyway."

Did I say ...the best roll-wit-me partner ...ever?

...........................................................................

"Remember when we got those free tickets to the puppet show when we were here?" I ask.

She does. And then she recognizes the theater/club. Even then, I thought it was too nice a space for just puppet show.

Apparently, Prince did too, which is why he bitch-slapped it with "3121" everywhere. Even the blackjack tables outside the club boasted the numbers. Wait. What's a J.W. doing associating his brand with blackjack tables??

The people on the never ending line were pissed. One girl mumbled about being there since 8:30.
I checked my watch. 10:10 on the dot. Great. We're never getting in. Not ever.

I found an official looking guy in black. "Excuse me...where's the will-call line?"

"Fan club"?

"Uh...yeah." I said, surprised.

"Go see that gentleman there." So we did. And that gentleman there whipped out two green bracelets.

"See that walkway?....Enter through there."

And so we did. And in less than two minutes flat...we were in. On the dance floor. In front of the stage.
You've got to love the way Prince treats his fans.

Monitors on the wall rocked retro video-mixes. Soul Train, Carmen Jones, Under TheCherry Moon, Graffiti Bridge... I found myself flanked by a professional poker player who gave me the re-cap of the night before and wanted to talk everything Prince, and a really large teddy-bear silent type, who uncomfortably reminded me of my ex-fiance.

The DJ spun songs I thought I'd never hear in a club in this decade. D.M.S.R. Sexuality. Erotic City (sigh). Cool. 17 Days.


After the second Red Bull and vodka (served in a large Solo cup with a REAL straw. Like...McDonalds kinda straw...)....I thought the wildly dancing guy with the top hat and homemade purple vinyl Prince coat seemed pretty normal.

A few tattoos on women who probably never married...and plenty of "what are you doing after the show" glances from men knowing most of the women were...well..Prince fans. God. It's so easy to get laid at a Prince concert. And when you add Vegas into the mix....

"I flew in from Tennessee..." a guy behind me boasted.

"They're from New York" the poker player retorted.

Everyone raised an eyebrow. That's right. Instant respect for the Prince-Fan gangsta. Or insanity... depends on how you look at it.

The DJ threw on "Adore"...and the Jamal look-alike suddenly grabbed me for a slow dance. (Actually...he hemmed me up without asking. )...he pulled me into his body tighter and something began to gro...

"Uh...you mind if we just do a nice two-step side-by-side?" I asked.

He was embarrassed. I felt kinda bad. Kinda. Suddenly, the song stopped.
The lights dimmed.

I screamed.

.............................................................................................

Zombies are coming at me at an alarming rate.

"House Of The Dead" is my therapy. I fucking hate zombies, so I try to play this game as much as possible to rid me of my fear. It's just different when you have a gun OK? It just is.

This new version is kicking my ass. There's a new grenade launcher and some genius thought it would be fun if the zombie "grabbed" you, while you shook em off. I almost ran away from the game when I discovered this little surprise, but instead, shook his ass off...and fed him a grenade. Yeah. How bout I eat YOUR fucking brain?

I've just dropped ten bucks in the NASCAR Arcade, which gives us enough tokens to stay and play for quite a while. We hit the air hockey table and our day camp skills kick in. (Well...Shervon's does....she whups my butt. X-borough style.)

After this...we hit "The Fast And The Furious"....then some motorcycle ride...and we both feel slight radiation...but this makes me wanna do nothing else but touch EVERYTHING. Let's see...what other wildly popular game can we take over....?

Oh yes. YES. YES!!!

Janet Jackson's "Doesn't Really Matter" is blasting through the Arcade...and we play it over...and over...while I whup Shervon's butt in"Dance Dance Revolution X".

Then we find some racing cars...and take pictures with them...as if it were our life long dreams to take pictures with these cars. Some guys stared and gave disgusted looks. Like the cars should be cleaned after we touched them. At that, I almost licked door handle. Cuz fuck that. Fuck that.

............................................................................................

Name one man who can open a show with "Jonny B. Good", sprinkle in some Led Zepplin and then some damn Teddy P.

I sang along..."So good ...loving somebody...and somebody loves you back..."

...and THAT'S when I caught eye contact with him...a nod and a smile. Then he said it. The one thing I've been waiting to hear all my life.

"I'm coming down there."

WHAT? NO !! HE'S COMING THIS WAY...This can't be happening....Don't...faint Nye. Don't...faint...don't...don't...Oh no. I'm gonna... hey.

Wait a minute.

He's really tiny. REALLY tiny. He barely can clear my breasts.What a big head. And a tiny body...He looks like a walking pez dispenser. Boy did THAT shatter the illusion. He should have stayed on stage. Damn it.

He got back up there...thankfully....

"Will ya'll go home! Get outta my house!!" he yelled.

The crowd collectively refused."Ok fine. Then stay for breakfast. You know I like pancakes."

Two hours and two encores later...he took his Twinz...and brokeout. His sax player came through the audience and spoke with everyone...while I found Shervon...(oh yeah. She left mid-concert to find a seat. The cha-cha's were killing her.) We took in the energy of the club...did some two-stepin' to the beautiful DJ's spinning...and partied till we couldn't...or rather....till I was convinced he wasn't coming back out.

Straight up giddy.

I found the Jamal look-alike (who kept staring from a far. That got creepy) thanked him for the dance. (Told ya...I felt bad.) Found the guy in the trench and top hat (Bob) and just thanked him for being alive ...thanked the DJ (she's in the "Black Sweat" video) and took one last sweeping glance.

Wow.

I hit up the boutique and just...took it all in. I need another Red-Bull and vodka.

You down?

"Sure."

The girl hangs like monkey with superglue on her hands I tell you.
............................................................................................

"Ma'am, did you know these were lighters?"

"Oh...are they"? I lied.

Don't ask me how or why I didn't think to put the souvenir lighters I'd bought back in my suitcase. Shervon did mention it...I shrugged. Shoulda listened. "The only way to get these is to mail them to yourself or check them..." "Nevermind. Keep them." Damn. They were cool lighters too.

"Where are you going where you need two jackets? Is it that cold?"

"New York. Yes. It is that cold." Bitch.

"That is..."

"A tambourine."

She saw the symbol...looked at me. (Touch my tambourine, and we're gonna have a serious fucking problem...)

She let me through.

Shervon and I barely said a word on the way back...sharing a content silence only sisters can be comfortable with. She listened to 3121, I got quiet and thought about things and people...and the lesson.

Because there's always a lesson people. Always.

I came to a few conclusions. (I thanked Vegas for them.)

The town is about illusion, and there's nothing wrong with illusion. It's entertaining.

But that's all it is. Entertainment. It's not real. However, ifyou believe it's real...you got a real problem.

Here's the thing about illusion. No one will tell you that it is one...because you look too happy living it.But you'll pay to maintain the illusion. And when you run out of money,time,energy, sense of self...whatever...your illusion will crumble. Right before your very eyes...and there will be nothing left....and you'll wonder. Why.

Why in the hell didn't you wake up sooner? ...Stop betting two hands ago. Just...go home.

Here's the trick to beating the house every time.

Respect and understand that what you're shown... it makes you feel great. But it's fake. It's entertainment.

And if you feel yourself change to fit into the illusion...it's pretty much the same as donning a Mickey Mouse outfit and saying...I live in Disney!

Respect that what is real...isn't hidden. It's right in front of you...but you won't see it unless you want to.

(Ever look into a dealers eyes...as they watch people lose fortunes? You can't. They never raise them from the cards.)

I'm not saying don't subscribe to entertainment. Hell. I'm a junkie. I'm not even saying don't gamble.

But make sure you're OK with what you lose...and the risk you'll take. Don't act like you didn't know. Fly out to see your icon. Sure. But be OK with spending a stupid amount of dough you don't have...and chance him getting off the stage and ruining the larger than life illusion when you realize he's kinda...bobbly-headish.

But you do hear stories of people who gamble and win unexpectantly. When they didn't even mean to gamble in the first place...they just happen to hit the jackpot. For instance, you may discover that bonding with your baby sis is possibly the coolest thing you did all year. And the money you spent wasn't actually on Prince...but on some splendid quality time....and you'd do it again in a fucking heartbeat. An unexpected win. Those are the best.


Our last cab driver was a talker. Really nice guy. Actually all the cabdrivers were. Soooo not New York like...

"Most people ask me for a tip. They say hey. You've been living here such along time, you've got to know an inside tip or something. They expect me to tell them how to win at Blackjack or better yet to tell them not to gamble. But I don't tell them not to gamble. You know what I tell them?"

"What's that?" I asked.

"The best advice I could give them is... don't leave on a Sunday."

"Well...we're leaving on a Monday. You don't need more than a few days here."

"Smart. Very smart. No. Nobody needs to be here longer than need be. Nobody."

Amen.

-Nye