I Changed My Mind...Nigga Tastes Great

"I calls you my nigga, cuz I got love for you."

(This is for you.)

You hypocritical fuck.

Yeah you. I'm talking to you. Cuz you know daaaaamn well that word tastes GREAT.

I don't care what side of the human race your color falls on... it just does.

The same way yelling "Oh God...fuck me harder!" goes perfectly when you've got the right bloke on the stroke...hitting the right spot at the right time and don't give a damn if you need braces and a breath mint.

You know where I'm going. Like a great red wine and a perfectly marinated seared steak...like a kiss after three too many Cosmos...like eyes looking up at you when you're getting head...some shit just belongs.

And sometimes,...sometimes... "Nigga" has it's place. And let it take it's rightful place as one of the greatest stress-relievers of all time. Because that's exactly what the fuck it is.

I agree with (insert forgotten comedic genius who said this first here). When white people use the word, "Nigger"...and mean it (let's be clear about that ...) it takes about five pounds of misplaced racist stress right out of them. NIGGER...Poof! Ahhh.... White privilege may be constantly threatened, but not as long as you can use that ace in the hole of white angst. So let's say... if, while watching the BET hip-hop countdown you're secretly pissed off you can barely pay your rent and meanwhile, "TI" is "making it rain 20's" at some stripper, you can safely say (amongst those who'll nod in agreement), "Those niggers are crazy", and POOF! ...instantly feel better about your position in life! I mean, it's gotta be blamed on something...right? It'll also stop you from doing a Pumpkin yourself and spitting on hard-working baby-momma Lequisha at Stop and Shop. (Which, for the record, would be a fucking no-no.)

As for me, I've said "nigga" only when I truly...TRULY meant it and I don't just mean for people of African decent. I've called whites, puerto ricans, asians, babies...whoever the fuck deserved it... a nigga with no pause. Sure. I know initial definition and origin of the word is...but words, as do most things in life, change. Meanings change. Intentions change. Here's what I mean.

Cunt USED to mean "to conceal or hide". It was a verb. The word became a noun when the actual hiding place became known as a cunt. Dyke? Originally, a barrier blocking passage. A faggot is a bundle of twigs intertwined. Right.

Nigger? Comes from the spanish word "Negre'." meaning "black." Now...using a white persons uncanny ability to fuck up any Spanish pronunciation, try saying that word. What does it sound like?

Get where I'm going with this?

The word Negre changed to Nigger...Nigger..changed to Nigga but for most...the buck stops there. (pun...intended.) Because the Trans-Atlantic Slavery was such a stain on humanity, the term, which distinctly separated slave from owner, was also taboo. Slaves were "niggers", owners were not.

Nigger attached itself with a pitbull grip to the self-esteem of the African descendant. A nigger was not the thing you wanted to be...or strived to be..it was what you WERE. As for the African-decendants...well...we did what we did best. As we've always done. We made lemonade out of lemons. (Or rather...chitterlins outta pig intestines, depending on how you see thangs.)

We took a word used solely by owner to property...flipped it and made it our own...but changed the pronunciation. We made it warm. We cleaned up, made curtains out of the left over scraps of pride and called it home.

Gals in the 20's giggled amongst each other when another said about the guy working on the field down the road, "Ooh. That's a big nigga right there."

A sweet young thang in Harlem in the 70's said, "Nigga please..." when some jive turkey tried to make her love come down.

Boys in the hood in the 90's proudly proclaimed, "This is my nigga!" when introducing a new jack to his peoples and them.

Later that decade, in the best argument I've ever had to date, when asked, "Why are you being such a bitch", by my fiance, I quickly turned to face him, with a neck swivel and attitude that would have made Pam Grier proud, responded with the famous black woman preface, "Nigga let me tell you something..."

"So what you want nigga...want nigga? I got a six shooter and a horse named "Trigger"," Method Man warned to his kind..or any kind that tried to test him.

And when Method said "nigga", when Biggie said "nigga", when HIP-HOP said "nigga", you knew EXACTLY what it meant. Right underneath our noses, the word... changed. It was OURS. We owned it and had won the biggest battle in the history of slavery. Then...suddenly...it changed again.

It turned into the "N-word"...and instead of the term of endearment we'd scratched and clawed for, it became an ugly and hateful again. Whites wanted to know why, if we could use the word, they couldn't... and instead of asking, "Why the fuck do you want to?" we answered like five year olds. "Because you just can't, that's why."

But Puerto Ricans can! And our answer to that is..."Cuz Puerto Ricans live in the hood and are niggas too!"

No. Stop it. Cut it out. Either explain yourself without bullshit or take the power away for the damn thing altogether. No "funerals" for a word. No substitutes. Call a spade a spade. (Pun intended.)

I'm saying it. (tap-tap...is this thing on?)

From this moment on, white people can use the word, "nigga" too. That's right I said it.

Why?

Because if you live right next door to that mutherfucker who don't do shit but smoke weed all day and live with his baby momma, no matter what his color...until he do better...he's a nigga.

If that same dude never hesitates to knock on your door to see if you want to share this blunt with him and watch Sports Center cuz he knows yours is off, no matter what his color, that's your nigga.

If he sat down and let you tell the story of your moms dying, saw you cry and never told a soul...yep. That's your nigga right there.

If he made you make noises you never knew were possible...yep. That nigga blew your back out.

And lets not forget...it's a great stress reliever. ("Excuse me" gives off a different vibe than, "Nigga MOVE...")

Bottom line...it's a cultural thing. African descendants are so damn busy trying to erase culture, we hardly take the time to embrace the reason why it exists. I fully understand the Erykah Badu set will be up my ass in a minute about this post...but fuck you. In your heart, you know EXACTLY what I'm talking about...so don't front. I'm still your nigga.

-Nye

PS. Next, we'll tackle "ho" & "bitch" and how those terms pole- jumped RIGHT over the color line. Cuz those fake tittied "Rock Of Love" ho's are worse than any nappy headed "Flavor Of Love" ho I've ever seen. Like.. whoa.

Why I'm Somebody's Ex - Wildcard Love

If what they say is "Nothing is forever" then what makes...what makes..what makes...love the exception?"

- Andre 3000

Friends. How many of us have them. Friends. Ones we can depend on. Friends. How many of us have them. Friends. Before we go any further lets be friends.

- Whodini

Believe it or not, I've actually been dumped. Not recently...(ha ha) but it has happened. On the other end of the spectrum, a time or two, I've also ended dating-ships and have gotten no objections when I dropped the hammer. (Those are the best. Ego crushers, sure,...but easy nonetheless.) Sometimes, the break was due to incompatibility. You know...bad timing, different goals, want me to be your everything, you're cheap, sex sucks...etc.

If I had to make a prediction about my future, I'm pretty sure I've, up till now, doomed myself to a lifetime of serial monogamy based on my beliefs.

Not really "Beliefs". More like "Beliefs Formally Known As Shortcomings".
Cuz I'm an asshole at times. (Somebody tell the Amen Corner to quiet down over there...) And I'm so fine with it...but every now and then, those "beliefs" come and bite me in the ass. And when your "beliefs" start crossing over to your friendships and you're not Archie Bunker...it's time to re-examine.

I have a few friends who... OK. I have a lot of friends. I know a lot of people. However, like most people...I have my "Starters", "Bench" and a few "Wildcards".

Starters... I don't even have to mention ya'll. You know who you are and have info on me that might make Paris Hilton blush.

Bench....you guys get a feeling who you are but I'm not going to blow you up, cuz yu might think you're a Starter.

Then there are the Wildcards. These are people I don't talk to on a regular, but damn it...I feel kinda special to know them. And because I don't speak to them on a regular... I'm really aware of the shit I do with them...and the excuses I make to cover up when I'm not giving them love right back. So this one is for you Wildcards.


Sonya -
So she comes in...loud and smiling. Smiling hard. Cheshire cat kinda smile. She knows something you don't. She's found the secret to joy...and it's Jack Daniels. Super Jack Daniels. And after about a few umtillion of 'em, she whips out her backcrackin table...and if you let her..she's re-adjust you, tell you why you chew harder on your left side and the reason why your Momma left your Daddy when you were three, all from rubbing your left earlobe. Then, she'll secretly get your address, send you cds full of music you've never heard of...for no reason at all. Just because.
This is my friend, and she does this, without knowing you for more than a week. Just because. And I forgot to wish her a Happy Birthday. (Happy Belated!) This makes me inconsiderate.

Shellena -
The southern drawl will crack you up. The sleepy eyes combined with the southern drawl...you might think this is overkill...but it's just her. The sweetest woman you'd ever meet. Oh..did I mention she's a looker? Always looking for love, and the wrong one always seems to find her. She's come to New York to visit me in every location I've lived in (that makes four times) over the course of our ten year friendship and I've gone to Tennessee to visit her...never. This makes me selfish.

Dele -
OK..the girl is just stunning. She'll smile and light up rooms. She'll always call for a quick get together when she's in town. Never loses touch. Thinks I'm a brilliant writer and tells me so over and over again. Takes in my whole life story and listens...offers WISDOM...not advice. Always shouts me out on my birthday and initiates get togethers...always. I've imitated get togethers...never. This makes me lazy.

China -
There's a featherbed I lie on daily that she gave me. And an expensive scarf. And countless bottles of wine. And she's fed me. Like...A FUCKING LOT. And listened to me bitch and moan about dumb shit. And she left the country. This hit me like a ton of bricks. Her only request... upgrade her computer and send it to Africa...free postage. I sent the computer to my guy in IT...they took FOREVER to upgrade it and one year later...it's now in my office. It's a dinosaur, making the upgrade kinda useless. This makes me a procrastinating punk.


So to all my Wildcards (and there are more, but these are the ones I've been particularly shitty to...) here is my public apology and something to make you feel better.

In no particular order: I'm selfish, a bit lazy, inconsiderate, and asshole and a procrastinating punk...and you've only experienced one of these wonderful traits for yourself, consider yourself lucky. Roll all that up and you're in a relationship with me.

Anyway, I know I can be a better friend and I'm sorry.

I'm trying out a new belief system. Hope you like it. Besides...the bench needs to be shaken up anyway.

The Harvey Standard (AKA...the Upgrade)

Well..(sigh) it has happened y'all.

Finally.

After all those times I laughed at Halle Berry when US magazine caught her coming out of her pool from the backside...

or when People Magazine caught Beyonce at a bad angle on the beach squatting down..

or when Pamela Anderson lifted up her skirt a little...

...it's finally my turn.

Looking in my bathroom mirror...to me, I look great. Not a thing wrong.

Sure, the bottom half could use some trimming, but everything is OK as long as I can fit into my Rock and Republics.

Mos def good for initial "underwear" presentation at least.

But then, I wore this skirt.

It's A-line, seersucker, very flowy...feminine ...sexy.

AND, there just happens to be a full length mirror in the bathroom at work. So hey.
Nobody is in the bathroom with me. Why not?

I lift up.

Wholly SHIT! WHAT THE FUCK IS...

..is that...(gasp and clutch the pearls)CELLULITE?!!

Ladies and gentlemen... life, or rather, youth, as I know it...is over. Officially.

Men don't seem to understand this and that is yet another reason why I'm hating. (Add it on to the "no biological clock" and "no saggy breasts" list.)

Anyway, what I see ain't cute. And the thing is...I KNEW it was coming.

About six months ago, I put my digital camera on "timer", and snapped a photo of myself from the backside.
(Not for internet use, nasty.)

It was a "before" photo. However, my "before" got sidetracked on the road to "after", and the next thing I knew, I'd missed a few weeks of step class, and my thighs were touching.

Anyway, I'd seen the bulge. A slight one. Nothing to be alarmed about. Just a tiny ripple in the thigh, caused by laying up, over eating and sitting on my ass all day at work. Easily fixed.

But I didn't fix it...and now, it's def con five.

The ripple has spread to my butt. Not too far down the legs, but far enough to make me haul my rippled ass to the gym.
PUN INTENDED.

So then, I began to wonder.

If I'M trying to get rid of these five-ten pounds of blubber that make me feel like bubble-wrap, what's Monique doing?
Yes. The comedienne Monique. I mean, if I've got it, I KNOW she's packin vacuumed packed peanuts in her thighs. But she could give a damn.

So what gives? Why do women (at least those of us who care) continuously bust our ass for smooth thighs, long, luxurious hair, and a six pack abs....when, most likely, the person that loves you could give a shit?

Really.

I've never heard, "Wow baby. I love you so much...and I really want to make love to you. But you need lipo. Today. Right now."

..ever.

But the point is... I CARE. I don't want to walk about looking like I'm smuggling marbles in my legs. And you know what? Men should give a damn too.

Have you ever heard a woman say, "I'm dumping my boyfriend because of his a)gut b)hairy ass c)tendency not to wash his ass (let's just assume anything having to do with a man's ass not being proper is grounds for dismissal.) d)pigeon toes e)dead skin on his thumb that he keeps biting...and that's why I think it's time to get rid of the double standard.

If we, as women want to compare ourselves to the Halle's, Beyonces and Pam Andersons of the world...then damn it. Let's give the men something to aim for.

(And gay men don't count. They keep it together for each other...and God bless you for it.)

I'm talking about straight men.

I'm talking about holding them to a higher standard.

The Harvey Standard.

If you don't know Harvey Walden...he's the fit coach featured on VH-1's "Celebrity Fit Club." An ex-Marine (ooooh....), big, black and fine as hell with a heart of gold. This dude even made Da Brat dress up in some heels, show some cleavage and strut down a runway. Blushing. Yeah...it's like that.

He's not all angry black man though. Harvey has heart. A lot of it.
Even for that really gay Ross kid from Leno, who he turned into a gay dime in 90 days. And he did it...not by yelling. But because the cast respected him. Hell...he got Warren G. over his fear of heights. Gangsta.

I mean, let's keep it real.
I'm not a fan of VH-1 Celebreality garbage, but for some reason, I stayed glued to fit club. Not because I wanted to see if Marsha Brady lost more weight...but just to hear Harvey say, "Ok. Step on the scale."

Ooooh. Okay Haaaarvey.

This season, he almost kicked Screech's ass...and I almost slid out of my chair.

The Harvey Standard.

You'll meet very few men who meet this standard, but when you do, you'll know it.

And the first thing you'll notice...is the body language. Upright. Manly. Confident.

The second thing you'll notice...they're not chasing every twat in the room. They have self control and respect.

Third thing you'll notice...manners. Real manners. Not "I just learned them today" manners. Door holding. Cab hailing. (I know. But they get one eventually.)

Finally....you'll notice, the shoes and the watch. (I'm sorry. Shoes and a watch say a LOT about a man. A LOT.)

There's more, but you get the point. If you ever find yourself in a situation where shit doesn't seem right, ask yourself WWHD?

That's right. What Would Harvey Do?

And it's not a co-winkie-dink that Harvey happens to be an ex-Marine.
I have NEVER met an ex-Marine that didn't meet the grade. Not ever.

Gotta go. Gotta hit the gym, get my toes done, eyebrows done, lip waxed...(the 30's are REAL)...and do some maintenance. Not for anyone but me.

If you do the same...do the damn thing girl.

And if you're a guy who hasn't seen a gym since High School... get scared.
I'm starting a revolution fellas. You betta get right.

(Now if I could only get my old tits back. HEAVY SIGH...)

-Nye

Damn Verizon...

That's just dirty. Still leaving you for the iPhone though.

Top Five ....

This isn't up for discussion.

This is a Dictatorship. Now turn towards my picture and praise me and my declarations, in all their fantastic glory.

I. Am. Awesome.

Movies (Action):

5. The Matrix
4. Terminator 1
3. Terminator 2
2. Aliens (..yes. With an "s")
1. Die Hard


Hip Hop Artists - Dead or Alive:

5. Jay-Z
4. De La Soul
3.
2.Notorious BIG
1.Rakim

(# 3 reserved for Esso's wise 2cents. Yeah, she get to spend em. She's earned it.)

Love Songs That Contributed To My Virginity Loss:
5. Make It Last Forever - Keith Sweat
4. Moments In Love - Art Of Noise
3. Dry Your Eyes - The Deele (...during a summer storm. It was a close one.)
2. Stay - Jodeci (...he sang it. My 17 year old boyfriend, I mean. Almost a goner.)
1. Adore - Prince (Now you know why it was stenciled on my wall Mom. Enjoy.)

Cartoons:
5. Transformers
4. South Park
3. He-Man
2. Jem (fuck off. DICTATORSHIP I SAID!)
1. Tom And Jerry

Kung Fu Movies:
5.Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon
4.Drunken Master
3.Killer Bees
2.Anything containing the Sho-Lin Monks. ANYTHING.
1.Five Deadly Venoms

HONORABLE MENTION: Kill Bill Vol. 1 & 2 (I see you Q. I see you.)

Sisters:
5. Keena
4. Jessica
3. Donnie
1. Shervon
1. Dana
(They're both #1. Awww...)

Childhood Games I'll Still Wax Ya Ass In:
5. Scalzies
4. Ringo-levio
3. Charades
2. Double Dutch
1. Spades (What? Everybody didn't learn this game at seven?)

...more to come.

-Nye

American

I use the word "bitch" a lot in this post. And I mean it. Every single time.

2AM

I'm still awake. Actually, I'm sitting on my travel bag, pleading with the zipper to make it to the other side. I'd already gotten rid of the "BRAZIL" bikini and the "WHOLLY SHIT...I LOOK FUCKING GREAT IN THIS.." bikini. Also left behind are two "just in case" generic looking Gap tee-shirts and one pair of flip flops.

By omitting these few items, I'd gone from "there's no fucking way this thing is going to close" to "it might just happen". And happen it did. If it's not in there, then it's not coming. Fuck it. In twelve hours, I'll be leaning over a bridge in Costa Rica, marveling at the crocodiles below. Laughing and slightly buzzed...thanks to the grocery store we'll stop at along the way. This is going to be great.

4:45AM

"Do you have any luggage?"

"Just these."

Anna, in her official faded red American Airlines blazer shakes her head.

"If you didn't have those, I would let you on."

"We can't carry this on?"

Anna shakes her head and directs the people on another line to the next ticket agent.

I notice briefly that American Airlines seems to be the only airline who has "red blazer" people, who's job is to point you to the next ticket agent. That's it. No other purpose. Oh...or to say you can't get checked in. I check my watch...our plane takes off in 45 minutes. It's sorta like waiting for a meteor to hit the Earth, and there's nothing you can do. Because the bitch in the red blazer said so.

5:30AM

Yep. We're still on line.

Anna lets everyone else bypass us and go up to the ticket counter, claiming she doesn't want to traffic jam the agents. We complain. Then get annoyed. But we still haven't journeyed to the dark side until...

Anna looks at us...and then down at our bags.

"Why didn't you carry those on?"

Blink. Blink.

"You just said we couldn't."

"No...you could."

"Can you check us in?"

Anna lazily walks over to an agent and returns with arms folded.

"No. It's too late. Sorry."

"Look. The plane takes off in fifteen minutes. We can still make it if you..."

"No. Sorry."

Anna almost got jumped.



8:05AM

Mr. Santorelli is going apeshit.

His family of four just had their seats given away since they went for a stroll in the airport. Santorelli Jr. begins to cry. Mrs. Santorelli holds the Santorelli daughter...who is too young to understand that their vacation is fucked. But back to Mr. Santorelli...

"This is completely unacceptable! Nobody told us!!"

"Sir, you should have been at the gate ten minutes prior to boarding..."

"This is insane! Nobody told us that!!"

I actually feel kinda bad. I mean, crying kids and all...geez. However, I don't feel too bad. Thanks to the Santorelli lollygaggin, four people ahead of us on stand-by made that plane, therefore, we've moved up the list. While checking our names in the computer, the ticket agent notices two people are still on the list. He tells the OTHER agent. (OTHER meaning: The agent who referred to all the stand-by passengers as "these people", and thought nobody heard her. )

The OTHER agent then goes into the computer...deletes "these people" who made the plane from the system, allowing the ticket agent I was speaking with to us up.

Next flight...11:20. Well..at least we have time to hit McDonalds. I deserve a McGriddle damn it.

11:10AM

My arms are folded and my stare hasn't broken in five minutes.

By this time, the Santorelli family should be settling into their seats, buckling their belts, sighing with relief. Their vacation, a bit delayed, but not ruined. Ours...however...

"They made the plane because they have executive status. The computer does it automatically. I have no control over that." The OTHER agent tells me.

"Yes you do. I was there when an agent moved us up, so you obviously can manipulate the order. So now, in addition to taking this very personally, I'm offended because you lied to me."

"Ma'am, I know what you're getting at, and really, it's not like that."

"Really?"

...now, let me interrupt and say this before I go on.

Anyone who knows me...KNOWS how reluctant I am to play this card. I just don't do it. For starters, however easy it is to call someone out on their prejudice shit, and although I know white privilege exists, it's a bitch to prove. So when you do this, you'd better have your game tight. Besides, I usually take the fun route. Become a total pain the ass. You know. Push things to an unbelievably annoying peak, whereas, the wrong doer retrospectively wishes they would have just treated me fairly than jerk me around.

Anyway, yeah...I took it there.

"Ma'am, you tell me what I should think. I was there, when the Santorelli family missed their flight. And it was their fault. They should have been placed on the back of the stand-by list, instead, we were bumped to accommodate them. Now, call me crazy, but there's only one difference I see between the Santorelli family and mine."

"Ma'am, anyone who knows me, knows I'm not a racist. I have black friends, I know plenty..."

"I didn't call you a racist. I asked you to tell me what I should think."

"I know how it looks, and I assure you..."

"So, please tell me why the Santorelli family are on the way to Miami, and I'm still sitting in this airport...since 4:45AM."

"Ma'am, would you please tell me the story from the beginning."

I do.

As I tell the story, an American Airline manager and a Port Authority Police Officer show up...in response to the "411" that was called. They asked her what was going on. She turned red. Really red...and never answers.

Yep. The bitch called the cops on me.

Funny. I don't remember Mr. Santorelli getting a "411".

I stare daggers at the OTHER agent, and cock my head to the side.
Oh no you fucking didn't.

"Now let me ask you a question. How, are you going to make this right?"

The officer shakes his head, and leaves.



Midnight

The room smells like old sex. Lots of old sex. Prostitute sex. Cheat on my husband sex. I'm gay and don't want anyone to know sex.

"Don't touch anything." I giggle.

We look like shit. We smell..well...close to it. Feeling? Broken.

Miami International Airport Hotel seems like a good idea when you've been awake for over 24 hours and traveling for 21. But it's not. Don't do it. Ever. Not even if the "OTHER" agent gives you a free voucher and meal credit.

I'm not even going to go into it, but all I'm going to say is I didn't brush my teeth because the water was yellow. And smelled like urine. No lie.

(I purposely skipped over the six hour layover in Boston because, to be honest, I slept through most of it in an uncomfortable rocking chair. Personally, I can't stand Boston. The "what are YOU doing here" stare is definitely in effect. However, they have the highest concentration of hot men that will never...ever bring you home to Mama on the planet. Oh...and a lot of baseball caps. A fucking lot.)


10AM (Costa Rican Time)

I laugh. Pia says she almost wrote "black" down as her nationality on her immigration card. I chuckle, not because she's stupid (far from) because I remember making the same mistake when I first traveled internationally.
There was something in my soul that made me want to AT LEAST jot down "African" before that "American", but to a Costa Rican, that would make no sense. None at all.

Why?

Because the minute we de-plane'd American Airlines flight 988 from Miami to Costa Rica, we left the "African" part on the plane. I know you may not know what I mean, but let me try to explain.

The first thing you notice when you encounter any Costa Rican is, no longer present is the "pause". That tiny, eighth of a second pause when, in America, people shift their normal social personality into their "I'm dealing with a black person" persona. Anyhoo...unknowingly, all Americans do this. All of them. Black, white...we all do it when dealing with a black person because of your own prejudices and belief in stereotypes. (Yes, blacks too. Bougie vs. Ghetto...you know what I mean.)

This shit simply does not exist in Costa Rica.

...and it's pretty fucking nice.

Because coming home...

5:45 AM

Of course the flight is cancelled. Of course it is.
No "red jacket" told us this. The actual agent did. And sorry, there's nothing we can do.

It's cool.

We're on the next flight out...nothing to worry about. Pura vida. I'll just go shopping.

"Hola!"

"Hola papi...coma estas?"

"Bien! Habla espanol?"

"Un poco..."

"Americana?"

"Si..."

"Que linda..."

"Mucha gracias..."

"I will leave you to your shopping. Adios Linda.."

"Gracias. Adios.."

And he did.

And that's when it hits me. I look around.

People could care less that I was there. Nobody even blinked. I could TOTALLY shove ten shirts in my bag..and nobody would notice. Not that I'd want to, but if I did, I COULD. Why? Because I'm not being followed. Or watched. In a STORE.

Nor was I followed, watched, stared at, "paused" on, ignored or paid too much attention to... at all. EXCEPT...when we walked into places where other "Americans" were.

Americans stared.

Americans removed themselves from the hot tub when we entered.

Americans left the pool the minute we arrived.

Americans greeted other Americans with "hi" and "where are you from?"s...but ignored our greetings.

Americans "paused".

...Americans managed to bring that stupid shit with them.

Just hope it doesn't contaminate the Costa Ricans.

To be fair, not all Americans. Anyone I've ever met from Arkansas have always been mad cool. (Shout out to Katie and the crew!)



2:15pm Costa Rican Time

Eyes everywhere.

When you haven't been black for 48 hours, it fucking hurts coming back to life.

The flight to Miami was located at Gate 4A3, which was downstairs.
The minute we walked into the waiting area containing mostly Americans...we were welcomed home.

I sat quietly, opened my book and tried to ignore the woman next to me shifting uncomfortably after she peeked at the title.

"Incidents In The Life Of A Slave Girl"

"Oh for the LORD!! What is with all the damn shifting? Did you NOT know this happened? Don't I seem sorta...over it? I mean, I'm sitting next to you, aren't I? JESUS...can we PLEASE just get over this already?"

...OK. I didn't say that. I wanted to though. Badly.

...just as badly as I'm sure she wanted to ask me, "What are you doing here?"


"I go back to... I go back to...black." - Amy Winehouse

Black People Don't....(My new baby)

SO... I started a new blog.

(Don't worry...I'm still keeping this one.)

It's more of a "review of the world through the eyes of a black woman with disposible income" kinda thing.

...if that makes any sense.

Anyway, if you're a fan of this blog (all three of you) check out the new one and let me know what you think.

The easy way to get there, click on my profile and you'll see a link.

The hard way... cut and paste. (Amazing. THAT is considered HARD. Damn I'm lazy.)

http://www.blackpeopledont.blogger.com

-Nye

I Am Not My Hair

This is what my hair looks like today. No lie.

Now, everyone says they like it. (Everyone at work, that is...but to say I'm a nappy headed ho is an HR offense apparently...)

But I have a feeling, had I been rocking a white ruffle shirt and a long purple overcoat, the laughter would begin.

It's fine. I didn't have time to style the INSANELY tight curls this morning without calling in sick.

I pulled them though.

And pulled. AND PULLED...and at first...I looked a bit like her...

...but without the fragile church body.

So I pulled some more. And suddenly...I saw the clock.

I had two minutes to make my train, and I looked like I was about to whup Charlie Murphy's ass in basketball and then serve him pancakes. (If you don't get that reference, shame on you. I already gave you one of the funniest comedy clips in history. Hath you no cable?)

Suddenly...I remembered the number one rule of fashion...

Fake it.

And with faking it means walking a certain way...you know. The "I'm the shit" way.

And suddenly, heads turned.

Now, it could have been the attitude...

Or the crazy amount of cleavage I had bouncing, which I didn't notice till I sat down on the subway and happened to look down.

I'm talking, Victoria's Secret..Very Sexy Demi Push Up type cleavage.

And it was bouncin all over the place.

And above hair...men like tits. Actually, everyone likes tits.

So back when I was 21, and I dyed my hair platinum blond, I thought people were staring at me because I was...well...black with platinum blond hair.

Nope.

It was because I had my tits hanging out.

And when I cut it all off, and got a blunt bob...I thought it was that.

Nah-uh. Nor when I put cold "Missy Misdemeanor Elliot" waves in it, (though I was going for Josephine Baker...)

...nor when I rocked fake blond dreads.

Or braids down to my ass.

Or an afro like Florida Evans.

Or a relaxed layered look.

Or a big natural curly...thing...a la...Scary Spice.

All that matters to people who don't know you upon first meeting...are tits and a smile.

That's it.

And if I were Reverend Run, I'd type that shit in my Sidekick while I sank into my bubble bath at the end of the day...cuz it's the truth.

Example...

Dolly Parton's hair looks like shit. Always has. However...

I'm sure I could come up with more examples, but I'm pressed for time.

The point is, my best friend has big tits. Big ones. And long hair.

And though her hair gets complimented on constantly, her tits don't...but she gets to cross the street AGAINST the light, regardless of whether her hair is out and flowing up pinned up.

Don't wonder why. Don't play games with me.

So ladies, I'm not saying this because I was initially insecure about my hair...OK. That's a lie, I am saying it because I was initially insecure about my hair.
However, my insecurities benefit YOU.

Why? Because you have tits*. And your hair really doesn't mean jack squat.
It really doesn't. And once and for all...say it with me...

WEAVES ARE BAD. Just watch "Charm School". That'll set you straight.

If you're going to fake anything ladies, let it be the tits.

You're welcome.

-Nye

*If you don't have tits and look like you have two backs, I'm sure you have ass.
If you don't have that either...wow. You just might be screwed.

Habitual Line Stepper

So I threw a Cinco De Mayo/Fight Party.

I'd Like To Teach The World To Sing...In Perfect Harmony...

<em>I recently posed this thought to you guys ....

On Will Farrell’s website “Funny Or Die”, I came across this.

http://sjl.funnyordie.com/v1/view_video.php?viewkey=96369ab93e4f3bb068c2

Now, I’m not going to lie… I thought it was funny.

I even forwarded it. But hours later, I started to feel a bit conflicted as to why I thought this was funny.

Was it just funny, and I was thinking too deep?

I laughed it off as having my having a warped sense of humor, (because I thought the clip a friend of mine sent me about some dude in a mask running up to women and pulling their tube-tops down was hysterical…but that’s the 14 year old in me.)


Anyway…I started to think about this because hey…let’s face it….



If this was about black people, I might be pissed off….UNLESS it was on Chappelle Show. Why? Cuz Dave has a “black pass”. (BTW…“Mind of Mencia’s “Stereotype Olympics” crushes Chappell’s “Racial Draft” like you wouldn’t BELIEVE…)

Double standard? Hell yeah. But does this doubled standard confine me to only laughing at racially offensive jokes when it’s about my own, or does the double standard give me liberty to laugh at everyone? Do I get an “honorary Latino pass” because most of my siblings are half Latino?

Slippery slope, huh? A little thing I like to call the Imus Conundrum. (Where are the Archie Bunkers and George Jeffersons when you need them?)


Anyway, I’ve blind copied as diverse of a group as I could to get your take on this one. Black, White, Latino, Asian, Jewish, gay and straight…(yeah, I know a lot of people. LOL…)

But since it’s not about blacks…I thought the shit was funny…but for the same reason I think the following joke from Whoopi Goldberg is funny…

A black baby dies and is suddenly finds himself with wings. So as soon as he learns how …he starts flying around Heaven.

He’s just having a ball…doing loops, dives, speeding up, slowing down… just loving his new wings.

He asks to see God, and when he does…he flies before God and asks…

“God…I have WINGS! Am I an angel?”

God rolls his eyes and says, “No Nigga, yous a bat.”


Anyway…watch if you get a minute and comment if you get a minute.


Watch and if you have a moment, give me your thoughts…. AND, if this was on “Mind Of Mencia” would it be funny?



PS. For me, you can put any stereotype in here and it would work.

Stereotype + Making Someone’s Life Easier =’s Comedy

A Nigerian Scandal Think-tank that helps corrupt companies like Enron… “Running out of money-grubbing shady ideas? Tired of pesky employees wondering where their 401k money is going? Introducing the “Nigerian Hustle-o-matic”…from the makers of the “White-Privilege Badge”. Here’s how it works….

Or…

A Travel Middle-Eastern buddy that helps you get undivided attention from flight attendants…

(Tired of being ignored by your flight attendant? Introducing “Travel-Arab”, from the makers of the “Oh No He Didn’t – Sista-Girl Conflict Resolver”. Travel-Arab will insure you NEVER get ignored by a flight attendant again…here’s how it works….”

I could do this for DAYS…

What does that make me?

Here's what I got back....

A Black Woman:

The thing with comedy, is that there's some truth to it and that's the part that stings.

Lower class Mexicans might not find the Humor in that video clip, Upwardly mobile Mexicans may find it funny and then there's the Al Sharpton Mexicans who think its racist and might want to March in front of the station but only if they have their Green cards and what kind of March is it with only 3 people marching...You feel me (was that a racist comment or truth)? If you are in a group of oppressed people, who are afraid to speak out. Then this will, I'm sorry to say...Continue to happen. We saw the same in justices 4 Centuries ago, Hell we were the Mexicans...

I think Imus's comes in all shades and many are still in front of the Microphone, he was just a scapegoat. Star & Buck Wild had a White girl on there show, that they referred to as white girl. Now what kind of nonsense is that?

This is a country that boast about having "Freedom Of Speech" but these days the speeches need to be proof read and approved. What kind of foolishness is that, can someone tell me?

All that is to say, I thought the Video clip was funny but when will a joke go to far...Just ask your buddy Imus!

A Black Man:

I think the clip is funny, but again it goes back to who is telling the joke and if they really feel in their heart of hearts that Mexican people are inferior.

I feel the problem with racial jokes is what they reinforce to people in decision making positions, and the impact they can and do have on children.

Ok-

That shit was funny…

Wrong and inappropriate like Imus?- yes

Racially insensitive- yes, probably

Will the Immigration society (or [Mexican Friend]) find it humorous? NO.

BUT- you have to look for it to see and hear it… not visible to the naked eye, and too ambiguous of a group of people to blame.

It’s interesting.. walking the very fine line of entertainment and offensiveness is never anyone’s finest hour, but in the end humor presides most situations. Whether folks like to admit it or not.

Any nappy headed ho that don’t like can take a drive with a drunken Indian..

(see my point)

A Puerto Rican Man:

That makes u a funny muthafcuker

A White Man:

I think my main issue here is that the sketch just isn't that funny. It's totally obvious. There is some humor there, but it's humor anyone could get out of the same source material. No edge, no nothing. It actually plays like a slightly more subtle version of what is on Mind of Mencia - which I find absolutely humor-free 99% of the time.

How all of this reflects on you is a far more interesting conversation. I think it's important to remember that stereotypes exist for a reason - and usually that reason is to make us laugh. The problem is that most people looking to exploit stereotypes for laughs go the cheap and easy route rather than telling us something new or turning a stereotype on it's head. For every great joke born from a stereotype (Q: Why did the Puerto Rican Starve to death? A: His food stamps were under his his work boots.) there are roughly 1000 "white people can't dance" or "you might be a redneck" stinkers out there. That's a double edged sword because while the easily digestible material makes it safer for really good comics to stretch the boundaries, the glut of bullshit makes really good stereotypical jokes tougher to find.

The bigger picture to me (and this may be telling about my personal racial insensitivities) is that anything CAN be funny. Which is not to say that everything is funny, but in the right hands, I can be made to laugh at anything. Just the other day I was laughing at a picture of the twin towers collapsing because someone had photoshopped Hulk Hogan kicking them down. That was funny to me.

So maybe I'm not really qualified to comment.

Black Man:
"I Egggh... I didn't think it was that funny.. wasnt that offensive either."


...and then there's me. And you already know what I think.

"A man's wife runs up to him and says, "Honey, my watch broke. I need a new one."
The man looks at his wife and says, "What's wrong with the clock on the stove?" "

Thank you and good night.

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?