Get Braces Over The Age Of 12: Ceramic (Clear) Braces

My teeth are jacked up.


OK. Maybe not in the extremely bucktoothed kinda way that turns people off...but still.
They're jacked up.

See...I have this baby tooth that a dentist "forgot" to pull. So after 30 some-odd years, I have to take matters into my own hands.

Or rather, the hands of a professional.

And I'd be a liar if I said this was strictly about health. It's not.
It's about smiling and feeling like I'm NOT looking like a Xenomorph (the monster from "Alien"...for the anti-geeks...).

So I went for my first consultation and I wish I could say it went well.

Bottom line.

Your girl has to get the baby tooth pulled in order to shift everything over so I have Eva Langoria teeth.

Now, it's not in the EXTREME front of my grill...it actually rests on the side.

But seriously,...have you ever seen someone who had a missing tooth and thought anything but...

"Damn...what the fuck happened?"

Me neither.

So needless to say, I'm a bit anxious.

It's a whole year (to two years) of having a missing a tooth AND hardware in my mouth that gives me that oh-so-sexy "Tootie" look.

Now, I'd love to say that my self-esteem is so intact that I can actually go through with this and be OK with oral sex being a serious concern, but I'm not.

And I know that in two years, the hardware will pay off with a sick smile...but still.

Umm...damn.

And let's also factor in the cost.

Braces, at least the ones I'm looking at , cost.. well..


COST: $7G's (not including the great job benefit deductible) over the course of the interest free payment plan.

TIME: Monthly visits for adjustments and cleaning

AM I GOING TO DO IT: We'll see. I'm going for my (second) consultation. If he comes down off that number a thousand or so... it's possible.

Let you know.

Vanity...

is a bitch.

-Nye

UPDATE: Want to see the AFTER? Hell yeah you do.  Then go HERE!!

Run 5K's: Komen's Race For The Cure

So, yeah. We don't run.

Not unless we're Kenyan. And if that's the case, this blog isn't for you.
Keep on movin.

I mean, we don't rush nowhere. Not to work. Not home. Not to the store. Dentist appointments...weddings...funerals. NO WHERE. Which is why running has never appealed to us.

But I'm dispelling that myth as well.

Last year, I did Komen's "Race For The Cure". A run/walk race benifiting breast cancer research and survivors.

Grandma died from it...I was out of shape last year, so I figured...eh..why not?

Here's how it goes...

You sign up via the web, or day of the race ($10 more.) You write about it in your blog hoping your readers will donate and clear up their bad karma for the year. (Cheese.) You show up at the Time Warner Center the day before to get your race bib (to be read as "sign with numbers on it"). Don your pink or white "Race For The Cure" teeshirt and head your ass down to Central Park to line up with the thousands of run/walkers who are AMPED to beat breast cancer. You feel superior to all the lazy fucks who are at home doing jack squat about important causes and nod to all your co-runners who feel the same way.

You make friends with people around you who tell you about why they are running. You learn this race is bigger than the memory of your Grandmother. The horn goes off, you run, want to quit when your lungs want to explode, but don't. Even when the smell of horse shit makes you wanna punch someone, you keep going.

You cross the finish with a leg cramp... desperately seeking hydration and willing push over survivors to get it. Your friends and family cheer congratulate you... you go get free swag (Sunchips, vegitarian cheese and shit...) ... call those who can't make it to tell them you did it. Take pictures as proof... then go home to die.

It's a beautiful day most likely...so you'll hang around, keeping your bib on (street cred) and feeling like you did something worthwhile.

..because you did.

But you don't have to run...YOU CAN DONATE! (CHEESE!)

http://www.komennyc.org/site/TR?px=1278907&pg=personal&fr_id=1130&s_tafId=8732

That's my race page. Donate and clear that karma baby! I'll be out there, without a doubt... catching a leg cramp for ya.


Cost to run: $25 Registration fee, $35 if registering day of.

Black factor: Hell. Tits are tits. Told you, Grandma died from this. Massa was in the slave house for sure, but she was a slave all the same.

Do it again?: And again...and again..and again...




http://www.komennyc.org/site/TR/Events/race2007-wide?px=1278907&pg=personal&fr_id=1140

Stray From Cheap Computers (PC's): The New iMac (Apple Store, 5th Ave)

I hate to tell you this...but you're just not that smart.

Sorry. But you just aren't. Neither am I.

Nor do I have a lot of time. Seriously...who does?

I'm not smart enough, nor do I have the time on my precious 48 hours off from my 9-5 to...

Buy a digital camera, find the driver, install it, hook up my camera to my computer, create a folder, load all my pictures in...

THEN..

Open Photoshop (assuming I've learned it), re size, adjust, trim, color correct...

THEN...

Hook up my printer, print out the correct size and shape of each...OR save it onto a disk so that I can take it to Kodak so they can print it out for me.


However, I am smart enough to plug my camera in...click "yes" and watch as it automatically loads everything into iPhoto, labeling all my new pictures with a new "event" tab and date...FOR ME. Then click "print". Done.


Sure, I'm learning Final Cut Pro...but when I'm not trying to be Spielberg and just want to do something simple... iMovie. (And if you don't know Final Cut...iMovie.)

I want to make a calender. Listen to music. Watch movies. Write this damn blog...
IT DOES IT ALL. And when you turn it on, it's easy.

Your iPod? Duh.

Look.

I'm not saying toss your PC out the window. But when it crashes and can't load anything (because it WILL crash...Macs don't, by the way...) you should seriously consider buying a shiny, new Mac.

GETTING ONE

When you walk into the Apple store on Fifth Ave. in New York City, the first thing you'll notice is the big ass glass cube with...that's right, the Apple logo on it.
It sorta looks like a scaled down version of that gaudy ass triangle thingie in front of the Louvre. The second thing you'll notice is that you'll need to descend a winding staircase, which makes you feel as if you're being lowered into the magical world of Apple. Which you are.

(OK...you COULD take the glass covered elevator, but that's just lazy.)

Then you'll notice the people. It's fucking crowded. Like...PACKED.

On every computer, every ipod, every iPhone...is in use. And why wouldn't it be?

You can access the Internet on any of the computers and play around with any of the programs that are loaded onto the machines.

You can plug into the iPods and play with them. Or, plug up YOUR iPod to recharge it.

You can make free phone calls with the iPhones on display.

It's a candy store for free communication...with no time limit.

The sales people are easy to spot. They're the ones with the green teeshirts and the "iPod" name tags. And they are eager to help.


"So, do you have any questions?" asked iPod Guy.

"Nope, I'm good. I want that." I said, pointing at the new iMac. I'd played with it for about five minutes and that experience changed me from being 88.9% sure about my purchase to 99.9%. (Nothing is absolute.)

"OK. Do you have any questions? Did you see the tutorial online?" he asked, concerned about my dropping hundreds of dollars without question. Awww. See? They care.

"Oh yes, I'm sure. I saw it. I played with it...it's coming home."

He smiled and commandeered the closest iMac to us, pushing a guy aside who huffily stated, "I'm thinking about buying this..."

"OK. Well, I'll put in your order next if you're ready. But she's ready now."

Money talks asswipe.

I get a discount thanks to my job...albeit, not a huge one, but hey.

Up to the counter, I tell them my name, and a few minutes later, out comes my baby.

I pay...(ouch. I'll get to it...) and begin to ascend the spiral stairs with the heavier-than-I-thought box. It's 20 inches and for some reason, fucking huge.

As I ascend, I gets nods of approval. She's done it. She's got the new iMac. Way to go. WAY TO GO. I almost expected a slow-clap to begin. It didn't.

OK. So I did have ONE tiny..."what the fuck did I just do" moment of financial panic, but that was soon quelled when I removed the iMac from the box.

My first reaction was...is this IT? I mean, for the money, shouldn't it come with...I dunno...MORE?

At the same time, I said..wow. This is...IT! That's all that comes in the box! Fucking COOL.

Then I peeled off the plastic protection...ooooh. It's..GLOSSY. Then I started it up. And it greeted me...and set it's own damn self up. WAY easier than any Mac I've had previously. (There have been two.)

Then I started up iLife 08'. This is when my life changed.

When I realized, I CAN finish my novel. I CAN organize my photos. I CAN finish the video of Las Vegas adventure. I can... watch a DVD and feel like I'm watching it on a screen that's BETTER than my HDTV. (Which kinda pissed me off a bit but hey.) I can create calenders. I can organize...MY FUCKING LIFE. And that's when I realized the money was worth it. So. Fucking. Worth it.

So I know that Dell desktop only cost you $300 bucks, but think about what else it's costing you. Time. Patience. A trip to the Geek Squad. Buying a web camera. Trying to figure out what a freakn' DRIVE is. Who needs it.

Get a Mac. Don't do it for me. Do it for your digital camera. Cuz you know damn well you're tired of organizing those photos. Damn well.

-Nye


Cost: 20" base model (which is really all you need) $1,299...plus tax.

Is It Worth It: I've successfully converted three PC users to Mac. And they all agree loud and clear...HELL. FUCKING. YES.

...Stray From Their Usual Hairdresser: Ouidad, NYC

Every black woman I know has at least three to four places to go when it's time to get their hair done.

The black salon
The "Dominicans"
The Africans
and the "Oh God, this costs a GRIP" spot but WOW my shit looks great!

Presently, I find myself at a crossroads.

Don't know if you know this, but black hair and water do not mix. Not sweat, pool, ocean... nothing. It just doesn't go well. It just...doesn't. And weaves, (for the last time people) are EVIL and should be destroyed. With that being said, here's my adventure for the month.

Thanks to my thighs developing dimples...(cute on the face, not cute on the ass) I decided it was time to hit the gym...and hit it hard. HOWEVER, the cut that I'd gotten for my birthday from "The Black Salon" wasn't equipped for my new work out.

So I decided to get my original hair texture back...which is half "Freddy" from "A Different World" half "Lauryn Hill" from "The Fugees". This, wasn't going to be easy.

Because what I learned is, as you get older, not only do you get grey hair on your coochie (it's the truth...trust me..) your hair texture changes. Along with your ability to lose the five pounds you just put on last week. (Summabitch...)

So. Since I'd rather be thin than have hair...(that's real) I figure, OK. It's time to cut the relaxer out.

(Play that dramatic chipmunk thing one more time.)

So anyway... I've got two options.

Extensions till my hair grows out... or cut out the relaxer all together, deal with the "Florida Evans" I rocked when I first did this, and keep my eyes on the "Scary Spice" prize. (Oh...Lord.)

I chose Flo. Reluctantly.

Thankfully, I'm in a different tax bracket than I was when I first did this, so I hit Ouidad.

If you've ridden the West Side Highway to the GWB, you've seen the ads. Women with insanely curly BEAUTIFUL hair on a billboard...looking stunning. Funny enough, the headquarters are based in NYC. So why not.

I book an appointment, and and at 5pm on a Friday, I head to the home of curly hair located on 57th Street, which means, yeah. I'm paying a grip for this. I'm fully prepared.

When you walk in, the first thing you notice is Ouidad, The Salon is pleasantly...sparce. I mean, there were clients in every single chair, but never did you feel croweded, or rushed.

I was greeted with the smell of GOOD hair product, not burned, over processed hair. Sade was singing "Paradise"...everyone was dressed in black. The earthtoned colored walls soothed me and every woman who paid her bill looked EXACTLY like the women in the billboard. Hell. Fuckin'. Yeah.


After donning my "Ouidad" smock, I'm introduced to Ana. A smiley Dominican woman who leads me to the back of the massive salon and asks me to tell my hair story.

Before I do, she stops me...

"Wait. I already know. You had natural hair, but it got too hard to manage, so you straighted it. Then you started to work out, and your style didn't hold, so you decided to grow it out again and your relaxed hair began to break off...so now you're here. Right?"

...Wooooow.

Ana then identified the PART of my hair that was corse...fixed it.
Deep conditioned it. Talked shit with me. Talked shit about everyone else.
Explained EXACTLY how to do my hair tomorrow. SHOWED me how to apply product.
Told me what I needed and what I didn't.

At 7pm, I was done...and fucking GORGEOUS. With HAIR knowledge. It was like paying for a hair class.
(Did you know you're not supposed to wash your hair for one week after relaxing?)


Sure, she cut off a couple of inches, but may hair is so easy to manage and CUTE. Sexy. Grown up.

And though you may only see white women in those adds... yes. There were a lot of them there, and they came out looking GORGEOUS. But don't get it twisted. Oh yes, they do the fuck out of some black hair. Curly that is.

Cost: (gasp) $300. (But that's for a cut, and two treatments. I don't regret it.)

Black Factor: Ana's Dominican. Do I need to say any more?

Go back?: Hell...yes.

-Nye

www.ouidad.com

...Like Wet Hair: Costa Rica Follow Up

Well it's good to know this thing is working!

So far, I've gotten an overwhelming response to you black folk wanting to visit Costa Rica!

GOOD FOR YOU! Broaden those horizons why don'tcha?!

However, let me warn you all that, right now, Costa Rica is experiencing their "rain season" or "green season".

What that means is... if you go now, Evan Almighty may just have to scoop you up in his ark.



Yeah. The rain is like that.

So post-pone that trip for a few months and hit someplace else warm and tropical.

..like the Bronx Botanical Gardens.

(Yep. That's coming too...)

Pura Vida.

-Nye

...Hang Out In "This Neighborhood": Astoria Queens: Bohemian Hall Beer Garden

The jukebox plays Prince.

A lot of Prince. And all his proteges. All on it's own. HOW CAN YOU NOT LOVE THIS PLACE??

OK, my personal obsession aside, let's answer the real question.

What in the hell was I doing in Astoria Queens.

Well, you can thank Esso for that one, understanding that for the both of us stepping foot in QUEENS, means that there might be some hope for the future of Borough-wide peace.
(NO, we still haven't gotten over that "Queens created hip-hop" shit Marley Marl.
We STILL sing "The Bridge Is Over" to the top of our lungs like the fight is still fresh.)

Anyway, long story short, she tricked me into going. Throwing out the name, "Beer Garden", knowing damn well I'd bite. And bite I did. Hard.

The Ride:
I have to admit, I just followed everyone else. Everyone said get on the "N" train...I got on the "N" train. Everyone said "get off here", I got off there.
No. I paid noneya to the station stop. I was still in a state of "Oh My God, I'm In Queens" traumatic shock. However, I can tell you that from the Union Square station in Manhattan, we were there in less than fifteen minutes. And that spells good time.
Nothing like a long ass trip to another borough (that didn't create hip-hop) to put a smudge on your fresh Adidas. (Run-DMC made em famous, but we were rocking them in the Boogie way before. WAY before. Ahem.)

We get off the train, and after having a kick-ass Sci-Fi Network conversation with my new BFF Peter, we get there. And it's...not impressive.

First off...it's just a bar. And second off, I'm wondering why in the hell did we travel all the way to West Bubblefuck for a pitcher of beer...and are having trouble at the door.

The security guard at the door is checking bags like it's a fucking Jay-Z/R. Kelly tour. Now, gotta say. I'm used to having my bag searched, so at this point, I just kinda...don't ever close it. However, it never ceases to amaze me when I witness people who aren't used to being searched....getting searched. The shit is pure comedy.

"What? Is he checking...INSIDE bags?"

"I guess he's checking for alcohol..."

(I'm thinking weapons...but hey.)

"This is ridiculous...why did they stop Katie?"

"Oh she's got a bottle of wine for her birthday..."

"We're never getting in..."

...COMEDY.


So eventually, we get in and let's face it. A place that's blasting "A Love Bizarre" as soon as you walk in, has GOT to be a good time. Am I right, or am I right?

We squeeze past the bar area, and I'm thinking...this is gonna suck. Hard. Homeless ass. The place is small, smells like stale beer and old church and has no ventilation. One beer, and I'm out.

Then, we head to the outdoor section.

Oh. My. God.

Rows and rows of big ass picnic tables....people on line at the outdoor grill which is flipping hamburgers and franks...a sassy Czech waitress who pretty much made me understand that everything there is "schnitzel". OK...let me explain. This place used to be a Czech and Slovak social club (and still is the central gathering spot for Astoria's Czech and Slovak community).

Now when ever would you just go hang out with the Czech community? Probably um...never, right? Well you should. They're cool as shit. And beer is universal baby.

The beer...fantastic. Cold, frothy, variety...

The food...ditto. You can get your ass up and order from the grill, or you can order from the restaurant inside for a better selection of ...uh...schnitzel. But no matter what you order...it's pretty damn great beer food. And yes, they serve hard liquor too but why would you do that when you're in a BEER GARDEN? (...silly.)


Prices:
Now, this place does not accept credit cards. Cash only. (Damn right.) However, not to worry...there's an ATM on the premises.

A pitcher of beer...about $12, depending on what kind you get. Sorry, can't tell you the mixed drink prices. I CAN tell you, however, that with some chicken schnitzel, your girl can go through some beer. Believe it.

One complaint. No outdoor music.

I mean yeah, Prince was going on the inside...but on outside...nothing. Just great convo and connecting. (Come to think of it...the "no music outdoors" thing is probably a great idea. In a place like that...things could get ugly.)

Black Factor: It's Bohemia for real. Every race, color, and creed sharing picnic tables, drinking beer and laughing. Dr. King would smile.

Go Back: Only in the summer. Not troopin to the this spot in the winter. That's real. OH..and the M60 bus gets you from Astoria to Harlem like (finger snap)!

So all you Harlem-ites...no excuse. Do the damn thing.

...Travel To Central America: Manuel Antonio, Costa Rica

(No lie. It really looks like this.)


I have no problems with becoming a Costa Rican.

Any place on the planet where they don't understand the meaning of "substance abuse" or have a fucking clue as to what I do for a living is OK with me. Because, there are days when I wonder myself.


Not to mention, this place has "monkey time"!
But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Getting There

Normally, a direct flight to Costa Rica from New York will take you approximately 5hrs.
(Just rock with that estimate. I'm not going into the story again...)

Then, depending on what part of the country you're interested in visiting, you can either take a flight to your final destination ($100) which will take you anywhere from a half hour to two hours, or hire a private van ($125), take your time and see the country side with your own personal guide.

We opted for the van. (www.costaricantours.com)

Alviero (pronounced "Al-berrro". Roll that tongue!) met us at the airport, raising a sign with my name in hand. (Did you ever want to be one of those "name on a sign" people? I did. Felt great...)

He was so nice. Soo...soo nice. Actually, Costa Rican people don't really understand people who aren't. "Pura Vida" is their motto, which translates into "pure life", but it doesn't mean what you might think.

The "pura vida" philosophy is what Christianity should have been.

Live and let live. Don't bother me...and I won't bother you. Let me live the way that makes me happy, I'll do the same and life will be pure. This would explain why the Costa Ricans don't have an army...and are proud of this.

To give you a better idea of the Costa Rican mentality, I jacked the following from www.wikipedia.com

Costa Ricans often refer to themselves as tico (masculine) or tica (feminine). "Tico" comes from the popular local usage of "tico" and "tica" as diminutive suffixes (e.g., "momentico" instead of "momentito"). The tico ideal is that of a very friendly, helpful, laid back, unhurried, educated and environmentally aware people. Visitors from the United States are often referred to as gringos, which is virtually always congenial in nature. The phrase "Pura Vida" (literally "Pure Life") is a ubiquitous motto in Costa Rica. It encapsulates the pervading ideology of living in peace in a calm, unclustered manner, appreciating a life surrounded by nature and family and friends.

You you get the vibe now, right?

I ask Alviero in spanish, if he speaks English. A little.

He asks if I speak spanish... a little.

Initially, I'm thinking, this is going to be a long ride.

And it is...yet, not.

The drive from San Jose to the town of Manuel Antonio, in the Puntarenas providence takes approximately two and a half hours, if you don't stop. (If you're hustling, you can make it in two as we learned on the way back. However I STRONGLY suggest you don't hustle. You'll see why in a minute.)

Alviero loads us up, and, in the rain, we head on the road.

The first thing I notice is all the construction. Two years ago, there was no such thing. "You will not reconize..." Alviero tells me (in English. And I'm already aware that he's ahead of the game. I couldn't begin to tell you how to say "reconize" in Espanol.)

But he's right. The Americans are coming, and in full force. They've found paradise. And in ten years, they'll fuck it up. But hey..pura vida.

About an hour into the ride, Al asks us if we want to stop for lunch. We do.

Right by the crocodile bridge.

I remember this bridge distinctly. However, two years ago...that restaurant and that gift shop didn't exist.

"It's a business," he explains over lunch. He's just having "cafe con leche y tortilla y queso", though we offered more. I'm shoveling the best "arroz con pollo" I've ever had in my life into my mouth as quickly as possible, while Pia shovels her "spaghetti mariposa" into her mouth without breathing. It's a seafood dish and she pulls out half of a crab amongst the rest of the dish, which is more seafood than pasta. Oh yeah...the tab was $18 American. With beer.

Anyway...back to the crocodile business.

"The shop owners, they throw chickens over the bridge everyday so the crocodiles will stay. If they stay, tourists stop, and they make money."

"Claro que si." I say. Yeah. I'm showing off.

"Muy bien!"

Alviero decides he's only going to speak spanish for the remainder of the trip, so that we'll learn.

And learn, we do. He speaks slowly and makes hand gestures. He translates the hard words...we're having a great time.

Until we hit the mountain.

I've been having nightmares about this mountain. I didn't bother to tell anyone about this though. I didn't watch the Left Eye docu, strictly because I knew that there would be a possibility I could die the same way. Except, my body would probably be crumbled at the bottom of canyon. Eaten by crocs or worse. So I didn't tell anyone. Ignorance is bliss.

Alviero was absolutely silent as he twisted and turned around the narrow double lane mountainside. Everywhere was a blind spot. One wrong turn. One drunk driver. One loose rock from the mountain...one blink and we're easily over the edge, falling into an abyss and hoping to die easily, on impact.

Nobody breathed. Or moved. Then, it began to rain. HARD. For one full hour.

After the mountain, (you always want to cheer and pat the driver on the back after you get passed it...) there are two bridges that are about a million years old. Single lane and rotting, they are on the only road to Manuel Antonio.

"We've been asking for a new bridge for 80 years. Disney is coming. They are paying for half now. The government is paying for the other half."

Disney is coming? "Walt Paradiso".

Shit. They're fucked.

"The Cubans think we area stupid for letting Americans come."

I'd have to agree with the Cubans.

Alviero gets us there safe and sound. I hug him. He was fantastic and my spanish, though still rusty, was now at least warmed up.

We can relax now!

"You. I still have to go home!" he laughs.

I think about the mountain again.

"Pura vida.."


The Hotel

Hotel Villa Bosque

OK, so sometimes, the water shuts off, and you have to tell the guy at the front desk to flip a switch so the water pressure builds back up.

And sure, sometimes the A/C changes temperature on you at will.

And you may get woken up in the middle of the night by monkeys on your roof having a street fight...

You read right. And that's why I picked this place, again.

They know the biggest attraction to this hotel are the locals. Meaning, the animals.

Birds of Paradise, iguana, squirrel monkeys, white faced monkeys, sloths...they all chill out at Villa Bosque. And why wouldn't' they? The staff purposely leaves bananas and other fruit around to attract them.

So right around 4pm when the monkeys wake up, feel free to grab one of the bananas and place a piece right in the palm of your hand. They'll climb on down, take it right out of your hand and climb back up. No shit. Costa Ricans think it's so funny that we're amazed by this kind of stuff.

And dare I say, you get used it.

Yes, you actually get used to butterflies surrounding you. And bees. Lots of bees. The locals laugh when you swat.

The walk to the local beach takes about five minutes...if you're strolling.

Friends stayed about three miles up the road at "Si Como No", which boasts stunning views, two pools, private villas and a price tag only $75 more per night than Villa Bosque. ($93 per night).

If you want romance, "Si Como No"(www.sicomono.com is the way to go. Or even "Costa Verde"www.costaverde.com . If you want "monkey time", hit "Hotel Villa Bosque" www.hotelvillabosque.com.

Stuff To Do

If you do nothing else in Costa Rica. NOTHING else, I strongly suggest doing a zip-line canopy tour in the rainforest. Believe me, you will never forget the time you strapped on a harness, helmet and a pair of really stinky gloves, then ziplined hundreds of feet above a Costa Rican rainforest.

Two of the most popular are Tiki Tours and Canopy Tours. If you're in decent shape and trust yourself, do Tiki. You'll have to "hand break" (meaning, slow down and stop before you wind up like George Of The Jungle), however, Tiki offers the MOTHER of all ziplines. 700 feet (no fucking lie) above the ground. It's long as hell too. You'll almost piss your pants as you watch your friends disappear. You'll never forget it though. Ever.

Canopy is better for the faint at heart. You're still pretty high up, however, they run a totally different course. What they lack in height, they make up for in variety because you'll hike a mountain. Then zip. Then zip again. Then walk across a suspension bridge. Then zip. Then repel down a 60 foot tree. Then zip. Then tarzan swing across the forest. (Then somebody will catch a poison dart frog for you, and chase you with it...) Then you'll zip. Then zip again...and now you're cocky, because you've got the hang of this. Then you'll repel down another tree. And zip a few more times....and end up back where you started. The zip is "self breaking", so all you have to do is let go of the ledge and fly. The lines are engineered to dip and slow you down automatically. No George Of The Jungle here.

Both tours offer a lunch, however Canopy puts it foot in it. They've got some women who make a traditional Costa Rican lunch and they're cooking and making coffee the entire two hours you're gone. When you get back, everything is done and THE BEST SPANISH FOOD YOU WILL EVER HAVE PERIOD. And I don't even have to tell you about Costa Rican coffee...do I? Nah...of course not.


Manuel Antonio National Park

So there's going to be this guy dressed up in a Steve Irwin costume who's going to tell you he can take you through the park for $30 per person and show you monkeys and sloths and frogs. Don't do it. It's a rip-off, but can't knock his hustle.

When you approach the park, there is a mini-pool (that used to be a stream) right before the entrance. Some guys in a boat will offer to take you across...for whatever you give them. The pool is about 3 feet deep. You can walk it. (I did.) Or take the boat (like everyone else did). Up to you. But you won't drown. Trust me.

$7 to get in Manuel Antonio, (a pricetag that keeps the locals away and on the public beach) however, it's good for the entire day. (As Manuel told me...in spanish. By the end, I understood perfectly. Very proud over here.)

The beaches inside the park...INSANE. Skip the first beach you come to, and just keep walking till you hit "Third Beach". Trust me on this.

Oh..and you'll pass the guides showing the suckers..oops. I mean, customers frogs and iguana and monkeys. Yep. You guessed it. The same ones you'll see for free, and the same ones that eat out of your hands at the hotel.

Can't knock the hustle though.

One word on the beaches though.

Manuel Antonio is a surfing town. However, the water is VERY dangerous. People die in Costa Rica every year for not respecting the ocean. Riptides are frequent and there are no lifeguards. Please do not swim out pass the break. It's not a game.



Nightlife

Hell yes. All the time. And it's great. The music of times is reggaeton. Get used to it. Aviation is a cool spot...but be sure to check out anything that even seems REMOTELY cool. Chances are, it probably is. Or you'll meet some remotely cool people there.

The Money

Costa Ricans live by the "Colones". There are no different denominations, it's just colones. At the time, 500 colones equal one American dollar. And to give you an idea on how cheap things are there, a woman on the side of the road was selling watermelon melons...three for 500 colones. A large bottle of Bacardi Limon cost me 5,000 colones. (That's ten bucks.) And remember that lunch we had earlier. Yep. I was drinking beer. (200 colones. Beer is less than a dollar.)


OK..I'm getting tired of typing and I'm sure you're getting tired of reading but you get the idea. If you plan on doing it...do it. And HURRY, before Disney gets there.

You may not be able to afford it soon. Hell. Neither will the Costa Ricans.

Black Factor: I am? Really...I didn't even notice until I got on the plane to come home. It's fucking great.

Cost Cheaper than a weekend in New York.


Going Back? Like Biggie...Biggie...to Cali...Cali...


Pura Vida!

-Nye

...Hang Out In "This Neighborhood": Inwood, NYC, NY

There are a LOT of Dominicans in Inwood.

Like...a STUPID amount of Dominicans. And I'm not sure if you're familiar, but Dominicans aren't really partial to black folks. Puerto Ricans...sure! They love us!(We go together like plantanos and collard greens. Just as my Mom....and Dad. OK. And me. Ahem.) But Dominicans? They're not feeling us. AT ALL.

And we're not exactly sure why. I mean, we KNOW why, so rather, I should say...we (black folk) really don't get it.

There are plenty of Dominicans who, if they never opened their mouths, you'd never know they were Dominican. AND we have the same hair! I mean, anybody who's ever had their hair blown out by a Dominican can't go back to doing it themselves. So what gives? Why all the beef with black folks?

That's easy. It always...always come back to (you guessed it) slavery.

Have a seat and let me school ya.

The Dominican Republic and Haiti share a island in the Caribbean called "Hispaniola."

Long story short, the Spanish colonized Haiti using slaves imported from (lets say it together) Africa. The Spanish, however, weren't alone. The French and the British hand a hand in the rich Caribbean land. (Explains Haitian "patois"...which would be the "ebonics" of French.)

I just lifted this off of http://www.internationalist.org

"Throughout Dominican history, reactionary nationalist politicians have appealed to the racist ideology of “antihaitianismo” to shore up their hold on power in “their” two-thirds of the island. Following the Haitian Revolution of 1791-1804 – the first successful slave revolt in history, defeating the combined efforts of French, British and Spanish expeditionary forces – the Haitian revolutionary armies marched into Santo Domingo three times, finally driving out the Spanish colonialists and abolishing slavery in 1822. Even after Dominican independence from Haiti was declared in 1844, conservative landowners were so worried about a “Haitian threat” that they reannexed the country to Spain. It took the 1861-65 War of Restoration (coinciding with the U.S. Civil War), under the leadership of black general Gregorio Luperón, to regain Dominican independence."

So. Haiti and the Dominican Republic have a sorted past, just as rich in racism as the good ol' USA. Unfortunately for them, they didn't have the capitalist influence to urge them do "what's right". Not Haiti. They had to have a good old fashioned slave revolt. But the difference is...their slaves actually got their freedom. Haiti became the land of the "ex slaves", not because the former owners deemed them "human" with the God-given rights of all humans. But because the Haitians would fucking kill them if they tried that slavery shit again. Church.

Now we get to fear. You're living right next door to former slaves who hate you.
And you hate them right back. Pass that thinking right down hundreds of years, and ladies and gentlemen, I give you, present day Dominican thought.

To them, a black person is worse than a "nigger". Not sure exactly what that is...but yeah, to them...it exists. And there's no changing that. Fucked up, huh?

SO... fast forward to 2007. Inwood.

Esso has a company softball game there, so we head uptown and the game has just ended. However, we pass a restaurant that looks great. DAMN good actually. Live music and patrons are sitting outdoors, lazily sipping on sangria.
What the hell? Let's hit it.

Mamajuana Cafe has a really cool Spanish vibe. Not Dominican...not Puerto Rican...Spanish...but also, kinda Indian. Warm earth tones, candles glowing, conquistadors and vintage pictures straight from Espana. And the staff...well, not too warm to us initially, which is to be expected. Three black women in a heavily populated Dominican area...we're not getting greeting with open arms. (Hey...this is about breaking down walls. We're gonna run into a few.)

We initially requested to sit outdoors. We were told there was a party of twelve coming, so our only options were to sit in the back by the bathrooms. After quickly doing our usual "Don't try to play me because I'm black" scan of the restaurant for better seating...we agreed. There wasn't really any place else to go.

The waiter was nice, and after a few jokes (and POOR attempts at pronouncing the dishes in Spanish), he warmed up pretty quickly. We ordered the Sangria (fantastic!) and littered the table with various appetizers, all of which were just as good as the next.

OH...did I mention the live music? We happened to be there on "Spanish" night and were treated to a live performance, including dance. Thursday night, we learned, is Brazilian night, and on Sunday, unlimited Mimosas accompany a buffet-style brunch.

Hell yes.

By the end of the night, we had the waiter teaching us Spanish and almost got into a fight. (We didn't. Almost tho. ALMOST.)

All in all we decided, Inwood is just going to have to get used to us. Or we're just going to have to get used to Inwood. Because we're coming back. O YE!

Black Factor: Not feeling you. Try to speak Spanish though. You'll see the attitude change immediately.

Cost: Damn decent. Dinner for three with drinks, $80.

Come back: For sure.

-N

www.mamajuana-cafe.com

...See Independent Film: IFC Theater, NYC "I Don't Want To Sleep Alone"

Wholly shit.

I mean, it was a Monday night, right? And if you're going to start the work week off with a movie, at LEAST give me a sex scene, explosion or something. But, I'll get to the movie in a second.

If you've never been to the IFC, it pretty much mirrors every independent film theater you'll ever go to. The viewing rooms are really small to accommodate...the really small number of people going to see this shit. (I wonder if theaters go by the "Field of Dreams" rule...if you build it, they will come. If you don't... then hey. They'll catch it on cable.)

The seats, however are BIG. And comfortable. Really comfortable. So comfortable that they make you uncomfortable because chances are, you'll get that cozy "living room" feeling while sitting next to some weird old NYU professor who smells like grapefruit. And you just don't want to get comfortable with that. Or maybe you do. Who knows. I don't judge.

Anyway, so IFC works like every other theater. There's only one person working the refreshment stand, regardless of how many registers there are. (This person also takes your ticket.) It smells like stale popcorn and moldy rug. However, it's dark and you're surrounded by old posters from movies you've never seen, (and never cared about, but now, suddenly feel REALLY uncool for not). The vibe is "independent film"...which is exactly what you're going for.

You'll have to walk up and down actual steps...not hop on an elevator and ascend into movie Heaven. Nope. Keep it real and hoof it to the screening room.

So the movie...(oops, sorry...) film starts and first, we are treated by "video art", which means, it's some shit you'd see in the Museum of The Moving Image that'll give you a headache if you stare too long. I instantly hate it. I want it to be over right fucking now. I see nothing cool about it and I'm sure, if I'm an unknowing epileptic and the trait has laid dormant all this time, this fucking thing will bring it right out of me.

Mecifully, it ends, and the movie...(ugh..) film begins.

It opens to a...no shit... one minute take of a man in a coma sleeping.

Now, for those of you in the TV biz, you know how long a minute is. For those of you NOT...stare at any inanimate object for one full minute.

Now, do this for two hours.

Not that the mo...film wasn't great. OK. It wasn't. But it was at least...good. Sorta "Sunday afternoon" good. Where you have all day to contemplate the symbolism behind all the dirty water, or the director forcing you to watch a man sponge-bathe another man, or a older Chinese woman get fingered in a dirty alley...for a really long (and probably painful) time.

You get the love triangle, and the hardships of being poor while the world around you ignores this. The despair, the dirt, the hopelessness...the fact that there are maybe a total of twelve lines spoken in the entire film...sure. They all weave together to give you something powerful and deep.

Too damn deep for a Monday night.
I would have been much happier watching shit get blown up.

However, if you've got a free Sunday and are feeling deep...check it out.



Black factor: IFC is located in the Village. I coulda been purple and not drawn a single blink. However, if you get any shock factor at independent film, it's that you're actually interested in this film...and Madea ain't in it.

Cost: The usual. 11 bucks.

Go again: Sure. "Provoked" looks pretty damn good.

-N

...Write Blogs Like This.

But before I get into all that... first, let me extend a warm welcome to the new blog, inspired by one too many conversations about what black people "don't" do.

Here's how the whole thing started.

A couple of weeks ago, I found myself in a bar with my co-workers (shocker) and somebody brought up the topic. Being the only black person there (I know, another shocker) the heavy burden of representing the entire black race was, yet again, thrust upon my shoulders. (OK, not really, but I took it on anyway...so there.)

Anyway, on the list of what other cultures know for a fact "Black People Don't Do" are the usual suspects.

1) Ski or participate in any other cold weather sport for fun.

Now wait a minute. Before you guys get all riled up and start sending in pictures of your MLK Day Ski-Trip (slash) Shopping Trip to Woodbury Commons (slash)DJ Kid Capri's birthday bash featuring Red Alert...just don't. You know what I mean.
If you don't watch the weather channel for the best "powder" this weekend...hell. If you don't call "snow"..."powder", you're not into it. And stop lying...you never made it out of the lodge since there was the "Pajama Jammie Jam" going on right next door to the "Latin Lovely" right next to the "SoundCrasha"...and you didn't get out of bed till two PM the next day. You packed some red TLC "Creep" video PJ's...but not one pair of ski boots. No. Timbs don't count. Now, may I continue?

Sure there was one guy who protested, saying he knew a black guy who loved to ski.
I mean, sure, there's one. Actually, there are more than one. I'm not talking about the Bryant Gumbles of the world. I'm talking about regular old black folk here. I'm sure there's a Native American out there who loves his snowboard. We're not talking about him either.

2) Participate in any kind of water sport for fun.

Not true. We jet ski...we swim...waterski...and usually, it's the men. The women? We have hair issues. I'm just going to put that out there. If we're jumping into a situation where there is a potential chance our Dominican blow out might hit a body of water,...um... I'm not saying that we won't do it. But we'll think REALLY hard about it before we do. Either, we've got ponytail holders and gel at the ready, or it's not homegrown hair and it'll dry without making a sister look like a Thundercat. Hell, I can't name that many women who have had sex in a shower. (Yes and yes.)

3) Golf & Tennis

You just thought about Tiger and the Williams' sisters, didn't you? Then you thought about...no one.

...right.


Anyway...those were the top three. But it's gotta start somewhere, so that got me to thinking. Why DON'T we do these things? Money? Racism? No interest? No.

Actually, when I did my own non-scientific survey (asked all the black people at my job) why they don't do these things, the answer was overwhelmingly..."I've always wanted to...but I never had anyone to go with."

Now, I know everyone won't go at tasks like... get your hair done at "Supercuts" (I will.) or learn to play a proper game of tennis (yep, on the list) all by their lonesome.

But I will. And when I can't...I'm going to recruit another black person to come with me.

So get ready to broaden your horizons people.

Not only will I be your little guinea pig, I'll give you the "scare factor" as well and answer the questions you really wanna know.

How much did you spend?
Were there other black people there and did you get looked at funny?
Would you do it again?

And hopefully...this will inspire you to get up off your ass...and do something different.

Or at least laugh at me, while I do.

Oh..and this one merits your participation.
IF there's something you've always wanted to try...but never did, and would like me to test the waters for you... no problem.

Just get at me at blackpeopledont@gmail.com

Thanks again...and see you soon. Very soon.

-Nyree

P.S. BTW... I did the Parliaments thing. The first goes down pretty good, because, well. If you're black and at the point where you're accepting a Parliament, you'll probably smoke anything. The second one...repeats on you. And it's wrong. Even when you're drunk.