Even Know Who This Dude Is

Who the fuck IS this?

I know this ad says it's LL Cool J, but that's bullshit. I KNOW LL.

I saw LL hump a couch while croonin' "I Need Love..." and that shot me directly into puberty.

Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.

Be the couch Nyree. BE the couch.

I sat in Dapper Dans trembling in awe when he rolled up in (insert hot jeep at the time), sporting a black hoodie, drawn in tight around that mishapen head of his (which I thought was adorable).

He was coming to pick up his (insert knock off label gaudy-ass suit here) and didn't even give me another glance as I sat near my friend Angie's reception desk.

But why would he? I was clearly underage and spectacularly NOT fly.
I mean, it's an art to be THAT not-fly.

Like...you know the team on "Ugly Betty" works extra hard to get America to look THAT not-fly.

That's how I looked.

But that didn't stop me from swooning... or wishing for X-Ray vision so I could see his abs through that hoodie.

THAT dude in the picture is not the same dude I saw when I got old enough (meaning reverse-not-fly) to
land my lucky ass in an "Uptown Records" party, back when Diddy was "Puffy" and was still getting kicked out of
Andre's office.

LL walked right past me...fitted Yankee crispy topping him off...and in a moment that would be on mental repeat for two full months... Cool James himself caught me in an eye lock, licked his lips, winked...and kept it moving.

Done.

Fucking. Done.

I mean, I WAS an "Around The Way Girl". My earrings most-fucking-definitely "Jingled". And nobody killed a running man like I did. I could recite "Illegal Search" and "Milky Cereal" to the "coco-puff!"

"Booming System" was on stolen car repeat in my neighborhood and "6 Minutes Of Pleasure"... um.. yeah.

OK...I'm not going full blog post here. I'm just sayin'...I loved some LL. And that dude...

THAT dude? Man listen.

Hate Michael Jackson...(and we never have.)

Nope. Not once.

No matter what you believe, let's be clear about that.

Even if we should have.

That's the thing about us. If you're ours, you're ours. (Unlike OJ. He's not ours anymore. But that was on him. Anyhoo...)

Listen...

Mike was like that fun yet crazy, self loathing uncle that always came to the family reunion, got drunk and wanted to take all the kids on a "hike" through the woods.

He was all skinny and malnourished. He was "touched", as the old folk liked to call him.

And all the adults would say shit awful about him, while keeping a side eye fixed on him, like.. "Lawd, somebody go get them kids away from Mike. You know he still on parole."

Uncle Mike showed up to the family reunion, not really wanting to be there since he knows you talk about him, but made it a point to be there since he’d rather hear the chatter than be home alone. Again.

We all talked about him. That's what black people do to family when we love you. And thank God he showed up this year, because if it wasn't for uncle Mike, we might not have had something to talk about.

"Chile... you heard he done went through all his money right? He won't give that Beatle back his songs. Don't believe what they say, uncle Mike is grimy."

And uncle Mike WAS sorta grimy. He didn’t do anything to you personally, but you’ve heard stories.

Then one year, you bring your brand new boyfriend to the reunion and the minute uncle Mike starts walking towards you, you cringe. Shit. You forgot to explain uncle Mike, and now it’s too late. All the new boyfriend sees is this high water, surgical mask, lace front having skeleton dressed like a sea admiral who everyone seems to tip toe around.

"Who's that?"

"Oh, that's my uncle Mike," you say. Then whispher,"He's been through a lot. He got burned doing a Pepsi commercial once."

Then you get quiet, and put on your best smile because he’s watching. He comes over to say "Hi" in that soft, non-threatening way of his, and in spite of yourself, your smile becomes as genuine as a ten year old's on Christmas….because uncle Mike still has that effect on you.

“So what happened to him?” your boyfriend asks. Sigh. Where in the hell do you begin?

Depends on who you ask. Truth be told, Sweetie, everyone has a different reason why uncle Mike is so completely fucked up, but we don’t know for sure.

His father pushed him too hard. He got too famous too young. He was molested. His nose was too big and his brothers teased him because they were jealous. The assumptions go on and on.

But uncle Mike wasn’t always that way.

You were little, and can’t remember much, but you do remember how uncle Mike was neck and neck with Mickey Mouse as your favorite.

You remember back in the day, when your parents used to blast "Off The Wall", from beginning to end. And you danced and sang each and every word and begged them to play it over and over and over and over and…well, rock the night away.

Eff "the Thriller dance". Everybody knows that. Do they know the hieroglyphic steps to "Remember The Time"?

You remember how the whole family gathered around the TV because uncle Mike was gonna be on "The Grammys". "Motown 25" changed your life.

Shit. With one song, a song that wasn’t even in the original play, he single-handedly saved “The Wiz”.

He was the only singer whose videos were a worldwide event. They drove you insane, and scared the shit out of you. Uncle Mike took you there before anyone else, like nobody else.

Then you got older and listened again, with a grown-folk ear. “Lady In My Life” and a bottle of Cisco cost you your virginity….but you won’t tell HIM that.

You knew your uncle Mike was special, but how do you explain that? He was so damn special that he couldn't even handle it. You can't even imagine how big that burden is.

But you’ve got other people to introduce the new dude to, so you stop explaining.

The family is standing around, playing catch up. Some are over by the food table; putting a heap of mac and cheese on their plates, others are yelling at each other over a game of spades...it’s a perfect day. Till you glance around to find uncle Mike.

Damn that’s sad. He’s just off in the corner, feeding his…

“Is that a lama?!” your boyfriend asks.

“Yeah. It is.”

Nobody says anything. We’re used it. We’re FAMILY.

Everyone is just waiting on the day that uncle Mike just... gets...BETTER But they’re all glad he’s there. If he’s around, then we don’t have to wonder about him and what he’s gonna do next.

"We love you Mike," you overhear uncle Jermaine say. You glance over to catch them in a real hug. Wow.

Uncle Mike returns the love, but we all know, he doesn't believe it. It's not the first time he's heard it, and he didn't believe it then either.

If he did, he wouldn’t do that just "disappear" thing …and that’s usually when you'd hear about him doing some seriously questionable shit.

"Uncle Mike married Elvis daughter."

"Uncle Mike is carrying a monkey around with him...and Webster."

"Uncle Mike done rubbed all the black off him."

“Uncle Mike been letting little boys sleep with him.”

"Uncle Mike lost his house."

"Uncle Mike moved out of the country."

But then he'd show up and everyone would be so damn happy to see him, we'd forget about all that craziness. And for a hot minute, around all that love, we all hope that he'd just let it all go, and join the family again. Come on back uncle Mike. We forgive it all. Family dude. FAMILY.

But then he'd just walk off into another corner by himself …again.

The minute you weren't paying attention, too involved in the spades game or something, you look up, and realize uncle Mike has quietly slipped out without saying a word to anyone.

"Why he just leave like that?” asks boyfriend.

You shrug. That’s just uncle Mike. “Did I tell you about the time he…”


And then you stop short and suddenly get reeeeal quiet... because... aww shit.

Aunt Latoya just showed up.

...And that's a whole other story.


(...Goodbye Uncle Mike. We'll miss you.)

...Have A Lock On Lovin' Hip Hop Anymore: Hip Hop Karaoke : The Knitting Factory NYC

So I’m going to preface this by saying that I’m from the Bronx (Soundview if you want to be specific about it...) and with that comes an awesome responsibility to Hip Hop that’s daunting as hell. (Eventhough, if it wasn’t for Queens, Hip-Hop would have gone the route of “Disco to a hard beat”… but I digress.)
That said, I’m pretty discriminating when it comes to the genre.
I’m quick to dismiss something as corny and know the difference between a “heels and lip-gloss” rice cake tune and a “kicks and backpack” meaty classic that only true heads will bother to memorize. Not that the rice cake tunes don’t have their place…but let’s just say they don’t have one in my iPod.

I was that kid that ran home everyday to see what Ralph McDaniels was going to play on Video Music Box that would blow my mind. (With my betamax READY so I can tape Salt-N-Pepa’s dance routine and wreck it at the next party.)

So yeah. Those are my credentials. I have references.

However, over the last ten years or so, I kind of fell out of love. Most of the stuff I’d been hearing had been garbage…repeated flows, bad production… and I longed for the days when I used to listen to a rhyme and say, “Wait a minute…WHAT did he say?” then back it up and play it over and over again. Hip-hop was about repetition. The more you loved it, the more you wanted to be it…which usually meant you played the rhyme to death and by default it was committed to memory. And part of the fun of hip hop was being in a crowd, hearing your favorite rhyme…and rhyming along with the rest of the crowd. As I got older, the focus shifted. Knowing “the hook” to a song was suddenly more important than knowing the actual rhyme (and if you listened to weak-ass rhymes in most of those songs you can tell that they were clearly written around the hook.) So yeah. I was kind of disenchanted. So like my mother on Saturday mornings, I stick to the classics (hers, The Stylistics…mine, Boogie Down Productions) and keep my radio off to keep the garbage out.

That said, last Saturday, a friend of mine invited me to the Knitting Factory for “Hip Hop Karaoke”…and immediately, my inner hip-hop snob scoffed. The name alone sounded corny so the event probably was and I wasn’t going to give it a second thought. Then she sent me this link.

http://www.hiphopkaraokenyc.com/

The line that got my attention was “Hip Hop Karaoke was designed for the inner Big Daddy Kane in all of us.”

Not “Hip Hop Karaoke was designed for the inner Chingy…” but Big Daddy Kane. That’s when I said to myself, “If I open this thing up, and Redman’s “Da Goodness” is on the list…it’s legit. If I see “Soldja Boy” anywhere…I’m out.”

Yes on the Redman. No on the Soldja.

Then it got interesting. There’s no guy who asking for your song number so he can order it up in the karaoke machine.
There is no machine and “the guy” is…a real DJ.

What’s also missing is that big screen with highlighted lyrics for you to follow. Because this is hip hop. And in hip hop…you have to know the rhyme. Not only do you have to know the rhyme…more importantly, you have to know the flow.

So I dug deeper. What if you mess up? Not to worry. There’s Jason Dick aka “Diggedy”, your own personal Hype Man, so you’re covered. (For those who don’t know, the Hype Man’s job is to keep the crowd…well…hype, and to help the MC out if they miss a lyric or run out of breath. The Hype Man has become as important to hip hop as the DJ and the MC. The greatest of all time of course being “Flava Flav”. )
I opened up a few links and after a few minutes…I knew that, not only did I HAVE to do this… the possibility of not coming correct was NOT an option.

So I picked my songs, (“The What” Notorious B.I.G. & Method Man, “Warning” Notorious B.I.G. and as a back up…”Children’s Story” Slick Rick) and began practice, making sure I knew all the lyrics word for word…and the flow. First thing I noticed was this is totally different than rhyming along to the record. Breathing is a huge problem and I was just standing still. So I decided to walk back and forth and rhyme…and it’s…not…easy. However, by the end of the week, I had all three rhymes down, the breathing, vocal inflection and the flow…I was ready.

The event takes place at The Kitting Factory, which is hip hop before it got glossy. It’s dark and dingy, still smelling of stale cigarettes (even though the ban has been in effect for years) and it’s basically one of those “don’t drop anything on the floor because you might accidentally touch it” places.
As for the crowd? Well, to quote Diggedy, “The crowd looks like a Benetton commercial.” And he’s right which proves that the days of hip hop only belonging to urban youth are long gone.

Like most hip hop shows, it begins with the warm up. DJ Wex spins to loosen everyone up while they hit the bar or find a wall to lean against. You usually can tell when the crowd is nice and toasty by the reaction to whatever song drops. It happened to be the anniversary of The Notorious B.I.G.’s death, so anytime a Biggie song came on…the crowd erupted and rhymed along, with occasional audio drop outs so the crowd could shout out the lyrics.

I’m greeted by J.New at the sign up table who informs me that both “The What” and “Warning” are already taken. Unlike traditional karaoke, there are no repeats here. So I request my back up and he nods with approval. “Good choice”. I thought so too. However, I’ve got 31 M.C.’s ahead of me…and the event is only three hours long. Oops. Make that two hours. It’s daylight savings time, and we’ll lose an hour. There’s a chance I won’t rhyme.

The first MC up starts with “Warning”… and I’m a little jealous, but anxious to see how he does. Instantly, I see there’s no need to be nervous since, if you slip up, not only will Diggedy back you up…but so will the entire crowd. By the fourth MC, I begin to understand that letting the crowd help you out actually gets you more love than hogging the rhyme all on your own. They love the song too…they’re just not the one up there.

A friend of mine did the Wu Tang Clan’s “Protect Ya Neck”, and a girl who gave an outstanding performance of Biggie’s “I Got A Story To Tell” stood next to me and smirked when two dudes completely fouled up “The What” by forgetting the lyrics. “Next month, we should do it! I saw you rhyming along! I’ll be Method!” she said. “Hell yeah!” I yelled, (though a little bummed. I wanted Meth’s part but Biggie’s part isn’t exactly for suckas so whatever… I’ll take it.)

The event ended with MC #22. I didn’t get a chance to wreck the mike but that’s fine. I’ll be back next month. Early.
And I’m in the middle of learning Lauryn Hill’s “Lost Ones”. Might as well flip it and sing too.

All that said, this is not your drunken co-worker’s karaoke. Far from. Leave it to hip hop to change the game. Again.


Cost: FREE 99
Location: The Knitting Factory, NYC
Do It Again: And again...and again...and again...

Make Great Comedies... "First Sunday"

Happy New Year All!

Yes, I know I've been MIA...and that may lead you to believe that black people don't stay consistent...(ha ha) but I've just been a little busy. NEVER FEAR...I'm back. Full force. Fired up...and ready to go. (Like Obama...)

So what better way to start off the new year than with a good twelve bucks of my hard earned dough spent on supporting some black people about something. You know...dudes that could have turned into robbin', gun-totin', baby-daddy bein', gangbangin' hoodlums and instead, opted for a career as respectable actors.

Who happen to portray...uh... robbin', gun-totin', baby-daddy bein', gangbangin' hoodlums. In a comedy. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

For our generation, quality time usually means..."let's go to the movies." Now, I wanted to see "Cloverfield" because...well....I'm kinda hoping Godzilla made a comeback and any movie where the Statue Of Liberty gets bitch-slapped WINS. However, in order to keep the peace and to avoid the "black people don't support their own" stink cloud that's fallen over black people ever since Obama put his hat in the ring, I decided to support a brother...or three.

Big. Fucking. Mistake.

I had a feeling it would be bad when I saw the trailer. I'm not sure what it was. Perhaps it was Tracy Morgan's semi-retarded slur or Ice Cube insisting on playing "Craig" from "Friday", no matter what he's in. Cuz here's the thing. Tracy Morgan's style of comedy gets old after ten minutes of hearing him whine and pout like a five year old who wants more ice-cream, and Cube still can't act. Not to mention... he's not funny. So I'm not really sure why he keeps getting comedies....but hey.

The entire story reads like a bad Tyler Perry play. (I know, that's a bit of an oxymoron.) You know the recipe. Black man. Baby momma. Needs money. Woman scorn. Bad influence. Bad guy. Church. Fat girl. Black celeb of the moment. (In this case, that BCOTM would be none other than Ms. Tiffany "New York" Pollard who's small on-screen exchange with Ice Cube seemed more like real beef than acting.)

But thank GOD for Katt Williams who was a like a fuckin' can of Febreeze in a room full of soiled litter boxes. I mean, you still smelled the shit, but he at least made the dry heaving stop.

What is it about black comedies? Why do they hit the mark as often as a man actually makes a woman orgasm? (That would be 30% of the time. Sad, huh?)

Maybe it's because we set out to make a "black comedy" instead of just...a comedy.
Had that story been written about two guys trying to rob a church...period. Would the movie had been that bad? What if we just let the casting do what it's supposed to do...let the story do what it's supposed to do, and stop forcing the rest? Katt Williams is a perfect example of that. We're not sure if he was supposed to be " the gay choir director" or if he was just "the choir director", but it didn't matter. He was funny. He did what he was supposed to do.

I don't know. I can name on one had brilliant "black comedies". And on both hands I can name brilliant comedies...period. Not white. Not animated. Not black. Comedies.

I'm not sure what the cause and cure is...do you?

How Much: 12 dollars for one ticket at AMC

Would You Do It Again: No. No. No. And fucking No. I'd rather fake an orgasm.

Happy New Year Yall...

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.