Nnekay.com

So I tried to introduce a new segment discussing all the different coffee shops I would frequent during my winter break. I went to one, wrote a semi interesting post, then subsequently, it died.

Oh believe me it didn’t die a  quick, “Nah, that idea is stupid,” type of literary death. No, it was a slow, monologue spewing, limping bleed to death type of end.

Let’s start from the beginning.

Since I work for an academic institution I get long breaks… lucky? No, not paid. Sucky. Yet, I’m smart, and save up money so I can live like some poor socialite during these breaks. So, I figured I would write more- considering my other options were participating in solitary boozefests, watching Oprah, or stalking exes on Facebook. Like the mild narcissist that I am, I sometimes like to revisit my posts, after an afternoon of this is, I decided (strangely contrary to my narcissistic tendencies) that I write too much about myself.

This is what I did today.

This is who tried to hit one me today.

This what happened at my work.

me me me… me.. then some more me…

It was sicking, and honestly who the fuck wants to know THAT much about my lame ass little life in the bay area. So ultimately, I wanted to write about something that had little to do with my thoughts and opinions about the world. As I tried to sit down and write, I would find myself turning on Oprah, opening a beer, and checking facebook to er… see what my friends were up too… I had to get out, and thus my Java Junction was born.

Went to a coffee shop, grabbed my friend Tamar and knocked it out of the park. well, sorta… it was mildly amusing. So… sweet, all I’d need to do was go and do it again at another coffee shop- preferably one with a different sort of vibe, and more weirdos for me to talk about, because everyone loves weirdos… from afar.

Week later- went to a coffee shop in Berkeley. It was promising: packed with people, mellow atmosphere, and the barista had one of those semi braided goatees that strangely Brad Pitt is currently sporting. I sat down opened my laptop, and started to write what I thought would be comic gooold. After describing the barista’s case of curious facial hair- it happened.

I got bored.

Despite looking like a freaky freak- Mr. Barista was a rather diligent worker. He buzzed from table to table, cleaned dishes and greeted customers. Not really funny, and made me feel like an asshole for calling such detail to his beard. Honestly, though… I would like to observe the process one goes through when sitting down to braid their own facial hair. So, I decided to call attention to the patrons of the shop… they all were working diligently on something or another- which is great and wonderful for their productivity, but left me with jack. I stared at a man, who was steadily chewing with his mouth open… willing something to fall from his gaping cavity and plop onto to the table- but somehow he managed to keep it in check. Lame. Then it dawned on me that while people were steadily working, including Tamar… I was busy staring at everyone- and yes, my jaw was slack. While looking for weirdos I had become one.

The failed attempted hit me hard, and with the combined laze of the impending closure of my break, I wrote one final post about cheese farts, and closed my creative burst.

I was not happy that the most recent post on my blog about about cheese farts. So, I broke my pledge, wrote a post devoted only to myself (I mean, it is called nnekay.com), and killed Java Junction…

and it felt good.

Today, I was lucky enough to enjoy a rather nice Thursday Morning Brunch with another weirdly scheduled friend of mine. After ordering the Cheese Blintz, taking a wonderful bite of the stuff, and filling my coffee to the brim with cream, I couldn’t help but think, “Damn it! I hate myself!”

Naturally, I don’t actually HATE myself, but one would think that a lactose intolerant person might shy away from the Dairy Brigade of Breakfast I managed to woof down in 30 minutes. My brain loves Dairy (well mostly cheese) but my body despises it wholeheartedly.

It really is a sad, sad love story of a mild mannered girl and cheese, all sorts of cheese:

Sharp, Cheddar, Monterrey Jack (How I love just eating pieces of you), cream cheese, stinky cheese, Brie (you stuck up bitch, you), Munster, Colby, ricotta… I can go on and on like the monotone droll of that guy with the lazy lip in Forrest Gump- yet while he could enjoy shrimp with out worrying about some pesky shell fish allergy- I must wallow in my increasing intolerance to that hell beast, Lactose.

Why don’t you take Lactaid? The stuff just doesn’t work for me- I can never gage how much or when I will throw back some cream with my coffee or slice of cheese from that damn block tempting me from the back of the refrigerator.

I’m a cheese junky… and I suffer.

Sometimes, I find myself in a public bathroom willing the toilet to not automatically flush twice (or thrice) while I sit in discomfort. While other times I wish to be left alone in my room creating a cloud of personal perfume. Yet, mostly it’s the gurgles. After my lovely brunch I spent the rest of the day gurgling.

Oh lets try on this *gurgle* dress!

*gurgle* Have to seen this blush?

Man, that movie*gurgle* was really *gurgle* touching…

True, it’s a private struggle- which makes my consumption of dairy not as threatening. If I were passing poots all day instead of gurgling, I might have re-thought the second blintz with sour cream.

Oh… but it was so goooooooooooood. I know that my inability to process these products speaks volumes to the argument of: should humans consume food which is meant for baby bovines (No.) Yet, once again I must reiterate- it’s soooo… gooooooooood.

I’m weak and I know it, and I will continue to be weak until my gurgles turn to poots, and my poots turn to squirts- then maybe– just maaaaybe, I might have to pass on that cheese danish.

The horror.

Really, it’s simple… I did it through text message…

The people of Haiti didn’t have much to start with, now they have nothing.

Here is a Link

Remember that kid in elementary school who would call the teacher ‘Mommy’ all the time? Or what about the one that would always pee her pants? Yea?

Of course you do, everyone remembers those freaks:

The Kissy Boy

The Dirty Girl

The Obligatory Bully (who we later felt sorry for because now we know he was mimicking his horrible home life).

Well, I was one of those. Yes… yes… the token black girl, but more importantly I was,

The Throw Up Girl.

Every year from Kindergarten to 5th grade, I would vomit in class. Sometimes in an elaborate special effect worthy way. Other times in quiet self-reflecting ralphs. Strangely, I was never embarrassed. I would barf then play it up as my thing. Why? Because I was a showboat little kid. Post-puberty Nnekay should have taken a cue from Vommy McVom-Vom- laughing at yourself works.

In the second grade a classmate of mine (who I found to be very attractive) got pants in the middle of the school yard. Do I remember him for his boyish good looks? No. I remember him standing dead center of the playground bright red bawling at the top of his lungs while his pants remained clustered at his ankles.

Since I still live in the same town as where I grew up. I watched Senor Pantalones grow into a strapping wanna be thug. Did I this new machismo invigorate my old crush. Nope. He was still the weenie boy who cried when his pants were pulled down.

You know what?

If he merely laughed it off- I might be pregnant with thug babies right now… or not, at least I wouldn’t be writing a blog post about him.

Unfortunately, me and Senor Pantalones traded spots when the hormones kicked in. He learned to laugh things off in Middle School- while I, let every single comment stab me deep within my tween heart.

Are you looking at me?! Cry

Are you whispering about me?! Cry

You’re dressing better than me?! Cry

Cry Cry Cry Cry Cry

Pre-boobs Nnekay would give a crap if they called me ‘forehead’, but post-boobs Nnekay cared so much, I still have bangs. As a teenager I would spend hours upon hours listening to 90s techno alone in my room, trying to unlock the mystery of my downfall from Elementary popularity to Middle School pariah.

It was simple– I didn’t give a shit in Elementary School, “I barf all the time, who cares?! I’m still an awesome kid!” Luckily, I figured this out before college (right before college) and I blossomed. A piece of me wants to go and hug all the Middle School freaks, tell them it will be okay and not to give a fuck.

Yet, on the other hand, as an adult Middle School kids are sort of  annoying.

Last night before I went to bed at 12am, I decided to take a look at my e-mails (yes… plural). Two hours later, I found myself reading about the latest Tiger Woods crisis, and stalking semi-friends on Facebook. When I woke up this morning, I reached for my cell phone (which is basically a mini computer) to check my e-mails (yup… still plural). At the job, I constantly toggle between work and all the stupid shit floating around on the inter-bot. When I want to know the number for a restaurant: The Internet. When I want to get directions: The Internet. When I want to get a hotel reservation, a car rental, or airplane tickets: The Internet. How the hell did we function before this behemoth of physical nothing-ness existed?!

I spend so much wasted and meaningful time on the world wide web, I almost believe I wouldn’t know what to do with myself. Would I just sit staring at a wall silently crying?

Of course not…well at least for my generation and those that came before. We had the unique experience of actually being conscious when the Internet wasn’t THE INTERNET. So we remember how to use a phone book and other things only used by hipster and old people- like 45s.

I remember watching a video in the 5th grade about the future- which was going to include THE INFORMATION SUPER HIGHWAY. I thought, it was weird. I also remember watching the OJ highway chase on TV in that same class- but that’s another story. At the time, this information super highway, wasn’t something I was looking forward too because:

 1. I wasn’t a nerd.

2. I was ten, and more interested in picking my nose and watching cartoons (Yes, I was THAT kid).

Little did I know that two short years later, I would find myself giggling about boys with friends as we discovered chat rooms.  When I was growing up, so was the Internet- which made for a very unique experience. It allows me to say things like, “I remember when…” which is unusual for a twenty-something, but man do I love playing that card around the whipper-snappers.

The most interesting part about growing up along side the Internet has been watching the slow demise of other outlets of information. Honestly, I’m still mystified to how it completely took over. Products marketed on TV no longer flash a 1-800 number at you, but instead flash a website. Now that I think about it, the Internet has taken a lot of the wind out of the phone company.

No longer fresh and new, the Internet has settled into itself, as necessary means for information in our world- making some wonder what the next big thing will be, while I still would rather pick my nose and watch cartoons.

Coffee.

At it’s base level it serves as a stimulant. That’s it. We’re supposed to drink it, get pepped, then continue on our way like the busy worker bee, society specifies us to be.

Except it isn’t that simple. There is a whole culture surrounded around coffee, and it’s a culture of sitting. Which strikes me as incredibly strange… coffee the stimulant, is used as an excuse to sit, relax, and chat with friends. What? When did this happen? We do this with booze, but that makes sense, you have a glass of wine and you relax. The most fascinating part about coffee culture to me are the shops. They each are so incredibly different, with hyperly different people within them, yet they all come to the coffee shops to do the same things: Study, work, chat with friends, escape from life, and drink some form of beverage. So I’ve decided to travel to these different shops and basically just describe what I see. Why, because people are fucking weird.

The Nomad Cafe is located on the border of Berkeley and Oakland. Brokeland. It’s a weird mix of the freaky bourgie Berkeley-ite and the Scrappy Oaklander. The look is minimal and steel, yet vaguely funky. As if designed by a German architect who enjoys to dabbling acrylics from time to time. I attended a buddy’s art opening here a while back, they served vegan doughnuts. Yeah, it’s that sort of place.

I took my friend, Tamar- who needed to study for her Master’s degree, in Speech Pathology. She was feeling kinda vommy, and since she’s not one to censor herself, the minute we walked in she started to cheerfully talk about which tea is good for the stomach. I wasn’t sure she was talking to me, and neither was the Barista. We both sorta stood there as she rambled about green tea, until he finally interjected, “I just drank some green tea and I feel fiiiiine,” then promptly did the robot. He was the quintessential Blipster (aka black hipster) I can say this because I very dangerously teeter on the edge of blipster-dom. His gigantic textured fro wavered back and forth while he continued to dance for longer than I expected. His two co-workers casually glanced at him and shook their heads. Why they looked at him with mild distaste was beyond me, because they too were tragically hip: another black guy with glasses, a faux hawk afro, singing “Purple Rain” and a white guy with a top knot. These guys screamed Oakland Hipsters- kinda dirty, kinda don’t care, but still wear expensive clothes. I ordered my latte, and took a seat letting Tamar ramble on about tea with the dancing barista. While I set up my computer, I started to notice the clientele. A mildly attractive man wearing clogs, and a mildly nerdy man with a cascading curl of a a pony tail working on his computer. When Tamar finally joined me at the table with her green tea, we chatted a little bit, while soft R&B played in the background. She determined that the Dancing barista was high, because as soon as I left he asked her if I had ordered a latte, then stated, “Shit, I gotta make that…” I looked over to the counter, and saw that he was again doing the Robot for another customer. I dived into work, as did Tamar. Every once in a while she would proclaimed things like,

“SYNARTHRODIAL JOINT!” Making me very glad I wasn’t in school any longer, but also sad about the decrease of intellect I managed to squander with drinking the past 5 years since graduating from undergrad. While we talked about the random customers and stoned baristas, the R&B stopped and was promptly replaced with:

MEKE- AKA- OHHH (THUMP THUMP) AOKA-KA-LAKA-OH!! (THUMP THUMP).

This halted our conversation, and Tamar gave me a slow disapproving shake of her head. At the table adjacent to ours a weathered old man sat facing empty space saying, “Ohh noo. Yes. Ohhh nooo. Yes.” He got up and ran out the door. Not really knowing what to do with this, I dived back into my work.

“Bones are the most dense tissue in the body because of salt deposits.” Tamar muttered trying to drown out the music. I couldn’t work, so I starred out the window, trying to let the chants take me away to a far and tropical place. A bum walked by and mistook my daydreams for interest. He continued to look at me as he sauntered by on his way to (I suspect) nowhere. After he passed, a man in a brown striped suit and a backpack with a ukulele poking out swerved by on his bike. “Do you think bones are heavier than muscle?” Tamar asked snapping me back into the cafe surroundings.

“I would think bones are heavier than all the rest of the goopy stuff in our bodies.”

I’m glad I didn’t take the medical path in life.

The chanting turned into pleasant Hawaiian guitar riffs, and the mildly nerdy cascading curl guy took the opportunity to do some yoga stretches.

I sat back, took a sip of my latte and decided I very much enjoyed the mellow wackiness of the Nomad Cafe.

Nomad Cafe

6500 Shattuck Avenue
Oakland, CA 94609

I hang out with a pretty eclectic group of people. Many of which play musical instruments, thus resulting in various bands. I try my hardest to support the majority of these fabulous folk, but lately the number of bands to support has risen to the double digits making it hard for this one girl to try and kick out the love for her friends.

When I finally get to go  to these shows, it reminds me how incredibly varied my pocket of peeps are. Sometimes, I’m listening to boppy surf jams with naughty lyrics. Sometimes it’s rock and roll and I’m surrounded by giant ladies with a shit ton of make up and pompadours. I’ve found myself listening music with no lyrics, the beats are mathematical, and the guitar riffs are complex. There are the good ole funk bands, and sometimes a nice dance jam is thrown into the mix as well.

On this particular night in question, I was supporting a friend of mine in a fun punk band called Gnarboots. Simply put, they are insane. The music is fast, they jump around, and usually one or all of them manages to loose their pants by the end of the set. The audience either looks on in pleasant disbelief, or looses their shit. It was a good show.

Since I’m not some hot punk girl, I usually don’t have to worry about getting hit on at these types of shows. Most girls have their specific venues where they know someone will eventually try to slur drunken words into their ear to get closer to their boobies. I have two: Dance Clubs and the sidewalk in Downtown Oakland. Dance Clubs are easy-you get the chance to prepare yourself for the onslaught of drunken advances and butt humping, but the sidewalk in Downtown Oakland always… ALWAYS throws me off. There was a point when I worked in Oakland, and actually got used to this attention. I would put on my stone cold face, wear sunglasses, slap on the headphones, and walk like my ass was on fire. This worked a bit, but believe it or not, about once a day some persistent idiot would try to yell his way through the personal barrier I put up.

Now that I don’t work in Oakland anymore, I’ve become soft. I find myself walking around with my usual dumb smiley face, looking people in the eyes, and ultimately getting bombarded by inappropriated comments from dudes just hanging out on the street. I’m not scared or anything, but just for my sanity I try to drive through Downtown Oakland as much as I can.

After the Gnarboots show, I was pumped and hungry- so, me and some friends decided to grab some food at a near by taco truck. Since it was late on a week-end night, in Oakland, this truck was popping. A huge crowd of mildly buzzed 20 somethings had gathered around for after party sustenance, in the middle was a plastered young man. He wore the traditional Oakland ensemble of a giant white t-shirt, and obnoxiously large jeans that sorta pooled and sagged around his posterior.I never understood this style- you don’t look cool, just lost and drowning in your clothes- like some child trying to play "daddy" in his father’s closet. People had already begun to back away from his drunken sways when we walked up to the crowd. This create a sort of bubble around him as he hazardly swung his dreads this way and that like Janice from the Muppets.

In a comically thick Jamaican accent he started to proclaim, “I WANT MY CHEESE TACO!” I sensed this would be trouble, and tried to sink behind my friends and somehow achieve the anonymity I had back at the punk show. “CHEESE TACO!” Everyone else at the taco truck tried to resume normal conversation as they either waited to order or to pick up their food. It was almost entertaining to watch, as he weaved and bobbed around people trying to stay upright. A lesbian couple walked up to the truck to order their food, and he honed in on one of them. “heeeeey… who are you ‘ere wit?” She ignored him. “You need to listen when a man is talkn’ to you, girl.” She rolled her eyes. He continued to ramble on in his drunken island talk, until she said some choice words to him, threw me a concerned but hilarious look, and walked back to join her girlfriend after ordering. I laughed a little bit, and in that instance caught Mr. Cheese Taco’s eye.

DAMN IT.

He wibble wobbled his way towards me and said, “Now, who protect you, girl?” Which I couldn’t help but think was a weird thing to ask… I shot him a dagger filled look and directed my attention to something else. “WHO PROTECT YOU?” He wasn’t letting up, so I decided to switch tactics and resort to my crazy person tone I’ve learned from working many years in the public library.

“Can I help you?” He looked at me blankly from behind his swaying dreads, and repeated his inane question about protection. “I’m sorry?”The apathetic snotty tone usually throws most suitors off.

“Baby Girl, you gotta have a man protect you, you need to let me protect you, and come back home with me. I’m gettn’ some cheese tacos.” Obviously my snotty tone didn’t derail Mr. Reggae.

“Okay, that’s great, but I’m with my four friends, and I’m sure you’ll enjoy all of your cheese tacos without me. Have a good night. Thanks.” The ‘thanks’ usually works to end conversation in a weirdly awkward way.

He edged in closed and continued on with his drunken rambles, my friends pulled in, but he wasn’t having any of  it, he was focused and ready to pounce, but I stood my ground and calmly kept saying, “good-night!” and “have a nice night!” also “enjoy your cheese tacos” Until finally, his order was called. He wibble wobbled his way to the bag of food, turned to me. Like a little kid attempting to share he said,

“You sure you don’t want some, girl?”

“No thanks, I’m good!” I smiled and waved thinking it was over.

“Too bad, because my dick is like a cheese taco,” with that he turned and casually walked away. Normally, I’m disgusted whenever a stranger talks about their penis with me. This was just wacky, his comment was neither appealing or complimentary to his appendage. Honestly, I just sorta felt sad for his messy sloppy attempts at love.

Also what the hell is a Cheese Taco… isn’t that just an open faced quesadilla? 

I never find the time to buy make-up on my own. Why? Well I figure it’s a waste of time, considering I have a Caboodle the size of a baby hippo, which I’ve managed to fill up. Nevermind the majority of the products it contains are older than my little cousin (who is now considering which college to attend).

One must also consider the fact that buying make up is frightening.

A couple days ago, I found myself in a mall with some extra Christmas cash and was lured into the neon lit MAC store like some demented moth. For a store the size of a glorified kiosk, I was completely disoriented. There was make up displayed- but only testers. So I casually picked up some shimmer, decided to buy it, then just sorta stood there. There was a line, but each person clutched a tiny black box containing the ridiculously expensive make up inside it. This tester was not in a chi-chi black box. I wanted a black box, because I wanted to get out as fast as I could. Yet, I could not see any black boxes containing this shimmer. Instead of flipping out and knocking over a pyramid of lipsticks, I stood there and silently started to freak.

I didn’t want to approach the sales person, well… because her face looked like it could have been applied with a putty knife- also she was busy chatting up some giantess in silver legging pants and Uggs.

Side Note: Ladies of the world do yourself a favor- stop wearing leggings as pants. You either look like a Big Ass or a No Ass. I’m sorry, but there is no in between no matter how tight your cheeks are. Plus there is nothing sexy about that much jiggle in public.

So I decided to do the best thing and stand in line…behind a middle aged woman on a scooter. Yes, a scooter. No, not an old person mover scooter, but a silver Razor- push it with one foot- type of scooter…

in the mall…

on a Wednesday…

at 2pm…

At the moment I really didn’t care and decided to ignore this minor detail, until now. Now, I find it really weird. While the woman on the scooter was being helped, the floor attendant finally noticed the panic in my eyes, declutched the shimmer tester from my hand to retrieve one in a chi-chi black box. Scooter lady suddenly left, and I was stuck at the front of the line with nothing to buy. I nervously laughed as the cashier stared blankly at me with her enormous taranchula eyeballs. I told Giantess Spandy Pants to go ahead of me, which she did, without a thanks, but a huge neck spraining hair toss. To make me feel better, I promptly assessed her as a No Ass.

When the attendant came back she started to chat about how this shade (Melon) was apart of a holiday set which came with brushes and some razzle dazzle case, then abruptly ended her story with a “but that’s done now…” and sucked her teeth at me in a “aw shucks” sort of way. Not sure of the story’s point, I said, “okay” and tried to take the black box. She quickly walked away (with the black box), asked for my name and placed it behind the counter.

1. If this was a courtesy- then it was pointless because I was next in line.

2. If this was a precaution- I could have easily walked out the door with the tester when I was being expertly ignored.

Either way, she should have just given me the damn box of shimmer.

As I was leaving, I captured a glance at myself in the hyper lit mirror- after staring at so many manicured faces, mine looked incredibly stark, despite the time I spent applying and re-applying eye liner. I prided myself on not being a clowny freak like the ladies of the MAC Store, and bounced out the door plain face and all.

I spent the rest of my day thinking that my make up was light and breezy. So much so, I considered not even washing my face before bed time. When I finally tucked into my nest, I felt itchy, gross, and all thing sticky. Sighing a heavy sigh, I concluded to not be a fucking lazy ass and to go wash up. I walked into the bathroom and calmly peered into my mirror, I did not see the light touches of make up I though graced my face.

No.

What I saw was a gold embossed eye, with thick black lines circling the rims. Long dagger like lashes, stuck out like a Venus Fly Trap, all culminating into a lavish point to give the illusion of a cat eye. I could almost hear the faint french moan-singing that would accompany some sad Cirque Du Soleil contortionist. Then it hit me- they make the lighting EXTREMELY bright in MAC to drain all forms of natural color out of your face when glancing into the thousands of mirrors in the shop. Causing a normal person to think “oh! I need some blush” or “good god woman you could use some lip gloss”. Instead it just made my judgemental self, feel superior to a world I already am apart of. I wear make up - and sometimes, I go overboard.

Two things were learned from my little foray into the world of MAC:

Thou Shalt Not Be So Quick to Judge Others

&

Honor Thy Drug Store, When Make Up Commands Thee

Avatar.

I am so sick and tired of pretending that this movie is good.  Yes, I saw it. Yes, I thought it was beautiful. Yes, I’m glad I saw it on the big screen. But why am I the only one really annoyed and disturbed by the storyline?! True, people are admiting that the screenplay is retarded, but everyone— EVERYONE is letting the overall prettiness of this crap fiesta win over storyline. WHYYYY?!?!?!?!?!?!?

If a resturant is decorated beautifully, but the food taste like shit, you’re not going to go back.

James Cameron… you burnt Avatar’s soufflee. I really wish I could revisit this movie to truly focus on the great special effects- but HELL NO am I sitting though that dumb played out story again.

I’ve compiled a list of reasons why Avatar is stupid. If you haven’t seen it, I don’t care if I spoil it for you… because you’re not going for the tale.

1. Unobtainium.

2. Why do the white guy invaders always get to fall in love with the princess? Why can’t they fall in love with Gertie, the mailman’s daughter?

3. Why are princesses always so beautiful. Queen Elizabeth used to be a princess… just sayn’.

4. This is a planet a gabillion light years away from Earth- How the hell did the natives get so African and Native American?

5. Why are the Natives born with a braid coming out of their heads… yes, I know that this is their connector cord or whatever, but shouldn’t it be like a dreadlock or something more organic.

6. Using a living thing as a puppet seems really horrible and cruel.

7. When does the main guy get to sleep? I mean, if he’s awake as an Avatar, and awake as himself… don’t you think his brain would explode after a week of never-ending loop living?

8. Why do imperialistic movies always make the native opposite love interest the bad guy? I mean you would be pretty cranky too if some random ass dude came tromping into to your world, stole your girlfriend, and fucked up your home.

9. There is only one ethnic human character in the whole goddamn movie… and it’s a sexified Michelle Rodriquez. If you’re going to do a movie about the ULTIMATE OTHER, throw some lesser others in on the human side– geez.  

10. How many times have we seen a white guy get kicked off of a horse in a montage?

11. How many times have we seen the ”learnin’ the ropes” montages?

12. That chanting scene? Stolen from Baraka’s Balinese Monkey Chant scene.

(In fact I think James Cameron saw Baraka and made a lazy hodge-podge of what he saw.)

13. A giant blue, semi naked, ethnic lady just seems like a nerdy white guy’s wet dream- and that creeps me out.

14. All the fat ugly people who are going to go dressed like Na’vi to ComicCon 2010 and Halloween.

15. All the voices of the Na’vi are either Black or Native American actors.

Really… you don’t have to make the story complicated… just mix it up a little. Even though so much went into making this movie- it still seemed like a lazy mess to me.