White people of America, we know you've got it rough. Sure, black men and women have been through four hundred years of slavery, oppression, murder, and watching white college students try to dance. But now that it's hip to have black friends, white people aren't sure how to go about it. And that is a real American tragedy. Thank God Nick Adams is here to help you avoid potential racial pitfalls and successfully make the transition from white to "aiight." Now, you'll know not to start a conversation with, "So, that new Jay-Z album is pretty great, right?" Or tell a co-worker he looks just like (fill in blank with name of dark-skinned person who works in the other building.) You'll know that a lot of black people you meet at parties or work functions don't care who played Thelma's husband on "Good Times", don't want to discuss the Malcolm X biography you just read and definitely don't want to listen to country music. Ever. Yes, it's a good thing Nick is here to explain. Because if we're going to live together in peace and harmony, you people are going to need help. Black People, Briefly Explained. A Q&A with Nick Adams Q: Nick, what is the correct term to use when addressing my new friends: Black or African-American? A: Personally, I always liked Afro-American. I liked being named after a 1970's hairdo. But then I wondered why we didn't become the Jheri-curled Americans or High Top Fade Americans. Q: Nick, if black people can use the "N" word as a term of endearment, can I, a white person, do so? A: No. I don't care if you have your hair in cornrows while wearing a Phat Farm t-shirt at an R. Kelly concert. Black people don't get to be president, and white people don't get to use the word nigger. Can we just call it even now? Q: Nick, I'd like to try slang. Is that okay? A: When you guys start using our words, that's when we know it's time for us to stop using them. Every time a white, middle-aged math teacher calls a student, "dog," black people all over the country are notified via email. Believe it. Q: Nick, surely you have to agree that Eminem is a hip-hop visionary? A: Let's try this one more time: Kurtis Blow, RUN-DMC, LL Cool J, Rakim, Chuck D, KRS-One, Tupac, Notorious B.I.G., Nas, Common, Mos Def, Bitch!
Roadtripping across the country has been a rite of passage for generations. From Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady’s On the Road, to Easy Rider to Thelma and Louise, the journey is the destination, and in Frommer’s MTV US Roadtrips, the old school travel guides and cutting edge authors combine their talents and resources for 10 eclectic rides. Maya Kroth pursues the ‘cue from Austin to Charlotte in a Southern BBQ Roadtrip Ethan Wolff visits the Desert Southwest, on the trail of the first Americans Ashley Marinaccio stays at haunted hotels in search of the unexplained and paranormal, in the Weird Northeast. Our other authors go everywhere from Down the Shore, through the Urban Heartland, and on a tour of West Coast Underground Rock Clubs.
Gangland London meets rugby-crazy Wales against the backdrop of the Rugby World Cup. Young Football Prodigy Gary Marshall and his best friend Arnie Dolan spend their teen years battling adversity and local gangs on the tough London Council Estate where they live. Then a series of events occur which have life-changing consequences for both of them, forcing them apart. Eight years later Arnie is keen to hook up again with his old mate and impart a secret he has kept hidden all his life. So why is Gary living in a different country under a false name? And why does he prefer that the past stays in the past. As the biggest event in world rugby approaches the mysteries begin to unravel, building to a shocking climax in the temple of Welsh rugby, the Millennium Stadium...
IT had rained in torrents all the way down from Schenectady, so when Jack Duane glimpsed the lights of what looked to be a big house through the trees, he braked his battered, convertible sedan to a stop at the side of the road. Mud lay along the fenders and running boards; mud and water had spumed up and freckled Duane’s face and hat. He pulled off the latter—it was soggy—and slapped it on the seat beside him, leaning out and squinting through the darkness and falling water. He was on the last lap of a two weeks’ journey from San Francisco, his objective being New York City. There he hoped to wangle a job as foreign correspondent from an old crony, J. J. Molloy, now editor of the New York Globe. Adventurer, journalist, globetrotter, Duane was of the type that is always on the move. “It’s a place, anyway, Moses,” he said to the large black man beside him, his servitor and bodyguard, who had accompanied him everywhere for the past three years. “Somebody lives there; they ought to have some gas.” “Yasah,” said Moses, staring past Duane’s shoulder, “it’s a funny-looking place, suh.” Duane agreed. Considering that they were seventy miles from New York, in the foothills of the Catskills, with woods all around them and the rain pouring down, the thing they saw through the trees, some three hundred yards from the country road, was indeed peculiar. It looked more like a couple of Pullman cars coupled together and lighted, than like a farmer’s dwelling. “Fenced in, too,” said Duane, pointing to the high steel fence that bordered the road, separating them from the object of their vision. “And look there—” A fitful flash of lightning in the east, illuminating the distant treetops, showed up the towering steel and network of a high-voltage electric line’s tower. The roving journalist muttered something to express his puzzlement, and got out of the car. Moses followed him. “Well,” said Duane presently, when they had stared a moment longer, “whatever it is, I’m barging in. We’ve got to have some gas or we’ll never make New York tonight.” MOSES agreed. The two men started across the road—the big Negro hatless and wearing a slicker—the reporter in a belted trench coat, his brown felt hat pulled out of shape on his head. “It’s a big thing,” Duane said as he and Moses halted at the fence and peered through. Distantly, he could see now that the mysterious structure in the woods was at least a hundred yards long, flat-topped and black as coal except from narrow shafts of light that came from its windows. “And look at the light coming out of the roof.” That was, indeed, the most peculiar feature of this place they had discovered. From a section of the roof near the center, as though through a skylight, a great white light came out, illuminating the slanting rain and the bending trees.
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