Tag Archives: non-fiction

Let’s Talk Books

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Trust Me, I'm Lying: Confessions of a Media ManipulatorTrust Me, I’m Lying: Confessions of a Media Manipulator by Ryan Holiday

Ryan Holiday is pretty well known in the Marketing and Media communities. He dropped out of college at nineteen to apprentice with Robert Green, the author of The 48 Laws of Power, he was previously the Director of Marketing for American Apparel, and he’s helped with marketing for authors and musicians (probably most notably he played a pretty important role in promoting the book I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell for his good friend Tucker Max). This guy knows his stuff.

I mention all of this because I want to talk about a book he wrote. This book talks about a very important problem that exists in media today. A problem he admits to being a big part of.

In the book Trust Me, I’m Lying Ryan talks about how being a media manipulator works. There are stories of him creating fake email accounts and using those accounts to be quoted in blog posts and news stories as an “expert”. There are also stories of how he promoted a book by vandalizing billboards in the middle of the night and stirred up conflict at a Planned Parenthood clinic.

In fact, the billboard he vandalized to manipulate the media/public was one he bought to promote his friends movie. When he was helping his friend Tucker Max promote the movie I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell Ryan paid for several billboards to go up. Nothing unusual about that. What was unusual was that later on, in the middle of the night, he vandalized one of the very billboards he paid for, took photos of it, then emailed it to a blogger using a fake email address in order to make people believe that there was an uproar about the movie when there wasn’t. And it worked. People started talking about it. They argued with each other on social media about it. It got a lot of attention and sales for the book that the movie was based on went way up. Which was the plan all along.

So what does this have to do with the media and the problem the media currently has? Probably the fact that none of the writers and “reporters” who quoted the fake personas he created bothered to do even a cursory background check. Probably the fact that writers and “reporters” are publishing stories without fact checking and don’t even talk to the subjects of their stories until after they publish. Probably the fact that most blog, newspaper, and TV news reporters care more about getting clicks on their websites than telling the truth.  When Ryan sent those photos on the vandalized billboard to a blogger he used a fake name and the blogger who wrote about didn’t bother to find out if he was who he said he was…which he wasn’t.

These are problems within the media that have actually existed for longer than the Internet has even been around.  They have existed since the first newspaper was created. And these problems make it very easy for people like Ryan Holiday – media manipulators – to twist the narrative to suit their needs.

In Trust Me, I’m Lying Ryan pulls back the curtain and shows just how bad it really is. Because it’s one thing to manipulate for something as small as selling books, but it’s another when people start manipulating the media in ways that ruin people’s careers and risks their lives.

For example, Ryan talks about the time in 2011 when a Pastor named Terry Jones manipulated the media into covering his staged burning of the Koran, which lead to protests in the Middle East that killed almost thirty people. And the media let it happen.

If you’ve ever wondered just how much of what you read on the Internet, in newspapers, or see on TV is true and how much is probably definitely completely made up then you should really pick up this book from a guy who knows first hand how easy it is to get the media to say what you want them to say.

The only real criticism I have of this book is that he has a tendency to repeat stories and some of the concepts he talks about to go on a little longer than they probably should. He also tends to complain about the same few blog sites repeatedly (Gawker and Huffington Post) which can feel like he has some kind of personal vendetta sometimes and can make it a slow read in some places.

All in all, I’d give Trust Me, I’m Lying: Confessions of a Media Manipulator a solid 4 out 5 stars.

 

 

Summer Camp

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I was administering vaccinations against cholera, black plague, and black fever as part of an annual active-duty deployment. It was a hot, July afternoon at Phelps Collins Air National Guard base west of Alpena, Michigan. Trained as an Operating Room Specialist in the United States Air Force, I was qualified to assist in major surgeries but was tired of giving shots to air-policemen, cooks, and pilots griping about worldwide deployment immunizations. Our 127th Tactical Reconnaissance Group needed world-wide disease protection and, for some reason, few guardsmen wanted major operations performed on them during a two-week summer camp.

Although our unit had never been called up, protection against cholera, black plague, and black fever might be less useful in an Alpena bar but might be a good idea in a remote mid-east desert village. After being on my feet all day, I was ready for dinner in the base chow-hall but I was the one last to leave, still awaiting my replacement.  Without any other hospital personnel there, the Phelps Collins siren began wailing in the distance, signaling an emergency on the flight line.

Months earlier, between giving shots and helping with physical examinations, I had learned to drive the big blue hospital “deuce-and-a-quarter”, a truck-based military ambulance, so I ran outside to drive or ride if someone was already in the seat. But no one was there. I jumped in the driver’s seat, started the engine, flicked the military radio on, and pointed the vehicle toward the flight-line waiting for a doctor to appear. I wasn’t supposed to arrive on the tarmac without a doctor, but an airplane was in trouble and we had to have medical personnel there within a few minutes of the siren sounding.

 

After what seemed an eternity, Doc Cooper and our Senior Master Sergeant, Joe, burst through the infirmary door, bags and hats flying. They managed to jump in and I gunned the engine, dropped the clutch, and took off. Others were running to catch us but the only one that counted was Doc Cooper and they knew it. My feet danced on the pedals, power-shifting through the gears. With our siren screaming and red light flashing, base traffic dove for the side of the road.

 

 “What’s happening?” Doc yelled, hanging onto the window sill with both hands. The engine roared as we skidded onto the last road toward the hangars and apron tarmac.

 

“I hope it’s not one of our 84’s” I yelled back. They both knew I meant our 127th TAC reconnaissance RF84F Thunderstreak single-seat airplanes. The 127th had lost one a few years before and a pilot had perished. We certainly didn’t need another incident.

 

I slammed the shift lever back and forth and the pine trees flew past, but I managed to stay on the blacktop, finally roaring toward the base tower. There were two “Mantis” fire rigs already moving at a good clip on the taxi-way. These huge, self-contained, fire-suppression machines were small houses on wheels with elevated foam-dispensers on their fronts like over-sized, pincer-wielding praying mantises. Two more huge fire engines emerged with lights blazing from a nearby hangar. The radio was mostly static until we heard an order from Phelps Collin’s tower.

 

“Ambulance, proceed north 200 yards and pull alongside the first fire engine. Await further orders.”

 

We rolled to a stop beside the first fire rig adorned with sweating, black-clad fire fighters clinging to its sides. There was nothing to see or out of the ordinary; no black clouds, roaring flames, or mounds of airplane wreckage. We took a collective deep breath and worried about what was going to happen next. A fireman near us said there might be an emergency landing about to happen. Curious onlookers drifted out of the dining hall hundreds of yards away. An Operations Officer trotted over.

 

“All of our jets have returned for the day, including the C47 Gooney Bird. But there’s a Cessna 310 about ten minutes out that’s in trouble. Someone flying from Ann Arbor to Mackinaw Island says the nose landing gear light won’t indicate whether it’s up or down. We’re the closest airstrip with equipment to handle something like this, so he’s thinking of setting it down on the grass beside the concrete runway gear up. If he changes his mind and tries to land on the concrete, he’ll be a sliding fire-ball in no time. Stick around. If he doesn’t get it right, you’ll have to pick up what’s left.”

 

Joe worried for us. “You know, landing a prop airplane gear up on grass or concrete is a last resort for any pilot. He can’t eject, and it’s doubtful he has a parachute or could bail out anyway. The grass is bumpy on both sides of the runway. He’ll have to cut power on both engines in the last seconds before the belly hits the grass and hope the propellers stop level with the wings. If either one isn’t, it’ll catch on the ground and spin him into a flaming, 100-mile-an hour funeral pyre.”

 

We stared at a cloudless blue sky, the air-base siren dying away, only increasing the tension. Everyone craned skyward searching for a 310 Cessna. Doc Cooper suddenly sat upright, concerned. “Forget propellers. Assuming he’ll try gear up, if one of the three wheels only partially deploys, it’ll snag and the plane will cart-wheel the length of the runway. Did anyone say whether there are passengers? You know, I don’t think he can dump excessive fuel in flight.” He paused. “We may not be set up to handle this from a medical stand point.”

 

Everyone was wishing they were somewhere else and not in a catastrophe in the making. The moment the Cessna touched grass, gear up without power, it would be an out-of-control, 2-1/2 ton aluminum beer can, filled with high-octane aviation fuel. At that point, pilot and passengers would be in a thrill ride and in even greater trouble if a fuel line ripped off or a gas tank split because fire rigs need time to arrive at the scene.

 

A tiny dot appeared in the distance and an airplane came into view to begin circling the field a mile out. Base tower and pilot discussed alternatives until the sleek twin-engine Cessna suddenly altered its path, lining up with the main concrete runway. Joe squinted, commenting, “Look, he’s coming in low and slow for a trial pass, testing the wind and low air speed handling.”

 

The pilot flew the plane slowly, much closer to ground than normal, landing gear up, checking grass conditions and undulations on our side of the main runway. We were all quiet, fascinated by the inevitable. Doc Cooper fingered his medical kit. I wondered whether we would need tourniquets, compresses, and splints. But we didn’t have oxygen, back braces, or even body-bags. How would we handle internal bleeding, closed head-wounds, open arteries, much less horrible burns on site? Alpena’s hospital and Oscoda’s Wurtsmith Air Base were a long way off.

 

The Cessna circled a last time before lining up with the grass next to the concrete runway, main landing gear and nose gear retracted. So it would be grass. With minimum power, skimming grass-height at 100 mph, the pilot shut off both engines and the propellers stopped safely horizontally with the plane sinking to earth. Out of its element, the 310 was no longer a flying machine but an uncontrollable sliding machine ill-suited for its new job. Rudder and tail surfaces no longer effective, it slid past us into the distance in a haze of dust and grass.

 

Before it came to a graceful stop a quarter-mile away, I gunned the ambulance engine, following the fire rigs at a safe distance. Nothing seemed to have flown off the airplane or broken apart and no fire balls erupted from split fuel lines or tanks. In the distance, the tiny figure of a pilot opened the hatch, clambered out, and sat on the wing waiting for our emergency vehicles. There didn’t seem to be any passengers.

 

It all ended quickly. The praying mantises arrived and crouched, ready to unleash their enormous foam cannons at the first sign of fire, but nothing happened except the plane sat smoking and tinkling from cooling metal. Doc Cooper clambered out and performed a brief examination of the pilot, whose only injury seemed to be hurt feelings. The Cessna sat in the grass at the end of runway like a discarded child’s toy.

 

I needed a drink, but the Phelps Collins enlisted men’s bar didn’t open for hours.

 

 

A Pratt & Whitney Engine

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Our Michigan Air National Guard 127th Tactical Air Command Reconnaissance Group stood in ranks at Detroit Metropolitan Airport’s tarmac. Two Douglas C-124 Globemaster transports loomed above us. It was early morning and we were to fly to Gulfport, Mississippi for two weeks active duty. The Alabama Air National Guard’s airplanes had flown in the day before. Each of us carried a duffel bag over a shoulder, while huge, clam-shell doors on the front of each plane gaped open with ramps leading into cavernous interiors. None of us had been inside anything this huge. Wafts of stale oil and aircraft fuel swirled about. 

What appeared to be a twelve-year-old pilot strutted about inspecting the airplane, while a co-pilot, who must have had a rough night, made notes on a tightly-clutched clipboard. What they expected to find that trained expert mechanics hadn’t already taken care of was beyond us. Senior Master Sergeant called us to attention as the pilot approached. The latter turned to us, squeaking, “Ya’ll doan smoke on ma plane,” he announced, “‘cause this one leaks awl a little. Ok, Ya’ll get aboard now.” I supposed the “awl” currently leaking was engine oil and not aviation fuel that shimmied in little pools on the tarmac. 

We began shuffling single-file up steel-grate ramps designed for military trucks, eyes adjusting to a dim interior lit by naked light bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Two levels of wall-mounted multi-tiered seats were arranged like the inside of an ancient Roman slave-galley. Roman galleys had wooden oars. This one came with U.S. Air Force webbed belts, neither conducive to peace of mind. Instead of friendly attendants’ greetings, we were handed vomit bags and told to hurry up, find canvas slings, and strap in on canvas-webbed seats lining the walls. 

The ride had to be somewhat safe, didn’t it? After all, the government couldn’t afford to lose a couple hundred troops every day shuffling around the country in these things. Our Senior Master Sergeant had told us a previous reconnoitering flight to Gulfport had lowered its landing gear too early, almost splashing into the Gulf of Mexico. So, only hours before, I purchased a fortune’s-worth of optional flight insurance before reporting to the flight line. My parents would be millionaires beyond their wildest dreams if this leaky, overweight behemoth went down somewhere. 

One by one, all four engines coughed and fired, finally settling into a steady, ungodly loud roar. We couldn’t see out except for tiny portholes every few yards. Our plane was packed with khaki-clad airmen, and a few took their vomit bags out as we lurched and banged our way along the tarmac, both pilots apparently unfamiliar with Detroit’s airport and which runway to use. If we continued much longer, we could be over the state line and into Ohio with only 970 miles to go. 

Finally positioned for take-off, we sat for ages while the Alabama pilot apparently re-learned where the controls were. Everything seemed to check out and the turbo-props began howling. As tension grew, the brakes were released and we rumbled down 22L for much longer than necessary before finally lifting off. Unlike most airplanes once airborne and attaining cruising altitude, takeoff noise didn’t lessen, and we began laboring southwest over Michigan while more vomit bags were brought out. The C-124 yawed side to side in sickening arcs as if over-correcting neophytes were controlling the thing with rubber bands. Somebody forgot to set the temperature or open air vents and it became unbearably hot. We hadn’t been on course more than a few minutes before people were throwing up morning breakfasts. The smell was overpowering and dribbles from seats above slid down aluminum bulkheads. I closed my eyes, breathing through my mouth, thinking of other things. 

The rear of our cavernous cargo-hold held a single, exposed toilet. Several men struggling to avoid vomiting stood around waiting to use it. We hit a rough patch of air and the uncovered contents cascaded over those waiting, a scene straight out of Dante. My forehead was hot, not unexpected in these circumstances. “Motion-sickness is all in the mind” I told myself. “It’s all a mental game. Don’t throw up like others.” A guy to my right suddenly pulled out his bag and vomited, a final straw.  I could feel I was about to lose it and hastily retrieved my own bag. 

All of a sudden, there was a tremendous bang outside followed by louder engine roaring. “Hey guys,” someone near a porthole shouted, “The left engine blew up! The prop is frozen. We’re going down!” he added, unnecessarily. An inboard port engine, one of the four Pratt and Whitney R4360 3,800 horsepower turbo-fans, had seized without warning. The plane began drifting to the left as two right engines pulled 30 tons of fully-laden aircraft sideways. No one had time to think about the pilot reacting; we were momentarily out of control, my parents now multi-millionaires. A quick glance out the nearest porthole revealed the engine streaming a thin line of smoke, propeller frozen in place, blades flat against the wind causing a tremendous amount of drag, a combination most twelve-year-olds don’t train for. 

For agonizing seconds, there was no change in engine note from the other turbo-props but, if another ceased functioning, there was nothing to prevent spiraling to our deaths at cruising power. Not a happy thought at the moment. At 12,000 feet, we had about 120 seconds to say our prayers. Both pilots fought the controls, increasing power to the remaining port engine, throttling back the starboard engines, adjusting trim tabs, stabilizer, and rudder, frantically changing remaining propellers. Old Shaky shook all the more as the pilots kicked the tail rudder hard right, offsetting a left yaw. At least, this is what they should have been doing. What did we know? We weren’t pilots; they were. 

The C-124 seemed to stabilize, before sinking ever so slowly toward the flowering spring-time Michigan countryside, thankfully under control. At least we weren’t upside down in a screaming death-dive. Everything had happened in less time than it takes to read about. I no longer had the slightest inclination to vomit because, apparently, it’s a human condition that people about to die have no time for throwing up. My inner self-concluded I was going to fall 12,000 feet straight down in a ball of fire inside 30 tons of airplane with 150 others, so why bother. I stared at a now useless vomit bag and rolled it up. 

Word finally passed that we would make an emergency landing at the Indianapolis Airport. We began descending and eventually slid to a smooth stop before the clam-shell doors were thrown open, allowing everyone to climb out as fast as possible. Fortunately, there were no further histrionics from the C-124 but, sitting a hundred yards away on the runway grass, I no longer worried, because our transport was clearly done for the day. Perhaps it would still self-immolate, but at least we wouldn’t be on it to suffer the consequences. 

I felt sorry for the twelve-year-old staring up at his blown engine, a dozen emergency fire trucks ranged around the smoking hulk. He had done a good job getting us down in one piece. After several hours, we boarded another C-124, this time from the Tennessee Air Guard. I never understood whether my flight insurance policy applied to the second C-124 flight or not, but I didn’t want to find out.

MRI Exam

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My MRI technician seemed competent enough and left the room as I slowly unbuttoned shirt and trousers. I wanted to be the first person in the morning while everyone in the MRI facility was still fresh. I arrived before an 8:00 am appointment, spending ten minutes glancing through a waiting room pamphlet entitled “Magnetic Resonance Imaging – An Inside Look.” It was supposed to inform and calm the fears of MRI first-timers during check-in, but had someone actually included an idiotic pun as part of its title? An “inside look” indeed. The booklet was helpfully illustrated in a cartoon-style for morons. 

The first page asked “What is magnetic resonance imaging (MRI)?” before answering itself, “It’s a way to look inside the body without using X-rays.” I hoped the rest would prove more enlightening. Further explanation wasn’t all that reassuring, to wit, “Your body is composed of tiny particles called atoms. Under normal conditions, the protons inside these atoms spin randomly.” 

I paused a moment. Was this why I occasionally feel disoriented listening to local newscasts? And what happened to all the molecules I learned about in high school? I continued reading. “A magnet creates a magnetic field which causes the protons to line up together and spin in the same direction, like an army of tiny tops,” the prose intoned. 

Who in heck wrote this? Five-year-olds are mesmerized by armies of tiny tops all spinning in the same direction, but I wasn’t captivated quite yet. Magnets don’t normally generate anything other than magnetic fields. Was I, in my seventh decade of life, anticipating my protons lining up together like tiny tops? I assumed my protons have figured out how best to align themselves without outside assistance after all these years. 

The pamphlet continued, “A radio frequency (RF) signal is beamed into the magnetic field, making the protons move out of alignment – similar to what happens to a spinning top when someone hits it.” I suddenly remembered a childhood wooden top bouncing off my grandmother’s kitchen walls accompanied by shrieks of alarm. Would my body’s protons begin bouncing off walls when they were moved out of alignment by a radio frequency signal? I read on, more disconcerted. 

“When the signal stops, the protons move back to the aligned position and release energy. A receiver coil measures the energy released by the disturbed protons and the time it takes, and a computer constructs an image on a TV screen.” I pondered the words, “the protons move back to the aligned position.” Why did the writer use the singular word “position” instead of plural “positions?”  Would all my spinning protons gather into a single golf-ball-size cluster-position instead of their previously normal happy positions? Where would this new golf-ball-size cluster reside? How would I greet my wife later in the day? “Hi, Honey, I won’t be eating dinner tonight because I feel really heavy on one side. All my protons have moved back to one aligned position.” 

Besides, how much energy is released during a typical “proton alignment” process? Would I become a walking grenade? How “disturbed” were all of my protons going to be after realignment? Would I feel a little buzzed while they were quieting themselves, like a Friday night martini? How do they know to resume their original positions? Would I have the same outward appearance or look like an alien in “Invasion of the Body Snatchers?” I guessed I shouldn’t bother asking the MRI technician. 

But what was I to make of the next section called, “Understanding the Risks and Benefits?” Why was it necessary to bring up the subject of risk at all? “At the scanning site, due to the strength of the magnetic field, you must remove all metallic objects before scanning. For example, jewelry, glasses, zippered clothing, nonpermanent dentures and credit cards must be removed.” What happened to people who don’t have “nonpermanent dentures” but permanent dentures? Would their permanent dentures turn into six-inch balls of exploding debris? 

I took the pamphlet into the changing room and snuck a last glance at it, discovering a perturbing statement, “In general, an MRI scan cannot be done if a person’s body contains a metal object that contains iron – the object may be moved out of place by the magnetic force.” Yes, I could foresee a problem with long-forgotten surgical staples suddenly exploding like shrapnel from internal recesses, flying through the air and sticking to huge surrounding magnets. I left the changing room to discover a second business-like technician, clipboard in hand. 

“I know you’ve been asked this already,” she said, “but do you wear a pacemaker, or have defibrillator wires, surgical implants, plates, screws, or prostheses in your body? Have you ever had surgery, a gun-shot wound, or imbedded metal in you that you’re aware of?” She inspected me closely as if I were hiding something under my flimsy hospital gown. “Come with me,” she commanded, leading me into the next room with a ceiling-high, ten-ton, evil-looking machine with a hole in its side into which I would soon be inserted, but could hardly accommodate my shoulders. 

Handing me a pair of ear plugs, she said, “Take your shoes off and lie down. There’s a lot of noise when the machine operates so put these in.” I had been wondering if I should insert the plugs into other orifices than ears. “After you’re settled in, you cannot move until the scan is complete. Here’s a panic button to push in case you need it or something goes wrong. This should only take 25 minutes. Don’t worry.” She seemed unconcerned that “something might go wrong.” How was I supposed to know how something was “going wrong?” If “something went wrong”, I might be slightly too dead to push a panic button. 

BZZZZZ … the noise was incredibly loud and went on for more than a half-hour. Suddenly there was silence, followed by bangs and clanks, and I felt myself sliding into light. Maybe this is what being born was like. 

I donned my clothes and returned to the waiting room to read the last page of the pamphlet while the receptionist finished paperwork. There was a final comment I had missed, “Though the use of magnetic fields is not thought to be harmful, short and long-term side effects are unknown.”  

Whoa! I didn’t especially mind long-term side effects, years in the future, like after I’m buried would be good, but what sort of assurance was a statement “short-term side effects are unknown?” Did this mean I might, through no fault of my own, begin dropping favorite activities like reading, writing, alcohol, and long walks in the fall, not necessarily in that order? 

Walking back to the car, thankful it was over, I was dismayed to find I still couldn’t predict where the Dow Jones Stock Index was headed the next day.

The Rich and (In)famous

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Being able to travel is one privilege I never take for granted. As a writer, everywhere I go, I try to keep my eyes open for something unique. What better place to find material than a crowded airport? You never know who you’ll bump into.

The day after we attended the 141st Kentucky Derby, my husband, Greg, and I were shuttled from our downtown Louisville hotel back to the city’s international airport. We arrived at our terminal to check our bags curb-side and saw a lone skycap finishing with a young lady.

While waiting for him to assist us, I noticed a small group of people gathered outside of an SUV just beyond the skycap station. They caught my attention because they didn’t look like family sending one of their beloved off on a trip. There weren’t hugs or tears as they said goodbye to one another. The interaction was professional as each of the individuals shook hands and smiled pleasantly. Most curiously, the collective was made of four armed and uniformed police officers, a plainclothesman sporting a weapon and a badge, a man dressed in business-casual attire, and another gentleman wearing a very expensive looking suit. I wondered what all the fuss was about.

I first speculated that the plainclothesman was a highly ranked police official, had come in for Derby, and was on his way home. Then, I thought that maybe someone famous was still in the SUV, but I couldn’t see anyone else. My husband offered an equally likely scenario: “Maybe they’re transporting a criminal.”

Hoping to uncover the real story, I whispered to the skycap, “Who are those people?”

The skycap, who looked to be middle-aged like me, replied quietly, “They’re with Neno, the Rapper.”

As if I now perfectly understood the magnitude of this musician’s reputation, I nodded my head in agreement but replied, “I’ve never heard of him.”

“Neither have I, dear,” he admitted as he shook his head side to side. “Neither have I.”

Greg generally has no interest in hobnobbing with the rich and famous, so we didn’t spend our time lingering and hoping to catch a glimpse of Neno. We kept to our normal airport routine—cleared security, browsed through a few stores, and eventually got in line at Starbucks. To our surprise, we ended up right behind the crowd of officers we had seen earlier.

The entourage now surrounded and closely guarded an attractive man I did not recognize but assumed was Neno. He was dressed casually in dark clothes and a jacket, wore a baseball cap, and was quiet when he spoke. He didn’t seem preoccupied with drawing attention to himself. I got the impression that if women would leave him alone, he’d likely get through the airport without being bothered by more than speculative whispers and stares.

A barista was smitten. She stepped from behind the counter and asked Neno if he would pose for a picture with her.

A moment later, a woman older than me took out her cell phone and snapped a picture of the rapper as he smiled for her. I’m guessing that she couldn’t have known, anymore than I did, exactly who he was.

The excited reactions of the other women made me question whether or not I was missing out on a brush with greatness. I conceded that a photo with the celebrity could be something to literally write home about. “Okay then,” I muttered out loud and thought, “Why not?”

Ne-Yo and Kelly

What’s not to love about Non-Fiction?

I approached Neno and asked if he wouldn’t mind taking a selfie with me. He was gracious and cool as he leaned in close to me and flashed a peace sign towards the camera. I couldn’t pretend to be a big fan, shower him with accolades, or carry on much of a conversation, so I simply thanked him and wished him a safe flight.

A moment later, Neno and his protective huddle walked away and business at Starbucks tried to return to normal. I placed my order and received it—incorrectly filled.

“I’m sorry. I’m trying to calm down,” said Starbucks Girl.

“It’s OK,” I replied. “You’ve got googly eyes. I understand.”

I couldn’t help but smile as I watched the starstruck young lady work to regain focus on her job. She successfully processed a correct order for me, and I strolled off to Google who this Neno could be.

I searched online sites through the convenient but tiny view afforded by my iPhone 5s. What I found was deplorable. Matthew Best, aka Neno the Rapper, had been arrested in 2013 in New York City’s biggest gun bust. His activities and his music lyrics reflected a parent’s nightmare—full of foul language, drug references, and disrespect.

Maybe I had misinterpreted Neno’s hand gesture in the selfie. What I thought was a peace sign could have been a defiant and crude way of flipping me off. His smooth smile masking truer intentions?

It seemed that my husband may have been right after all: the officers were transporting a criminal.

I was embarrassed that there were witnesses who had seen three generations of women make this guy out to be someone special. I couldn’t understand why Starbucks Girl was so enamoured with Neno that, after our paparazzi moments, she was still frazzled and had gotten my order wrong. At the time, her behavior was endearing. But now, knowing Neno’s background, I couldn’t accept that the girl was blushing over this gangster-type. What did she admire about him? Had he been falsely accused? Acquitted and on his way to testify against others? In my own brief encounter with him, Neno was polite and charismatic, not at all characteristic of the man splattered on nymag.com and other websites. He must have reformed from his sinister ways. I had to go back to Starbucks Girl for answers.

The line was now longer, and it appeared that the girl had regained her composure. She was too busy to confront, so I talked with one of her co-workers.

Going with a direct approach (who was I kidding, anyway?), I asked the young man: “Can you tell me what you know about the celebrity who came through here a little while ago?”

I learned that I had made a big, big mistake. The man that we ladies had posed with wasn’t the notorious thug, Neno the Rapper. He was Ne-Yo, the award-winning Rhythm and Blues singer.

Ne-Yo is associated with other huge personalities: Rihanna, Cèline Dion, Kanye West, Mariah Carey, Jennifer Hudson and more, lots more. He starred in Red Tails with Terrence Howard and Cuba Gooding Jr. and appeared on “The Tonight Show with Jay Leno.” He sang on “Good Morning America” and “Live with Kelly and Michael.” He’s a popular artist who shares stories through his music lyrics.

I had come face to face with Who’s Who in Hollywood but had no idea who he was.

I looked up Ne-Yo’s latest album, Non-Fiction, on iTunes, and didn’t listen for long. Frankly, his sexually explicit subject matter and lyrics are far too liberal for my conservative nature. This celebrity sighting, however, reminded me of the critical need to verify facts when telling a true story.  I decided to leave the heartthrob to the younger or more impressionable ladies and nearly admitted to my husband that he was right—some things are better left at the curb.