A few weeks ago, Spike Lee held a celebration in Prospect Park for what would have been Michael Jackson’s 51st birthday. It was a star-studded event: Tracy Morgan, Ed Lover, Spike, DJ Spinna, Reverend Al, and Brooklyn Borough President, Marty Markowitz all participated. I also spotted Common wandering around in the backstage area though he didn’t perform.

The party started at noon … just like the rain. At first it was basically me, Erica, Spike, Spinna and the security guards. Only two of us were protected from the elements and it wasn’t the ladies. But the music was bumping, the vibe was right and we weren’t worried about getting wet — we just wanted to dance. And dance we did. The crowd kept growing larger, the weather finally shaped up and just as DJ Spinna started, “You give me butterflies,” a group of monarchs gathered over our heads as if they were choreographed. It was amazing.

At some point during the, “Ma ma se, ma ma sa, ma ma coo sa,” sing-a-long, there was a commotion to the left of us. Someone was down and although the people around her were screaming and pointing, their panic was indistinguishable from the general excitement at singing along to, “Wanna be startin’ something.” I saw what was going on and leapt into action!

I made a dash for the front of the crowd and after frantically waving and screaming (unheard) at security guards, I got the attention of a woman standing on stage. In a moment of genius, I made eye contact and while mouthing the words, I signed to her holding up fingers … Nine, One, One! An expression of understanding appeared on her face with a side of her own panic. (Finally.) She turned to Spike Lee. And then, Spike Lee turned to me.

“What is it?” He mouthed from the stage while holding his hands up in a, “What the hell?” manner and looking generally irritated as if I were just fucking around. I pointed at the crowd who were doing their own pointing toward the collapsed lady, and pantomimed passing out. In case you ever need to do this, it is done by hanging your tongue out of the corner of your mouth and tilting your head to the side in a swift motion while crossing your eyes.

And Spike Lee got it. And he sent help. Within seconds EMTs and cops were shoving their way toward the unfortunate victim of heat exhaustion and the crisis was averted.

Yay me!

I may not be the most regular with posting on the blog, but I don’t believe I’ve ever missed an entire month.

The thing is, stuff that makes sense while in a slump of depression with a side of Zoloft withdrawal, no longer makes sense once the serotonin has leveled off and therapy has started to kick in. I had written those last two posts while in that slump and frankly, I was scared of what I said. I remembered the gist of what I wrote, but not verbatim and I worried that I had gone too far or embarrassed myself. I realize that all I had to do was re-read what I had written, but I wouldn’t. My therapist calls this behavior, Anticipation Anxiety.

In the South, social mores are strict and taken very seriously. Airing your dirty laundry is one of the worst offenses. Younguns are taught what not to say more fervently than what to say. Every interaction has a defined protocol and you learn at a young age not to fuck with it. You’re expected to maintain a facade of happiness and to be well-behaved in public; there are jokes about how it doesn’t matter what’s going on inside the house, as long as the yard is mowed.  ”Unacceptable” behavior is done in shadows and is never admitted to.

I broke every one of those rules with this blog. I have been honest and open and put my dirt out for the world to see (all six of you) and I don’t care … most of the time. Then I have moments where I worry that I should have filtered. I re-read those posts today and I’m okay with them. In fact, they’re a lot more innocuous than they were in my memory. I tend to build things up in my head and this time it was exacerbated by the fact that I was told by a reader, “Maybe you should get a diary.”

Sidenote: I hadn’t thought of this before, but I don’t receive comments like regular bloggers. Other bloggers get comments typed into the text boxes at the end of their posts. Readers respond to the author. The author responds back. Readers send messages to each other. Know what I get? Phone calls. Face-to-face conversations. Private emails. Wonder what that’s about?

And that’s something else that’s kept me away from writing here. Wondering if I should be doing it in a diary. Wondering what the point of this is. Should I stay away from the more personal stuff and just tell the funny anecdotes? And I realized, this blog … MY blog … is not a humor column. This blog is me talking about what’s going on with me, and I’m telling all of it: good, bad, funny, whatever. As I’ve mentioned before, you are only as sick as your secrets, and I am on the road to recovery.

I think they should at least change it to, “In A God we trust.”