I grew up on the water. My grandmother had a lakehouse before I was a baby (she threw my bottle, aka "ba-ba," to the fishes when she thought I was too old for it) and my parents got one later on. We went through several boats, from pontoons, to speed boats, to mini yachts to house boats to sail boats. And let me tell you, there is nothing like sleeping on a boat. You fall asleep on a gently rocking blanket of waves, the small splashes on the bottom of the boat second only to the soft hum of cicadas in the summer. It makes for the most amazing dreams.
So I've always appreciated boating - I never really had a choice. But I often forget that not everyone feels the same way I do.
A group of us went sailing in the Pacific recently. It was my first time on a boat in the Pacific and I was excited beyond belief. We had wine and cheese, good company, and a captain rivaling Chief Brody in Jaws. We shoved off from the port in Marina del Rey full of the wind in our hair (yes, I can still feel the wind in what little hair I now have left). Immediately, however, we realized we were probably in for more than we bargained for.
It was a rocky start. The boat lurched left, then right, the sails pitching from side to side. You had to duck frequently in order to avoid getting clocked on the head by the. Once out in the ocean, however, it was smooth sailing, as they say. Though the boat leaned practically on its side the whole time, most of us were enjoying the spectacular coastal views and the electric zing of life through our spirits.
It was on the way back from Malibu that the action happened. One of the seat cushions fell overboard and our fearless captain swung the boat around after it. Our motley crew made several attempts at nabbing it, all the time the boat flipping back and forth along the coastline as our captain stood over the edge with his harpoon. And we were almost about to catch that cushion too...when it happened.
A guy I'd just met all of the sudden flung his head overboard and commenced yacking full throttle. As others turned away in disgust, trying their best to pretend they didn't notice him, I stared directly at him. I couldn't help but crack a smile, glad that all those years around boats had made me sea worthy. I turned to another girl to comment, but her face looked green. And I'm not kidding...it was GREEN. She managed to mumble out, "I'm not feeling well" before going below for a bit of reprieve. At this point, I heard a soft chuckle escape from my mouth. Horrified, I forced a serious face to match the concern of the others. And that was when I turned around to see a girl on the other side of the boat, blowing chunks all along the starboard side.
It started as a feather in my gut. A light flutter that bubbled up, gaining strength on its way up my throat. And before I could even think to attempt to shove it back down, it came: great bellows of laughter erupting from my mouth. And there was no stopping it! I knew it would be one of those laughing fits that you are powerless to control. The kind that make others smile for awhile, but eventually become annoyed with you.
I rolled around the boat, my face in my arms. Red-faced, tears streaming, I looked to the others for or at least sympathy, but found none. I was on my own and it wasn't funny. But I just couldn't help it! It seemed like every time I turned around, someone else was puking! Every time I started to settle back down, the image of the back of someone's head would pop into my mind and I was done for again. Oh, the humanity of it all!
The fit finally petered out as the boat motored in to dock. We never did get that damn cushion back...but if you ask me, it's a small price to pay for a good giggle.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Inn Ocence Lost
There's nothing like hotel living. Don't get me wrong, I'm a bigtime homebody. I love the familiar comforts of home and, no matter how social I can be, nesting is a specialty of mine. But there's just something primal about invading a space and claiming it as your own.
First of all, it's exciting to be in a strange, new place. The first thing I do when I check into a room, is go exploring. I sniff around in all the drawers and snoop in all the closets, fully aware that I won't find anything all that interesting. Still, there's a certain satisfaction in the act. As if I were suddenly transformed into a wide-eyed cat, testing my claws on every surface, doing everything but spraying the curtains to mark my territory.
Secondly, I love the sheer abundance of it all! The place is yours to use and abuse. After all, a magical maid will slip in when you're not looking sometime the next day. She'll set everything perfect again with just the wrinkle of her nose. So, without a care in the world, you can go through several shampoo bottles during your stay. Brand new full ones will appear before you've used even an eight of the first one...and there'll be one leftover for you to take home for your troubles. You can leave trash lying on the floor just outside the wastebaskets. Who cares? Your whole room is your wastebasket now!
Then you can down baby bottles of booze from the mini bar, oblivious to any credit card damage they incur. Once you're nice and buzzed, you can order room service, feasting on hamburgers and cheesecake in bed. And you don't even have to bother to brush away any crumbs...why, you can even use the comforter as a napkin! And towels? Those are my favorite! As soon as you've dried off your satiated body, you can simply toss that nice, fluffy white towel on the floor. Maybe you'll even make the effort to kick it behind the toilet. You know, to make sure the maid understands that you are no longer in need of its service.
During a recent hotel stay, something happened to deprive me of all these wonderful joys. As I made my way into the bedroom, I noticed a card on the plush pillow of the neatly made bed. I leaned down to read it and it all but screamed back at me: "Help protect our environment! Conserve your towels, sheets and toiletries!"
At first I felt a softening in my soul, followed by a small pang of guilt for how much I had planned to reek havoc in this sweet, unsuspecting suite. But eventually, the guttural, gluttonous part of me won out and I found myself drowned again in all of my usual habits.
But on the final day, I stepped out of the tub and turned to the vanity in sudden shock. There, in the reflected fluorescent light of the bathroom mirror, was the horror of what I had become. A creature with bloated, paled skin. Pimples as large and as colorful as M&Ms covered my face. My eyes were bloodshot, my chest sunken. But most frightening of all was the look of pure greed that had been quickly etched into my face over those few days.
Slowly, I picked up a dirty, damp towel from the floor and dried myself off. I returned the shampoo bottles from my suitcase to their rightful spot beside the faucet and cleaned away all of the crumpled paper and rotting food. I resolved that next time I would remember the lesson that "complimentary" doesn't mean "take anything that isn't bolted down". I'd do it not just for the maid or the environment, but for myself.
And I'd also remember to bring a few candles to bathe by. Those fluorescent lights really are hell in a hotel.
First of all, it's exciting to be in a strange, new place. The first thing I do when I check into a room, is go exploring. I sniff around in all the drawers and snoop in all the closets, fully aware that I won't find anything all that interesting. Still, there's a certain satisfaction in the act. As if I were suddenly transformed into a wide-eyed cat, testing my claws on every surface, doing everything but spraying the curtains to mark my territory.
Secondly, I love the sheer abundance of it all! The place is yours to use and abuse. After all, a magical maid will slip in when you're not looking sometime the next day. She'll set everything perfect again with just the wrinkle of her nose. So, without a care in the world, you can go through several shampoo bottles during your stay. Brand new full ones will appear before you've used even an eight of the first one...and there'll be one leftover for you to take home for your troubles. You can leave trash lying on the floor just outside the wastebaskets. Who cares? Your whole room is your wastebasket now!
Then you can down baby bottles of booze from the mini bar, oblivious to any credit card damage they incur. Once you're nice and buzzed, you can order room service, feasting on hamburgers and cheesecake in bed. And you don't even have to bother to brush away any crumbs...why, you can even use the comforter as a napkin! And towels? Those are my favorite! As soon as you've dried off your satiated body, you can simply toss that nice, fluffy white towel on the floor. Maybe you'll even make the effort to kick it behind the toilet. You know, to make sure the maid understands that you are no longer in need of its service.
During a recent hotel stay, something happened to deprive me of all these wonderful joys. As I made my way into the bedroom, I noticed a card on the plush pillow of the neatly made bed. I leaned down to read it and it all but screamed back at me: "Help protect our environment! Conserve your towels, sheets and toiletries!"
At first I felt a softening in my soul, followed by a small pang of guilt for how much I had planned to reek havoc in this sweet, unsuspecting suite. But eventually, the guttural, gluttonous part of me won out and I found myself drowned again in all of my usual habits.
But on the final day, I stepped out of the tub and turned to the vanity in sudden shock. There, in the reflected fluorescent light of the bathroom mirror, was the horror of what I had become. A creature with bloated, paled skin. Pimples as large and as colorful as M&Ms covered my face. My eyes were bloodshot, my chest sunken. But most frightening of all was the look of pure greed that had been quickly etched into my face over those few days.
Slowly, I picked up a dirty, damp towel from the floor and dried myself off. I returned the shampoo bottles from my suitcase to their rightful spot beside the faucet and cleaned away all of the crumpled paper and rotting food. I resolved that next time I would remember the lesson that "complimentary" doesn't mean "take anything that isn't bolted down". I'd do it not just for the maid or the environment, but for myself.
And I'd also remember to bring a few candles to bathe by. Those fluorescent lights really are hell in a hotel.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
AnybodySpace.com
Meet Carrie, a tertiary acquaintance of mine who I added to my myspace page early on in my haste to accumulate friends. Carrie is a 40 year-old bisexual who hearts pussycats, Dr. Pepper lip gloss and posing provacatively. But if you actually take the time to read her extremely lengthy "about me" section, she reveals that she is also coping with cancer, adores her autistic daughter and has a heart of gold. Carrie has also managed to amass over 12,000 friends.
It's called myspace.com, a place to harbor all of your dreams, fears, sins and secrets. But once you post all of these things, they don't really belong to just you anymore, do they? Anyone can peek into your private world. Anyone can steal your thoughts or take your photos (much like I stole the one above for this blog entry). Everyone knows what myspace is and lots of people have their very own smiley-face infested pages. All for the sake of innocent entertainment of course. But what's it really doing to us?
At first, I saw myspace as a sort of personal paparazzi. My crew could keep up with what was going on in my life. They could post pictures and comments about me...you know, share the love. Make me the celebrity in my world. But it also allows you to keep score of how many "friends" you have, which begs the question, "Do I have more than you?" And if I comment on your page, I expect an immediate, glowing comment back on my own. Or else I might just remove you from my Top 8. What's more, you have the power to approve or deny requests from would-be new friends. It's like playing a virtual game of God.
I also thought it was a good way to reconnect with old friends. Like random people in college you hung out with a few times but then lost touch with. Naturally, I found a few fun ones. But after requesting a few others to add me, I noticed that my number of "friends" didn't go up. Well, perhaps these people simply hadn't seen my request yet. After all, not everyone checks their myspace page for updates every 30 minutes, right? This logic kept my ego safely coddled for awhile...until three weeks passed and I realized the awful truth: I had been "denied." But why? Why don't they love me?
As a mature adult, I considered myself impervious to the negative side effects of myspace. I'm not some kid in high school anymore, desperate for attention and praise. The football jock can't check my page for catcalling fodder the next day. But myspace does have the potential to affect me as a career-oriented young man. Recently I've heard rumors that myspace, Lord help us, has become the go-to tool for career headhunters and HR directors. Who even needs a private detective anymore? Myspace seems to have eclipsed even Google as the perfect stalking device.
Myspacing is a popularity contest akin to a baby beauty pageant. The judging can be extremely superficial and overly critical. Anyone and everyone can sentence you in an instant, deciding whether to approve, deny or simply leave your friend request in the limbo called "pending".
So while it's fun to promote your personality, I'd take a second glance at everything before you post it for public viewing. And while you're doing that, don't forget to leave a comment on my page letting everyone know how creative and philosophical I am...
It's called myspace.com, a place to harbor all of your dreams, fears, sins and secrets. But once you post all of these things, they don't really belong to just you anymore, do they? Anyone can peek into your private world. Anyone can steal your thoughts or take your photos (much like I stole the one above for this blog entry). Everyone knows what myspace is and lots of people have their very own smiley-face infested pages. All for the sake of innocent entertainment of course. But what's it really doing to us?
At first, I saw myspace as a sort of personal paparazzi. My crew could keep up with what was going on in my life. They could post pictures and comments about me...you know, share the love. Make me the celebrity in my world. But it also allows you to keep score of how many "friends" you have, which begs the question, "Do I have more than you?" And if I comment on your page, I expect an immediate, glowing comment back on my own. Or else I might just remove you from my Top 8. What's more, you have the power to approve or deny requests from would-be new friends. It's like playing a virtual game of God.
I also thought it was a good way to reconnect with old friends. Like random people in college you hung out with a few times but then lost touch with. Naturally, I found a few fun ones. But after requesting a few others to add me, I noticed that my number of "friends" didn't go up. Well, perhaps these people simply hadn't seen my request yet. After all, not everyone checks their myspace page for updates every 30 minutes, right? This logic kept my ego safely coddled for awhile...until three weeks passed and I realized the awful truth: I had been "denied." But why? Why don't they love me?
As a mature adult, I considered myself impervious to the negative side effects of myspace. I'm not some kid in high school anymore, desperate for attention and praise. The football jock can't check my page for catcalling fodder the next day. But myspace does have the potential to affect me as a career-oriented young man. Recently I've heard rumors that myspace, Lord help us, has become the go-to tool for career headhunters and HR directors. Who even needs a private detective anymore? Myspace seems to have eclipsed even Google as the perfect stalking device.
Myspacing is a popularity contest akin to a baby beauty pageant. The judging can be extremely superficial and overly critical. Anyone and everyone can sentence you in an instant, deciding whether to approve, deny or simply leave your friend request in the limbo called "pending".
So while it's fun to promote your personality, I'd take a second glance at everything before you post it for public viewing. And while you're doing that, don't forget to leave a comment on my page letting everyone know how creative and philosophical I am...
Monday, August 28, 2006
Everyone Poops
You know, everyone poops. And yet we all pretend we don't do it...that we're above it. Cats and even dogs get embarassed by pooping. Cats wait until they're alone and actually hide it and dogs, though they'll poop right in front of you, seem to hang their heads in shame. What is it about pooping that is so mortifying?
It always makes me smile when you hit that point in a relationship where you can poop at the other person's house. Sure you might take a match in with you or turn the faucet on full blast to cover any smell or potential noise (not that YOU are actually capable of either) - but at least you've gotten to that comfortable place where you can admit that, yes you do poop. But then just when you are congratulating yourself on being so honest and real, you realize that your significant other has thoughtlessly left you with very little toilet paper. Or, God forbid, the plumbing backs up causing instant, escalating panic.
A friend of mine has this book called, Everyone Poops. It's a kid's book that's meant to teach them not to be embarassed about pooping. That everyone does it from flies to florists. I picked it up out of, um, curiosity and found myself enthralled...then enlightened. Why, everybody poops! It's okay! Who knew?
I recently volunteered on a 5k walk (I'm no martyr, it's only like 40 minutes) for a disease called Colitis that attacks the intestines. People afflicted with the condition have frequent and sudden urges to poop. (I affectionately called our team the Ass Blasters.) Well, in order to avoid these symptoms, sufferers must take anywhere from 8 to 10 pills a day. I spoke with a couple of these people and I was surprised at how embarassed and reluctant to share their story they became when I asked. I mean, they were out in public, wearing "Guts & Glory" t-shirts to raise money for it! And still, the shame was evident.
But then I let my mind wander a bit, searching for the root of this shame. I began to think of the few people I knew who I've caught not washing their hands after going to the bathroom. The people who leave dishes in their sink for days on end. The people who let their dirty underwear lie on the floor, not bothering to pick them up when you visit them. I thought, what if we didn't have all this poop guilt? Would some of us fall prey to not flushing the toilet? To not bothering to close the door when doing number 2? Dear God! The sights! The SMELLS!
So while it's good to know that everyone poops, maybe we should just accept the shame that comes with it as just as natural. After all, it might even be better if we felt a little bit of shame for other things, like leaving those dirty undies lying around.
It always makes me smile when you hit that point in a relationship where you can poop at the other person's house. Sure you might take a match in with you or turn the faucet on full blast to cover any smell or potential noise (not that YOU are actually capable of either) - but at least you've gotten to that comfortable place where you can admit that, yes you do poop. But then just when you are congratulating yourself on being so honest and real, you realize that your significant other has thoughtlessly left you with very little toilet paper. Or, God forbid, the plumbing backs up causing instant, escalating panic.
A friend of mine has this book called, Everyone Poops. It's a kid's book that's meant to teach them not to be embarassed about pooping. That everyone does it from flies to florists. I picked it up out of, um, curiosity and found myself enthralled...then enlightened. Why, everybody poops! It's okay! Who knew?
I recently volunteered on a 5k walk (I'm no martyr, it's only like 40 minutes) for a disease called Colitis that attacks the intestines. People afflicted with the condition have frequent and sudden urges to poop. (I affectionately called our team the Ass Blasters.) Well, in order to avoid these symptoms, sufferers must take anywhere from 8 to 10 pills a day. I spoke with a couple of these people and I was surprised at how embarassed and reluctant to share their story they became when I asked. I mean, they were out in public, wearing "Guts & Glory" t-shirts to raise money for it! And still, the shame was evident.
But then I let my mind wander a bit, searching for the root of this shame. I began to think of the few people I knew who I've caught not washing their hands after going to the bathroom. The people who leave dishes in their sink for days on end. The people who let their dirty underwear lie on the floor, not bothering to pick them up when you visit them. I thought, what if we didn't have all this poop guilt? Would some of us fall prey to not flushing the toilet? To not bothering to close the door when doing number 2? Dear God! The sights! The SMELLS!
So while it's good to know that everyone poops, maybe we should just accept the shame that comes with it as just as natural. After all, it might even be better if we felt a little bit of shame for other things, like leaving those dirty undies lying around.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
No Place Like Pimento
It's been nearly seven years now since I left the South and I'm still continuously surprised by how much I miss it. Sure it's the drawn-out ackseeyuhnts and pleasantries in the form of contractions, ma'am. It's the humidity that suffocates Yankees, but to us has all the comforts of a warm blanket. And the pop-up thunderstorms that startle others, but beckon us out to sit on the front porch and smell the rain.
But I have a secret for you. Above all that, it's really about the food. The fried chicken and biscuits. Butter beans and low country boils. What others call Soul Food, we just call food. That's what I believe I've missed the most.
When I first visited Los Angles in New Years of 2000 is when I learned that people didn't always drink tea with tons of sugar in it, over ice. Anywhere in the South, from Wendy's to the Ritz Carlton, you can ask for sweet tea and get it. I was appalled to learn that all my meals from then on would have to be accompanied with some other, lesser beverage (sometimes I still order iced tea and try to drown packets of Equal in it, but it's just not the same).
A couple years after living in Hollywood, I tried to make an old-fashioned, country breakfast. I was pretty much able to recreate everything - except the most important ingredient: grits. They were nowhere to be found in the grocery stores. Grits are absolutely essential to a Southerner and there are a hundred ways to eat them. My dad used to come around the kitchen table on Sunday morning's, forking tuna from a can into our grits proclaiming, "here eat this, it'll put lead in your pencil." I was 22 before I realized what he actually meant by that.
But the clincher came just recently when, on taking a couple days vacation at home, I wanted to surround myself with childhood comfort foods. And what I wanted most was a pimento cheese foldy. Light orange, fluffy pimento cheese spread over a single slice of white bread (Colonial, but of course they don't have it) and folded in half. Mmmmmmm. I went to the grocery store and searched the deli section (where it should rightfully be), the cheese section, the bologna section....all to no avail. I stopped dead in the middle of frozen foods before it hit me: there would be no pimento cheese for me today. Pimento cheese was yet another food I could only find in the South.
I went home frustrated and a little ashamed that I still sometimes didn't get it...that not everybody grew up with the things so essential to my childhood. Poor souls.
Just to confirm what I already knew in my heart, I went to the internet and googled "pimento cheese." On the first page, fourth link down was a link to the Augusta Chronicle, my hometown's newspaper. I clicked the link and read the first paragraph:
"When true Southerners are asked about pimento cheese, a smile creeps across their face as their minds and palates fill with memories of childhood. Memories of running into the house barefoot, slamming the back screen door, opening the refrigerator and filling their mouth with a scoop of the homemade spread. It is an exceptionally emotional food for Southerners."
With that, I wiped one, small tear from my eye, let out a long, silent sigh...and went to make a fresh batch of sweet tea.
But I have a secret for you. Above all that, it's really about the food. The fried chicken and biscuits. Butter beans and low country boils. What others call Soul Food, we just call food. That's what I believe I've missed the most.
When I first visited Los Angles in New Years of 2000 is when I learned that people didn't always drink tea with tons of sugar in it, over ice. Anywhere in the South, from Wendy's to the Ritz Carlton, you can ask for sweet tea and get it. I was appalled to learn that all my meals from then on would have to be accompanied with some other, lesser beverage (sometimes I still order iced tea and try to drown packets of Equal in it, but it's just not the same).
A couple years after living in Hollywood, I tried to make an old-fashioned, country breakfast. I was pretty much able to recreate everything - except the most important ingredient: grits. They were nowhere to be found in the grocery stores. Grits are absolutely essential to a Southerner and there are a hundred ways to eat them. My dad used to come around the kitchen table on Sunday morning's, forking tuna from a can into our grits proclaiming, "here eat this, it'll put lead in your pencil." I was 22 before I realized what he actually meant by that.
But the clincher came just recently when, on taking a couple days vacation at home, I wanted to surround myself with childhood comfort foods. And what I wanted most was a pimento cheese foldy. Light orange, fluffy pimento cheese spread over a single slice of white bread (Colonial, but of course they don't have it) and folded in half. Mmmmmmm. I went to the grocery store and searched the deli section (where it should rightfully be), the cheese section, the bologna section....all to no avail. I stopped dead in the middle of frozen foods before it hit me: there would be no pimento cheese for me today. Pimento cheese was yet another food I could only find in the South.
I went home frustrated and a little ashamed that I still sometimes didn't get it...that not everybody grew up with the things so essential to my childhood. Poor souls.
Just to confirm what I already knew in my heart, I went to the internet and googled "pimento cheese." On the first page, fourth link down was a link to the Augusta Chronicle, my hometown's newspaper. I clicked the link and read the first paragraph:
"When true Southerners are asked about pimento cheese, a smile creeps across their face as their minds and palates fill with memories of childhood. Memories of running into the house barefoot, slamming the back screen door, opening the refrigerator and filling their mouth with a scoop of the homemade spread. It is an exceptionally emotional food for Southerners."
With that, I wiped one, small tear from my eye, let out a long, silent sigh...and went to make a fresh batch of sweet tea.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
The Wonderful World of Suarez
Maybe I just needed an animation injection, but lately I've been watching Disney movies: Aladdin, Pocahontas, Hercules. I wanted to surrender to the stories...to become a child again. But as I watched, I began thinking back to other Disney films...other characters and themes. And one thing struck me: they're all a bunch of orphans!
So, I spent the next hour or so researching various characters and guess what? There's an extensive list of "heroes" who grew up completely orphaned, adopted or with a single parent.
I mean, how many motherless princesses do you need? Ariel, Belle, Jasmine, Pocahontas. At first I thought Disney had a Freudian obsession with father-daughter relationships. But then, it seems to work on the other end too: Dumbo was a fatherless boy, close to his mom (in fact, he was conceived immaculately, being delivered by a stork).
Then there's the list of orphans where there were no parents to begin with, or the mother died: Aladdin, Quasimodo, Bambi. And the adopted characters or step-children? Try Snow White, Cinderella, Pinocchio, Hercules and Tarzan. Even the 101 Dalmations, though they had their birth parents with them, spent the whole movie trying to find someone good to adopt and care for them.
This had to be more than mere coincidence. A little googling led me to something interesting. A rumor that Walt Disney himself was adopted! His real mother was a washerwoman from Spain named Consuela Suarez. As an unwed, Catholic mother, she gave up her son to the Disneys who took Walt to America.
Snopes.com claims the rumor is false, but then goes on to say that no birth certificate for Walt has ever been found. Which means they really have no proof either way. Who knows? Maybe Walt Disney really was adopted, but never knew his real mother. So he spent his life devoted to beautiful stories of his fellow orphans. He created a world where mother figures were substituted with fairy godmothers, tea pots, willow trees, nurses, nannies and other careworn matrons...kind of like a washerwoman.
Maybe, just maybe, Walt was Hispanic and we would all be going to Suarezland today. But then, I guess you'd still be able to order churros in Spanish at the snack carts.
So, I spent the next hour or so researching various characters and guess what? There's an extensive list of "heroes" who grew up completely orphaned, adopted or with a single parent.
I mean, how many motherless princesses do you need? Ariel, Belle, Jasmine, Pocahontas. At first I thought Disney had a Freudian obsession with father-daughter relationships. But then, it seems to work on the other end too: Dumbo was a fatherless boy, close to his mom (in fact, he was conceived immaculately, being delivered by a stork).
Then there's the list of orphans where there were no parents to begin with, or the mother died: Aladdin, Quasimodo, Bambi. And the adopted characters or step-children? Try Snow White, Cinderella, Pinocchio, Hercules and Tarzan. Even the 101 Dalmations, though they had their birth parents with them, spent the whole movie trying to find someone good to adopt and care for them.
This had to be more than mere coincidence. A little googling led me to something interesting. A rumor that Walt Disney himself was adopted! His real mother was a washerwoman from Spain named Consuela Suarez. As an unwed, Catholic mother, she gave up her son to the Disneys who took Walt to America.
Snopes.com claims the rumor is false, but then goes on to say that no birth certificate for Walt has ever been found. Which means they really have no proof either way. Who knows? Maybe Walt Disney really was adopted, but never knew his real mother. So he spent his life devoted to beautiful stories of his fellow orphans. He created a world where mother figures were substituted with fairy godmothers, tea pots, willow trees, nurses, nannies and other careworn matrons...kind of like a washerwoman.
Maybe, just maybe, Walt was Hispanic and we would all be going to Suarezland today. But then, I guess you'd still be able to order churros in Spanish at the snack carts.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
Planner Monkeys
These are the members of my planning team at my ad agency. We are deemed either account planners or strategic planners, depending on which you think sounds more impressive. We stand for the consumer...for the people. We hunt for unique truths to base the strategies of entire yearly ad budgets on. Unique truths in a world where "out-of-the-box" thinking has itself become a cliche term. An awful little oxymoron.
We are meant to get our hands dirty in the name of research. To walk in the sandals, stilettos, swim fins of another. We are the meandering soulful characters in every fish out of water movie (think old 80s favs "Big" or "Mr. Mom"). We are journalists, reporting as faithfully as Lois Lane, and often as goofily as Clark Kent. We are muses of creativity - sirens of inspiration.
We work hard to stay true to all of this - to be real. But it ain't always easy.
Often we find ourselves drowning in office politics...battles of bureaucracies. Because people don't always want to hear the truth. It's okay if a brand, product or creative idea has a couple of "issues", but CEO forbid there exist a fundamental flaw. And so many times we become the information monkeys. Fetch this fact. Make the "consumer" dance.
Grind monkey, grind!!!
Well I think it's time that we simply step out of our unlocked cages and bare our banana-stained teeth. I think it's time we throw a little poop at the people peering through the bars.
We are not frustrated creatives because we love what we do. We are not the gophers of human emotional waste because we care about truth, beauty and love. But we are silly, curious, fun-loving, crafty, stout-hearted and more intelligent than you might give us credit for. We are the planner monkeys.
We are meant to get our hands dirty in the name of research. To walk in the sandals, stilettos, swim fins of another. We are the meandering soulful characters in every fish out of water movie (think old 80s favs "Big" or "Mr. Mom"). We are journalists, reporting as faithfully as Lois Lane, and often as goofily as Clark Kent. We are muses of creativity - sirens of inspiration.
We work hard to stay true to all of this - to be real. But it ain't always easy.
Often we find ourselves drowning in office politics...battles of bureaucracies. Because people don't always want to hear the truth. It's okay if a brand, product or creative idea has a couple of "issues", but CEO forbid there exist a fundamental flaw. And so many times we become the information monkeys. Fetch this fact. Make the "consumer" dance.
Grind monkey, grind!!!
Well I think it's time that we simply step out of our unlocked cages and bare our banana-stained teeth. I think it's time we throw a little poop at the people peering through the bars.
We are not frustrated creatives because we love what we do. We are not the gophers of human emotional waste because we care about truth, beauty and love. But we are silly, curious, fun-loving, crafty, stout-hearted and more intelligent than you might give us credit for. We are the planner monkeys.
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