Red, White and Light Blue

The following is an anecdote I wrote for my company newsletter in April 2005. I recently re-read it and thought it worth posting here.
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Recently, I attended my first fútbol game, Mexico vs. Argentina, at the LA Coliseum. As a gringo, I thought, “this’ll be like attending my first baseball game!” After all, baseball is the traditional American sport, right? I remembered my Dad taking me to the Atlanta Braves stadium when I was little. It was all hot dogs and big foam fingers and red, white and blue t-shirts.

Of course, I’d heard rumors of Latinos’ unbridled fervor and fierce competitiveness at fútbol games. I wanted to blend in as best as possible, so I thought I’d wear something unassuming…something I wouldn’t stand out in. At least as much as one of the very few white boys in attendance could stand out. I chose a light blue sweater and some jeans. Safe bet for sure.

Since the game was held in Los Angeles, most everyone I saw was a fan of the Mexican team. Everywhere I looked, I saw green, white and red. People were wearing colored headbands and face painting, and even wrapping flags about their shoulders. Countless souvenir vendors lined the streets, calling out prices. I smiled at them, my hands in my pockets, so swept up in the excitement…the jovial laughter and Viva Mexico!’s shouted out. But where were the Argentinian fans?

As I started to walk up to the ticket entrance (tiny gates where people were funneled through toe-to-heel), I picked up a conversation behind me: “Oh, man. I’d hate to be that guy here.”. I turned around, still smiling, to see who they were talking about and was met with a row of smirks directed right at me. I was confused until I saw my first small group of Argentinian fans…all wearing light blue. As a series of whistles and catcalls began to ambush me from all sides, I realized I was “passing” for Argentinian. Without any other Argentineans with me.

After finding my seat, I looked around and found myself again surrounded by green, white and red, this time as a vast and turbulent sea surrounding me. Far across the field, on the other side, in one small corner was a group of my “fellow” Argentineans – furiously waving their light blue and white flags.

As the game progressed, I was overwhelmed by the experience. The rivalry was far more passionate than any sporting event I could ever remember attending. Yes, even memories of my old college football tailgate parties seemed lame in comparison. The Mexican team would score a goal and I’d hear an eruption of cheers, temporarily deafening me. I could quite literally feel the sense of pride in the air as goose bumps raised on my arms. Then, the Argentinian team would score. I could see the Argentinian fans waving their flags about madly…but I couldn’t hear them. Not over the cacophony of colorful words assaulting my ears. These people were serious about soccer.

I looked over to see our Argentinian creative director covering the ears of his young daughter. When I asked him what he thought of her experiencing this intensity at such a young age, he replied, “It’s important that she see this part of her culture. Besides, this is nothing compared to what the games are like in Argentina. There you’ll see policemen running about behind glass shields, trying to keep the fans from starting any real trouble.” I recalled my first baseball game again and remembered my Dad grumbling only once or twice when the umpire made what he thought was the “wrong” call. I swallowed a sip of my cerveza, took a bite out of my churro and decided that at my next fútbol game I’d be more careful with my wardrobe selection. While I truly appreciated and felt a part of the experience, I had no intention of finding out what “real” trouble meant exactly.

Kong Dong Delivery

While I adore my little beach apartment, one of its few drawbacks is my mailbox. You see, there's an older couple who occupies the top floor of the house, leaving me the bottom floor. Joe and Laurie are generally quiet and friendly. Of course, if you accept Joe's offer of a Red Stripe beer, you could be subjected to an hour-long monologue tribute to his surfing days. And, yes, Laurie is one of "those" beach people who hangs a giant decorative flag from her porch, exchanging the banners out in honor of whatever holiday or season we are currently celebrating (my favorite to date is the pink flamingo which waved during my birthday in of July). But really, these things are more cute than annoying.

But because we do each rent a half of one house, we must share a mailbox. When I first moved in, Laurie had already designed a PC-printed label with our last names on it, laminated to protect against those seaside winds and complete with a beachy sunset background. I at first thought that sharing a mailbox might be an infringement on my privacy. And, granted, when the occassional issue of Undergear comes with that season's model on the cover - bare naked except for the latest purple, velvet thong - I am the least bit embarrassed. But I get over it quickly when Laurie's QVC catalogue comes.

Now, normally Joe arrives home around 3:30pm from his morning bread delivery job. So he gets to the mail first, sorting out his and Laurie's mail and leaving mine in a nice little pile, all ready and waiting for me when I get home. It's always worked out just fine. Until now.

Most of us absolutely never forget to check our mail. Even if we might only be receiving fliers from Rosa the local cleaning lady or that month's MasterCard late notice, it's still exciting to receive something, specially meant for you. But this particular week I'd been distracted. Having tried introducing Metamucil into my diet, I was, um...under pressure to get into my house quickly. So my mail went unattended for two days. When I finally made it to my mailbox, I found a little gift waiting for me. An official-looking envelope from what at first appeared to be a legitimate business called DILDO RENTAL CLUB. Apparently my KONG DONG RENTAL FEES!!! were DUE IMMEDIATELY.

Horrified, I grabbed my mail and ducked indoors as quickly as possible. I was furious with this company! I'd never done business with them and I couldn't believe they would put such statements next to my name in the mail! Now, if I'd have looked more closely I might have noticed that there were actually two return addresses on the envelope. And even disregarding this first clue, you'd think I would have thought about the actual concept a little more. I mean, who RENTS a dildo? Do they boil them in between lendings to ensure adherence proper sanitary guidelines? And if so, is there a Dildo-of-the-Month option where you can sample various textures, flavors and voltages?

But, no my brain didn't make it that far. I was enraged and fully intent on calling up this Dildo Rental Club located at 69 Cumming Group Circle and giving them a piece of mind. I ripped open the envelope and out fell a letter. A letter from a "good" friend of mine, Steve, wishing me a Happy New Year and asking oh wasn't his little joke so funny?

But he didn't know I shared my mailbox with my thus-far nice little neighbors. He also didn't know that since my return from Christmas vacation, I'd been hounding them for a package that they were supposed to collect for me while I was out. A package which they later found and handed off to me, being careful not to touch any small openings. Okay, maybe the package DID hold underwear within it...but certainly not a rented dildo! It was then that I realized they'd thought that, unbeknownst to them, an actual Kong Dong, possibly double-headed, had been sitting on their kitchen counter under a pile of newspapers for a week.

Needless to say, I've canceled my Undergear subscription and now have all packages delivered to my work address. And every day I come home surprised, yet thankful, to see my name not yet blacked out from having desecrated our cute little mailbox.

Net Fix

I'd originally intended this post as a hate letter to Blockbuster, but in the spirit of positive mental attitude decided on a tribute to Netflix instead. Now that's not to say I won't bother with a passing mention of my absolute detestation of the former. After all, that big blue and yellow box merrily swallowed binfuls of my money during my early 20s - a time when I considered spending $20 on a 99cent store shopping spree a treat. Miss one day and you'd be charged the price of the rental in the first place. Miss two or more days and you could have bought copies of the movies for you and a friend to hold and cherish at your leisure forever. Had you been so smart in the first place that is.

But my hatred for Blockbuster extends beyond the late fees. It's about all the times I desperately wanted to rent the already taken single copy of Citizen Kane while 47 copies of a New Release starring Jennifer Lopez cried out for me from the shelves (in a tortured and strained cat-like howl, no less). This coupled with the fact that every time I visited a store as a single person I had to endure all of the sickeningly happy couples, all comfy-cozy in their sweats, making wretchedly wet sounding noises as they kissed and touched each other inappropriately. I tell you it was almost enough to turn me off to rentals forever.

So forgive me if it gives me great pleasure to see so many strip malls reduced to ghost towns, the once-bustling Blockbuster stores now hollowed out, with fading yellow walls and spray-painted obscenities.

But I'm here to exhault Netflix, aren't I? Ahh...Netflix. The name even sounds poetic to me now, like the whispy sound of a butterfly easily escaping the swooping net of an obnoxious child.

Yes it's true, there are never, ever any late fees. And the once-a-month fee can be as low as you want it to be. You shop for movies anytime you want in the comfort of your own sweats at home, your little Cheeto-stained fingers sticking to the keyboard. You add to your queue with carefree abandon, clicking any movie you have ever wanted and could ever possibly want to watch. You can even continuously change the priority of your picks, depending on what mood you're in. And your movie takes about two days to arrive, just long enough to forget about it and be pleasantly surprised with the mail, but not long enough to piss you off.

And when you're finished you just pop it back in the mail, postage-included and excitedly await the next one on your list. In the meantime, you can rate the movie, check out what your decidedly intelligent Netflix friends have been watching, and even browse through the wonderfully recommended "Movies You'll Love" section. And later on, you can scroll through your History, laughing and cooing with fondest memories at all of the movies you'd forgotten you enjoyed.

It's pure genious, really.

And so Netflix has become my cure-all for many an emotional night and my love of renting movies has been restored. And best of all? They're always in stock with any movie you can imagine from foreign films to documentaries. So you never have to resort to a watching a "Blockbuster" movie again.

The Importance of Being

LA is one of those cities where there is always a friend of a friend who is displaying their art or playing at a local coffee house. You are sometimes forced to go depending on the level of obligation you feel, which is usually determined by the nth degree of separation between you and artist. I always try to go with an open mind, but more often than not find myself bored, baffled or on rare occasion, horrified.

In one weekend, I had two such obligations which ultimately lead to a great change in my perception and attitude to local creative sampling. The first was a musician playing folk songs with his guitar on a small latte-stained stage in West LA. The music was gentle, which to my hyperstimulated mind made it seem slow. I thought to myself, "no wonder he plays in a place where caffeine is available for immediate consumption." What's worse, he continuously apologized for his music saying things like, "I don't want to put you guys to sleep." Now I'm in the business of advertising, and in my mind this was no way to sell his music.

Still, there he was - in the raw. Proffering his creativity for my entertainment. And gradually I found myself relenting, moved by the music. For his last song, he truly let loose. His guitar became the devil's instrument, his fingers working up and down the strings with preternatural speed. His eyes rolled back, his boots beat wildly on the floor. And by the time he finished, I was the one who was breathless. But one thing struck me hard: had I not already opened my mind earlier, I would likely never have appreciated his work to the degree that it deserved.

The next night, I attended an art show. Ready to appreciate with newly opened eyes, I found one artist in particular who's work caught me. Fascinated by materials, he worked with wood, metal and stone. I loved them all...and was hungry to hear his thoughts, his inspirations behind each. But to my dismay, he could offer me nothing. For him, the inspiration came from within and was no result of a premeditated idea or statement. I was shocked! Didn't one need a muse? Doesn't art need a reason to exist? Ever the inquisitor, I asked him what I thought would be an easier question to answer: which material did he like to work with best? But still he could not answer. He simply shrugged and said that each has it's own beauty.

Disgruntled, I moved on to look at the work of other artists in the show. But eventually I worked my way back to one of sculpture in particular of his. I stood before it without demands. My eyes roamed the curves, embraced the imperfections and caressed light and shadows. Until I woke with halt. It wasn't about the meaning behind it or even what the artist might have intended its purpose to be. It was about me. My reation to it. The changes it stirred within me. All art wants is the freedom to be.

In the novel, The Golden Spruce, John Vaillant writes of storytelling, “each version of a story is highly dependent on a given teller’s memory, integrity, agenda, and intended audience...but it also depends on the current needs of the teller, the listeners, and the times.” Maybe the process of creativity does not end with a fit of passion. Maybe the process actually extends long after the artist has laid down their brush or clicked off their amp. It lives on in the impressions it inspires. Creativity is a continuous process that no one individual can own. Because as soon as it is told to a listener, it is now the property of that listener and thus vulnerable too his subjectification. He now has the right to use it as a paint or a note to create something new out of, even if only for himself.

I am no longer quick to roll my eyes before unestablished musicians or question an unknown sculpture's existence before it's begun to change me. Now, I simply breath in with patience...and wait for the beauty to overwhelm me in its own way.

Geisha Got Her Groove Back

I've always loved dressing up for Halloween. Digging through closets and rummaging through drawers to find various odds & ends - anything that might help piece together some inventive costume. And then the thrill of rushing out into the darkened streets, hunting under the moonlight. It always felt so wild and deliciously wicked. Putting on a mask or a costume is like putting on another persona - a you that rarely gets to come out. You feel a sense of abandon and freedom to be someone you're not - or perhaps more truly what the deepest part of you is.

I have prided myself on the fact that every Halloween since birth I have dressed up in costume - save for one year. The Halloween that I was 13 I thought I was too kool for skool. I stayed in and talked on the phone all night with friends, thinking I was too old for make-up and funny clothes. It wasn't until Midnight, when I heard the last of the mischievous cries of "Trick or Treat," that I realized that I'd missed out on a custom I truly loved. So I made a vow to dress up every year since then. And I kept it effortlessly...until this year.

I was enjoying the more low-key customs of Halloween - hitting the pumpkin patch, carving my Jack-o-lantern, boiling peanuts and watching scary movies. But I wasn't planning on dressing up. For some reason, it just seemed like too much work. For the first time since my 13th year, I felt too old for the tradition again. And I had given in to this concession, ready to settle for the little comforts.

But as I mentioned my plan to longtime friends, they're reactions shocked me. "But you ALWAYS dress up!" "You love Halloween!" It struck me hard and I felt a pang of disappointment in myself. But still I pushed it aside, thinking I'd simply entered a new, more settled phase of life. I was resigned...but the truly frightening part was that I was actually fine with that resignation.

Finally the night of Hallow's Eve came. I sat on my couch eating pasta, cuddled up for a warm night in. Flipping through the channels, I saw a TV special on vampires - the one fabled creature that has always held a special place in my heart. Something to do with the combination of hedonistic spirit and decadent eccentricity. I immediately thought of Anne Rice's Vampire Lestat. "What antics would he be up to this evening?", my imagination wondered. And that's precisely the moment that the spirit stirred within me. Faster and faster it spiraled up and outward, tingling my skin. And all those exclamations from my friends returned ringing loudly in my ears like echoed hauntings. Suddenly it wasn't enough to stay home. I needed to be...ALIVE!

And then I was mad. Rushing to the garage to fetch my costume box. Flinging paints and wigs and fabrics in every direction. I guzzled vodka with plastic spiders in the glass. I cranked up Michael Jackson's, "Thriller," and did a little jig. I tell you I was possessed! So much so that I made not one but two last minute, makeshift costumes that night. A secret, private one for me which never made it out of the house. And a more simple, fun one for the madness of the Boulevard.

That night, as I walked the crowded, howling, bleeding streets. I laughed to myself and gave a little wink to the moon. For I realized that my childish heart had prevailed yet again.

Nuts Don't Fall Far...

We all have those little quirks, talents and bad habits we pick up from our family. Never were mine so apparent to me than at my youngest brother's recent wedding.

My brothers and I are spitting images of my dad. Okay, maybe more like full on hawked-up lugi images. We are all truly Masters of Pomp & Ceremony. You see my youngest brother, Brian's wedding was to be the first in our immediate family's. So naturally, all the men felt it was imperative to give a speech, honoring Brian. But secretly, we all knew it was a chance to outshine each other as well. Competition among family can be the most gruesomely fun sport of all - because no one is more important to impress than your family.

My Dad wrote his speech early on, months before the wedding. I practiced mine the week of. And Brad, the middle brother (aka Jan), decided to wing his on the spur of the moment. But a funny thing happened just before we were all to give our toasts...we all became incredibly nervous! For the first time, food before us was left untouched. And not for the first time, alcohol was drained clean from our glasses.

My Dad, the "Godfather," went first. It was short, but truest of all and filled with more emotion than most of us probably give him credit for having. Brad was next, swaggering up to the microphone, ready for the joker's role. He made it through with laughter, ending on an "aw." Then it was my turn. I collected a quote from our childhood favorite, The Wizard of Oz, and pushed it forward with all the finesse of Bob Barker. But as the toasts ended, a calm washed over all of us. We looked to Brian with bright smiles and suddenly it didn't matter who won so much (although my grandmother says I had the best speech, hands-down).

We also have a bit of trickster blood in my family. My aunt Windy is a "good witch," but a crafty one. In early childhood, she convinced me that whenever I had a cough all I had to do was raise my hands high in the air. She explained that the stretching motion causes your diaphragm to rise, thus easing the coughing fit. Who would argue with such logical reasoning? After all I had nothing to lose, right? So not only did I continue this exercise throughout my life, but I dutifully passed the tip on to others.

It wasn't until years later during the wedding that I realized just how gullible I had been. You see, the ceremony was at sunset on the beach and, while beautiful, the wedding party and its onlookers were swarmed with sand gnats. Oh we held our grace as well as we could, swatting our faces and scratching our heads as nonchalantly as possible. But as soon as the ceremony ended, the crowd dispersed and my aunt acted at the speed of lightening. She spread the world, oh so subtly, that all you had to do was raise your arms high in the air. The gnats, attracted by the heat of the exposed flesh, would swarm around your fingers, leaving your face and neck in blissful relief. And one by one, my entire family raised their arms faithfully in the air. We looked like we were praising the Lord on high.

Windy would've gotten away with it too, if it hadn't been for one sneaky chuckle to escape her lips. And that's when I called her on it. Why, this was no cure for a cough, no insect repellent! It was all a ruse, just to see exactly how many idiots would fall for the little trick. What's sad is I fell for it twice. God bless her, but I will get her back.

Finally, I have to explain the dancing. Now, for years I thought I was the only dancer. I took cotillion lessons in middle school and was in ballroom performance briefly in college. I've even won a couple of freestyle dance competitions in clubs. But at this wedding, I found the rhythmic roots of my happy feet. The gift had been in my genes all along.

Before my eyes, my Mom became one of the Supremes, shifting her arms and swaying in all the glory of Motown. My Dad suddenly channeled Elvis, pointing, turning and hip jabbing frantically. And then my Grandmama glided across the floor and took my hand. We hustled with ease as she spun under my arms, landing feline-like back on her heels. Naturally, it wasn't long until the rest of the family joined in.

Whether it's nature, nuture or a combination of both, we are nothing if not a culmination of everything that makes up our families. And that's precisely what makes your family so special and so irreplaceable. By seeing yourself so clearly revealed in them, you come to understand that you never have to be alone.

Oh, Auntie Windy...there's no place like home!

SuperGay

What is it with the gays and their superheroes? I've always been vaguely aware of some intrinsic connection between the culture and the fiction, but what is it about exactly? Does it go beyond those colorful capes and contoured phallus pouches?

In the beginning, there were our original Marvel & DC Comics heroes. I mean, how many Ambiguously Gay Duo jokes can one endure? Sure Batman resembles the stereotypical older, well-off gentleman mentoring the eager, young chick, Robin...ohhhhh. Okay fine, I see your point.

Well, maybe it's just a connection with gay male heroes. No lesbians allowed? Hmmm....think again. Wonderwoman, is one of the first dyke icons, crossing femininity (her long hair and gigantic breasts) with more masculine traits (her Amazon's frame, cold metallic forearm plates and, of course, her cowboy's lasso).

But it doesn't stop with that original brood. They've actually evolved into even stronger stereotypes. Today we have Xena, the modern day warrior princess, beloved poster woman of many lesbians. We also have the X-men lead by Wolverine, a hairy, well-muscled leather daddy-bear if ever I've seen one. Why, he even comes equipped with S&M devices in the "form of!" blade-like claws that shoot out through his fingers.

It's not just the characters themselves that are gay-like. It's the gays who simply adore them too. Enough to daydream well beyond adolescence that some mysterious benefactor will one day fly them away to some secret cave where a special power will be revealed to them.

But what's really underneath that torso-clinging spandex? Who's the man behind the mask?

As a gay man, I understand what it's like to grow up different. You feel like no one else can understand you. There's no one else like you in the world and you must endure it all alone. You have to hide your secret identity at all costs, for fear that others will shout, "Freak! Unnatural!" So you cower in your cave or hide behind your flawless facade, until one day you don your black leather boots, your tight shirts and your utility belt to unmask yourself to the world. It's about the need to believe that you have been dealt this fate for a reason. You're not an outcast...you're "the one!" You come to believe that you've been given a gift and that it is up to you to use it for good...or perhaps in some cases, for evil.

But was I the only one, or were there others like me after all? After some light research, I found Gay League - a community specifically for gay comic readers and creators. In the site, they list the entire of collection of out superheroes, including those of "uncertain orientation" and even transgendered heroes. And these aren't characters created by small, independent comic companies...they're developed by the two who've been doing it all along, Marvel & DC. In 1992, Marvel revealed that, after years of implication, their hero Northstar was indeed homosexual. Northstar was the first openly gay superhero to have a permanent presence in a continuing series. And more recently, a few characters were revealed gay in two Marvel titles: the Ultimate Incarnation of Colossus in Ultimate X-Men as well as Wiccan and Hulkling of the Young Avengers. Meanwhile, the new Batwoman has been unveiled as a lipstick lesbian. So whether it's the secret identities are simply those buckled boots, there's no denying that the comic book genre is definitely SuperGay.