A Tale of Two TVs

I wrote the following for my boss. This is her story, but she asked to use my words since she thinks she can't write well in English just yet. I think she can, but then again I'm not about to turn down a writing opportunity. She made me erase the last paragraph for her purposes, cause it was too "over the top." But dammit this is my blog and that last paragraph is just SO ME. ;)
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When I first moved to the US several years ago I bought a TV. It was nothing special, really. Just a cheap old 37” color Toshiba. But it never failed me, and man did the picture look great.

Recently my dad gave me $900 to purchase one of those new plasmas for my birthday. I have nothing against them, but I just didn’t see the point in spending all that money on a new TV when my old one worked just fine. Still, Papi’s coming to visit next week and I knew if he didn’t see a beautiful plasma in my living room, I’d be in trouble.

So this weekend I decided to suck it in, be a big girl about it and drag my husband off to Best Buy. I’d planned on spending as little time on this chore as possible. But finding the right TV quickly became a daunting task. It had to be worthy of replacing our beloved older model. Maybe we could drown our sorrows in a multitude of high-tech features. And surely pristine picture quality would help ease the pain. After all, if we were going to sell our souls, then that TV better be crafted by the devil himself. Before we knew it we were heading back home with a $1,700 piece of plastic and neon in our car.

Bringing it into the house felt like telling your faithful husband you were leaving him for a hot young blond. We’d been seduced by the pretty plasma and we didn’t know how to tell him it was over. We simply shoved him into a corner of the spare room and tried not to look. There was no time to mourn properly. There were just too many new features to play with.

But the hours passed and the enchantment faded. The new screen seemed unnaturally stretched compared with the comfortable little box we’d been used to. And the picture somehow didn’t seem that great anymore. A friend told us that if we left it on for awhile, the picture would get better. But two days have passed and I haven’t noticed a thing. It just stares at us as if defying us not to love it. And we stare right back, demanding its cold robotic face to give us a real reason to love it. A justification for the price of our souls.

You see, I felt like a sucker, a fool. I was just another mortal who had succumbed to the temptations of technology. And we can’t even return it. We don’t have the guts.

Sometimes when I’m alone at night with the fluorescent glow of the plasma on my face, a whispering startles me out of my zombified stupor. I listen closer and I swear I can hear a haunting voice say, “But how could you do this to me? After all my years of service to you...” And that’s always when I reach for the remote and turn the volume up.PS: This is not my boss' TV, this is mine (You can tell because Dancing with the Stars is paused on it). I put mine up there because when I first moved into my apartment, the freakin' cable guy made fun of me for having such an old TV. He was like, "You must be the only person in Manhattan Beach with one of these old box TVs." I hated that guy.

Nutjobs at 20,000 Feet

I don't consider myself exactly anti-social, but when I'm flying I'm not there to make friends. Unless I'm in first class, all I want to do is let some easy-read fiction book absorb me into another world. A world where people aren't snacking on chips in your ear and kids aren't kicking your seat from behind.

But apparently, I've never told my face this. My face insists on being one of those approachable, inviting ones that says, "Sure, crazy plane lady, please talk to me. I desperately need to hear your life story."

Nearly every flight I get one: a plane crazy. I am invariably the first one to sit down in my section and I always sit there patiently praying for some cute, young professional to sit by me. A guy who will sit there quietly, look pretty and occasionally flirting with me. But no. I always get the plane crazies. I can spot them easily as they come down the aisle, and by now I've learned to just expect them to sit right next to me. They remind me of that gremlin in the old Twilight Zone episode....only my gremlins aren't on the wing of the plane...they're inside.

What gets me is how they never notice (or choose to completely ignore) any sign that you do not want to listen to their endless chatter. I can quite literally stick my nose in my book and I swear to god they'll actually wave their hand in front of my face to grab my attention. Headphones are no use either. They simply tap you and motion for you to take them off so they can keep on talking.

Here are a few of my all-time favorites:

Plane Crazy #1: Elvira, Mistress of the Nutjobs
When I use the name Elvira here it is no joke. Goth dress, nightmare nails, pale skin (powder-caked to be even paler still), jet black hair and thick eye liner arched over bloodshot eyes. I was uncertain whether or not she was drunk when she got on the plane, but by the time we were through our second service, she'd certainly worked her way through two mini bottles of chardonnay easily enough. And the more she drank, the looser her lips became. She told me of her son who was in jail for selling heroine and how she felt she'd failed as a mother. "If only he had turned out more like you," she exclaimed, splashes of wine spilling onto the pages of my open book. But I was thinking how amazing it was that he had turned out so well, considering his mother...

Plane Crazy #2: C'mon'iwanalaya
Ahh, the entrepreneur from Hawai'i. Now he was just a mess. Slightly overweight, mid-40s, clothes far too young for him, gold watch neslted in dark arm hair. Think your dad during his mid-life crisis. He owned an auto parts store on Oahu and had spent the last few years building a house for his family. That is, until his wife left him, their teenage sons following soon afterward. The house was left rainswept and in mid-construction, but that didn't stop him from living there. He was a determined sort. Determined to rub his crotch in my face every time he went to the bathroom. Once he figured out I was gay, he asked me all sorts of inappropriate questions. What positions did I like? Was I into older guys? If I was ever in Hawai'i, I was welcome anytime to stay with him in his "house." I lost his business card somewhere between rows 23 and 14.

Plane Crazy #3: The Brasilian Cougar
She came sauntering down the aisle all in leopard print. Nails one-inch long, red and curling as if beckoning anyone who would take up her plea for affection. I knew I was in trouble when she crossed her legs as she sat and her skirt rode high enough that, had I dropped a peanut, it would have been lost forever. Utterly relentless and inconceivably tactless, the fact that I was gay made no different to her. She considered her breasts powerful enough to capture any man. But I'd already had milk with my cereal that morning. After I breathlessly thwarted several advances, she finally settled on the age game: demanding that I tell her how old I thought she was. I had no choice but to grossly underestimate for fear those red claws would find purchase in my eye sockets. "You'd nevr knoooow iit," she said in her haughty, strained accent, "boot I've had zree plaztyk zurjeries and botox injections evry few monts...don't you liyik my teeets?" I'm certain her teeets were at some point, before the ziplock bag buoys and scissored battle scars, very nice.

I've considered taking my book into one of those pocket-sized bathrooms for some peace and quiet. But of course then I wouldn't have as many interesting stories to tell. So I'll soldier through future flights, always anticipating that positively melodic phrase, "Ladies and gentlemen, please place your tray tables up and bring your seat backs to their forward and upright locked position."

I hope you've enjoyed your flight.

Perez “Call Me Latino” Hilton

I wrote the following for my company nusletter about Perez Hilton. And here's a little secret: I went on a couple of dates with him back in the day. But that's a story for another post... ;)
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He’s taken many titles, The Queen of All Media, The Gossip Gangstar, The Gossip Queen, but his original alias says it all: Perez Hilton. Capitalizing on the fame/infamy of his idol Paris Hilton, he added his Latino heritage. And he’s been true to his name ever since.

A Cuban raised in Miami, Perez bounced around odd and colorful jobs until he started a celebrity gossip blog that quickly came to be known as “Hollywood’s most hated website” with millions of page views every day. But even as his popularity exploded he not only kept a strong Latino identity, but is introducing bits of the culture to the mainstream. On any given posting, you’ll see words and phrases like “Caliente!” and “Pollo Loco” in his signature chalkboard scrawl over Latino and non-Latino faces alike. He also has a special “Latinolicious” section in his blog where viewers can find archives of all the latest postings on everyone from Thalia to the more mainstream Gloria Estefan. He’s courted and been featured in major Latin magazines such as Ocean Drive and People en Espanol. And he’s the first to praise other Latinos who embrace their heritage. Eva Mendes and Eva Longoria, both out and proud Latinas, often receive his hard-to-come-by positive raves. But once Jessica Alba mentioned in a magazine that she didn’t want to be labeled Latin, Perez immediately christened her Jessica “Don’t Call Me Latina” Alba.

While some find Perez’s posts too controversial, he defends himself saying, “I think Latinos don’t necessarily look at gossip as a bad thing. Us Latinos love the chisme (gossip).” Just flip through gossip rags like ¡Mira! or Fama and you’ll see exactly what he means. But for Latinos, it’s all in fun. Hispanic culture is a more direct one; they’ll tell you how it is to your face. Chisme is simply a part of life…un mal nessecario (a necessary evil).

Nobody understands the power of chisme better than Perez. His comments have helped bash the careers of Avril Lavigne and Kelly Clarkson and bolster the careers of Mika and Amy Winehouse. Other Latino bloggers recognize this same power. Trent Vanegas, a “nicer” version of Perez Hilton, has a loyal following on his entertainment column Pink Is The New Blog. And Guanabee (pronounced “wannabe”) is a more intellectual, those just as scathing, commentary on all things Latino.

Still, in the Latino blogger world, Perez is the reigning Queen. But Perez isn’t all sex tapes and rehab check-ins. He uses his considerable influence to support causes he believes in. He’s right there with every update on the writer’s strike, back-patting Jay Leno for his support and wrist-slapping Ellen Degeneres for her flakiness. And when Rosario Dawson & Wilmer Valderram attended a recent votoLatino event, he posted their photo with a big “Vota!” (vote) splashed across the front.

Whether he makes you cry in laughter or in outrage, there’s no denying Perez’s power in both Latino and mainstream culture. And with all that influence, we don’t think it hurts that he drives a brand new 2007 Toyota Camry.

But enough about Perez. This author is dying to find out what’s new in the budding Javier Bardem & Penelope Cruz love affair…

Dancing with the Scars

Be a clown, be a clown, all the world loves a clown. My secret shame is my dream to be in entertainment. I was so introverted throughout my childhood. Always the shy, quiet one. The one to hide in his room with the door shut. Locked. I wasn't yet ready to introduce myself to the world, but within my walls I was everything I wanted to be. My remote control became my microphone. My bed, the pulpit of my audience. And of course my closet was wardrobe for my many costume changes.

I remember when Madonna's Blond Ambition tour went live on HBO. I was twelve and I was entranced. I taped it on my VHS recorder and played it over and over again, memorizing the lines, the set, the costumes and the choreography. And then I set out to completely recreate it for my audience of one. I pieced together the costumes from clothes in every member of my family's closet...as closely as I could resemble the originals anyway. I cut holes, sewed stiches. Practiced moves until I twisted ankles. And when I was ready, I played the tape and covered the TV with a blanket. The better to realize my lip-syncing illusion.

I'd always wanted to sing, but even at that early age, I had accepted the fact that I did not have the gift of voice. But I could move. I understood intrinsically the rhythms beneath and between the beats. My mind never had to think about it. I just felt it and went with it. Had I more, ah-hem, ambition, I might have asked my parents for dance lessons. But I copped out, deciding that I was too short to ever make a career out of it.

But then a blessing came. In the South, families of a certain breeding take what is called Cotillion, or more modernly, Social. You find a partner and once a week, attend ballroom dancing and etiquette classes. How to hold your fork, which side to present the lady on, how to properly greet and introduce. My partner was Jean. Along with four other friends we made up a little band of gypsies, feigning propriety for those two hours only to wreak havoc in McDonald's or the Augusta Mall afterwards. But during those two hours, the magic happened. Jean and I got chosen to dance center circle for the Jitterbug, and man was I in top form. I shed my skinsecurities and just went for it. Breathing erratically, sweating nearly unnaturally, and well just generally making a fool of myself. But it was pure and I was happy. For once I was the center of attention and I ate it up.

With this newfound confidence I thought I could take on the world. And so later, at a dance in our school gym, I danced my heart out to the B-52's, "Roam". My real friends surrounded me in delight. But then the others came in. Patrick Parquette took of his baseball hat and made as if to offer it to me for an autograph. Ashley Ingram stood next to me with her pretty auburn curls and copied my moves. But the saddest part was that I didn't even realize they were making fun of me...until the song ended.

Years later in college, I finally regained that confidence. I found a world I fit in. I could dance at gay clubs however I pleased and no one cared. The first time I went to Boneshaker's, I found myself, center-stage, grinding in between a bull-dyke and a black drag queen. It was raw freedom. And I wasn't the only one to notice how happy it made me. It wasn't long before the boys noticed too.

So I took a ballroom performance class a year later. I liked it - once I got it. But I hated following steps. I hated dancing how others told me I had to. Still, I knew that if I stuck to it and learned the skills, I could use them however I wanted. I lived for the weekly dance parties. I even learned to love the rules of the ballroom discipline - and I am not a person that responds well to rules. But I stuck to it, tried out for the Apprentice Group, and got in. I thought, "This could be it! Maybe I will now become a great ballroom dancer!" But I quickly found myself slow to pick up the choreography compared to everyone else. And this was compounded by my constantly having to miss practice for work and school. Eventually I gave in. No. I gave up - and dropped the elective. I was disappointed in myself, but I simply had other responsibilities.

I still think I made the right decision for my life, but I sometimes wonder what it would have been like if I had found a way to make it work. Especially when Dancing with the Stars comes on and it's all I can do not to jump straight into the TV and twinkle my toes right along with Mario, Apollo or Helio.

But then, I suppose things could be worse. I did not return to the hideout of my room and get all Sunset Boulevard. After all, I can single-handedly spark a wedding into life, and when I still grab the eyes of those boys at gay clubs. But poor Ashley Ingram ended up getting pregnant and married our senior year and Patrick Parquette is now an overweight policeman with a dead-end life.

So I took the lesson and simply resolved never to sell myself "short" again. And I hope that when you get the choice to sit out or dance...you dance.

The Night the Lights Went Out in California

When I first moved out to California from Georgia, an ex-boyfriend of mine gave me a country song to listen to. He wanted me to go for my dreams...but he also wanted to say "I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean." And with the ocean right in my own backyard now, I'm constantly reminded to keep humble and remember my roots.

The longer I'm away from the South, the more I miss it. And the more of my life I spend studying other cultures, the more I appreciate the beauty of my own. So it's no wonder that I cling to whatever tenacious roots that push through the cracks between all those Hollywood Stars.

That's why when the "new CW" decided to cancel the Reba show, I was devastated. Just hearing those elongated accents every week was like a warm blanket.

Despite the fact that it was the WB's #1 show, the new network apparently decided it was attracting an "undesirable demographic." They didn't want families (gasp!) tuning in...they wanted the same old youth market everybody always goes after. I mean, how many crap teen TV shows set in Orange County or Laguna Beach or some other Californian spoon-fed, hippie-loving, NPR-listening suburb do you need?

So the Reba show re-shot what was originally intended to be a season cliffhanger and painfully forced it into the series finale. No more would I have Barbara Jean's backwoods barbie antics to laugh at. No more would Van be my Southern gentleman TV boyfriend. No more would I hear Reba take the word "crap" from one syllable to three.

But California wasn't through with me yet. Before I'd had a chance to truly grieve for Reba, they pulled my favorite country music station out from under me. One day, I punched the #1 preset on my radio tuner and instead of the comforting twang of Kenney Chesney serenading me, all I got was MC Has-been Hammer still trying to claim he was 2 legit 2 quit. Suddenly my beloved 93.9 KZLA had been "flipped" to the kind of station that plays those 90s one-hit-wonders usually reserved for wedding receptions.

Now all I've got left is Paula Deen. If she weren't still around on the Food Network sending me best wishes from her kitchen to mine, why there's just no tellin' what I'd do. If they take her away to make room for some new Asian-fusion cooking show, I swear to God I'm packing my bags and boarding that midnight train on back to Georgia.

So in honor of Reba, I've got one last story for you. The only gay bar we had at the University of Georgia was called Boneshaker's. And every Saturday night they got our bones a'shakin with a drag show that included the fabulous Cherilyn. Now Cherilyn used to impersonate Cher, but she was never very convincing and usually only performed mid-show when most people got up to refresh their drinks or their dance cards. All that changed one day when inspiration struck and she suddenly donned a red wig, pulled on some boots and took the stage with newfound spitfire in her veins. The resemblance to Reba was uncanny and she remains to this day one of the most impressive celebrity impersonators I have ever seen.

I guess no matter what happens to our "undesirable demographic," the most important thing us Southerns can say at the end of the day is that no matter what: I'm a survivor.

PS: If I've at all moved you, sign your name here. I may not be able to resurrect Reba on-screen, but maybe - just maybe - I'll someday hear her on the radio again.

The Psyience of Sleep

Sometimes I feel like what we call real life is just the stuff that happens in between dreams. As if in unconsciousness we find truth, no matter how odd it seems upon waking. While dreaming, things always seem to make sense. In my dreams I have written a beautiful song of the purest melodies...that when I awoke had faded into warbling, random notes. In my dreams I have known the pressure of a bullet punch through my chest and strike my heart, genuinely if not gratefully surprised to find my body intact, my heart still beating once my eyes opened. In my dreams I have met my soul mate, a boy with brown hair and green eyes who I walked with in grass fields, talking endlessly. A boy who I simply understood was the one - yet his face became a white blur and in the waking world, my life moved on.

Some people think that I am lazy and too much in love with sleep. Others think I fear "reality" and seek to escape from the monotony of structured life. And while all of this may be partially true, it's not the core truth. I love life and all of its simple pleasures. Boredom is a state of mind that rarely exists with me and surprises me when I hear it claimed by others. You have to live with a curious heart and an open mind - you have to choose your own adventures.

But dreams allow you to push beyond the limits of the terra firma. Absolutely anything can happen. In sleep I find the antithesis of peace, although chaos is not exactly the right descriptor. What I look forward to most is the anticipation of discovering what imaginative realms lay waiting for me. It's like watching a new movie every night...a movie that I am invariably the star in.

My favorite movies, books and even music albums have always been the ones where there is a sequel. No, strike that. "Sequel" sounds like something produced only to capitalize on the success of something else. It's about a story told in series. All of the plots planned out ahead of time. I love series because the characters, the emotions, stay with you. You travel with them and get to keep them a little longer. You get to know them and they become a part of you.

The same is true with dreams for me. I have many recurring dreams or themes in dreams, some of which pick up where they left off and some of which twist in entirely new directions. Two such types of dreams have been with me for years now: flying dreams and water dreams. In the water dreams I am sometimes nightswimming alone, or else I am on a coastline, or a lake. The water dreams usually take the form of some monster thriller, like the ones my brothers and I remember so fondly from our childhood.

But the flying dreams, I must admit, are my favorite. With each dream, I seem to become more adept at it. I clearly remember the first dream I ever had. I was attached by a long red string to my massive 4-pound childhood Yorkshire terrier, Buffie. She began to run through a field, and my body lifted into the air as if I were a kite. In the next dream, I learned to fly by myself. I flapped my arms up, down, up, down...just like a bird. I didn't need to run - I would simply stand in place and flap harder and harder until finally I began to lift off of the ground. Eventually, through many dreams, I learned that once I got high enough in the air, I could coast and soar downward by stopping my arms...and then flapping them again to soar back up higher. I recall flying like this through cities...narrowly navigating to escape smashing into skyscrapers. And now in the most recent dreams, I fly more like Superman...or the Vampire Lestat. I simply take off quickly, my body gliding through the air - no physical motion needed. It's as if I have learned to will myself through the air.

Recently I saw a movie with one of my favorite Spanish actors, Javier Bardem. In The Sea Inside, Javier's character is paralyzed, but in his dreams, he can run...and fly. When I saw the flying sequence in this movie, my heart fluttered. It was exactly what I feel in my dreams. The sensation came back to me so vivid, so rich.

But what gets me is, though I know I cannot fly, I can always call to mind the sensation at any point throughout my day. It's a beautiful and liberating feeling. One that gives me strength and perspective whenever I need to remember that life is bigger than what we can only see. And that in the blackness of sleep we find ultimate illumination.

Happiness in a Bag

Okay, seriously. It's gotta stop. Over 99 billion served and I account for about half of those. The golden, crunch of fries that leave salt on your lips and fingertips. The way the overprocessed cheese clings to the paper. Why, it's more than I can bear. And apparently i'm not the only one. Recently my friend Max came up with the brilliant idea of taking double cheeseburgers, chicken McNuggets and fries and plating them up on fine china with polished silverware. It was the best dinner party I'd ever had at 1:30 in the morning.

I never really thought much about going to McDonald's until the recent slowing of my metabolism. As I began the final stretch to 30, my body made it all too clear that I could no longer afford to maintain my McHabit and keep a 32 waist. So, I made a promise to myself: only one fast food meal a week. Which I'm tragically aware that, to many, still sounds like quite a bit of "calories from fat." But limiting the frequency of my visits only increased the intensity of my cravings and I found it no longer enough to find contentment in a value meal alone.

Now I have a special order down: a #10 value meal (10-piece chicken nuggets with fries and a drink). And when the friendly cashier asks, mostly perfunctorily, "Will that be all?" - I, being that fat ass that I am, reply without hesitation, "Um, no. I'd also like one double-cheeseburger." Why? Because the oh-so-varied tastes of the nuggets and fries isn't enough...I need some of that mad cow with cheese, please.

I also tried ordering diet coke with my meals for a long while. Until it dawned on me that drinking diet coke with a 1,200-calorie meal was about as healthy as jogging instead of walking down to the store to grab another pack of Parliament Lights. So I gave that up and now throw in a real Coke in an attempt to force all the rest of the food to fit within the confines of my stomach long enough for the digestive process to begin.

But fast-food karma is finally catching up with me and it's not being subtle with the signs. I checked my email inbox today to find my horoscope looking down its nose at me with narrowed eyes: "You know those feelings you get after you gobble down a fast-food meal -- regret, heartburn and lethargy? You can prevent that feeling (and apply this to other, less tangible areas of your life as well). Improve your discipline."

WTF!!!?!??!?!?

But then, it's not really my fault. I blame my mother, a product of all those PTA meetings and Den Mother duties in the early 80s that taught her McDonald's was the God of the easy family dinner - much like the TV was the Goddess of babysitting. But I suppose I must admit, my addiction never would have held if I didn't actually love the whole experience. Some of my fondest childhood memories are of birthday parties at McDonald's. Amazing cakes piled with lovable characters made of pure sugar. Shoveling through the fries on your tray to find that golden ticket to the longest french fry contest. And then there were the playgrounds, like miniature Disneylands where you could roam among the multi-colored balls behind the netting...at least until you showed mom that strange-looking needle you'd nearly stepped on.

But most of all, I loved the Happy Meals. Back then they were much more inventive than the +$3.99 watches or the tiny plastic figurines from the latest straight-to-DVD Disney sequel. Back then they had wacky wall-walkers or wind-up Hotwheels. Or sometimes even the boxes the meals came in were the toy, made of plastic train cars for the sandbox or inflatable boats for the community pools in the summer.

Years later it amazed and saddened me to learn that some children were never allowed McDonald's. They're the same children today who are given the option to substitute their fries with a side of apples...yes, APPLES! Some appreciate the attempt to throw a bone to the childhood obesity propaganda, but I think it's really just a clever PR trick. I mean, what kid in their right mind is going to choose apples over french fries?

To this day, I refuse to watch the fast-food documentary "Supersize Me!" I'm almost entirely sure it would take all the fun out it for me. And maybe that's why I can't give it up. Maybe every time I hit the drive-thru, I'm really just searching for the joy and wonder that only a Happy Meal can bring.