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.

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.

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.

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.

South Beach: City of Sol

I’ve lived among Latinos in Los Angeles for six years now. They are laid-back and contented. But on a recent trip to South Beach, I was struck by how vastly different the Latinos there are. They are entitled and fashion-centric. They’ve created a mini-Euro paradise of sun, society and sex appeal. South Beachers want you to know how much they paid for the latest designer's swimsuit, or how hard they've hunted for the perfect accessory (which sometimes comes in “human”).

I love South Beach, I really do. But it always seems a lot like Vegas after the first couple of days. In the beginning you’re overwhelmed with all the shiny glitz and glamour…but then by the third day you see beyond the pretty paint and it all just seems tacky and overboard. And you get tired of all of the pretentiousness. I mean, I was in a city built for the beach, but was turned away at every door of every lounge for wearing flip-flops!

So that’s when I decided to leave the endless parade of tourists in their fabulous boutique hotels along the coastline in search for the locals. I wanted the South Beach in the raw.

I walked a couple of streets inland from Ocean Avenue and found a gem. A diamond in the rough, so to speak. Automatic Slims Rock ‘n Roll bar, complete with stripper pole and endless 80s anthems. A place you’d expect to find in Hollywood maybe, but not South Beach. I looked around and the room was filled with Latinos! They came in punked-out hair and gothic goatees, Madonna lace bras and Guns ‘n Roses leather pants!

Like so many things, it is not what's on the coastline, but what is inland that counts. We stereotype entire races without recognizing their beautifully complex intricacies. And that’s precisely why I love my job. Because I get to bring them out of the dark and into the sol.

Butt Pirates...heheheh

Johnny Johnny Johnny. I could write about his integrity: how each role he chooses is artistically interesting and counter-"Hollywood". I could write about his earthy sexiness: raw, aloof, unquestionable. But it's his playfulness that I'm really in love with. Each character he has played is a child at heart. I encourage you to see for yourself. Have a Johnny night. Rent a few of his movies, get your favorite childhood candy (mine is Fun Dip) and see if you aren't overcome with silliness. And if you let yourself, I bet you let out a few girlish giggles when no one's watching.

I mean, the man (who is 43, mind you) still goes by the kid version of his name - Johnny. It's like he said right from the beginning: my name is Johnny and I refuse to ever grow up.

Bravo.

In Finding Neverland (one of my favorite movies ever), his character, JM Barrie, writer of Peter Pan, says: "Young boys should never be sent to bed...they always wake up a day older."

So, that's why I'll forgive Johnny for that second Pirates movie and blow a big raspberry to the critics. *PPPPHHHHBBBBBBTTTTT!!!!" After all, he didn't really sell out to the big blockbusters...he's still being a big kid just the same as always. And of course it doesn't hurt to be able to continue my fantasy of Jack & Will falling in love and sailing the seas together...

Along Came Darius

Okay, fine. So probably one of the worst parts of my personality is my fear of commitment. I just hate being tied down. I don't like making plans because I never know what mood I'm gonna be in. I mean, what if I make plans two weeks in advance and then miss out on some grand adventure? I might have locked myself into drinks at some fabulous Hollywood bar only to find that when the day comes, a friend has miraculously produced tickets to Cher's Farewell Tour. And everyone knows that's a one-time thing. *hair toss, tongue roll* "Hooooooooooo....."

However. As I've grown up (stop your snickering), I've come to realize that by committing to something, you may be embarking on a different kind of adventure. Such is what I found when Darius came along.

He is everything I am not. I love spontaneity. He loves planning. I'm moody and irrational. He's even-tempered and wise. He likes movies where teens fall in love. I like movies where teens get homicidally hunted in the dark.

But the beauty of us is in the experiences we share with each other. Recently, I got him out on his own into the Pacific Ocean on a boogie board - and had the pleasure of seeing him, wide-eyed and laughing, as he caught his first wave. And in return he's found a way to get me onto a Google Calendar, which we share so that we always know what the other is doing. Outwardly, I despise this. Secretly, I adore it.

I recently watched the movie, "Along Came Polly." It's cute, but one quote stood out above all: "It's not about what happened in the past or what you think might happen in the future - it's about the ride for Christ's sake. There'’s no point going through all this crap if you're not gonna enjoy the ride. And you know what? When you least expect it, something great might come along. Something better than you even planned for."

So we find ourselves on the "unplan plan" - together. And now I see that this might just be the greatest ride of all.