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... ;)
----------------------------------
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.

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.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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.