How the Ginch Made Christmas

My friend Moses and I have developed this habit of getting each other socks and underwear for Christmas. We used to laugh how every year our moms would, without fail, get us socks and underwear. But they'd always get us boring boxers and cheap 12-packs of socks. When what we really wanted was something a bit more fun and stylish. We are 'mos after all.

Well, about four years back, Moses surprised me with what would become my favorite underwear brand: Ginch Gonch. The name sounds silly...and a little dirty. Which is exactly what they are. Basically you can describe them in two words: Adult Underoos.

They come Superhero-style in bold blues and reds. Or with brightly-colored paisleys and bursting stars in the crotch. They even come with black tigers winking from the fly or pink eagles standing erect. And recently, can you believe they came out with little dump trucks and tractors??? I mean, come on. Sign me up!

Ginch Gonch knows what life is all about: living not like a king, but like a kid. As Fellini so lovingly once said, "Never lose your childish innocence. It's the most important thing." In the age of giant Calvin Klein billboards and hyper-glossy David Beckham print ads that showcase well-endowed packages, Ginch Gonch takes a bit of the seriousness out of sex...and slips in a little playfulness. And each new line is introduced with innuendoed (hehehe, in YOUR end-o) advertising along with raunchy, yet completely goofy, videos of supersexy models playing in rock quarries, cowboy ranches and hot dog stands.
Thus, I find myself searching the internet madly for out-of-stock styles and dropping $24 apiece for a pair before dropping my jeans. I love them so much that every Christmas since (and on many months in between), I treat myself to a new precious pair - especially when Moses makes the mistake of trying out other brands that year.

I know it sounds crazy, but I love them because of the way they make me feel. I love being in an utterly professional business meeting knowing I have on cartoon underwear underneath. It just makes me giggle. One time I even got caught by a business partner as I leaned over to unplug my laptop. She said, "love your pink undies." I may have blushed on the outside, but on the inside I was secretly delighted.To give you more than these visual aids, I will leave you with a video aid (don't be frightened, it's not what you think). It's one of my favorite scenes in a movie (and you better watch it 'til the end) with Cameron Diaz from Charlie's Angels. She dreams of being a dancing queen and wakes up smiling...and ready to bump her booty around in her undies. But a warning: don't try this trick at home! That would be such a waste. Take it out to the clubs. I know I do and it's always a favorite. Sometimes, when it's so inspired, your booty will dance with a mind of it's own. ;)

As The Globe Turns

Before I set off for the NYC I had a daydream. I imagined myself arriving, having just stepped out of the taxi. Surrounded by my luggage on the street, cigarette in hand, looking wonderingly up at the high rises all around me. And I don’t care how cheesy it sounds (and any self-respecting New Yorker would mug me for saying so), but I imagined the Sex And The City theme song trumpeting in my head as well. I thought: will strangers really pop into my apartment via the fire escape like they do in Breakfast At Tiffany’s or Across the Universe or Rent? Will I feel part of some great musical where people bang on trash can lids and dance freely on the tops of cabs?

I realize now that my life in California was like a sandglobe. All the glittering sand settled within a picture-perfect palm tree scene looking serenely inviting. But noooo that wasn't enough for me. I had to up and shake that globe so furiously that the sand has turned to snow and all I see is a blinding blizzard before me. Ah, the side effects of a relentlessly curious heart.

So now I find myself chanting a chorus of street names and subway stops in my head. Yet still I turn around at least 39 times a day, having realized I've just walked in the wrong direction for three blocks already. And I mean, where do people buy toilet paper for god's sake? I keep looking for Target, but it's eluded me thus far.

People hand out advice like it's candy here. Everyone has their own do's, don't's and even a few never's. Not that I don't appreciate it, mind you. But it can be a little dizzying. Like spinning round and round blindfolded and once the blindfold is crudely ripped off, you're left swinging madly in every direction - apparently nowhere near the damn piñata.

But one friend did give me an especially awakening bit of wisdom. He'd asked me how I was doing and I was rattling on about having lots to adjust to. And he stopped me right there and said, "Adjust? You just got here! Have fun and then adjust." And shortly after that I had a little epiphany. I was at brunch with some friends (one old and one new) and they were talking about all the places they've lived and I was saying how worldly they sounded. And then I realized I've lived in Georgia, Los Angeles, and now New York! It was the first time I considered myself a New Yorker without thinking about it.

So here I am, on my way to becoming a city boy. But you know what? I ain't never gonna forget how to be a country boy or a beach boy either. And while the scene may change within my little globe of a world, I find peace in the knowledge that at least I'm the one shakin' it. And, baby, we're gonna shake the hell outta that thing!

The Youniverse

My recent fascination with the National Geographic, Discovery and History channels began because I was hungry for more than was human. I found myself learning incredible lessons from all of their scientific programs.

The universe is expanding faster and faster.
The sun is dying day-by-day.
The earth is slowing down its spin.
And the moon is drifting farther away.

They sound poetic enough, but they are all mindblowing and often frightening facts. I keep waiting for one of the anonymous voiceover gods to sneak in the theory of everything just before a commercial break. One equation to solve it all.

But all they tell me about are dark things. Dark Matter, the framework for the very lights of the universe. And Dark Energy, the indomitable force pulling everything apart from everything else. When objects in space get closer together they get warmer. And guess what happens when they pull apart from each other? They get colder, of course. But my question is, will the universe ultimately die in fire or ice?

Every time I have ever looked for God, I have found myself. Or my family. Or my friends. Or the beauty all around me. But I have never felt a being. Once I was in San Francisco (that city out-haunted only by New Orleans) with my good friend Francia. We had a house all to ourselves and started smoking marijuana. It's not something I do often, but it had its place in our adventures that weekend. Well, after seemingly endless bouts of laughter and incomprehensible banter, we found ourselves in a silent moment. And in that moment, I had the most awful vision.

There is a God. But there is no us. There is only God. And He has been for all eternity, lonely. So lonely that He split Himself into twelve archetypes of people who multiplied and prospered and explored and lived as individuals. We are all a part of His, one desperate delusion.

Of course, I was immediately and terribly frightened by all this and told Francia so. We mulled it over, but ultimately found the idea entirely unpalatable and left to go watch the 4th of July fireworks by the bridge. Because it didn't matter if it could be true or not. What mattered is that we didn't want to know. If we are all fools, then let us be fooled.

After that, we were free for other realizations. And I'll end this posting with an excerpt from my journal on that weekend. Cause you see, what matters is us. We are the Light Matter. And it's up to us to come closer and closer together. To get warmer.
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July 6, 2003

"It's been only us for the past few days. We've been purging ourselves of the lovers in our lives and filling up the empty spaces with good food, wine, beer, weed, company, and all the beauty of an uncharted city. We feel independent and free and strong - so ready to take on anything or be swept up anywhere. So I'll go back with a clearer vision and a lightened heart...ah, but the fireworks are breathtaking!"
The Pillars of Creation

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.