Flying Without Dreaming

We sat in a trailer watching an old VHS training video that kept skipping. One of our classmates said, "Did that guy just say something about 'if the parachute doesn't open'?" "I have no idea," I replied. That's when the video decided we'd seen enough and spit itself out of the VCR. It was my first time skydiving. I guess we'd be winging it.

That's when the secretary, a girl who could not have been more than 18, came in with stacks of waivers. No Responsibility Of Ours. You're Taking Your Life In Your Own Hands. Form after form shouted these warnings out at us. Yet still we signed them and obediently followed her out to the hanger area.

I was with my friends, Rob and Susan. Together we make up what we now call our own little adventure club, "Tres Leches." I'd thought we'd all be able to go together, but apparently only two an go up in each plane. We rock, paper, scissored it and Rob lost. He said it was fine, but that incredible pout his lips made said otherwise. So I manned up and volunteered to go solo. As a reward, my name was called first, of course.

As the attendant strapped me in I had plenty of time to think about what I was doing. But I chose not to. Instead, I just said, "Would you mind just triple-checking these things?" He laughed and guided me out to the plane.

Now, when I think of a puddle jumper, I think of the little planes that take me from Atlanta to my small hometown of Augusta when I go back home. You know, the kind where you almost expect chickens to be running up and down it. But there was no room for even chickens in this thing. Following orders, I scooched in, back-first to the instrument panel, right next to the pilot, another kid not more than 18. He grinned at me broadly and told me to try not to move. He didn't want me elbowing the gear-shift or backing my head onto one of the many buttons that did god knew what. I braced myself not to breathe and off we went.

The "plane" climbed up and up and up, just like the little engine that could. Now, normally I love the part on rollercoasters where you climb the tracks on the way to the first drop. But this climb was neverending. We went on for nearly 30 minutes. I tried to enjoy the view, but this queasy feeling in my stomach refused to quit me. I asked my instructor, Jack, if anyone ever puked while skydiving. He said, "Oh yes, definitely. Don't do that." Great. My last few moments on earth would be spent ralphing up the burgers and milkshakes I'd stupidly eaten only hours before.

Finally, Jack leaned in and told me we had 5 minutes to the jump and told me to turn around. Turn around? Uh uh. If I did that I was certain to knock that gearshift and we'd all be sent plummeting straight down. But he persisted and pulled me toward him so that I was sitting right in his crotch. He strapped me in tight to him, legs wrapped around me, arms settled on my shoulders. He seemed to sense my hesitation and leaned in, whispering lowly and confidently, "Don't worry, I've got you." That's when I knew I'd jump out of that plane with him anywhere, parachute or not.

"Two minutes," he said. The plane circled and I began to get excited. "One minute." He flipped open the tiny hatch and a cool burst of wind blasted our faces. "30 seconds." My heart raced and he told me to put my foot out like he'd taught me to. I saw the tiny little platform above the plane's wheel, no bigger than my actual foot. Resignedly, I pushed my right foot out and down toward the platform. The wind pushed my foot right back, seeming not to want this to happen and I tended to agree. But I resolved to do this thing, forced my foot downward and it hit. Proud of myself, I turned back to grin at Jack, but he didn't seem as impressed with my accomplishment as I was because he was immediately pushing me forward, counting "ONE...." I resisted, what? That's it? No foreplay? He pulled me back, "TWO..." He can't be serious. I hadn't had anytime to prepare for this! "Three!" and then we were out of the plane and into the sky.

Every fiber of my being cried out for this crime against nature herself. And it did not matter one bit that some supposed expert was strapped to my back with a parachute. I was FALLING. White, white everywhere and not thing to stop me. Clouds rushed past at an alarming speed. All i could do was grip myself...I was the only thing to hold onto.

My body shrank in on itself. My hands clawed the straps. My teeth gritted, but the wind forced my lips open so that I felt like some idiot-grinning chimp. What had i gotten myself into? What if the buckles broke? What if the parachute didn't open? All of these thoughts raced through my head in a matter of seconds and then something snapped within me. I wasn't falling at all. I was FLYING! I had only ever flown in my dreams before. But this was it! And that's when my idiots grin became a true grin. I relaxed into it. The air seemed to cup itself around me. My guide tapped me on the shoulder and I obediently spread my arms. Oh yes! The parachute flew out and we were yanked back upward. I was superman!The rest of the way down we floated, spinning gracefully toward the ground. Bright green hills and crystalline lakes twinkled at me. I yelled, no I hooted in pure joy! The rush was incredible. Richer than any rollercoaster, higher than any drug. My instructer asked me if I liked it and I literally replied back breathlessly, "Jack, I'm FLYING!" He just laughed in my ear and told me he was going to do some tricks now. I nodded and he proceeded to turn left, then right in wide loops. Together we road the wind, the sky.

Jack felt so confident with me that he wanted to try a standing-landing. I braced my legs for the impact, but it was not as forceful as I expected. So instead my legs buckled and we rolled forward, Jack flipping right over me. We were laughing uncontrollably as we got up and he unhooked me. "You never get tired of that, do you?" I asked. He just winked at me and sent me on my way as he gathered up the folds of the parachute.

I was completely disoriented after. Adrenaline sweat poured down my face and neck. I couldn't seem to walk straight. I didn't know where to go. The ground seemed to be too much. I wanted the freedom of the air again, no boundaries on any side of me.

Later, as I watched my friends sail downward from the clouds, I smiled knowing what they were feeling. We had been flying...without dreaming.

Bed Bath and Bemused

It's true. This is the first time I've had a real bed in nine years. I don't really know what happened. In college I had my own bedroom, a dishwasher and a washer and dryer. Then it seemed that the older I got, the more I lost. These niceties were stripped away from me one-by-one. I actually like hand-washing dishes, so that was never a problem. Of course, laundry certainly was a pain in the ass. But I never knew what I was missing with a bed until recently.

Oh, it wasn't like I never slept on beds. For five of the past nine years I had a boyfriend. Which meant my apartment became a really large walk-in closet and their apartment became my favorite hotel. For those years when I was sleeplessly single, I had my trusty pull-out couch. This was no ordinary sofa bed, mind you. It had an inflatable mattress. In 45 seconds, I could have that thing pulled out, pumped up and ready for rest. It was fine when I was all alone. Not so romantic for overnight guests.

But now I've truly grown up from studio to one bedroom - a feat anyone in their 30s should be really proud of. And in doing so, I've reclaimed the beauty of beds. There is something so secretly alluring about having your own little chamber to retire to. My favorite thing this winter became jumping on my bed, curling up in all the pillows and settling into a good book. And since I hadn't done this my entire adult life, all of these childhood memories came back to me. I began re-reading a couple of the more epic Stephen King novels I read when I was twelve. Then I started watching old kid movies on my laptop. Huddled up with my computer just seemed a more intimate setting for nostalgia than sitting on my couch with the TV across the room. My favorite one to re-watch was The Never Ending Story. I didn't empathize with Bastian. I was Bastian.


I realized that having your own bed allows you to go on any adventure you want. It's like having your very own flying white dragon to whisk you off into other worlds. After all, beds are the keepers of love, dreams...and stories.

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.