Better street cred than dead

John Mahoney by By liz bustamante
from chicagoland - CC BY 2.0

Now we return to our regularly scheduled inanity and general lack of soul-searching . . .

The actor John Mahoney died over the weekend. I'm sorry to hear of his passing at 77. I thought he was an entertaining actor both on Frasier and other shows. He was charming in the movie The Broken Hearts Club, which I saw at a LGBT+ film festival back in the day in 2000 in San Antonio. Then 50 in real life, he played an aging, sexless gay man who clucked like a mother hen around his "kids," the younger, sexually active and attractive gay men, like Zack Braff, Timothy Olyphant, and Dean Cain.

But perhaps that's just my interpretation . . . .

I intend no disrespect to Mr. Mahoney in the previous passage nor in what follows, but there is a consistent theme. Let's see if you can figure it out.

Yesterday I had to chuckle at some Twitter wag noting that Mahoney didn't turn to acting until the age of 37, after careers in teaching and editing. The conclusion by the scribe: It's never too late to make your own opportunities!

*Thirty-seven*! Good golly! How did he do it? At 37 I'm surprised he had the mental acuity to leave the house to show up for rehearsals! Did he have to wear Depends through every scene? Could he chew his own food? Had his prostate shriveled up and died by then making love scenes out of the question?

Seriously, good on him for changing his life, taking chances, and starting over. He did it more than once, having moved from England to America in his late teens. But 37, thirty-effing-seven, now appears to be the new 57. Our youth-obsessed media (or chicken/egg our youth-obsessed youth) are shocked that you don't have Alzheimer's by 31, that you're not in assisted living by 33, that you're not shopping for his 'n' her shrouds and coffins by 35. You want further evidence? Everyone thinks that the current president, AKA He Who Moves on Her Like a Bitch, aged 71, does crazy shit because he has dementia, not just because he's a lifelong asshole with years of practice under his size 48 belt. And apparently Justin Timberlake is washed up, no longer has "street cred," and now makes "dad pop"--all at the ripe old age of 37. RIP, Justin. The Grumpy Cats of culture giveth, the Grumpy Cats of culture taketh away.

I should point out that yours truly, at the ripe ripe ripe old age of 53, emigrated to Canada. I took on a role in management, god help me, moved in with my partner, and spend my waking hours converting every measurement to metric and adding a stray 'u' to words that are already spelled correctly. I won't say I'm not somewhat exhausted from the effort, but I suspect that has more to do with six months of winter hibernation and too much meaningless, operational work. Would you like fries with that Zoom meeting reservation?

So maybe 53 is the new 29? Yeah, sure, let's go with that.

#MeToo, Brute

"Man on Fire" by Luís Jiménez

Author's note: Some disjointed thoughts for a Sunday in February. This will likely be edited in the future.

Author's note: Updated 29 September 2018.

* * *

While I've been saying for a while--for four years at least--that I want to tell you the rest of the story about Cali and me, I can't decide if I'm ready to do so or not. Oh, I can write the words, but can I commit to shaping and completing the narrative? I don't know yet. It feels like it's a long story, a complicated one, but maybe it isn't, and I just need to get on with it.

I was once told by my media professor sister that when we tell stories, we make ourselves the heroes. So I'm torn in telling this tale. I don't want to be the hero of this story. I want to tell the truth, my truth, but as close to an objective truth as possible. Assuming that is possible.

But . . . this is my blog, my space to think, to write, and to advocate for myself. I should be able to tell the story the way I want to, a "fair and balanced" perspective, the "there are two sides to every story" narrative be damned. Even years later, it's hard for me to understand Cali's side. I'm well past wallowing in my pain--a pain borne originally from simple romantic rejection, perhaps the shallowest of pains. Instead, I'm left with an ongoing psychological disturbance, a subtle haunting--a pain borne from something I'm finding much more difficult to explain and escape: Abuse, cruelty, and unfinished business.

What has prompted me to return to this story is that I woke early this morning from a dream about Cali. Yet another one. To my credit, I haven't dreamed about Cali for a long while, probably a couple of years at least. I can't even recall the details of this dream, and I woke up just a couple of hours ago. So the dream wasn't that memorable. But Cali remains so.

For a moment, too, I thought the dream came out of the blue, that there was no reason to prompt any memories. Key dates for memories of Cali are March (his birthday), July in Atlanta (when and where I met him), and late November (when he went away for good).

But then I remembered that Cali went away a couple of times, including sometime in late January or early February, five years ago, when, after talking with him almost daily for nearly a year, he got mad at me about something I said (an attempt to encourage and help him that admittedly probably came across as too Up with People!) and went silent, completely silent, only to reappear, all casual hey-how's-it-goin'?- like, a couple of months later.

But that was the beginning of the end, or perhaps yet another ending in a series of endings. It took me a while to figure that out, and even after his resurfacing those few months later, it still took me a couple more incidents before it sank in, that the end was not only near, it was already done and gone.

* * *

So let's put it out there: Despite telling me he loved me, despite others telling me how important I was to him, despite my loving him the best I knew how, Cali was verbally and psychologically abusive to me. I don't know if he was necessarily this way to others--and, frustratingly, I may never know--but he was to me, off and on, for years. While I certainly didn't ask for it or do anything to prompt it or encourage it (or so I keep having to tell myself), it kept happening.

It wasn't consistent. It would come and go. He'd be wonderful and loving, then jokey, then would tease too hard, then would be just plain insulting when you protested too much. All within a short conversation, as if the lights were being switched on and off, and each time they came on, there was a new, more distorted Cali staring back at me.

Honestly, it's hard to remember the good times when all is said and done. He was a beautiful, intelligent, sophisticated man, so I wonder how much of that influenced me to love him and hang on when things didn't work out. He was clever but also goofy. He was exotic--German-Brazilian-Colombian--with curly reddish blond hair, blue eyes, and a square jaw. He had great taste in music but a tendency to favor nihilism in his popular culture (which I do not--life is hard, dark, and cruel enough all on its own--no emphasizing needed). We were attracted to each other physically--but not as much as you might think. We were attracted to each other intellectually . . . to a degree. In retrospect, I thought he could be intellectually intimidating, judgmental, and pretentious--and yet I was in awe of his intellect and the confidence of his very strong opinions. He may or may not have thought I was an idiot--yet an idiot who he wanted to help guide his career and support him emotionally during an ongoing health crisis. He could say beautiful things to you and seem to mean them. And then in the next breath, he would lie, badly but aggressively, daring me to challenge him.

I think it's fair to say that despite wanting to make things work (I'm assuming both of us did), ultimately we were a poor match. No, we were a horrible match. Like a historic building and a Molotov Cocktail. Highly combustible. Thrown in anger without perceiving the consequences or the destruction that would ensue.

We could never agree on how we would communicate. If I was circumspect, he thought I was being dishonest or uncaring. If I was vocal, he thought I said too much and said it to upset and to destabilize him. He would yell, he would be mean, he would get angry, he would express disgust at my behavior, communication, and intellect, which only made me less likely to communicate directly or honestly. At times like those, he said I reminded him of his mother--something you never want to hear from a romantic partner. Later I realized that he despised his mother, and I eventually understood why, seeing her as passive, indifferent, neglectful, dishonest, and obedient. Whether she exhibited any of those characteristics I could not say--I never met her. I understood where his feelings came from, but I didn't necessarily see myself in the same way, at least not for the same reasons. 

And I still don't see myself as any of those things, but it's hard not to be passive when you're confronted with someone who is repeatedly and vociferously angry at you. And obedient. I think I'm more of a rule-follower, a color-inside-the-lines kind of guy. It's not something I always like about myself, but it has helped me get where I am in life, both in good and bad ways. And dishonest? A little but not because I want to deceive. It's more a case of pulling my punches. Life can be hard, I can work hard at it, and then someone comes along with absolutely nothing invested in my success, just some strongly voiced but likely casually held opinions about it. He or she critiques my performance at every turn, and I feel like, why did I even bother?

So I don't always say what I mean, I hold back. But I eventually get to the point in my own time and own way.

Nonetheless, if you're someone who feels they've had a lifetime of people not being open and honest, if you come from a family built on deception, you're not going to do well with my style of communication.

So why not just walk away?

* * *

The abuse kept happening and I kept letting it happen. Didn't I? That's the toughest thing to contemplate and endure, the thing I can't reconcile, being the victim and blaming the victim, me, at the same time.

I don't want to claim victim status, mind you. I like to think I have agency. As my mother would say, I can always figure it out, the problem at hand, and how to move beyond it. It just takes me time. Nonetheless, today I'm feeling like I find myself too often in abusive situations, whether at work or at home. I end up in these situations and have to figure out ways to stand up for myself or to work my way out of them or just take the low road and run away from them, rather than wishing and hoping people will know their boundaries and not inflict their anger on me. I fault myself for not having some super strength or clairvoyance that would keep the abusers at a distance and in check, never letting them get started in the first place, but also able to stop them cold with the perfect word or look.

Last week was like that. Currently the abusive relationship is work. I'm now a manager; I try to do right by my staff and my colleagues. And yet no matter how hard I try, I feel like I'm dealing with selfish, angry people who project their own sad stories onto me--to fix their lives and reward their life choices and yet who are rarely appreciative when I succeed in doing so, however small, however hard-won. Yes, I get paid a lot for this, but some weeks, it feels as though there's not enough money in the world, especially if it puts your mental and physical health at risk. My exhaustion, my unsettled mind, and my expanding waistline seem to confirm that money can only buy you so much happiness.

Which makes me wonder--not bitterly but not benignly either--is life just one long abusive relationship? My relationship with my mother is not like this, nor is my relationship with Cairo. Nor are my relationships with current friends and other family members. But there is work, there are bosses, there are other relationships, both familial and familiar--and these feel abusive to one degree or another, psychologically and physically.

* * *

You probably want details. I'd like to give them to you, but I likely won't. There are too many of them and many of them are still painful--painful because of their intent to cause pain and painful because I could never seem to successfully defend myself in a way that I felt was effective enough to stop the abuse. While I think some details might be compelling, others wouldn't. Ultimately, other than one hard punch to the arm, the abuse was chiefly psychological, taking the form of verbal insults, snide remarks, and hateful criticisms--about my (lack of) intelligence and sophistication and my (abundance of) awkwardness--triggers for me to be sure--and about how I felt the need to defend myself when he had been "just joking." That I was too sensitive, too nice, and, implied, too gullible. That I had misunderstood or that things hadn't happened as I thought (the punch in the arm serving as an example--again, he didn't remember or had been "just joking").

You know what? I am sensitive, probably more than many, although I make sure I don't describe it as "too" anything. I'm nice as well, more than many, certainly more than many in "nice" Canada. Gullible, I don't feel that way, but trusting, yeah, sometimes I am very trusting, at least when you're very good at encouraging me to trust you. When you're great at playing that role.

I've spent a lot of time trying to understand Cali's psychology. Was he a narcissist, faking his way through emotions that he didn't actually feel? Did he have borderline personality disorder, a condition for which I've yet to find a description that helps me understand. Was he, like Donald Trump, just an unrepentant asshole? Did he suffer lingering consequences from a serious car accident that may or may not have left him with lifelong brain injuries? Was he abused as a child and suffered a form of post-traumatic stress disorder?

There is evidence for the child abuse, at least psychological abuse, reported by him. There is also evidence of sexual abuse against other siblings, reported by his siblings. One even made a documentary about it. Californians. Go figure.

So hearing that, it makes what I went through with him pale in comparison--or so I've kept telling myself over the years. How could I even say I suffered compared to what Cali and his family went through? Why would I even think he would psychologically abuse me, knowing full well how that felt? Didn't he say so himself? And yet I did suffer consequences, and still do, which I suspect is what made me dream of Cali after a particularly psychologically abusive week.

Maybe it would help if I described it this way: The abuse was more akin to death by a thousand cuts, hidden in plain sight but painful all the same. There is probably no one standout event, which in some ways is worse--there was so much bad toward the end that it all blurs together.

Suffice it to say you had to be there--but be very grateful you weren't.

* * *

I've been reading some about the #MeToo movement lately, trying to parse out my feelings about the narratives, the testifiers, and the perpetrators. I struggle with my own male perspective, my gay male perspective, and my moral judgments. Rose McGowan does seem crazy and power-mad--did you catch that Ivan Drago pose at that women's conference?--but perhaps I would feel the same if I'd gone through some of the things she has. But haven't I? Maybe I should not so easily dismiss my experience when compared to an overly opinionated celebrity. Maybe I should become the next Dolph Lundgren to keep the bullies at bay.

In a recent New York Times interview, Uma Thurman described some horrible sexual and psychological situations with Harvey Weinstein, which have no other side to the story, no matter how many times Weinstein's attorneys describe what happened as an "awkward pass." She also described a horrible psychological situation with Quentin Tarantino, in which he encouraged her to do a stunt for a movie, promised to keep her safe, but which resulted in long-term physical damage. No other side there either.

Further, she also described an encounter at 16 with an older man that led her to go to his home alone, have drinks, and end up being coerced into sex with him.

And immediately I think, why would you do that? Go home with a stranger in New York City, being so young and putting yourself in such a vulnerable place. Why wouldn't you know better than to do that?

And yet . . . I think of all the times I've done similarly. Given the news from Toronto these days about a potential serial killer, a mild-mannered gay man in a mild-mannered country who may have tortured and killed five or more men, I feel lucky that I'm still alive, especially since I was taking chances and making questionable decisions about my sexuality and safety well into my 40s. If I gave myself a pass at 26, 36, and 46, why shouldn't I give a 16-year-old girl a pass as well?

Over the holidays, the #MeToo discussion came up at home. My feminist sister and I had some back-and-forth on the issue. She made the comment that a woman should be able to walk down the street at midnight completely naked and not be harassed or assaulted. And I remember thinking (but not saying), who among us, male or female or otherwise, has that "right"? If I did the same, I'd no doubt face harassment, assault, and likely jail-time.

And yet . . . why shouldn't one be able to do this? Maybe a certain level of harassment is unavoidable, but, as I've often said about my fellow gay men, you shouldn't end up assaulted or dead because someone doesn't like how you look or act. People have the right not to like you and, I guess, to say so, if they so choose. But there is no right to rape and murder you, no matter how risky or provocative your behavior is--like, say, while walking down the street, naked or otherwise, or hooking up with a stranger you met online.

* * *

So with all this rolling and trolling around in my head, what do I think about #MeToo and me too? I still think that you have to be careful and look out for yourself. There are people in life who you can trust; finding them and holding onto them can be challenging, but they exist, thank goodness. But there are many people you can't, strangers as well as familiars. Some people will tell you they admire you, they respect you, they love you, and then in the next instance treat you cruelly, even criminally. And then in the instant after that, blame you for causing the abuse, call you stupid for letting it happen, openly question your sanity, detest you for doing so, and silence your complaints by letting you know they've suffered much more than you could ever imagine. And then the cycle will start all over again--because this is what they do and because you can't seem to do anything to stop it.

But how do you "rise above" and protect yourself from this, especially when you've had a life founded on compliance, compromise, acquiescence, and agreeableness? Many of us are like this, regardless of gender or sexuality. Meanwhile, there are legions of serial harassers, abusers, assaulters, rapists, and murderers. They hide in plain sight, looking respectable, having jobs, manners, portfolios, homes, and families. They stroke your ego with one hand while slapping or punching you with the other.

How do you stop this? And how do you stop blaming yourself when it happens? I think you have the responsibility to take care of yourself, but it's hard and exhausting to stay on alert all the time, especially when signs sometimes mislead you to the wrong, reactionary conclusions. But why must we, the victims, accept the blame and carry the responsibility? Don't we all have a responsibility to take care of each other, or at least to not do harm to each other? Shouldn't the perpetrators own their cruelty instead of fobbing it off and saying you let it happen by not fighting back--as if they would even honor your fight? Sometimes it's hard to know what will do harm because there can be unintended consequences to your actions and your words. They can hurt in ways you can't fathom. But there are times when it's blatantly obvious that you are doing harm to others and continue to do so, no matter how much you play the innocent or blame the victim. You might apologize, but you don't really mean it, and then you repeat your actions and maybe even enjoy the confusion and pain it causes the object of your derision. Isn't it your responsibility to stop yourself, to not take advantage of a situation that gives you pleasure and satisfaction for all the wrong reasons?

I keep thinking of the execrable Brock Turner, the guy who was found dragging a woman behind a dumpster and raping her, who only got six months in jail. Perhaps that's the most extreme example, but how do you justify to yourself that this is acceptable behavior? "Well, she shouldn't have gotten drunk, she shouldn't have let it happen to herself." How we've all come to take that as gospel in our lives, myself included. I knew abuse was wrong when I was in my early 20s, and now I'm struggling to unlearn what I've become accustomed to--years of harassment, abuse, and even assault. It's not your fault that someone abuses you. It's not my fault either.

* * *

Cali died in late November 2013. Whether by his own hand on purpose or by accident or whether due to a recurrence of an aneurysm that had plagued him in 2011 and prompted him to get back in touch with me in 2012, I cannot say. As I mentioned earlier, when things blew apart once again in January-February 2013, he resurfaced a couple of months later. We spoke, we visited each other at a conference, we spent the night together, and we discussed our future. I still hoped we had one, and I tried to convey that I hadn't given up on us and that I hoped I'd be able to relocate out West, where he was now living and gainfully employed.

But a week after that visit, we were back to our old abusive tete-a-tete. And after that, I spoke with him rarely and, in fact, ignored a couple of his phone messages in the last months of his life. I moved on and was happier for doing so.

I was never able to find an obituary that might have provided more detail about what happened. I didn't attend the memorial for him held in early 2014. I just couldn't bring myself to do so. I wanted to attend and perhaps should have but money was tight at the time. The service was just after the New Year in suburban Los Angeles, meaning a cross-country trek involving planes, rental cars, hotels, and meals. And by that point, I just figured Cali had cost me enough money over the years--a few hundred dollars for a rental in Puerto Vallarta, which he baled on and never repaid me for; paying his way to visit me in Pittsburgh; being invited to visit him in California a year before and having to get a hotel room for the vacation because, he suddenly decided, he didn't want me to see his apartment in mid-move condition, a condition somehow he found a way to blame me for. (Short version: I helped him find a great job with a major Western U.S. university in a large, burgeoning, and hip [in a late capitalist way] city. But it wasn't a job near me [and lord knows I tried to do so], which just showed I wasn't serious about him and was in effect kicking him to the relationship curb.)

But it was more than the money. By this time, I'd started dating Cairo and had begun to understand how damaged I was by Cali. I didn't want to look back by going to the memorial service. I also felt like I no longer needed to.

I later learned that at the memorial service one of his brothers had spoken about Cali's moments of rage and abusive behavior to others. I didn't learn about that until a couple of years afterwards. Hearing that might have helped me heal, but even knowing it now has not done so in a deep or meaningful way. I still crave evidence and testimonies of Cali's cruelty to others, so maybe once and for all I'll know it wasn't just me, it wasn't my fault.

Instead mainly what I've heard is praise and love and worship and tears from one of Cali's friends, The Widow, a mutual acquaintance who had never had much use for me, nor I him. Yet now we are bound together in memory of Cali. Every March around the time of Cali's birthday and every November around the time of Cali's death, The Widow turns Facebook into a wailing wall of lamentations over Cali's passing and testimonials to how brilliant, beautiful, wonderful, thoughtful, bold, hilarious, etc., he was. I recently learned that The Widow even had a photo of Cali turned into a painting.

I will never love anyone that much. And that's fine by me.

Far be it from me to judge how people grieve--I still occasionally cry about my father's passing and that happened nearly 11 years ago. Yet have a portrait created of your deceased and (let's face it) unrequited love all seems a bit creepy and cloying to me.

It also seems undeserved and unfair. The Widow seems to have had a very strong friendship with Cali, a respectful relationship, while I never did, at least not consistently, not satisfactorily. The Widow has joyful memories and hilarious stories. The Widow is inspired by his friendship with Cali. And while I have some of these things because of Cali, they are all tainted to some degree with memories of cruelty and insults.

All I ever wanted was friendship, respect, and love. And all I ever felt was that I wasn't good enough to get any of these things from him, except in the smallest of pieces, enough to keep me hanging on and just enough to hang myself.

* * *

Things are better now. Nearly five years later on, I have a solid relationship with Cairo. I have gainful (if unsatisfying) employment. I am completely out of debt. I live in another country, something I've always wanted to do, even if I think it is a cold, colorless land. I am even thinking about adding a third country to my repertoire before all is said and done. I am effectively medicated with an anti-depressant that doesn't control me, numb me, or ruin me; instead, it just gives me a little mental space to cope better with the world. I have a really nice apartment, and I'm thinking about taking a lovely and exotic vacation this year. Life is generally good.

Despite conventional romantic wisdom, I would not trade any of it for another chance to talk with Cali. It might be satisfying to tell him how I felt and still feel, but I don't think it would make a damn bit of difference. He still wouldn't listen, and I still wouldn't be able to tell him.

Besides, it's not like I haven't had the chance to talk with him before, since he died. I've heard from Cali in my dreams, once memorably flying through the sky with him, side by side, his telling me he is doing fine. And I've seen him before in odd, unexpected places, such as Portland in 2015, right before accepting the job that brought me to Toronto, where I spotted a man glaring at me through an open restaurant window, a man that looked just like Cali if he'd let his hair go gray. Trust me, it would be like Cali to fake his own death. I haven't ruled that out.

But none of these dreams and sightings fixes anything.

I alternate between feeling sorry for Cali--he didn't have an easy life; he didn't deserve the abuse he received--and with being angry at him, being glad that he's no longer in my life. I gloat a little to think that I accomplished what he could not--a steady, successful career; a move to life in another country. An immigrant to the U.S., Cali couldn't stand America, although coming from money, he benefited from American life more than many. I still feel bad for him that he couldn't accomplish those things, and yet I'm not sure I've been completely successful either: I don't really like Canada!

I wonder if it will always be like this. Who would I talk with that would resolve the unresolvable? Would there ever be enough corroborating evidence that would make me feel any better? Ultimately, I bear the responsibility to heal myself. However, I in no way bear the responsibility for the bad behavior of others. Especially Cali's.

May he rest. And so may I.

El baile y el salón

Today´s rock en español treat--Mexican music group Café Tacuba (or "Tacvba," if you insist) performing their 1990s hit, "El baile y el salón"--"The Dance and the Salon."

I don´t know if this would be considered a typical Café Tacuba song in that, from what I recall, none of their songs are "typical," i.e., their sound is highly varied. I remember some punk/metal-sounding numbers, some ballads, some "cod reggae" (or am I mistakenly channeling Juanes?), some pop, and then something like this, a jazzy, breezy little pop tune that sounds joyous and practically effortless.

I was fortunate enough to see Café Tacuba in concert in San Antonio in the late ´90s--in a nightclub of all places in the far northwestern suburbs. You could do that in San Antonio because Latin pop and rock, while listened to, were secondary, maybe even tertiary, in popularity to Tejano music, Norteño music, and other variations on what might best be described as Mexican and Mexican-American folk and country. Heck, I suspect even salsa, cumbia, and other Caribbean and Latin music styles were more popular in San Antonio than Latin pop and rock en español.

And while at the time I considered that something of a sad testimony to San Antonio´s lack of verve and cultural focus, in retrospect, I think I was just mistaken and misinterpreting the reality in which I lived. Despite being a self-touted "gateway to Mexico"--despite one, in fact, being part of Mexico--I always thought the city looked inward, not outward. But it was and is a majority Mexican-American city, a full 150 miles (250 kilometers maybe?) from the Mexican border and 300 miles or so from the nearest major Mexican metropolis, Monterrey. Thus there was no reason San Antonio should carry out my fantasy of living in Latin America. It was always fine as is, as a Latino city. It´s just that I wasn´t as interested in that aspect of the culture. While I did my best to appreciate it, the culture didn´t belong to me.

In life, I´ve struggled with the idea of appreciating a place for what it is rather than what I want it to be, which may explain why I´ve tended to move around a lot and moved to another country at the ripe old age of 54--and still have the urge to move again one or two more times before all is said and done. Maybe I don´t know what I want, or maybe I--altogether now--"still haven´t found what I´m looking for."

I suspect it´s the latter, but it begs the question, "Does what I imagine, does what I want, actually exist?" Maybe, maybe not. Maybe what most of us get in life is a momentary taste of what might be--a nibble, a morsel, enough to make you crave more, rather than a wealth, a cornucopia of flavor, and full satiety.

Yet I still want to be satisfied. Maybe that will come through more travel and a sooner-rather-than-later retirement, being able to do what I want when I want, rather than being tied to a schedule and responsibilities. Money is an issue. As is time. Always time.

In the meantime, though, these little memory trips down Latin America way help get me through a cold Canadian reality, allowing me to live in my warm South-of-the-border fantasy, despite what the weather and the culture want me to conform to. And maybe that´s good enough for now and even forever, in case the fantasy never becomes reality.

But I still hold out that, in time, the fantasy will become my day-to-day life. Otherwise, what´s the point of striving? And I´m always ready for more striving, as long as some success comes with the effort.

In the meantime, ándale. Let´s go!

Día cero

Your daily dose of Rock en español: the video for La Ley performing ¨Día Cero,¨ their huge hit (at least in Latin America) from 1997 or so.

Twenty years later, this remains a favorite of mine. I don't remember when or where I first heard it--perhaps San Antonio's former Latin American top hits station, La Romántica, or maybe one of the Saturdays I used to stay at home to watch "Telehit," Mexico's real answer to MTV, which was rebroadcast on Galavision. I don't even fully understand the lyrics to the song, mainly because I haven't taken the time to. But the mood the song creates, the sound both of the music and the singer's voice, that's what has always captivated me.

But maybe now, twenty years later, it's time to understand the lyrics. There are a few that I get easily through listening: "En ese un camino largo" (on this long road) and the title itself (Day Zero). But others, not so much, and even when I read the lyrics, I'm not sure I fully understand. The limits of my Spanish, alas.

Which has got me thinking: It's time, past time, to work on my Spanish again, to visit Mexico again, and to visit places I've longed to but haven't found the time to or didn't have the money to before--Buenos Aires would be at the time of my list. Cuernavaca. Antigua, Guatemala. Bogotá. Cuzco. Havana.

Now I have the money but often not the time. Nonetheless, this is goal worth working toward in 2018.

¡Buena suerte para mi! May today be Day One of my quest to explore and learn from nuestro mundo.

How do you solve a problem like Simplemente María?

If you've given more (or less) than a cursory glance at this blog, it's of course no secret that I have a thing for soap operas. And this "thing" extends to soaps from many countries and in many languages--at least in languages that I understand or that are subtitled to aid in my understanding.

I chalk up the life-long interest in soaps to my upbringing when the daytime soaps were a big part of our family's life. My grandmother was a CBS soaps fan (As the World Turns, Guiding Light), my Mom, an NBC one (Another World). Growing up, I watched Another World and Dark Shadows (ABC) with my sister and brothers. I distinctly remember Rachel #1 (Robin Strasser) purposefully spilling the beans to Alice Matthews that she was pregnant with Steve Frame's child (Steve was Alice's fiancé--trust me, this was explosive stuff in the late 1960s). I also clearly remember Barnabas enclosing the Reverend Trask behind a brick wall, a la The Cask of Amontillado, leaving him to die. (Trust me again, Trask deserved it.)

Later, along with some combination of friends, family, and coworkers, I watched All My Children, Texas, Days of Our Lives, Santa Barbara, One Life to Live, Guiding Light, and now, occasionally, The Bold and the Beautiful. I never got hooked on The Young and the Restless, As the World Turns, or General Hospital, even as a social habit. You can imagine that with the demise of nearly all soaps on American TV since 1999, it's been a lonely, frustrating time for a dedicated soap aficionado.

Orange is the new Itatí Cantoral

Thus over time I've turned to soaps from outre-mer, such as Britain (EastEnders, Coronation Street, and the execrable Hollyoaks, which if I were a particularly stupid trashy teen from the UK, I might find it appealing, but since I'm not, oh well . . .), Australia (Neighbours, Home and Away), South Africa (Egoli: Place of Gold, 7de Laan, Muvhango, Isidingo, Generations), and especially Mexico and Latin America.

See what I mean about a "thing"?

* * *

I'm not sure what triggered the memories but over the last couple of days, I've had flashbacks to scenes from a number of Mexican telenovelas that I've watched over the years--or, rather, over the decades, as I got turned onto novelas during my first trip to Mexico in 1989. That was an eye-opening, mind-expanding, and life-affirming vacation, exposing me to various aspects of Mexican art, language, music, society, business, transportation, religion, and government. And I was only there for 10 days!

Fernando Colunga, '90s novela star.
And to think I dated a guy who looked
similar to this and broke it off because
I thought he was boring ...

My Spanish--learned in high school and college--was fairly rudimentary then. It got better after I moved to Texas in 1995. And while I've never been fluent, I managed to get more competent when I had a Mexican boyfriend who had limited English. Much of the responsibility for communication fell on me, and I gladly accepted the duty.

I've had less opportunity to speak Spanish since moving back east in 2004 and even less than less opportunity since moving to Canada in 2015. But I try to keep up as best I can. The trip I made to San Antonio about a year ago really sparked a renewal in interest. Even at my ripe middle age, I still yearn to be more fluent in Spanish and still regret that I didn't pursue my original plan of an undergraduate degree in Spanish back in the day. A missed opportunity, but honestly, I couldn't see any future in it at the time. I wasn't planning to teach, I wasn't good enough to translate or interpret, and I didn't see myself going on to a PhD in anything. Never mind that I've used Spanish in most of my jobs. Never mind that I still like to speak it when I can. Never mind that I always have felt more comfortable--and more alive!--in Mexico than I have in the colder, blander climes of the U.S., Europe, and, alas, Canada.

I still love English--its fun, flexibility, and global influence. But ay, dios mío, why didn't I move to Mexico all those years ago? Why haven't I traveled more in Latin America--to Buenos Aires or Cuzco or San Juan--especially now that I have the money to do so? Why haven't I taken a Spanish course in Costa Rica or Colombia, similar to what I did when I took a French course several years ago in Montreal? Might I be able to at some point in the future, when retirement finally releases me from the day-to-day and hum-drum of this working life--live, travel, study? Espero que sí.

In the meantime, I'll have to content myself with memories of '80s and '90s telenovelas de amor.

* * *



First, a true confession: Even though Betty la Fea (Ugly Betty) was a huge hit when I lived in Texas, I never watched it. Probably a mistake because I missed out on a cultural moment. But, truth be told, I've never been a fan of the Cinderella nature of some of the novelas--which makes it challenging to watch them because so many have the same plot: A poor, innocent, humble but ultimately gorgeous girl from the barrio meets an incredibly handsome, if somewhat spoiled and arrogant, aristocrat. He is engaged to a she-wolf, a demon, a viper . . . an Itatí Cantoral, for example. Eventually he pays attention to the poor wallflower who, overnight, blooms, and he comes to his (deeply romantic) senses. He breaks it off with the banshee, but she won't let him go that easily. That or some handsome ne'er-do-well pursues the princess-in-waiting until he's about to discover the flower of her secret. Struggle, drama, vengeance, some more drama and struggle ensue, et voilà, the protagonists find their way to each other, marry, and (one assumes) live happily ever after.

There's only so much syrup I can drink, only so much cheese I can snack on. Besides it's not my story, it's not my desire: I just can't work up a lot of energy about these "hetero-normative" fantasies. (I don't seriously call them that; instead, I just call them boring, predictable storylines.) I much prefer the humor and plot intricacies, the drama, and the survival-against-all-odds storylines.

Sí, Eduardo es más macho que Jack Lord

Another true confession: While I saw episodes of Teresa, Salma Hayek's breakthrough role, when I lived in Texas, it was only after she became famous. So I have no idea if I would have spotted a star being born. I do know, however, that I could never get into the Teresa storyline, even in reruns. And what was with all the wind? Another cultural moment missed.

And still one more true confession: I skimmed Dos Mujeres, Un Camino, starring Erik "Poncharelli" Estrada, because my Spanish wasn't good enough then. But, hey, neither was Erik Estrada's . . . .

* * *

Instead, I remember bits and pieces of some novelas--Dulce Desafío, perhaps the first one I saw, starring Adela Noriega and Señor ¿Quién es más macho? ¡Sí, Eduardo Yáñez! I always translate the title as "Sweet Rivalry," but I've also seen it translated as "Sweet Competition" (I like my version better). As far as I could determine, the story was centered around young female runners at a boarding school. I was never sure if Eduardo was the boyfriend or the teacher or the coach or all three--likely a character that would be frowned upon in our #metoo #timesup era.

Two other early novelas I remember . . . confusedly: Simplemente María and Mi Segunda Madre. There's probably no good reason for me to confuse them, other than I discovered them at about the same time, with Mi Madre airing in 1989 and María in 1990. Or vice versa. I forget which.

Jughead del Barrio (By Source, Fair Use)

Mi Segunda Madre is a standout for its rather creepy, slightly surrealist intro (see below) and also for it's heavy use of music by Art of Noise, including, naturally, "Moments in Love." That really caught my attention as that was an album I really enjoyed then and still listen to from time to time. I'm not sure I remember the plot to Mi Madre or even ever understood it, but it had enough mystique about it to lodge into my brain, however piecemeal.

Simplemente María is memorable perhaps for all the wrong reasons--the cheesy intro (see above) with a too adult Victoria Ruffo trying to pass herself off as a simple india from the countryside. And those ridiculous children rubbing their eyes to convey crying, then waving maniacally as María heads off to el DF to find fortune, fame, and love, all apparently in her own fashion design business.

(Don't laugh! It could happen!)

There are others that I watched every now and again when I lived in Texas: María la del Barrio for one, which actually never really interested me in a major way. I think Thalía is a wonderful singer, a great little spitfire of an entertainer. But I don't know that I enjoyed her acting--and, besides, I never understood that whole Jughead del Riverdale barrio costuming they forced her into. ¡Híjole!

There was also Marimar (also starring Thalía) and María Isabel (also starring Adela Noriega). And let´s not forget Cañaveral de Pasiones (which I think translates as Plantation of Passions? But what do I know?). And many, many more--but above all else, there was Tú y Yo.

* * *

Fernando Carrillo spent too much time with
the barbells and not enough time with
the books

Los galanes--the hunks--of which there were many, although too many now seem interchangeably gorgeous, as if some hunk breeding experiment in the jungles of Colombia has gone wonderfully, horribly wrong.

I mentioned above Fernando C (sleep with), and Eduardo Y (sleep with and marry), two of my favorites. But there were many, many others, mostly of the "sleep with" variety and maybe even one or two "kills." There was Eduardo Capetillo as well--he of the lush chest hair forest (sleep with) and the impossibly cute button nose (kill). There was Francisco Gattorno, who was just so fine, so sleep with and marry.

And there were others who were just . . . annoying. Fernando Carrillo, for example (see photo). I know I'm supposed to be turned on by this, and I'm sure he's a lovely person, but he just looks . . . manufactured. I mean, if you turned him over, I'm positive you'd see an "Hecho en México por Televisa" sticker on what I can only assume is a delectable, well-chiseled ass.

Sigh. I like a slab o' meat as much as any gay man, but not just any slab o' meat. It's got to have some character--and look like it could sign its own name to a check or two. And, sorry, Carrillo, you just look a little dumb.

There was also Juan Soler (Argentine; sleep with, maybe cohabit with not marry) and Sebastian Ligarde (American and an out gay man at that; sleep with but his acting is always very OTT, so kill as well). And others that I no longer recall, despite once having owned a copy of People en Español´s "Top 50 Galanes" (or some such).

So the eye candy on novelas is of very high quality--obviously the makers of these shows know their audience consists of millions of straight women and gay men. But when it comes down to it, I don't actually watch the shows for their hunkitude (although I wouldn't necessarily turn the channel either). Instead, I watch them for the story, the drama, the acting, the sets, the cultural/educational moments, the Spanish vocabulary lessons, and for the lovely ladies who lead us through 180 degrees of emotions--from joy to rage to that gutted feeling you get in your stomach when it all goes pear-shaped and you don't feel you have a friend in the world who can help you out of the mess you're in. You know, love and its after-effects.

Antes de convertirse en actor, Eduardo Capetillo
vivió en un parque zoológico

* * *

As mentioned above, my favorite novela back then and even today is Tú y Yo. From the looks of the intro and even many of the early episodes, the show resembles that old song, "The Cowboy and the Lady," brought to cinematic life. You just know that Tomás (Joan Sebastian) and Estela (Maribel Guardia) are going to be put through the mill of love but that, somewhere down stream, they'll find their way back to each other.

Except . . . well, why spoil the story? Let's just say that who you thought would end up with whom didn't go according to plan, and while apparently that was quite by accident, they made magic out of it, turning Tú y Yo into a sort of anti-novela telenovela.

I will have to do some digging in Spanish-language newspapers to give you the full story because I might not recall it correctly 20 years later, and it´s delicious enough that you´ll want to savor every second, in and out of love. And when I discover it again, I'll write a fuller reflection on Tú y Yo. But not today and probably not tomorrow. But soon. Stay tuned.

Oye, after all this, you weren't expecting a season-ending cliffhanger? Chavos y chavas, you need to catch up on your stories. 

While you do so, perhaps you'll enjoy the show's intro from 1997.



And all these years later, I still love that song and still adore that show. Es algo personal. It takes me back to my life in Texas, my semi-regular visits to Mexico, to a couple of sweet boyfriends, to great memories, and to feeling alive and happy, like I'd never felt before and hadn't experience recently until I moved to Canada to be with Cairo. Then as well as now, I had my left foot in America and my right one in, well, otro mundo, another world.

And one of these days both of my feet are going to be firmly planted in one world, a beautiful world, a loving world. And I pray to the gods, Christian, Aztec, and otherwise, that that world calls itself Mexico.

Or at least San Antonio. Or maybe Tucson. Or even Santa Fe.

It's not what's for dinner

I'm still trying to fathom why anyone would eat a Tide detergent pod, regardless of the challenge or even the flavor. (Spring Meadow Some Velvet Morning Phaedra Is My Name or whatever is not without its appeal, I'll grant you that.) I mean, I know it's the age of Xtreme!™ everything, but still ... detergent ... in a pod.

The most wild 'n' crazy challenges involving (in)digestibles I accepted in childhood were as follows:

• In the late '60s, a cousin dared me (or I offered all on my own, I don't remember exactly) to eat dirt. True to my word, I did. It was ... grainy. A little sandy. Kinda earthy, you might say.

• Sometime in the early '70s, my sister and I dared each other to try a dry nugget of Gravy Train, our dog's preferred dinner. It was ... rusty. A little crunchy. Kinda canine, you might say.

That's it, kids. And guess what? I'm still going strong at 56, despite a little arthritis in my hands and a certain fondness for sugary snacks.

Meanwhile, if you drop a pod of Tide, you'll be lucky if you survive until 16, physically or mentally.

It's your life, of course, and I, a Friend of Little Debbie, would be presumptuous if I were to tell you what to eat, gluten-free, vegan, or phosphate-feeble. Science, medicine, government, and the media--well, they say no! don't do it! you could kill yourself! But, hey, it's your Sophie's challenge.

Just know that if you do decide to taste the Tide pod rainbow, you'll be doing us all a big favor--one less stupid person to have to look after into Social Security, let alone the SATs. Our tax dollars not at work if you cark it. Hallelujah anyway.

But then again, if you go forth with tipping the Tide velvet and end up just brain-damaged, our insurance rates will go up, and we'll hate you with the fierceness of a thousand bottles of Sunlight dishwashing detergent. So, rather you don't eat the Tide, please.

Cheers, thanks a lot.

The New Albatrossus

With apologies to Emma Lazarus.  And the people of Queens, even if the president is one of them.

So much winning. It takes a shithole to know a shithole.

I got your shithole right here

A horse is a horse of course

"Stable genius"--What you say when you can't remember how to say "smart horse" in Human.

Sorry, not the most inspiring post so early in the New Year, but this is the universe we currently inhabit, unfortunately.

Happy New Year! May yours be happy, healthy, successful, and above all, stable.

From Sun City to Freedom

Volume 2 of my mixtape focused on the music of the Apartheid era.

'Tis the season . . . to remember . . . that it can always be worse.

From Sophiatown to Soweto

My latest music offering on Mixcloud makes an aural examination of the music of the Apartheid era. Not the cheeriest of topics for the holidays perhaps, but there you have it.

In a separate post, I promise to explain what prompted me to create this mixtape. There's also a second volume in the works that will be posted shortly.

Oh how I wish we could say "Merry Christmas" again!

But I guess we'll have to settle for "Treason's Greetings"!

Dirty hands

One day I'll explain why I think the Jot the Dot cartoon scarred a generation of Southern white boys, including me. OK, only me.

In the meantime, I'll just say that I'm disappointed in myself. I figured out that John Edwards was no choir boy long before most realized it. I should have figured out that Charlie Rose's "aw shucks, ma'am" routine was total b.s. as well.

Heavy sigh, y'all.

Tight rope

So last week was hard, questioning-my-outlook-on-life hard, questioning-my-life-choices hard.

My professional life overwhelmed me once again. It made me extremely anxious and wondering if I should be doing what I'm doing or whether I'm even a functioning adult. Am I too nice? Am I too generous? Am I easy to manipulate? Am I patsy, a sucker, a chump?

But at some point on Friday, after some of the noise and stress of the last couple of days, weeks, and months started to fade away, I realized I had survived and actually come out pretty well in the end. 

I momentarily neutralized some bullies I work with (chiefly two man-babies I have to deal with on a regular basis). I survived an embarrassing moment. I took responsibility for a problem. I treated people well. I supported my staff and I was supported by them and by my superiors in return. I presented a case that showed smart financial management, that got some people the resources they needed but on my terms, not theirs (meaning I didn't scheme and connive to make it happen--I used honesty and transparency instead). And I came out on top.

I realized I don't have the ego to be in the spotlight for too long. I realized dealing with mean people is one of the hardest things for me. I realized my job is 99.9% operational and not very creative, which is a problem that I haven't figured out how to fix. I realized I really really really want to retire. 

But maybe for a moment I also realized I'm fairly smart, not a dummy, not a chump, not a sucker. I realized that when push comes to shove, I will stand up for myself. I realized that while I'm a bit too methodical sometimes, that can be a plus, especially when you're dealing with other methodical people. I realized that while I'm prone to anxiety, probably more than most, I am also a fairly well-functioning adult.

I walk on the high wire, the tight rope. I wobble, I stumble, I trip, and sometimes I fall. But thanks to the people around me--family, partner, friends, colleagues, and more--and thanks to me, I can hang on. I can fall into a safety net if I need to. And I can shake it off and get back on the wire as many times as I need to.

Touch me again

Oh to know what I know now way back in 1991. I felt so old then, even though I was not yet 30. But already I was out of the dance club and into . . . what exactly? Certainly not the streets. Hibernation maybe. Escape. Transitions.

A year or so after meeting my friend S., a friend I've now had for nearly 30 years. Several months before leaving Washington and only once creeping back to live in its shadow again. Two years before graduate school. Two years before meeting G. Four years before moving to Texas, which feels like home to me and perhaps always will. Thirteen years before leaving Texas and moving back east. Twenty-two years before meeting Cairo. Twenty-four years before moving to Canada. Twenty-six years before now.

Oddly, I've written about this some before. This little fluffy pop tune that somehow captures my hope and longing, my regret and sorrow.

Some moments during the previous 26 years have been, frankly, terrible, including this last week or so. And then other moments have been spectacular, such as living with Cairo and talking to him this week, during one of my sadder, more frustrated, more anxious times.

My father's passing. But my mother still lives and is as vibrant as ever.

I still loathe my job and am wary of my colleagues. And yet I had probably the most successful week I've had since arriving in Canada two-and-a-half years ago, have a great staff and supportive bosses.

One of the biggest reveals this week was that once my anxiety and stress subsided, I realized that I had actually had a good week, at least professionally speaking. The anxiety has been too much of late, but I'm actually doing OK.

Would I go back in time? Would I do anything differently? Maybe or maybe not.

Except maybe . . . I'd dance more, even past the age of 30. To hear that piano again, those drums, that whistle, that call to "hold me baby/drive me crazy/touch me/all night long." To put aside the fears imagined and real, to trust in myself, to take a moment, to enjoy, to cavort, to laugh, to be carefree, sans souçi, to grab life and run with it. That I would do, at least for one night, return to the scene and dance, dance, dance away the heartache, dance away the tears.

But then I'd hurry right back to the present to savor what I have now, the good and the bad, and look forward to a better tomorrow, week, month, and year ahead.

Money love

I will say this for Steve Mnuchin and Louise Linton: They have absolutely no shame.

Oh no she di'int

Quite bizarrely, I find myself liking Taylor Swift's "Look What You Made Me Do," several weeks after everyone else has moved on. I still don't hear the "I'm Too Sexy" melody, but I don't necessarily need to--it's a clever, catchy, dramatic bit of pop, and more distinctive than most of the stuff out there at the moment. (Not that I have a good sense of what's au courant. All they play in Toronto is wall-to-wall Drake, Canada's Rapper.)

Having said that, I think it's high time we issued an amber alert for Taylor Swift's soul. It's been missing for years, if it ever existed at all. I suspect she sold it to Mephistopheles sometime around the age of 10 and that her real name will eventually be revealed as Taylor Faustus. In another scenario, I imagine in her spare time she's busy spinning straw into gold trying to figure out the name of that little guy that put her in this predicament. Talk to some of those German-Americans around Reading, Pennsylvania, Taylor's hometown. They know.

The weird thing for me--and this is no great reveal as I've wondered about this for some time--is how real is any of this? Was Taylor ever a good girl? Is she now a bad girl? Does she have a beef with Katy Perry? Is she just serving as a beard for any number of fey pop stars and movie actors? And most importantly of all, why do any us have to give a shit?

It's not the details of a thousand cuts that keep me puzzled and pondering, however. It's the whole "star-maker machine," the pop culture industrial complex. Britney and Justin did it back in the day. Madonna has always done it. Bowie is Bowie because of it. Our "dizazsthuh" of a president currently revels in it.

"It" being this fabricated narrative that keeps us watching, turned in, and tuned out to the stuff that really matters--family, friends, human rights, economic equality, and real music.

But what do I know? I'm seriously considering paying for and legally downloading this ditty.

So keep on groovin', TS Industries, Inc. You're manufacturing some memorable, interesting-sounding pop.

Lady be good

Doggone it, I could watch this clip all day long.

I know 1941 was a harsh year in human history, but, oh, to be this joyous, to be this carefree, to be this liberated from the worries of the world once again.

Woof!

From Asia with Love

So glad to see Blofeld and Rosa Klebb out and about and enjoying their tour of Asia.

The real Bowling Green massacre

"Rand Paul speaking at the 2013 Conservative Political Action
Conference (CPAC)" by Gage Skidmore.
Created 14 March 2013. CC BY-SA 3.0.

CNN's Chris Cillizza opined this week that

"The story of Rand Paul allegedly being attacked by a neighbor -- and breaking six ribs in the process -- is strange on its face. 

"The initial explanation offered by some neighbors of both men and the attacker's lawyer -- that the episode occurred due to a dispute over leaves or grass trimmings -- was even stranger. 

 

"Rene Boucher pleaded not guilty Thursday morning in a Bowling Green  [Kentucky] courtroom to misdemeanor fourth degree assault charges stemming from the Nov. 3 incident in the gated community where the two men live."

 

Strange? Strange that someone would attempt to beat the crap out of America's no. 1 Jheri Curl right-wing politician over something as innocuous as lawn clippings? Ha. Have you met Rand Paul?

 

In a matter of seconds, I came come up with a number of reasons why Mr. Boucher might want to (literally) crush on Paul:

• He calls himself Rand. Actually, his name is Randal (one 'l' because I guess he secretly harbors being a character in a Game of Thrones novel?), and apparently he was not named after Ayn Rand, even though he studied her writings.
• He studied Ayn Rand's writings and calls himself Rand, nonetheless.
• He's a self-described libertarian. Give my regards to the NRA, Randy.
• That often smug look on his face.
• That I'm-barely-tolerating-your-stupidity-infidel! tone to his voice during interviews.
• The fact that he was born in Pittsburgh, grew up in Texas, and still turned out to be a dick.
• That poncy hairstyle. Maybe it's real, maybe it's not a perm, but the tips and curls often seem gelled. The whole 'do seems like a desperate cry of regret from the Hair Club for Men.
• The fact that he touts his credentials as a LASIK surgeon to qualify himself as an expert on health care in the U.S. LASIK: Plastic surgery for your eyes.
• The fact that he lives in a gated community. (Just to be clear, a chain-link fence with a gate is not the same as a gated community....)

 And then there's this--

Skaggs said he "very much likes" both men, though he noted that Paul "is a very different character than most people." "He's a deep believer in his own thoughts," Skaggs said. "And he believes his own thoughts are right -- and they are right 100% of the time."

So while the specific triggering event might remain a bit of a mystery (my money's on a heady mix of yard waste and coveting/insulting thy neighbor's wife), there is no actual mystery in why someone would get crackin' on Pauly Bore. Heck, with that sense of surprise attack and the ability to break some ribs, I think the Tennessee Titans may have found a new teammate.

Shoot the messenger

"Clock in the main station, Zürich, Switzerland" by
JuergenG; modified by Rainer Z. CC BY-SA 3.0 Unported.

Mark your calendars: CNN is reporting that the time to talk about gun control has been set for Sunday, December 31, 2017, between 11:59:50 and 11:59:59 pm.*

*This appointment may be suspended if a horrific shooting occurs prior to the designated time or is believed likely to happen after the designated time.

(Hey, don’t shoot the messenger! The National Rifle Association sets the rules, not me.)

(Oh, who am I kidding? You’re totally allowed to shoot the messenger. Wouldn’t want to be accused of interfering with your 2nd Amendment rights. Unfettered access to firearms über alles and all that.)

Taking out the trash

To good mental health, Mr. President

And because it's not a guns situation, can we assume that Our Fearless Leader won't be bothered when a brown terrorist or a white lone wolf starts "mental healthing" at him?

After all, the murderer isn't trying to shoot you. He's just trying to make a rush appointment for some mental health counseling.

Which he probably doesn't have access to because he has no health insurance... but let's not sweat the policy details of you and your colleagues in Congress.

Check it out

A timely repost from Facebook . . .

Time to break out the handy "Mass shooting in US checklist":

• Send thoughts & prayers but not actually do anything useful
• Argue over semantics of the term "assault rifle"
• Argue over semantics of the term "terrorist" - if Muslim use it, if Christian/white use term "lone wolf" "mentally ill" "troubled past"
• Congress does nothing but NRA increases donations just in case
• Wait for next one, rinse, repeat

I'd like to add a couple of items to this checklist, things I've noticed that have become part of the "national conversation" that leads to total inaction:

• Report statistics that state more people die from handguns, car crashes, cancer, etc., to downplay the horror of mass shootings‬ and indicate that mass shootings aren't really a problem after all.
• Argue that you can’t change or repeal the 2nd Amendment of the Constitution. (Hint: Yes, we can. The 2nd Amendment is already a change to the original Constitution.) 
• Argue that the 2nd Amendment is your right--and a superior right at that. Ignore all other rights. Ignore the promise of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness in the U.S. Declaration of Independence. Continue to believe that your right to bear arms supersedes all other rights.

I'm sure you can add your own to this list. 

 

The Boy from New York Meets the Man from Milwaukee

This has all the makings of the saddest, most nauseating, most boner-killing porn movie ever: First Son and Professional A-Hole Donald Trump, Jr., in the role of the twink starring alongside of (or, rather, in the service of) former Milwaukee County Sheriff and Professional Dickhead David Clarke as the daddy/master, XXX film's "exotic" African-American power top to Donald Junior's weaselly, beady-eyed, power bottom.

It's Diesel Washington (a personal favorite, a top with a sense of humor) versus Armond Rizzo (who I detest, in part because he looks like Donald Trump, Jr., and in part because he whimpers like a Japanese anime schoolgirl in most of his scenes). It's a horrible episode of Oz in which even Sister Peter Marie hopes all the characters rot in jail. It's a gold-encrusted Lawnguyland remake of The Boys from New Jersey, a C-list mid-'80s porno that an acquaintance of mine in Washington, D.C., back in the day had a prominent role in. A cute guy who I almost fell into bed with--but his performance in that pitiful porno tells me my more cautious than carefree nature helped me make the right decision once again.

Next scene please.

* * *

Earlier in the week, I tweeted this response to the picture you see at the top of this post--Don Junior and David Clarke together, bro-bracing one another, Don Junior's chest puffed out and Dave Clarke wearing a cowboy hat with a paisley shirt (da fuh?) because, I dunno, he likes irony.

And, like, wow! A few days later I (re)discover this movie, Answered Prayers, starring Diesel Washington and Chris Harder, amazing life-like porn simulations of Don and Dave. So I miscast the execrable Armond Rizzo for the humpdillyicious Chris Harder. My sin.

Chris Harder is a much better choice for the role. Somehow he manages to look fetching, dewy-eyed, non-simian, and just like Donald Junior. How is that even possible?

I actually think I've seen this movie, at least in 20-minute, uh, spurts on the internet. If I recall correctly, Chris Harder plays a messianic gay homophobic politician (no, really) and Diesel Washington plays his gay guru sidepiece. Or something.

What I saw in the movie was hot and obviously memorable in its way but, nonetheless, striving a little too hard to be provocative, powerful, and socially relevant.

Much like the pairing of Fils Trump and Père Clarke. And yet I have zero interest in enduring even the opening credits of that movie. Whatever the opposite of man-on-man erotica is, that's the clusterfuge offered by liddle' Don Junior and fake Davey Clarke.

Curse me and my over-imagination. Now I'll never be able to look at Chris and Diesel the same way again.

The First Ladies of the United States

I had some free time this morning ... and some free time this evening, so I remade my original meme ....

Presidents on the edge of a nervous breakdown

Recently seen on Facebook.

I'd toss him a roll of paper towels. That always helps in a crisis.

Heaven and hello, Miriam Makeba!

It's probably blasphemous to say this, but I love this version of Miriam Makeba's "Pata Pata," a remix by the duo Milk & Sugar (heretofore unknown to me).

Now I'm not saying I love it more than the original, so I've not completely lost my mind or my soul. But it is darn catchy and groovy, and the animated video is attention-grabbing and so much fun to watch.

It's a good remix that reveres the original rather than destroying it, with Makeba's voice front and center and her image singing from the heavens above down upon the more colorful and profane world below.

So, really, it's all very religious, perfect for a lazy Sunday before Canadian Thanksgiving. I know I'm thankful I found this song. And I'm grateful that through the miracle of the internet, I can share it with you.

Sigue bailando, mi gente

I made this. Let's consider it a work in progress.

Somewhere in Puerto Rico in the aftermath of a hurricane, a certain someone has decided to play games with the people. Instead of giving them much needed supplies and food, he's tossed them paper towels--the quicker picker-upper under normal circumstances but not very effective in cleaning up destruction, flooding, power outages, and hunger.

I guess we should be grateful that his handlers made him leave his t-shirt cannon on Air Force One.

No matter. We can only pray that this soon results in a mutiny against the Bounty by the time all is said and done.

Where the lights are shining

Rest in peace, Mr. Campbell.

Cryin' time again

Rest in peace, Mr. Charles and Mr. Campbell.

I hear you singing through the wire

Rest in peace, Mr. Campbell. Thank you, Jimmy Webb.