Hair Apparent II: Days of Out Lives

Author's note: I intentionally wrote "Out" lives, not "Our." Honest.

* * *

As we know, I've always watched soaps, at least for as long as I can remember--and I can remember pretty far back, to the playpen era of my days.

Days of Our Lives has popped into view on more than one occasion--back in the early '70s Doug-Addie-and-Julie salad days; during the early and mid '80s "Fancy Face" (gag) Hope and Bo (aka Hopeless and Bozo) era; and in the I-live-in-Texas-now-and-everyone-I-work-with-is-watching-Marlena-being-possessed-by-the-devil times in the mid- to late '90s.

But I've been absent from the scene for a while now. I loved the punch and pathos of Nicole's (Ari Zucker) storylines throughout the 2000s and followed the delectable James Scott from his role as Ethan Cambius on All My Children to his role as E.J. DiMera on Days. But we also endured a lot of "chain-yanking" storylines-to-nowhere thanks to James Reilly, the man who brought us a possessed Marlena (Diedre Hall) and a multidimensional Kristin (Eileen Davidson) but also tortured us with tedium and frustration as Marlena became (and then unbecame) the Salem Stalker and Sami, Austin, Carrie, and Mike Horton went through various couplings and uncouplings with only Alison Sweeney (Sami) being worth the trouble of hating/loving.

I don't know what prompted me to tune into Days recently--maybe it's as simple as I was home on a weekday and caught an episode, then caught another later that week, and then another. So now I find myself semi-hooked. Not committed, mind you, but intrigued at least. We had the return of Vivian Alamain (Louise Sorel) for a while and the disassociative identities of Abigail Horton DiMera, entertainingly portrayed by Marci Miller. We had a fun few days with Marlena, Vivian, and Kate (Lauren Koslow) being locked in a DiMera mansion secret room by Abby/Gabby/Dr. Laura, whiling away the time getting the play-by-play on Marlena's demonic possession. (Kate: "Well, you never really talk about it, and I've always wondered why.") There's enough story so far to keep me entertained, although I can't say that I really care about any of the characters.

But that could also be said about my approach to TV if not all media these days, whether scripted or reality-based. It's all a bit silly, whether it's Mad Men or Neighbours, The Handmaid's Tale or Isidingo, CNN or Dos mujeres, un camino. I can't get too worked up. I really can't be arsed to care because our media-makers no longer care. It's all circuses and no bread, but I need to cut down on the carbs anyway.

I predict that the revolution will be televised, but the broadcast will be interrupted repeatedly because the U.S. President tweeted out his daily grievances and character failings, there was a school shooting or a domestic/international terrorist incident, or Samantha Bee called the First Daughter a Very Bad Word. See you next Tuesday!

However, there is one character on Days that just might make me start "caring" (or something) again--and that is Xander, played by Scottish actor and Adonis-dressing-to-the-left-in-swimtrunks Paul Telfer.

Good gods in heaven, I would rob banks, birth children, and throw puppies and kittens from fast-moving Via trains for one night with Paul Telfer. Well, not so much him the actor (although I'm sure he has a lovely personality) or him the character (a bit too dark and menacing for my tastes), but his body, particularly his chest and the millions of dark hairs that cover its shapely greatness.

And by "night," I mean at least several weeks at a stretch, until one of us got tired of the other or had to go to work to earn enough to keep ourselves well-stocked in oysters and Viagra.

In the scene above, I honestly don't know how the actors kept their minds on their lines. Even the (I'm assuming) straight ones like Eric Martsolf (Brady Black), no shirtless slouch himself (although not my type at all). I don't think that even the most hetero of the hetero could look away from those headlights burning holes into your head where your eyes used to be.

I admit that it's slightly more likely that I would vote for Donald Trump in 2020 than it would come to pass that I'd do the beast with two backs with Mr. Telfer. Therefore, I'm willing to accept an alternative, a facsimile: Sex robots!

Despite the wailing of opinion writers and gnashing of Twitter users, I have absolutely no moral qualms about this cultural turn. In fact, I am already saving for my first one. Or ten.

Seriously, sex robots could help a lot of shy people like me loosen up and get better acquainted with our sexual natures--and for once in my gol'-darned life, sex robots would be all about me and my needs, not anybody else's. I don't care how intelligent they are, artificial or otherwise. I'm not investing in a platoon of willing, horny, hairy manbots because they're smart and good conversationalists--I'm opening a tax-free investment account with RBC because willing, hairy, horny manbots would be a hot way to spend a cold Canadian winter or even a mild but humid Toronto spring, summer, and fall. I figure by the time these fuck-machines take over the world, I will be dead and gone or at least too exhausted to care. By the time these digital manwhores start making policy and throwing the normies into jail, my Paul Telfer/Xander sex robot will have stopped being an object of my lust and instead will look as dated and dowdy as my youthful obsession with Gino Vannelli and his curly, flouncy hair (both head and chest). Bring it, WestWorld. I am not afraid. This is the kind of revolution I would embrace--likely with both arms and thighs.

Despite this wankfest designed as commentary, I do tend to shy away from these sorts of slavish devotions to actors and their bodies. I pride myself on being better than that, even though I'm not, just more discreet than most of my friends. Besides, living in the big city affords me the opportunity to fall in love a million times a day on the subway, the streetcar, and the street. It's always unrequited, slightly frustrating, but does no one any harm.

Nonetheless, a night with Paul Telfer (or his compliant robotic doppelganger) might keep me off the street for a few Days or more.

Call me, Paul. Write me, Apple. Do not text me, sex robot-hating moralists. We can make this fun, we can make this work, we can live a satisfying life of no-guilt, no-disease sexual pleasure with the biggest worry to health and humanity being some burnt-out motors and a few brown-outs in the neighborhood.

Unless some asshole scientist invents digital herpes.

And scene ...!

This is how I envision the TV show Roseanne will conclude now that its star and namesake has been fired for ugly, racist tweets that show an embarrassingly poor sense of timing and a shockingly limp sense of humor for someone who earns a living as a comedian.

It's a fine, unassuming spring day in Lanford, Illinois. The camera focuses on a small, comfortable, working-class home--the kind we all identify as emblematic of the Real America.^TM The camera deftly and calmly pans, slowly and surely honing in on the living room window, and then passes through to the living room itself. 

(Author's note: I haven't watched the reboot--honestly, I didn't like the original version. Too much yelling. Too much snark. Too much sniping. But I could've sworn Roseanne's family won the lottery at some point. You would think they would have upgraded their digs as a result. And no worries about educating me otherwise--once this post is complete, I will be fresh out of flying figs to give about this show and its star.)

In the living room, we find all the Conners sitting quietly in their appointed places. Each one is bound and gagged, as they are being held hostage at home by "those animals," aka notorious gang MS-33-1/3. The gang members brandish their legally obtained, generously available assault weapons. The gangbanger-in-chief comically twirls a mustache that would have been at home on the face of a Mexican revolutionary as envisioned by racist filmmaker D. W. Griffith.

The innocent members of the proletariat quake in their humble shoes, sweat through their honest George by WalMart apparel (no doubt stained with the sweat of a hard day's labor at a George Soros-sponsored Reeducation Center), and scream for their lives through the heavy-duty tape across their mouths. The Conners are panic-stricken, knowing that to die at the hands of a heavily hyped Mexican/Central American gang may be their fate, the worst fate of all (say, compared to being shot in the workplace by a sexually frustrated white guy with an AR-15, which is much more humane), and a fate that is only minutos away. ¡Ay, papi!

Roseanne, however, has managed to escape.

But instead of calling the police--too Deep State for her!--she heads toward the nearest Donald Trump rally--and as good (?) luck would have it, there's one happening next door, because His Lordshit is in the 'hood, stirring the pot, paying his disrespects to the survivors of a recent school shooting ("there were good people on both sides of that rocket launcher, both sides . . . "), and then will immediately be heading out for a $25,000 dry chicken dinner fundraiser with upper-class (or thereabouts) white gangbangers in downtown Chicago.

But I digress . . . .

Roseanne tries to corral the crowd into forming a well-regulated militia to save her family.

As bad (?) luck would have it, however, at that very moment, the crowd is watching a video about the disrespect Hollywood elites express toward Real America--a highlight being a clip of Roseanne in real life (very meta) screeching the National Anthem at a baseball game in San Diego back in the early 1990s.

The angry crowd turns on her. As they get closer and closer to attacking her, we suddenly see another (?) Roseanne waking up from an Ambien-induced haze, several spent smart (the irony!) phones strewn about her, each open to her Twitter account. Half the phones show the account as closed; the other half, open for business.

She struggles to emerge from her mental fog and rise from the couch. Once more or less upright, she begins railing at a crowd of diverse Americans, all silent while they watch her meltdown, screaming lines from notable "race" pictures of the 20th century:

"As God is my witness, as God is my witness they're not going to lick me. I'm going to live through this and when it's all over, I'll never be hungry again. No, nor any of my folk. If I have to lie, steal, cheat or kill. As God is my witness, I'll never be hungry again." (Gone With the Wind)

"Hoke, you're my best friend!" (Driving Miss Daisy)

"Mom! Dad! There's something I have to tell you! I'm Black!" (Soul Man)

"Take your stinking paws off me, you damned dirty ape!" (Charlton Heston in Planet of the Apes)⁺

"The white men were roused by a mere instinct of self-preservation, until at last there had sprung into existence a Great Ku Klux Klan!" (Birth of a Nation--this is delivered in pantomime as it's a silent film)

"I'm a Negro. I can't forget it, and I can't deny it. I can't pretend to be anything else, and I don't want to be anything else. Don't you see, Tom?" (Pinky by John Ford)

Suddenly the scene changes again--it's not a crowd of silent diverse Americans staring at her during her tirade. It's a pack of wild chihuahuas! Thousands and thousands of pissed-off wild chihuahuas!

They proceed to growl and foam at the mouth. They attack and begin to tear at Roseanne's limbs. The scene fades before things get too gruesome (it's TV after all). Lee Greenwood's "God Bless the USA"⁺⁺ swells on the soundtrack--intermixed with Roseanne's nasally shrieks and the high-pitched squeal of agitated chihuahuas--as the scene fades to black (again, irony!). "I'm proud to be an American . . . ."

Finally, before things get too dark (irony once again!), the Looney Toons/Merry Melodies theme music begins. A cartoon Roseanne pops out of the screen. "Th-th-th-th-th-th-th-that's all folks!"

And scene!

At least that's how I hope this plays out. I might actually tune in for this one.

* * *

⁺Author's note: Is this racist, ironic, or both? Despite being based on a French science fiction novel from the early 1960s, I saw this movie listed in an article on the web as being one of the most racist of all time. Given the year of release (1968) and the things going on in the US in the era (where do I begin?), I had thought of it as racist for some time. To me, it's interesting to view it as another Middle America exploitation film of the 1960s, not unlike Wild in the Streets (a camp classic!).
Nonetheless, I confess, I don't know whether this is me being ironic and camp or me being racist. I sincerely apologize if I pulled a Roseanne here. That was definitely not my intention.

⁺⁺Author's note: And is this classist against white working-class Americans? Again, I can no longer tell. I mean it is poking fun at white America's sentimental approach to God and country, and my heritage is as a white working-class American, so, yeah, I'm teasing, but I mean it, so it probably is offensive in that regard. Again, I apologize--to you and to myself.

You'd be pretty if you smiled more

He only has the one look--and the one idea, which he picked up from a college course on Marxism in 1962.

Please, please, please don't run in 2020, Bernie.

Another day, another mass murder, Valentine's Day edition

"Give Blood" - Public domain

Wouldn't you rather shoot someone than see them run off with your new toaster?

DeeDee Snavely,
A Tuna Christmas

* * *

Let's weigh in on the latest mass murder, this one at a high school in Parkland, Florida. Why not? Or as the President would say, "What have you got to lose?" I'm sure my words will make all the difference in the world because clearly the National Rifle Association (NRA), the U.S. Congress, the President, and America's gun fetishists are swayed by words and moral arguments.

* * *

I've begun to look at the problem of mass shootings in this way--coldly, cynically, just like our political leaders and gun manufacturers' national "safe space" support group--in an effort to think about strategies that might help end this madness. Essentially, it comes down to this realization: The NRA isn't bothered by mass killings because they're actually good for business. When these crimes happen, more people buy guns, which makes gun manufacturers and retailers happier and wealthier. (Hello, Wal-Mart!)

Happy, wealthy manufacturers and retailers are then likely to give more money to the NRA and to conservative politicians. This, in turn, makes conservative politicians happy, wealthy, and supportive of pro-gun policies.

Which leads me to believe that the NRA's one true love is gun manufacturers and retailers. The image of the "patriot" defending his home(land) and his (property) rights, the brave little "citizen soldier," the well-armed militia--these are just ruses to make gun ownership and gun hoarding seem like patriotism and good citizenship. It brings in the rank-and-file membership, the on-the-ground support, but it obfuscates who their real passions are.

It's as if there had been a National Cigarette Organization (was there?) and the Marlboro Man was trotted out to show how smoking is the perfect symbol of manhood, rugged individualism, and The American Way.

But the first clue about the organization's intent is in the name--it's not the National Cigarette Smokers Organization, and it's not the National Rifle Aficionados League. The emphasis is clearly on cigarettes and rifles, the products themselves. All hail the goods!

* * *

For anyone paying attention, the bodies piling up, the gaping wounds, the kids on the floor screaming in their classrooms as bullets fly overhead, should have suggested long ago that gun manufacturing, selling, ownership, and frequent use are not emblematic of good citizenship.

But might this be an argument rooted in emotions? We're assaulted, figuratively and literally, by so many images of crime and violence, by so many actual crimes and violence, that it's become very easy--even very necessary--to turn on, tune in, and then drop out as soon as possible, in order to handle the reality overload.

So we become inured and even cynical about these crimes. Why didn't they run away? Why didn't they stay put? Why didn't they do more drills? Why didn't they report their fellow citizens for fiery words and thought crimes? Why are they crying? It's their fault, not ours, for letting it continue to happen.


In this climate, though, however well-meaning, we keep using emotional arguments to win over the NRA and its supporters when for them--and perhaps most of us--emotions have nothing to do with it. For the NRA and its menage-a-trois relationship with manufacturers and retailers, it's all about the cold, hard cash. For the rest of us, we're just trying to get through the day, working for The Man, and hoping not to get shot.

I don't know how you easily counter the "pure" Capitalist reason of the NRA or the detached attitude many of us have to adopt to survive. Some people are cold and selfish, and nothing moves them to do the right thing. Others are just worn out and under siege.

But some shocks to the system might help. Normally, I would recommend a few well-tossed Molotov cocktails at appropriate places and persons, but then the NRA and its fanboys and fangirls would advocate that gasoline, lighters, and glass bottles should be restricted--at least until they could make some investments in the right natural resources and industries.

So why not use their implement of choice--guns of all varieties but perhaps with a special focus on the AR-15? I'm not suggesting anyone commit an actual crime. I mean, none of us is a terrorist or a mental patient, right? Ain't nobody here but law-abiding citizens!

Rather start by doing what's completely legal--show up packing heat in classrooms, hospitals, at your kids' recital, at weddings, and at funerals; "stand your ground" whenever you or your property feel threatened; tackle Wayne LaPierre, a member of the Walton family, or Marco Rubio because they look shady and like they might resist arrest.

And then if that doesn't do it, get more creative and emphatic.

* * *

In the U.S., we allowed slavery of African Americans until the 1860s, and once that was done, we had sharecropping and Jim Crow's spoken and unspoken laws to keep African Americans under society's collective thumb. Here's where I would make the stale ol' Southern argument--it was a matter of economics (and a lack of concern for human rights) that kept the system in place. There was money to be made and people's feelings to be disregarded. Capitalism excels at this.

Appealing to people's better angels did help reveal the tragedy, the horror, the abuse, and the cruelty. But it only went so far. People had to protest, fight, and legislate to make things better.

I think appealing to emotions, feelings, and our better natures is important, but sadly you can't expect everyone to be swayed by the same approach. They may not be swayed at all. And thus you have to take bold decisive action--protests, battles (literal battles, in the streets), court cases, and laws--to win.

So the overabundance of firearms to me is like the system of chattel slavery--it's abusive Capitalism and what's being abused is our human rights. We should look back to our past to see how we handled the great moral crises of our times, learn from them, and act accordingly.

Power pop

For the last two days, my #EarwormOfDeath has alternated between the Luis Fonsi/Daddy Yankee version of "Despacito" (the original, most definitely not the "Justin Beaver" version, a song I came to like very late last year, after everyone had said adios) and K.C. & the Sunshine Band's (but really just K.C.) 1982 (or 1984, but who's counting?) hit, "Give It Up."

Why you ask? Well, they're both very catchy, and they both make me think of Miami.. And February in Toronto is all the inspiration you need to contemplate and dream of Miami.

There's also the fact that pundit and journalist Ana Navarro (a personal fave for being something near nigh impossible these days--a Republican with a conscience, a heart, and a sense of humor) recently referred to Our Fearless Leader as "Despacito." Which can mean two things in Spanish--"slowly" or "a little slower" and "little slow one." I think it's safe to assume she meant the latter when referencing Our National Treasure of Humility and Good Feelings.

Ms. Navarro also posted a picture of her at Miami International Airport meeting Luis Fonsi. It doesn't get much more South Florida than that.

Speaking of which, last spring I flew through Miami International on my way to Jacksonville for a conference. And, ay, no puede ser, as they say in the 'novelas, that was the first Spanish-speaking country I've been to in many years. Seriously, at the airport, the default language for many personnel was Spanish. I had to keep switching back and forth between Spanish and English to communicate.

So how does K.C. & the Sunshine Band, the party band of choice in the mid- to late '70s (sort of way less ironic LMFAO of days gone by), fit into all of this? Well, my friend The Archivist's recently visited cold Toronto from South Florida and like a Florida iguana, she was stunned by the cold and nearly fell out of her tree. And then there's this South African radio station I listen to, Smile FM (and, yes, my South Africa obsession's still going strong), which twice recently has played "Give It Up," a song more than 30 years old (gulp), a hit when released in the UK in 1982, then a hit when finally released in the US in 1984.

The thing about "Give It Up" is that I guess you could call it goofy, shallow, throwaway pop, but it still puts me in a cheery mood enough that I do a little dance on the streetcar platform at 10 in the morning in -12C weather. Goofy, shallow, and throwaway maybe but also upbeat, well-made, and still boasting a lot of staying power all these years later.

Dear Reader, I just realized that "Give It Up" may be me, Montag, in musical form!

* * *

Thanks to the video, we all now know that Harry Wayne Casey dresses to the right.

Some of us might have preferred never to know, but I would argue that knowledge in any shape or size or color is important. And the more knowledge the better, especially when it's encased in tight aqua trousers.

Canadian content

"A Map of the Don Valley Parkway in Toronto, Canada ..."
by Floydian - Own work based on the map on page 3 of
the Don Valley Corridor Transportation Master
Plan Summary Report, CC BY-SA 3.0

New year, new blog: I'm pleased to introduce my newest blog, And Quiet Flows the Don Valley Parkway. 

This will be a companion blog to Montag's on Fire, i.e., it won't replace this blog but, instead, will allow me to pay attention to and explore different topics. This blog, Montag's on Fire, will continue to be about a bit of everything--culture, music, soap operas, thoughts, feelings, Donald Trump, whatever moves me. And Quiet Flows the Don Valley Parkway will allow me to be (in theory) a bit more introspective and critical about my experiences in Canada, where I've now lived for two-and-a-half years.

At least that's the plan as concocted on this snowy Saturday in Toronto, Ontario, Canada, North America, the World. Ask me on a sunny Sunday in spring and I might feel completely different about everything, from sauerkraut to freedom of speech. I always reserve the right to be un-pin-downable on various and sundry.

Some of that new Canadian content may appear here. Or maybe not. I haven't decided yet. But posts about Canada I've written heretofore will appear on the new blog. I'm even considering posting older tweets and Facebook commentary about Canada to the new blog, as a way to better chronicle my experiences over time. I have had many quick takes about my life in Canada that were sometimes better handled through a punchy post or trenchant tweet--and because I didn't take the time to write them in a longer format.

Regardless of whether you check out the new blog or stick with what you know, I hope you'll continue to enjoy reading and gaining a better sense of me--at least the parts I choose to share.

(Yeah, I'm like that.)

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.