Diary of an Angry, Hungry, Fat, Gay Mexican — “Cha Cha”

Diary of an Angry, Hungry, Fat, Gay Mexican — “Cha Cha”

 

“Come go with me, make you feel alive

This night will last everlasting through the time

Come go with me, have no fears

Bring back the memories

I can take away the misery

Take my hand, we’ll fly away

To our world that we can find today…”

– From “Come Go with Me” (Lewis A. Martineé), performed by Exposé

I’m going to set the origins of this little journal entry to the past on the sodium bomb from the Slurpin’ Ramen Bar consumed in April in Koreatown. (Excellent place, fyi). Yeah, I did feel a little “up” afterwards. Also, I was correct in predicting that my date for the evening was going to cancel on me –again — so it is better to shift focus onto something a bit more joyful and avoid the desire to man bash. I was truly bloated, bothered and bewildered, the perfect state of mind for journaling!

It’s taken me awhile to shape this into something worth reading and I’m still not sure if I’ve cracked the code. I have to give credit where credit it due. Earlier this spring,  my sister NanyG, sister-friend Helen and I were in the midst of another hi-larious confab, this time at the Pico Rivera Shakey’s Pizza, a cherished location located within our shared cradle of youth. It was a carry-over from ANOTHER HelJor outing (as we refer to ourselves), this time with our childhood compatriot, Anne. And yes, if you’re a member of those days at South Ranchito Elementary/Meller Jr. High/ERHS, we probably DID talk about you.

What I love most about our get togethers is the chance to look back with a clearer vision as to what it was to come of age in the 1980s. Some of the focus is starting to slip into a tepid glow as we have move on through our teen years into our sure to be golden era of 50+. (Well, I can’t speak for myself. I remember way too much, but surprised to know how much I never saw what was often going on right in front of me. I see the roots of my self-absorption are very much showing.)

Being a teenager. Oh, that’s a weighty subject. (Zing!) The pudding days of Meller, when I was stout, pimpled and experiencing a woeful state of style were replaced by something a lot cheerier, leaner and taller by the time sophomore year began at El Rancho. Sitting here with my lap top, it makes me smile to understand how the realities of life’s experiences hadn’t yet taught us how to deconstruct or process our motivations. Everything was so AMAZING until your find out years later that it wasn’t. The struggles we deal with as adults are variations of those classic adolescent tropes. We were the last of the Breakfast Club generation, spicier incarnations of the Princess, the Athlete the Criminal, the Brain and the Basket Case. In some cases, we were probably all five.

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Some of us were wonderfully clueless. Others were – and, surprise, remain — mean girls and boys. We had our groups, our nicknames, our juries, our judgments, our hierarchies, our first loves, our first pains. And as divided we ultimately became as life lead us to our chosen paths, for a small group of us, we remained steadfastly united during the 12 years we followed each other to the edge of 18.

The time isn’t ripe yet to pen that “Whatever Happened to the Class of 1985,” but it is starting to germinate. Something happened to me during that transition years of childhood. I first embraced my peculiar sense of being a boy, only to quickly shun it thanks to bullying and the inner shame felt as a teen. I hate that it happened at all, compromising my true self in the vain attempt to be liked and popular.

But that’s a story for another time.

Right now, I want to remember what it meant to be young in Pico Rivera, where youths were a microcosm of the bigger trends happening inside of LA and out. Everyone had their fiefdoms of rule within the school and outside the city limits:

  • The mods were growing in numbers as Madness and The Specials dominated the powerful KROQ playlists, stealing club time at Marilyn’s in Pasadena.
  • The punks were a smaller contingent, but followed X and Black Flag to Madame Wu’s in Santa Monica.
  • Poseur preps, the ones that had turned up collars along with their classist noses had the most money, bigger houses to match their attitudes and Atari consoles.
  • The heshers, most of whom were in band, were a fiercely loyal bunch that sported their KMET and KLOS stickers as badges of courage and pride.
  • Urban surfers held fast to their Jeff Spicoli uniform of Vans, OP and Lightning Bolt shorts.
  • Morrissey. Enough said.

As for the rest of us?

It was a sea of teen dreams and mall made looks. Girls had their fast fashion trends of jelly shoes, bolero hats, plastic purses and other styles culled from department stores or Judy’s, Contempo Casuals and Miller’s Outpost. God, those damn belts that rivaled the WWF championship bling! Some tried to rock the Mod look with tights that had the feet cut off under long tartan skirts and flats, but it rang false. Maybe it was because feathered hair can’t ever replace an asymmetrical bob?

The cookie cutter style of the boys was laid upon a foundation of Levis jeans, tee shirts and jean jackets — then and now. Jocks will never die out if letterman’s jackets are still able to be earned. My memory can’t seem to fill in the blanks here, an era where the Metrosexual, Lumbersexual and Hipster styles would eventually blur the lines of masculinity.

However, one group reigns supreme in my mind when I look back at that time now. I can’t help but smile at these style rebels of my teen years:

CHA CHA GIRLS!

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I’ll never forget these hothouse flowers that found access with fake ID’s to such playgrounds as the Florentine Gardens, the Red Onion, Black Angus, Pepper’s & Wings, as well as private parties and any other place they could hold court to the tune of Exposé, Debbie Deb and Stacey Q. They rolled around in packs, each with their own special markings of bangs, spider lashes, streaks and nail tips. They oozed a female sexuality that was true power, which sometimes moved faster than they could understand or control.

(Fun Fact: Exposé lead singer Jeanette Jurado is a former El Rancho Don! Class of 1983. Represent!)

This is one group John Hughes would never include in his white bread parables of teen life. These girls weren’t always pretty, but they loved pink, the brighter the better. They played fast and loose with the rules of the time, carving out their own niche as the 1950s ideal of adolescence began its hasty decline.

How I loved these ladies, feathered, streaked and war painted, wearing heels that were higher than their standards, all squeezed into Technicolor fabrics that stretched with the blind optimism of looking good! I always viewed the Cha Cha aesthetic as a rebellion against the leading tropes of the era. These Latinas were way ahead of the Kardashian brand of flesh as fantasy and in your face womanhood. They were always named Letty, Lorraine or Denise, Nena, Pebbles or Candy. Sometimes you had a Monica, Yvette or an Andrea. Given the immigrant culture that was the foundation of aspirational Pico Rivera life, you might have a Socorro or Maria Delilah in the bunch, but she was always the one you made call her much cooler older brother or sister when shit got real. (“Shut up, Socorro!” could be heard whenever she offered the single voice of sanity.)

The soc’s (the popular girls) looked down on the Cha Cha’s as being trashy, but like all things unbridled, jealousy motivated their feelings. Hallway chatter about some of these ladies was nothing short of salacious gossip, especially if their boyfriends were jocks. This could explain why many of the Cha Cha’s of my era opted to date outside of the El Rancho walls.

Every Friday of my first year at El Rancho, or “The Ranch,” was littered with invites to the weekend’s parties. Mass printed flyers, emblazoned with Nagel girls, were events sponsored by mobile DJ’s that called themselves “The Men of Elegance” and groupies of females known as  “The Girls in Freak Position” or worse, names that you know would piss off your parents as they demanded you to “Tira esa cochinada ahorita!” (I wish I kept one of these flyers. If you have one, let a brother know!)

They were the denizens of the house parties and clubs that rocked the San Gabriel Valley, Hollywood and beyond. They were free-style aficionados who ventured to the Mansion, a claque that was strictly “Members Only,” weekend warriors fortified by Shpritz Forté. For some reason, the men were Dippity Do’d and Drakkar’d into shiny and musky sameness. Despite their macho posturing and bantering, they were rather generic in attitude and looks. Most couldn’t grow a mustache to cover their top lip, but it was awesome to see that their girlfriends could!

It was with great delight that I found a short film I created with my one of my best childhood friends, Ed Castellanos. We invaded El Rancho a few years after we graduated, crafted a DIY masterpiece with a VHS camera. Family, friends, students all contributed to this opus, cheekily titled “Fatal Aquanet.” It was meant to be a trailer for a new movie, with audience reactions and testimonials. At 16 minutes in length, we probably could have used some judicious editing.

Our intent was to create something that was fun. The best part were the on-the-street chats with the Cha Cha’s we talked to on Whittier Blvd. one memorable night. This was a harbinger of the life I would eventually lead, of documenting interviews and questions, of capturing the stories of lives in motion with truth and verve.

Our destinies can be revealed at a young age if we just lose the fear. I wish Ed and I went on to document other things together. Who knows?  “Fatal Aquanet” will live forever on YouTube and on this blog for a reason. (Ed, perhaps a reunion is in store for us? I have an idea!)

Since those chats with Nancy, Helen and Anne, I’ve been toying with another idea, of fashioning a series of posts around a fictional group of girls, Cha Cha’s all, representing a chapter in my angry, hungry, fat, gay Mexican life. Perhaps I’ll use this device to frame a larger story, of what happened to the class of 1985 through the prism of one group of friends as their gay single friend approaches 50 and faces the prospect of marriage…to someone younger.

Nothing upsets the herd like a seismic shift in the group dynamic, with the rest of the couples questioning their own choices and relationships. Sometimes when we look back, the consequences have an unexpected on the future. Good or bad, it is always for the best. And it would have great style with a soundtrack to beat any mixtape or playlist you could devise.

I don’t know how that particular story will play itself out, but I only ask that you come go with me and find out.

Diary of an Angry, Hungry, Fat, Gay Mexican — Day 4 — “Resist”

Diary of an Angry, Hungry, Fat, Gay Mexican — Day 4 — “Resist”

Day 4

End of Protein Days

257.7 lbs.

Glucose Reading: 199

Despite booking first class, luxury passage on the Love Train yesterday, I was a bit reluctant to get out of bed this morning. Maybe it is the fear of knowing what democratic pillar #President Babyhands was going to decimate next. Perhaps it is the effects of four protein days messing with my head. I wanted to write some pithy little riff on how Lindora protein days are a privileged, overfed person’s descent into hell, but I lost the desire. Instead, I’ll let this little clip of an otter happily chowing down take its place. That’s going to be me tomorrow when I get to switch back to a regular menu of poultry, fish, vegetables and fruits again.

The notion of living in a parallel universe is starting to grow in my brain. I have these moments where the only thing I can do is shake my head. I joke to myself that all those years of reading post-apocalyptic fiction, watching nuclear war films and those dystopian epicsof yore like “Logan’s Run” and “Soylent Green” are actually going to pay off! I’m ready for whatever happens next! Then this fear grows in the pit of my slowly shrinking stomach. I have to remain and fight back the fear of letting it spread  further so I don’t just lock the door and never leave the house again. .

Today, #PresidentBabyhands basically unleashed a round of “Mextortion,” proposing a 20% tax on all Mexican imports. Comedian that I am, one thought that flashed in my mind was, “Since I am in the process of losing weight, this could be a very good thing!” But really, it is not. Crushing an economy because they won’t fund your windmill from hell, Don Quixote, is tyranny at its worst.

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Political cartoonist Lalo Alcaraz (of “La Cucaracha” fame) posted this image promoting a “California Resistance,” which is the lead photo of the diary entry. “Resist” is a powerful word for us all right now. It has taken root in my mind, from resisting the urges to consume things that can hurt me to resisting the urge to go full Howard Beale in public with rage. I can tell you this. I am losing one battle and it isn’t with food.

Restraint has never been a word I’ve been able to incorporate into my lexicon for living. Not as a kid, even less so as an adult. I am finally aware that “more” can kill. As we try to process the events of this week, more challenges will be brought to the American public in a way that will divide us and conquer other principles that must be defended to the bitter end. So, what does any of this have to do with a diet diary, you may ask? Plenty.

We are what we eat, people. And I am not going to subsist on a steady diet of lies and tyrannical chaos just because so many Americans hated having a black president for eight years. You ingest in trash food, you get toxic refuse that leaves your body in shock and prone to diseases that can kill you. The same applies to the Democratic process. We are what our elected officials represent. It is no coincidence that President Babyhands is an orange-colored menace. Cheetos are just as bad for me, too. Neither requires my attention to be healthy and strong, all the better to fight back.

#resist

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Wasn’t It Romantic…? o “Las aventuras de un oso viejo y cachondo”

Wasn’t It Romantic…? o “Las aventuras de un oso viejo y cachondo”

Isn’t it romantic?
Merely to be young on such a night as this?
Isn’t it romantic?
Every note that’s sung is like a lover’s kiss

Sweet symbols in the moonlight
Do you mean that I will fall in love perchance?

“Isn’t It Romantc?” — Music by Richard Rodgers, Lyrics by Lorenz Hart

I hate to break it to Ella or the Messrs. Rodgers & Hart. It isn’t so romantic anymore to be young — or in my case “mature” — on any given day/night when you’re single in LA in 2016. Those “sweet symbols”of yore have been replaced by emojis and the art of flirting has given way to acts of narcissism, sexting, pexting and a strange paranoia that everyone is going to stalk you if you dare to ask for their phone number.

What happened to the fine art of seduction!? I think I can chart the course of our romantic Titanic to this famed opening from one of Candace Bushnell’s “Sex and the City” columns:

“Welcome to the Age of Un-Innocence. The glittering lights of Manhattan that served as backdrops for Edith Wharton’s bodice-heaving trysts are still glowing—but the stage is empty. No one has breakfast at Tiffany’s, and no one has affairs to remember—instead, we have breakfast at 7 A.M. and affairs we try to forget as quickly as possible. How did we get into this mess?”

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And that was in the 1990s, way before we even reached this intersection of technology and dating that dominates us today.

To be fair, love and sex have always been risky investments and commodities to broker with during any given era. Yet,something changed in us in the 1980s, where we became enthralled with the art of the deal and every relationship could be viewed as a transaction that either paid off (or not) with (or without) financial gain or status upgrades. A pervasive layer of cynicism took root back then and I am starting to think it had an unforeseen consequence on subsequent generations of adults looking for love, sex or whatever passes for intimacy these days.

Behold this lovely message I received on Growlr today:

ROMANTIC

Yup. You read that right. “Love to be in bondage to you, Sir!”

Let that marinate for a minute.

Have decades of broken marriages, absent parenting and a steady diet of reality TV “courtships for the camera” warped or corrupted our ability to love and be loved? Why is it now okay to reveal your junk in the first 15 minutes of a text exchange, but the second we offer up a little sentiment or vulnerability, you shut us down? “Blocked!” Are we so distrustful of compliments that we confuse them with bullshit hyperbole or read them as code for an ulterior motive ? Again, “Blocked!” And don’t forget the ultimate sin of app dating: never ask for and suggest an exchange of phone numbers.

Now, back to the bondage comment.

Nothing exists in my Growlr profile that even remotely proclaims I have a desire for kink, fetish or any other alternative life style variation thereof. So what endgame did this gentleman even hope to achieve? It caught me so off guard, I didn’t even know how to react. Laughter was first, followed by “What the Fuck!” I mean, that text took balls, which I am sure are wrapped up with strips of leather at the time it was sent. Haha. I don’t begrudge anyone their tastes in terms of sex, but you have to KNOW your audience before sending any such missive.

In the days since that text, I can’t stop thinking about how the art of romance seems to be all but D.O.A. these days. I think of the American Songbook classics that have scored many of my favorite films, counterpointing what romance could look and sound like if given the chance. But love and relationships must live in a different world. And like any transaction, you do get what you pay for. So, why do I shop at the Growlr or Scruff store? Good question.

At times, I find myself at odds with the men I do encounter on these sites. The type of men I’ve engaged with, whether via text or in person, have changed a bit since I grew my beard, if you can believe it. Suddenly, my sexual desirability has manifested into something that is marketable and wanted thanks to my facial hair. Go figure. Some don’t seem to be put off by my observations or way of expressing myself. Others have stayed happily put behind their carefully built fortresses of solitude or indifference. I’ve gotten better about moving on and tapering back any level of persistence. If you’re receiving the most generic of comebacks, cease and desist and no one gets “Blocked!”

It is easy to denigrate the app experience as shallow, lazy and dehumanizing. Why take it at all seriously in the first place? Well, it’s replaced our concept of community, like most social networking sites. Since our lifeblood comes with Apple Care now, we have chosen to allow our dependence on smart phones and other devices to bring the world to us on our terms. Here we live in our shining iTowers, hoping to spare ourselves any indignities, awkward exchanges and diminished expectations from the safety of our own private spaces. It can all be deleted as if it never happened. What a marvel!

What a tragedy.

We will continue to swipe ourselves silly, never sure as to what we want, but darn certain as to who we don’t want to bring into our real time fold. In some ways, app life is like the old days of clubbing, where we would meet and dance with that possible Mr. Right or Mr. Right Now but always kept a close eye on the door should a better option walk in.

It makes me laugh still that we were so willing to take the bigger risk of calling those 900 or 800 number “meeting” lines where your prospective honey was only a voice! Now, your destiny is thumbnail size, for those of us who think nothing of posting our faces. (That people still prefer their own version of a closet reveals a lot of the stigma that still exists today for many men grappling with their sexuality.) The animosity against such “faceless” profiles is something to behold. Vehemence is a good word. So much for #strongertogether.

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I don’t know how much longer I will continue sampling the gay buffet offered by the apps. This perpetual state of “speed” dating is exhausting and not very fulfilling. In all honesty, as I begin my journey towards 50 (and we haven’t even touched on the incredible ageism found on the apps, but next time), I think I am finally understanding that actively looking for love is not how it is found. And that’s okay because despite my reservations, something good has come out of all this Growlr-ing around.

I am able to put together my own community of gay men, men that are engaging and interesting to know as friends. It’s been a slow process, but it feels so great to be social with other men who even share some of my sensibilities. In fact, the line “Las aventuras de un oso viejo y cachondo” was crafted during one exchange with a supremely genteel and appealing Mexicano who just started his first term at FIDM in Los Angeles.

None of this may be romantic, but it is wonderfully human and real. If I had to answer the query, “Dating apps, friend or foe?” I would probably respond with “frenemy.” Like it or not, as with anything in life, it is all what you make of it. As for my woes about the scarcity of romance, I refuse to let go of my ideals in that regard. I’m just starting to love myself again, that’s one romance that’s been long overdue.

It is affirming to discover in small pockets that romance isn’t dead for all of us. For as long as we as gay men cherish the ideals of being treated with respect and care, romance will never be relegated to being a luxury item for the privileged few. Cynics beware, us new romantics are legion and our numbers can only grow from here.

Something tells me the best is yet to come…take it away, Ella.

Why I’m proud to be a Mexi-can in Hollywood

Why I’m proud to be a Mexi-can in Hollywood

While we dissect the Trumpian phenomenon ushering in the era of Idiocracy in America, the New York Times published a stellar think-piece on the struggle for diversity in Hollywood. Written by Melena Ryzik, the article was a welcome respite from a news feed clogged with Trump’s latest example of “hoof in mouth” rantings. We are living in serious times and we need to keep our focus on the issues that are seriously undermining our identity and modern culture.

I know I am not alone in thinking that America still leads the world by example. Imagine our disappointment in knowing we are now the biggest reality show ever produced, where racism, ignorance, vulgar excess and rampant egoism has been given a platform — and worse — validation. I refuse to allow this Age of Idiocracy to take further root. We all bear a responsibility to not just elevate the whole of society, not our specialized interest groups. That is why Ryzik’s article resonated so strongly with me. We ALL need to take the country back.

I can only speak from my small corner of the entertainment industry, but it is a powerful group with which to be associated. We are the ones charged with creating the narratives for the general public to enjoy. What we project on screen has impact and can shape popular thought. If we are to beat Trump at his own game, then we need to educate everyone as to why we need the media to curate a national image that is representative of the nation as a whole. As it stands, we are still woefully deficient in having the infrastructure to even contemplate such a shift in image. As Ryzik’s writes in her lead:

The statistics are unequivocal: Women and minorities are vastly underrepresented in front of and behind the camera. Here, 27 industry players reveal the stories behind the numbers — their personal experiences of not feeling seen, heard or accepted, and how they pushed forward. In Hollywood, exclusion goes far beyond#OscarsSoWhite.

Reading this article was empowering and frustrating at the same time. Frustrating because eliminating the racial/gender bias of Hollywood is still like chipping away at an endless wall of concrete.

I still have people assume I don’t speak English at junkets based on my name. Sometimes, these same people will address me in a slower or louder tone, even AFTER I’ve already spoken to them in what I think is a very educated, American English voice. Or, I’m referred to as “Jose” or “Javier,” even in a city like LA. I guess being “Jorge” is the most foreign name ever.

For a time, I would only be considered the “best” choice for certain projects because these films had an “ethnic” theme. It was a lot harder to get the “event” or “mainstream” films. That isn’t the case anymore. But it took the support and encouragement of a handful of studio executives that were my bosses in publicity to make this happen. They saw beyond my ethnicity and realized that I had a unique perspective as an interviewer that wasn’t just dictated by gender, orientation or cultural background.

Today, I can safely say I’ve interviewed some of the best and best-known figures in entertainment, as well as cultural and political figures that have shaped our modern world. (Take that, Oprah and Charlie Rose.) Few Latino (and even fewer bilingual) producer/interviewers exist in the studio content industry. I wish that wasn’t the case, but I think the advent of social media will refine this reality.

It is important to recognize the roles we all play in proving why the “norm” is not acceptable. As long as we continue to encourage and be part of the dialogue, we will be the designers of the solution, too. More, we need to encourage future generations that they have every right to dictate the narratives realized on screen. We need to inculcate in our children that they have no reason to fear not being seen, heard or accepted within industries like entertainment and media. Their face is the face of the new America.

No matter what Trump says, we don’t need any new walls. If anything, we need to bring them all down and end this Age of Idiocracy before it destroys the very things that make this country great.

Click the link below to read Ryzik’s article now:

 

 

“I Resolve to…Understand That The World Goes ‘Round” — #theclosingoftheyear

“I Resolve to…Understand That The World Goes ‘Round” — #theclosingoftheyear

God, how long have I been basking in the glow of hyperbole?

It’s like I don’t know any other way to express myself or view the world. Everything to me is:

Big!

Bold!

Must have!

Must see!

Like!

Post!

Followers!

Retweet!

It’s all just a cover-up, really. This endless search of non-information that clutters my brain, distracting me from the narrative that I really want to express, not just to the world, but to myself. If there is anything to offer as a resolution for 2015, it is to abandon the hyperbole and focus on what matters in defined terms. Fuck these endless social media streams, I want truth again.

I haven’t been too eager to promote many entries on this blog of late. It’s been a combination burn book and teen girl journal for weeks. “This family member talked so much shit about my me!” or “Those family members had the nerve to make it all about them!” or “This date was just another Harry Houdini! Now you see him! Now you don’t!” I bet even Taylor Swift would go, “Fuck bitch. Get a new theme!”

What happened to self-reflection and understanding, to humor and positivity?

What happened to the last third of 2014?

Well, a lot.

John Kander and Fred Ebb composed a song for Martin Scorsese’s “New York, New York” called “The World Goes ‘Round.” I’ve had it on a loop these last few weeks. It helped shape what I decided to write today, summing up exactly what sort of year many of us experienced in 2014.

Sometimes you’re happy, sometimes you’re sad
But the world goes ’round…

And sometimes your heart breaks with a deafening sound…
Somebody loses and somebody wins
And one day it’s kicks, then it’s kicks in the shins
But the planet spins,

and the world goes ’round….

I thought a lot about what this closing blog entry of the year should contain. But, as I sit here in my bedroom (More teen girl imagery. That has to go in 2015), I find that I don’t want to replay any of it. I want to focus on the reality that the world will continue to spin — and that hope matters.

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My boss Alan and I got into a rather revealing discussion about hope, an ideal my friend doesn’t seem to think exists.

But I do. I really do.

Hope, like love, has lost its power. It’s a brand. It is a campaign logo.  It has been appropriated by the self-help contingent, those annoying life coaches and magazinespeak spinners. It is that blanket statement too many of us use to cover up our woes, disappointments and our other beautifully weak and frail moments. “Don’t worry. There is always hope.”

Hope, like love and happiness, takes effort. It takes work to NOT let yourself fall prey to the myriad of distractions and stupidities that dominate our daily lives. You can’t use hope blindly. Hope needs to be seen clearly. It isn’t like prayer. “I hope” is not like talking to God. You are talking to yourself. You are being your own source of faith and courage to face the challenges that we face. And the challenges, particularly at this age, will arrive with the efficiency of a high speed train.

Hope, like love, is not for pussies. And hope needs to be taken back from the legion of those wanting to cash in on our gorgeous neuroses for their own gain. Before any of us can begin to understand just how important love is in our lives, we have to reeducate ourselves in the power of hope. Where there is hope, you will find love. You will find them exactly where you left them before you let all the static of modern life cloud your own beliefs and true self.

In a few hours, 2014 will join the album of detritus that is memory. It will be relegated to the tales we tell whenever we reunite. Those who are lost, will be remembered. Those who hurt us will be reviled again, but ultimately forgiven because they just don’t know any better. Those who made us laugh, will make us laugh that much harder. And we will all be glad that we survived to tell the tales again and again.

I also found great comfort in another song, one composed by Hans Zimmer and Trevor Horn for the film “Toys,” performed by Wendy & Lisa and Seal. It features this lyric:

This is a Time to be Together
And the Truth is somewhere here
Within our love of People
At the Closing of the Year.

I spent these last months in a state of free fall. I haven’t hit ground yet, but I see it below. I have not lost sight that it is with my family and my family of friends, new and old, here and abroad, where I did find my truth in 2014.

I can’t wait to find out what I will learn in 2015.

Wednesday, December 31. Written and posted from Wayne Avenue Manor in South Pasadena, CA.

“If you want it…” — #change

“If you want it…” — #change

Sometimes I feel like I’m sitting with the audience, viewing my own life from a distance. I don’t pay much attention to their reactions. I’m only aware of my own judgments. As we are heading into the home stretch, I am starting to reflect on the peaks and valleys of 2014. Some images bring me great joy, while others carry a sadness that is truly profound and challenging to accept.

I was told earlier this year that I am not good with change. I remember the distinct anger I felt over this statement. Perhaps my ire was raised because there is a bit of truth to it. Change has been working overtime this year. The abundance of hope and light that took me to Spain was replaced by repeated lessons on mortality and loss. I haven’t been able to process all of it, the extremes of it all have kept me in a state of suspended animation. Yet, a few things still broke thorough this barrier to force me to reconcile why living this way is not doing anyone any good.

My new boss sent me this track by OMD titled “If You Want It.” I had come home from from a set visit, my last as a freelancer. It arrived as I pondered whether or not to join his firm full time. The lyrics moved me, a sincere call to arms, to embrace the new. It was the reason why I decided to reroute my destiny to become part of this team. However, the static encountered near the end of summer only clouded my focus during these last months.

OMD sing, “Live the life you want to live, no point thinking about “what if?” 

I keep waffling between maintaining the courage to keep living the life I want to life, to cowering under the fear of “What if?” It is exhausting this back and forth. Like the weight I keep packing, it is just easier being in my herd of one, grazing my way through the landscape, ignoring all that is good.

I am sure I am going to remain in this state of reflection a bit longer, but I recognize things do have to shift into a more positive drive. If there is one lesson to be learned, it is to understand that when I do move past this sense of arrested development, “Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Nothing lost but all the tears and pain.”

 

IF YOU WANT IT by OMD

 

 

One by one the walls come down
Spread the word all over town
Kicking screaming like I’ll drown
Can’t you see I’m fallin
I want you, do you want me
What’s it take to make you see
Like bomb that ticking endlessly
Can’t you hear me calling

Will you, won’t you, come with me
Wishin hoping that you’ll see.

If you want it, it will come
Through the rain and burning sun
Over hills and far away
Nothing stops this, not today
Take a chance on me tonight
Baby it’ll be alright
Nothing ventured, nothing gained
Nothing lost but all the tears and pain

Give me all you’ve got to give
Live the life you want to live
No point thinking about “what if?”
Come on. Make my day
Tell me what I need to know
If you don’t want this then I’ll go
Insane but I won’t let it show
Don’t let me walk away

Will you, won’t you, come with me
Wishing hoping that you’ll see.

If you want it, it will come
Through the rain and burning sun
Over hills and far away
Nothing stops this, not today
Take a chance on me tonight
Baby it’ll be alright
Nothing ventured, nothing gained
Nothing lost but all the tears and pain

If I could make you start to understand
If I could only make you see
What this all means to me
Let it in inside your heart
Set your mind and spirit free
Show me

If you want it, it will come,
Through the rain and burning sun
Over hills and far away
Nothing stops this, not today
Take a chance on me tonight
Baby it’ll be alright
Nothing ventured, nothing gained
Nothing lost but all the tears and pain

 

“In the broken promise land of 30…” — #glassboxofemotion

“In the broken promise land of 30…” — #glassboxofemotion

“Human life is but a series of footnotes to a vast obscure unfinished masterpiece”
Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita

This is one blog entry I have not been able to leave well enough alone. While its theme has remained intact, I keep refining what was originally written at a peak setting of emotion. Some phrases just sounded trite. Others seemed full of contempt against the gent that inspired this post. It didn’t seem fair because I wasn’t hurt by him. He didn’t do anything. But I think I can walk away from it now.

It wasn’t anger that motivated me to offer this post-mortem on the events of the last few weeks. It was a desire to understand why someone, who exhibited such fire, would just snuff it out without warning or reason. Honestly, this is a real first in my dating life, which made it an ideal topic to explore in these pages. I know I am not alone in experiencing this phenomenon.

So, here goes…

Since ending it with my Ex over four years ago, I’ve tried to evolve myself into being a latter day Jack Tripper. You know, enjoying the company of a different guy every week. Regular drinks at the Regal Beagle, i.e. the Eagle. Never wanting to settle down, never allowing myself to be someone’s “catch.” I wanted to be single and ready to mingle! I wanted to be living life as a paragon of unbridled, but safe, sexuality. It would be oh-so perfect except for one minor thing.

I’m the version of Jack Tripper that does want to get caught.

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Dating in your 40s in L.A. is sure as hell not for pussies. I still have yet to master the art of being detached and cool when it comes to reading the signals from the other guy. But man, it’s like I’m dyslexic. I always seem to get it wrong. Although, I’d be curious to see if anyone would have read this situation any different.

When we first met, the connection between us was surprisingly tangible. It was immediate, visceral and pretty fucking hot. He possessed humor, vitality, introspection and optimism. It was a high, to be honest. I couldn’t wait to kiss him again because it was THAT GOOD. Hell, I’ve stumbled through enough situations with blind faith. His brand of shock was something that woke me up. We had great banter. We spoke with honesty and humor. At the very least, it was the start of a new friendship

Then, after a night at the movies, I told him, “Dammit. I am starting to like you.”

Cue the crowd going, “Awww, dude! You blew it!”

Yeah, you could practically hear the tables turn ever so slightly. Things dropped a few degrees, nothing worth causing a commotion. Yet, in the back of my head, I knew I stepped into it. My chronic case of verbal diarrhea flared right up. I thought I kept in check with some mental Imodium, but maybe not.

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We went out one more time. Another movie. (Ironically, it was “The Theory of Everything.” I think Stephen Hawking’s theories are easier to figure out than dating in L.A.!) Another hand holding session during the movie. Another late night meal, where we got to know each other a bit more. Another great kissing session at the end, albeit not as crazy as the first few times. Still, I walked away mollified. My explanation of “my liking him” meant “I’m glad we’re not treating each other like pieces of meat.” It was designed to clear up any trace of “hold on, pal. I ain’t into you that way.”

But there was some truth to it. I genuinely liked being with this gent…as a person. When he dropped the question, “Real talk. What’s your expectation?” I honestly didn’t have any. I was thinking only of how exciting the day turned out. If anything, it would have been great if we only decided to keep up the line of dialogue because it was interesting. He was interesting. I’ll be darned if he didn’t epitomize cool. He was smart, witty and held a great passion for filmed arts. I have enough friends, that’s true. But, I also know that you want to be around people like this when they make their presence known. If anything, he was an exciting new ingredient to introduce to a recipe that could stand a remix.

Most people hold fast to the truth that you don’t always reveal every thought to someone you just meant. But how else are you supposed to get to know a person unless you reach out and touch someone? There was no barrage of texts or urgent demands as to when we’d see each again. I gave him space, because everyone has a life, right? It was hard not to get excited, though. Excited can be desirable. Desperate is not.

I got a few good morning texts, a few other exchanges. Then…total silence. Mr. Excitement had evaporated in less than a week. Now I’m left wondering, “What the hell happened?”

Was there was a family emergency? Did he lose his phone and can’t restore his contact info? Perhaps he met someone better suited for him? Maybe he wasn’t single after all? Maybe he got scared or scared off? Maybe he really did just want a hook up? Maybe my id was too fuckin’ apparent? Maybe he got some really bad advice from friends, telling him to slow the F down? Did I reach out too much? Am I just too old or not daddy enough? Or maybe, as the saying goes, “He’s just NOT that into you!” Hahaha. (Fuck you, SATC. This is real life!)

Meh. What’s the point of speculating at all? Even if guys do the gentlemanly thing to offer an explanation, it never arrives as a satisfying answer. Silence is never golden, but it sure speaks volumes.

This all makes me feel so freakin’ stupid. Writing this as a blog entry is probably a little too Taylor Swift for its own good. But, I hold fast to the rule of “writing what I know” and he did inspire two entries already. The upside is he encouraged me to stop this Eeyore Syndrome for a moment. He woke me up, which was such a nice feeling.

Again, I learned a long time ago that expectations mean disappointments. Is it wrong to feel a bolt of good had creeped after so much chaos within myself and my family these last few months? It was that thrill of being reckless, of being unshackled from the norm that made me feel a sense of hope. It wasn’t my heart that was stirred. I am still a long ways of giving that up to anyone just yet. It was proof that my libido was alive and kicking again.

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By now, I am sure some of your are wondering why the “Lolita” reference. No, he wasn’t 15. (Sigh of relief, huh?) But, he was 30, not my first time at this particular demo rodeo, either. Know that it doesn’t really matter the age group. A variation of this fade out happened earlier this year with someone who was approaching 50. Sometimes I think I’lm naive enough to be 15 when it comes to this bullshit.

Perhaps you’re thinking, “Well, he’s 30, what else did you expect? Why aren’t you meeting people your own age?” For the record, it isn’t their age that compels me. It is more a person’s attitude, their enthusiasm for life and living that I seek. That, along with a great smile and the means to communicate, whether through humor or intellect, are essential. Bonus points if he creates art or harbors a desire to express himself in an artistic medium. Surprise. They ain’t easy to find, folks. But, on paper, he was that kind of gent.

To be frank, I don’t understand this era of gay men at all. Although, I don’t think I’ve ever really had much of a grasp in the first place. Today, it’s like we’ve all failed to understand the meaning of consequences. Is it possible that most of us think emotions have a kill switch like some video game? No one seems to care if or when it’s triggered. Is it possible too many men have seen nothing but broken when it comes to relationships so we’ve evolved into thinking pairing off is simply not normal or worth it?

Yet, why will some men still try to exhibit behavior like wanting to hold your hand? Why do they bother to look deep into your eyes in the heat of being intimate? Is it an awkward bid to experience that human connection that keeps us all from going mad? Once that carnal lust is sated, a lot of us act as if nothing happened. Time goes by and then our desire builds to that fever pitch again.

We reach back out to Scruff, Growl’r or whatev’r and we scroll search to engage again with someone new. It’s like that old saying, “The only way to get over one man is to get under another one!” Hahaha. Yeah, I’m guilty of it, too. Maybe this time I forgot how it feels when they are the ones seeking a one-time connection with no option for renewal?

Ergo, the glass box of emotion.

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Okay, so this is more a rant and less a confession. I guess I let him hit the two buttons that are my hottest ones. Yet, if it wasn’t him, it would have been someone else doing me the honors. You can only take so much of the same bullshit pattern of failure before you decide to raise your voice with the aid of your laptop keys.

Despite my overthought sense of frustration and disappointment, I really don’t fault him for anything. (And if he reads this, I hope he knows I harbor no ill feelings.) In fact, I’m actually glad it happened, this moment, one of many in the unfinished masterpiece that is life. (Thank you, Mr. Nabokov.) What I experienced with him helped me better define the type of gent that could be the catalyst for me connect with in a way that lasts. (I guess I do have a type, after all. He was definitely in that zone. Maybe this means I am getting closer?)

Who knows how many more times I’m going to be walking after midnight on this search? But, sooner or later, that clock is gonna strike with someone in my favor. Right?

Right.

Tuesday, December 2. Written and posted from Wayne Avenue Manor in South Pasadena, CA