It's the last of the gentle breezes in Miami. The humidity is creeping back in, oozing between the buildings and pooling in the corners like an invisible soupy haze. Soon air conditioning will be cranked up, windows sealed shut to keep out the offending air. Winter was lovely while it lasted. And now, it is just the occasional last ditch effort of a breeze, floating in, keeping things barely cool. Can you feel it? Floosh, floosh.
I'm sitting here, actually laying, like Frida Kahlo in her neck harness as she painted facing up. Minus the harness...or the artistic talent, of course. Last night I covered a party at the Fontainebleau Resort, after the Black Eyed Peas performed together in concert, and Fergie walked the press line. When she stood to have her photo taken, the paparazzi rushed the line and I got shoved aside. It was unpleasant. In the fracas I wrenched my back. It's my first war injury! I have street cred now. And I still held my own and she answered my questions. As I limped home, whining far more than necessary with my face in a twisted scowl of agony, TL shook his head. "Oh no, baby, is no nice." Fergie was nice, btw, very gracious and funny. She now has dark hair. BIG news.
So I'm laying here, resting my heinous injury, typing with the flickering of candlelight as the flame fights against the breeze. Be strong, mighty flame! Succumb not to the perils of atmospheric turbulence!
The greatest thing about being bedridden? Lots of time to search the internet for gloriousness. I share with you the Ukranian singing sensation Los Colorados:
I forgot to post this, which is surprising because I love talking about myself: a new gay men's web site has an interview with yours truly, including some enormous photos of my Photoshop-corrected face. Read it here: Dan Renzi
Please note: all those italics, I didn't put them in. But the Photoshopping of the photos? Totally my doing. If I could put a haze-lens over your computer screen while looking at my photos I would do that too, to conceal the wrinkles. I want to live my life like Elizabeth Taylor in her White Diamonds commercial: everything hazy, breezy, glamorous.
Today was a screening for the TV movie "Pedro," about "Real World San Francisco" alum Pedro Zamora. The movie will be on MTV April 1; I'll let you be the judge of whether the movie is any good or not.
At the screening, however, was Mily Zamora--Pedro's sister/caretaker, who in the movie is portrayed by Justina Machado, from "Six Feet Under." Mily basically dropped her life to take care of Pedro in his final days, patiently pushing him around in a wheelchair while President Clinton called the house to wish him well or TV news shows sent cameras over for interviews.
She's a mom somewhere in Miami now, with cute blond highlights and snappy clothes, and she has never been in the spotlight after Pedro's death. But any story like "Pedro" is more than just the person in question, and it takes a lot of people to hold up someone and help them along.
Mily said a few words after the film, thanked everyone for coming, that type of thing. But as the auditorium began to exit, she turned to leave, and a woman approached her to say hi and wish her well; Mily, tears still coming down from her eyes after watching a film about her relationship with her dying brother, hugged and kissed the woman. And she did the same with the next person. And the next. Almost everyone who left that auditorium got a hug and a kiss from Mily, and they were all entirely sincere. I just stood there and watched. You can tell a lot about a person by the face s/he makes while out of eyesight, embraced in a hug. It's very honest. Mily was smiling, eyes closed.
It was a sad story, watching Pedro deteriorate. There's no shame in dying of AIDS; but there's not much dignity either, wasting away slowly, painfully. It's a rough way to go. And you bring so many other people down with you...the caretakers in this world, helping people with AIDS or otherwise, deserve so much more credit than they get.
Here is my interview with Rebecca Glasscock, aka Javier (photo at left). He was very nice. I had to drag the dirt out of him. Heh, "drag," puns are funny.
If you aren't watching "RuPaul's Drag Race," I implore you, please do so. Besides being hilarious, it is...how to say this?...it is much better than you think it will be. The show has a lot of integrity, especially considering the fact that it has absolutely no budget. But that's what drag queens are good at: take a tiny bit of money and make yourself as grand and fabulous as possible.
All the episodes are here. Go watch, and then we can discuss. I warn you, you'll be sucked in for hours on end.
There is a famous episode of "Everybody Loves Raymond," featuring a certain suitcase that sits on the stairs for weeks. The family came home after a trip; Raymond, if I remember correctly, was carrying the suitcase, but feeling weary after his travels he left it on the stairs to carry up later. His wife, indignant over the chore presumably left for her, just walked past; Raymond, indignant that his wife was indignant, didn't move it either.
The suitcase stayed for days, weeks, blocking the stairs. I believe he finally gave in.
It's perhaps a touch depressing when my life mirrors the plot of "Everybody Loves Raymond".
We returned from Mexico almost a week ago. The suitcase, which we shared--one doesn't need many clothes to go to a nudist resort in a tropical location--was placed on the floor by the couch, unpacked. We are now opening it up to dig through it, to find things we need, which is exponentially more difficult than simply opening it up and putting everything away. But no.
It started out innocently enough: "Where's my toothbrush?"...in the suitcase. "Where's my camera?"...in the suitcase.
"Where are my pills?"
...in the suitcase.
It is now involving matters of health-related medication. But no.
We have morphed into the era of 1950's propaganda--I come home, sit on the couch, and relax after working 10 or 11 hours a day. T.L. also works, albeit part-time. He keeps the apartment spotlessly clean, but by his own wishes only. Any time I've asked him to do something, I am cut short by a hand on the hip and raised eyebrows. It doesn't work.
Unpacking the suitcase is not his job. He has not said so; but when one walks AROUND the suitcase to get something out of the closet, one is making a point. Just as I am making a point of not touching it when I come home after working 10 or 11 hours a day.
There is a pair of shoes in that suitcase that I want to wear today. But I'm not dealing with it. I will win.