How was your day, Dan?

ENGLISH

Hi.

I'm sitting here, under cloudy skies, with a cloudy head.  Sick.  Boo.

Is it swine flu?!?  I don't know, don't care.  I'm just sitting inside while it goes away, chasing rotating episodes of "The Golden Girls" around the various cable TV channels.  At any point in the day, there seems to be one playing somewhere.

T.L. is very nervous today: he's taking a test for a free English school here in Miami Beach, run by the city.  There's a waiting list to get in.  And according to T.L., they are "very picky" about who they let in.  So he has been practicing all morning, reading aloud from books and magazines and anything he can find that has words on it.

"I go to the school today," he said, "and the man, he say, 'You English is so good!'  But why if my English is so good, why you always laughing at me?"  And he put his hands on his hips.

I tried to explain, I'm not laughing at you, I laugh because I like how you speak. 

"But why you laughing?"

Because it's cute.

"But you no correct me when is wrong," he said.  "You no want me to learn English.  You think I am estupid."

I don't correct you because you yell at me when I do.

"Is no true."

It's not true.

"See?  You think I am estupid."

And so it goes.

I have some children's books, for a kid in foster care I tutor a couple times each week; one of them is about Ratatouille, the Pixar movie about the rat who cooks.  T.L., like myself, loved Pixar movies, and he grabbed the book to read aloud. "This is Remy.  He likes to make the soup."  Although it comes out, "Thees is Remy. He like-a to make the esoup...why you laughing?!"

It has nothing to do with whether I think he's smart or not--obviously he is, if he taught himself the language without ever taking a class--it's endearing to hear him jabber along, as he winds along the thought process of finding the right words.  Although...he seems to have plateaued at his current level of learning; hence his decision to sign up for the school.  And I think it's a good idea.  But there is a little regret in knowing we'll eventually stop using our secret code language, as his English gets better.

Although arguing will get easier.  When he is angry, his comprehension drops to almost nil; so as of now I just let him yell, rather than respond and then repeat myself and then explain what I am trying to say.  It takes all the zing out of it.

HMM

My friend just called me and said "I'm not going to speak for you, but I am getting fat and I need to do something."

...which means, "I have gained weight.  You should know how that feels, chubs."

VOGUE

I have a column about hospital visitation rights to edit, and interviews with local politicans to research.  But I don't feel like doing any of that right now.  Instead, let's take a look at the May issue of Vogue.

Everyone grab a copy, and let's begin, shall we?

- First of all, I'm so glad to see models on the cover this month, instead of Anne Hathaway actresses with no discernable relevance to personal style.  I realize celebrity recognition is a powerful marketing tool; but this is magazine supposed to be about the artistic expression of fashion.  If you can't stick to the topic, then why are you printing?  I'm just sayin'.

And how exciting a non-white person is on the cover.  She's not by herself--God forbid!--but after Michelle Obama was on the cover, anything is possible.  Liya Kebede is lovely.  Let's hope Obama wins in 2012.  If he's kicked out of office, we'll go back to all-white models again.

- Pg. 6: Balenciaga sunglasses?  The only person who can wear Balenciaga is Mary-Kate Olsen, but she is too exhausted from not eating to leave the house anymore.  Why must high-fashion designers continue to tell us that "librarian-chic" is the new look?  Stop trying to make it happen.  It's not going to happen.

- Pg. 61: Look at poor Madonna, lying on this couch. She is just exhausted.  She can't possibly adopt any more Malawian orphans today.  Turn the page and let her rest.  Shh.

THE REAL MARLEY

The original columns about "Marley and Me" are online at the Sun-Sentinel's web site--read here:

http://www.sun-sentinel.com/news/local/southflorida/sfl-0310-grogan-perks,0,308493.story

SQUISH SQUISH

"squish squish": the sound of someone crying, as defined by Edina Monsoon of "Absolutely Fabulous."

I can't believe I'm about to write about this--but I have to discuss the phenomenon of "Marley and Me."

We rented this movie yesterday, thinking it was a clever little film about a rambunctious dog who likes to chew on things and is so wacky.  No one told me what HAPPENS. Plot synopsis: there is this guy, and he has a dog, but no matter how restless the guy gets in his life, he loves his dog. But guess what don't live for very long?  Dogs.  Yeah.  No good.

T.L. and I sat in bed, in the middle of the day, weeping big fat tears over the plot twist that was obviously coming from a mile away.  This was not a groundbreaking movie, but still.  Sad, so sad.

Cut to today: I went to a screening of Every Little Step, a documentary about the casting of the revival of "A Chorus Line" on Broadway (that was a mouthful of a sentence, was it not?).  Plot: Broadway actors really want the job. But most of them...don't get it.

My soul still crumpled after being put through the ringer by that damned Marley, I broke down.  Tears, tears, falling tears over the anguish of these poor people who can't find work to save their lives.  Was it a sad movie?  No.  But I cried.

(PS: The Broadway revival didn't even do that well; it already moved to Chicago instead, and there is a tour, but the NYC production is no more.  The movie, however, is required viewing for anyone who has ever auditioned for anything.  Really cool.)

So here I sit, filled with woe, crying at everything.  Cry baby, that's me.  I haven't cried in years, so I guess it's all coming out now.

DEAR AIDS WALK,

Hi.  I am supposed to participate in your event today, a 5K walk-a-thon throughout Miami Beach.  But yesterday was the Gay Pride event, our paper had a booth at the event, and I was on my feet all day.  ALL DAY.  And I am, like, totally tired.  How do those drag queens do it?  They are in heels the whole time.

I would like to spend the entire day in bed, watching television, so I thought you might be able to re-route the walk to come past my apartment instead?  I'll bake cookies for everyone.  If this is doable, I would appreciate it.  You have my cell number, just send me a text or something.  Thanks.

SUGAR

Journalists fit into two camps: those who believe everyone else will benefit from learning his/her thoughts, and those who believe they will benefit from learning the thoughts of everyone else.  Either you want to pontificate (columnists, critics, political pundits) or you want to relate (features writers, celeb interviewers).  I believe I fall squarely in the latter; I know what I think already, and any urge I have to write my opinions I squelch right here on this blog.  If I'm getting paid, I'd rather focus on learning about someone else, even if it's the old lady sitting at the counter in the diner on the corner.

Tomorrow's interview: the lesbians of "Gimme Sugar," on Logo.  They've come to Miami for Season 2 of the show, and I'm doing an all-out sit-down with the cast to find out what the new set of episodes has in store.  It's amazing, how on paper gay men and gay women have so much in common, but in practice their galaxies do not mingle.  So close, yet so far.

So I'm thinking like a lesbian.  What do women-loving-women want to talk about?  Relationships.  Feelings.  Things that make you go ugh.  I handle introspective situations by making jokes; I don't want to TALK about the bizniss.  But for them, I must.  Bring on the angst! I want more drama!

WRITER'S BLOCK

Today when I drove to work, over the bridge from my little island to the angst of the mainland, the waters of Biscayne Bay were uncharacteristically flat.  Normally the breezes from the ocean ripple the surface, and party boats chop by with their relentless journeys out to absolutely nowhere special, parting the waters with frothy waves.  But today, no one remembered to wake up.  Boaters were still inside, Mother Nature was sleeping in.  Shh.  Everything was still.  Flat.
Gray-ish skies above reflected down on the polished surface, giving the water a silvery sheen; and reflected up, the skyline of the city thrust upside-down and backwards into the bay, doubling the extravagance of the many condo buildings stretching across the shore.  Those buildings, built on a promise of a magnificent tomorrow, are now mostly empty, because of foreclosure or because no one had the speculative nerve to buy the places to begin with; but on the outside they are grand, masking floor after floor of drug addicts who have broken in to find a quiet place to get their fix, luxuriating on Berber carpets as they lie back and get high.

It all looks so nice; shiny, sparkly, and new.  Grab these images as you whoosh by, roaring over the bridge as you drive into the city, and you can hang on to them the rest of the day.  You could take a photo, but then you would wreck your car and the beauty of the bay would be tarnished a bit.  The memory is fine, thanks.

Warming up my fingers for deadline day today.  Type typity type on the keyboard.

That's all for now. 

DRAMA

Before I start this, I would just like to say I believe my beloved pet, Gorgeous the Cat, has a blissful life overall.

She was abandoned by my neighbors when they moved; I am allergic to cats, but she is small and totally incapable of fending for herself, and I felt bad for her, so I took her in. 

She regards me as her boyfriend and life savoir as a result.  She views T.L., my domestic partner, as an ever-present nuisance to be shunned with much jealousy and spite.  It drives T.L. nuts.  I would be lying if I didn't admit it was a little funny.

I never got her fixed; I don't let her outside, so her risk for impregnation is low.  I know I "should," I intend to someday.

With that said, I now tell you this story.

~

WEDNESDAY
While giving Gorgeous her daily comb-and-brush—a necessity for long-haired cats, and a special treat for her as she loves the process—I notice she has fleas.  I find two.  This is surprising, as she hasn't been exposed in over a month to any flea-related sources, like other animals or the outside world.  I order Frontline over the internet, will arrive in a few days.

I dig out an old bottle of flea shampo, and grab Gorgeous gently and slowly.  Whilst petting lovingly and whispering sweet nothings into her ear, I sneakily proceed to bathroom.  But no! She's on to my trick!  Upon crossing threshold of door, Gorgeous realizes where she is going and WHACK! shoots her beclawed paws out to attach to the doorframe.  I pry her claws from doorframe, place her in the tub, and give a gentle and lukewarm flea bath.  T.L. helps, by holding her as I lather.  It actually goes alright, although she howls in fits of woe.

After the bath, Gorgeous jumps out of the swaddling towels and runs beneath the bed to groom herself.  No comb-and-brush tonight, thank you.  Clearly T.L. and I will be getting the silent treatment for a while.

~

THURSDAY, 4 AM
Gorgeous jumps up onto the footboard of the bed, points her face over the mattress, and vomits loudly.  HHAAAAACK.  HHHHHHAAAAACK.  Several large, post-grooming hairballs fly from her innards and land on the bedspread, on top of T.L.'s feet.  She stops vomiting, turns and starts walking off the footboard; but then pauses, turns around again, walks back up the footboard, and pukes just once more for good measure.   HACK.  There, that's better.

~

FRIDAY NIGHT
T.L. and I rent a movie:  "Quarantine," about people in an apartment building in NYC who are "quarantined" when a mutant strain of rabies breaks out, infecting the people and making them eat each other.  Great f*ckin' movie, love it. Gorgeous seems morose, so we spend the evening petting her.  Correction: I pet her, and T.L. looks at her sideways and shakes his head in disgust.

~

SATURDAY, 4 AM
Awoken by a blood-chilling howl.  Already unnerved after watching scary movie, T.L. and I jump up in bed, and I turn on the light; Gorgeous is sprawled on the floor, moaning the same sounds as when she is given a bath, but loudly.  MMMROWWWWWWR.  Cat is not moving, but flicking tail side to side.   We are sure she is going to die.

~

SATURDAY
She's not dying. She's in heat. Oh.  Curse horny cat for scaring us to tears.

~

SUNDAY
Comb-and-brush reveals even more fleas.  Where is that Frontline???  Ugh.  We go to the pet store and buy flea spray for a temporary fix; spray Gorgeous as per instructions; keep her on bed to prevent her from grooming herself while toxic spray dries; after an hour, presume it's okay.

Later that day, Gorgeous begins foaming at the mouth profusely.  Bubbly spit falling from her mouth, puddling on the floor.  Flea spray has make her very sick.  Damn it.

Grab Gorgeous, toss into the tub, and quickly wash off killer flea spray.  Gorgeous has HAD IT with the baths and she rebels; fight ensues; in the fracas, she bites my hand.  Ouch.

Walk out of bathroom to a pale-faced T.L. sitting in front of computer.  "Baby," he says, "Gorgeous she bit you, no?"  I show him my hand.  He points at the offending cat, and then the computer screen: he is reading a page on feline rabies, and one of the symptoms listed is foaming at the mouth—as was exhibited in the movie "Quarantine," which has obviously affected him deeply. 

Ensure T.L. that no, neither Gorgeous nor I have rabies.

Go to work.

Get message from T.L.: Gorgeous is foaming at the mouth again, apparently she still has a little flea spray on her.  Doesn't want to deal with giving her a bath again, can't handle the hairball-puking, the rabies-biting; so he just shaves her with the electric clippers instead.  That will get rid of the fur-soaked spray!

Come home to find Gorgeous hiding beneath bed, somewhat bald.  I sit down; Gorgeous jumps in my lap; T.L. tries to pet her but noooooo, not happening.  T.L. questions why cat does not like him.

Inform T.L., I don't think we will be able to handle raising actual children.

DEAR GORGEOUS THE CAT,

Darling, I believe you want our attention, and now you have it.

I realize when you got a bath today, you were less than pleased with the process.

We don't mean to torture you, with the water and the sudsing and what-not.  But when you get into the puddle of shampoo, from the broken bottle, and it is all over your lovely silver pelt, we have no choice but to rinse you off. 

Granted, we should have brushed you after the process, or at least dried you better; but that hair dryer is only slightly less terrifying for you than the water itself.  So we decided to let you dry au naturale, which gave you the opportunity to groom yourself by licking licking licking.  And of course that meant you ingested much stray hair.

It is true, you had a stressful day; it is also true that you ate far too much hair than your little belly could handle.  But the next time you want to regurgitate hairballs, perhaps 4 AM is NOT the time to engage in said activity.  And jumping up onto the foodboard of our bed, pointing your head at TL's feet, and letting 'er rip...needless to say, the experience is a tad disconcerting, when one wakes up to the retching sounds of a not-dying-but-pretending-to-be feline who has a grudge.  I realize he was the one holding you while the water was applied to your body, but it wasn't his fault.

I hope you're feeling better, and the vomit on the bedspread certainly sent a message, loud and clear.  Just let me remind you, it was for your own good.  Please barf somewhere else besides on my domestic partner.  Thanks.

Dan Renzi