How was your day, Dan?

DEAR READERS,

I'm sitting in the Mexico City airport, where I arrived mind-numbingly early for my flight in anticipation of snarling Mexico City traffic.  It's wasn't bad.  So here I am, giving dirty looks to the family with the kid who is running around screaming, daring them to get on my plane.  God help them if they're sitting anywhere near me.

So on the eve of the new decade, I want to take a moment to reach out to you, Dear Reader, and thank you for coming here to this blog o' mine.  If you are reading this page, it means you did not find me by accident via a random Google search (recent link sources from searches: "sleep sexing," "how to chat with Mario Lopez," "Brett Novek underwear"), but instead you apparently had absolutely nothing better to do with your time other than to spend a few minutes here.  I think that's marvelous, and I am glad you stopped by.

I meet HWYDD readers from time to time, and seriously it is a huge thrill.  Whether you someone who leaves comments, or you just come by for kicks to read in silence, it is so cool bumping into people who appreciate my stupid jokes, my obsession with Rachel Zoe, and my incessant need for dating men who are good, but not good for me.

It's hard writing a blog about your sphere of existence when everyone you know also knows about the blog, and they freak out whenever they show up in print.  So of course HWYDD isn't as in-depth as it once was.  But I am having WAY too much fun to give up.  I am marching on, sparkly baton a-twirl in front of me, to the beat of my own drummer.  And if you choose to march along with me once in a while, I'm happy for the company.

Thanks for reading.  And have a Happy New Year.

STREET MARKET

Yesterday we went to the farmer's market. 

 

MOVIE CLUB: 'AVATAR'

Let's discuss "Avatar."

If you haven't seen the film, beware—there will be plot spoilers all over this post.

1) Loved this movie.  Saw it in 3-D.

2) The film is an interesting statement on governments of "developed" countries that think "primitive" cultures need to be rescued, or don't really need the land they are sitting on and can be moved.  American schools teach kids that the "conquering" of the American West was a major triumph for our country, but really it was a horrible destruction of the Native American cultures.  The settlers moved in and took everything, thinking the Indians didn't matter and could just move somewhere else.  It was just as bad as using Africans as slaves. 

3) We're still doing it, btw.  Read the news about countries that export petroleum, where big oil companies move in, destroy the environment, and leave the locals to deal with the mess.  And the companies say "We paid for this oil," but they didn't really.  They bought the land for a fraction of what it's worth, and the people don't benefit.

Here is a story about a Nigerian activist, Ken Saro-Wiwa, who protested Shell Oil's exploitation of the country, and was murdered by Shell's hitmen.  And my friends mock me for wanting an electric car...

4) My brother decided not to take his daughters, who are in elementary school, after reading a review online that said the movie isn't appropriate for kids—because there is "nudity."  I would say the movie is too violent for little kids (and too long), but the idea that it is inappropriate because of "nudity" drives me crazy.  The Na'vi are dressed in clothing you'd see on any National Geographic special.  The fact that native cultures wear loincloths or other small garments does NOT mean they are "naked."  There is nothing wrong with the way they dress.  It is not inferior, it is not inappropriate.  For us to teach kids that there is something "wrong" with the way they dress is reinforcing the idea that these cultures are not sophisticated enough to be respected.  If you have a problem with the way the Na'vi dresses, then that's the exact reason you should see the movie!  Learn something!

5) My only criticisms: parts of the story have been told before.  A lot of these plot details are also in the movie "Dune." Also, the final fight between Col. Quaritch in that robot machine, and Neytiri?  It's the same fight between Ripley and the Alien Queen in "Aliens," when Ripley gets into the robotic loader and says her famous "Get away from her you bitch!" line.  Coincidence? "Aliens" was also directed by James Cameron.  In fact, according to imdb.com, the guy who played Quaritch (Stephen Lang) auditioned for "Aliens," and Cameron remembered him, so he chose him for this movie.  That scene annoyed me a little.

DIEGO RIVERA

"Gay men have the weirdest relationships," said my friend J.  "When straight people break up, they break up.  When gay men break up, they stay friends and enter into this weird gray area."  She huffed.  "It's very strange."

'Tis true.  I can attest, my people have some odd mating habits.  Any relationship I've ever had that was worth anything resulted in a long-lasting friendship, including conversations about our new boyfriends.  But the perspectives of past love interests are invaluable in the journey through love's many gauntlets.  And there is no greater joy than listening to your ex-boyfriend suffer on the end of the phone, as he recants his latest drama in between your own chorus chants oof "You're making the same mistakes again! This is why we broke up!"  Very satisfying.

Where was I?  Ah yes, I'm in Mexico City.  Good food, great fun, and home to the infamous T.L.

I had this trip planned for a long time, with hotels paid in advance, and I adore the city almost as much as I adore T.L.'s family.  So we agreed to not argue, and my Christmas pilgrimage South Of The Border went on as scheduled.

With T.L.'s family, the fact that I don't speak Spanish is The Joke That Will Never Die.  I used to sit in stoic silence; unfortunately now I know enough broken sentences to stumble my way through bits of conversation and make a mockery of myself.

When T.L. and I arrived at their house the first night, his family was sitting down for an informal dinner; they offered to share their chicken tacos with all the goods, but I wasn't hungry.  Trying to impress with my Spanish, which I believe to be improved since last year when I was here, I whipped out my bilingual-ness and said "No tengo mucho fama."  I thought I said "I don't have much hunger," which is the literal phrasing you'd use; except my sentence, ironically for me, was really "I don't have much fame."  Fama=fame, apparently.  I thought it sounded like "famine," implying hunger.  Whatever. I'd say that was a Freudian slip.

After they pointed at me and laughed, I went upstairs for a few minutes; in the time I was gone, T.L.'s mother concluded I wasn't eating because I didn't like her cooking, and she thought I'd enjoy some "American" food more.  She ordered a pizza.

When this pizza arrived, I was treated to a round disc of dough topped with pineapple and ham.  With it, T.L. pulled out a bottle of ketchup, to be used as the tomato sauce.  Just like Aunt Josephine used to make when she came over from the Old Country.

~~~

Activities today: we went to Diego Rivera's house. Diego Rivera is a famed political artist who installed giant murals in numerous government buildings.  Also, he was romantically involved with Frida Kahlo, in what was a stormy love affair involving numerous splits and tumultuous ups and downs.  But through it all, they never completely cut things off.

Look at that, straight people break up and stay friends just like the gays do.  Ha! I proved J wrong.

And this conversation has gone full circle.  How satisfying.

FUN FACTS

-- I have been to Mexico three times in the past two years.  On each occasion, the Jennifer Lopez movie "Selena" has been on T.V.

-- Sears is a really nice store.  They sell Benneton in Mexico Sears.

-- On my cab from the Mexico City airport, my driver excitedly showed off his bad-ass English skillz by bragging about how good his accent is.  He was taking classes so he could go visit one day.  His dream had been to see the World Trade Center; as we wove in and out of traffic, he listed the countries where the materials of the buildings came from, which I cannot recite at this time because I don't remember, and he knew the exact dates when construction began and ended.  "And then, they killed my dream," he lamented.  It was sad.  I sat in respectful silence for a moment.

-- If you order chapulines, you will get a plate of pan-seared baby grasshoppers.  They're a big deal here, you eat them in tacos. Oh dear God.

Today I sat at my computer all day, having fulfilled most of a regular work day, on Christmas Eve.  The building, literally, was empty except for me.  Christmas revelers went home early to have dinner with families; the Jews went home to go out for Chinese food and watch a movie.  I quietly cranked out as much work as I could, in preparation for leaving town and depriving my fellow staff of my presence for several days.  I should have been lonely or something but honestly I didn't care. 

Most of my friends have some version of the holiday blues, because they're not with family; we are the people who were invited out for dinner a few days ago, by people who spend Christmas with relatives, but wanted to have a "Christmas" with their friends before they had to leave for the real event.  It's a nice gesture, but in the background is always the nagging fact that it's not real.  There's really no fulfillment in being a glorified consolation prize. For me it's just a hassle, and a little forced.

So for Christmas, I'm going to Mexico City.  I made these plans weeks ago, with a friend from London; we are going for some cheap thrills and a change of pace.  Mr. London came up with the idea, although he was under the impression that "Mexico City" was a tropical destination, a logical presumption considering any beach in Mexico is gorgeous this time of year.  Alas, Mexico City is not near a beach.  Nor is it near sea level, where the air is warm.  Mexico City is up in the mountains, with thin air at a brisk 70 degrees in the middle of the day.  Since I live in Miami, where now on Christmas Eve I still use my air conditioner, I'm excited to go someplace I can wear my sweaters; but he is miffed that he chose the one place in Mexico where he can't lay out and enjoy drinks in coconut shells.  I'll make sure my excitement rubs off on him, because I am SO excited to go.  Mexico City is amazing, I'll make sure he has fun.

~~~

I was thinking about those "What is love?" compilations, where they ask kids the question and get funny answers.

For me, I think Love is when someone asks you to taste your food, and you give them an extra-big bite.

If it's not Love, you get territorial when the bite is big.  Like hey, give me back my food.  But Love...you want more? I want you to love what's on my plate.

It just popped into my head today.  Do you share your food? I hope you share generously when it matters, because it does matter.

This has nothing to do with T.L., I was just watching people eat.

BOATING LESSON

(...while out on a boat charter, with a lovely family from Asia...)

10-year old son: How long have you worked on boats?

Me: About a year.

10-year old son: Do you like it?

Me: Yes, but it's not my full-time job.  I just do this sometimes to help my friend who owns the company. Really I'm a writer.

10-year old son: You have two jobs? Are you rich?

Me. I wish.  No.  Are you rich?

10-year old son: Yeah.

(pause)

Me: Great.

(pause)

Me: What else should we talk about?

HISTORY

I'm getting better at this end-of-relationships thing.

The first time I went through it, I was in Chicago, years ago.   I broke up with him, but then he began dating my friend.  I saw them everywhere, together, everywhere.  It was winter; at the time I lived north of downtown, and took the El (subway/train) to work every day.  I would wake up, run across the cold apartment, and get into the shower and cry.  Every morning, for weeks, this happened. Then I would take the train to work, where I would sit and read a book.  I lived towards the beginning of the route, I boarded the train when it was empty enough to find a seat.  I was lucky.  It helped me pull myself together for the rest of the day.  And then one day, I didn't cry in the shower.  Things got better.

The second time wasn't as drawn out.  I was in Los Angeles; again, I broke up with him, and I had already moved out of his house and was on my own for a month or two when he started dating someone else.  And he stopped returning my calls.  I sat on my couch, in the dark, staring at a wall while listening to the pounding in my chest.  I would be out of breath from trying to keep up with my pulse, even though I was just sitting still. Night after night, I sat in the dark, no TV or music, obsessing about how he had moved on—which was ironic, as I was the one who ended it, yet I was literally sitting still and not doing anything to fix things for myself.  That phase only lasted for a few weeks, however.  I started walking my friends' dogs, so I had an excuse to hang out at the dog park in Laurel Canyon.  It was just a reason to go out in the world, see people.

There were other relationships, but they were pleasant ends for the most part.  A few times, I was happy things came to a close.  Other times, I didn't even notice anything was over.  Life goes on.

Now this, the third time: I have clothes overflowing everywhere in my tiny apartment, but I can't hang them in his now-empty closet.  I see the food he bought in the refrigerator and I lose my appetite, not because the food is going bad but I won't throw it away.  The shower is beginning to become a sad place once again, although there aren't any tears yet.  My eyes just sting, perhaps just out of habit from years ago. When the stinging in my eyes hits, I lather exfoliator on my face.  The stinging on my cheeks distracts me from the feeling in my eyes.  I've never had smoother skin.

I walk slower. I look down at the ground when I talk; I'm still saying the things I would normally say, but the way I say them is different. 

And I stay out of my apartment until late at night, when I go home only to go to bed.  When I come in I don't like to turn on the light; if I look around, I'll see how nothing was moved since I left earlier in the day.  No one touches anything, nothing is moved, the bed isn't made because I don't make it.  That was always the greatest part of coming home: the bed was made, every day, because he cared. He liked it that way.  It was nice.

It's not just that I want someone to fill the space; friends come over, friends keep me occupied.  But it's not the same.

Things will get better once again.  I've had practice.

WORST PICK-UP LINE

What the guy said to me tonight, as he looked me up and down:

"Did you used to work out?"

WISH LIST

Tell me--

What do you want for Christmas?