The Surreal Life

It's Saturday night. 10:25 p.m.

And I'm already in bed.

There was a time when I would just be leaving the house at this hour. Instead, I've just popped a Percocet and I'm awaiting the warm fuzzies that will soon approach so I can feel a bit more comfortable and get more rest after what has been a very surreal week; MTV's got nothing on me!

I'm actually improving on a daily basis. In fact, there was even one point when I thought, "Was I really in the hospital? Did I really have surgery? But then my belly itches and I look down and see the half-shaved area. I stand in front of the mirror and look at my still swollen belly (some of it's just fat) and I look at my belly button, and the two other scars they made, one just to the left, the other just below . . . and I think . . . yeah, it really happened. I didn't dream it.

It's amazing how a part of the mind just wants me to forget. And yet, deep down inside I know better.

Things like this, unexpected things, things that could have escalated into something more serious if I hadn't listened to my body, followed my hunch, really make you sit back and take notice.

Life is too short. Waaaaaaaaaay too fucking short. And I started thinking, what if I had not survived? What if I had died? What if I hadn't opened my eyes and simply, just gone away?

Who would get rid of my things? Who would tell my family? My friends? How would my partner have reacted? How would his parents? And what about the rest of his family? Who would take care of the dogs? The cats? Who would help my partner with the bills?

On a good note, we have no children other than the dogs so that's a good thing. But would all these things, including the dogs, then just serve as a reminder of what once was?

These things have been on my mind since that night at the hospital I spent alone, when I kept waking up every few hours for heart monitoring, blood pressure and whatever that thing is they stick on the end of your finger that looks like a metal clothespin.

And then tonight, on the way home from Target . . . yeah, I know what you're thinking; Target on a Saturday night -- woo-hoo . . . two songs played back-to-back on the radio that kinda slammed it all home.

I'm 46. I'm not as young as I used to be. I know it's not old, but it's not young. It just is. And I started wondering about the things I've done, mistakes I've made, things I've yet to experience that I have always wanted to do.

And then I thought, can I change my life? Do I have the power to become something other than what I already am? Do I have the power to bring to fruition, the things I need to make a truly wonderful life for my partner and myself? To share with family and friends experiences we only dream about or talk about?

I mean, the only thing stopping me is me, right? It's not just about money, though it's definitely an insurmountable issue; but is it really?

So I thought about. And though at first I thought, I'll stop this blog and start another. A more positive one, more upbeat. One that, hopefully, will help inspire others to do what they want . . . not with religion or by what I call "churchspeak" . . . but with positive thinking. By making a choice to live more positively. Then I thought, why change it? After all, this is a journal. It's about the path of my life, the detours I've taken, both on my own and with others, some by choice, some not.

And so, hopefully, what will follow, is an evolution of mind just as I feel my heart changing.

Going forward, I hope to bring a more positive outlook to life, my loves, my passions. Oh, I'm sure the soap box will still be there somewhere. I suppose it's inevitable that it stay away forever.

I guess I simply want to bring more peace, love and harmony into my life. Yeah. I know. Sounds like some dippy, hippie shit, doesn't it? Maybe it is. But it's an experiment I'm going to try. Not just for myself, but for my partner and our relationship as two individuals who have formed a family and forged a home; perhaps not the type of family that middle America conceives of as a family, but a family nonetheless.

Ironically, a few days ago I asked Niko about a book that I thought he had. It wasn't the one that I thought I wanted to read but I took it as a sign that perhaps it was the book I NEEDED to read; despite the fact that I've already got 12 other books on my side of the bed, all in various stages of involvement!

The book I'm reading? "It's Not Easy Being Green And Other Things to Consider" by Jim Henson, The Muppets and Friends. Not the kind of book you just sit and read from cover to cover. It's more the kind of book that you absorb as you go.

Some of the messages contained within are very simply and somewhat esoteric, but they've grabbed me. Strangely, I understand that it's about the simple things that make life worth living and experiencing. I will share some as I go in this "variance" from the things I have written about in the past.

Hopefully they will help keep me, and others, inspired to continue on this journey of the surreal life. No. Strike that. My quest for a more peaceful living, a more complete and balanced life.

Yeah. I think I like that better.

P.S. The songs I heard were Toby Keith's "As Good As I Once Was" and Tim McGraw's "Live Like You Were Dying."

Livin' La Vida Extreme

Livin' La Via Extreme. No, I'm not talking about Ricky Martin shaking his bon bon in my direction; though that would be nice. Nor am I talking about extreme sports, fitness or challenges.

I'm talking extreme living of the roller coaster kind. High peaks and low valleys punctuated by the daily grind. Yes, life this past year has been anything but boring and bland. It's been a study in extremes.

Sure, there have been tedious moments or the routine of getting up in the morning, stumbling down the stairs to feed the dogs and cats and pour my coffee all without killing them or myself in the process. Of course, there's the usual bill paying stuff and grocery shopping, but it's all been a bit more tweaked, more fine-tuned; as if a filter of higher sensitivity has been placed in our living module, thus affording us a bit more awareness.

Unlike life before November of last year, life now has simply been . . . well, more lived, more deeply felt. Not sure if it's the state of the economy, the way I've been perceiving life in general, getting older, or a combination of those things plus other things I'm not yet seeing.

Example: Just a few short days ago I was battling the feelings of riding high from having completed a project, while at the same time, also dealing with the shortsightedness of time and other technical issues. Then, when I was getting ready to write about the things I'd learned this past year, something happened that will help me illustrate the sharp contrast of extremes which has been life as of late.

Tuesday morning about 3 or 4 a.m., I woke up to go to the bathroom and became aware of a dull stabbing in my right side; just under my ribcage. I thought nothing of it. I figured I either had not drank enough water, was constipated, or I ate something that didn't agree with me.

But when I got up several hours later and the feeling had not intensified, but spread to the left side, I began to wonder. I thought I would call in sick but didn't feel right doing it since I was off two days just last week. I talked to Niko about the symptoms and we both agreed I was probably just constipated; it had happened once before and the feelings had been similar.

So, off to work I went; it was about 8:30.

I mentioned it to my Boss when I got to the office a few minutes later. He asked if I still had my appendix. Which I did.

As I tried settling into the day, the sensation grew progressively worse; in fact, it felt as if my insides were on fire. Portions of my intestines felt as if someone were playing a wild Moroccan tune, undulating and bubbling.

Somehow, I managed to walk home after dismissing myself for the day at just after 9 a.m.

Reduced to near tears, with a low fever, and feeling as if I was going to pass out, I realized, this was no ordinary sensation. Something was wrong. I just didn't know what. I tried to calm myself down by focusing only on the moment; but guess what? Focusing on the present, the right here and how is NOT a good idea when what you are experiencing is pain.

Armed with my heating pad, my cell phone, and our three pugs to help keep me warm, I made my way upstairs where I collapsed, with my clothes on, to see if the sensation would subside.

But the heating pad didn't help. In fact it only made matters worse. I called my doctor's office to see if they had any answers to my questions. The voice on the phone . . . MJ? DJ? PJ? . . . said he was no doctor but it sounded as if I needed to go to the hospital. However, he had an opening at 11:30 with my PA, if I wanted it. And a part of me did.

But by the time Niko got home, just after 10:00, I knew that I would not be seeing Dan Brown or anyone else at the Doctor's Office. It was the Hospital ER for me and I knew it. There was no point in fighting it.

My awareness continued to slip from there, due to the pain I was in. I barely remember us getting to the hospital. Somehow I lasted the wait in ER but didn't last 5 minutes in Triage when I threw up after drinking Crystal Light with contrast; the nurse and doctor on duty wanted me to drink the stuff since they thought a Cat Scan was in order.

I won't bore you with the rest because, frankly, I'm not sure I remember much about it. Somewhere along the line I was given morphine for the pain. And some time around 4:00 in the afternoon, or thereafter, after two doses of morphine, two bottles of Crystal Light with contrast, kept down with some anti-naseua stuff (Klonopin maybe?), I had the Cat Scan and was dutifully informed that I was going to be prepped for a laprascopic appendectomy.

By that point, I was riding the morphine drip. He could have told me I was about to be gored by a rhino; I wouldn't have cared.

I was rushed through surgery and before long, found myself waking in a hospital room as if no time had passed.

And now, here I am, at home, released from Broward General yesterday about 4:30 p.m. I have an incision in my belly button, one to the left of it, another to the right. I'm uncomfortable, but nothing compared to what I felt Tuesday. In fact, I'm quite fine if I don't feel anything extreme for a few more days at least!

The light in the room is waning, the ceiling fan is whirring softly and outside I think rain has begun to patter on the leaves in the trees. The dogs are surrounding me and the effect of a Percoset is still trying to claim me so I think I'll leave now and coast for a few hours. Yes. I will be content laying in the valley of a low moment while somewhere outside, I'm sure, another extreme moment awaits me.

A World Wide Plea

In my life, music, movies and theatre play a very key role. In fact, when someone says almost anything, I am frequently reminded of a line from a song, a quote from a movie, or a character’s expletive from a Broadway show. Perhaps it is because these forms of entertainment were instrumental in allowing me to escape, mentally, the realities of my childhood, growing up on food stamps and welfare; even if only for a little while.

Because of my penchant to escape through music, movies and theatre, especially when times are difficult, is probably the reason why I am hearing Shirley Bassey in my head, with The Propellerheads, singing “History Repeating.”

And I can’t help but think that it is because of what is happening now, in our lives, in our collective moment in time.

I am no historian. In fact, as a child, I never even liked history. I found it dull and rather boring. Once, in elementary school, I even asked our teacher why we needed to learn history. Wasn’t it more important to learn about the present and think about the future?

A very shocked Ms. Wynn looked at me, her eyes got a bit buggy at the audacity of my question and she responded.

“The reason why we must learn history is so that we NEVER repeat it.”

Perhaps she was just boring at teaching what had already passed. Looking back, though, I cannot imagine that was the case as she was one of the most passionate teachers I had in elementary school. So I’m thinking perhaps it was just the mind of child that couldn’t be preoccupied with things that happened prior to my birth. After all, they didn’t really affect me, why should I learn about it?

As I’ve grown older, I find history actually quite fascinating; especially if taught by someone who has a passion for it. They can make you relive it, feel it, embrace it. A professor in college made me feel as if I was there, on a slave ship, hearing the clank of iron and feel the shackles at my wrists and feet when teaching us about one of the most luridly disgusting times in our country’s infancy.

If a writer is good at turning his phrases and using words, he can make you feel it as well.

And, of course, movies can also transport you into an entirely different realm just by the sheer imagination and talent of the director, actors, writers and editors.

But here’s the tricky thing about history; and here is also where another song comes to mind. This time from the Broadway show Wicked, when the Wizard says to Elpheba, “Where I’m from, we believe all sorts of things that aren’t true. We call it – history.”

Regardless of whether history repeats itself or if it is a matter of perspective, there is no doubt that we are living in very dangerous times. Times, I might add, that are repeating themselves.

In October of 1929, only 79 years ago, the Wall Street stock market collapsed. It sent not only our country into a depression, but the entire world. One of the more vulnerable countries was Germany, due to their large amounts of loans and dependency on foreign trade.

Out of the rubble rose Hitler.

Hitler told the people what they wanted to hear. But first, he went to the German President and asked him to invoke Article 48 of the German constitution. This gave emergency powers to the president to rule by decree.

Is this starting to sound familiar?

The Germans, tired of the political haggling in Berlin; tired of misery, tired of suffering, tired of weakness, were willing to listen to anyone.

But of course, there had to be an enemy. Someone to blame for the horrible things that had happened to Hitler's beloved country.

And guess what happened next?

Over 6 million Jews, supporters of Jews, the physically and mentally disabled, along with the uncounted amounts of homosexuals fell victim to the atrocities we now know of as "The Holocaust."

I believe these events are happening again. Only this time, here in our country. Our investment firms and banks are failing or have failed while the CEOs of the huge corporation reap the rewards of the thousands, if not millions, of laborers across our great, sad nation. They are walking away scott free, while our government condones it. If any of you lost money because of Enron, you know what I'm talking about.

And yet we sit idly by.

Now the government, OUR government, wants to buy and invest in American banks. Bail out investment firms. Some will tell you that this will help save the economy. It may.

But I have a fear.

My fear is that when you leave the door to your house unlocked, a thief could come in. And I'm afraid the thieves have not only come in, they are taking everything they can; including our souls. No one is safe.

First the American government will take control of the banks. And then, we had best watch our step because the media will be next. Newspapers and television states will be broadcasting only those things the government WANTS us to hear!

And then, only whatever semblance of God or human decency remains is the only thing that will save us.

But all is not lost.

As a registered Democrat with strong Socialist tendencies, I am now making a plea to you. For everything that you hold near and dear to your hearts, do not let the Republican party take over for a 3rd term. I beseech you. I beg of you. Please.

McCain is a walking zombie. There is virtually no expression in his beady little eyes. I believe him to be a puppet of the Bush administration. And Palin, who knows next to nothing, is Eliza Doolittle; Pygmalion. She is simply the Republican party's carrot, thrust unto the American people while the current administration continues their policies and strip us bare of all that has made this incredible nation what it once was.

Now, I don't know much about politics, but I can see patterns; and the ones that I see here are not only frightening, they make my blood turn cold.

And just what do I see before me? The road to perdition.

I see a world where we will all live in fear. A great nation, once made strong by the many differences within it, including the paradoxes and contrasts, both beautiful and sometimes ugly, all come crumbling and crashing around us. Terrorism will not be squashed. It will never be eradicated in any way, shape or form. In fact, the only thing that we can count on, is that acts of terrorism will continue to occur. Atrocites from within our very own government, will rear their ugly head and by then it will be too late. We will be living a replica of the movie, "Vendetta."

Our country is in desperate need of a revolution, in desperate need of a new leader. And of course, now I'm hearing the Beatles in my head sing "Revolution."

Because desperate times call for desperate measures, I implore you to drop the blinders, drop the trivial, and see what is before you. Force yourself to truly see with your heart, and not the words that someone else has fed you and still continues to feed you.

If you're as pissed off as I am, make a stand. Let others know. We MUST take back control of our politics and our country. Let it be, once again, a government of the people, by the people, for the people. Organize. Protest. Write letters, sing songs, hold hands. Hell, march if you have to!

Invoke the spirit of our forefathers, rebel against the establishment in your own way. Let's all meet at the Mall; and I don't mean for shopping! I'm talking about the one in Washington, D.C. Let's meet there and just drop out. Where are the Leary's of the Woodstock era? Where is Bob Dylan? Where are the singers? The song writers? The ones who organized us and led us through the 60s?

I do not see a bright, sunny future for all of us unless we act now. Do . . . SOMEthing. Anything. Don't just sit there. Make your voice be heard. Let the politicians know how you feel. Join the ACLU and other organizations who can help us rally and topple the current administration so that we may face, together, a better and brighter future and start, "Walking On Sunshine." Yes. Like Katrina and The Waves.

And for those who are just coming of age, those in their 20s who are into partying and drinking beer and screwing anything that moves or think that there are easy, fast ways to make money and that it is best to simply roll over, remember what Professor Dumbledore said to Harry Potter. "The time has come to choose between what is right, and what is easy."

May whatever universal power you believe in protect us all.

$135.74

My partner and I went grocery shopping today after work. We didn't buy a lot of things as we have just started the South Beach Diet. It's worked well for us before and since we've both put on a little weight we decided to try it again.

For those of you who haven't been on the South Beach diet or don't know about it, it's a bit of a challenge. The first two weeks you're mostly allowed only proteins. No carbs at all, such as rice and bread. Juice and fruit are out, as are carrots, sweet potatoes and even tomatoes. You have to retrain your mindset on the things you can eat and you force yourself to focus on that rather than the things that you can't.

So we're in Publix, our local chain supermarket. We bought some salad greens, sugar free Jell-o, sugar free puddings, cheeses, soy milk, beans, some Crystal Light and lots of frozen veggies. We picked up a few cans of tuna, dog food, Splenda, Pledge, some protein bars, mushrooms and several types of meat and fish. All in all, not a lot of food or anything extraneous. If we're lucky, the amount of food we bought will last us one week. Let me repeat that. One week. And we spent $135.74.

I never thought I would see the day when I, like my mother and grandmother before her, would be standing at the cash register saying, "I remember when." I swore I would never become that. Things change! Everything goes up.

But CHRISTALMIGHTY!!!! THIS much? And we're two people with no kids! What about the parents with children? For that matter, what about single parents? And what of the elderly who are on even more of a fixed income than WE are???

I'm incensed and appalled that our nation has gotten to the point that it has. It is absolutely revolting and disgusting. The political leaders in this country should all be strung up, lined up, and FORCED to work for minimum wage. They should be FORCED to live on a budget. They should be FORCED to work for a corporation and have to kow-tow to the bosses and stuck in a job that they don't like simply because they are working for medical insurance. They should be FORCED to live just like everybody else.

I'm sick and tired of all these filthy politicians making rules for the masses, living like parasites off the taxes WE pay, and lieing through their fucking teeth about . . . well, EVERYTHING!

Starting with the most local of commissioners, although they are probably closest to mainstream America and the aches and pains we feel, then continuing all the way up to the son-of-a-bitch who calls himself the "P" word; the man who stole office not once but TWICE! The idiot moron who has driven our country so far down the fucking toilet it'll take a hell of a lot more than Roto-Rooter, a plumber's snake and the entire Drano factory.

I can't wait for the madness of King George to end. The fascist dictator pig should be strung up by his balls. I pray to a God I'm not sure exists anymore, that we never honor Bush in any way shape or form, the way we have with Nixon, Reagan and other dead former "P" people who all of a sudden, just because they have died, are instant saints and everyone wants to canonize.

How stupid do they think we are? Exactly how bad IS our short-term memory as a nation? As a people?

Well, apparently quite stupid if they are feeding us McCain and Palin. Even dumber if we allow the Republican party to continue to destroy what I was always taught to believe was the greatest nation on Earth.

I'd like to see, not just Palin and McCain, but all the other politicians on BOTH sides, fighting to pay bills and struggling to put food on the table. I would really love to force them to look at our nation's poor, the civil rights they are stripping us of, yet touting Democracy in other countries we have no right to be in.

The problem is, that kind of change will never happen. The kind of change I want to see will be nothing short of a revolution.

I truly hope people wake up soon. I hope we realize that words don't pay the rent. Words, as important as they may be, don't put food on the table, they don't feed your kids, they don't pay your doctor bills, your medication. They don't pay for your gas. They don't put gifts under the tree at Christmas. YOU do.

So if you want to continue struggling, barely scraping enough money to get buy, let alone get ahead, go ahead, keep believing the false prophets and their false words. Frankly, with all that we have allowed and put up with . . . considering the state of our country, our economy, our great nation . . . our planet . . . I'm surprised that anyone can sleep comfortably at night.

Especially the politicians and lawmakers that have led us to where we are now.

Pissed off? You bet. Disgusted? Absolutely!

Aren't you?

Seriously. What else has to happen before you stand up and say "I've had enough and I'm not going to take it anymore?" How many more jobs have to be lost? How many more people have to die because they have no insurance and we have a tired, overburdened bureacracy that just doesn't care? How many hurricanes have to blow before the privileged few are FORCED to look at the poverty that exists in our own backyards and start fixing the things that broken and no longer work?

Wake up people! We are not battling these things as one single ethnic group, as men or women, as straight or gay, as one religion pitted against the other. We are ALL fighting these things TOGETHER. As one planet.

We must stand up and say something because if we don't, as Ben Franklin said, "We shall surely hang together." And personally, I can already feel the noose tightening ever more.

All of this just because my partner and I spend $135.74 for barely one week worth of groceries.

Signs

I know what you’re going to think as you read this. At first you’ll think, why do I want to read this? But curiosity will get the better of you.

And then you’ll think I’m crazy. You’re probably right. Even I am doubting my own sanity and whether what I see truly happened, or if it was a hallucination as my partner says it was.

And now you'll think, "AHA! So there are drugs involved!" Well, there was a brownie involved. A rather large chunk of special brownie I might add.

So then you’ll keep reading because you might just be curious enough to find out what happens next. And when this is all over, you’ll have one of several reactions. You’ll either believe me or you won’t. You’ll think it was a hallucination and so what?

If you believe me, and I hope you do, then you just might find yourself here with me, understanding what I’m talking about. However, if you don’t and move on, that’s okay, too. What will happen will happen regardless of what you do. That's dangerous.

More dangerous still is this: what if you believe me and then decide that I’m dangerous? That I should be locked up? That for the better of humanity and all that is supposedly "American" and "Patriotic" and "for the right of the people" that I should simply not speak? Not be heard?

And that this should not be seen or read?

All I ask is that you keep an open mind. Try and put whatever you were taught, by your parents, your teachers, your neighbors, away in a box, just . . . brush it aside. Everything you’ve ever known about religion or God or the afterlife and what might be beyond. Don't think with your mind, but with your heart, the very core of your soul that is embedded in your very DNA; that part of you that is still very much connected to the Earth we come from but that you have buried and chosen not to look at.

Now, before I take the next step, there is something you must know, I am not a religious man. Not by any stretch of the imagination. I believe there is . . . something. I believe something keeps watch, but not for judgement. That, we do ourselves.

What is "out there" exists only to keep watch, so that we can continue in the way we are supposed to; interfering only when they absolutely must. To bring us back and align us to what our original goals were before we came here to this world. Before we were born. When we agreed.

Yeah. I know. Crazy. Totally. Like the Mad Hatter.

But let's suppose, for just a moment, that there are signs all around us; some subtle, easy to miss, some a bit more palpable, such as a message in the song you're listening to, the movie you watched last night, or your favorite television show, where you stopped channel surfing because something caught your attention and spoke to your heart. Or maybe there's a sign in the book you're reading.

Sometimes even these little signs, barely noticeable, are easy to dismiss as coincidences. But what if they're not?

What if the signs are there to show us the way, point us in the right direction? What if these signs are here to remind us of what we are here to do with our lives. What if these signs were real and you stopped to observe them? Would you take them seriously?

“What if,” like Joan Osborne sings in that song, “God was one of us?”

Remember. I told you. I’m not a religious man.

The signs are there. They have always been there. The trouble is, you either cannot see them, choose not to see them, or disbelief and go against your hunch.

You're not alone. We've all been there. We've all ignored the signs and paid for it dearly afterward. And we just say to ourselves, "If only . . ."

By now you’re asking yourself, “Where the hell is this going? What is up with this guy? Why am I even bothering to read this shit?” But you know the answer to that.

You’ve been just as troubled as I have been.

The signs increase in urgency if we ignore them for too long. And that is what we have done. We've ignored everything we have ever seen or felt, and believe the lies which we have been fed. Now, the signs are too obvious to overlook.

Our climate.
The state of our nation.
Our economy.
Our freedoms.
Our ability to choose and be freethinkers.
The earthquakes and other natural disasters.

We have been poisoned and continue to be poisoned. And we continue to allow it.

Sounds like a conspiracy theory, doesn't it? Sounds like one of those fantastical Hollywood movies where death and destruction bring about the fall of our nations, the fall of man, and animal, kind.

Life, as we know it, will all come to a crashing, cataclysmic, grinding halt.

That’s right. Everything will be gone and destroyed.

But what if you could stop all that? Would you do it? What if all you had to do for life to continue, was to do one simple thing that your loved one told you to do? Something they either hallucinated or perhaps -- remember you must keep an open mind -- perhaps they really channeled a message to you?

Now you’re thinking I’m crazy. Or that I’ve been watching too much television. Reading too many books, sitting in the dark watching too many movies.

Maybe I have. But the signs . . . they're all there. The time's come and we must do something. We can't just pretend that what we do has no consequence to the next person, nature, the world. The Universe.

Again I know what you're thinking. Even as they scream at their most urgent, the signs are still easy to push aside as insanity or the result of a hallucinogenic. But what it it isn't? What if there are some of us who can really feel what is at hand?

And what if I were to tell you there is an answer? A simple one.

Now here is where it gets really tricky. Here is where I will either lose you entirely and you’ll decide to click on that porno link or TMZ or Perez Hilton or some other tripe with absolutely no substance because like everyone else, you've been brainwashed to believe that the lives of those you read is far more important than you're own.

But if you believe that this "bullshit" is actually going somewhere, then please, read on. I need you to come with me even further.

What if a loved one, someone whom you have lived with for, say, nearly 13 years; someone who, hopefully, you love just as much as you love life. Or as you love yourself. Someone you would take a bullet for.

What if that person told you what you needed to do to save not only them, but yourself, your relationship and, in short, save the future of the entire planet and thus the entire universe with all it’s many layers?

Just by following a few simple rules that may or may not have been a hallucination.

Exactly what the rules are do not matter right now. I cannot tell you what they are anyway. Not at the moment. They were meant for one person and one person only. But he does not believe me. The future of our world rests in his hands and I don't think he believes me or will do anything about it.

You see, just like Dumbledore said to Harry Potter at the end of book 5, "Soon we must decide between what is right, and what is easy."

And I just need to know that I’m not crazy.

I really believe that what this one person chooses to do or not do, will alter the course of not just our planet, but the entire universe with it's billions of life forms and entities of all kinds.

I need to know how to persuade him, or the world WILL cease to exist. It's already near the brink. But it's not too late.

There is no, “That depends on what you want me to do.”

There is no, “What are you talking about?”

You either believe me or you don’t. You either understand or you don’t. You will either do it . . .

. . . or you won’t.

And then the world will end. Sooner than you think.

No. This is not fiction. It truly isn't. So please . . . come with me in the next installment. I really need someone to believe me. This was not a hallucination. I felt it, saw it. It was quite clear. There were too many specifics. Too many comments from entities all saying the same thing over and over and over. There were too many of them and they took great pains in getting here to warn him. Through me.

They risked much to tell one person what needed to be done. And that person is not listening. He does not believe me. I think . . . no, I know, he thinks I’m crazy. But he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore.

So I must tell someone else.

Again . . . I need someone to believe me. And better still, explain it to me when this retelling of my experience is over and I might understand what it's about.

I know you’re out there. I can hear you.

And I can feel you.

Disney Vacation: Day 2, Part One -The Park Formerly Known As MGM Studios

Friday evening, 6:26 p.m.

We are now back in the hotel room. Niko is laying in bed watching Reba on Lifetime and I’m sipping my coffee and writing my blog entry.

After breakfast at the hotel cafeteria, our first destination was MGM Hollywood Studios. Oops! Excuse me. Disney’s Hollywood Studios. This is the park with Mickey’s large, cobalt blue sorceror’s hat as the centerpiece. The park itself is designed to capture the romanticism, spirit and glam of Hollywood’s Golden Age.



One of the most amazing things to me about Disney, aside from their dedication to service, is their attention to detail, detail, detail. And since the devil, they say, is in the details then Disney must be the King of Demons! Even now, as I think about it, I realize that out of all the pictures I took, nothing will do it justice. It's one of those places that simply must be experienced. Though I will certainly add photos to this entry, at the end of this piece will be a movie clip to give you a better idea of what it's like here.



And trust me when I tell, Disney is NOT paying me to write this!

I love it here, though. I would love to live here. Period. Okay, maybe not live here but perhaps an overextended stay at the hotels for about a month. That includes the parks since I’m a Park Junkie!


The wait for the “Hollywood Tower of Terror” was close to 90 minutes. So we decided to take the Fast Pass and return at the appropriate time. In fact, I will recommend, at all parks, Fast Pass it whenever possible for the more popular rides.


We walked around through the shops. We went to a Narnia “pseudo-ride” where we saw a specially edited, extended trailer for “Prince Caspian” and some props from the movie.


Then we went to the new Toy Story 3-D ride which was loads of fun. You sit in this little buggy type thing with 3-D glasses and shoot at an animated range. But the buggy doesn’t sit still. You’re at one location for like, maybe, a minute. Then you’re whisked along to another shooting range. Lots of fun!

Another ride we did at Hollywood Studios was “The Great Movie Ride.” The outside is done like Graumman's Theatre in L.A. Like many of the other rides, we've gone on this one before. Although they haven't changed it in a few years, it's another one of my favorites. You sit in an open-top trolley-like thing and you get pulled along from one movie set to another. If you get a tour guide that isn’t very exciting then the ride can be a bit dull. But if you get a good one, even when they’re corny, it makes the ride much more fun. The clip at the bottom of this blog entry will give you a taste for what it's like. It will also give you a clue on one of my favorite movies. And if you can't figure it out, I'll give you a hint: I'm a friend of Dorothy's.

And, of course, no trip to Disney’s Hollywood Studios would be complete without a visit to “The Muppets.” This is a 3-D movie and you sit in a pseudo-theatre to be a part of their usual Mayhem.


Lunch was at the "Brown Derby" and the food here was delicious! This is the second time we've eaten here and both times not only was the service impeccable, but everything they served was extraordinarily delicious. Even the dessert was a work of art!


Hint about food and restaurants: it's expensive here. I would highly reccomend one of the Disney Dining Plans. And another feature you want to take advantage of: Reservations!

For now, though, I'm signing off. I'm going to take a nap and rest up because tonight we're going to The Magic Kingdom!

Disney Vacation: Day 1

Friday, July 18, 2008

It’s 8:34 a.m. We’re just beginning to stir.

We took our time yesterday in getting up here. The cast recording to Mamma Mia and Wicked were our travel companions. Even with a stop at one of the service stations for a bathroom break and to stretch our legs, we still walked into our room at the All Star Music Resort at 3:30.


The All Star Music is one of Disney’s “value” resorts; polite parlance for no-frills. The decorative theme here is anything and everything musical. We’ve stayed here many times before. Once, just to see how it would compare, we stayed at the Pop Century. Even though we liked the fun, decade-oriented decor, we opted to come back to the All Star Music. The layout here appeals more to us, it’s much less crowded, and the rooms are less noisy here.

The All Star Music Resort has a total of 10 buildings, each with it’s own theme: country, rock, jazz, calypso, and Broadway. Guess which one we’re staying at?


We always ask for the Broadway section. It's a bit further away from the lobby; especially after a day when we hit two parks and our feet are so tired they're burning, but it's worth the trip because it's away from the noisy pool which remains open until midnight.

After we rested for a bit, we hopped the bus to Downtown Disney to meet up with Larry (a co-worker), and his new boyfriend. We had dinner at Raglan Road, an Irish pub/restaurant that we absolutely love. They have terrific appetizers, great food and a fun atmosphere; especially when the band starts to play!


It was wonderful to see Larry again. He’s one of those people that you can’t help but like the instant you meet him. Warm, friendly and approachable with a smile that will melt anyone’s heart. We don’t get to see him often so when we do we like to make the most of it. Larry, if you guys are reading this, thanks again. We had a terrific time!

After dinner we hopped on the bus (one of the best things about staying on Disney property!) and came back to the hotel. As exhausted as I was, I couldn’t sleep. But that tends to happen whenever I’ve done a lot of stuff in one day. It’s as if my mind needs the time to absorb and process everything I’ve seen and experienced before I can finally shut down.

And now, it's time to get ready. We're going to MGM Hollywood Studios shortly.

Niko's gone to get us breakfast, and me some coffee. Can you imagine? Niko, who is the antithesis to coffee as I am to . . . well, collecting stuff . . . so to say that he's getting me coffee is no small thing. I guess maybe this place truly is magical!

Mickey Mouse, Music, M&Ms, and Mamma Mia . . . mmmmm

This blog entry, though posted today, Monday, July 21st, was originally written Thursday morning, July 17, while Niko and I were driving north on vacation to Disney World. I was hoping to not only share with those who read the blog and have never been to Disney, but also for myself so I can read it at a later date, when it no longer felt as if we had actually gone there. Mind you, we've been there 7 or 8 times in the 12 years we've been together. I find, though, when you take pictures and write about it, that's when you truly remember the experience.

So, without further much ado, the first of various entries concerning our vacation. I hope you like it.


It’s Thursday morning, July 17, 2008. Like Muslims in the Middle East making their pilgrimage to Mecca, Niko and I are traveling north to the Land of Mickey Mouse and the Magic Kingdom.

The first part of our trip to Disney started off a bit wonkey, though. I woke up with a headache that is due either to barometric pressure and a storm headed our way, or perhaps ear wax build-up; it’s happened before. Add to that (I apologize ahead of time if I’m being gross) the fact that once I actually got up and out of bed I couldn’t stop going to the bathroom. It was like I was saving it up for days! Of course it doesn’t help that I went to bed at 1:00 a.m. because, like the little kid in the Disney commercial, I was too excited to sleep!

An hour and a half after we originally intended, we finally managed to get out of the house. There was a quick stop at CVS to pick up my ear was removal kit, Einstein's for coffee and a couple of breakfast sandwiches, and we were finally on the road.

Right now we are traveling north on the turnpike and it’s just a little past noon.

When taking a road trip, one of our favorite things to do is pack the CD case with music. Show tunes to be precise. As many show tunes as we can play in the car. It makes the trip more fun, no matter where we’re going, and puts us in a mental vacation mode.

Presently, we’re listening to the cast recording of "Mamma Mia." And you know? There were portions that illuminated me as though I had never heard the words before.

Now, you make ask yourself: “What illumination can you possibly derive from ABBA?”

Even in the fluffy, bubble gum, pop way that ABBA’s music is delivered in Mamma Mia, there are certain universal truths. And when a certain truth rings within me it rocks me to the very core. I get all goose pimply, my breath might catch and my eyes tear-up; as if I am recognizing a life lesson that I have long since forgotten and have just now reacquainted myself with it.

For instance: “I Have A Dream.”

There’s a line that says “If you see the wonder, of a fairy tale, you can face the future, even if you fail.”

I never really thought about it before but in a way our lives are a bit like a fairy tale with all the things we do, the strange encounters, the beautiful things we see and the joys we experience. And even if fail at something, the very fact that we try is wondrous. At least, that’s how it appears to me. And how appropriate to guide us to Disney World; the very land of Fairy Tales!

Then there’s “Thank You For The Music.”

There’s a line that says “Who found out that nothing can capture a heart, like a melody can?”

Again, I’ve listened to this disc a million times. I’ve always been grateful for music as it is the most perfect art form. But the bit about capturing a heart with melody struck me so brilliantly because that is exactly what happens. A piece of your soul is captured with the nuance of a melody. So I say, yes, thank you for the music!

I have seen “Mamma Mia” (the musical) three times now. And I’m sure I’ll see it again. Naturally, I’m also looking forward to seeing the movie. I know it will be just as much fun as the musical and the music. Mind you, I love to see a dark, deep-thinking movie that makes me numb and puts me in a funk. But I also love light and fluffy.

As far as Mamma Mia goes, you can’t get any lighter and fluffier. The difference between this light and fluffy, however, is that like Mickey Mouse, music, the M&Ms I’m eating as I write this, Mamma Mia reminds us that even through the myriad and mayhem of life experiences, there is fun to be had. No matter what.

So, what’s the wonder in your life? Mine is as simple as the ability to wake up in the morning. And although I might not be actually living in a fairy tale, that’s okay. The fairy tale is in visiting Mickey Mouse, letting the M&Ms melt in my mouth, listening to music that takes me to a different place and letting myself get swept off my feet by the fun and levity of Mamma Mia and other musicals.

Besides, how boring would life be if we all lived happily ever after? Now, making it up as we go along . . . what can be more of a fairy tale than that? Oh, wait. That's right. Going to Disney World where, or so they say, dreams come true.

Independence Day, or . . . What Freedom Means To Me

Before you read this blog, I am placing a disclaimer. If you are a politician, conservative, republican, white supremacist, supporter of any of those already mentioned or any other form of member to any party or religion that does not allow the diffference of another race, religion, culture, or sexual orientation to be recognized, I strongly recommend and urge you to leave now.

You have been warned.


As a child, I never liked Independence Day. Now wait. Before you go calling me un-American, hear me out.

As a kid, Independence Day meant nothing to me. It was just another day revolving around a whole lot of loud stuff that went boom. And growing up in a Puerto Rican household, in the East New York section of Brooklyn, I didn’t understand the need or desire for those loud things that went boom. Maybe it was my upbringing and the culture. Or maybe it was the fact that on Independence Day, the people in my predominantly black ghetto neighborhood of Brownsville, could only get their hands on cherry bombs, firecrackers, and M80s. Either way, even as a child I didn’t understand how blowing up someone’s car, scaring the crap out of someone and possibly losing a couple of fingers in the process, was supposed to be celebratory or fun or even connected with a day that had so much significance.

Until I got older and history repeated itself.

And I’m thinking that maybe we, as a society, have forgotten what it’s all about. Independence Day has gotten lost in the shuffle. It's become the 4th of July, just . . . another day off; for most of us. Oh, sure the fireworks have become more sophisticated and prettier to look at but many have forgotten what it's all about. Independence Day is not about the loud things that go boom. It’s not even about the pretty things that explode in the air and make you go oooohhh and aaaaahhhh.

It’s about telling someone that you’ve had enough of their tyranny and you’re not going to take it anymore.

Indepence Day is about the simple act of a very young country telling King George that they had had enough of taxation without representation; enough of the British military knocking on your door and demanding to be housed and fed or you would be accused of treason to the Crown. Enough of the British police smashing through your door and arresting you . . . just because. Enough of the British and The East India Tea Company charging so much for something Americans had grown to like and depended on.

Any of this sounding familiar?

Thousands, if not millions, of bold and courageous men and women who dared to stand up in unison and tell King George to simply fuck off because we were tired of wire tapping, slowly being stripped of civil rights, getting screwed over by fat cats who charged triple for gas, something we all need, while the richer get richer and the poor get poorer with no hope in sight of national health plans to help millions of American men women and children and . . .

Oh, wait. I’m sorry. For a minute there my mind merged and the past 232 years disappeared. My bad.

Maybe, just maybe, it’s time for another revolt. Time to declare war on the political machine and tell them that we’re tired of their tyranny and lies and want our Indepence. No, not with guns and cannons or sparklers, but with words.

The old fashioned way.

Join the ACLU or Working Assets or any other activist group you support. Protest in your own way. Donate money if you can’t organize with them and raise banners or picket sings.

Write your Congress person. Tell them that you’re tired of having religion crammed down our throat; after all, it’s a choice, not a mandate. Wasn’t this country founded by people in pursuit of religious freedom? I’d like to think that by the same token we are free to pursue the lack of religion; after all, too many people have died at the hands of others because of religion.

Actually our country was founded because the prisons and poor houses of England were overflowing with people who had been arrested for protesting against the King and good old Georgie, tired of hearing his people, traitors that they were, how dare they, complain about him.

So, tell your representatives that you live in fear of losing you’re job because it’s going to be shipped out of the country. Tell them you’re tired of being hungry and not having enough money to get by and pay your bills. Tell them you’re tired of getting deeper and deeper into dark pits where the sun doesn’t shine. That you’re tired of our tiny, beautiful little planet being used, and pillaged and plundered. Don’t be afraid to ask for a National Health Plan! In one of the richest countries in the world there is no reason why thousands of people of all ages and from all walks of life, should die each year because they cannot get the health services and medicine they need.

Stand up for your right to marry, or not; to hold hands in public without fear of being killed; to be able to walk down the street and not worry about how you look at someone because now they have the right to shoot you if they think you looked at them cross-eyed.

I don’t mean to paint a grim picture. After all, we are very lucky. For the most part. We could be living in Iran or Iraq. But guess what? There are still several hundreds of thousands of people who still go to sleep hungry each night, do not have a roof over their head, do not know how they will survive one more day. And some day, if we’re not careful, it could be you.

Remember what Ben Franklin said, and please forgive my paraphrasing as I cannot remember the exact words. “We must stand together because if we do not, we shall surely hang together.”

I hope we remember over this 3-day weekend, as many of us enjoy time off from work and attend pool parties, barbeques, get-togethers with friends, that this freedom we enjoy is not a guarantee. We can wake up one day and it will all be gone because freedom, the choice to do pretty much anything you want, at almost any time, is the true meaning of Independence Day.

And freedom is something we must fight for. Not in another country pretending we’re fighting for democracy. But in our hearts, our minds, and yes, even in our souls. Some of us every day, some of us only every few years, when the embodiment of good old King George and his administration decide to take over again.

Remember that this government, our government, is of the people, by the people, for the people, and not just for the select few who are in the minority, making rules they can wiggle out of, but affect all of us. Perhaps our political figures should be wise and remember that the very guns they are fighting to allow are the very guns that can turn against them.

Now, in the words of the immortal Mork, “Fly! Be free!”

Go celebrate your Independence and your freedom; blog . . . and spread the word!

One Week and Two Days Later

This post was originally written this past Friday, June 20, 2008.



So here I am once again, sitting at Starbucks, sipping on my still too hot Venti Pike Place Roast. It’s 8:09 a.m. and I’m due at work in less than an hour when I would rather be sleeping. I’ve been doing a lot of that since I got back from NYC.

I’m trying desperately to catch that same vibe I picked up on when I was there. The energy, the “real” weirdness rather than the faux, affected people I keep running across here in Fort Lauderdale. There’s some real weirdos, mind you, but the concentration is far less and much less effective. But it’s not even that. There’s a lot less people which only magnifies how annoying some people are. Like the guy sitting at the table next to me waving hello to everyone, laughing out loud, regaling everyone with his opinions and how he didn’t have enough money to get his second boat because of the market being so bad, blah, blah, fucking blah. WHO CARES????? SHUT THE FUCK UP, ASSHOLE!!!!

Jeez. I just can’t seem to get back with it. I feel . . . like I shark that’s stopped moving and is now slowly sinking to the bottom of the ocean floor. My mind is numb, my spirit dulled and my brain feels like it’s got cotton stuffed in the grooves and wrinkles.

Oh, fuck. Now the asshole has accumulated another loudmouth. No wait, there’s a 3rd who looks and sounds like Mr. Drummond!

I spoke with my mom last night. She is back home after surgery. After much debate and worrying and talking, she chose to go with the mastectomy rather than the removal of more tissue, radiation, and the possibility, years from now, that the cancer could come back to ravage her. It makes me wonder if I would be as brave as her if I were ever diagnosed with testicular cancer.

She’s in good spirits. When I spoke with her yesterday my cousin Noemi was with her as was my sister Gisela, and my nephew Chris. And mom was going to watch her telenovelas. Always a good sign! The rehabilitation will be difficult for her, though. At least I think it will be.

The stay at the hospital was, apparently, a horror. But then again, Coney Island Hospital appears to be the kind of place where you go to die. It’s oppressive and the people who work there don’t seem to care or know what they’re doing. The doctors who worked with my mom were good; she was very happy with both the surgeon who removed the breast as well as the plastic surgeon who did the reconstructive surgery. But the staff and administration leave a lot to be desired. They were supposed to have a room for but didn’t. Instead, they left her in the recovery room. They didn’t even have any pillows! I know hospitals are not hotels, but, come on! Not one pillow in the whole fucking place?

They pumped her full of morphine in order to get her to sleep but it caused her to throw up repeatedly. And, unfortunately, while throwing up, she peed herself from the force. The nurses were apparently very slow in getting her cleaned up and since she couldn’t really do it herself, she laid in it.

My frustration is and was immense. I find myself wishing I had been there, that I hadn’t left. But they jerked us around so much during the 6 weeks I was there. And then, the day before I was scheduled to leave, during the last appointment, the surgeon could not give us a definitive date because he needed to confer with the plastic surgeon. The “it could be’s” did me in and after talking about it with my supervisor, we both agreed it would be best if I came back to work at the Lauderdale office. This is the first time I wish I had not listened. But that’s all now over and I guess I just have to put it out of my mind. If my mom can do it, then so can I.

And now, I’m afraid I must end this rambling because I can’t take sitting here anymore. The lead asshole loudmouth has now accrued another 4 people; one of them a woman, and I can’t stand to listen to the verbal diarrhea of the ahem, non-ethnic people (a minority really) bitch and moan about their lack of money and yet talk about boats and Mercedes and Lexus and Porsche and all these things that conflict with their supposed lack of money. Oh and let me not forget the audacious comment, in a how dare he tone, about how Obama wants to put this tax on people who make all this money. Fucking bastards. Maybe they should be the ones left at Coney Island Hospital to lie in a pool of their own piss and vomit. Let’s see how quickly they’re humbled.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t hate the privileged. Envious to a degree, perhaps, but I don’t hate them. It’s the ones that have the attitude that they deserve, the attitude that anyone outside their social circle is far less than they, the attitude that they are the chosen and the righteous that piss me off.

I love people with money who have no pretensions. They’re just people who happen to have money. When I come across that, it’s refreshing and delightful and, because I established a relationship with them as a regular human being first, the money is usually not an issue. Not that I know that many people with money, mind you.

But it’s the people with money who are loud about it, rub it in your face and . . . ugh! They make me so fucking angry I can’t even find the right words!!

Let me close my eyes a moment and breath. Like Gary said, "Have you meditated today?"

Heavy sigh.

Life, I’m noticing, in all it’s beauty, richness and grandeur, contains so many injustices. There are the prvileged and pampered who can afford to have people cater to their every whim. And then there’s the rest of us, swaddled in pampers with no one to change us. Fuck.

Leaving New York - Part 2

The second leg of my journey back to Fort Lauderdale today was challenging, though fairly uneventful; nothing like this morning!

After saying my goodbyes to various people and sending out a general thank you e-mail to the entire New York staff, I gathered my belongings and schlepped downstairs to the train station. This time, no getting stuck in the turnstiles for me! Imagine that. Take THAT police lady!

The hike to 42nd and 8th, normally an obstacle course on a light day, seemed an insurmountable challenge with all the crap I was carrying; dodging the thousands of people that traverse the tunnels on a daily basis, the steep stairs and incredible speed with which everyone whizzes past.

But I finally made it through to the airport.

And again I repeat: how is putting our stuff into plastic bins supposed to keep us safe? How does taking off my shoes, my reading glasses, even my headphones (which I forget were draped around my neck) along with the iPod safe for everyone? Strange what travel has become. The things we do to give us that false sense of security and how quickly we buy into it. Still, I suppose I should be grateful. Perhaps in giving people the power of feeling like we are in control of “safety” we remain calm to some degree.


On the plane now and we’re scheduled to depart in about 15 to 20 minutes. I just wish I could find a way to drug ALL children and annoying LOUD adults who fly so that the plane is quiet and silent and the seat in front of me stops shaking. Thank god I’m in the very last row! Hopefully I’ll be able to get my good old DD coffee soon!

This time spent at the gate, waiting for everyone to board and stow their items while the crew gets the plane ready for flight is, for me, one of the worst things about traveling. Especially because it gives me way too much time to think, to reflect on the last 6 weeks I’ve experienced in New York. It’s been an adventure, filled with extreme highs and extreme lows. Very little, if any, in between stuff.


I think about my arrival here, the cool weather, almost to the point of being cold. I think about how long it lasted, soothing and refreshing and the extreme heat that has gripped the city this past few days; a reminder of what awaits me in Fort Lauderdale!


I think about Times Square, glittering and glowing like a jewel in the night, beckoning like a seedy whore in the light of day; one you cannot resist, even as it cleverly parts you from your money.

I think about all the people at our company’s New York office; a mini solar system all of it’s own. Sara Jane who will have her first CD out this November. Her website will be added to the list on the right. And I STRONGLY recommend you give her album a listen! Her voice goes from wonderfully coy, playful, wistful and romantic. Can’t wait for your CD Sara Jane! HELEN!!!!

I think also about the people who work for Broadway Across America, the company I work for, and how the executives, approachable and genuinely interested in their staff, pulled together for me and made it possible for me to help my mother during this trying time in her life by allowing me to work in the NYC office.

I think about my friend Gary who is helping to keep me inspired and continue with my writing and other projects. I think about his charismatic, French partner with an other worldly feel about him, a feel of an era gone by. I think of their beautiful apartment downtown Manhattan and the plays Gary took me to see, our conversations afterwards. I think of how he got me hooked to Wil’s blog and his candid writing.

I think about meeting Marsha Norman who wrote the book for Color Purple and Secret Garden, meeting Edward Albee as well as John Guare who wrote Six Degrees of Separation.


I think about the subway, gritty and sometimes smelly, yet a comfort as it rocks and rolls its way underground, making it’s way to the end of the line. It opens up on the B and Q, near my mom's house.

I think about all the handsome, sexy, boys and men next door walking about, taking the train, rubbing against you as the train barrels through from one station to the next, walking the streets as they get to work, go to lunch, enter peep shows.

I think about Union Square and the hordes of people enjoying one another, talking, laughing, kissing, holding hands, roller skating, skateboarding, selling their art. The beggars, the street musicians. All the people, so many people, each and every one their own little planets in their own little solar systems.

And the rush! No, the joy, of soaking up the atmosphere, their energy, grooving on all those people simply BEING or going about their business as if they didn’t have a care in the world.


I think about Niko, the walks we took during the time he visited me, along the West Side Highway where, in broad daylight, he gave me my first public kiss; the West Village and Pommes Frite in the East Village.


I think about my sisters; one out on Staten Island with her husband and autistic child, the other in Brooklyn with her husband, her 18 y.o. and 3-year-old.

And of course I think about my mom. My wonderful mother of 67 years who will be seeing the plastic surgeon this Friday to discuss the reconstructive surgery options after she undergoes the mastectomy she’s decided to have.

And I feel homesick. I am lonely for New York City.

Through tears I write this.

It’s not that I’m not glad to see Niko, our dogs, our friends. But Fort Lauderdale is just not home. It hasn’t been for many years now. In fact, I’m not sure it truly ever was.

I will hug and hold and kiss Niko fiercly when I get home. Hopefully neither one of us will be too tired to get a little sumthin, sumthin. But after that? Tomorrow when I have to go back to the Lauderdale office and get back on the phone? Back to a dull, boring routine? It will be a difficult adjustment to life back on the farm after having tasted and experienced the Wonderful Land of Oz and all the strange things it has to offer.

Yes, it seems that I’ve left my heart in New York. Well, maybe left it is not quite how I want to put it. You can leave your heart in San Francisco, willingly. But in New York, it is taken from you. I guess that’s how some cities are; they claim you. And, once claimed, you belong to them forever. I know this because no matter where I roam, no matter what I call home, this tiny piece of rock island will always be my first lover.

In their eyes is a place that you finally discovered
That you love it here, you've got to stay
On the bottom of the rock, an island
On which you find you love it when you twitch
Ooh La - THE KOOKS

Leaving New York - Part One

This portion of blog was written yesterday, Wednesday June 11.



So I'm here in the office at Times Square. It's just past 8:35.

After hugging my mom repeatedly (she didn't want to let me go), more eye problems (goop leaking from my left eye) as well as congestion, thus far the morning has been more like Escaping New York rather than leaving New York. To make matters worse, at the train station where my mom lives, there were two very pale little girls (slavic? nordic?) with HUUUUUUUUUUUUGE roller bags obviously headed back home, where ever that was, and successfully blocking 4 of the 5 turnstiles. So while the police woman helped them, naturally i'm going to show them how much smarter I am at using my metro card PLUS getting my fat, hairy ass through the turnstile WITH a knapsack on my back, my laptop over my right shoulder AND my medium roller bag in front of me. You with me so far?

I got stuck.

The same police woman (trying to hide the smile on her face; bless her little heart) tells me: "You can't shove that big thing in that tiny space!"

Oh yes, she went there!

"Sir, you gonna have to put this bag down." She taps my laptop bag. I put it down on the other side of the turnstile.

"Okay. Now you gonna have to jump over."

"What?" I looked up at her. I've never done that in my life! Mind you, when I was a little boy I snuck underneath the turnstiles, back when they were huge wooden ones. In fact I bonked my head on it once, real hard, but that's a different story.

"Go on! Jump over. Don't worry. I won't arrest you." She's now full-on grinning. Obviously the kind of black woman that likes to give little latin guys a hard time. And we all know how black women sometimes LOVE to give little latin guys a hard time! Then she adds. "You DID pay your fare didn't you?"

I ignored the remark and jumped over.

So, after one of New York's finest showed me just how she good she was at pulling people out of jams, I managed to extricate my bag from the clutches of the nasty metal turnstile and humbly made my way down the stairs to catch the train. Even caught a seat!

And now here I am. I can't WAIT to see what adventures I'll get into next just trying to get back down to the subway and to the airport! I feel like I'm on an episode of Amazing Race! Well, probably more like Go, Diego, Go! Live!; much more my speed given my current energy level.

P.S. The photo at the top of the blog is courtesy of Kurt Russell, a still from "Escape From New York," and Shane Bell who thought he would humour himself and . . . well . . . you see.

Hurry Up and Wait

Have you ever heard of the term, "Hurry Up and Wait?"

After my sister called and told me that my Mom had DCIS (ductal carcinoma in situ; polite parlance for early stage of cancer) I hurried to try and hop a flight to get up here as quickly as possible. I wanted to be here for her for anything she might need.

The time in between was spent making arrangments for bills to get paid, the suspension of certain things, and figuring out how to work while up here. I was lucky and I'm very grateful that I work for a company that allowed me the flexibility to travel up here, work out of the New York office, thus allowing me to be here for my Mom.

From the first phone call to my arrival, it was all rush, rush, rush.

And then I waited.

Hurry up and wait; it's all that ran through my mind. And that's kind of how I felt after about two weeks of being up here. Mom seemed fine. She was talking all upbeat and chipper. She sounded like she really had a good grip on herself and what was happening. Even after that first follow-up appointment 4 weeks ago (God have a I really been here that long?) she was totally, well . . . coolio!

Naturally she wasn't happy with the fact that they had to go in a second time to remove more tissue. She wasn't happy with the 30% probability of cancer returning, and more aggressively. She wasn't too happy with the fact that if the cancer did return, that she would have to undergo a full mastectomy.

But she was still coping. She still looked fine.

Then, after we started talking about all the aspects, trying to figure out the different variables; after she started taking the Tamoxifen, things kinda started to slip and get wonky. Usually it was late at night when fear has a habit of tapping us on the shoulder, whispering in our ear and settling in for the night.

There was one night in particular where I really thought she had totally lost her grip. It was the strangest thing to see my mom's confusion, frustration and fear bursting forth after all this time and spewing madly. I guess it was bound to happen sooner or later. She had been pretty strong thus far; I think she wanted to spare us some grief.

Her strength has been admirable but somewhat shocking. I would have been hysterical if it was me! But her tears were worse. I've seen her cry before but not like this. A part of me wanted to ask her who she was and what had she done with my mother. This was NOT my mother! Needless to say, she kinda wigged me out as well. I managed to calm her down and get her to bed. Later that night, in my room, I barely slept at all wondering what was going to happen next? I just couldn't turn the brain off; even after taking two Valium!

The following day, though, since our server at work was totally down, I left a bit early. It turned out to be a blessing in disguise. I got home and caught my mom off-guard. She was pleasantly surprised. In fact she was caught so off-guard that we just got into a natural conversation about everything that she been going through. We sat down and talked about her fears and worries. She told me about how she was home alone when, after a shower, she did the breast examination to find that first clear liquid, then dark blood, oozed out of her nipple. She was also alone when the doctor told her the diagnosis after the initial visit. She told me about the initial cold paralysis that took her and the overwhelming sensation that she was going to die, as well as many other things.

To make a very long story short, she cried, I cried, we held hands and she said she had made her decision. And as she told me her decision the church bells across the street started to chime and it was a very strange affirmation that some other hand, something greater and bigger than us, was at work here. It sent chills up and down my spine.

Fast-forward to yesterday. She is now fully healed from the previous surgery and the doctor has given my mom the Green Light to either go through with radiation and, eventually, further tissue removal or full mastectomy. We told him what she wanted and he just nodded and said okay. The date has not yet been set but he sent her to get another mammogram yesterday. I think he wants to check the margins, see if any further calcification has occured and, I think, make sure that she is sure this is what she wants. Of course, I'm sure he wants to cover his ass as well.

We see him again next Tuesday afternoon to review the results of the mammogram and set the date for the mastectomy. Unfortunately, I leave the next day and I'm not comfortable leaving. I almost feel like I need to see this through with her to the end.

There have been times when I wondered why I was here. There was nothing happening, no radiation since the healing took longer than the doctor anticipated. I SAW NO RESULTS!!!! In fact there are so many variables it seems as if any outcome is probable; do I stay? do I go? do I let the sisters take care of her now? Do I come back? It's all still kind of up in the air but one thing is certain; I needed to be here in order to help guide my mom and support her wishes. I do not regret for one moment having come up here. And I'm glad she wasn't alone the times she broke down in front of me.

What happens next? I don't know. It's a hurry-up-and-wait kind of thing. And since I can't rush life, I guess I'll just wait.

हैप्पी Anniversary

His name is John Niko but I just call him Niko. And he’s my Niko. He will kill me when I get home for exposing him to you but that’s a risk I will have to take. You’ll understand why by the time you get to the end; assuming you stick through until then.

We met 12 years ago in Fort Lauderdale at, believe it or not, a leather bar. I still have the little gray “Trick” card the bars supplied back then where you write your name and phone number to exchange with . . . well, your latest trick! I carry that card with me to this day. It’s in my wallet warding off evil the way religious people carry cards with the Virgin Mary or Jesus Christ hanging on the cross for protection.

The night Niko and I met, I was a little depressed. Well, a little depressed, lonely and horny.

I had just gotten back to Fort Lauderdale from visiting my family in New York. My baby sister graduated College and it was a proud moment in our family. I was the first in our family to attend college but she was the first to actually finish. As I sat in the auditorium I remember thinking how wonderful graduations were. A perfect way to end a chapter in your life; a transition into another volume of the Encyclopedia of The Living Experience. I also realized that graduations weren’t just for the people who completed their education but for the families, friends and other loved ones who endured and supported that person while they went to school to get that little piece of paper we all place such value on.

Anyway, Manhattan was in full bloom that June. It was a city on top of the world. A city in love with joy, with freedom, with love itself. Hell, the city was even in love WITH itself; and I’m not talking the narcissistic type. It was a kind of love that was full of innocence and passion and totally into experiencing new things. It was a perfectly euphoric trip to sooth and embalm me in those emotions; especially after having ended a four-year, verbally and emotionally abusive relationship just a year prior.

On the flight back down my heart ached to the point I truly thought it would break. The little voice inside my head was screaming: WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING? WHY ARE YOU LEAVING? WHAT ARE YOU GOING BACK FOR?

“A job,” I thought weakly.

“A JOB!” the voice yelled, “NOT A CAREER! NOT YOUR LIFEWORK! YOU CAN ALWAYS GET ANOTHER ONE!!!!”

“My cat,” I retaliated defensively. “My things,” I added.

“SO YOU SHOVE HIM IN A BOX, PACK THE THINGS YOU WANT, SELL WHAT YOU DON’T NEED AND SHOVE OFF.”

“But I just signed a lease.”

“SO YOU BREAK IT! IF YOU TELL THEM YOU GOT A JOB OFFER OUT OF STATE THEY CAN’T HOLD YOU TO IT!”

“My car?” I started wondering. “What am I going to do with my car in NYC? Insurance is so high!”

“SELL IT!”

You get the picture. By the time I landed in Lauderdale that fateful night a dozen years ago, I had made the decision to come back to New York. I had not told anyone but my heart. I got to my apartment, unpacked and started to make a list of the things I needed to do in order to move back home. I was all set and prepared for my move back to New York. All I had to do was give notice at work, inform my landlady and start packing!

But as the evening wore on, I started to get lonely. And horny.

Forgive me for not endowing you with the details of the hookup that followed. As much as I would love to, FOR SURE, I know Niko would kill me.

So we dated. Several times. Minutes turned into hours. Hours into days. And days turned into years. Twelve years. That’s like 90 in Gay Years; you know, like Dog Years?

I wasn’t sure about him at first. He’s totally not what I normally went for back then. He wasn’t really into many of the things that I was into. I mean he didn’t even like coffee! Still doesn’t!!!!!! We were opposites; still are.

I warned him time and time again. I told him of the things I had done and apologized ahead of time for all the things I was going to do to him and put him through.

And yet he stayed.

Fast forward past 12 years of heartache and sorrow, seeing each other at our best, supporting each other through our worst; past all the friends and family who have died or moved away. Vacations together, weddings attended, sexual fantasies explored and that we are still exploring. Colds swapped back and forth, depressions, joys, dreams talked about, conversations we’ve had, dinners out alone or with friends, the beach, drinks, 3ways, 4ways and Moreways. The mundane, routine and ordinary as well as the fun and exciting things we've done.

And I still, after all these years, love him. In fact, I love him even more now than I did when we first met. Hell, I'd ask him to marry me if I believed in marriage.

He’s childish, he makes me laugh and makes me feel good even when we’re doing nothing; which sometimes there is plenty of. I can be myself with him and there isn’t much I couldn’t tell him. Almost anything I want to do, he’ll do with me. He has the soul of a curious child and the patience of a saint to put up with me and my insanity.

I know my mom has needed me as she prepares for a mastectomy. I do not regret for one single moment my decision to fly up here and stay with her for six weeks. Well, maybe there was that one frustrating night in the previous blog.

But I miss my Niko.

I text him constantly. Repeatedly, in fact. I’ve spoken to him every single day; sometimes several times throughout the day! I love hearing the sound of his voice but it's no replacement for being with him. Nothing beats having him in my arms at night, spooning behind him. That’s when I miss him the most because he helps keep the monsters under the bed at bay. Even when he’s sweating like a pig and I’m comfortably tucked under the blanket, we sleep butt-to-butt, the heels of our feet barely touching. It’s just enough comfort to know that nothing will happen to us that night. We will make through another day.

For the first three weeks I was here, I felt myself slowly gravitating in a dark direction. Not quite sure where or how. I only know that I was losing my center and my balance. And when, a little over a week ago, I left work to meet him at the airport, I knew exactly. I felt like a satellite that had lost it’s orbit and he realigned me. My life revolves around him, you see. He is everything to me and I cannot see myself with anyone else or even without him. He is the anchor that stabilizes me, the glue that pieces back together my scattered brain.

We spent 3 glorious days together when he came to visit me. We walked around Manhattan, shopped, ate at some cool, funky places in the East and West Village. We walked some more, took in a Broadway show: Young Frankenstein (which was awesome!!!) had dinner with my mom (who calls him her son).

But the best was the Saturday before he left to go back to our house, our pugs (Emma, Trinket and Googie) and our cats (Max and Wild Thing). Niko and I sat on a concrete wall on the pier along the West Side Highway. And we did something we had never done before, something I had always wanted. He gave me a kiss. In public. It wasn’t the kiss to end all kisses nor was it filled with burning passion as it once was. But it was the first time he had ever shown me any kind of public affection. We held hands, my head resting on his shoulder, his head resting against mine. And I cried. I didn’t want the moment to end. It was the single most perfect moment in all of my almost 46 years of existence.

For that, and for many other reasons (some listed here, some not) I will love him and be IN love with him until the day I die; which I hope will be with him, together, holding hands, in bed.

My desire my stray, I may look at other menus and sample many appetizers, but it is to you I will always return to.

And as Frodo Baggins once said to Samwise Gamgee (please forgive my paraphrasing as I do not have the book with me and cannot remember the exact words): “Gandalf has chosen a perfect companion for me. Come, let us see what adventures the road holds for us!”

My dearest Niko, if you are reading this right now, I sincerely hope you know how much I love you and need you. I don’t care how you look, or how much weight you think you may have gained or how . . . anything. It's all bullshit. Because the only that matters to me is that I love you, I need you, I desire you. And that you love me, too. Stay with me always you dumb little shit because if you don’t I’ll hunt you down and slap your sorry ass! Oh, wait, I think I hear the patter of feet receding in the distance. Damnit! Now I'm going to have to chase you!

Seriously, though. Happy Anniversary. I am worth much more when I am with you for without you, I am worth nothing.

A Most Unlikely & Unwilling Parent

Have any of you loved your mother SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO much that you would do anything to protect her and help her and save her from the maws of death? Only to find yourself in a large moment of frustration where you just want to . . . well, tap her EVER so lightly and just . . . best to not even say it in jest.

Last night my mom started in with, "I don't know if I'm doing the right thing." Okay. Totally cool and understandable."

So I asked her, "What is it that you're not sure about?"

"Getting my breast removed. The doctor," she says. "The hospital. Do you think he's even a specialist?"

And I just looked at her. "I don't understand, Ma. What is it that's confusing you?"

And she proceeds to go off on a litany of things such as, "What if he's not a real doctor? What if he's not licensed to perform surgery on my breast? Am I going to the right hospital? I haven't taken my pills."

Mind you, it was extremely frustrating because I wish this outburst had happened sooner. This is how I know I probably wouldn't be a good care giver. But then if I didn't have other things to worry about, perhaps I would feel differently.

Needless to say I had a rough night. After managing to calm her down about the doctor, I wrote down the numbers on the back of her Medicaid and Medicaire cards and made her promise me that she would call to find out if Sloan-Kettering accepts those two types of insurance. Then I made her promise that if I get her one of those pill-minder thingies that she would keep it out and take them and fill it as it empties.

I am ashamed to say that I yelled at my own mother. I even counted the Tamoxifen pills she's supposed to be taking. She's only taken about 6 from a bottle of 60. I can't say I blame her. Considering the side effects of the medication I'm not so sure that I would take them if given that option.

Perhaps she just had one of those moments where everything was hitting her at the same time; this came on way too soon after I reminded her that I'm leaving NYC in two weeks to go back to Fort Lauderdale. It's also an awkward situation because I'm uncomfortable suddenly being thrust into the role of "family leader" and making decisions for my mother. That's not supposed to happen!!!!!! She's still quite alive and breathing and very vital; despite the fact that she's acting like she's friggin' 80! I mean, I have enough problems taking my own life into my hands, taking care of my health (or trying to) balancing work, relationships, friends, family. When did this become so hard? When did I become the one that reminds her to take her pills? And someone please tell me HOW the fuck do you transition from first-born son in a latin family to ALMOST become a surrogate dad/husband/brother?

FUCK!

Heavy sigh.

Welcome Back, Benny

Brooklyn Bridge. Don't know who took the picture, though.


So here I am. Back in Brooklyn. I’m staying at my mom’s apartment. She’s been here since Labor Day of 1977. We were supposed to move in that Monday but the elevator was broken and the movers refused to bring our meager items up five flights of stairs. They came back the next day and I missed the first day of school that year.

A lot has happened since then in this old, two-bedroom Brooklyn apartment in Flatbush.

There’s been a lot of bad memories; bickering, arguing, yelling, crying, screaming and misery. A lot of late nights unable to sleep (like now while I’m writing this; it’s 1:57 a.m.). There’s a lot of ghosts here. My stepfather got sick in this apartment and had nightmares that death was coming for him before he actually died. There’s a part of me that still believes he’s still here; making fun of me, taunting, tormenting. He wasn’t a very nice man.

But there’s a lot of good memories here, too. Birthdays and celebrations like first communions and graduations. Baby showers and Bachelorette parties. Easter, Mother’s Day, Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners; some lean, some not so lean. Aunts, uncles, cousins; all putting aside our differences for a while, rejoicing in the sheer moment of being, eating and drinking. Spending time together doing absolutely nothing but talking and existing.

A slew of people have come and gone; some for a short while, some for a long time, some repeatedly. And then there were the weeks and months, if not years, of Spanish soaps, movies, t.v. shows.

And of the hundreds of shows we’ve watched here as a family, one of those shows was “Welcome Back, Kotter.” Not necessarily the best of shows but one remembered because very few were supposed to have taken place in Brooklyn. Unfortunately for me, now that I’m here, the theme song to the show just keeps playing itself over and over and over again in my brain.

Welcome back, welcome, back, welcome back.

As I retrace the steps I once took between my sophmore year of high school and the year I moved out on my own. Walking past the building where I had my first apartment, on East 18th Street and Newkirk. Walking up Foster Avenue to the bagel shop for my heavily buttered Bialy and Yoo-Hoo. Crossing Newkirk Plaza to the candy store for a pack of Violets. Taking the Q train (once the QB) past Avenue M and my old Alma Mater, Edward R. Murrow High. Passing Kings Highway where I used to cruise the parking lots late at night. Barreling past Neck Road and my last apartment before finally moving away from New York and to Fort Lauderdale; to a different life. One on hold for another few weeks, if not more.

Much has changed between then and now. Waves of immigrants have come and gone; latins, koreans, russians. Neighborhoods once known for dangerous gangs, loud music blaring on the street in the summer, racial altercations and the seediness of the prostitues, their pimps and the drug dealers, have now been regentrified.

Like the Atlantic Avenue and Pacific Street area that now have a Target. Park Slope, which was THE place to move to back then because Manhattan was becoming so expensive. Flatbush, which now boasts a Target as well. Kings Plaza, once home to Alexander’s, Orange Julius and some other department store I can’t remember (Korvette’s?) now home to Macy’s, Sears, Old Navy, Victoria’s Secret, Bath and Body Works.

And let me not forget Redhook.

Once upon a time, you would never want to be caught dead there. Well, okay, maybe you would be FOUND dead, but you certainly wouldn’t want to be caught dead there. Once a whore and drug infested, flea-ridden dog of a neighborhood, it’s now up and coming. An Ikea set to open in June and a huge, I mean HUGE Fairway Market stuffed to the rafters with people from all sorts of neighborhoods now anchors that regentrification. Above the supermarket and around the immediate area, where empty warehouses once stood falling apartment, gloomily facing their doom, there are now luxury condos along the water.


Condos over Fairway Market on Van Brunt.

You can see Staten Island in the distance and the Statue of Liberty. Ellis Island just beyond and the gap where the Twin Towers once stood.


Like mother, like son. Enjoying a cup of joe.

But as many changes as there have been, much has also stayed the same. The people are rude, crude and rough around more than just the edges. They don’t speak properly, they sure as hell don’t enunciate and have absolutely no manners to speak of. Blacks, Latins, Russians, Middle Easterners and Asians now fight against the newest wave of immigrants . . . Causcasians . . . for the right to breath against a certain . . . complacency that still exists here in Brooklyn. It's a complacency that is almost stifling. And yet, strangely comforting . . . like an old pair of jeans where the material has been worn soft and fit just right . . . because it borders on acceptance. And of all the things you can say about Brooklynites, we are who we are and that is all. There's no pretense.

Yup. Brooklyn is still here. Once, it mocked me. Now it just sits and waits to see what’s going to happen next. To see if I’m going to run towards something again, or away from it. And like my mom’s old apartment, Brooklyn is still filled with ghosts. The difference is that THIS time, the ghosts can no longer harm me.

I guess like parts of Brooklyn, I’ve changed too. I feel . . .

. . . clean.

Now if only I can get that damn song to stop haunting me!


Welcome back. Your dreams were your ticket out.
Welcome back. To that same old place that you laughed about.
Well the names have all changed since you hung around,
But those dreams have remained and they're turned around.

Who'd have thought they'd lead ya, here where we need ya.
Yeah we tease him a lot cause we got him on the spot, welcome back.
Welcome back, welcome back, welcome back.