D's Eye View

I Wanna Go

2011-09-22T23:21:00.000-07:00

"Woo - Stands for winning others over. You enjoy the challenge of meeting new people and getting them to like you. Strangers are rarely intimidating to you. On the contrary, strangers can be energizing. You are drawn to them. You want to learn their names, ask them questions, and find some area of common interest so that you can strike up a conversation and build rapport. You drive satisfaction from breaking the ice and making a connection. In your world, there are no strangers, just friends you haven't met yet."

According to the Strengthsfinder 2.0, this is my strongest strength. I was given this book from a new boss at work; the entire department was tasked to read it, take a quiz, and then report back on their five strengths. The basic idea behind this book was that instead of focusing on the weak traits, capitalize on what you're great at. Keeping it real here, I've never been one to shy away from what I'm good at. Even as a kid, I didn't like to do things I wasn't good at (i.e. math, organized sports, however in my defense, it was the dumb sports like football and basketball I sucked it, I WAS on the track team, and I was pretty good).

Naturally, being in a room full of strangers isn't something I shy away from. I can be tossed into a room full of people and navigate pretty easily from person to person. When I was in college, I had no problem on the first day of school, or on a new job, I can easily meet the office associates and not feel pressure. Even at a bar, I can smile and say hi to people and not feel like a creeper. I truly love meeting new people. I love making these new connections and putting a name to that familiar face you see at your friend's party or the bar on Saturday.

I'd like to clearly state that I'm not a friend collector on FaceBook. Most of the people on my friends list, I, in fact, do know. The others are people that I would like to get to know. I'm not one to add you simply to have a better looking list. Typically there is a criteria that I have in order to add you. I add you because there's something interesting about you and we have mutual friends or you're super private and I want to see if the former applies.

I think it's dumb to be a bitch or simply unpleasant to someone who is genuinely nice to you. I tend to pride myself on being able to talk to anyone and everyone. If a stranger starts talking to me, I have never dismissed nor acted above that person. Now if the conversation is a complete snoozer, that's a different story. But for the most part, I'm always engaged, I go out of my way to talk to people, the whole nine yards. There's been quite a few occasions involving me going up to people whom I know I've seen around or I'm FB friends with, that have been less than exemplary experiences. By exemplary, I, of course mean I wouldn't use them as case studies for people to go out and strike up a stranger conversation.

One instance involved me seeing a "friend" from FB at a bar and me walking up to him. I mentioned we were friends on FB and wanted to say hi formally. This kid acted like I had asked him for an Indian $2 bill signed by Frida Kahlo. Mind you, we had mutual friends, we had attended the same events, and he still had the nerve to tell me that he and I didn't know each other.

Another event involved me seeing someone while I was on vacation in San Francisco from LA. I went over and introduced myself to him mentioning that I recognized him from LA, the two of us had a nice brief conversation, he laughed at my jokes, and everything seemed cool. I saw him on FB one day, we had mutual friends, I sent him a request and attached a message reminding him of the party we had both attended in SF and nothing.

I even saw a guy at a club that shared more than a few mutual friends with me and ran in the same crowd as me, and attended the same events. I wasn't sure if it was him at the time (I was having issues with my contacts, a new pair, a new fit, apparently one eyeball is shaped like a basketball and the other a football, nothing LASIK can't fix). I digress, it turns out it was him, so I message him stating that I thought it was him and would've come to introduce myself since we're less than two degrees apart and again, nothing!

I'm not complaining that these boys chose not to talk to me, I'm just baffled at the hostility that is thrown upon friendly people. At this this pandemic of bitchiness that stems from LA gays. I've spoken about this with my friends from other cities, and they don't have the same problem, nor are they comprehending why I'm met with animosity. I've always thought I was pretty likeable (at least at first, once you get to know me, my opinions have been known to ruffle more than a few feathers, but I help put them back and even shine them). I've always considered myself a friendly person and one who makes good first impressions. So to be met with such animosity throws me for a loop.

Is this an LA thing? Does the LA stereotype of Angelinos (especially gay ones) hold true? Stuck up? Bitchy? Off-putting? I don't think so, I've met quite a few who don't fit those traits (present company included). I decided not to waste time nor energy on those who care to embody that image. I don't doubt my ability to woo anyone. I will just focus on where the woo-ing is successful. And I predict (if history is good indicator) that it might now work on anyone who doesn't ACTUALLY live in LA.

Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head

2011-08-16T18:40:00.000-07:00

I've been MIA (not the singer, the adjective) for a while now. My apologies to the fives and tens of you that read my blog, I know how devastating it must've been not to have your sporadic dose of sarcastic gay humour coming from me. But then again, I'm sure you could've just turned on Bravo to get it. Some of you probably did, but I'm going to think at least three of you didn't because it can't compare to mine.

I came down with a serious case of writer's block and for the life of me couldn't figure out what to write about. I wanted to keep it exciting, I wasn't that impressed with my last entry, Milkshake Part I. I drafted something but wasn't too keen on publishing with my name on it. I could've used my pseudonym, but I haven't drafted what that name could be. I've always liked Nick "The Slasher" McGirk or Adrian Charo-Jones. So I've been leaving post-its all over (some mental and some physical) with topics and phrases and paragraphs that have potential topics for future issues of my blog. Here are some that are on the consideration list:

1. Writing a book on gym etiquette. Potential chapters and advise include Attire (denim and flip flops need not attend), proper waiting time for a machine (when you sit there staring like a fat kid with cake, it makes me want to add an extra rep), expressions of exertion (how to let people know the weight you're lifting is heavy and you're not taking a massive number two)

2. Sometimes Tony responds to my comments like I'm speaking another language and looks at me like I'm crazy. Example:
Me: "Babe, you have to help me pick out an outfit, I NEED to look like a whore tonight."
Tony: "Why do you have to look like a whore?"
Me: "What do you mean why?"

3. It's come to my attention that others fantasize about cameras interviewing them as well. Maybe I'm not the only person having confessionals and creating sound bites for my cast interview while I'm driving.

4. My likeness to Ally McBeal, not Calista Flockhart, but rather the character Ally. She hallucinates kicking babies and breathing fire upon associates, I can't say I haven't done the same. Not to mention the inability to hide emotion on the face and facial expressions giving away your thoughts.

5. Debating whether or not binding one's feet is worth it. Yes I know it's painful and can deform your feet and make them look like those root vegetables. BUT if you had deformed feet like a Geisha, you could wear those really cute shoes you bought 2.5 sizes too small all the time. No one would ever have to know. Why? Because you always have on the cutest footwear!

6. The pros and cons of convincing Tony to retire away with me to the woods and become hermits where we can eat carbs all day long and wear sweats and no one would know. Pro: Carbs all day! Cons: Wearing sweats, I despise sweats.

7. Think about how my life would have been different had Mother and Father allowed me to become a child star instead of stifling my dreams and talent subsequently allowing me to reach out to Lindsay Lohan and resurrect her career. In my bizarro world, she and I were friends as child stars, and she went down the dark road as my star grew brighter and brighter; we lost touch and one day during her dark times, I show up at her door, let myself in after years of not seeing her, and pick her up and place her in the bath tub, and she realizes that I will be her support system to coming back to life. I get a thank you in her Oscar speech. (see When I Grow Up, Feb 2011 for more background on me as a child star)

8. The cool language my siblings and I could have had, had we created one as kids. Twins have a secret language usually, and my siblings and I are sometimes closer than some twins. This desire grew even more upon seeing the Richards sisters on Real Housewives of Beverly Hills and their secret language. I would've loved to have said something like, "Ya jiro gid rod zib no no miganabwa," to my sister and have my brother respond, "No she already ate."

The blog is coming back, as you can tell, I'm churning out winning ideas.

Milkshake: Part I

2011-04-07T18:01:00.000-07:00

*The next two entries into D’s Eye View will both surround the author’s relationship with food.

Food has always been a deep love in my life. It got more serious as I got older though. I was what some cultures may refer to as a “picky eater” as a child. I couldn’t eat green things, I couldn’t eat weird textures, I couldn’t eat my food if it touched, and the list goes on. BUT what I liked eating, I really liked eating. I loved chicken tenders, macaroni and cheese, pasta, cake; I’m putting lots of emphasis on cake. Cake was probably my favourite food as child…and teenager. I could have had cake for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I remember even telling my parents for my birthdays to buy a full sheet cake. My mother looked at me like I was crazy to which I responded like one of the girls on Quiero Mis Quinces, except instead of bitching about the wrong luxury car being purchased, I was bitching about how she gives cake away to the guests and none is left for me. However, despite my love of butter cream frosting, I was never overweight. I was never even chubby! I was just able to eat my weight in baked goods and not see any physical repercussions.

All throughout my childhood my dad used to pack me a lunch. It usually consisted of a sandwich, applesauce or pudding, chips, carrots, and a drink. It was delicious and healthy. Then in high school I used to bring my packed lunch, eat it. AND then buy a lunch (chicken fingers, fries, pizza, more sandwiches, etc.). As I got older, I would pride myself on how much I could eat and stay so trim. Oh how we get so blinded by youth and its short term benefits! As I got older and more into the scene, image become more important. Skinny wasn’t going to cut it forever. Plus, who knows if I’d be skinny forever? I remember my father telling me, “I weighed 135 lbs until I had kids.” I almost immediately thought about never having children. I was a pretty active person for most of my life, I was on the track team, I swam in the summers, had a gym membership since I was 19, and did more cardio in the dance clubs in West Hollywood than most personal trainers.

I cut out fast food when I was in college after watching Super Size Me. And pretty much for the past three years I’ve maintained a pretty healthy lifestyle. I’m a big fan of salads, white meat, wheat bread, fruits/veggies, anything low fat, diet, no sugar, etc. you name it. When I turned 23 I noticed my metabolism was slowing down. I could no longer eat the way I used to and get away with it. Thankfully, all the Yogurtland benefited my ass, but I did not want it benefiting other parts of my body. In a culture that is obsessed with youth and fitness, I would not become a Christina Aguilera (code for fat and nasty, possibly annoying too). Tony had been trying to get to join him on his carb crusade for months and I said I wouldn’t last. I would be able to go where I wanted with the help of carbs and he can sit there and watch me drink my milk with my wheat toast. Finally, I caved in and said I would do it. I had lasted over six years with Tony, so how hard would it be to go two weeks without carbs? I had a lengthy talk with friends over how your body works without carbs, basically it eats your fat sources. My response to them: "I'm not going to lose my ass am I?" I was met with blank stares.

I describe my two weeks like a bell curve. The first two days I was fine and enjoying my mixed greens and tuna. Come the third day, Tony offered to help me with my laptop to which I preceded to uppercut him Mortal Kombat style and throw his corpse into the street. Each day got better and toward the end of the week I was not that eager to dive into a bag of French fries as I once was. Granted, I did have a giant homemade cookie waiting for me in the freezer.

I’m doing a sequel to my no carb experiment. I noticed pretty good results the first time around. I took one week off (and went back into the potato ball pit) and am now back to avoiding carbs like the clap. It isn’t as hard the second time around. It’s kind of like when I was little and there were only certain things I could eat. Except, now that I’m older, it’s less "could" eat, and more "won’t" eat (at least for the next week and a half).

***Tune in next week for more insight into D’s Eye View of food.

I Believe in You

2011-03-18T00:06:00.001-07:00

Hi my name is Derek and I'm judgmental (sort of).

I'm sure many people have been dying to hear those words come out of my mouth. The truth is, I never not said it. But I also never said it fully (please see above). The truth is though, that is exactly the truth; I am judgmental and I'm admitting it (sometimes). I usually have an opinion about something and don't shy away from voicing it. That is what I believe separates me from others, regarding this judgmental trait (deplorable by some, admirable by others). Anything I think about you and/or your choices, if I haven't already said to your face, I would.

This comes out more so with my friends or loved ones. I have a very difficult time holding my tongue, especially when I disagree with what you are saying/doing. Contrary to popular belief, it has nothing to do with coming from a place of having-to-be-right. It is coming from a place of perception and care.

I am a very smart and perceptive critical thinker. I'm keen on detail and notice patterns and analyze trends. I'm also a problem solver. If you tell me something is wrong or broken, I look for ways to fix it. Part of this comes from what I do in my career, the other part is innate. As a child, I always noticed small things and tended to ask why and put together puzzles very easily. So when a friend comes to me and complains about their romantic life, usually I'm pretty quick to share what I see the problem is (i.e. dating the wrong type of men, dating the same type of guy over and over, self-sabotage when a time limit has been reached in a relationship) and a potential solution.

That is what seems to fly right over most people's heads. I'm not being judgmental persay, I'm merely saying I think you're smarter and you know damn well what you're doing isn't going to work out. It's very difficult for me to stay mum when someone I hold in very high regard (like a close friend) and have a high level of respect for is doing really dumb things. I want to shake them and say, "Look, seriously? Come on. You're not dumb, so what gives?" (depending on how many times I've heard the topic, that shake may want to turn into a playful slap, like they do in the movies and the slapee always feels grateful afterward).

Remember that scene in Sex and the City (season 3) where Carrie tells Miranda that she's going to have lunch with Big and she and Miranda fight about it? Miranda tells Carrie that she can't believe she's doing this again because she should know better and she's disappointed and upset that Carrie is doing this. Carrie calls Miranda judgmental and criticizes her for it. I've always felt Miranda was right. In the end, Carrie calls Miranda, they make up, and Miranda agrees to be there for her in case something happens. EC told me that this scene was voted as the most uncomfortable scene in the series among viewers. I wonder why? I wasn't uncomfortable (Tony was, extremely by the way) because I think that is what friendship is. If you're a good friend to someone you can have a heated disagreement about something and STILL be able to be just as close afterward. Who would want to surround themselves with a bunch of "yes people" anyway?

However, I understand that sometimes you need to let people be and friendship is about being there for a person. There are times when it's cool to step in and say something, but as a certain person I live with reminds me constantly, reiterating my point to them doesn't make me a good friend so much as it makes me annoying. In that instance, I am learning how to be a better friend by listening and not saying anything. I'm learning to let my friends think their mom is a cat (that is reference from Friends, where Ross can't get over that Phoebe thinks her dead mom's spirit is living in a cat). It's a work in progress people, the Sistine Chapel wasn't painted overnight.

If only there were support groups for judgmental people, like Alcoholics Anonymous. I'm sure my intro would go something like this, "Hi, my name is Derek and I'm judgmental." And as I sit down I'd roll my eyes and mumble, "even though I think some of the best friends should be."

Dirty Little Secret

2011-01-13T21:18:00.001-08:00

Privacy has always been something extremely important to me. I have never liked anyone going through my things, nor do I think it's okay for someone to look through someone else's. Not that I ever had anything to hide (except for my gay porn as a teenager before I came out, which my brother saw one day and I blamed it on my cousin, something I highly doubt he believed), I just always felt that your personal belongings and space were yours and someone needed to be asked to see them. I used to find my mother searching through my brother or sister's rooms and I would barge in like a defense attorney demanding to see her warrant. "Mom, what are you doing in here? This isn't your room. You can't be in here!" To which she replied, "Derek, this is my goddman house, all these rooms are mine," and stared at me like I had just told her I was consuming lead paint all day.

When I was a child I used to love Heidi Fleiss. Well to this day, I still like her for many reasons, but come on, how many seven year olds do you know that have an affinity for the Hollywood Madam? I am not quite sure what drew me to her. Maybe it was how glamorous she looked in the courtroom, with her cashmere wrap business dress. Or the way she kept her cool during her trial. I am not quite sure how I even stumbled unto her as a child, probably during the news one day I saw her and instantly became intrigued and desired to know more about this woman.

My parents found it odd my fascination with such a character. I mean, I'm sure most parents find it okay for their seven year olds to admire police officers (despite the corruption and blatant racism that exists among that profession) or athletes (despite the outlandish paychecks and the rules don't apply to me policy they all seem to follow), but certainly not t Hollywood Madam. Now before you go and think that I had some warped version of what a role model is, I will let you know that I used to want to meet President Bill Clinton also (I still do, I would die if I met him presently). I even wrote him a letter talking about how we need to work together to save the whales and rainforests. I received an autographed picture and letter from him talking about how important the environment was to his administration. My mother was a little more excited for the picture than I was.

Perhaps one of the things I admired most about Ms. Fleiss was her cool as a cucumber demeanor in court. She was being publicly being put through the ringer, and for what? Running a successful business? Pish posh. I don't think many seven year olds at the time were that in tune with the legality of prostitution and/or it's fondness among the LAPD, let alone how hard it is to run a business. And then there was the book. The little black book that kept all her client's contact information. Rumour has it that actors, singers, politicians, societal figures, everyone was in that book. She was the best at what she did. She ran a tight ship, her employees loved her and respected her, and all of her employees were the epitome of class. No trashy, clear heeled, pleather wearing tricks. I remember watching the news and hearing that the authorities were willing to lower her sentence if she gave up her list of clients. Everyone went crazy wondering, would she or wouldn't she? Hollywood was in a panic.

Everyone should have known better though. Ms. Fleiss, ever the intelligent businesswoman knew that if she ever wanted to have friends or work again, she could not publish the client list that had the entire country salivating. She stayed true to her belief that not only would she not pander to the cops as a madam but not pander to them as a criminal either. Her infamous client list went down with her.

Her story is quite American when you think about it. Heidi started her own business as a teenager (a babysitting club) and scouted the best and most well-rounded girls to assist her. Once she got into prostitution, took a liking to her madam and learned the ropes from her and eventually was able to take over when her madam fell ill. Running a high class escort service with clients crossing continents and raking in the premiere buku bucks. And the reason for her decline? Not because what she was doing was illegal, but because she told the LAPD to go fuck themselves. She wasn't going to be a snitch for them. Madam/Client privilege. If attorneys and doctors can exercise that right? Surely, an honest businesswoman should be able to. And in truly American style, she found her way back. I'm not quite sure how though, maybe she'd rather keep that private.

Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger

2010-11-15T22:37:00.000-08:00

Judging by what you see on television, you would think that the gym was merely something ubiquitous in gay culture. And to a certain extent it is, depending on the circle you run in, or how shallow you and your gaggle of gays are. Some of us go to the gym for health reasons, some go for shallow reasons, some go to have sex (not me, I've never had the desire to get down and dirty at the gym, frankly I feel like I should have a paper bag over my head at the gym since you would think I'm channeling the love child of a rat and Jabba the Hut). I like the gym though, I really do. It took me a long time to feel the benefits of exercise and working out on my body. I am in no way a gym rat, on average three-five times a week is how often I go. But, I have come to the realization that I'm a much better person when I work out.

While we're on the subject, let's just keep it real. Another reason we go to the gym is because clothes look better when you're worked out and you get more attention when you work out. I don't think I will find anyone who disagrees with those statements. Taking that into consideration, we all have areas of our body we would like to improve on whether its that washboard stomach, bigger biceps, slimmer legs, or little ol' Betty Backfat. And taking that into consideration, we as gays are constantly comparing ourselves to each other, who has better arms, who has better pecs, who has a smaller waist, etc. Life is one big dick measuring contest.

As we get older it only gets worse and we find the battle of the bulge becoming more intense. I will admit I am guilty of this behavior myself. We are always trying to one up each other in the physical department and be the best and brightest body out there. That's another reason we go to the gym. We're competing against each other. What for exactly? It could be to be the cutest one at the bar or to have that little something extra on your resume in the dating world.

I find it the strangest when you haven't seen someone in a while and last time they looked like Michael Phelps little sister and the next time you run into them at a bar you think you're being pushed by the Hulk, or Taylor Lautner (is there really a difference?). The next few minutes are spent casually stalking them to notice the massive muscle gain. How did they do it? They must be taking something. I wonder what it is. More importantly, where can I get some? Then you have an annoying benefit of the doubt person with you who thinks they did it the old fashioned way. That particular thought may seep into your mind and you may start to believe it, until you start seeing everyone around you bulking up like they are the body equivalents of Costco. I have had to stop myself from running up to these folks and grabbing them by the shoulders (which are pretty much as big as my waist) and shaking them down until they're desperate to tell me how they have achieved such physical greatness.

I really don't see an issue with a little enhancement here or there. I read about a monthly shot that your doctor can give you (with a few bucks under the table) that is supposed to get you pumped and ripped but with a natural tint to it, only mild side effects. Those being a bit of bacne and one day a month of aggression and mood swings. Helloooo, they make oxy pads and my boyfriend already thinks I'm crazy so what's to lose? Bonjour bigger biceps!

To Be Young, Gifted, and Black

2010-08-19T20:23:00.000-07:00

He's extremely good looking. He can charm your pants off. Girls think he's dreamy, guys want to grab a beer with him. He knows about wine and has an astounding career path. Intelligent beyond your level and willing to splurge on shoes as much as he would on a scotch. He hits the gym everyday, oh! he also is a great dancer, all types of dance. Does this sound familiar to you? You don't know him. Trust me. You think you do, but you don't. This is the media's portrayal of the modern gay man or MGM as we'll call him.

But wait, that is what gay men are like, I know one, is what you're saying to yourself. No, you don't. Stop it. First of all, Tom Ford doesn't count because you don't know him and because...he's just not going to count for this exercise. And secondly, the one gay friend you are thinking about is a mess. Just because he wears a bowtie and screams "girrrrrlfriend!" and snaps as he dresses you in a tacky satin dress does not make him anything more than a mess (equivalent to that dress he said you looked fierce in).

Tony and I were having this discussion recently over some Two Buck Chuck and sushi during happy hour (see what I mean? At least its wine though, which gives us extra points toward that MGM). The media has made a horribly inaccurate misrepresentation of the gay man. Thanks to what we see on the silver screen and the small screen, we think that gay men are these everything-aficionados who can tell you where the best arugula is found in all of LA's farmer's markets whilst running to the gym (literally, running to the gym). I hate to burst society's bubble, but...where's a needle when you need one?

Don't get me wrong, I would love if we were all Tom Fords. But quite frankly, there's more gays out there whose behavior is more on par with Lindsay Lohan (drug addicted party animals with no aspiration) or the Kardashians (perpetual live-at-homers- using their parents money to strive for the middle). Tom Ford is the exception, not the rule (WWTFD?). I have no idea why there aren't more of him, I don't make the gays, I just write about them.

Perhaps you actually have to want to be that cultured. You have to want to be able to walk into a room and have a conversation on a variety of topics, you have to like wine or some type of well drink (with only one mix-in, usually not sweet), you have to want to look age appropriate and not like a 35 year old teenager or a middle aged 22 year old. You have to want to have that corner office as opposed to the tallest go-go box or nicest fitting room.

I'd say its part of growing up, but there are just as many uncultured breeders out there as there are gays. So what makes some grow up to be refined, cultured and powerful and others to be Andy Dick? Maybe there should be a charm school (like they did for young girls, and let's face it, gays are pretty much young girls at heart anyway) that can school you and teach you how to act civilized and properly. Classes can range from how to speak proper English, to dressing appropriate for your age, to current events discussion(no TMZ allowed).

Let's be optimistic though, people evolve and as a species we are supposed to get better. Perhaps, we are on the verge of a transformation into more Tom Fords, maybe gays are the new wine, we get better with age, like women (see, there's the female comparison again, bring on the queer theorists!).

I should probably prepare for the backlash of gays that are going to read this and not understand the humor and satire behind it, but then again, they're not exactly the MGM are they?

Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood

2010-07-11T22:18:00.000-07:00

For those who watch The Real Housewives of New York, I'm having a Ramona Singer moment. I'm all about renewal. Yes, renewal. Well, a sort of renewal. More of a patch up. I'm learning, especially as I get older that certain things you have to eventually confront and put behind you. Obtain closure. I am the first person to admit that I may not have always done the right thing, I have for sure strayed onto the path of not-so-righteousness, but always going back to where I should be and doing what I should be doing.

Anywho, so this year I've been trying to make amends with people I may have wronged, or betrayed, or simply fucked over. You'd think that someone coming up to you and letting you know they're sorry for something that happened would be a nice gesture right? And you'd feel great knowing that person genuinely regretted their actions (of over five years ago by the way) and wanted to make amends right? Too bad my attempts at a peace offering were met with bags of dog shit thrown back at me.

Perhaps I had too large of expectations. You see, because in my mind, when someone tells you they're sorry for something, you accept it and move on. I was never asking to become best friends and starting calling every five minutes to discuss outfits for bar hopping that weekend, but I was certainly not expecting to be ignored. Needless to say, after a few extremely unsuccessful attempts at building upon an off-white past towards a better and brighter future, your confidence that people still like you begins to fade faster than Lohan's chances of recovery.

It makes it worse when you run in such close circles that the inevitability of running into any of these people is higher than certain. One gentleman I tried to patch things up with was the recipient of two messages and came within 4 feet of me at a bar and acted as though I was invisible. It's ironic, because I didn't even really do anything that bad to him, but that's besides the point. He wasn't that good of a friend to begin with. I'll spare the grueling details of the other cases of Padilla-Ravega v. The People Who Shall Not Spit Upon Him Should He Be on Fire.

I did get one genuine (hopefully genuine, hell, after so many doors slammed in my face, one can get a bit skeptical) understanding response. That one might mean the most of all, considering it came from a very dear friend (we were at one point, before I made sure we were not friends anymore). A few close friends have reminded me that the important thing is that I am maturing and learning to attempt to patch things up and move on, regardless of the receptiveness of the recipient. However, me being...well, me, I have the most difficult time with that. I'm getting better with it though. My desire to track down these people, ambush them, and shake them at the shoulders while yelling "I said sorry! What kind of person does not accept an apology that's five years in the making?! What kind of person are you? Who doesn't like apologies?! Everyone likes them! It's the remorseful equivalent of I love you," has drastically decreased.

It does make me feel a little better knowing that I am mature enough to rise up and try to fix things with people and they're too immature to even say "Apology accepted. We're still not friends though," because I'd be okay with that. So in a way, its almost like a backhanded compliment to myself. A silver lining is sometimes a bit more difficult to find in some situations. Perhaps this is it. My confidence just got a bit renewed, and to that I owe the people I have wronged who did not want to accept my apology. And that could possibly be the nicest thing they could have done for me.

When I Grow Up

2010-02-09T12:50:00.000-08:00

My poor parents. I don’t feel that any more attention would’ve helped me as a child. Believe me, I had a lot. More than most kids. Trust me, there was a good 20 minutes devoted to my daily activities at dinner. Retrospectively, I don’t think that an eight year olds daily routine will take 20 minutes. I managed to stretch them out and provide details, everything from what my friend told me at recess to what I traded for my chips at lunch.

If you met me as a child, you would have thought I had neglectful parents. I acted as though I was never paid attention to. Anyone willing to talk to me was going to get an earful, the thoughts on life from the perspective of an eight year old. I craved attention, some would argue that I still do, some would argue that it naturally comes to me. We’ll let people think what they like, as long as they’re thinking about me, I don’t really care.

At holidays I would act out scenes from movies as entertainment for my cousins, aunts, uncles, and friends. My award winning reenactment was from Gone with the Wind. My mother wouldn’t let me use a potato to emphasize my displeasure with Yankees in Tara as Scarlet O’Hara did. I also used to act as an on the spot news reporter at every Christmas and Thanksgiving. I was adorable with my little suit and coke bottle glasses asking people their thoughts on the food, people, and their resolutions. I lived for school plays and musicals, I wasn’t often cast as lead, but sometimes the best talents are often overlooked, Madonna was not cast as Frida Kahlo despite her persistent auditions. In 4th grade, my teacher said I was going to play the part of an, “intelligent, snooty professor,” and that it would “be perfect,” for me.

With such a desire for attention and the ability to make up lines (or lies) that sounded believable, I knew Hollywood was my destiny. I desperately wanted to be a child actor. Each movie I saw in theaters that had a child star in it disgusted me. That should be me up there is what I would think. Every time I heard a radio advertisement for open castings and William Morris open calls I would run up to my parents and beg and plead and get on my knees asking them to take me. I was often met with, “What? No. No. I’m not taking you to no god dog audition. They’re going to make us sign you up for classes and pay them all kinds of money. And money doesn’t grow on trees son. And no no no, mijo, no uh uh. Nothing is free, uh uh. Stop, get up, go rake the leaves.” I was crushed. I knew that when I was famous and they made a movie about my life, this would be a pivotal scene.

I used to have fantasies as I raked the leaves and did my chores that a limousine would pull up to our half cul-de-sac and a handsome Hollywood agent would step out and say the words, “Derek, we know you’re talented, we’re going to take you away from all of this and you’re going to be a big star.” I drop the rake and run up to this agent in my tattered clothes and bandanna (in my fantasy I was dressed like an extra from Slumdog Millionaire even though we were upper middle class), and throw my arms around the suit and weep tears of joy as I thanked him for rescuing me.

I might have wound up on Dancing with the Stars or Celebrity Rehab had I become a child star. Or I could have been a Drew Barrymore, to hell and back kind of child star. Or even better, a Brooke Shields! A child actress turned teen model turned pop star date to the Grammys turned America’s Sweetheart. But I laugh too much, and that would limit the roles I could have taken. But I’ll never know. In my next life, I’d like to come back as a child star. I should start planning my dramatic techniques.

Livin' On a Prayer

2010-01-26T21:05:00.000-08:00

Kids are very smart. Well most kids. Okay, some kids. I was a very smart child. Gifted you could say. Some would call me a prodigy. I knew my colors by the age of two and could read at an advanced level at the age of four. One of the reasons I learned so fast was because I used to follow along with my father's reading passages in church. Cradle catholic is how I would say I was raised, best intentions from my parents. And bless their hearts, my parents are amazingly progressive people with huge hearts, but I think even as a child I knew their intentions were not for me.

Since I learned to read in church I used to get bored reading the handouts and biblical passages. I would get jealous of the other kids who brought in their leisure books and used to wish that I could read them instead. It used to annoy me that Jesus couldn't marry or date for that matter, and why the prodigal son was such a big deal. I mean, he blew away his fortune and the hard working brother was met with hostility? Not to mention the lack of dinosaurs in the Bible. Smart kid, remember?

I got the basics. Be nice to people, don't kill, don't steal, don't say God's name in vain (I don't know any Catholic that follows that one), etc. I liked the be nice to people part and not killing. The rest irked me and confused me.

As I grew older, my mind battled more with the church's "teachings." I really didn't think not going to church or wanting my best friend's new truck was sending me in a hand basket to hell. And I really didn't think that rape victims should be stoned, or touching the skin of a dead pig makes someone unclean, or that planting different crops side by side should result in a painful death.

Eventually, I started my own little battles. Perhaps my favorite was the time I wore a shirt to church that had a guy on it with his ears plugged with the words, "not listening," on it. I really liked that shirt, my mother wished I had worn a jacket that Sunday.

Maybe it was when I sang "Give It To You" by Jordan Knight at a True Love Waits (meaning, save yourself for marriage) mixer. They ended up cutting my song short and the youth council director was shaking her head at me in an angry fury as I took my bow. It could have been the True Love Waits blessing I walked out of right before the prayer began. It was hardly a walk of shame in my eyes; going from one of the front pews up the aisle past all those not-going-to-last virgins.

I'm not really sure of the exact moment I decided to leave the church. I'm sure it was somewhere between the time that they were still the welcoming home of pedophiles, oops I mean priests, and stripping away the rights of gays and lesbians. I still go with my parents only on Easter and Christmas, you know with all the other real Catholics (Mom and Dad go weekly for the record). I get some of my best naps there. It's where I learned to read. And I love to read. And church is where the greatest work of fiction is: The Bible.

Starstruck

2009-12-03T10:56:00.001-08:00

One of my new favorite television shows is Modern Family. I recently saw a bit of myself in one of the characters as he reminisces about how he and his sister had an ice skating routine and went by the name, Fire and Nice; determined to win trophies, medals, and any other glory they could. Instantly, I remembered that my sister and I had similar aspirations: we were determined to be dance contest champions.

Granted, neither one of us had any formal training, but we figured being Latinos, formal training was something we never paid attention to. It wasn’t because we felt it was beneath us, I’m sure we would have jumped at the opportunity if it was presented to us, but my sister and I had genetics on our side; our mother was in Dirty Dancing and Saturday Night Fever and our father was the Mambo King who spawned his own dance crazes involving handkerchiefs and sand.

To this day, when we have a function whether it’s a birthday or a wedding, we find a way to become the unofficial dance contest champions of the night. Basically, we look like the two cousins in My Big Fat Greek Wedding at the end of the movie, but cooler. What can I say? We both love to dance and love attention. It’s our cross to bear. My sister and I even went so far as to decide that our joint wedding present to our brother will be a wedding dance routine. Not for him and his girlfriend to dance to of course, but for us; we’ll perform at their wedding.

It isn’t just dancing that I loved since childhood, but all forms of attention grabbing behavior. Not panty-less car exiting or drunken tirades, but behavior that requires talent. On holidays as a five year old I used to do selected scenes from Gone with the Wind and that parlayed into my short lived career as the family newscaster specializing in investigative journalism and on the scene commentary. My investigative journalism consisted of hiding my tape recorder in various parts of the house and leaving it there recording to see what my family members said about me when I wasn’t there. And by on the scene commentary, I mean interviewing various family members on New Years Eve asking for their resolutions while my brother videotaped everyone.

Dinner time was a great time to have the spotlight on you in my house. We went around the table and talked about our days and what was going on in our lives. As a child, I was often left at the dinner table alone because I was still talking about my daily activities once everyone finished eating. Since this was a common occurrence, my siblings preferred to go succinctly before me. What can I say? A third grader has a lot to say. My poor mother would often feel bad for me and sit there and listen to me babble on and on well past my food’s temperature reached cold.

Much of this behavior has yet to escape my personality. To this day, I still enjoy talking and can easily carry on a conversation for two people, which I have and do, which really is just a reflection of other people’s poor communication skills and manners, but that’s another story. At a recent cousin’s wedding, my sister and I got our own spotlight dance and made our own dance floor. Perhaps I could tone down a bit, but as my friend Abigail recently told me as she read my horoscope, “You are the star of the universe.” Some stars outshine others, but eventually they all run out of gas.

Come See About Me

2009-10-12T20:49:00.000-07:00

It's sometimes called our most importance sense. It allows us to read, to see, to preview. It enables us to be turned on and turned off, to be intrigued, surprised, and disappointed. Our vision is both a blessing and a curse. We use our eyes to help us decide whether we look good in a sweater and therefore whether or not to buy it. We use our eyes to see if what we've said has pissed someone off and thus to see if what we're saying now is making up for it. We also use our eyes to determine if we're going to let that person buy us a drink, regardless of whether or not they're interesting. We use our eyes to make friends, sometimes ignoring that we may not have a whole lot in common.

I often think the world would be a better place if we didn't have vision. I mean, literally, let's think about it. We're all pretty shallow as it is. We judge people on how they look and we in turn get judged. We often hear ourselves say, "I wouldn't be caught dead in that," and "Do you know what I would look like if..." and let's not forget "I can't be seen with (insert name)!" We have written people completely off because on how they look, albeit it a potential mate, friend, or customer/client.

Yes, the world would be a better place if we didn't have vision. We wouldn't rely so much on our looks to get around. We could focus more on merit and hard work since we won't have that Colgate smile to charm people. We would learn to be more eloquent and descriptive with our language since we can't be lazy and just look at something to see what it's like. I wouldn't have to wait until Tony falls asleep to go and sneak that extra cookie in the dark. I could cancel my gym membership because I would never know what Cristiano Ronaldo's stomach looks like and kill myself trying to achieve the same.

Now my wallet is getting bigger? Okay, I'm liking this blind thing.

If I all of a sudden got a pimple on a night we were going out, I wouldn't freak out about being ostracized and cast to the dark corners of the freak section of my local watering hole.

But then again, I do get pretty happy when I come home and see my dog so excited to see me that he can't stay still. I really enjoy staring at the color usage and brushstrokes of Georgie O'Keefe. Not to mention, some people are just really really nice to look at. And now that I think about it, if I were blind, I wouldn't go to the gym or work out for the sake of my health. So really, shallowness has saved my health. Thank god I can see how I look in certain clothes, otherwise I wouldn't stop at just that one cookie in the dark while Tony's asleep. Shallow or not, vision - a blessing and a curse. A cross to bare. Kind of like my award winning smile, but then again, if you were blind, you couldn't see that.

:)

That's the Way It Is

2009-08-31T20:26:00.000-07:00

As summer winds down we have fond memories of the summer movie season. That is if the movies were decent enough to not make us want to throw diapers at the screen. These days I have grown really irked with lame movie plots. It's like studio executives think of the most random offbeat ideas and decide to put them on film, that's when they're not making crappy horror movies or remaking crappy horror movies crappier.

One of the more stand out films I speak of (and I say stand out as in one of the most awful) is The Orphan. I'm not sure if it's a remake or not, it might as well be, or I'm sure it will be eventually. I would not pay 10 dollars to see this movie nor did I have any desire to see this piece of horse crap Hollywood has thrust upon us like a drunk 40 year old at a club. I read the plot on Wikipedia. Yes, I wikied it. And the only reason I did this was because I read a review where they mentioned "the twist." I was curious.

Basically, this movie is about this couple who adopts a child and it turns out their child is not the little bundle of joy they expected to swoop up from Romania. She starts acting all evil and threatening their other children (one of whom is deaf.) I mean, first of all, let's pick on the deaf kid, as if they're not already marginalized, then she starts talking about sex to her adoptive parents and tries to seduce her adoptive father (mind you, she's like seven). Then the killing spree starts and she just goes all crazy. Just when things couldn't get zanier, those "gifted" writers pull out all the stops. It turns out, this little girl is really a 30 year old woman who suffers from some disease that keeps her looking like a child.

Seriously, this is the largest pile of dinosaur dung I have ever heard of. As if adoption didn't have a bad enough rap, now people have to worry about adopting sex crazed psychopathic 30 year olds. People were already worried about adopting the devil from The Omen, and now this. And in movies like The Orphan and The Omen, it's always nice good people that adopt the evil children and then die. Why can't the Bernie Madoffs or Sarah Palins of the world adopt the evil demon spawn huh? That way it's a win win situation. The child gets adopted, the devil gets a soul taken, and the dim witted audiences who see these movies get their carnage.

Maybe in a few years when Hollywood remakes this movie into something crappier, they'll take a few chances and try out this new plot line. And then I might just pay ten dollars to see that.

I Wanna Be Sedated

2009-07-27T18:27:00.001-07:00

I am a very healthy person. I haven't broken a bone, sprained anything, or have any major diseases. A flu here and there, a cold a couple times a year, that's about it. I don't even get springtime allergies. I used to get mad at my parents for giving me such good genes since all the other kids at school got to have broken bones and allergies. So I was more than surprised when a few days ago I developed a hideous pain in and around my eye. It also made me teeth a bit sore but couldn't really keep me from food (I don't think much could keep me away from food, but anyway). It felt as if I had been socked in the eye and I couldn't remember getting into any domestic altercations or bar fights recently, so that nixed my first idea.

After researching with my doctor, and by doctor I mean, WebMD and my Mayo Health Clinic Self-Care book, I discovered this torture to be nothing but a sinus problem. I didn't even know everyone has a sinus, I thought simply some people have them and some people don't, like back hair or talent. I like to think of it that way, whatever the truth of it is, in my mind, I didn't have it before and Lord knows I am not going to host something that was uninvited. Nonetheless, it was causing distress in my life, relationship, and enjoyment of my weekend. This sinus had no right disrupting my affairs and was going to receive its eviction and cease and desist notice asap.
In fact, this unwanted house guest was so painful I had to cut my gym routine short.

As if being a gay man in our shallow world was not enough. As if my feeling bad for only going to the gym four times a week didn't make me feel like an outcast in our depthless community. But now I was supposed to be sick and not go to the gym? I might as well be outcast to Riverside County or the Northern desert parts of LA County where the freaks and losers go. Gay men pretty much get categorized into two categories, those who care about how they look and those who really don't, and I was not about to be put into box number two. Hell, if I was, cancel my gym membership and bring me a pair of ill fitting pants and square toe shoes.

After my short gym visit, I raced to the market determined to find the strongest most potent sinus medication; perhaps what they use on elephants or horses when they get sick. A shopping tip I extend to my followers, is that I found out that sinus medication is basically pain reliever (acetaminophen) and nasal decongestant (pseudoephedrine) in one pill, but they charge you more money since it's only one pill. I had both at home already, so I saved myself some money, (take that pharmaceutical industry). I drugged myself up and allowed the medication to break down the door of my sinus and escort, no wait, drag their ass out of my body. I imagine the scene looked like when the US government burst into that house in Miami and stole Elian Gonzalez out of the closet at gunpoint, except my sinus infiltration was a bad seed.

I feel better and no longer want to jump into a moving train. I expect a speedy recovery. Although, I wish I could say I look forward to going back to the gym and completing a full workout, I don't. Unfortunately, I'm just not that sick.

:)
-D

Wishin' and Hopin'

2009-07-15T20:51:00.000-07:00

***Blogger's Note: I apologize for my less than often updates, school was taking up more of my time than I had anticipated, but it's done now so you all can expect more updates on my eye's view of the world.

I really don't care what anyone says, I love Bravo's The Real Housewives of...series. Granted, New Jersey and New York are the best. Atlanta and Orange County of enjoyable too, don't get me wrong. But after having to trek from school to work and maintain my house, one of my favorite things to do was just to kick up my feet and watch Jill, Bethenny, Nene, Gretchen, Caroline, and Dina.

Often, my mind would wander at what city they would tackle next and illustrate to the world what a housewife does in comparison to New York, Atlanta, New Jersey. And even more often than not, my mind would wander to the possible future days of The Real Gay Husbands of Los Angeles, in which I would star.

I could see it now, the opening credits would have the background of the LA skyline showing a variety of landmarks: the US Bank building, the Hollywood sign, Melrose Avenue with me and circle of friends superimposed graphically over them. I could say such cute catchphrases as "I am part of LA's list power-gays," or "Me and my friends run this city," to showcase power and prestige. Or, I could say things like "Everybody knows I call the shots," or "Whoever said you can't have it all, never met me," (my personal favorite). Instead of an apple, we may have to hold things like avocados. Maybe a banana for a little double entendre.

The Real Gay Husbands of LA would probably mimic New York mostly, only because I'd be a career husband as would my friends. But not only would it show me working but it would also show Tony telling me that I don't need to work and he can take care of me and the kids. I'd ponder this thought for a few episodes but ultimately decide to keep working but still allow him to sign the checks.
I'd probably have the motherly instincts of Caroline, the attitude of Dina, and the sociability of Jill. The show can also film how I get crazy on my children's teachers for stifling their creativity and Tony calling the school immediately after my scene to apologize for my antics.

I have quite a few years until I'm a Real Gay Husband of Los Angeles. I heard Bravo is doing Washington D.C. next, at least I will have something to hold me over until they call me and have me get ready for my close up.

:)
-D

This Used to Be My Playground

2009-02-07T09:34:00.000-08:00

About a week and a half ago I paid a visit to my youth. My friends wanted to go to Tigerheat, the lipgloss, bubblegum pop gay club famous for the 18-21 crowd. I hadn't been there in three years (minus the two visits I had to make for the Mr. Gay LA contest, I was being sponsored by them so I had to go those two times) and lest to say not much has changed. There were still the twink fairies who are overdosing on fierceness and the swarms of straight girls who go with their gay boys. The overpriced drinks were still there and I could have sworn I would have been able to score some E from one of the cracked out looking gogo dancers. I felt a bit bad for some of the girls who came with their gay friends because the gay boys wanted to be backing it up the whole night and the girls had to be the tops (or men) that night to their gay bottom friends. I felt bad, but laughed aloud because it was funny.
On the way to the bathroom I was almost bowled over by two drugged out sunglasses wearing 18 year olds not to mention on the dancefloor it was a gay version of a mosh pit when anything pop-rock came on. I mean, how gay can a mosh pit get other than seeing who can jump the highest with the biggest smile and posing your arms just the right way so the photographer can post that picture up on the website.
It's odd that I noticed these things because at one point I fit right in. I started going to Tigherheat when I was 17 and went for a pretty consistent couple of years. I was a regular on their website and their dance boxes, as well as a familiar face to the crowd that frequented there. Not unlike the kids that were there that night I went, I used to drink in the car beforehand since I wasn't old enough to buy from the bar, and dance all night non stop sweating like Whitney Houston in a sauna. Ironically, my friends and I drank in the car prior to walking in to Tigerheat; we did it for economic purposes and if it helped us fit in, so be it.
As I was staring at these kids and trying to avoid getting knocked over, I remembered that I was once like them. When a kick ass song would come on, I would pretend I was on tour with Britney Spears or act like I was Justin Timberlake's choreographer. I would be rolling on the floor or dancing like a stripper. In my head I was the hottest thing since popcorn but according to Tony I was a mess. But I didn't care, I thought I looked good and was awesome.
I see where these kids are though. I can't judge because I was once one of them. So to those kids who are 18, 19 and 20, rock on. However, I am extremely free to judge the 21 plus crowd that still goes there. It's like having that one guy who graduated high school already still hanging out with the high school kids. Those guys are the ones to mentally slap around for having no aspiration. I am not hating, I just feel that as we grow up we leave certain things behind. I no longer tie bandanas around my leg like I did when I was 18, I grew out of that.
Tigerheat is part of my past. I accept it. I was there for all three location changes. I was there for the overpriced drinks, the aura of fierceness, and then crotch grabbing on the dancefloor. When you're 18, that's a good time (only one of those constitutes a good time at my age), and now I'm off to have a good time as a 23 year old. I'm sure that soon I'll grow out of my jug of wine and move on to something else. But in the meantime, cheers.

Sweet Child O Mine

2009-01-03T14:27:00.000-08:00

Last night I woke up three times to bring Clinton into bed. I buy clothes for him that look cute and keep him warm. A few weeks before that I grew frustrated as he wouldn't sit still for his Christmas picture. Mind you, I am not talking about a child, but rather my dog, Bill Clinton.

Tony and I got a dog a few months back. My mother calls him her grandson and I often refer to us as parents now. And in many ways he is like a child. We have to feed him and take him to get his shots and buy him toys. When he misbehaves we have to discipline him and reward him for good behavior. We compare him to other people's pets and praise how much better masters we are than everyone else, just like parents do. It recently him me last week though, that even though we have the same responsibilities as parents, we can't treat him just like a child.

Tony and I were trying to finish our Christmas shopping and I didn't want to leave Clinton at home by himself. And I was telling Tony that in many ways, Clinton is like a baby only better. He is actually quieter than most kids we know. He doesn't smell, he doesn't scream. If he did come with us to the store, he's just sit in the cart and stare at us or probably just sleep in his bag while we decided between broccoli florets and broccoli stems.

I began to get very irked by this and wanted to start up some firestorm of a protest to which Tony reminded me that some people are allergic to dogs which is why we can't take him to the store. "Some people are allergic to kids," I responded. He just stared at me.

The more I think about this, the more sense it makes for us to be allowed to take our canine companions places. Dogs are cheaper than kids too. They don't require the latest Ipod or Barbie toy. Clinton doesn't make a scene at the store when I don't buy him the newest squeakie ball. He doesn't talk back to me and scream he hates me because I make him go to bed. And besides, everyone we know likes Clinton, literally, not one person doesn't like him. I know plenty of people who don't like kids that I know. Plenty.

Oh well. For now, I will accept the fact that I can't take Clinton to the store. He'll just sit at home with the Disney channel on, like most kids I know.

:)
-D

Fight for Your Right

2008-10-26T23:23:00.000-07:00

I should have started a while ago. I should have taken action much sooner. I didn't think it would get so close. I was so caught up in school, work, my relationship, I just didn't really think about it. When same-sex marriage was legalized in California, I was excited and knew it was a big deal, but I didn't really think about it. This isn't to say that I wasn't relieved, shocked, ecstatic, and empowered to know that I now had one more constitutional right bestowed to me like my fellow Americans, but my emotions were somewhat put on the back burner.
That was until recently; the past two weeks have really just hit me. Proposition 8 will strip me of one of my rights. One of my rights as an American. People came to this country for equality, for freedom, for fear of persecution. America is about all these things. And more importantly, Prop 8 will change history, but not in the good way. It will amend our state constitution, that granted equality to all of its citizens and make millions of people second class citizens.
Prop 8 doesn't just affect the gay and lesbian couples. It affects the parents, friends, siblings, and loved ones of those gay and lesbian couples. I think of my parents, who have worked so hard all their lives for their children to have every opportunity granted to them as possible. My parents love their children unconditionally, and would do anything for them. Anytime someone or something has gotten in the way or taken something away from one of their children, it affects them, it hurts them. My parents can only do so much for us, sometimes things just aren't in their hands. If Prop 8 passes, it won't just ban me from getting married. It will hurt my mother and father, it will crush them. It will crush them, because even after all they have done for me and my siblings, a basic human right was stripped from one of their children.
Marriage is about love. It is often referred to as a marriage of equals; a partnership; a bond. Nothing bad has happened since same-sex marriage was legalized. If anything, they economy has grown.
The supporters of Prop 8 argue its for the children. Well, I have a 6 year old niece. I wouldn't let anyone tell her she can't do something because she's a Latina, or a brunette, or likes horses, or has a blended family, or that she doesn't like green vegetables.
I guess my emotions were put on the back burner because when I came out (and even before that) I didn't technically by law have the right to get married in the first place, and you can't miss something you never had. But when the Supreme Court overturned that law this year, things changed. My parents were going to be able to see me do the same thing that my brother and sister could do. Their job would be complete, see all their kids have the same opportunities.
Pro 8 isn't about pro-gay or anti-gay. It isn't about pro-family or anything. It's about civil rights. It's about equality. Whether you like gay people or don't, you like freedom, and freedom isn't negotiable. It's universal. You can't choose or select a few people to be equal. We are all equal. We all deserve to have our rights. Because if we don't, I am going to have to do a lot of ass kicking for the pain inflicted on my parents. And I can guarantee, no one will be beaten more heavily or lightly than someone else, after all I believe in equality.

PS Everyday until the election, I will be bulletin-ing a No on 8 advertisement, if you agree with it, repost it, if you are not sure, think about what you're not sure about, and if you're disagree with it, think, what exactly are you against?

Don't worry, the funny blogs will be back, it's just sometimes you've got to fight for your right, or in this case, write for your right.

:)
-D

Enemy of the State

2008-10-03T11:17:00.000-07:00

The freedom we have to believe what we want to believe in is one of the most important things in life. The ability we have to speak our minds is one of the most important things in life. The option to stand up for something is one of the most important things in life. It is our duty as protectors of democracy, children of the constitution, and champions for civil rights and liberties that we do so. Actions speak louder than words. And last night, I decided to act.
As many people who know me personally (and I’m sure some who don’t know me personally) I will always stand up for what I believe in. I will always encourage people to speak their mind. I will never sit back and allow discrimination, injustice, or intolerance of any kind. And believe you me, if ever an act of discrimination, injustice, or intolerance of any kind was done unto me, I would not sit back and take it. I have been wearing a Barack Obama pin for about two months now, typically daily. Today was the last day I was able to wear it at work.
I was informed that it (and “it,” didn’t refer to my pin specifically, but all political attire in general) had caused some problems and made some Wells Fargo employees uncomfortable and offended. Granted, I was a bit taken aback when I had heard this because I haven’t spoken a word of politics at work and half the time I wear a jacket because our office runs a cool 60 degrees. A supervisor instructed me about this in a friendly manner because she didn’t want me to get in trouble and was trying to look out for me. I told her that I would not remove it, and she should pretend she never told me in order to protect herself and that if I were even to consider removing my pin, I would need to see it in writing directly from the Wells Fargo handbook.
To make a long story short, my direct supervisor provided me with the information where the political pin would be “covered.” And by “covered” I mean, umbrella-ed to include anything that could fall under “solicitation.” To make a long story that was supposed to be short even longer, my sweet as candy supervisor took time to explain what had been told to her and then offered me to speak to the managers on duty at the time. I took her up on that request in order to further clarify.
I spent over an hour talking to our two center managers and my supervisor going over the definition of “solicitation,” the possibilities of a slippery slope, individuals’ rights, employee uniforms, the concept of offending someone, and various examples of how one might be offended by someone wearing NIKE shoes (by wearing them, you could be endorsing them, and if they practiced child labor, that could be considered an endorsement of such practices) or the Beijing Olympics (by wearing an Olympic shirt, you’re saying it was okay to hold an event in a country that has human rights violations) to having a celebrity picture on your desk and someone being offended by how many marriages that person has had, you get my point. It came down to creating a positive and uncomfortable working environment for everyone and if someone is offended, it needs to be viewed as a case by case basis in order to deem what qualifies as offensive. Whether or not I wore the pin to endorse Obama, or because the pin was pretty, or because I had a stain on my shirt and needed to cover it up, the message behind my wearing such a pin is that I am endorsing a political candidate, and someone might be offended by my choice of candidate.
The managers were more than nice, and more than happy to go over the policy and explain in detail (oh and believe you me, I made sure they did) the semantics and wording behind the company of “solicitation.” After our meeting, I chose to leave work. I chose not to complete my shift because I did not want to take off my button. And this isn’t an Obama thing, or a Democratic thing, or a liberal thing. It comes down to being a freedom thing. I have the right to wear what I want as long as there is no blatant offensive language to someone. I would never choose to intentionally offend someone, but if we constantly try not to offend people, we wouldn’t be able to leave the house. Someone could be offended by the company hiring someone like me, or by the car you drive, or by what you chose to write your dissertation on, or by your decision to not get married.
I had the option to remove my button, or leave work. I chose the latter. I am going back on Saturday, but I felt it was important for me not to let someone’s inability to accept, or respect, someone else’s beliefs trump that. If someone wants to wear a McCain button, that’s wonderful. If someone wants to wear a Toyota shirt, that’s great, if someone wants to wear a “Kiss me I’m Irish” patch, even better. As I sit here, staring at my political donation receipt, I am reminded of why I did what I did. This may be a small action done by only one person. Some may think it is lame what I did, or trivial or flat out stupid. But actions speak louder than words and today I made a choice. And I figured, by choosing to say a thousand words, well that send a bigger message, than the four worded, “I’ll take it off.”

Something To Talk About

2008-08-16T20:04:00.001-07:00

"Oh my god! That's fake! That has to be fake, wow! Man, I've NEVER seen that, NEVER!" exclaimed my mom as she was staring at the picture of the enlarged clitoris. I know that sentence sounds like a few things would be odd in there, but not so much if you're in my family. I'm sure many are wondering why my mother was staring at pictures of enflamed clitori. It was my idea. My friend informed me that women who take steroids have extremely large clitori, or is it clitorisis? I prefer clitori, actually I prefer neither, ha! But back to the subject at hand. I didn't believe my friend until I googled it and saw the horrendous pictures for myself. And he was right, women who take steroids have enlarged clitori that actually resemble a penis.
So of course, if you knew me, telling my mother about my discovery doesn't seem odd. Why? Because that's what we do in my family. We show and talk to each other about what the American Family Association would consider "highly inappropriate dinner conversation." My mother was in shock and insisted I show my sister, my brother and my father. My father insisted I retrieve him his glasses so he could see it as clearly as my mother did, detail and all. My parents were a bit dissatisfied with the size of the pictures (I was showing them on my Sidekick after all) so they requested that I email them the link so they can view it from home. Other standout topics have been whether I thought Lindsay Lohan was REALLY gay, the biological im/possibility of the pregnant (wo)man (whom Tony hates by the way), and how younger kids are having anal sex in an attempt to "stay virgins."
Typically when conversations like this happen over dinner we all get engrossed in the details as if we were talking about something highly important and passionate, all of us except Tony, who sits there quietly and starts inhaling his dinner in an attempt to evacuate the table before the topic turns to sex, which is another often possibility in the Padilla-Ravega household. God bless him though, its his subtle laid backness that allows me to run rampant with such conversations (sometimes with strangers).
Whenever I tell people about what my family talks about they don't believe me. They think I'm making it up. And I politely disagree with them, citing my creation of fiction nowhere paralleling James Frey. This is my family. We talk about things like that. No topic if out of bounds or off limits. And that is a rule that I can remember being implemented as logn as I can remember. My parents often told us that they'd rather us come to them for information then to turn other people who wouldn't know what they're talking about. And as my mother put it, her and my father "had been around the block, okay? We know what's up." So, when me and siblings wanted to know what lay around the corner, we asked the people who knew the block best.
This has never bothered me, I've always enjoyed my family conversations. And as we get older, newer topics can be addressed or unearthed and I welcome them. I always figured that this portion of my life would cover a few chapters in my Sedaris-Burroughs type of books I plan on publishing one day. Some might be uncomfortable with such conversations with their family, but I'd rather us talk about that than nothing at all, or something so mundane and vanilla as the weather. And my mother said she'd rather all of us be talking than fighting. So tomorrow for her birthdfay, she'll (and the whole family) will get another fun filled anti-AFA conversation. She'll love that gift.

:)
-D

The First Cut is the Deepest

2008-08-04T22:04:00.000-07:00

I've always wondered, really, how many pregnancy scares one (guy or girl)must go through to think, "hmm maybe I/he should bag it up this time." I understand, in the moment of passion (as my mother used to say) we get caught up and just go for it, so there's one freebie, maybe two. But after a while, I would imagine it would get frustrating constantly having to go buy a test, pee on the stick, and then sit there for three minutes contemplating whether or not you'll be able to meet your friends for that drink this weekend, not to mention the few days that you're praying you either get your period or your girlfriend/wife/sex partner has a sudden rush of blood from her vagina.
That's always been a bright side to being gay, no pregnancy scares. And to think, the American Red Cross views us as high risk donors! That's funny.
I was reading Details magazine and came across an article about vasectomies, half expecting to hear from 35 year old plus fathers that couldn't afford kids or the ever fertile Latino/Irish/Catholic/Mormon who went in to avoid a future pregnancy. Needless to say I was taken aback to not find one 35 year old father in this article but rather, have the subject of the article to be 20 something single guys who don't want to bag it up.
Really?
Really?
You'd rather pay $2,500 to go to a hospital and cut your ropes, attach an icepack to your balls for 24 hours, wear a scrotal supporter for 48 hours, and experience bloody primary ejaculations (only for the first few post-vasec ones), then to put on a damn condom next time you have sex? Really? No, really. Really?
Are you that lazy? Are you allergic to the latex? Are you on government assistance and can't afford said condom? Are you afraid that you'll be kidnapped and sent to a remote location with Brazilian models just waiting to sleep with you and pay you millions of dollars to avoid using a condom with them?
And that goes for females also, if you don't want a kid, then why risk it? I don't want to get diarrhea so I am not going to eat that cheese in my fridge that's looking a bit suspect, no matter how good I remember it was in a quesadilla. You don't like condoms because you "can't feel shit?" Ugh, fine let's go with that piece of shit, ahem, I mean "argument." Get yourself on the damn pill. And if you're not having sex and you view the pill as a reminder that you're not getting laid, it helps clear your skin. See, there's a silver lining.
But back to the main point, I'm just shocked that young men are seriously taking this action instead of wearing a condom. I mean, taking the pregnancy factor out, still, there's STDs possibly floating around that a condom would possibly prevent you from contracting. You think babies are the only result of no condom use? Ha!
One guy quoted his reason for a vasectomy at the age of 23 to "it's like eating junk food and knowing you're not going to get fat." Well, I hope you eat LOTS of junk food, and instead of getting fat, you have a "heart attack, and by "heart attack" I mean of course, syphilis. But it's okay, at least you're not a father, or "fat."

:)
-D

No More Tears (Enough is Enough)

2008-07-20T20:26:00.000-07:00

A letter to my people. I have complied a list of a few things that I (along with too many people) have noticed about our community and are no longer afraid to vocalize. If we conquer these demons, the world can be ours.

Dear my fellow gays,

1. Please retire the word drama. We get it, you're "not into drama," are looking for "drama free people," and believe that you should "keep your drama away from me." Reality check, the only people that really have this on their MySpace, FaceBook, or repeat it in real life thrive on drama.
2. You are not that complicated. You go on and on about how complex and complicated and original you are. Really? How so? You look just like every other drunk, skinny, Hollister wearing homo out there. There is already a band called The Pretenders and last time I checked you weren't in it.
3. We are supposed to be what straight men want to be and what women want their straight boyfriends to be like. Too bad a large portion of our boys are tacky, unemployed, living at home, and unambitious, wait, am I describing the gay or straight guys?
4. Just because you're gay, doesn't mean your life would make a good movie. Or that you are a good writer. Gay just means you like dick.
5. Having Dior sunglasses doesn't make you fierce. Do you even know anything about fashion? Louis Vuitton makes more than wallets and Chanel makes more than glasses. Stop using being a "fashionista" as your excuse to be a label whore. And don't pretend to know about it when you don't. That is what makes you an idiot.
6. 5'6 and 130 lbs doesn't make you fat. Stop complaining. Those french fries you threw up after drinking and dancing at Rage won't make you a cow.
7. Being gay also doesn't make you a supermodel. Enough with the wannabe pictures.
8. If you like sex and have it a lot, own it. Rock it. Don't pretend you're a Charlotte if you're a Samantha. And if you're a Miranda, own it. Not everyone can be Carrie.
9. Enough with the "top talk." We know you're not one. So bend over like we know you like it.
10. Just because your life is a fake Fendi and you secretly mooch off of your financial aid and boyfriend's salary while fucking other people behind his back, don't try and ruin your neighbor's life. Some of us, are real Fendis. Check the lining.

:)
-D