THE EASTER MAGGOT

I don't care much for Easter. Mainly its the pastel colors...and collecting things in baskets makes me feel immigrant-y....but also, I've realized I have an innate hatred for rabbits. It started one Easter when I was hardcore jonesin' for some chocolate and my Mom bought me this huge, like 1 foot Chocolate rabbit! I couldn't wait to get in the car and bite its ears off....but when I did....the bunny was hollow inside...which I didn't realize at the time was foreshadowing for all the people in my future who looked to good to be true. It was just a fucking shell of a bunny. A waste. A disappointment.

Next, at 10 I went on my first Easter egg hunt. I remember buzzing inside because my basket was getting SO. FULL. Like a lesbian's at Trader Joe's. At the end I had the most eggs....and The prize was a HUGE....BRIGHT....SHINY......round of applause. Someone threw a "Yay" in there for good measure. At least during Christmas I got something out of sitting on that fat old man at the mall's lap who smiled too much. After the Easter party, the hostess could see I was peeved and mustered up a prize before my departure.....The same fuckin hollow ass rabbit from before!

You know what really took the carrot cake? Picture it. Young Alex and Mayte walking to school one hot, sunny Florida morning. Half way there...right before we reach the corner of the school. We smell something putrid. We uttered a few "eeew's" and "foouul's" when as we got closer to the corner we saw a patch of white.....closer still, the patch was the form of rabbit.......even closer, the rabbit was the texture of moving oatmeal......you guessed it. A maggot infested dead rabbit on the corner of a christian church, y'all! But why? Was it a sacrifice. Was it a runaway? The reaction was vomit, running out into the street almost causing a three car accident and an immense hatred for all things "bunny"....unless its in a French stew.
As an extra little fuck you from the gods, I was born in the year of the rabbit according to Chinese zodiac. As an extra little bit of lookin on the bright side....at least I'm not Chinese. Happy Maggot Day.

DUCK,DUCK,PISS!

There is an issue that I think we as a nation are ignoring amongst our children....Its not teen pregnancy, you get your own reality show for that. Its not teen bullying, Katy Perry's people have that covered. The issue I speak of starts much earlier than all that...in preschool.

1out of 3 children ages 5 -10 suffer from playtime anxiety. Yes, I may have made this statistic up, but it doesn't make my...I mean THE problem any less real.

Picture it...1983. A black-bean-fed little Cuban-American porker is sitting at his desk during, "drawing" doodling...not his family and house with a dog and a fence..but pictures of himself as an Xmen or spray painting cars and walls alongside Madonna. Suddenly, the teacher calls out, "Recess". All the kids yell with excitement and run outside as fast as possible. Not little me....I sit still in terror for the horror that is about to ensue.

I would go outside and be chased by a kid who would undoubtedly run faster than me. I ran because he had an imaginary disease.....and if he caught me, I would then have this disease. The only way to get rid of this disease was to give it to someone else. But when you feed a boy pork and fried plantains every day....HE. CANNOT. RUN. FAST. ENOUGH! This disease was called "it". The game was called "tag". I am an "it" survivor, but was usually living with it for the entire duration of recess.

All the games were like this....Hide and Seek was like Wes Craven. My heart pounding everywhere, even in my toes during What's Up, Seven Up....But the worst...was this farm animal thriller which was set in the gym during rainy days. It was Duck, Duck, Goose. One terrorist in the form of a toddler would walk around all the rest of us sitting in a circle, spanking each of us on the top of the head while chanting, "duck"..."duck"...."duck".....and then they would reach me. Guess who was Goose as much as he was It. I was excused from playing the game when one time, upon being crowned Goose, rather than chasing the terrorist...I simply...well... peepee happened...in the pants.

This has made me stronger....but a word of warning to all kindergarten teachers.....sometimes the little kid just wants to use glue as lotion to then peel it off like a zombie.......or sing the lyrics to Salt N Pepa's "Push It" into his jumbo pencil.....or eat play dough. So let him. Stop forcing him to live in terror ON. A. DAILY. BASIS.

Thank you.

P.s. to all kindergartners....it DOES get better......well....sort of.

BOY WITHOUT A BAND

I've recently been directing a concert for a solo artist. He has an amazing voice and commands your attention on stage. Its a pop/rock concert of covers and one original song. As I sit in rehearsal, much like Fergie, I cant help sittin and reminiscin bout when I had a Mustang.....never actually had one...wanted one...Mayte got one....me...Ford Taurus...but, point being.....

Back in the day, When I was a child and adults would ask that inevitable question, What do you want to be when you grow up? My answers were always consistent. The answers always changed, but the profession stayed the same.

5 year old Alex: I want to be a pastor.

Maria Elena: Hwhy?

5 year old Alex: because they get to stand up in front of all the people and tell stories and he wears a costume and then he passes a plate around and people fill it with money for his stories.

...as the years went on...the focus sharpened.

6yr. old Alex: I don't know yet, but right now I want to be on Kids Incorporated.

8yr. old  Alex: I want to be Kevin Bacon in Footloose.

11yr. old Alex: I want to be Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing...ok, maybe I want to be Jennifer Grey.

12yr. old Alex: I want to be a Janet Jackson back up dancer.

13yr. old Alex: I want to be a Paula Abdul back up dancer.

13 1/2yr. old Alex: I want to be Paula Abdul (specifically in the Cold Hearted video)

I'm 35 now and although I just carry a tune and was only an ok dancer.....I still secretly think I should have been a New Kid....and definitely know Nsync would still be together with my presence.....and wish the fountain of youth were real so I could drink and audition for Glee, NOT for the part of a teacher.

I eventually found theatre....fell in love and never looked back. Had affairs with improv. A one night stand with stand-up.....and have been dating writing for a few years now. I think I'm ready to declare love at first sight....with directing!

The best part is....I can now put to use all my elementary school training! AAANNND....I now see a reason for everything.

There was a reason I practiced Janet's back-of-chair-stepdown from Pleasure Principal in the back yard until I bled.

There was a reason I tried to grow a rat tail and stole a black vest with gold buttons from Chess King.

There was a reason I videotaped 5 yr. old Mayte wearing one of Maria Elena's bras with white cones taped to it lip syncing to "Vogue"! (yes, this video exists...and it is coming soon to a youtube near you)

So if your little kid is currently trying to get themselves in your family's birdcage to lip sync Miley Cyrus to you...they cannot be tamed! Applaud!

If your baby Gaga is trying to glue an entire telephone to their head in order to make you a sandwich they are pretending is poisoned....eat it...and then give back a little monster claw!

Encourage all of it, because they might become the next Baz Luhrman.....or at least a 35 year old who wants to be him when he grows up.

Come see muh show, NYC betches!

A IS FOR ARMANI

...B is for Balenciaga...C is for Chanel. Sesame Street had a small hand in teaching me rudimentary things, but THIS is the way Maria Elena taught me my ABC's.

Imagine a young girl, fresh as a guava, arriving in NYC from her native Cuba. Did she clean houses? No. Did she sell strategically sliced mangoes on a stick on the street. Nope. She worked in jewelry...because before she knew how to say "please" and "thank you" in English...she knew the 4 "C"s of rocks and could tell real gold without biting it. 

Maria Elena is a certified Fame & Fashion Whore.

So when it came time to educate her child.....

Have you ever heard of HELLO! magazine? why would you. This is British magazine specializing in stories...and by stories, I mean gossip...about all European royalty. So my storytime at night did not come from Waly Disney forest creatures and tailoring mice...mine was  from HOLA! magazine about real princesses and haute couture.

Maria Elena: (pointing at a figure in HOLA!) Ok...who is this?

Baby Alex: Princess Caroline

Maria Elena: of???

Baby Alex: Monaco

Maria Elena: and what is she wearing?

Baby Alex: Oscar De La Renta

Maria Elena: (beaming with pride) Berry good. Now sleep.

Are these things the most important information to be giving a blossoming mind? Maybe not. But all the important stuff I learned in kindergarten....All the "life" stuff I'm learning as I go along.....and along with it all I have a minor in "I can't believe she wearing dis" from the University of M.E.

I may be a snarky manchild in Converse and Tshirts...but I know if you are wearing white pants you MUST wear white underwear or no underwear, but only if you wax.

I know that matching too much is ghetto. Not matching at all is special ed.,and wearing complimentary colors together is Sarah Jessica Parker.

I know the name of every prince and princess in Europe which hasn't come in handy yet...but I'll keep you posted.

If you live in the Central Florida area and would like your child to attend the U. of M.E.. please inquire with me and I will be directly in touch with the administrator. I asked her for a slogan....

"Is never too late, but is never NEVER too early to learn how to dress not like a retarded."

Happy Fashion Week!!!!....and remember if you are wearing Armani Exchange...you are most certainly NOT wearing Armani....you are just wearing Eurotrash.

Tugs and Fondles,
Alejandro

CACA WAS HERE!

Ok....I've waited long enough to tell this story....and the time has come.  Several years ago, I was sharing a huge three bedroom in Da Bronx with my good college buddy Tony Rodriguez and.......this other fellow. We'll call him....Eeew. Eeew had several hobbies that were different from mine.

 I like downloading music endlessly....Eeew likes keeping a very matted stuffed animal sheep with missing eyes in his sex drawer (I snoop, duh).

I like going to Starbucks to write....Eeew likes inviting (specifically) overweight goth ladies to the house so he can spank them with paddles and the most beautiful hairbrushes, like Anne Rice must use on her dolls, so that he could then do a photo shoot of their rosey cheeks to put up as his screensaver.

I like buying toilet paper....Eeew likes...........

Picture it....Saturday night...I get home very late from work to notice there is no toilet paper....no problem, me thinks. I will get up early for my weekend ritual of walking through the aisles of Target for hours, fantasy shopping. I will buy toilet paper. I go to bed....rise early....my date with Target happens....a trip to Starbucks to write a little. Maybe three hours later I get back home. I walk into my room which is directly next to the bathroom. I smell something funny. By funny I mean I smell SHIT!

The dog must've shit.....wait....no dog here.....huh....scratch head.....then it dawns on me that perhaps Eeew practiced one of his other favorite activities....not flushing. I walk into the bathroom.....the toilet lid is down.....I lift to catch the floating culprit.....AND. THERE. IS. NOTHING. THERE.

I start to feel like Neve Campbell in Scream except I don't stutter. I look every which way. I notice the shower curtain is closed. Weird. Usually open. Why would someone not be in there and close it on purpose....unless....is someone in there. I grab the toilet plunger and quickly draw back the curtain.

There was not someone.....but there was....something. Many somethings. In every different form.

What I saw.....was.....an artistic representation of a terrorist bombing using the medium of poo.

I mean....y'all....there was Pollock style splatter poo on the tile wall.....as if it shot out like an airbag.....which ran down the wall to mix with water to create a chocolate ice cream soup stream leading us to the drain.....where two newborns lay side by side like crack babies left on church steps.

WHO? How? WHO? Did an animal break in? Was there a frat party? or.....did Eeew have to go....saw that there was no T.P. and decide to enter the TUB instead of, I don't know, the TOILET...and leave his legacy on our tile wall in non permanent stinky ink....in lieu of WIPING!!!!

I didn't know what to do. I called Maria Elena.
"Call de police"
No...this is not their area of expertise
"You have to call somebody! Call his mother! tell her dat her son is a disgusting!"
I can't...Who does this?
"Nobody...Nobody doing dis...Animal do dis...Dis is no human!"
He's in his room....should I just clean it?
"No...tell him! Ju say...hey excuse me...you shit in tub? Dis is animal!"

I call Tony. I tell him. There is silence where we just hear each other blink for 2 minutes....followed by Tony saying..."I dont...I don't??..I...I....."
I know.

Folks I went and sat down in the living room for two hours in disbelief. Eeew rises and walks to the bathroom. I hear, "Oh Shit".  Yeah, literally, Eeew.

He cleans it....bathes, and goes off to meet the type a girl who carried a lunchbox as a purse in the 90's.

He doesn't say anything. I don't say anything......except to everyone I work with, everyone I know and love, and now to all of you.

I cleaned the tub again. Just in case. Shit happens.