AstoriAtelling....

THE EASTER MAGGOT

2011-04-24T21:22:00.000-04:00

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!

2011-01-19T14:01:00.001-05:00

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

2010-09-27T09:51:00.000-04:00

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

2010-09-06T14:09:00.001-04:00

...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!

2010-08-24T13:29:00.002-04:00

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.

THE PACT

2010-08-07T12:27:00.000-04:00

...sounds like a Grisham thriller...or a teen witch drama.....but no....its simply a little deal that Maria Elena and I have made with each other....to.....KILL EACH OTHER!!!!!

Dramatic? Maybe. Immoral? who cares. Unethical? What dat meanz. We are a vain, non-religious people and we get jobs done! No don't get me wrong....this is not a suicide pact. We see it as a "common sense" pact.

It goes a lil sometin like this....

Maria Elena: Alejandro...if one day...I get de disease that de berry old people get...ju know....when they can remember nothing and dey are talking to de air...

Alex: Alzheimer's?

Maria Elena: Aha! If I am getting this...I cannot take this...I will be like a retarded....so if I get...I hav berry important job for you to do. I want...you....to killing me.

Alex: Ok

Maria Elena: You have gun?

Alex: Um, no.

Maria Elena: Ok...I dont care. Make surprise!

Alex: I don't know if this is a good idea.

Maria Elena: I do same for you.

Alex: Like if I become the type of paralyzed that Christopher Reeves was and I have to poop in a bag, take too many breaths between sentences and blow on a straw to move 2 inches....

Maria Elena: I kill you. I don't want to clean this poop.

Alex: Or if I have a stroke and half my face is like Gerry's from The Facts of Life....

Maria Elena: I kill.

Alex: Or If I lose a leg or arm in a car accident...

Maria Elena: I kill you in hospital.

Alex: If I get really fat and have to be plane lifted out my house like Gilbert Grapes mom....

Maria Elena: Kill.

Alex: If I get a scar on my face...

Maria Elena: Dead.

Alex: Ok. I'll do it.

Maria Elena: This is perfect.

Alex: But Mom, what if I get caught and have to spend the rest of my life in jail?

Maria Elena: (ponders).........Kill jurself! Ju won't want to live without me anyhway!

Happy Birthday tomorrow, Maria Elena!

TAG, I'M IT!

2010-07-18T11:37:00.000-04:00

....ok y'all.....this is very upsetting......and extremely embarrassing....but Dear God, why on the week of turning 35 are you playing tag with me using skin???

SKIN TAGS Y'ALL!!!!

Ok, I've seen a couple here and there before.....but upon closer inspection of my neck recently....they are fuckin populatin like Big Love Mormons! I thought I saw a zit. I've never wished for a zit more. Every time I look in the mirror now I see a meatball shaped 90 yr old Sicilian woman with a moustache looking back at me....with a goat on a leash.

I looked them up....they are called acrochordon....so basically its a disease.

Its often caused by skin rubbing against skin. Really, cuz they are not on my palm! Or inner thighs...or my other palm!

Most common in people who are pregnant or have diabetes.....muhuh.

.....and....get this....if you don't want to have them removed by a dermatologist....you can simply tie...a piece of thread...AROUND IT.......and squeeze it.....cutting of circulation....until.....IT.......FALLS......OFF. Basically like a beheading and a hanging all in one. Like Marie Antoinette. I cannot do this because it practically sounds like surgery, I barely passed science, and imma throw up.

I think I'll let them stay....I mean...I'm too old to get hickies anymore. They are technically like ittybitty tumors so I can use them as an excuse to call in sick....and possibly acquire medicinal marijuana. If I want to seem edgy and dangerous I can say they are sub dermal piercings.

Ok, now I kinda like em....thanks for listenin peeps! Next time we see each other, I'll show you mine if you show me yours.

PUSH IT!

2010-07-11T23:35:00.000-04:00

Tomorrow morning I will wake, not only a year older, but to Maria Elena's annual phone call. You see, this lady is a Leo and she doesn't make calls, she waits for me to call her....except of course when she calls to find out why I haven't called in sooo long (a week at most) and when she calls on July 12 every year. She becomes a storyteller....the story never changes...like that 'twas the night before xmas' one. Here is a transcript of how it will go:

Alex: Hello

Maria Elena: (singing) Heppy Birfday to Ju! Heppyyyy Biiiirfday to Juuuu! Heppy Birfday Alejandro Ale Ale jandro Ale Ale jandro ( her new favorite Gaga song). Heppy Birfday to JUUUUUUUUUUUUUU! (sets down phone and gives herself a round of applause).

Alex: Thanks Mom

Maria Elena: Are ju ready?

Alex: Yes.

Maria Elena: on a day like today...35 years ago...my god, 35? are you 35?

Alex: Yes

Maria Elena: So old....(pause where I don't respond) ....you are sooo ol-

Alex: Uhuh.

Maria Elena: Anyhway....on a day like today, 35 years ago....I was just standing in the kitchen at home...talking and den AYY...my water is broken....and your grandmother rushing to call your uncle Orlando because he has car....and everybody going crazy running around....your grandmother panicking...and Orlando comes to pick me up and we are driving to hospital and Orlando is speeding so fast the other people honking at him....my mother screaming....and I feel no pain....I am just laughing and laughing and laughing....and dey think I'm crazy...Why she is laughing ? Dis is so serious! but....I'm laughing because I am so excited and so happy. From de time I arrive to hospital, 2 hours later you are born.....and I feel very little pain....only one little pain and de doctor say ,"Push, Maria!"...and I say, "I push it! I push it!"...and I push it and you coming out....with sooo much hair....full head of hair....and den....dats it!......(pause)

Alex: Ok, thank you.

Maria Elena: Ju like story?

Alex: Yes, Mom.

Maria Elena: Ju are so old.

The truth is....I love the story....because a few years ago it dawned on me....that my birthday is not just mine. Its hers. A child's birthday is an anniversary for a mother....a time of reflection about the day that their role in this world changed....that their existence somehow became way more significant....and regardless of disappointments or triumphs....it must be a very invigorating sensation to on one specific day recall and retell to a grown up, that once came out of your vajayjay, about the single moment they felt unconditional love.

I have to go to bed! I have to be up for story time! Happy birthday to me! Happy anniversary to Maria Elena!

SHOW PEOPLE

2010-07-03T11:24:00.000-04:00

I remember someone once saying to me, "I don't want to be an actor, I just want to act."

I think the world is mostly full of people that are the complete opposite of that. They want to be ac-TORS(pronounce the way you would whores). Peeps that eat air and think that stretching publicly is considered "performance" and that need to ask everyone they've ever met to help them pick out the best headshot that will be sent to agencies and casting directors only to be snickered at by fat casting interns during their candy break.

These are the type of people who only take classes if the word camera is in the description. They practically climax at the chance to say words like "sides", "need to book", "the work", and "sense memory". These people are interested in being "actors"....which in my mind means they are fame-hungry, vapid, insecure souls who will spend their lives commenting on the unattainable.

But, there is another people! An entirely different breed. They are called SHOW PEOPLE. They are like a tribe from a country called Theatria. You know one when you see one. They are vessels of performance. They thrive in song and dance and audience and energy. Whether they do it for a living or as a community theatre hobby, they are a family of open armed creative entities....that are forever expanding in their abilities and giving in their riches whether it be advice, direction, an ear, or handing your performance to you on a stage. They feel everything. They embrace each other. They support each other. They go on with the show.

For these people, its not about anything else but the inate need that their souls have, like a hunger, to create, to express, to share, to feed. It doesn't matter if you leave the tribe...or lose yourself in the world....these people are always in you and you are always welcome back.

I am show people. Its been a while since I've been in a show...or even seen one......but when I go to karaoke, I come to life. I spend half my day re-enacting things like a freakin clown. I glow on Tony night like all the other show souls watching and from their own beings, illuminating onto Radio City Music Hall like theatre lights.

I recently went to see a show and I felt back in the swing of things. It reminded me that I belonged somewhere...to a community. It reminded me that the best thing about show people vs. ac-TORS....is that they come from a place of love and sharing and risk taking and daring....there is little room for fear and hardly an inch for insecurity. Its a basis for life...or at the very least holds a mirror to it.

I know several people like me...who have lost touch....but if you have...take a class....read a play....do a play. Even better, go see one....at the very least, it will remind you to get back to living your life the way nature intended...openhearted with just a touch of jazz hand.

For Tim

ALEX FOSTER

2010-06-27T21:27:00.001-04:00

....so I just got the most amazeballs haircut from my hairgenius, Selvi. Its kind of like a fro-hawk....but I'm wearing it more like a pompadour....or a pom-fro-dour. Its a little Vanilla Ice meets Grease but fly.

I just sent Maria Elena a picture and can't wait to hear how beyond horrified she will be. When I leave it long and telephone cord curly, she hates it and thinks I look like Will Smith's son or an Alvin Ailey dancer.

This reminds me of this one time when I had the brilliant idea at 12 years old of giving......myself .....a haircut!

You should know that the three most important things in my mother's life at the time went in this order
1. her hair
2. my hair
3. Princess Diana

One night after watching Blossom or something, I got bored....I walked into my mother's bathroom to look at myself in the mirror...which I often liked to do when I was crying or acting out that scene from Silence of the Lambs (you know which one). But this particular evening I decided to act out a scene from a different Jodie Foster flick.

As I looked at myself I noticed my mother's cuticle scissors laying by the sink.......I thought, huh, lets play barbershop. I held a clump of hair in between my index finger and middle finger and started snippin away at the knuckles. Amazed at how much like a barber I looked doing it, I decided to do...just a few more hairs....nothing noticeable. A few turned into several which turned into trying to even out finishing what I started which lead to bloody knuckles and very...VERY UNEVEN...segments, no, patches.....patches of hair. I looked in the mirror and saw staring back at me someone who had either mange.....or had just been cast as an extra in Schindler's List. I looked like a leopard. I mean, the shiz was literally worse than what Jodie Foster did to herself in The Accused. Except I was the one who had done the rape. The rape of Maria Elena's number 2 most important thing in life.

It was like I had drowned her second born. An emergency hair appointment was scheduled for the next morning. School was skipped for it. As her hairdresser tried to put her life back together Maria Elena paced in the waiting area Sally Field-in-Steel Magnolia's-style. To this day if I bring it up.....rage takes over her eyes and some sort of statement eluding to the possibility that I might suffer from a mild retardation is spouted.

I never cut my own hair again......cept maybe down undah a few times......and Maria Elena will never be satisfied with my hair choices.....but the most important thing I like to point out, mother dahling, is why had a twelve year old seen The Accused?

Priorities, please. All I'm saying. Now excuse me while I go do the very important task of taking my pom-fro-dour and performing young Elvis songs in my bathroom mirror.

TAXICAB REJECTIONS

2010-06-17T16:31:00.000-04:00

Dear New Yorkers,

Please beware! There is a new predator on the scene. He rolls in yellow. He smells like cumin. He is your neighborhood Homo-Bangladeshi closeted cabdriver.

Twice...not once...TWICE, I've received indecent proposals from our pork-fearing friends.

First of all....How dare you!

Secondly....I'm flattered

Thirdly....eeew!

Both times it went down pretty much the same way. A little game they like to play called Fishing For Gay. They are very bad at this. I enjoy evading the hook as long as possible.

"Do you like to goo oot to any especeeal types of cloobs?"

"Ones that have drinks."

"Yes but cloobs with more gerls or more boys?"

"Same amount"

(then the got-no-game line is dropped into the water)

"I like gerls....and sometime...I like de boys also."

"uh-huh"

"you heard me?"

"uh-huh"

"Do you have gerlfriend?"

"No."

"Do you have....boyfriend?"

(Alex gets bored and is nearly home so....)

"Does your wife know you fuck men?"

Suddenly gets very quiet and my fare is free. He was a smart one. the second one...not so much.

After realizing he was droppin me off at Mix in Astoria he felt brave and pleased that he wouldn't have to play the fishing game.

"Des place you are gooing....lot of gays are gooing there."

"uh-huh"

"Sometimes....I like de mens."

"uh-huh"

(Then....wait for it...................................wait for it...............................)

"You are de husband or the wife?"

"Huh?"

"With mens...I like be husband"

"I see"

"You are de husband or de wife?"

"I'm usually the mistress"

"You want to come sit next to me"

"No thank you"

"I think you bery handehsome."

"Uh-huh"

"You think I handehsome?"

"No"

"You want to be wife and come sit next to me, I am bery handehsome also?"

"No dude. I dont want to be wife and I think your kinda ugly"

"No-ho-ho-ho"

"Ye-he-he-hes"

"If you like we can park under bridge. Quiet and dark. You come sit by me."

(we reach my destination.)

"Do you have kids?"

silence

"Do they ever ride in the cab?"

silence

"This cab ride is going to be free."

....and then I walked out like Ninja Nomi Malone did after kickin that guys ass while showing us all her teeth at the end of Showgirls. Its ugly, but I'll play a lil hustle n flow if I need to, currycakes!

Dear Fagladesh cabbies, careful not to get in all kinds a trouble....and....married ladies of Bangladesh living in New York....throw some heels on, go out on the town, and get sprung cuz all your husbands are সমকামী! Big closeted flaming সমকামী!!!

DAYDREAM BELIEVER

2010-06-10T16:14:00.001-04:00

Someone, much older than I and consequentially wiser, said to me recently,"Don't you think you should be in a better place at this point in your life? Life is not a daydream."

I immediately went into side to side latino attitude induced head movements to give him a heavily venomous dose of "You don't kno ma life!" But....

Here are a bunch of facts: I'm turning 35 next month. I work as a waiter/bartender. I don't have money saved. I have no insurance. I don't have a family of my own...or a pet...or any semblance of a relationship that is successful. There are many things that I have not acquired that I thought would be in the bag by now....but there's a flip side.

I have a bag full of riches that I'd never imagined. I have the most amazing, long lasting, deal breaking, inspiring friendships with a myriad of people who teach me and listen to me and radiate with a creative energy that beams from them, like The Carebears, onto me. I have a family who I see grow along with me in openmindedness and openheartedness where there once was too much fear. I've had seemingly unsuccessful relationships with people that have ended on paper or on judgement soaked tongues...but I've taken away the most beautiful soul feeding attributes of each one of them, the parts of them that brought me to life naturally despite the weight of whatever struggles were keeping them down. I try to send to all these people a beam from my own insignia that is mentally branded on my Caretummy.

Belief

I am part of a community....of artists, of lovers, of warriors actually, because it is a constant battle against fears and insecurities. A community of people who dream and sing and act and write and film and CREATE.....art...or beautiful meals.....or beautiful babies. A people who savor and enjoy and revel in song or wine or even just the sun. Folks who give themselves over to inspiration....to risk....to excitement...to each other...to love. We don't all have things to leave anyone in a will or to impress a date in a suit with. But I don't need those things right now. I leave people things in life and am uninterested in anyone who isn't impressed with my most valuable resource.

I am a daydream believer. I've spent my whole life with moist eyes glistening towards classroom ceilings or out car door windows imaging the most detailed and invigorating dreams. Some I've followed and others left behind...but they were all useful simply as a fuel to get me on my road and keep me traveling towards wherever I'm going. I daydream daily....about who sitting on the train could be my next lover....about picking up my black baby from school.....about plays I'd secretly still like to act in. About my own business. About a puppy....traveling the world....tattoos. These dreams keep me going....they motivate....and most importantly....if I didn't have them and the effects of them...I might be the type of person who, despite their possessions, is alone....who despite their wisdom, still stoops to condescending.

The answer to the question? I'm in the perfect place at this stage of my life....learned and still learning. Lovin and lovin and lovin.....and working on it. Life is not a daydream, but without energy, there is no life.

This blog was made possible with thanks to the Carebears and The Monkees.

and all my peeps...u kno who u is!

subTEXTING

2010-05-30T17:48:00.000-04:00

I'm slow on the technological front. Got my first Blackberry just last year when everyone was getting their second iPhone. Its actually a Blueberry cuz the cover is blue and I like a little quirk.....I wanted to get a brown cover and call it my Halleberry....but I didn't want to sound like a ra....dically fanatic follower of hers.

I day dream of a Mac like some boy stuck in 2001 and by the time I get an iPad everyone else will have switched to iBrains and I'll be jealous that I'm not communicating through robotic telepathy.

One thing I never wanted in my life but has been forced upon me...like aging (or like that one professor in college) is texting.

WHYYYYY?

Not only do I hate the fact that I have to respond instantly because everyone knows everyone carries cells around like a life support. I hate the fact that I now have to learn how to misspell everything.

How does everyone just KNOW this new language....was there a tutorial I missed out on for waiting too long to join the club?

Do I just leave all the vowels out?

Do I just spell everything out using numbers the way Prince writes songs?

The worst part of all this is that...when you are involved in a romantical situation....and you are not talking on the phone....YOU CANNOT hear the inflections in the persons voice.
Therefore your mind goes to Alanis Morisette levels of anger/crazyville when the person just simply meant, "Hey".

But there is a new game on the front, folks....now....I went to school for acting....so I am trained in deciphering what people really mean when they say something.....but now I've had to hone the skill into interpreting whats behind these incomplete sentence half consonant/ half number smileyfaced tongue out messages....cuz you know what people have started doin?

SUBTEXTING

Definition: the act of texting one thing as a tactic to solicit or relay a different message than what is typed.

Now, I'm guilty of this meself ya see.....but its part of the game....there's no way around it.

Examples are:

"Hey u. What r u up 2?".....which really means "Aren't I cutesy the way I greet you? Its because I want you to come over and have all of the sex with me...but I don't want to ask, just merely suggest that you say you are free so that I can say I am free also and then you can say we should fuck and then I'll send you a smiley face to indicate my ego has been fooled into thinking this whole thing was your idea to begin with."

"Have fun" which means, "I can't believe I'm not included in your plans...I hope you fucking die on the way to wherever it is your going and furthermore I used no punctuation on the end of the word "fun" to indicate that I couldn't be bothered to actually finish this text because of how little I want you to think you mean to me.

my personal favorite that I may have used is simply....no response......which really means,"Oh fucking really....you want this now? Awww.....well now you gon wait, Betch ! You are gonna check your phone every hour wondering if I'm merely at work or if I'm actually ignoring.....after 6 hours you realize I'm ignoring and then you are gonna text again......NO RESPONSE.....you are gonna get all vulnerable and shit naked and exposed in the hot sun, pink like a little pig squealing on the inside....and then 12 to 24 hours later I'll reply......"Hey u."

Can't we all just call each other and telephone chat like before.....and just read books made out of real paper.....and blow out real birthday candles on a real cake instead of on a screen.....or at least invent the iTime Machine so I can go back to the 80's and carry a boombox around with quarters in my pocket to call someone who cares.

oh, and to my exes who might read this and now know my subtexting confessions....

;p

THE UNBEKNOWNST HUFFER

2010-05-19T12:54:00.001-04:00

...sounds like a period British film set in the countryside starring Joseph Fiennes and Maggie Smith, don't it? Its actually set in the 80's starring a child version of me and, of course, my maternal unit, Maria Elena.

I should first mention that I have a love/hate relationship with smells and a very sensitive nose. Love freshly baked goods/hate dog poo......love garlic/hate cabdriver.....love lit matches....love fresh paint....gasoline....fumes....
....picture it...Astoria....1984 or so....a young Alex gets up for his usual Saturday morning routine....Smurfs...cereal...Spiderman and Friends.....rocking back and forth....The Gummibears.....and then quickly plop a pillow in front of the couch for my favorite...The Maria Elena Opens Lots of Pretty Smelling Bottles and Paints Her Nails and Toes Show. Would I offer to bang the polish bottle against my baby hand and open it for her? Yes. Would I hold the brush end up to my nose like a daisy to smell and then smile way to big? Yes. Would I take the acetone soaked cotton balls, stuff one in each nostril and then spin around in the backyard? I'm not telling.

I should mention I've never done drugs....in fact, I tried pot for the first time at 33....but apparently....what little Alex thought was just a substitute for candy....

I should also mention that one other Saturday morning I hid myself in the bathroom for an hour during a visit from the Jehovah's Witnesses. I hid because I hated the pictures they showed me of children playing with lions and bears in a peaceful paradise. I was raised on HBO. I wanted pictures of the lion eating the child. While I sat on the toilet listening for any sign of their departure....I got thirsty. Water from the faucet you might think...not what baby Alejandro thought. He saw the pretty green bottle from which Maria Elena made him sip and spit before. He took a sip.....he thought,"Mmmm, peppermint soda!".....and half the bottle was gone by the time Jehova flew the coop.

I told Maria Elena all this recently....she laughed...Not funny, Maria Elena, I was a preschool huffer and alcoholic. How could she not see this....it was right in front of her....literally every weekend. She flicked a limp wrist in the air while sucking her teeth and said, "Eh, Saturday was my day off."

Shady Pines, Ma!

MARIA ELENA MINELLI

2010-04-05T14:32:00.000-04:00

My Cuban mother, Maria Elena, crosses through the thresholds of old fashioned and thouroughly modern as often as a bipolar weighs out whether to cut themselves or buy a puppy. She will "color in" her skin to indicate a black person in a "non-obvious" so-she-thinks way, yet will perform a mini civil rights Julia Sugarbaker diatribe if she hears a redneck say the "N" word....yet....will then...during a conversation with an African-American mention that she looooves Beyonce while winking and placing a hand on their arm.

She coined herself modern and hip very recently during a trip to L.A.. She was visiting Beverly Hills and decided to wear a black pantsuit to not look like a tourist. I asked if she was instead trying to look like a lady governer....but no....better!

She was walking out of a public bathroom when a 10 year old girl and 5 year old boy walked in....the door was about to shut on the little boys hand and my mother caught the door.

"You has to be berry careful with de heavy doors. Dis door almos cut off your brothers fingers"

The little girl thanked Maria Elena profusely. The little boy pulled his sister's arm down to whisper something in her ear then they both looked at my mother like a dog looks at you when you blow in their face.

"Is somesing wrong?" my mother asked.

The little girl asks," Are you....Liza Minelli."

...............(long pause)..................

"Yes!"

She shook their hands and left proudly....I asked why she would agree to be recognized as a mildly unattractive lady who convulses during performances and has a little bit of Tori Spelling eye syndrome.

She said, "I know I am muuuch prettier than her, but de point is I am so modern and hip that dey think I am a star celebrity. I don't want to crush their dreams"

"I don't think they dream of meeting Broadway stars from the 70's, Mom."

"But the little boy is a gay!"

Ladies and gentleman, Maria Elena.

DEAR SARAH JESSICA PARKER, FUCK YOU!

2010-02-01T23:50:00.001-05:00

Something inexplicable happened to the youth of the late 90's.....We were all graduating from college....ready to embark on bohemian journeys to New York with a somber tone set in mind thanks to RENT. Dreams of East Village life. Coffee shops. Used book stores. Angst. Slumming it. Sleeping with whoever to be cast in an Off Off Broadway show. We were armed to be invincible.....and then....this fucking little show about 4 bitches who have everything on a quest for love and shoes seeped into the mind of every early twentysomething. Suddenly, we were left heartbroken with our gypsy dreams and were now hopelessly in love with the notion of NY real estate and Zagat rated restaurants. Rather than fantasizing about running into a french film maker named Guinevere or an Argentinian guitarist named Alessandro in a pee smelling bar and sleeping with them both....we started manifesting 50 yr. old emotionally unavailable powersuits who don't call back. We started buying magazines....looking for sample sales. Eating out every night and talking about babies. Marriage seemed romantic. All topics of conversation became about everything that was wrong with the sex we had last night.
But then the worst thing of all happened. We turned 30....and our dreams came true...but only the unglam parts. We have no steady relationships, sometimes we have lots of sex....that is mostly unsatisfactory. 30 has turned to 34 and we are now embarking next year on a new age bracket, yet most of my friends are single, depressed, and can still only afford Converse.
Is there any hope? Well, if the recent movie is a crystal ball, then all we have to look forward to at 40 is being left at the altar way too super-old or having our loved one commit adultery....oooh, OR sitting on our fire escape eating chips while watching the younger next door neighbors doing it.
So dear 30something ladies...and some gents...if you wore an oversized fuckin flower on your chest please find it now and burn it. The Hamptons are fucking boring....save your "waiter" money and get on a plane to Rio or Bali or Greece this summer...or anywhere else that doesn't have wasps in sarongs crawling about. Stop caring wether or not "How Into You" he is and do things (and people) that make you happy. Keep shopping at The Gap...it always pulls through for you.
....and SJP.....I know you are not entirely to blame, but....we don't believe you anymore. Grape seed and avacado seed oil are doing nothing to prevent your cigarette stained face. Nobody wears tutus in NY and most of us think your husband is possibly gay.
Although we loved you in Footloose and Hocus Pocus, we can not look past Did You Hear About the Morgans? or Garnier Fructisse. Please stop making S.A.T.C. movies because they are starting to look like "The Golden Girls: The Early Years." Be the cute character actress we've always loved.
....and P.S....Downey got sober and I'm sure would take you back. Yeah, yeah, he's married. Madonna had dinner with Sean Penn recently. Somethin to be said for the second time around. Get on it!

PRINCE COMPLEX

2009-09-21T16:12:00.000-04:00

....no, not his purple highness...I'm not running around with a skinny moustache and my curls done up like a bunch of grapes cascading down one side of my face. I'm refering to the type of complex that is usually reserved for Jewish and Italian American girls with big noses and fat-walleted daddies....Some white trash girls have it too...you've seen them with their too tight t-shirts hugging their muffin tops...the word "princess" in pink under a bedazzled tiara....but dear friends, princesses do not acquire their garb from a mart called Wal.

It was recently brought to my attention by my pal, Meredith, that I....think...I'm a prince. I'm like a J.A.P....but Cuban...I'm a C.A.P.
These are her reasons:
A. When a bill comes, I throw a bunch of money on the table so as not to be bothered by the commoner task of figuring out the bill.
B. I see cabs as the MAIN form of transportation in NYC.
C. When we enter the cab I stay silent and wait for whoever I'm riding with to inform the horseman of the direction to my kingdom.

Upon closer inspection, I realize she is right. When I first moved away to college, two weeks went by and I had no clean underwear. I remember calling my mother to ask her why my laundry wasn't done. I get dizzy and faint when entering any discount store because it makes me feel poor...which I am, but don't wanna FEEL it, hence the complex. I once got in a fight with a fellow hispanic at my job because they found out I was paid higher....I was thrown a, "You think you're better than me?"...to which I replied,"I don't think I'm better, I know I am."

Is this a problem? I don't think so... I'm just a guy who wants to pay more for his friends, likes getting home quicker, misses his mommy, likes quality goods, and gets confrontational when attacked....and if I were to have a kingdom someday...it would be my pleasure for all of you to benefit from it...as long we all understand I will start saying things like...

SILENCE!!!

LEAVE US!

and...GUARDS!!!!

....I think this is an adequate arrangement...agreed? Now... LEAVE ME.

RICE AND BEANS EVERY DAY MAKE CUBAN BOYS FAT

2009-06-23T01:41:00.002-04:00

Dear Hispanic people of the universe,

If you fry up plantains and then encircle them on a mound of rice dressed heavily with oily beans that are just the side dish to heaving, smoking plate of crunchy, juicy pig parts...THEN...it should come as no surprise to you when little Ernesto, or Graciela, or Nelson (if you are P.R.) have some dulce de leche colored puddin squeezin out the top of their husky sized jeans.

When I was a child, I was not the smallest kid on the playground. There were bigger kids than me....but they were clearly meant to be obese. You know the type, they were so fat they looked Asian....It looked really painful for them to...walk. Then there was me.....not meant for future gastric bypass...

But....

If it were socially acceptable to hook up an iv drip of whole milk to my arm all day long, my mother would've done it. If it were possible to fry it...even better.

By high school, I shed the pudge because popularity became more important than stuffing my hole with guava and cream cheese.

My sister-cousin, Mayte, was force fed because she looked "too e-skinnie", which in white people terms would be "average". They succeeded because by the age of 10 when she was dressed in her latin people fluffy blue and white dress for my high school graduation...it looked like I was posing next to a wedding cake for a Greek family.

I remember watching Saturday morning cartoons once and realizing for the first time that I might be hispanifat. It was one of those commercials that informed kids on how to be better children....like the smoking is bad one.....or the reading is good one.....but this one showed a fat cartoon kid eating junk food and watching TV. He looked really tired and just like me but less fro-ey. The kid then turned off the tv...started eating fruit, he sat at a table and drew, he jumped rope, he sailed a toy boat, he rode his bicycle, and then he became skinny. I was only 10 or 11 but I knew it. I knew the inner Kirstie Alley in me had to do something....

So.....

I sat at my kitchen table, started drawing, and ate five bananas.

The moral of the story is....my dear Goya lovin peeps........If you're not gonna eat it...there's no need to fatten up the pig.

RELATED?

2009-05-25T00:50:00.004-04:00

Some people get plastic surgery to look like famous people....and then some people...well...

The Wilson Phillips Poo

2009-04-17T00:31:00.002-04:00

People always ask me why my blog is called Pooped! Well, there are two reasons. One is to get peep's attention and the other is that we all have really mortifying tales involving the very substance that God enabled us to birth from our bums....and so...I've only managed to post one poop story(see Poop Story #1)....but,I have many.....my friends have many....and here is a new one.
How embarrassing.
I've never told anyone this one because its a lil too recent....but, this past summer I went to a movie with a friend...I believe we then engaged in Applebee's which I now know to be the culprit. Applebee's sliders = embarrassment.
Anyway, afterwards I began my ten minute walk home from the theater and I believe it was around minute 7 that it came a knockin.
There was clenching.
Teeth were gritting.
The pace was picked up.
For a second...maybe two....I felt like I had thought it away...you've tried it...I focused on the trees...on the ghetto children playing basketball...OK the feelings gone... this is good....keep going...ok.....that car is blue....that one is silver.....someone did not curb their dog....oh no....
and it came back.
A light jog ensued.
Sweat happened.
The thought that I might cry by the end of the day crossed my mind.
It began to knock harder...like a policeman warning before busting the door open.
5 minutes to home.
My ipod!!! yes...music, sweet music would help me forget. I whipped out my nano...which was old and would sometimes freeze...I hit shuffle....and....this is humiliating...but....Wilson Phillip's Release Me came on.
NOOOOOOO!
Why not just change the song, you ask. IT FROZE!!!
Now, running was happening.
It possessed my ipod and was now singing to me.
"Come on baby, come on baby,you knew it was time to just let go..."
1 minutes left.
"cuz we wanna be free-e-ee, but somehow its just not that eas-e-e-ee"
Front door, fumbling keys.
"I'm trying to make you see-e-ee"
three flights of stairs, apt door, jeans unbuttoned, 6 steps to bathroom.
"That baby you've just got to...."
Ass descending to seat.
"RELEASE ME"
NOOOOOOO! Ass does not make it to seat. Instead, ass shoots explosive round at seat and then....THEN sits on it.
At this and many other moments in my life failure wins again.
The moral of the story.... 1. At least I didn't poop in my pants. 2. I've gotten a new ipod. 3. Wilson Phillips is not on it....and if I ever get the urge to put them on there again, I've vowed to only download that song where they hold on for one more day.

COCKSUCKER MOUTH

2009-01-12T11:42:00.010-05:00

For years, my friends and I have noticed a certain condition that women suffer from. It has to do with their mouths. Some women have huge mouths...like Julia Roberts or Kyra Sedgwick. Others have huge lips..like Angelina Jolie or Renee Zellweger. But there are some women who suffer from both. These women have cocksucker mouth. Its unfortunate because I'm not saying these women are whore-y. I'm just saying that God made their teeth a little more like a garage door opening, and their lips more like

vagina's. Here are examples of women who suffer from this condition, from mildest to herpiest.

Lisa Rinna, Kylie Minogue, Jessica Beil, and...well....

HE WILL NEVER EVER EVER PUT A RING ON IT

2008-12-21T02:38:00.005-05:00

So, I was at Starbucks today inhaling a donut and Frappuccino when I couldn't help but be disgusted with the couple next to me. Sure, I had glazed cake bits scattered down my hoodie, but these people were beyond embarrassing.
First of all, they were Asian and the girl had a Hello Kitty button on her bag....C'mon Miss, really? Why don't you have your feet bound and corrective eyelid surgery while your at it, Miss Cliche.
Secondly, She was on her way to getting dumped like a unsatisfactory fortune cookie quote.
Why you may wonder?
A. She was speaking in baby talk...publicly. No man wants to fuck a baby...and if they did they'd go online or on that pedophile dating show, Nightline.
B. She annoyingly kept leaning over the table trying to kiss him....repeatedly!!! He did not want to kiss her...CLEARLY...but she didn't get it....here is a clue, my little concubine....if when you try to kiss your boyfriend, he pulls away...he doesn't want to kiss you....if you ask him why in baby voice and he looks away and laughs....he is actually laughing at you...and if when you try to kiss him again he puts the side of his face on the Starbucks table that has a dried ring of coffee where a pumpkin spice latte once stood....he will never ever EVER put a ring on it.
The moral of the story is....girl+cat(even if its a cartoon one) = no boyfriend.

CHUG-A-LUG

2008-10-27T00:55:00.004-04:00

Have you ever seen that episode of the The Cosby Show where Vanessa comes home drunk from a party and on the next day Claire cooks up a scheme to play a drinking game involving Rudy? Boy, did Claire teach that Vanessa a lesson as she chanted chug-a-lug in that sultry ever-escalating-to-make-a-point blacktress voice of hers only used nowadays by Def poets. Little boy Alex learned a lesson too.

Drinking looks cool.

Yes, I know the message was the opposite, but being a constant daydreamer I only paid attention to half of what was going on. The message I got was...Rudy is allowed to drink...so chug-a-lug....and so I did.

But my version of the game was to wait until no one was in the kitchen, open the fridge door slowly and very quietly like a jungle animal sneaking up on its prey, (my prey was Mott's apple juice...or Hi-C fruit punch...or just milk...milk did just fine) I'd open the lid. I would place the lid bottom side up on the fridge rack. I would hold the large container with both of my baby hands. I would place the lip of the bottle to my lips...and I would chug-a-lug huge gulps of said liquid like a dirty little pig at its trough. I would only stop to take huge gasps of air from holding my breath for so long, and then I'd go at it again. Sometimes I made a face to indicate that what I just drank was strong stuff. Like people at bars in movies did. How embarrassing! Wait...it gets better...sometimes...so not to spill and leave stain evidence...I'd remove my shirt to perform my beast act. What happened when I got caught, you might ask...well....a look of disgust on my mother's face like no other...like she caught me fondling myself...or the family Bichon Frisee....except shirtless and with a milk moustache. I saw the horror in her eyes. How could I be doing this...something she thought only white trash children did. "Who was I?" I heard telepathically as her eyes squinted on me. Why wouldn't I just get a glass or several glasses? At what point did civilized behavior leave my body?

All she could muster up to say before walking away from me to possibly vomit was, "Que Diskusting!".

Needless to say, I started paying better attention to the Huckstables when they spoke, and I never performed chug-a-lug again.

If my mother was home.

THE WRONG SILK PAJAMAS

2008-09-26T15:09:00.002-04:00

Once upon a time while I was living in Lala land my beautiful blonde friend Patty and my beautiful mocha colored friend Shalena decided we should all go out in Hollywood for a friendly quiet evening of....ghetto club dancing. We went to Garden of Eden. It looks like "Da Club" that gangsta rappers so lovingly refer to as a dance parlor. Soon after entering asses were swaying and bouncing and pumping to DMX(it was the early oo's). As I danced with my beauties, a young ghetto black gentleman came over and asked me..."Are these your women?" I wasn't sure what he was asking...could he seriously be coming over to ask me in caveman if these honays were my property. I replied that I was with them...but did not own them because slavery was abolished years ago. Shalena replied that they were their own woman. Being in the environment, I thought out loud...all the women, independent, throw your hands up at me. No one responded. The ghettoman told us that his boss was asking. Who was his boss? He pointed over to a man wearing silk pajamas...but it wasn't Hef....Hef would've been ok. I would've gladly handed over my women to Hef. But no....it was Steven Seagal. Who? You younger ones might ask? It doesn't matter, I respond. It is a middle aged fat white man with a shiny ponytail that wears silk pajamas at da club and somehow was cast in heroic box office action flicks of the 80's and early 90's. Sir, please go home and put some pants on, get a haircut, and then come over and ask me yourself if these are my women...so that I can tell you that they'd rather go home with an 80 year old man who is classy and has a mansion for HIS women to live in. Mmkay.

PALIN IN COMPARISON

2008-09-14T16:46:00.003-04:00

CORN IS FOR EATING

2008-08-10T03:03:00.002-04:00

....or so I thought...but now it seems corn has taken up residence....ON MY FEET. I've just started a new job and half the staff is out on vacation which has left me working 7 shifts this week. I'm too old for this y'all. My feets hurt. My big toe on my left foot hurts more than I ever thought was humanly possible. It pulses pain like a headache. I went to the drug store to find some magical potion...or rub...or something to make the pain go away. I thought perhaps I could buy a bucket and some Epsom salts to soak my feet the way mammies in movies do after their long walk home. I want to dip them and let out an "Ooof"....or even an "Ooof, chiiild". But there was no foot soaking bucket to be found.....but there was.....tons of corn removal paraphernalia......could it be? how could this happen? this thing that only old people got....I know have. Somehow a little yellow baby's tooth piece of vegetable has made it inside my toe. I hate it and I want it out. How embarrassing to have to buy CORN REMOVAL PADS. But I did it. I'm wearing it now. I like it. I've always liked wearing bandages. They make me feel dangerous and sexy. To others it looks like, "eew he's wearing a corn pad" but to me its like I'm wearing a pirate's patch. It better work, because if it doesn't that means what I thought was a corn could be something much worse than a kernel. A planters wart. Anything involving the word wart is going to be horrific to bring up to whichever Indian girl is working the Duane Reade counter that day. I don't even want to look into it until I have to....but I picture Mr. Peanut somehow being responsible...and he is now headed for the huge list of people I hate. Moral of the story...Corn not only gets in your poop. It gets in your toe.

LITTLE MISTER SAIGON

2008-08-04T10:33:00.002-04:00

I have two room mates. I hate this. It will change soon as part of Alex's Christ Year Project Manifestation in which I'm making changes or will just die. Its cheap and has been ok until the past few months when one of my room mates got an acting gig out of town and had to quickly sublet the apartment. Here is where we meet Little Mister Saigon. He is from Vietnam, 19 yrs. old and a photography student doing an internship here in the states. His name is Sam...or San...or Sang. I'm not quite sure after 6 months so lets just call him Kim. Kim is unique in the sense that he does absolutely no household chores. You ask him to and he nods his head, his bangs shaking in agreement with me, but then I take out the trash a few days later. He LOVES to cook. So the living room forever smells like unseasoned boiled chicken water...which is the same smell of Chinatown and old Asian women's breath. My favorite characteristic of Kim is that he frightens easily. You could make the loudest footsteps before entering a room he is in and make lots of key noises before opening the door and as soon as you do he will jump back and gasp followed by putting his hand on his heart. Kim got scared once walking up the stairs to find me and my other room mate talking in the hallway. Could he not hear us as he walked up? How could he get to the final step and almost fall backwards at the horror of hallway chitchat? Once Kim walked into a room I was in watching TV and on the phone talking and STILL got scared. Kim, calm down. This is not The Grudge. I wear camouflage shorts sometimes but I'm no G.I.. Perhaps I should use this to my advantage. I could scare him into taking out the fucking trash or at the very least wiping down the counter of his ethnic dried shrimp tails. There is one upside. He gets products from photo shoots and I've been using his Chanel face scrub...and I'll use every last drop. So there. Take that Kim.

ALEX IN THE MORNING

2008-07-28T11:01:00.003-04:00

ALEX IN THE MORNING

TYPE: SCULPTURE

MEDIUM: PLAY-DOH AND BIRTHDAY CANDLE

Many of you may know that art was a part of my past....well, the other night at work I was bored and apparently some douche brought their child to a bar. The child left his Play-doh, which by the way is delicious if you have a salty tooth, and my inner artist emerged. It is shocking and simple. It is sexy and honest. It can be set on fire so that the melted wax can give an "after" perspective. It is me every morning. If there are any Art agents out there interested in representing me and my Art....I also finger paint with sauces. Email me.

CHRIST YEAR

2008-07-19T18:59:00.002-04:00

So this is it! My Christ year! If I'm lucky I'll skip the crucifixion and go straight to resurrection...or luckier yet....if things don't get better perhaps I'll be blessed with a quick and painless death like getting struck in the back of the head with a stray bullet during a drive-by mid-laugh. Hahahaha-blown out forehead-done!
33.
This is what I know so far.
-the older I get the more I realize that I really don't know anything.
-the older I get the more people I hate.
-I've stopped seeking what I think I need and started grasping at what I know I want.
-I hate children, but want a baby...or a puppy....or both.
-I'm not religious but gain powerful and wise philosophies from song lyrics, Oprah, and sometimes Salma Hayek.
-I can no longer have meaningless sex, but I love myself....therefore I have tons a meaningful self-sex.
-The main quality I look for in a mate is: No history of any mental illness....because now that I'm 33....its dawned on me that bipolar is NOT sexy.
-Other traits I no longer find romantic:
alcoholism
self mutilation
crying about self
poor people
people who profess love too quickly and often
...so if you are a rich, scar less, sober, sane and would rather toss words aside and show me with your tongue and/or touch...email me.
-Patience is a superpower I'm learning to master...so is forgiveness.
-Love really is all you need.
-Go with the flow.
-"Try"is set up failure....just do.
-Nothing means anything.
Yee-haw. Rock on, my blog-readin peeps. Lets keep em laughin....or laughin at em.
Love,
Alex Christo

GRANDPA, QUICK, PRETEND YOU ARE DYING

2008-07-08T00:47:00.002-04:00

I've opted to not only use this venue to embarrass myself, but also anyone in my family. Its only fair....ok...its not, but I don't care. This story takes place mid-80's and involves my grandfather, Emilio. Emilio had polio as a child and as a result on one arm, it looked like someone had tied his wrist into a visible knot. As a child I couldn't finger this knot enough, my grandfather always smiling, but deep inside wondering if I was retarded...which my mother will still argue to this day is a viable possibility. One day Emilio was sitting in our backyard, enjoying the breeze and twirling his cane using only his palm (a favorite activity), watching me perform Kevin Bacon's dance from Footloose against our fence (you know which part) when we heard police and ambulance sirens approaching. "Who died?" we both wondered. Well, apparently, grandpa was about to. Because it seemed that the other character in this farce, my aunt Norma a.k.a. Normita a.k.a Nony, had told a little fib. Nony had been speeding as she often liked to do in the 80's, in addition to wearing super curly hair and spandex. A cop stopped her and unbeknown to her the inner performer decided to emerge and tell the officer that she was speeding because...her...father...was...HAVING A HEART ATTACK! So the cop said he would...POLICE ESCORT her to our house and CALL THE AMBULANCE.
My grandpa, grandma, mother, and I must have set the scene perfectly as we all looked open-mouthed at my aunt as several uniformed men burst through our front door. Nony quickly raced to Emilio's side and gave him his stage direction in Spanish.
"Papi, quick, pretend you are dying"
Everyone gave award winning performances. Emilio even went to the hospital and spent several hours along with Nony pretending to be some sort of ill as they ran tests while people probably bled in the waiting room.
At the end of the day we all just laughed it off as another of thousands of things are family does to embarrass everyone remotely related....and the moral of the story...at whatever cost...Nony did not get a ticket. I hope it becomes a rite of passage in our family. I plan to do it for my unborn children!

DEEP THOUGHT: JUNK FOOD

2008-06-03T16:16:00.002-04:00

I was sitting on my fat ass inhaling chips when it occurred to me...If you take the PR out of Pringles. It spells Ingles. Which means "English" in Spanish...which...is not spoken properly by most PR. Deep.
P.S. Even deeper....why does any of this matter....when the man is clearly Mexican.

THE CAMPY GAME

2008-05-25T12:24:00.002-04:00

As children, my sister-cousin Mayte and I lived in two houses. My mother's house during the week which was close to school and her mother's house on the weekend which included unlimited TV watching and a pool. It also included Campy. We had several pets at both locations, but Campy was different. Others looked at him in awe....and fear. Campy was a Great Dane. White with black spots, like a Dalmatian....yet nothing like a Dalmatian. He was part horse, part beast. Pools of drool were followed if you ever wanted to scout his location. When he barked, a sonic boom would blow our hair back.

He was a murderer....my aunt for some ungodly reason decided to buy chickens to run on her 5 acres of land. The results were fresh eggs and a chicken massacre. Bloody feathers and bits over a lawn of green, like some animated farm war movie come to life. He also murdered a kitten once, but no one ever spoke of it, as if the kitten died mysteriously and Campy had nothing to do with it.

The chickens were intentional, but the kitten was an accident. I know this because there was a side of campy that not everyone got to see.

My aunt has a five car garage. It is huge. Each garage could be rented as a studio in Manhattan. Behind the garage there is a built in BBQ grill. It had two large pits and an enormous tile counter space. One day, I can't remember who discovered it, but The Campy game was born. When we wanted to play, Mayte and I would coyly walk to the BBQ and sit on top of the tile. Then, we would summon the beast. No matter where on the 5 acres he roamed we could see that he was watching us walk over to our spot. This alone told him that the game was about to begin. He always waited for us to call him. "Campy"...."CAAMPEEE!". We would singsong his name the way a school bully would call another child "STOO-PID". He would slowly like a jungle cat walk over to our location. Head low. Tongue out and dripping. Eyes always on us. We giggled with terror. As soon as we turned our heads away from him, disengaging our eye contact with him, he knew to go hide.

One Mississippi....two Mississippi....three little dead chickens....four bloody poultry corpses.

Once he was gone. We would jump off of the grill and run with all of our might....for dear life. The objective was to run all the way around the five garages and back onto the BBQ untouched by Campy. That rarely happened. Before we would even pass the first garage we would hear galloping growing louder and faster behind us. We would horror movie scream as we looked back and saw his tongue blown back past his ears from the speed. Within seconds the screams turned to hysterical laughter from two children who were bucked up in the air, floating, flying with delight only to land on the grass gripping our stomachs like they would fall out from too much glee. Then he would smile at us and come over and kiss us. We would get up and slowly walk back to the BBQ and the whole thing would take place again.
Our weekends were filled with this. Neighbors saw him as a threat. Other children coiled away from him as if he were a leper. But for us, he was family. My mother pretended she was too classy to enjoy his always sloppy kissing. He would bow to my grandmother, realizing her stature within the group. When he lay sleeping on the rug in front of the TV. Mayte and I could lie right next to him, the length of his body superseding ours. His Jurassic chest rising and falling. His eyes blinking, telling us to nuzzle up.....and we felt safe there by our hero. Campy the Noble. An ever present and always attentive father.

NOBODY LEAVES BABY IN THE BATHTUB

2008-05-11T12:56:00.003-04:00

...but don't think it hasn't crossed your mother's mind. Its Mother's Day. Whenever its my birthday or Mother's Day, Maria Elena likes to take me on a stroll down memory lane. How excited she was when her water broke. How easy and painless the delivery was. How she wanted to kill me.

Two years ago, on this day, she dropped that new bit of news. As always, she informed me of it in a very matter of fact way. She told me she thinks she had "The Brooke Shields Disease". She is refering to postpartum depression. Apparently she read Brooke's book....or just watched Mary Hart interview her...about Tom Cruise's disapproval.

In her words:

I was berry happy when I bring baby back home from de hospital, but den, after time pass I think maybe I don't want de baby. Everybody say to me...Maria, the baby is so cute, so beautiful....and I say thank you but inside I think....cute? I don't think so. I don't think I like de baby. I think I want KILL de baby. I call the my psychologess and say, Doctor, I want kill de the baby. He say, don't worry Maria, dis is normal, just wait and dis will pass....and I began to scream to feel better (see DRAGON HEAVE) and then I don't want to kill baby no more. I keep.

Awww, thank you Maria Elena, for sparing me. Happy Mother's Day!

P.S. I asked her what she would say if Tom Cruise said anything to her about her "Brooke Shields Disease".

She replied, "I say, Fuck you Tom Cruise, you gay."

THE DRAGON HEAVE

2008-04-29T14:19:00.004-04:00

As a little boy, there were various things that I was afraid of...rats, people with odors talking to close to me, and everything having to do with my mother. I wish I could say that she was a gentle soul back then...but she is a Leo...and not the Mufasa kind...picture Scar as a woman!
Her looks could send chills up your spine and then they would settle in your throat to choke you unless you looked away. Her heels told her mood...clickety-clack for upbeat...thunder striking for otherwise. But nothing scared everyone in my house more than The Dragon Heave.
In a moment of exasperated energy, when she couldn't contain her rage any longer...she would let it out. It came from the pit of her stomach and would blow your hair back if directly in front of her. I gave it this name because it was like a warning of the fire to come.
As I got older, I grew less afraid of it and one day asked Maria Elena what she was doing.

"One time, I went to therapist and he say to me, when I feel angry or maybe like to kill somebody...just ehscream."

Who knew? This whole time, Maria Elena was simply relieving stress...as the years rage on...and we become our parents...I now use The Dragon Heave. I use it at work, on the train, I even use it to react to them not having my drink at Starbucks. I'm sure I come off as explosive, but I'm simply ridding myself of toxic energy.
Maria Elena, what a trendsetter!

Watch the instructional video and you too can be stress free.

SCAR TISSUE

2008-04-20T21:04:00.003-04:00

We all have our scars. Permanent reminders of pain stain our skin. Sometimes they are sexy. Sometimes they come with a cool story. Sometimes they are emotional. They build character, make you identifiable, log your experiences.
Sometimes...they are just...there...with no cool story....just embarrassingly noticeable.
These are the kind I have.
The scars that I bear are not visible to everyone....only one is, if I leave one button unbuttoned on any given shirt...which I sometimes do when I'm feeling like showin' a little chest hair like a sexy, carefree, young John Travolta....not old, fat, gay, drag queen Travolta.
I have five of these scars...they are all raised above the skin...they are all reddish in color. They sometimes look cool in an intimate situation....sometimes the one looks somewhat masculine peeping from my chest hair in a v-neck t-shirt...like I might be dangerous.
The problem is when people ask about them...I want to tell a tall tale...I want to say that I was shot, or stabbed, or burned.....but the truth is....I only know how some of these scars developed....and the rest just sort of showed up, uninvited.

When I was 14, during a visit to Miami, I was roughhousing with my sister-cousin, Mayte, in a public pool. I was sporting a fresh, bright red pimple on the middle of my chest and two on the back of my left shoulder. Throughout the tomfoolery, I scraped all of my zits along the rough pool wall. When the scrapes healed and I picked the scabs (how could I help but not), somehow the areas where the pimples were stayed kind of raised and eventually became the Freddy Krueger like fleshy patches they are today.
I guess the one on my chest felt lonely because two more zits popped up and decided to NOT leave...oh no....they decided to return as SCARS ALSO! My zits must think they are vampires! One scar, throughout the span of a year, kind of...traveled...about 4 inches from one end to another and then created the "raised" look...it looks like a comet or shooting star...I've thought of tattooing it.
I'm not one to remove my shirt in public...but when bom chika bom bom is going to take place...I know I will be asked and I dread having to tell the pool-zit story.

I should say I used to dread it....now I kind of don't care....I , like, everyone else have scars. I have scars that came from zits...they are not cool wounds from combat....or sexy self inflicted gothy abrasions. They are simply marks on my body that are somewhat inexplicable. It dawned on me that they have a purpose. I don't have these scars because I'm cursed to be humiliated by them...I have them because, much like life, things happen. We are faced with changes that are out of our control. Changes that we can't really do anything about except to accept. In a way, I'd like to believe that the reason I have them is to remind me that nothing matters...things are what they are....roll with the changes....and to keep on keepin' on.
Now, If people ask me where I got the scars...I simply say, God. I mean for them to chuck it off as my snarky sense of humor...but I'm being honest. I got these scars from a higher power that intended for me to rise above them...in the same way that they rise above my skin showing themselves, humbly.

THE PUBLIC PLACE POO

2008-04-13T11:07:00.002-04:00

As most of you know, I'm no stranger to phobias....well....here is a new one to discuss....the public place poo.
For years I have dreaded this activity and reserved only for extremely necessary explosive matters(see POOP STORY #1).
Why was I so afraid? What was gonna happen? They exist for a reason...surely other regular people poop at these stalls daily.
Here is why:
A. The toilet seat....sometimes there is caca on the seat...or peepee....or a streak in the bowl left by a very violent birthing of shit...someone else's....millions of asses sit at this seat and sweat....hair....dingleberries....all kinds of stranger grossness comes in contact with this seat and then they eject feces there....Why would I want to sit there.
B. Those toilet seat paper condoms don't work...they stick to your ass
C. I'm easily offended by vulgar etched stall graffiti.
D. My butt doesn't know how to whisper...and how embarrassing for others in the bathroom...plop plop fizz fizz is meant for Alka Seltzers...not my anus.
This has resulted in me holding my poo for hours...sometimes until the next day....and then what happens is....a monster turd forms from the hours of accumulated waste. This turd is the size of a baby and my asshole is not....therefore....I have to sit for a good half hour...crying and birthing....slowly pushing....then breathing through the pain until I deliver my new born baby poo.
I want to be a parent, but not like this.
So, because I like to watch Oprah and then pretend I came up with all her stolen philosophies as my own....I am a new me....and I now no longer hold it...I release it. Anytime it comes a knockin...I go in that stall...I sit my bare ass down...tissue paper-less....and just do it!
The result: I fell free...invincible, even! I create my own graffiti and...thanks to Oprah...I no longer cry in the bathroom...(because of poop).
Face your fears, PEEOOPLEEEEEEEEEEE!

I AM A LESBIAN

2008-03-29T14:26:00.003-04:00

Yes, you read correctly. My close friends know this weird fetish of mine, but for those of you who are new to me...accept it: I love lesbians. I am a male identified lesbian. I don't know what that means, but they are out there....and I am proud and embarrassed to say I am one.
Last night, I waited on a lessie at work. She was in a group of many people and arrived late. I found myself reading off all our beers to her, which I would never do to anyone else. I laughed at her unfunny jokes and touched her arm a lot...all the while she had a look in her eye that said, "Dude, I'm a dyke."
Well, miss, you've heard of fag hags. I am a dyke stag!
I love K.D. Lang. I have a huge crush on Ellen! I actually daydream of our life together...minus Portia. But my biggest guilty pleasure in the world....Melissa!
People are fanatics of many things.....pets....the environment....Jesus. For me, its Melissa.
I've been to see her only twice, but I once lost a tix bid on ebay and cried into my towel in the bathroom so my roomate couldn't hear.
Her music to me is like a drug. I actually get high off it. When I hear "Like the Way I Do", I dance around in my room barefoot, swinging imaginary dreads around while dreaming up moments doused in patchouli.
When I hear "You Can Sleep While I Drive", I rock back and forth on my bed sobbing like I did for the series finale of Six Feet Under.
When I hear "I'm the Only One", well...dirty things happen. Unfortunately, I'm the only one there.
You get the point.
Any movie made on the subject, I've seen. Have I seen every season of the L Word? Yes.
Have I been to a les bar? You bet. Have I made out with one? More than made out.
I don't think this is a problem....its healthy. I can't deny my true self.
This is how it would be a problem: I have often had the fantasy of...shaving really close, getting a military cut, putting on a bra and stuffing it to the max, but then getting an ace bandage to "bind my breast". I would put on a nice plaid shirt. Perhaps L.L. Bean...or just Old Navy would do. Work boots or Adidas...take your pick. I would go to one of those DYKE ONLY bars and try to pass. Which I would. Then I would walk up to cute boyish ladies and say, "Hey, what's up?" but in a higher register with a Cher tone.
THAT would be a problem....and I would not do that.
I simply am enamored with a lifestyle that is not traditionally for men. Its not like I want to hump little kids...they're too whiny.
I know I can't be a lesbo, so I will instead watch from the sidelines, proudly wearing my "I Love Shane" t shirt, throwing a rock sign up in the air.
I'm fine being just a supporter.
Scissor on, girlfriends!!!!

ALEXCIOSO

2008-03-21T13:55:00.002-04:00

When I was a kid...I watched a lot of TV. To the point where I would tell the kids at school that my father's name was Ricky and that for his job he sang "Babaloo" at the club. I remember one fateful day, watching a new show and from the moment the theme song flashed before me, I knew what my destiny was....I was supposed to spend my life spelling out K...I...D...S...with my body...on Kids Incorporated.
The problem was that there was somebody there already my age.
There was somebody there who was already the cutest and littlest kid in the group.
Her name was Stacey Ferguson. We know her as Fergie.
Yes, I know, I'm a boy and she's a girl....and she was the perfect little girl with blue eyes and blonde hair...but just imagine how adorable a little cuban boy with big brown eyes and black ringlets would've looked doing a 7 yr. old cover of "Rhythm of the Night". Picture a little me doing a step-sway-step-sway backing up Martika on her cover of "Time after Time". I could've gone on to eventually be the teenager on the show who lead all the younger ones. I would've taught them how to clap while holding a mic at the same time. Little Jennifer Love Hewitt pumpin to the beat of my "Blame it on the Rain".
In my early twenties I would've tried to form a group, but it would never work out because this is the stage where we plug in a dramatic fall from grace. Fergie's was meth. which is so gay...and I mean lame-gay and homo-gay. My fall from grace would be something more romantic...like huffing or cutting.
I woulda been jammin out how I do at some group's concert, they would've asked me to be a part of their band...but we would've been called Los Black Beans.
Eventually I would've busted out fo reals wit my solo act, you know what I'm sayin.
I've already worked on my first single, "Alexcioso"

I'm Alexcioso
No, I don't got a small torso
I eat orzo
Arroz con pollo y pan
and anything that I want
at only fancy rest-o-rants
I'm Alexcioso
que que que que que rico rico

I would've been hot, niggaz....but the reality is that I'm at a coffee place stealing their internet and freezing cuz I could only get a seat by the door. I'm wearing sweatpants and the same shirt I've been wearing for the last three days. I haven't shaved and my facial hair is now coming in gray. My shoes are 10 years old, made by Skechers, and if I look under my shoe I can see my sock.
Its Friday night and I'd go out but because I got no money...you guessed it...I'll leave my broke ass home. You know how we do here in Queens...the glamorous, glamorous life!

KEIRA KNIGHTLEY OR EARLY MAN?

2008-03-13T17:03:00.010-04:00

LITTLE BOYS GET RAPED TOO!

2008-03-09T16:26:00.003-04:00

When I was a child, before I actually knew what it was...I wanted to be raped.
This sounds beyond disturbing but let me explain...I aways wanted to go on excursions to Eckerds (drug store) as a kid in Florida. It was a block away from my house and even though people in Florida didn't walk...I was a born NYer and needed to go there to do important things like read Tiger Beat magazine and shoplift Slimjims or a Halloween pirate's patch. Aurora, my always too cautious abuelita (little grandmother) would never let me or my sister-cousin, Mayte, go anywhere. She watched us like a hawk. She would sometimes let us go to the mailbox only if she watched and once the mail was in our hands she would scream for us to hurry into the house as if we were in the movie "Twister" and about to die.
I always did what I was told, but on one defiant day I stomped my foot and raised my fists in the air to my grandmother. I yelled that I was going anyway! She couldn't stop me!
She slowly approached me, grabbed my arm, and very quietly said in Spanish, "Fine, go, I don't care, do what you want...but just so you know...little boys get raped too!"

What??? What were these things abuelita was saying?

Somehow, my child-mind took the gravitas with which she spoke as a good thing...like she was telling me a secret...like I was now old enough to know an ancient rite of passage.
Little boys get raped too!
Obviously it was something that little girls used to get only, but now...boys too. I felt like a new member to a prestigious club. Whatever this rape was...I had to have it....I looked for it everywhere at Eckerds, but could not find it. I wanted to ask the clerk, "where do you keep the rape?" but thought if it was a secret I shouldn't let everyone know about it or there would be none left for me. I thought about calling my school friends to see if they new about it, but I had no idea what the word was in English, since my grandmother had said it in Spanish.
I called Maria Elena, my mother, at work and asked her in Spanish.

"Maria Elena, what is the rape?"
"It is bad."
"But abuelita said little boys could get it. How?"
"Some strange men think that little boys are sexy and drive up and take you away."
"Awesome! Away, where?"
"Alejandro! I'm at work!"

How could this be bad, I thought. If I'm sexy, a strange man will come and take me away. Where could "away" be? Willy Wonka's chocolate factory, I thought....or better...Neverland Valley Ranch. I knew what I had to do. From growing up with unmonitered cable watching I knew two things. Grown ups thought that dancing in your underwear was sexy....and that smoking was sexy.

So, I, 10 yr old Alex Altomonte, decided to play in my front yard wearing nothing but my underoos, dress shoes (in case it was someplace nice), my backpack (for sleepover), and my little-hispanic-boy gold bracelet which featured my name, Alejandro, engraved in cursive. Every time a car would pass, I'd take out a candy cigarette and dance. My abuelita would yell at me from the window, but I would just shush her. Finally, a car pulled up and I approached it blowing on my candygrette. I remember the excitement rushing up my spine as I walked up to the car. I thought, oh please, please, please offer me candy or ask me if I want to come over and see your new puppy...but...the man just wanted directions. He was lost. I gave him directions but what I should have said was that thanks to him now I'd be lost my entire adulthood!
I got really bored after a few hours and just went inside to watch Nikelodeon instead...but it has stuck with me...much like that little kid who is ALWAYS picked last in gym class....I was that little kid who NEVER got raped.

RETARDOPHOBIA

2008-03-04T12:26:00.003-05:00

I should prewarn you that you will think me an asshole beast after this, but hey, I am who I am....so...for a long time...as a younger person, NOT NOW...I used to be afraid of retarded people.
Not the ones with the little scrunchy faces, no, I think they are soooo cute. Its the ones that walk like George Jefferson.
I know. I know. What an asshole, but I have had several incidents which have fueled my phobia...and by incidents I mean violations. These violations have shaken me so deeply to the core that I once stood in front of my mirror with a pair of scissors like Jodie Foster in The Accussed...but then thought...you REALLY have to know how to cut curly hair. Here are the instances and then perhaps you will judge me less for my phobia.
1. In 1994, I was working at Pier 1 Imports (which always smells like eucalyptus) and I had to ring up this lady and her challenged son. He was the kind that curls up in a chair, but not with hot cocoa if you get my meanin'. She was playing this little game where she was having him pay me. I was a little apprehensive, but collected the money from him and then handed him the bag. As I was handing him his change back, the mother ordered him to say "thank you". As he said the words...a pool of drool fell from his mouth onto my wrist. She just giggled and wheeled him away. I waited until they were gone to Windex my entire arm as vomit burped up into my mouth.
2. In 1995, I was having lunch at Kenny Roger's Roasters with friends. I got up to go to the bathroom and went to one of the two urinals. I began to pee when a mentally challenged young man approached the urinal next to mine. Just breathe. I repeated those words in my head over and over (in Drew Barrymore's comforting voice). I was almost done when suddenly the young man turned his head toward me and let out a Chewbacca yelp...do you know what I mean? It had a gargle to it. I quickly put my penis back which was still mid-pee and ran out.
3. In 1997, I was working as a cashier in an enclosed box office of Regal Cinemas. I was asked to work early one Thursday morning. As I stood alone in my maroon vest wondering why I was there, a short yellow bus pulled up. I froze as an army of young challenged ones made their way toward me. I later found out that I was to show them how I sold movie tickets. They all crammed into the box office space with me. I maintained. I said, "Is everyone ready to learn how to sell a ticket?" and they all moaned, "yay". One young lady was so excited she outstretched her arms and she and her backpack fell backwards...onto me. Like a turtle on its back with flapping limbs, she lay...on top of me...as I tried not to cry.
4. In 1999, I was on my lunch break at Warner Bros. Studio Store on 5th ave in NYC. I always ate out, but decided to sit in the break room which was empty...when in walked a young lady from the 4th floor. She was a Hasidic Jew downs syndrome woman. She had a pack of fresh panties in her file due to several accidental toots in her undies. Honestly, what I mosted feared was her wig...until she sat across from me with a large bulge of aluminum foil. She unwrapped it to reveal a monstrous turkey leg. She began to devour it with grunts of pleasure...when without warning she stopped to utter a quiet, "uh-oh". She then upchucked the turkey back into the foil. I got up and walked slowly to the door. I paused and asked without turning if she was ok. She said she was and I ran...I ran with all the fury of Forest Gump.

So don't judge my phobia. It is legitimate. I'm not proud of it...but I own it. It is real. When I saw The Other Sister, I thought it a horror film. For those of you who think I'm evil...ponder this: at least half of the people I've told any of those stories to have wished upon me to have retarded children. Like they have the power to curse. How rude. My mother says having a down syndrome child would be a blessing because they are so full of love. I'm adopting.

CONFESSIONAL VLOG: ROSARIO?

2008-02-27T14:30:00.001-05:00

SISTER-COUSINS & MADRINAS

2008-02-23T17:06:00.003-05:00

I love making fun of my people...all the hispanics with their magenta versions of red dyed hair who point at eveything with their lips. Fat coral painted toes suffocating to squeeze out of one-size-too-small open toe shoes. The way you will never NOT smell Sazon Goya at any latin household. The fact that every hispanic born child of my generation has been physically assaulted with house slippers. The "I hate" list is endless.

However, one thing I marvel in is the idea that no matter how disfunctional hispanic families are...be it a missing father or an always at work mother...there are always other colorful characters placed throughout the family with the ability to slip in and out of any role that needs playing.

Titles don't really mean anything in my house. I have an aunt who is like a father....I have Christine, who is like that white lady that had to live with the Munsters.....I have an overbearing mother who was mis-cast in the role, but does an oscar-worthy turn as the unlikely family "mother"...and if you have to live in the jungle, you'd choose a lioness as your mom.

I have my cousin, Mayte. Because we were raised together we always thought of each other as siblings, to the point where we called each other so.....now, years later, we are both adults and it feels alien to my tongue to utter her name with the word cousin. The title doesn't fit. Its too small. I have so many close friends that to me are more valuable than most blood ties.

To top it all off, we all had a "madrina". Madrina is the word for godmother in Spanish. My Madrina was never actually my godmother...nor was she Mayte's. She was my aunt-father's. She was also my mother's best friend since grade school. She was jovial and always laughing and a big fraidy cat that everyone got a kick out of getting a rise from. We all addressed her as Madrina...and I've never even been baptized.

Unfortunaltely, Madrina passed away this Thursday, way too young.

This blog isn't meant to be mushy....its about poop most times, but some observations occur throughout the poop.
1. sometimes being spic-y is kind of cool....and 2. labels are for jars, ya'll!

Every time I spoke to Madrina she always mentioned two things. One was that she'd say I have "a beautiful laugh" whenever she'd make a joke...which I think we'd all agree with...among many other beautiful qualities.
The other was that she'd always ask when I was gonna make it big so I could take her and my mom to Spain.

The making it big part is out of my hands, but make it to Spain, I will...and my mother and I will go to Madrid and Barcelona. We will go to Valencia and Sevilla and Mallorca and we will sit in an outdoor restaurant and order paella and sangria and raise our glasses in a toast...To Madrina.

POOP STORY #2

2008-02-20T12:37:00.005-05:00

So... I have a deadbeat dad, Jorge. Most people who know me know that. He was always in and out. When he was in it was one of two things.

1. He felt guilty and wanted to buy me things to make up for his absence which I allowed him to do in as much excess as he wanted...or

2. He needed something from me...like to help him pronounce a word in English with his flippant sounding Argentinian accent...or to ask for money...or to help him perform crimes.

I often move around without ever letting him know my whereabouts, but give him a few years...and he finds me.

It just so happens that he found me right after I had moved to Los Angeles where POOP STORY #1 took place. He was working with his brother who in the 70's owned (which in Argentinian means "worked for") a limo service in L.A.. Now for work they both drove around to businesses soliciting their auto detailing services with buckets and wipers. How embarrassing.

He was making pretty good money, so every once in a while I'd let him take me to a fancy dinner.

It wasn't long before he called me telling me that he had a Hollywood connection that was going to make me a star.

I assured him he had no such connection. That it doesn't work that way. To call me when he befriended an agent....even a bottom tier one would do.

"No, no, no," he said in Count Chocula. "I already make appointment with him so he meet you".

I couldn't say no. I was committed against my will. Who could this be? This Hollywood connection? I thought of lame 70's celebrities who couldn't even get work themselves like Charo or all those other people who weren't Valerie Bertinelli on that one show. It was worse. If you haven't guessed he's pictured above.

Benji.

Jorge thought FUCKING BENJI was going to make me a star!

So off I went on an hour drive out of L.A. with Jorge and his even dumber brother to a dog's house to see about putting me in the pictures, see.

Benji's owner was a man named Frank Inn. He created the phenomenon of this little dog. Here is the embarrassing part...on the drive...for a millisecond...I thought perhaps this man could put me in a Benji movie. Sure I hadn't seen an actual one since I was 8, but there could be a new one. Together we could be the next Turner & Hooch. I couldn't wait to arrive to this man's mansion somewhere outside of the hills of L.A..

It turns out the mansion was just a house with a barn..yes, you heard me..barn out back. We park and an old man in denim overalls and a long white beard starts jogging? No, more like galloping toward the car...it was kind of like a hustled walk but with his arms down by his side like early man. You know that man that would kill you with an ax if you got stuck out in the woods. THIS WAS HIM. For the first time, I clung to my father.

It turned out that this man was not Frank Inn. He was Frank Inn's hippie male nurse. He led us into the house where Frank was. I don't mean to be mean because the poor man has died since this event...but he looked like a more bloated version of the old hippie bearded man except in a wheelchair. He was a mix of Santa Claus and Boss Hog after a rib dinner....and everywhere...I mean everywhere throughout the house there was Benji stuff....including the ashes of all the dead Benji's. I sat down and thought to myself...Jesus, take the wheel.

I shouldn't have thought that because what happened next was that Frank Inn, who was about 100 yrs old, began to tell us stories about how Jesus blessed his life with Benji. I looked at my fingernails to see if they were long enough to slit my throat, but they were freshly clipped. An hour later, after recanting memories of Circus of the Stars and lunches with old celebrity people I pretended to know, he takes out a book from somewhere in his chair. This was a book of poetry.

Poetry he himself had written...about....Benji.

Some poems were about Jesus. Some about both. Poems like...."Jesus is fun, Benji likes to run." This poetry reading went on for two hours....2 HOURS, people...after that he asked the hippie man to take my father and uncle out to the barn to show them more Benji paraphernalia so that he could be alone with "the young person" for a bit.

AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

When we were alone he told me he understood that I wanted to be an actor, but that the only connection he had that was still alive was Betty White and he hadn't spoken to her in 10 years. I told him, thanks anyway. At that point I didn't care. I just wanted to leave...I just needed something to get me out of there. Sure enough...

The thunderous rip of a smothered fart ripped through the silence in the air. The instant smell of stale poo hit the atmosphere. He looked up straight into me eyes and said, "Young man, excuse me, I've soiled myself." He then wheeled himself into the other room and hollered out the hippie man's name.

"YYEESS?" hollered hippie man back.

"I"VE SOILED MYSELF," yelled Frank.

In came galloping early man hippie guy. He went straight to the bedroom where Frank was. I slowly got up. I walked out to the barn. I walked up to Jorge who was admiring a Benji lunch box. I said, "Take me home now, you're not my father."

I haven't spoken to him in 4 years.

MOOSE KNUCKLE MOMENT

2008-02-16T11:25:00.003-05:00

Yes...I'm am asshole. I make fun of little trann-e-bes and every minority under the sun, but folks, some credit is due. I give you the most embarrassing moments of my life. For instance, my moose knuckle one. For those of you who are not familiar with the term....it is the male version of camel toe...and, well...

The other day it snowed...and I usually sleep in sweats, wake up, throw on a hoodie and head to my coffee place with my computer to post this blush-worthy shit for you biotches. Because it was snowing and my sweatpants are too long due to my short legs...I rolled them up at the waist a few times. I didn't want to wet my hems stepping on snow.

NOBODY LIKES a wet hem.

I arrive, order, sit, people-watch and then notice that I am being watched more than usual. Not the usual, "Is that a child molester?" stare or "Will that guy go in a bathroom stall with me?" gaze...no...they were all staring at my crotch!

I look down...and there it is. It looks like I'm smuggling peaches in S&M gear. How embarrassing. Particularly more offensive because I have embarrassingly large knuckles for a moose.

There you have it folks...Hahaha..laugh away!

Lesson of the day: A wet hem is not so bad.

CONFESSIONAL VLOG: VANITY FAIR

2008-02-13T17:00:00.002-05:00

THE LITTLE TRANNY THAT COULDN'T

2008-02-10T17:17:00.000-05:00

I live in Astoria...a borough (not as in donkey) of New York City. For half of my childhood, I grew up in Astoria. It is unique in the sense that it is very suburban, yet city-like at the same time. Full of Greeks. Everywhere, there are Greeks. Lots of Hispanics, Asians, Italians, Turks, Blacks, Brazilians, old people, cats, overweight white women in book clubs, musical theatre fags, musical theatre hags and did I mention...the Greeks. They definitely dominate and I could write and entire book about them, but for this post, I'd like to focus on a new group that is dominating the very eclectic streets of Astoria. I call them The Tranny Mafia.

This mafia is primarily made up of three very tall and beautiful black trannies. If you didn't know any better you'd think they were models, but no...oh no....they are definitely ex-men (not the comics). They are quite striking and probably look better as women...the way only a black man could, like Rupaul or Tyra Banks.

They troll the streets and strut in and out of stores to be seen. They come into Starbucks just to sit down and brush their weave in a window seat...to be watched by the outside world like mannequins. They are part of the community here and add to the mix. Very recently, a young boy has begun to hang with these he-ladies. He is a white boy, blonde, Jew-y looking, dressed in jeans, a hoodie and sneakers. One day, I saw him in my coffee place wearing this very ensemble, but with large hoop earrings. Yet another day he wore this outfit, but added pumps to his "ensem". Eventually, he began wearing women's clothing, but apparently neither style nor simple matching were criteria for his TRANSformation. He now dons a way-too-black wig which he wears so far down on his forehead that it rests on his eyebrows. The wig is parted to the side and covers half of his face so that you only see one eye. Like dead R&B singer Aaliyah. In fact, he prematurely has taken to strutting up and down coffee places and laundromats in an effort to emulate his tall dark sistahs, but instead looks like Aaliyah in Queen of the Damned, as he scarily creepycrawls bowlegged back and forth in his wobbly heels and sexual identity crisis. Sometimes he flips his stiff, synthetic wig hairs and looks men up and down. He does it to me...trying to solicit a response...hopefully not a sexual one. I'm not going to lie. He makes me a little uncomfortable...and what I mean by that is...his glare frightens me to the core and I think he's a bully.

I don't mean to be unkind. I'm not trying to be mean...but I will make fun. Its in my nature, peeps...its what I do and you love reading it. I will try to take pics with my camera phone at the next sighting to post. At the very least I will post Tranny Watch and document what he/she is wearing or if there is any progress...and...

Dear Little Boy in Drag,
I know your transition must be difficult. Be who you need to be. I support your courage. Whether its to just be a boy in girls clothing or to rock without cock, we all got your back, son. But, please, for the love of order in the world, ask your statuesque girlfriends for some tips or advice on fashion, walking in heels, and especially poise. Don't violently check to see if we are looking, trust me, we are. Instead, work on making us look at your confidence and always remember...if at first you don't succeed, dust yourself off and try again. Try again.

MOTHERFARTER

2008-02-06T15:38:00.000-05:00

For those of you who don't know, I am Cuban-American. This story is about my mother, Maria Elena. Maria Elena is Cuban, a leo, and has always had this secret fantasy life in which she is the hispanic Jackie O and I am John John and we are better than everyone else...Hispackie O and Juan Juan. As she's gotten older she has gotten a little softer and sweeter, but the heir of superiority is readily summoned like a spirit if the occassion calls for it.

Whenever I come home to Florida for a visit, Maria Elena insists that I sleep in the same bed with her. There is nothing Oedipal about it. She simply misses me and likes to treat me like a child that she has utter control over. Which...she does...so I sleep with her...which I kind of hate because there's something about it thats a little too immigrant-y. You know? There's something a little too loose-chickens-on-a-bus about it....and we're not Mexican, you know, there aren't 18 of us. There are other bedrooms empty. Maria Elena is certainly not like that. She's not maid-y. She's very hoity toity. She wears heels to the pool. She'll have you believe that she's never poo'ed. Ever. She fakes coughing fits to mask her farts which usually works unless they come out flute-y. The bedroom behaviour just contradicted our efforts. I thought God made us light skinned Hispanics for a reason.

What I most dislike about sleeping with her is that she has a queen sized bed, and even if someone is in it with her, she sleeps in the middle...in the fetal position, so that her ass is always on your forearm. So what I do is...I get in the fetal positon also, mirroring her, so that my ass is up against her ass, and then slowly with my butt start scooching her to her side of the bed. This always works, but one night...mid-scooch...I heard coughing.

Instantly, I knew what had happened. Not because I heard it. Because I felt it. A puff of air, like at the eye doctor's...but in my asshole. Through her nightgown...through my boxers...into the asshole. My mother had penetrated me with her gas. I jumped up and said, "Mom, you just farted up my asshole." She laughed loudly and said, "I know."

I said, "Well, now that this has happened we can't go on pretending we are Hispakennedy's."
She just kept laughing.

If I bring it up now, she denies it ever took place, and if you know her...Do NOT tell her I've posted it over the web because she will have me beheaded just so that she can wear a Chanel suit to the funeral to receive a dose of compliments with the condolences.

PAUL RUDD RANT

2008-02-03T13:59:00.000-05:00

I was reading through old journals and came across a particularly bitter entry. Its entitled, " I Fucking Hate Paul Rudd" . I wrote it frantically on the long subway ride back to my shitty Bronx apartment after seeing a Broadway play called Three Days of Rain. The play also starred Julia Roberts who got not-so-good reviews but I couldn't care less because I'm a celebrity whore. I saw the second to last performance before it closed and I found Julia to be engaging, honest, charismatic, and very natural. Paul Rudd, however, seemed to be doing the community theatre version. The worst kind of jealousy unsued. Ugly, bitter jealousy. How embarrassing for me. Here goes:

6/17/06

I fucking hate Paul Rudd and his squinty eyes set on a canvas of pig pink skin. I hate him because he is an over-actor and I am so much better (how embarrassing). I hate him because somehow he got into over-acting school, was praised for his unnatural, show-offy work, and all the way down the line has convinced Broadway producers, Amy Heckerling, and even the people from Friends that HE posesses TALENT!!! Most of all I hate him because in the play, as I sat in the third row, I had to stare at his feet...his perfect, white, uncalloused Jesus feet. The callous on my big toe alone is so rough and thick that I'm convinced I could stick a needle in and hit bone and not feel a thing. His big toe is white-pink and plump. I HATE feet and even I would suck his toe. HIS heel doesn't have that yellowed horseshoe look that mine does where the roundness from the heel ends in a hard flat surface at the bottom of my foot. Paul Rudd's heel is plump and juicy even, like hot steaming chicken in commercials. Fuck you Paul Rudd and your perfect Jesus feet...ten years ago while you were lucky enough to be sitting on the steps of a Beverly Hills mansion making eyes at Alicia Silverstone, I was stocking cherry flavored warming lube on shelves at Spencer Gifts...On MY FEET...and I haven't been off em since. Enjoy your feet and good fortune Paul, because mine are hard and ache, but at least I'm EFFORTLESSLY funny (could it get any more embarrassing). I'm sure you'd be envious if you ever got to know me (...and, yes it can). Oh, Devil, where are you? I have my pen in hand. Let's make a deal.

There it is folks. Alex the embarrassing fool, stripped naked in harsh lighting before you. The funny thing is that a year later I saw him in Knocked Up and thought HE was effortlessly funny and natural.

Mr. Rudd, if you ever read this I hope you choose to see my envy as a compliment. I've since purchased a pumice stone and have become a bigger person, full of love and light.

Mr. Devil, if YOU read this, I'm still looking for representation.

This is my impression of a 3rd year acting student watching an Inside the Actor's Studio interview

2008-01-31T13:30:00.000-05:00

POOP STORY #1

2008-01-30T15:36:00.000-05:00

Needless to say, this confession will be doused in stinky, steaming, fly-attracting humiliation. Picture it: November, 1999...a young Alex leaves the downtrodden, too-much-make-up-wearing musical theatre-ey twink infested streets of New York for the grittier, more real, Sean Penn-iness of Los Angeles. Really, Alex??? Naivety at its best, folks. My commercial film infused dreams fueled me in two weeks time to rent a Uhaul and drive to Lala land with my inevitable life partner, Megan Staley.

Megan was adopted from an Asian country and raised in the U.S....we call these peeps bananas...yellow on the outside, white within. If Gwyneth Paltrow's character from The Royal Tenenbaums, TV's Daria, and Sandrah Oh had a baby...that baby would be Megan Staley.

So, armed with a cat, Mountain Dew and Sour Skittles we took the four day trek to the city of (fallen) angels. Megan drove the entire way due to my phobia of truck driving and to the fact that she is the man in our relationship. Cut to:

Five days later, we arrive in L.A. a day late and after dark which makes it too late to collect the keys to our new apartment. We spend the little money we have left on one more night of motel livin' and wake up early the following Sunday morning. Off we went to the rental office which is across town from our Melrose Place shaped apartment building. An extremely confused chubby Mexican girl hands us our lease to sign and we hand over a check for a deposit which she insists needs to be paid in cash. "No problem", we say and step out onto Hollywood Blvd. looking for an ATM machine. There must be one around the corner, we thought. Around the corner there was Marilyn Monroe and the Hulk, but no ATM...we walk the streets like crazy-eyed, candy fed gypsies. Three hours later...

We return to the office with hundreds of dollars in cash to hand over to the fat Chicana...who...then informs us....she CANT...FIND...THE...KEYS!!!!
"Don't you have a copy?"
"No."
"Is there anyone you can call who has a copy of the keys?"
"No."

She suggests we spend the night in a hotel and the maintenance man who has a key will make a copy the following morning. Rage fills my lungs and Julia Sugarbaker enters my body. I suggest she make the maintenance man leave whatever pinata bashing event he's attending to give us the keys to our new place which we paid for with all the cash withdrawn from both our bank accounts after a three hour Lord of the ATM's hunt. She hears the wrath and agrees. Two hours later the man arrives with the keys. We entered the office in the morning and it was then 5 pm, but no matter. There we were, making our way to our new home. Night had fallen as we made it to our street and it seemed especially dark...so dark that we realized the only light for blocks was coming from our Uhaul. It had seemed we arrived on the eve of a rare blackout. How lucky.

After parking the Uhaul in the dead of night blocks away and making our way through dark foreign hallways with a flashlight, we sat Indian style on the floor of our empty living room with the flashlight between us and muttered in caveman unison, "hungry".

We walked...and walked....and walked towards the light...the first, the only light we could see...the light said PIZZA, and so we burst through the door. What we hadn't seen was the word KOSHER before the word PIZZA. We found ourselves in a scene from Fiddler on the Roof. Beards, curls, wigs and B.O. everywhere. They looked perplexed. What are a chubby spic and skinny chink doing in our midst? We ordered a pizza and wolfed it down ignoring the wild west saloon stares.

The best way to describe the flavor of the pizza is...FUCKING NASTY. My stomach thought so too because it protested at me the whole walk home. I walked faster knowing once we got back home and flashlighted our way back into the apartment, I could drop my load.

As our front door closes behind us, I poopie dance all the way to the bathroom. I drop my jeans and realize that we haven't moved in yet...meaning NO TOILET PAPER!!! I burst out the door, down the hall, across the street, to the uhaul where the smuggled motel room TP is. Kosher diarrhea is rushing, trying to kick the door of my asshole down. I try and try and try to fight it. I get the paper. I run half a block back and that is when I realize that I can't win.

Right there, in the middle of a street during a blackout in Los Angeles, I, Alex Altomonte, dropped pants, squatted down, spread cheeks, held jeans forward and with my mouth open in a silent cry shot splattery brown bullets out my poophole.

I am still, however, a gentleman...because, finally armed with TP, I wiped.

The next morning, I walked outside and found it gone. Sometime during the night, when the lights came back on, someone found loads o' shit and 10-12 caca smeared TP bushels. Someone had seen this and cleaned it. Someone made my embarrassing ordeal a little easier to swallow. I was not alone, someone carried me during a hardship, like in that poem. So I looked to the sky and said, "Jesus?"...and I saw one set of shitprints behind me. I smiled. Welcome to L.A.