Nosferatu: The Memoirs of a Vampire

Browsing through Barnes and Noble, I find that the "memoirs" genre is quite popular. The lives of historical figures and present-day celebrities seem to capture the eye of readers, the occasional glancer, and the obsessed historian. I believe we as a society are intrigued by the notion that someone than ourselves could lead such a noteworthy day-to-day existence. We are absolutely sure that these men and women couldn't have the mundane routine that our lives possess. But honestly, the ordinary isn't very exciting, so we are drawn to the extraordinary achievements, the inspiring words of wisdom, or the scandalous romances of the famous. We seek the source to infamy. How did they accomplish this goal? As an amateur humorist, I have to probe deeper into the shallow waters of self-absorbency we all wade in. There is no denying the fact that immortality is on the brain. Countless retellings of Dracula's eternal promenade in the land of the living and the dead has made Bela Lugosi an American Icon. How then, can we live on forever? I must say as I examine the options, the written word does trump the lacerations of the hellion. However, many men can sit in front of their keyboards and go through the exercise of writing their life's stories, but it is a handful that have experienced this world in such a fantastic fashion that oral tradition does not do it justice. It must be archived for the benefit of generations to come. The unresting question replays itself in my mind. I must reflect on my life, and inquire of its legacy. Surely this perceptive will move me to live touching those I encounter in a more positive and productive manner. I plan to make each day I live prose-worthy...all things considered, I've got the New York Best Seller's List to reach.

Yuppies Begot Affluenza

I wrote much earlier regarding a group of individuals, The Lost Boys, I see quite often. I sit and watch. Much like a birdwatcher, I stare at the peacocks strut their talents and egos. In this psychological analysis, I sit on the couch and the subjects perform "mind tricks" on the unsuspecting victims. They refer to themselves as experts, as masters. There is no question that they have developed a skill that is marketable and financially rewarding. However, after a year of pouring over the data and research, comfortably on the couch of course, I see countless patterns of hubris. These artists have two prime objectives to teach their craft to the layperson, and to convince the customer that the craft is financially worthy. They are selling a luxury, and in any industry that produces a nonessential, you got to work hard on making the public believe that it is a necessity. Yet in this economy, when luxury is, well, a luxury, these misguided souls are thoroughly under the impression that they are worth "all the tea in North Korea." They act as if their clients, their bread and butter, are fortunate, lucky, might I say, blessed by the gods to have them pocketing their money. I guess it really comes down to customer service, and this generation of twenty-somethings just don't "get it." Why? They were given without hardship; they have taken as if entitled; and they have disposed of others as capricious children. They are a perfect example of what happens when "Yuppies of the eighties" propagate. As I sit on the couch, and I will do so today, I will see arrogance on parade. Men and women assured that they are doing me a favor, putting themselves out, or being bothered. Might I suggest, you ponder your place in the clients' lives. Admiration can turn into loyalty or just turn. Treat the patron as your livelihood, and you will have a "lifer."

It Mathers To Me

I love Eminem's new singles. This man is an incredible rapper. Okay, I get it; he has women issues, and I think it stems from the horrible relationship with his mother. However, the white boy can rhyme. "Crack A Bottle" is an awesome display of rapping styles. When you hear classic Eminem fuse into the intense styling of Dr. Dre, and then flow effortlessly into the laid-back soothing sound of 50 Cent himself, it is, without a doubt, a work of musical art. The rhythm is evidently distinct, yet the beat is never compromised. What a body of work this Detroit native has had! Doesn't surprise me that Motor Town would produce a unique musical styling from someone who would have been swept under the rug. If this hit couldn't be enough, couldn't be at the cutting edge, he unleashes "We Made You." This burlesque fantasy is so melodic and dulcet; easily threading a rap stanza as if it was part of early twentieth century music. Marshall, my hat off to what I am convinced is creative and praise worthy. So...Nick Cannon has a beef against you, but so did Christiana Aguilera. This storm shall pass. I just wish that you could find a better subject matter than your disrespect toward women. Hold on to the genius, just filter the hate a little more. "Relapse," as it suggests, has me going back, wanting more. I thought there was no more Eminem; like the Beastie Boys, the novelty of a white rapper had faded into music history, but lo and behold, Slim Shady is present and accounted for. This, Mathers matters.

Tag Them and Bag Them

Sometimes the best thing I can do is stick my feelings in a box. Those complicated emotions that make no sense, I place in a compartment. A taped-off area in my mind far enough away from the surface, so I know that it is there, but I don't have to deal with it...quit yet. I am sure that this is not the way a healthy individual should approach emotional disturbances in the force, but it seems to work for me. I need the Jedi Council to evaluate the feelings, before sending out a Master and his Apprentice. I have tried the "deal-with-your-emotions-right-now," "air-your-feelings," confrontational approach. Everything seems to snowball. The emotions are so supercharged; they take on a life of their own. They grab onto anything else in the vicinity, and the molehill becomes Mt. Everest. No. I need to ponder. I need to make lists. I need to self-examine. I need to leave it alone, and then come back to it. When I have hurt someone with something I have said or done, I need to take a time-out and think about what I have done, but more importantly, what I should have done. This method should produce reformation. When I have a difficult choice to make, I need to sit quietly, and make a list. Analyze the situation. Prepare for each scenario. When I am faced with the possibility of losing something near and dear, I have to talk to myself or meditate in prayer. I need the solace of nature to hear the voice of comfort or reason. I can not always do this process immediately, so I have to label the feeling and send it into storage. I might even walk away with the intent not to reclaim the emotion, but I have discovered that when I am well-rested and relaxed I am better equipped to address the feelings, the problems, and the so-called crisis. My method might be psychological destructive, but I need the process. I need the 12 steps. I want to go through each box with care. I am sure I will get all the compartments dealt with by...oh, let say senility.

See The Whole Picture, Jig-Saw.

Low self-image is my chronic condition, at least that is what I am told. I find that after years of observation and experience, I am more equipped to understand and interpret the shadows, the dim-lit alleys, and the by-ways off the beaten path. It is very interesting that the youthful gentleman looks at a woman's depth of emotion as a struggle with self-image. I recognize that criticism has always been a defective trait in the feminine disposition. We often find ourselves comparing and contrasting the superficial, the insignificant, and the trivial. However, desire, disappointment, and angst are not low self-esteem. They are parts to the puzzle. You place every piece on the table. You might even divide them by color or shape. All that is apparent is the disorder, the disarray, the fragments. It is a process pulling the pieces together, and creating the whole image. A lustful banter, a political analysis, a comedic anecdote may interlock, and expose the soul...the picture. The pain and discontentment are the pieces that you are certain do not fit. They have no rhyme nor reason. At times, you struggle to make them fit, make sense of them. You wish that someone with a new pair of eyes could come in and find their places in the puzzle. Low self-image is not the box. The box is attractive and demonstrates the put-together picture, however, it contains all the fragments. Of course, low self-image is a piece. It is a part not the whole. Feelings of uncertainty, fear, or the weight of the world on your shoulders are not due to feeling "fat." Life's trials and responsibilities stir up emotions that are bleak and wearying. A young man's trouble might not necessarily register equally to a woman's thoughts filled with concern and preoccupation for the future. Her needs are many, her duty is endless, and her wants are placed aside. So when I lack the ability to figure out where a piece goes, I get frustrated, and look for another piece. It is not low self-image. I am just focusing on another part of the picture. I want you to fit Jig-saw.

Les Miserables Is the Music I Hear

Fantine's song touched me.

"There was a time when men were kind
When their voices were soft
And their words inviting

There was a time when love was blind
And the world was a song
And that song was exciting
There was a time
Then it all went wrong

I dreamed a dream in time gone by
When hope was high
And life worth living
I dreamed that life would never die
I dreamed that God would be forgiving
Then I was young and I obeyed
And dreams were made and used and wasted
There was no ransom to be paid
No song unsung, no wine untasted

But the tigers come at night
With their voices soft as thunder
As they tear your hope apart
And they turn your dream to shame

He shared a summer by my side
He filled my days with endless wonder
He took my childhood in his stride
But he was gone when autumn came

And still I dream he'll come to me
That we will know the nights together
But there are dreams that cannot be
And there are storms we cannot weather

I had a dream my life would be
So different from the hell I'm living
So different now from what it seemed
Now life has killed the dream I dreamed"

I'd Like Fries with my Revolution

Obama has been in office for 100 days. I think everyone who was fearing that the heavens would plummet, can sigh a breath of relief. Although the economic situation in this country hasn't found the sunnier side of the street, Obama, as the chosen one, has given us a ray of economic hope or should I say, given Fidel Castro an entire sun beam of hope. The President has lifted the travel embargo to Cuba. Wow! I wasn't shocked. Democrats have been trying to lift the embargo for years, and they have finally succeeded. It is the plan of this administration to allow family members of Cubans and Cuban Americans to travel freely, but let's be serious. The only travel will occur one way. Cuban Americans will do what they have always done. They will visit Cuba with tons of medicine, underwear, and soap to family members that can't afford it or that the ration line ran out of. I think it naive or maybe politically wise of the Cuban American community to declare complete support for the embargo. The community has been notorious for going through Mexico to visit Cuba. Am I fuzzy on the principle here? If the whole point of the embargo is to economically weaken Cuba in order for the dictator to relinquish control over the island, I don't think back-door entrance is doing the trick. The highly educated population lives in poverty, and yet there has been no uprising. Cubans just want out without effort. No revolution. They just want to buy Pepsi any time they want, or get from their family for free. Perhaps, making the people taste capitalism more frequently might shake them up, and get them to realize that their Cuban American cousins can't do it for them. They want it. They have to do it for themselves. Civil rights violations, food and medical supply shortages, and travel and religious restrictions should be enough to get the crowd fired up. But when five television channels of Fidel blast the horrors of the "Junited" States' embargo and your family continues to send you what you need, you believe there is a North American Monster. What can you do? Just turn on the Salsa music, and pray that the revolution will be over soon. Viva la revolucion de complacencia!

Bump and Grind To A Little Distraction

Dancing in a club is an interesting adventure. I use the word interesting because I haven't decided if I like it or not. The cocktails blur my opinion on the matter. There are three main components to the experience: finding the prime location, the ability or the inability to dance, and the infamous spilling of drinks.

You get to the club in a tastefully slutty top. You believe that this low-cut-cleavage-showing-back-exposed blouse will open the Red Sea. The problem is always the same; every girl is sporting the identical look...some better than others. Was that catty? You push and pull your friends through the crowd to find a vacated space where your party can dance, can talk, and can see the possible candidates in full frontal. I feel I have to do Geometry in my head when I look at the dance floor. If the floor is 8 feet by 9 feet, and there is a group of good looking guys to my right, but the bar is at the other end, and the bar tender has a nice smile, how will I get to the restrooms in these heels fast enough to discuss the dork trying to dance with us? It's difficult to do such a complicated equation, when you have had two rum and Cokes.

The next stage of development is the problem of dancing. Whether you can or not is not the dilemma. I am speaking of the sardine method of moving to the music. The bass is thumping, the energy is electric, and you are ready to let loose and show the world what you got. Unfortunately, there are two guys, three girls and your friends all on top of you. So, you do the same two steps side to side. Trying to enjoy yourself while you feel everyone copping a feel. You bump purses, elbows, and step on toes. Oh, let's not forget to mention the girl with the long hair that whipps you right in the eyes. Suddenly, the signal is given by one of your gals to exit and regroup. Should we leave the dance floor? We just got this spot? Desperate times, desperate measure! An attempt is made to broaden the circle of dance. If you create a space in your group, maybe you can filter out some people from the floor. It is a strategy with no guarantees, but you go for it. Like a Hail Mary in football, you take the chance, and hope that it works.

Finally, the drinking problem the majority of society has in clubs is a reoccurring theme, I would personally like to see eliminated. They pay outrages amounts of money for a drink with second grade liquor, and then are physically challenged in keeping it in their glass. They feel a need to demonstrate their ability to consume alcohol and keep a beat all at the same time. It is impossible to do, especially in the severe conditions of an overcrowded dance floor. There is always someone who is under the impression they have more room for flaying arms, and in that moment, the drink spills. The only consolation is that it happens so frequently, you just get used to the dampness, and continue dancing with your friends. Your feet are sticky. Your top is moist. Your jeans smell of cranberry juice. It is the risks we are willing to take.

The experience is harmless enough, so I return. I find that every time we go, we smile, we laugh. I guess a room full of strangers, gyrating to loud music, and getting tipsy is therapeutic to our stress-filled lives. Viva le club!

Absolved? Is That What You Young People Call It These Days

I got it the minute I looked at you. There was nothing left, but the cold reality...it was over. I tried. Everyone says so. Perhaps, it's even written down somewhere. I did all I could. I have reviewed the facts over a hundred times in my mind, and yes, it is confirmed. There was nothing else I could do. I just can't get the information past the think-tank stage. They are just suggestions, ideas, just brainstorming. I'm not quite sold on it. The presentation is lacking something. I'm not convinced. I think the audience is jaded. I should know, I am the audience, the demographic, the focus group. I just can't see myself wanting it enough. In this economy, and with a new Larry David/ Woody Allen project coming in June, you really have to pitch me the concept of life without guilt. So, go back to the the drawing board, and pull an all-nighter if you must. I need a fresh angle, because I'm not feeling it. And that's the problem...I just don't feel.

Meredith in the Midst of the Darkness

It's night again. The lights are off. When you are in a poorly lit room, a lot can happen or at least, imagined. Being in the dark is a lot like being in an ocean. The water engulfs you. You are subject to it. I must submit to the blackness. I want to break free from its grip, but I have gone down this road before, and the journey is long and complicated. The road has no direction. No clear indicators of an end. I do find that Meredith is a distant glimmer. A flicker that I am drawn to in hopes of finding a final destination. A place full of light and irrational contentment. Meredith, bring some distraction, some diversion. You make the path to enlightenment less difficult, less demanding. You are able to pull me through the current, through the cross roads. Frivolousness and foolishness that you provide do the trick for me. Come on, who doesn't like magic? Slight of hand is useful in changing your perception. You are exceptional at creating an alternate universe. Bizarro me would be good right about now. I am sick of the deep waters, and I am ready to wade in the shallow end. Yeah...shallow would be a refreshing turn. Shallow would be light. I really need light.

The Guy in the Red Shirt

I travel about a 5 mile radius. It isn't a surprise I see a lot of the same people in the same places. Like the woman at Starbucks with six kids, who has to be one of those Mormon wives from the polygamous compound in Texas. I look at her almost everyday and wonder to myself how is "Big Love" good living. She looks like hell...they all look like hell. I think Child Protective Services in Schleicher County should have hired "What Not To Wear's" crew for an ambush makeover. Then there is the kid that bags my groceries, he is always talking to the clerks about the latest video games. It's like he has had one conversation for the past year. He is frozen in time when I leave, and then is revived to resume the exact same dialogue again. Halo, Resident Evil, or fill-in-the-blank movie sponsored game. That's all he talks about, that is his full repertoire, and I hear it every week. There is one gal I love to see every week, and that is my esthetician. My one hour BFF. My confidant. She listens to me as she performs some act of pampering. I lay there getting waxed, getting exfoliated, or getting a mani/ pedi, while I open up emotionally. She listens to me rant, while massaging my neck and shoulders...ahhh. In contrast, there is the gal that I see every day at the gym. I think there is one of these in every gym. You know who I am talking about...the lady who has the Nike gym clothes, hair done, make up on and doesn't work out. They spend the whole time talking...while sitting on the equipment I want to use. I do believe this woman has actually gained weight, yet she is at the gym every day. Moving on. There is Alan. I have a deep appreciation for this kid that mans the counter at the corner bakery. He gives me free stuff. I don't know if he has a crush on me or I remind him of his mother, but yeah! He will offer me coffee and baked goods with no charge...crush away, Alan. Finally, the man in the red shirt is my in-house flirt. The resident "come-hither-look" guy. He smiles at me, nods an hello, or sometimes give me a passing compliment on my outfit. I find it fun. I think every woman should have a red shirt guy. What would I do without these familiar faces? They establish my routine. They are essential to my daily grind. These very souls make up my universe. Those men and women bring order and harmony to my world. Oh my God! I really need to get out of this town.

Did You Notice My Dress?

I believe in the little black dress. I think every woman should own one. It should hug her curves, and accentuate her God-given endowments. I think it should be short enough to entice, but not so much that you're advertising the goods for free. I think that the right dress can make a woman control any room, and let's face it for women, Commander and Chief is always the prettiest girl. Ahhh...the little black dress is a feminine treasure, unless it comes in blue. I find that blue, teal, or even an aqua dress cut just right can be quite the eye-opener, and that a neck line that runs south always gets attention. When that dress is on, ladies, we're on! Our outlook has changed. Look out! Here she comes! An older more mature man might see a woman in this little blue dress, and shower her with clever conversation in order to buy time enjoying the vista. However, younger men lack a lot more refinement in this area of male-female interaction with the intent to observe. A young man might gawk, stare, or even make a rude comment or jester at the sight of this particular "little number." Or they might even ignore her completely. Men of limited experience lend an ear! A little black dress is like a tiara. We don't put it on so that no one notices. I understand that you are caught between the bipolar urges inside of you. You evade in order to ensure a sense of propriety and decency, yet on the other hand, you fix your sights on her until you have mentally accomplished the undressing. It is difficult to imagine the dilemma a simple wardrobe selection can do to a man. Glamour and In Style profit from a man's voyeuristic needs and a woman's desire to be pretty. I find that as long as Allure, Vogue, and Bizarre keep producing those "show stoppers" , we are bond to find the perfect one. We have a moral obligation to search out the "wow-she-looks-hot" dress. Every fashion line suggests, encourages, well more like demands we have one. So gentlemen, the cards are stacked against you. That little black dress will make its appearance, and when it does, don't look away nor ogle just pay the compliment with witty discourse and enjoy the view.

What I Meant Was Meredith Black

Dear Meredith,

It has been awhile since I wrote to you, so I am taking this opportunity to let you know what is happening in my life. I have had a lot of changes occur. I am not the same person you knew or thought you knew. Due to the circumstances that have presented themselves, I have chosen to do what I believe is best for those that share my inner circle. I am not afraid or timid any more. I am not bound by self-loathing or self-criticism. I have decided to hold fast to the very fact that I am a woman ready for any trial or triumphant that comes my way. I stand alone when the rubber hits the road. I just want you to know that I am standing, sometimes on one foot, but I am still standing. I don't air my grievances because I want a response, because I know you are not able to. I air them so that you know that in the midst of everything you are someone I reflect upon. I reflect on the carefree feelings you bring to my perplexed heart. I reflect on the uncomplicated conversations we have had. I reflect on the way you brought into vivid color every emotion. I reflect on how you made my future appear, however, delusional. I reflect, yet you are not a consideration. I ponder, yet you are not a reference point. I imagine, yet you are not a reason why. Could I let you know face to face in a soft conversation? Listen without the disturbances of this world. Laugh without hurrying off. Savor the wit and the puns without a time restraint. I am seeking after an opportunity to let you know the thoughts that I entertain. Chatter. Dialogue. Yes, I have been known to be a great conversationalist.



Sincerely is what I meant Meredith,

Tomorrow Make Time For Rehab

I have this nasty habit. It is something that I have tried to get rid of, but at which I fail miserably. I have made resolutions at the beginning of the year and by the month's end fell hard. I have made pacts with friends and relations to keep me accountable and I just can't keep my end of the bargain. I have even kept a journal to record my progress and regression in order to plan out and execute a workable strategy, but the journal has collected dust. I have a bad addiction, a tedious routine, and a quirk in my personality that is destructive. I must say that religious leaders and theological entities don't have a position on my problem. I have never read or heard any sermon, dissertation, or seminar on the subject. There must be some opinion by the political right or even the liberal activists on this. It has had to have been addressed by someone in a position of intellectual authority. Perhaps a dean in some upstate university that caters to the indecently wealthy might have a viewpoint that is worth lending an ear to. I fail to believe that I am the only one that carries this burden, bears this cross, or treads through these waters. My weakness should be on the agenda of the conference room of a think tank in a metropolitan area. How can we combat this with reason, logic, and human understanding? Well, I wish them all the best of luck. I have tried everything, made every possible attempt, and have undergone the latest in quick fixes. However, if an Ivy league graduate wants to take a stab at it, please give it your best college try. I would appreciate it. I have no objection to a Hollywood executive taking the regns on this ailment of mine, and creating a reality show to air in the Fall schedule. I could even see it as a mid-season replacement. Hence a quandary is there to profit from, and I know that with the right advertisement my filthy habit will be cured and I will be able to buy that summer house in the Hamptons.

Tiger Beat At My Age

There are some celebrities I find delightful. Yes, I said it, delightful! I am not just saying this because they are hot, or play great characters, or are extraordinary actors...no, I say this because they have a quality that transcends the screen and pulls at me, attracts me, and makes me want to leave house and home. There is one in particular that has a hold on me. The allurement has no scientific evidence except I feel it. There is a Seinfeld episode in which Kramer is accused by the Latvian Orthodox Church of possessing an aura called the kervorcah. An animal magnetism that women can't resist. This one guy has it; oh, does he have it. He can change this sophisticated, articulate, well-educated lady into a star-struck, screaming, obsessed teenager. I get so excited, so elated, so electrified by the mere mention of his name. I can not explain the power he has over me. I know it is a fantasy, a delusion, a well constructed with thoughtful detailed day dream, yet the desire is so strong that I am overwhelmed and weakened when I see his face on a magazine or hear his voice on T.V. I literally stop in my tracks to read anything about him. I do believe I might be border lining on an illness of some sort. However, I wouldn't be the first...Elvis fans, Beetles fans, New Kids On The Block fans. The sensuality of some individuals is stronger than others, and maintains a supernatural control over us. When I see him perform, my heart begins to beat so hard and so fast. You know when you can sense each palpitation so distinctly, you are convinced you might be suffering a coronary. Thus is the dominance of a true star, a 21st century Valentino...Seth Rogen. I think I'm drooling.

Morally Iffy For Your Approval

I look at the persons that drape history with acts of cruelty and terror. The events that they orchestrated to bring about human destruction, human defilement, and human degradation. These souls walked on this earth with one purpose to spread evil and carnal injustice. We read about and discussed them in philosophy classes and analyzed them in sociological essays. They are hit-rock-bottom, plummeted-to-the-seventh-level-of-hell individuals, and yet, they don't scare me. You see they only have one place to go...that is up. They can only be redeemed. They are perfect candidates for righteous living because they have done the despicable and have arrived at hell with their hand baskets. However, the ethically ambiguous, the ones that appear with white hats and sinister smiles, the glad-handling, get-along-with-others, say-the-right-thing so and sos, they are the ones to look out for. They offer you a good conscience with a side of "maybe," upright decisions with a little "what if." You see, it is easy to be drawn in. The surroundings seem wholesome, almost "Leave it to Beaver-esque," so you have to ask yourself: "Is it wrong?" They always have the best suggestions. They are enthusiastic and real crowd pleasers. That's the problem! They can charismatically convince any gathering to do shots until someone drops, or play strip poker, or explore an alternative lifestyle in a game of truth or dare. Yeah, these spectators of the naughty are always cheering you on, encouraging the "no-nos" and bringing on the "girls-gone-wild" moments in your life. We all have a friend like this, maybe you are that friend. You say to your buddy, "Chug, chug, chug, chug!" And he does. Four Irish Car Bombs later...last night's activities become the topic of conversation as you sit around nursing the hangover. They just have a special knack for getting you to not think twice, to let loose, to forget about pesky consequences. I have to give props to their effort and ability to subtly bring down the good ones. Their finesse and their suave aptitude toward redefining standards of conduct has to be commended. Is it nature or nurture that makes them artist in the field of spinning principles? All I know is the morally iffy seem to always be the life of the party. So, we continue to be prodded by their influence, and with no pensive pause take a jelly-shot and flash our boobs.

Ask Not What Your Country

I think I have finally decided my life's work. The one thing that motivates me, moves me forward, and manipulates my every thought. I want to be President of General Motors. I know that I can do this job. I know that others will benefit from it, and I will be a better person if I serve in this capacity. This is not a capricious whim of mine, after hearing that the position was now available, it was confirmed in my heart that my time had come. I must take the challenge, and bring order to the largest car manufacturer in the U.S. Can you think of any higher calling than this? There are so many selfish people who dedicate their time to nonprofit organizations that distribute food and clothing to the ailing and poverty stricken. This American "ask-what-you-can-do-for-your-country" attitude of so many must end. I have been guilty of this. I just can't stand by any more and waste my life educating and encouraging adolescents. It just sickens me to think that I have spent all this time working with juveniles for close to minimum pay with a post graduate degree, when I could have been changing the world. Touching the lives of so many who wanted a mid-life crisis "ride," and yet, I chose to inspire the future citizens of this country. Shame on me! General Motors here I come...just call me Madame President.

Taking Time to Ponder: Life on Telemundo

Taking Time to Ponder: Life on Telemundo

Life on Telemundo

Have you ever seen a telenovela? You know, a Spanish soap opera. I love watching them, because the actors are so over the top, I find myself fascinated. The drama that I am currently watching has sucked me in to the point of no return. The two main characters are incredible. Their interaction blows scenes away. He is young but has very much experienced life. The urban artist. He has taken risks that have endangered himself and others. He has had love affairs that Danielle Steel would die for. He is a rugged man with a charming disposition, and uses his talents to seduce women, to enrage men with jealousy. He is proud and in complete control until one day she enters his life. A worthy adversary. She is beautiful and smart. Witty and overwhelmingly cultured. He is spellbound by her exquisite physique. Enchanted by her alluring eyes. Captivated by her soft silky skin. When she enters the room, all eyes are transfixed on her...and then the games begin. The banter between the artist and the sophisticated patron is like a well played tennis match. Back and forth they exchange quips, puns, and anecdotes. It is like watching Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert in "It Happened One Night," but in Spanish, in color, and with a lot more cleavage showing. Don't think this couple is going to be a couple...no way, that would be too simple of a story. Both of our main characters are involved with other people. Thus the conflict. Do I have your attention yet? The catch to this great tale is that these two are not lovers, but the reaction to them--they are just friends but the world imagines more. That is the best part, they are amused by the reaction of the audience. An ego fed with attention tends to be BIG. They revel in all the scrutiny. They find amusement in the assumptions, the intrigue, and the simple obesession of their relationship.

Looking for Love in all the Right Places

I am so proud of Rhianna and Chris Brown. They are stepping up, and showing the world what commitment really is. Sticking by their soul mate, these two kids have a wonderful future ahead. I can tell. They "get" each other. It was about time they were going to tie the knot. I mean after all, they are royalty in Hollywood, and are the perfect couple. They have looks, personality, great careers in music, and hot, hot chemistry between them. I know in my heart of hearts that these two are going to last. Let's not look down on their rushed nuptials, but celebrate the union of two souls who have found their life-partner at such a young age. As we gaze over the images the media has been able to capture of their fairy book love and passion, we should be encouraged that this generation is an example to us all. Young love is strong, and is able to endure anything and everything. They are the personification of Taylor Swift's romantic fantasies. Where would we be without love stories? Romeo and Juliet, Paris and Helen of Troy, Edward and Bella. Regardless of the tragic deaths, onset of war, and unleashing of the undead, these kids found true love. They went against the odds...and love conquered all. The new inductees have taken their place in history. Like these romantic icons, Rhianna and Chris Brown will be remembered for their magical courtship and their spectacular wedding. However, let us never forget that it is the way they conducted themselves, their relationship as a couple that will be their legacy.

News Flash...First Lady Can't Balance Book On Head

Breaking news...Michelle Obama goes sleeveless. I mean really. The economy sucks, there are troops overseas, and Octo-mom is trying to rally support; do we have time for the First Lady's fashion choices? Don't get me wrong; I love fashion and the vanity that follows. I just think she isn't the prime candidate to prosecute. I would think the ensemble selection of Mickey Rourke would have given the Fashion Police enough material to convict. Ugly has been caught on tape for years, and the media has done a lovely job reporting the faux pas of the rich and famous. However, I think they are way off with Michel Obama. I think she looks great. She looks classy and sensible. She reflects the hard work of a style consultant, which by the way would be my dream job. So what if she has exposed arms? Last time I checked, they didn't flap in the wind so more power to her. Now, what she really needs is a posture coach or at least, a chiropractor. Some professional that will help her out with that slouch she has going on. Stand up straight, for heaven's sake what would your mother say? Marian Robinson, please tell your daughter that she needs to stand like a woman not a line backer. I know she is tall, but so are supermodels. Would it kill you to pose like a lady? Her clothing selection isn't the dilema here. We need a First Lady that puts her shoulders back and her chin up. MSNBC has to concentrate on the real issues. Must be a slow news day.

The Alchemist Within.

Do remember the moment you saw that person that made you feel electric? Do recall the raw emotion of chemistry? Do inventory of the blast, of the boom, of the expulsion of light and heat when you finally kissed? I know that for some, the occasion is few and far between, might I say even once-in-a-life-time, now for others, it is a daily occurrence. However, think of one of those magical moments with the opposite sex. You are both sitting down, perhaps introduced by someone else. Your eyes meet then turn away. You don't want to look too eager, too interested, too desperate, so you continue the illusion of casual conversation mixed with banter. Oh glorious banter! a woman's secret code,the words mean nothing and everything at the same time. You poor men just don't have a chance, because you have no idea how to decipher it. Then you send out the first of a series of beacons, the little signals to let your target know he or she has been singled out from the rest of the group. The touching of their hand after a funny joke, the stroking of the neck as you listen more intently, (now ladies this is a biggie in our arsenal) the wetting of the lips or the arching of the eyebrow is a green light. After you have put up one or more of these sign posts, the dreaded waiting starts. Will the beacon be answered? Was my message clear? Is it a deal? Bam! The serve is returned. A rally of flirtatious looks, comments, and taps begin. Your conversation is limited to only the two of you. Everyone else in the room realizes that the two of you are off the market, at least for that moment. As a shot of courage is sent through your body, the words ring out, "Can I walk you to your...?" With that said you know what comes next, the highly anticipated kiss. I get chills just writing about it. The first kiss is probably one of the best things about being a grown-up. Why is it such a big deal? The molecular make up of skin is the same for everyone. If you've kissed one person, it should be the same experience every time. Why the fireworks? I am sure that the scientific community can tells us what occurs biologically and psychologically. The changes in chemistry in our bodies or a hormonal flux...whatever the test tube tells us, I know that magic exist and it is great!

OMG

What do you say when you have had too much to drink? What have you texted under the influence? Where have you gone tipsy? We tend to say, write, and do the strange when liquor is involved. I sat with my brother the other day, watching the game on T.V. at a "fun food" restaurant. We exchanged funny anecdotes while under the persuasion of wine ourselves. I retold this little diddy that I hope will amuse you. This young man worked with a friend of mine. They had a good working relationship the kind that you actually enjoy. They would go out to lunch or have a drink after work. They talk about work but then could switch to any other topic, serious or frivolous in a bat of an eye. They were buddies, nothing romantic. Well she thought that until she went out with her girl friends to the movies, insert chick flick of choice here, and then proceeded the sport's bar next to the theater. She had a very trendy Martini in which, and I quote, "Is there any cranberry juice in this Cosmo?" A lot of vodka and on an empty stomach went to her head, really fast. The obvious solution was to order another, so she did. It is these moments when an internal alarm should go off in women. Unfortuantely, Bill Gates hasn't been able to get that little project going. I suppose Ketel One likes us alarm-free for their finacial benefit. She started talking. She went on and on about this guy at work as if he were the second coming of George Clooney. He was described as sexy and charming, irresistible eyes, with a come-hither smile. He was manly and tender hearted. Every girl at the table envisioned the perfect fantasy man. When she paused to take in the elaborate account of this Zeus in the workplace, she did what Patti Stranger warns about every week on the Millionaire Matchmaker. She went for her phone and did the unthinkable...she texted under the influence. This co-worker was going to get the message of a life-time. Drinking and texting is dangerous because the other person has no idea the sincerity of the message. Yeah, it starts out innocent with the casual "what's up?" A quick response from the intended just electrifies the situation. My friend can't help herself. She blasts back, "having gr8 time w friends n thought u wud love it." She takes her thumb off "send," and in that instant he replies with "wish I cud b ther." "No! He didn't just say that," she thinks. She recognizes she was not sober enough to make a good decision,so what happens... she makes the invite. After about ten minutes of flirting and innuendos, he commits to heading out to the bar. She emoticons and the waiting begins. She heads to the bathroom to primp, and suddenly the buzz fades. As a punch to the stomach, she just realizes, "What the f*** did I just do?" Going out to sit with her gals, she goes through every excuse to get out of there. She acts out every possible scenario in her head. What to do? Sobriety is a two way street. Thankfully, he texts back the most comforting words in the cellular universe, "c u mon. thx 4 asking. LOL." Now she just had to face him on Monday at work...OMG.

Want to Grab a Drink After Work?

Sitting in the dimly lit bar, I saw every personality known to the modern age. The men and women that surrounded me had only one prime directive to ensure a night of happiness. What type of happiness? I wasn't sure myself, because as the consumption of alcohol continued the mission was unclear. I put aside my civilian attempt to psychologically diagnose the patrons of this fine spirit establishment, and finally found my companions for the evening. An odd group of misfits that had no desires to discuss politics, religion, or current events. They had come to lay aside the burdens and frustrations of the day, and enter into the tabernacle of the young professional...the lounge. The sanctuary of the semi-affluent is where we gathered to find the serenity that the work week had viciously stolen. The state of nirvana in a glass could only be achieved with the fellowship of the under appreciated artist. We complained, discussed, vented, and over analyzed the injustices that had occurred. We had given , total body and soul, to our craft, yet discovered that our short-comings were visible and our vulnerability displayed. The years were accumulating and the expectations were falling short. It was in that moment of enlightenment that the best remedy to the unfortunate cares of the present company was a round of the agave plant's nectar. The sweet and warm sensation of this Meso-American delicacy opened the flood-gates of truth and inhibition. A volume of information was disclosed by each card-holding member. It was similar to the sessions in an addicts group. As the conversation ran its course and time slipped away, we decisively departed with our breakthroughs adorning our countenance. We could face our disillusions, phobias, and chronic quirks with all twelve steps accomplished...well until the next Happy Hour.

My Friendship Caste System

Why does it seem that people in my life get categorized? I have different degrees of friends. It is as if I subconsciously developed a caste system among my acquaintances. I do not discriminate due to social status, religious affiliation, or financial benefit. I have just come to the understanding that not all friends are created equally. There are friends that I rarely see. Life takes its toll and causes our interaction to be few and far between. However, when we do see each other, it is as though we saw each other just the other day. Time passes and we resume as if time stopped. I love these friends. They are low maintenance, always a good time, and I swell with excitement at each and every meeting. Now in contrast, I have some pals that are situational or circumstantial. I am speaking of those individuals with whom I have befriended solely because we work together, we sit next to each other at the little league games, or we are in the same exercise class. They are the apex of superficial and casual. My interaction with them is clearly marked by our common ground...literally. I wouldn't find myself associating with them outside of the designated area. If the brave soul tries to initiate some other meeting, many times it does not materialize, or we end up just talking about work, or the team, or the class. I find this to be a largely populated caste. In fact, these were my friends in high school, my Chemistry buddy, my stead-fast partner in PE or my go-to in Honors American Lit when small group assignments were given. At last, there is the die hard friend. The one person I am willing to leave my prized possessions with. The one person that I tell everything to because they know me that well, the kindred spirit that I see in thick and thin, the one I hold hands with when tears flow, the comrade in sharing deep truths and silly observations. The companion who I talk to at least three times a day like daily food servings. This friend, you love without question. Your fights or disagreements are forgiven quickly and your sacrifices for each other are badges of honor. Your support group, therapist, and informant all wrapped up in one. The expert witness of your life willing to testify to the world who you are, and how you have grown. This is my best friend. Friends are plentiful in my life, but there is only one that holds this title.

Bright-eyed and Bushy-tailed

I feel a new outlook on life. I spent some time cocooning in reflection and deep thought. I do believe that in the course of this psychological retreat, I failed to embrace the inner "frat boy." I am convinced that we all have a little "Old School," "Wedding Crashers," and "Zoolander" in all of us. I have chosen to set free my giddy child, and head to the "happiest place on earth." My amusement park of choice might take shape in a Swedish Massage, a gourmet meal, or a pee-in-your-pants funny movie. The exact format could change merely based on my mood, but ladies and gentlemen, I am secure in this that roses aren't going to smell themselves. I lift my glass and toast tomorrow...what fun will we have?

Quiet on the Western Front...I Don't Think So

I began the new year as if I was running the 100 yard dash. I have filled my days with appointments, activities, and extra work. I have to admit I kind of fall into the "idle hands are the Devil's play thing" ideology. I would love to grab my cup of Joe, sit outside, and contemplate God's creation. I am just way too "hyper." I need, yes I need, to contribute to something or someone at all times. I want to stretch my mind, push my body, and make new friends. I obsess frequently. I get a hold of something new and I run with it. I sprint full force, no pit stops, no water breaks, then I peter out. Think of me as those firecrackers that zip into the air, and then fizzle into the darkness as quickly as they went up. There is a woman of leisure somewhere inside me; she is just exhausted by the fourteen year old boy that has endless amounts of nervous energy vying for space in my psyche. Get ready 2009, I am ready to take you on. I might even do something about the Middle East. Shoot! Why not? One more project won't kill me...

Work It!

Can I buy a senate seat, Alex? I cannot believe this happened. A story like this leaks out before Obama has officially taken office. We just voted in change and hope, and the media seem to be all over it. Wow, look how they've turned so quickly. Is the love gone? I just thought perhaps, naively, that someone did this sort of thing. You know a position, a post, a promotion one might say, that cleaned up political messes. I mean the buck must stop somewhere. I feel that this generation of newsmen have it too easy. They don't sing for their supper, anymore; it's more like a hum, and then they are handed a three course meal. Shouldn't there be some entity involved in taking care of these matters? Hidden in the many bogus committees, shouldn't our tax dollars be used to get rid of the situation aforementioned. Obama really needs to hire someone to kill the story or get the reporter silenced. The mid 20th century presidents seemed to have people to take care of such journalists. Let see, how about hiring Cuban exiles to break into a hotel...wait, that has been done to death. I just want my source of news to arrive to me with the sweat and blood of a hard-working American journalist. I don't think that is too much to ask for...work it!

Last Summer

Entry: Face to Face
There was no way I could have understood all that was about to happen to me. The stirring of emotion that I had believed had been lost to the past, took place that afternoon. Oh, how my senses awakened. It was a disturbing desire that only could have been described by Shelley. An entity unto itself possessed me. It seemed unnatural; it was forged from a primeval lust. I did not inquire. I chose not to investigate or ponder an explanation. I gave myself to it without reservation, and it would emerge as the master of the days to come.
I was drawn immediately. The attraction was instant. I saw before me a fantasy. Curiosity took me over. I was left with a single thought. This obsession overpowered me, leaving my mind perplexed and my body wanting. The present became everything to me. I embraced each moment. Was this what I had envisioned in my seclusion? Was this the mirage I had created in my quietness? I had gone so long without feeling. My heart was vacant, and I had resigned to live melancholy.
A fire surfaced. The embers kindled by mutual desire. I rehearsed the scenario in my mind. The place, the time, the details were personally designed. I oversaw each aspect of the instant when desire would become force. This magnetic force would drive touch, voice, and soul into solitary matter. At least, I wished it so. I hoped that that time would come. I waited to see if there was a possibility. Was I left with only dreams? Did I play a part alone in an elaborate play?
The mornings and nights that followed were filled with mystery. There was no certainty or assurance of anything conveyed. Encrypted messages and vague banter kept me anticipating any time spent together. There were words spoken with tenderness, prose written with passion, and looks exchanged with longing. I could only pray that there was sincerity, a hint of genuineness. That which seemed authentic to me, I held tightly to the notion that it was a reality. Was this a test? Was this a pastime? I was left blindsided by what happened next…