9.6.11
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NEWS

WE RUN NEW YORK

We trained for months and raised millions for hundreds of charities around the world.  We didn’t go to parties, didn’t enjoy lazy weekend brunches and passed on vacations, because we had 26.2 miles to conquer and we needed every minute leading up to November 4th to do it. We nursed dying parents, changed soiled diapers and corrected our children’s homework in between speed workouts, long runs and physical therapy sessions.  We came together more than once to console, congratulate and contribute to each other’s causes.  We ran through the pain, the torrential rains and the sweltering heat, because that’s what runners do.  It’s what we train to do.  We push forward, we forge ahead, we get through the course, we run.

Then Hurricane Sandy hit and we stood still, in shock, as we tried to figure out what was next.

We posted volunteer opportunities on Facebook and put in hours at the Park Slope Armory, in Staten Island and New Jersey.  We offered each other places to stay and recharge and get a hot meal.  We gave one another rides to and from work.  We knocked on our neighbors doors to make sure they were alright as we wondered if we should cancel our parents flights from out of state and overseas.  We weren’t worried about running. We weren’t thinking about ourselves. We just wanted to know.

Then New York Road Runners announced that the Marathon ‘must go on’.

We rolled our eyes and fretted and questioned.  We picked apart NYRR’s declarations and wondered how the Mayor could allow it.  We criticized, but were not surprised when  when NYRR blew us off, that’s what they usually do.  We joined ‘Cancel the Marathon’ Facebook pages and signed petitions. Our hardest hit teammates posted eloquent confessions on our group page about why they were happy the Marathon was going forward.  26.2 miles looked pretty good to them after emptying their basements of toxic water and putting whatever belongings they could find in trash bins. We were torn. It didn’t feel right.  But if they had lost it all and wanted to run, how could we not? If  we were going to run we were also going to ask our friends to donate to NY/NJ charities. We set up Crowdrise pages and donated a per mile amount to local charities because it we tried to turn it into an opportunity to raise more funds.

Then the rest of New York City decided that the worst thing to happen to New York City wasn’t the Hurricane, it was the selfish runners who demanded the marathon ‘go on’.

We read though comment after comment about how we were going to be attacked while running.  Eggs and tomatoes would be thrown, acts of civil disobedience would knock us off the course.  We were portrayed as insensitive whiners –and not only by strangers — but by our friends.  Our affected teammates still wanted to run even though NYRR did nothing to facilitate their entry pick up.  The stories coming in were getting worse.  Our doubts kept growing.  We made our way to the Expo.  We questioned officials about their claims of hosting the Marathon without taxing city sources. They smiled and treated us like hysterics, telling us they were paying for everything and quietly moved us along with an impassive smile.  International runners were excited. They asked what the race was like. We answered it was usually great, but this year it would be very different. You could tell they really didn’t understand what had happened. Their hotels weren’t in hard hit areas.  They were just happy to be in New York. .  We collected our numbers with a furrowed brow and left more conflicted than ever.  We did not want to run. But for some reason we felt we had to.

The Mayor and New York Road Runners announced that the 2012 New York Marathon was cancelled.

We were incredibly relieved.  And yes, disappointed.  Some of had had trained for years.  But we weren’t disappointed about not getting to run our race on November 4th, we were disappointed about not getting to run our race at all.  We were angry that it took NYRR  three days to do the right thing. But knew how fortunate most of us were. So we focused our frustration on creating more volunteering opportunities now that we had Sunday to help out too.  We continued to coordinate the clothing and food collections we had already begun, we intensified the clean up efforts we had already organized.  We returned to our Facebook feeds only to find that we were still being vilified by people whose post Sandy efforts consisted mainly of demonizing runners from the comfort of their well lit apartments. These same critics posted tired ‘power to the people’ slogans with their 140 characters and made fun of the fact that runners were posting about the volunteer work.  We wondered why we needed to prove ourselves to anybody.

Then we stopped giving a damn about what people say or think.

We realized that if all those people hating on us were using their time to volunteer, we could send all of FEMA to Jersey. We didn’t need their opinion or their approval.  We just wanted to inspire their action like we always have.  We love New York and we show up, every time, cause that’s what we do no matter who is watching.

We run New York.

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9.6.11
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NEWS

TO VOTE OR NOT TO VOTE

I didn’t expect to get a history lesson that afternoon, I was just hanging out with my grandmother.  I sleepily looked out of the 25th floor view of the Bay of Miami as I’d just woken up from my hora fatal my ‘fatal hour’.  It’s that 4-6 in the afternoon time span that I have historically taken a nap in my entire life.  Anybody that knows me knows I LOVE MY NAPS.  My grandmother was fond of her naps too-although hers were between the hours of 1-3.  So my naps tended to make her mad cause she wanted to get her ‘happy hour’ started and always had to give me ’5 more minutes’ before I would relent and go get ice for her whiskey.

We had just gotten to her sister’s apartment, one floor above hers, and her brother was there with his wife and a sister  and her husband visiting from DC. I plopped down onto the cream color leather couches, my body still asleep and listened quietly as they talked politics.  My grandparents were Conservatives, the best kind of Conservatives, Eisenhower types.  They were community minded, believed in personal accountability which included asking for help when you needed it and were true pragmatists. My sister and I, true Liberals loved getting into political discussions with them because we always ended up learning something and laughing even if we still didn’t agree on the approach to a particular problem.  Every once in a while one of the four of us would admit we were wrong and cross over to the other side of the ‘battle line’ which was always gratifying.  Fox news wasn’t the force that it is now, Rush Limbaugh was viewed as a wind bag and logic trumped propaganda every time so regardless of what side you fell on–we could all agree when something was abjectly illogical and enjoyed going at it when we saw different ways to tackle an issue.

This particular afternoon was a few years later.  My grandfather had died and US politics were starting to get really nasty.  So I was relieved they were talking about Cuba.  Cuba we always agreed on in the big picture way.  The biggest crux was the embargo and it was ok to be against it so it was no big deal.  I tuned in to the discussion when they were talking about voting.  “Voting?” I popped up, “Castro had elections?”

Apparently he did.  Shortly after the Revolution took hold, he held free elections for all Cubans to be able to vote.  But what the rest of the world didn’t know was that for weeks leading up to the election there was a staggering island wide effort to suppress that vote.  Voting locations had changed, people who couldn’t get off work would have to line up for hours, voters were photographed while waiting in line to cast their ballot by menacing militiamen, people were warned in anonymous calls in the middle of the night to stay away from the voting booth, all kinds of technicalities were used to throw votes out.  As I was listening to what each of my grandaunt’s and granduncle’s experiences were–each one more sinister and upsetting than the next, I was rendered speechless, almost.  Sitting up now at the edge of the sofa I asked “So did you vote?”

My grandmother shot me an incredulous look, “Of course I voted!  It was the only thing I could do. They weren’t going to intimidate me!” And then the conversation shifted to how in the end it didn’t matter that they voted, but they were still happy they did.  I haven’t missed an election local, state or national since.

Today is National Voter Registration Day.  If my grandparents stared down a violent dictatorship in order to cast their ballot–surely you can go online and insure that you are registered to vote and that you have all the supporting documentation you need in order to cast your ballot.  You can talk with your neighbors to make sure they have a way of getting to the polls or all the paperwork they need in order to vote.  You can discuss it with you friends who may think their vote will be wasted even if they made the effort.  In a time were voter suppression laws are gleefully bragged about (A cynical twist) about and hilariously, although raunchily,  denounced (Sarah Silverman kills i)  The ability to vote is our greatest civic responsibility and our failure to partake in it our greatest civic surrender.

REGISTER or confirm your eligibility today. No matter what happens at the very least you will be able to say that you VOTED.

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9.6.11
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GENERAL

ARTISTS BLOOM

I had about a million other things to do but nothing seemed more important than carving LA FILOSOFIA’S logo out of a linoleum block.  Our new company had a flood of first orders and I couldn’t paint our mascot onto every package, so I broke out a Speedball  block set birthday gift that I’d gotten a few years ago and got to it.  Using a hard black pencil I drew our logo on the stamp and took a deep a breath as I screwed the blade into the carving tool handle.  Making sure I had all my fingers out of the way, I gingerly dug  into the hard block. As the linoleum gave way in little worm like chips, I remembered being in grade school art class. Printmaking was never my favorite lesson but that afternoon, I was very grateful that I knew my way around the block.  It would save our young company $89 and it settled my racing mind.

A few weeks later when I read that artists were being sent to failing schools around the country to help them integrate arts education into their curriculum, I was thrilled and relieved.  Countless studies have shown that the arts develop compassion and empathy in kids which are insanely undervalued these days and our soceity reflects it.  Kids are shuffled from one sports practice to another in the name of ‘life skills’  while arts budgets have been slashed.  But bullying has gotten out of control, kill or be killed seems to be everybody’s mantra and collectively we have very little sense of community. I got a lot more out of art and music than I ever got out of biology or dodge ball.  I’ve lived the way art can bloom and I can’t wait to see what it does for these students. And it got me to thinking…

To some, art is subjective.  There are as many opinions as there are works of art in this world.  But for the most part, opinions of artists fall into one of two columns.  Genius or Degenerate.  Sometimes there is overlap but generally an artist is either revered or written off depending almost exclusively on the net worth of said artist.   Tell somebody you are an artist at a ‘civilian’ party and unless they recognize you-the questions about why you’re not famous and how you pay rent will make you wish you had answered  “Hooker, I freelance as a hooker.”

Artists who haven’t cashed in yet are easily dismissed as lazy, selfish over grown children that aren’t serious about life.  People that irresponsibly live in a constant bohemian state without any regard for soceity.  But what people miss about us is that we exist in a huge gray area so that we can partake in any world we’re dropped into. Our instincts are to look for ways to relate to the world, not how the world relates to us.  It’s not that we don’t care for financial security,  it’s just that we don’t base our self worth on our bank balances, our imagination is our capital.  And it doesn’t make us irresponsible, it makes us resourceful.  It’s what sustains us until what we manage to create is bought, sold or coveted by the artless who mock us until they race to buy, sell or own what we’ve created.  It’s a stereotype that until now, at best,  got a shoulder shrug from me.  If I really cared what people thought, I would’ve been a lawyer not a writer/actor.

But I had a change of heart when my sister and I started LA FILOSOFIA.  In hopes of subsidizing our writing careers we came up with a great idea for an apron and would not have known where to start if it hadn’t been for my artists friends that came out of  the woodwork to help us build our business.

Cara, a television wardrobe assistant helped us make our first prototype.  My friend Darren, a fantastic designer and co-owner of the celebrated Donna Belle’s Bakeshop, gave us a solid business framework then put us in touch with the consultants at THE WORKROOM PRODUCTIONS, where Chase and Lisa, designers and producers in their own right gave us a family discount even though we’d never met them before our first meeting.  When our aprons finally arrived, our friend Aaron, a visual artists helped us take website pictures and then our friend Kat, a designer, gave us her Saturday and her mannequin so that we could take individual shots of the aprons.  When it came time to shoot our commercial-our friend Amy, who works in film production came on as a production assistant and ‘delivery boy’ and then a new friend Valincy, a film editor, offered to colorize some of the final frames to make our commercial pop.  All of these people gave us their time and expertise at comparatively little to no cost to help us make our little idea a reality.

People defer to CEO’s as though they are masters of the universe because they deal in big numbers.  And yet, the global markets-are in disarray. These same business moguls have transformed what used to be artistic pursuits to profit possibilities often making creativity a tertiary concern in most of the arts.  Our collective boredom is evidence that that kind of thinking has its limits.  But finding new and spontaneous ways to use artistic instincts to make even one world if not the whole world better, is truly evergreen.

So the next time you meet an artist, do both of you a favor.  Instead of asking if they’re famous yet or have health insurance ask them what they’re working on or what inspires them.  Let your curiosity plant the seed, I’m sure you’ll be enlightened by how it blooms.

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9.6.11
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GENERAL

A FLY IN THE OINTMENT

I’m a Democrat – a true progressive although I don’t put party above country.  My approach is logic.  If the policy is logical-I don’t care who authored it, I will support it.  But fundamentally my politics are and will always be progressive.  This makes being  Cuban very difficult.  Not because of the small extreme right wing faction of the Cuban-American community.  I understand their pain which is constantly manipulated by cynical Republican politicians who sprinkle salt in the wounds every time they need a win.  It’s actually America’s Left that makes being a progressive and a Cuban-American mind bogglingly difficult.

Yesterday my sister, a self proclaimed ‘slow boil Cuban’, was incensed.  She looked over and said, “I’ve just read this article on HUFFPO that I almost don’t want to tell you about, because it will set you OFF.”  Thinking I was too tired to be lit up by anything, I asked her to forward it.  In it, the writer Tyler Wetherall describes trying to get into a paladar and being outraged when a ‘hustler’ tries to get her to go to another restaurant.  Cause she’s hungry!  And she needs food from that restaurant now!  And how dare a hustler (who she eventually snitches on) try to get her dollars by lying!  The most offensive part of the entire piece was how she refers to Cubans: “…here in Cuba jineteros are an omnipresent part of every interaction, which might possibly involve foreigners, or more precisely, foreign money. They are Havana’s mosquitoes; the daily irritant that buzzes about you incessantly. “

Mosquitoes.  In our own country.  That’s what it’s come down to.

This commentary is more a reflection of her morality than those of the desperate kids that who sell anything they can along with their bodies in order to survive.  She’s so offended that they would dare try and work tourists any way they can, that she reduces them to bugs, a annoyance to be overcome on the way to the next hyped restaurant that most Cubans can’t afford to eat at.  Although I would counter, if she feels surrounded by mosquitoes, she needs to question her own values.  We all know what mosquitoes tend to swarm.

But–that’s freedom of speech.  One of a myriad of reasons my grandparents escaped Cuba. All freedoms have their price.  What really got to me was what happened next. I posted a snarky comment-which wasn’t vulgar-but didn’t make it past the editor.  Whatever.  Although,  if it had been about Dick Cheney-it would have gotten through-but ok, it is what it is.  Then my sister posted this:

“I have a hard time going along with someone’s travel experience who would refer to locals – hustlers or not – as “mosquitoes; the daily irritant that buzzes about you incessantly”. Whatever your feelings about jineteros and Cuba’s sexual tourism, it’s symptomatic of a much larger and very sad situation. By so completely dehumanizing people who are reduced to those circumstances, the writer shows herself to be the ugliest kind of American tourist. “

She posted it three times and it was rejected, three times.  And this is when I realized that an awful shift had occurred.

I knew the revolution had beaten their propaganda so deeply into the American Left’s consciousness that there’s very little we can do. “It’s the embargo!  It was Batista!  Those white Cubans all left in yachts with gold falling out of their pockets!”   The truth being on our side made it easy for us to shrug it all off and continue to  support our families, still in Cuba, as well organizations such as Amnesty International, Human Rights Watch and a variety of Cuban dissident groups.  So what if they hate us-we knew we’d be the ones absolved by history-not the beard. In the meantime, our brothers and sisters needed us and that was more important.

But this article shook me profoundly.  Riddled with only sexual tourism with flecks of the culturally curious for years–suddenly Cuba is becoming chic again-and this time there is a new uglier strain in the racism and insensitivity of the people that travel there.  The revolution has become so good at demonizing and diminishing Cuban exiles that it has expanded into the way Cubans on the island are viewed as well.

Not only does Cuban citizenry have to suffer the consistent blows of Revolutionary brutality, they’re now at the mercy of people like this travel writer who makes money off writing about them without showing them an ounce of compassion.  Every dictatorship has its useful idiots.  But as a progressive and a Cuban, it is my duty to call out an organization like HUFFPO on not letting us voice our opinions.  It’s their responsibility to either stand behind Wetherall’s insidious take on an entire people or apologize for publishing such an insipid perspective on a beleaguered nation.

The revolution may have made Cubans the world’s mosquitoes, but it’s up to us to speak out for those that can’t and call those that would sooner squash them than lift a finger to help them out on their bullshit.

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9.6.11
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GENERAL

SPRING HAS SPRUNG

When I was in Havana, visiting my great Aunt Ninita she told me spring was her favorite season because its when all of the the world was in bloom in every way.  It was the time of year when all of our labours gave fruit.   I can’t see a flower poke its way through the concrete  or help but feel hopeful as the days get longer without thinking of her. Ninita will never know what a lovely gift she gave me with her appreciation of spring but it’s one of the things I will be forever grateful to her for.

This spring has been amazing.  Ana Sofia and I launched our new company LA FILOSOFIA,  I booked a small part in a movie with a recent Academy Award nominee and a favorite director and I actually submitted fellowship applications whose deadlines I’ve always missed in years past.  I’ve even taken a watercolor class.  But my favorite part of spring has been the things I’ve noticed now that I’m not too cold to look up.

Here are a few highlights and HAPPY SPRING EVERYBODY!

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9.6.11
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GENERAL

TO MAID, OR NOT TO MAID…

That is the question.

Whether ’tis nobler to turn down work

to get to feel the righteous indignation

of being stereotyped and downtrodden, or

To take a funny part, against a sea of invisibility

And by taking it, getting seen.

The other day I woke up to an amazing interview.  An actor friend of mine, Jimmy Allen, had posted Tavis Smiley’s  interviewing Viola Davis and Octavia Spencer.  Every time I’ve seen either one of them speak, I’ve been as inspired as I was when I saw their incredible performances in THE HELP, so I immediately hit ‘play’.   His lead off question was about his ambivalent feelings, which he assured both black actresses were widely felt among the black community, about all the attention that they are getting for their work in THE HELP.

I watched as both women, so deservedly proud of their work, braced for his questions, which they answered brilliantly, and then the absolute disdain on their faces when they could see how little their answers mattered in the face of righteous indignation.  It was a high wire act on Mr Smiley’s part.  Talking down to the women, chastising them for playing ‘maids’ while saying how much he admired them and hoped they won Oscars in their respective categories.  It was a paternalistic and obnoxious display that was handled unbelievably deftly by Viola and Octavia.  They kept their cool and suffered the foolishness that was Smiley with grace and intelligence.

That same morning, the Downy commercial that I shot with Amy Sedaris and Anna Lamadrid made it’s way into my inbox in which I play– a maid.  It was an audition that my agent didn’t even send me in for (we have a specific character vision for my career and try to steer clear of stereotypes).  But I was at another audition when the casting director asked if I spoke Spanish and if I would audition for a Downy commercial that starred Amy Sedaris.  She’s one of my favorite comedians so I said yes right away.

It wasn’t until I picked up the copy that I realized I was auditioning to play the ‘maid’.  I read through the script and it made me laugh, which is unusual.  I scanned the room to see who else was auditioning for it and saw every shade and age of Latina woman. The token part of  ‘the maid’ usually calls for a very narrow group of women–which is why I never audition for those parts.  Not because I think  there’s anything wrong with playing a maid-but because they are usually horrible written caricatures that don’t interest me at all.  But this room was different, obviously the first consideration was the ability to speak Spanish which instantly put me at ease.  My agent told me I didn’t have to audition for it if I didn’t want to–but I told her this was an exception, I actually wanted to book this gig.

Long story short-I booked it.  I was paired up with the fantastic Anna Lamadrid and we spent the day on set getting to do what we we both have sacrificed all semblance of security to do–make a living off of our craft while getting the experience that every actor needs in order to keep inching their career forward.  We got to work with the incredible Amy Sedaris and at the end of the day I rode the subway home with a huge smile on my face.

When I was finally able to see the commercial, I was thrilled.  Everything that we did  that day on set worked-and I laughed out loud again.  I was so proud.  I posted it on Facebook for all the world to see.  As an actor-your life is filled with so much rejection and disappointment that any career accomplishment tends to get shouted from the rooftops.   You can imagine how upsetting it was when a friend chimed in that she liked my work-but didn’t like that I played a maid.  I was instantly deflated.

Now, I would NEVER compare my work in this commercial to the wonderful women that Viola and Octavia created in THE HELP or the horrendous backlash they have gotten from their own community.  Which is hypocritical and misguided–even though I understand the source of it. But I related to the disappointment they must feel to be put down because of the occupation they portrayed.

Look, I’ve spoken about it before on this blog.  The bald faced inability of the entertainment industry to portray people as they are instead of how they’ve been marketed, is epic.  I’ve lived the frustration in my own skin and stand with EVERY MINORITY ACTOR WORKING TODAY.  I say this because I don’t mean to belittle the hits we’ve all taken in this business.  But the ‘pedagogy of the oppressed’ thing that’s going on is too much to bear.

Many times I’ve seen African-Americans performers turn Latinos and Asian Americans into the kinds of jokes that they take so much offense to and visa-verse.  We say we don’t like the way Hollywood represents us, but will kick each other down a stair well in a heart beat.   And why does being a minority mean we have to answer to THE ENTIRE COMMUNITY.  Every time a white person plays a poor white character do you have droves of people coming out of the woodwork to belittle them?  To sit back smartly and make snide comments about how they are cow towing?  And what the hell is wrong with playing a person that works as a maid?  I’ve never met a lazy maid.  Most maids work harder than most people I know.  It’s a very dignified job-even if its not seen that way.  So what are we all really saying?

We want to see more variety the way that minorities are represented that’s a given.  As a soceity we are in desperate need of that.  But MUST we unload all over minority actors in the moments of their greatest career accomplishments because we decided the role they play is beneath them?  These women reached into their own personal histories and lives to bring their characters to life.   I learned volumes about acting from them.  Not because they played maids but because they brought the dignity and truth of these characters so succinctly to life, that they moved thousands and thousands of people.  What a gift these women have given us.  And me personally.

I learned it is truly a ‘part by part’ business.  I was reminded that an artist needs only to answer to herself.  And if your heart is pure, and your intentions sincere–the garbage people throw at you disappears as soon as it flies through the air, but the art you create it lasts forever.

I’m excited about tonight’s Oscars.  There were many truly wonderful performances in all shapes, nationalities, sizes and colors that have re-ignited my faith in this business.  And I expect to jump to my feet more than a few times to applaud for several of the people who dared to be SEEN.

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9.6.11
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GENERAL

WORDS

The other day I was walking a dog when a very colorful, but odd woman bent over to talk to the pup.  After petting Lola and telling Lola she loved her, she turned to me and said, “I love you baby, have a great day”.  I smiled and called back as I walked away “Love you too-have a good one!”  I’m pretty sure I’ll never see this person again-but her willingness to shout out love to anybody that will take it made my day.  It reminded me of the impact a few words can have.

Being a writer, words mean something to me.  I agonize over the ones I choose.  I consider the way they sound and feel in the mouth of anybody that may repeat them.  In conversation,  I see how they can fill somebody’s spirit or cut them at the knees.  When I write,  they run around in my head for days before I can finally, emotionally hit the letters on my keyboard with the right combination of them.  My heart drops or floats on the arc of their arrangement. Words are never black and white to me-they are always in technicolor motion and I see them for how they are used,  to unite, divide, shame, thrill, entice.

I have favorites words: sublime, decadent, lovely, enraged, sorry, pathetic…. And words that I detest: juice, cute, chalkboard, precious.  Some of the words I love/hate have counterparts that I love/hate in other languages, in which case I will gladly substitute them in a sentence with the preferred choice. But the best kinds of words are words that defy translation.  Like stubborn little puzzles that sit in a perfect knot in the center of your brain.  Words are definitely my thing, but I hate what’s happening to them lately. They seem to have lost their weight and it has left us all in the air.

Words have become our rocket launchers but we seem to have forgotten that they land.  People pontificate proudly  in nonsensical streams of them all over social media. Candidates use them to out and out lie without flinching, as audiences applaud wildly.  And the populous idly believes every word that is spoken or written if it’s coming off a computer or tv screen.  These days it seems as though saying the the right thing registers the same as doing the right thing, but nothing beats the simplicity of being a person of your word.

We have so many different markers by which we judge people.  Material wealth, looks, social ranking.  That wild looking woman with the funny glasses and the generous heart used her words to make everybody’s day better–I’m adopting that marker.  I’m going to start tuning in on the purity of that ideal. I’m curious to see who will remain in good graces.

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9.6.11
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NEWS

ARE YOU THERE GOD, IT’S ME TEBOW

HE PRAISES JESUS!  HE PUT 3:16 IN HIS EYE BLACK AND THE PASSED FOR 316 YARDS IN A PLAYOFF GAME!   HE IS THE BEST CHRISTIAN EVER! THAT’S WHY HE WINS EVERY GAME, GOD LOVES HIM!!!

But isn’t God supposed to love all of us?  So much as been made of this kid.  His emphatic faith, his kneeling down on the field, his supercharged beliefs–but it’s all so exaggerated that it makes me do a major eye roll…

For starters, can we all just agree that football is a game? For some it’s exciting and wonderful and makes them happy for a few hours in a week and that’s great.  But it’s not saving lives or feeding the hungry.  It’s not ending wars or promoting peace.  It’s not enlightening or spiritual.  It’s eleven minutes worth of plays interrupted by switching to special teams, commericals and canned commentary.  It’s a game.

And you know, I’m Catholic and my faith mean something to me.  I’ve never ‘tebowed’ after an audition or a take on a set, but I thank God every day because I like to. I consider it an act of cosmic gratitude and it feels right for me to do it.  But I have many more unanswered prayers than answered ones, does that mean God doesn’t like me?

I also wonder how much of all of this is people’s perceptions.  Not that he doesn’t invite it with the under eye thing but is it something the media is focusing on to get people talking.  Are people just moved by unwavering faith?  If that is the case am I to believe that these same people that use Tebow’s success as proof that there is a God would continue to see the halo around Tebow’s head if he were a Muslim that proclaimed “Praise be to Allah” after every spectacular play?  Or if he has the same faith but a losing record instead of a winning one?

I don’t begrudge this jock his faith.  Everybody has a right to their beliefs and to express them in whichever way they see fit.  I also don’t begrudge his talent or the hard work he must put in in order to be such a great athlete.  What I do take issue with is the fetishizing of his faith.  This idea that HE WINS BECAUSE HE IS A GOD LOVING CHRISTIAN.   It’s makes God selective and small. It paints the picture of a God that cares more about the outcome of a game than the pain and oppression of millions of others that believe in Him.  I don’t believe in that God.  The God I believe in is much greater than that.  At least I pray that he is.

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9.6.11
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GENERAL

LET HIM GO PIGGY

This past weekend I finally got to see THE MUPPETS which I loved.  It was all heart while lacking the cynical marketing I’ve come to expect from kids movies.   The adult to child ration definitely tipped in our favor.  A friend asked if the kids got it and I was delighted to tell him I heard the kids laughing as much as we were, although only the adults seemed to cry.  Segal & Stoller captured the spirit of the original movies complete with star cameos and winks at the audience while updating what needed updating.  But  I walked away from it with one gnawing thought: Piggy, has got to lose that frog.  She’d be so much better off with Animal.  Kermit is an emotional vampire that will hold her back her entire life.  I decided to post my declaration on Facebook and WOW–the commentary was heartfelt and hardcore.

How could I say that about Kermy, she LOVES him. But does she really?  Or does she love the idea of him.  He orchestrates everything-but what does HE bring to the table.  He’s sensitive, he’s sweet, he’s a BORE.  And more importantly, does he love HER.  Piggy was living in Paris, editing french Vogue-then Kermit needed her (of course) and makes her stay in LA (porn capital of the world) and doesn’t let her put out a press release?  Come on.  Kermit never accepts her for what she is on top of not giving her the fabulous jet setting life she deserves.  I say, she loves the chase and the second he stops running, Miss Piggy will run him over and not even realize he’s gone.

You never know what goes on between frog and pig.  Maybe he’s a stud.  But he doesn’t need to wear pants, so I doubt it.  Sure, Kermit on his own is fine.  Soft spoken, delicate even sweet.  It’s not easy being green.  He likes riding bikes and looking longingly at things  but ultimately he’s a total control freak, who never lets anybody be themselves and is the first to reign in an exciting moment instead of going with it.  That does not make for exciting times… Whatever does go on between them– I’m pretty sure the pig is supplying the fireworks.

How could you choose Animal for her instead of Kermit?  As far as I can tell, the only time Animal is out of his mind is when he’s around a set of drums.  Otherwise he’s totally fine.  Put him in a tux and he would look fabulous at the Met’s season opening of Aida.  Take him to MoMA in smart Chino’s,  a button down and Oxford shoes without socks and people would assume he was one of the artists.  He’s spontaneous, wild and insatiable.  Piggy should install a drum set in the boudoir and give Animal a go.  I’m pretty sure after a day she’ll ask, ‘Kermy who?”


In conclusion…Miss Piggy deserves better.  She doesn’t settle for anything else in her life, why should she settle for a slimy sack of green that keeps her life at a 5 when it could be a 10?  Because its a story we grew up with?  To high a price to pay.  Let’s hope for a new narrative-where a fearless fierce pig falls in love with somebody that let’s her fly instead of miring her down in a metaphorical swamp!

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9.6.11
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GENERAL

RUBY THE RABID REINDEER


I should’ve known better.  She was foaming at the mouth, but I thought it was because she’d just finished a frothy hot chocolate and lost in the throws of delight she’d forgotten to wipe off his sweet reindeer lips with her tired hoof–but alas no.  Ruby was a rabid reindeer and that Santa’s motherflippin’ chanteusse, bit me.

Nobody’s born a cynic.  Proof of this is that I got close enough to that maniac for her to bite me.  There was a time I lapped Santa up along with all the merriment Christmas promised.  I let myself be filled with the red-foiled joy and the awe-inspiring faith of the season.

My first Christmas memory was at my uncle’s house in Rochester.  Early Christmas eve, my parents called out, “Cami, come look it’s Santa!”  I ran my three year old foottie pajamad self to the frosted window pane and saw someone dressed as Santa standing at a sled looking through a big red bag of gifts.

“He can’t know I’m awake!”  I whispered/yelled as I shot up the stairs and buried myself deep under the covers.  The next morning I woke up to an entire sunken living room filled with toys…all for me.  I didn’t stop believing that there could be a Santa traveling, at least in the tri state area, until I was twenty-six.  Not that I didn’t get the concept vs. the reality of Santa but I had actually SEEN him with my own two eyes at one point.

Growing up my favorite Christmas song was the little drummer boy.  With that steady, climbing, unyielding beat, ‘to see our newborn king pa rampa pum pum…’  and there stood that sad little boy with nothing to give but his song.  Promising anybody in ear shot that if you beat your little drum-no matter how small, you could be a part of it all.

Christmas was a time that you wished for things and worse-you magically got them, neatly wrapped no less, all under the tree in one place, waiting for you to ravage. Then you grow up and the act of wanting has very little to do with actual getting.  Beating my little drum has left me bloody, in tatters and most of all, tired. And like all things based on myth–experience has robbed Christmas of its shine.

But, this year I wanted to give it a chance again. I loaded up my itunes holiday playlist, decorated the apartment and let myself be jolly…all the while, thinking of him.  Not Santa, or baby Jesus. I was thinking about the boy.  I hadn’t spoken to him in a while.  Not since he decided we’re better off as friends and I decided if he missed me bad enough, he’d realize how wrong he was.  I called him, invited him out to dinner, he said yes and immediately visions of sugar plums danced in my head.

We’d meet at my favorite restaurant and have a fantastic meal.  After hours we’d decide to give the grumpy NYC waiter his table back and head out into a snow-flurried night.  As he walked me to my subway stop, our eyes would meet mid laugh, he’d lean in and the cold New York air would disappear between us as the most tender Christmas kiss in history would be given and had.

I wasn’t wishing for much-it was simple and lovely and it’s what I wanted more than anything else.  A place to hang my heart— love. This was my bb gun, my brand new bike and that Atari all wrapped in one—I was finally going to get a honey bear of my own.  That’s when it happened.

I was walking along the little park in Cobble Hill, lost in my yuletide fantasy when I noticed Ruby the reindeer, hanging out in the alley by the south entrance, smoking. She looked rough, but lost.  She had some of that aforementioned froth on her lip and looked at me a little wearily. I was sure it was a sign.

How often do you run into a lost reindeer? So I approached her,  “Merry Christmas!”

She slowly lifted her heavy head, “Yeah…”

“What’s your name?” I continued.

Her head dropped again, instantly sorry she’d engaged.  Putting out her cigarette with her paw and piercing me with her look she replied, “Ruby.” Saying it like her name was made of molasses.

At that point, I figured it best to keep moving.  “Ok, Ruby.  Well, I hope Santa brings you all you hope for.”
Behind me I heard her call out, “Are you used to getting everything you hoped for?” She stopped me in my tracks.

“No, not at all actually. But I think this year will be different.” I answered walking back to her, nodding my head. “I hope it will be.”

“Oh really…well jingle jangle fricken bells” And then that motherflipper bit me.  She lunged at me with a lightness of a gazelle and she bit me!

“OW!  Why’d you do that?” I yelled clutching at my forearm.

“Cause life isn’t a story or an idea.  It’s a cliff. You got to get out of that head of yours little girl and jump or you’ll never live.” And just as quickly as I found her, she disappeared leaving behind a freezing gust of wind that chilled me to the bone.

She didn’t know me.  Why would she say that? I jump!  It’s why I invited the boy to dinner in the first place. My heart was soaring!  Just as I was thinking about how wrong Ruby was, I got a text from the boy telling me he had to cancel, but that we’d get together soon cause he couldn’t wait to catch up…and I found myself very much back in my body…a little wiser and fully aware that there are some things that are better left in the past.  It’s the only way to get on with the future.

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