Do you remember life before the internet?
Yes. And it was beautiful.
Category: Diary
I Am So Ordinary at 55 (And That’s Okay)
Consider this the unholy trinity of the Influencer Age. If I see the following statements open any social media reel or post, my jaw clenches immediately. Through gritted teeth and a roll of my eyes, I put my phone down and reprimand myself for falling into the endless scroll of cerebral death again.
- “This is a game changer…”
- “I am obsessed with…”
- “A lot of you have been asking…” or “Hey you guys…”
If we have multitudes of people wanting and/or hustling to be influencers, what happens when there is no one else to be influenced?
When did being ordinary become such a negative thing?
And she is your holy Mary
And I am so ordinary
And she is your Queen Cleopatra
And I’m just your morning after
And she is your Star Spangled Banner
And I am just Frere Jacques
And you can lose me if you want to
And I am so ordinary
Shows are canceled just as a long-running series comes to an end. Films fail, no matter how hard you try to court an audience. Just like sentences come to a conclusion, stories, like life, come to an end. And that’s how I feel about this chapter of my career, which feels like it’s being swallowed alive by the concussive effects of an ongoing youthquake that dominates all spheres of industry these days.
I feel unseen and irrelevant now, which gathers intensity when I view it through the lens of the seminal 1976 sci-fi classic Logan’s Run, where all lives end at age 30, ensuring the social order of hedonism and endless youth remains intact.
Instead of facts and true discourse, we have companies dedicated to the incessant pandering to a demographic that only cares about itself and its pursuit of limitless pleasure while avoiding accountability for its deficits. Given this generation’s penchant for “woke theatrics, ” I find this ironic,” disavowing the history of social change before them.
But yet, we have a group finding relevance and purpose with their promotion of quotidian cuisine or beauty brands of choice as “Influencers” espousing a doctrine of consumerism in a constant bid for approval. Why can’t the focus be on influencing a generation to be kinder and empathetic to the people around you, regardless of age? Dare to life coach yourselves, please.
Mental wellness is a personal journey that may also require the assistance of a professional, not relying on some carefully curated meme or video from a soft-voiced influencer. From what I see daily, most of us are no more or less equipped to handle the stresses of modern life. Why are we validating total strangers for what amounts to exercising common sense filtered through a prism of their own experiences?
I don’t write to reach an audience, nor is it my goal to influence anyone. I write to fill a void of my own doing, and expressing what I feel helps me not let that void consume me. I want to keep a record of my progress. I write to keep my brain active. I write to liberate the feelings I don’t want to contain anymore. I write because roaming around a blank page without a pre-determined destination feels good.
I write because I found the words at long last to influence myself to become better, healthier, and happier. I write because I recognize being ordinary, like being nice, needs to matter in my world again.
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Beauty in the World (Stop Outrage Culture)
I started this post in 2020 but left it hanging in the balance when I lost the purpose of this narrative.
Initially, I wanted to comment on cancel culture, asking, “Do we cancel out all art because it doesn’t reflect the oppressed? What do we do about nostalgia and romanticized images of the past? Do they no longer hold value because entire groups were oppressed or subjugated? Without context, how can we not continue to discuss certain works intelligently? How can these individuals not serve as lessons of evolving mores and ideologies? What does cancel culture do to those artists who helped realize a specific vision, particularly in the filmed arts?”
What prompted this post? I don’t even remember. I initially found inspiration from one of the final duets from War Paint, a 2017 musical with music by Scott Frankel and lyrics by Michael Korie. This ballad, sung by Tony-winning powerhouses Patti LuPone (as Helena Rubinstein) and Christine Ebersole (as Elizabeth Arden) as the legendary beauty complex magnates and fierce rivals, imagines a meeting between both women. The song “Beauty in the World” is a poignant lament on changing times as they see their life’s work and influence diminishing, perhaps even fading away. Following is a portion of the song’s lyrics:
Helena
Back when there was beauty in the world
Women had such elegance and grace
Fashion came and fashion went
Inner style was permanent
At least
When there was beauty in the world
Elizabeth
Long before the circus came to town
Every woman’s drama was her face
Eyes that glittered like a gem
The lovers we bewitched with them
Back then
When there was beauty in the world
Helena
Taste and poise
Were universal
Elizabeth
Now it’s noise
Helena
A dress rehearsal
Both
Gone the past
The age of everlasting beauty in the world
Deciding to flex my synapses this rainy day in March, I began thinking about this shelved post as I walked around my neighborhood, ignoring the light, steady drizzle. Three years ago, we went into lockdown mode as the COVID pandemic took over our lives. Three years later, we can never ignore the tally of one million American deaths as a result of the virus, a figure that includes my uncle, my mother’s last surviving relative in the United States.
Since the pandemic, our collective outrage has grown exponentially on all platforms. In addition to a wildly polarized voting population, our collective rage gave birth to “outage content,” further muddying the waters with a steady, roiling atmospheric river of toxicity and negativity.
In 2019, NPR featured this report, “How Outrage is Hijacking Our Culture and Our Minds.” Host Steve Inskeep said, “Anger draws Internet clicks, which is to say that many people now have a motive or even a business model for getting you mad.” We’re beyond the brush of rage now- thick into the woods without an exit plan beyond monetizing our anger and fear. It’s beyond cynical and reproach.
Instead, I will find new ground to build something more substantial and calmer.
As for the beauty in the world, if you’re on the same path to restoring mental wellness as I am, it is essential to first find the beauty in yourself. Step away from the platforms trading on outrage and vanity, which continue to cloud your sense of stability. Romanticizing the past is not the answer, but its glow can be therapeutic. Pick the parts that apply to our present reality. But we need to cancel the constant stream of outrage. We’re out of dress rehearsal time – the curtain is up. Make it count.
Photo: Balenciaga: Shaping Fashion, V&A Museum, South Kensington, London, 2017
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Ode to Ozempic (A Rant)
Here’s a rare sighting: A new Ozempic injectable pen.
I need this to help control my Type II diabetes. Yes, it is working. Yes, I’ve lost quite a bit of weight, just like the commercials are touting. No, it isn’t easy to obtain because some beauty and influencer communities continue to boast how wonderful it is to help get people ready for red-carpet events and the like.
We cannot let this be our reality anymore.
This medication is not new, but it continues to gain headlines as being the “miracle” weight loss aid. It is so popular; my insurance is raising their co-pay by 50% this year. Of course, that is when I can get my prescription filled.
We cannot let this be our reality anymore.
I’ve been fighting the sugar battle for 13 years since being diagnosed. I’ve lost the same 60 lbs. on every diet plan that seemed “sensible,” only for the weight to come back, and always with friends. This last year proved a turning point for me. I don’t want to be another casualty like my uncles and aunts, who all succumbed to diabetes in some form. Some went blind, others lost parts of their feet or legs, and others died of strokes. I’m not alone in this reality.
We cannot let this be our reality anymore.
While the struggle remains real for many of us, we endure because we need to be there for the people who depend on us, the people we love. That many people cannot get this medication because doctors are willing to give it to healthy folks looking to become a sample size is wrong. It only validates what I’ve finally come to realize: the health complex wants fat, sick, and stupid to allow them to get away with such flagrant abuses of greed and power. What’s worse, I’m part of a community that is a massive target for diabetes, high cholesterol, and hypertension. (And yes, I possess this trifecta.)
We cannot let this be our reality anymore.
This isn’t about vanity for many people coping with diabetes. It is about sticking to a healthy regimen that keeps us alive, sane, and empowered to fight for others who don’t have the will, support, access to information, or resources.
We need a “Hail Mary” of morality now more than ever before losing anybody else to an illness that is controllable to the point of remission for many. Stay strong, smart, and healthy, mi gente.
“Sugar is the next tobacco, without a doubt, and that industry should be scared. It should be taxed just like tobacco and anything else that can, frankly, destroy lives.”
Jamie Oliver
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185. (Binge)
It happened. A classic Jorge binge.
After months of keeping a strict eye on my diet, focusing on daily exercise, and eating healthy, anxiety took over in the form of my declaring myself worthy of a reward. My numbers remain stable, and my last two doctor visits could not have been better or more encouraging! Like gold star level visits, if you must know. I felt chuffed and indestructible! So, despite a healthy sushi lunch with Mom and Nan, I chose that evening to binge on a dinner comprised of a Hi-Life (a local burger joint) carne asada burrito, adding one of their hard-shell tacos and a small order of fried zucchini. Since their iced tea machine was out of order, I went to McDonald’s to get the beverage but felt the need to add qa QPC (Quarter Pounder with cheese) and a small order of fries.
Yes, I have always subscribed to the belief of “Go Big or Don’t Go!”
Whhhaatttt the hell is wrong with me!!!!????
Naturally, my glucose meter this morning read 185, putting me in the red zone for the first time since last summer. I felt like shit last night and this morning, too. Make that guilty and lousy. Yes, I pulled back on the reins and returned to the “Better eating and Walking Over 3 Miles” routine to clear my head and shake off the residue of this epic fuck up. I won’t allow this to turn into a self-punishment downward spiral, nor will I indulge that ideology of “I’ve been good since September, and I deserved a food vacation, so what?” as excusing away poor judgment.
The work involved with being healthy is challenging for personal reasons, but recognizing these moments of weakness is a huge part of being able to bounce back stronger than before. I wouldn’t say I liked how I felt by consuming such a collection of poor food choices, throwing away most of the burrito, which proved to be one item too many in the end. Even more, it didn’t even taste good to me! It was heavy, dense, and beyond bland. It almost manifested what I felt physically AND mentally at that moment. Throwing away food should be deterrent enough from making such a choice again, especially given the socio-economic divide we all see daily in Los Angeles.
Today is another day to fight the good fight. I did do better today. I feel much better today, knowing my numbers will improve tomorrow. I am starting a new book to continue my resolution to read at least two or more books in a month for the entire year. 2023 is about making achievements happen and avoiding caving to the “all or nothing” mentality that is one of my biggest saboteurs in finishing anything I start.
It is a marathon, not a sprint when you’re turning the Titanic of life around. You need to remind yourself, “You put trash in, you’re gonna feel like trash!” Still, damn, those candy-coated icebergs are a mf’er, though. Yet, we can find inspiration with the right playlist as we walk away the consequences of our sins, like today. To quote the divine New Order,
There will come a day
From “Be a Rebel” by New Order
When your fear and self-doubt fades away
Because you have achieved what you need
There’s no doubt in your heart
Not a care
It’s a funny affair
Take a look at yourself
You may not be the same as everyone else
You’re just different, and that’s okay
We all follow our own way
And if you find that they won’t listen
Then they’ve got nothing to say
So don’t get mad and don’t feel sad
Be a rebel, not a devil
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Why I write.
I choose to write because I can’t always keep all these thoughts running roughshod in my head in one place.
Words on a page, or in this case, words on a screen, make these feelings seem natural and harmless, even though I know they can hurt me if I let them roam too freely. But they make greater sense when they appear in front of me, written by hand or typed into existence. I can order and re-order these feelings with a swift keystroke, adding or subtracting their intensity with decisiveness. Sometimes, my editing can make these words lie for me, pushing away my motivations or lessening them, so I don’t worry the reader about my state of mind. Yet, truth is constantly pulsing underneath, waiting for its turn to be seen and heard.
I write because the world I live in isn’t always the one I want to see. You can build a better place with the right words and frame of mind. I can create a more beautiful self or a happier persona, obfuscating the grey truth as to why I’m not who I should be or want to be as a 55-year-old man. I can build a world that seems limitless, one with bolts of vivid color and endless horizons that feel like hope and longer stretches of time to fill with avoidance, procrastination, and festering guilt as to level this foundation of excuses as to why I can’t seem to change or make myself better.
I write because this defiant means of self-expression cures my often paralyzing loneliness, knowing that these words mean I exist with two people in the room where these thoughts materialize and become corporeal. I see the person taking shape before me, knowing it reflects who I am at that moment. I can be a Dr. Frankenstein, choosing the bits of me that make a whole person, all brought to life with an impulsive jolt of creativity and insight. I am not a monster, though, although sometimes I feel monstrous in my hunger to be noticed and validated.
I write to stave off the noise of a world that feels hellbent on keeping boxed and labeled as unworthy.
I write because it is what makes sense in the nonsense that threatens to overwhelm me to the point of pushing me into a space that looks like oblivion, but I know it is so much worse.
I write because words matter, and I know I matter just as much.
I write because it feels so fucking good to let these feelings out.
I write because I fear I will cease to exist if I don’t.
I write because I know I’m not the only one who does this for all the same reasons.
“I would rather be a soul than a body. I would rather be fluid than frozen. This is why I share when I’m hurting. Because I am alive. And it is terrifying and brilliant. It is the most profound argument for love I have ever known.”
@Alokvmenon
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And now, for some really bad break-up writing!
Oooh. Here’s a deep cut!
When I broke up with my last ex-BF about 12 years ago, it took me a long ass time to get over him. I don’t think I really am; it’s just a feeling I’ve learned to put into a different compartment. But, the concussive effects of that first wave of emotion were very new to me. I never understood why people would lose their shit after a breakup, but I learned quickly. My friend John sent me a mix CD labeled “Music for a Bottle of Merlot and a Razor Blade,” featuring such sad singleton hits as “Alone,” “All By Myself,” “What Becomes of the Broken Hearted,” etc. We laughed, but I found myself spiraling out of control shortly after.
I kept this little Moleskin notebook during those first months, which I hid a few years later. It reappeared during my Pandemic-induced decluttering of my home when we shut our office doors until further notice. That was about two years ago. (We’ve reopened them since, by the way.) Finding it was like the surprise you feel when you run into an old school friend’s mother during a Target run where you’re not looking your best, gussied up in chanclas and a chorizo-stained hoodie. Reading and revisiting the version of yourself that penned each entry was like being hit by a car driven by a deranged doctor’s wife from Texas seeking revenge. How do we all turn into Janis Ian or Phoebe Snow when boys break out hearts? I was surprised I even was capable of such maudlin displays in the first place, but how could I not? After years of favoring telenovelas and Douglas Sirk films, turning into Natalie Wood in “Splendor in the Grass” shouldn’t be a stretch, right?
So, I am willing to share one choice bit of writing, appropriately titled “Alone.” Put on your favorite heartbreak ballad, wrap yourself up in that warm comforter known as nostalgia, and see if this hits a few emotional notes you recognize!
There’s a strange void in my heart as I look out the window from an empty house. I feel the start of a dream, always the day you first came into my life. I came to you first, though, searching for a gentle man.
You were that dream come true, and I was your saving grace. How did we get to this place?
The first years were unlike any happiness I’d known, yet in the last months, we’ve become strangers, barely able to see face to face. How did we get to this place?
This isn’t about fault. You loved me, then loved another. I can’t believe I’d be so easily replaced. How did we get to this place?
We can count the memories, but that’s just wasted sentiment. We can count our blessings, but that’s just wasted destiny. What I would give to make this day turn a different way. They say time heals everything, but I still can’t stand the thought of losing you.
I didn’t want to tell you how I felt or what I thought I should do. But that won’t stop me from crying an emotion or two.
You walked out the door for the last time. I hope he treats you fine. It isn’t the loss that hurts so much. It’s the silence of this space. How did I get to this place they call “being alone.”
Reading it back now, I think it is safe to say Taylor Swift has nothing to worry about here. (Cue laughter.) But I’m not ashamed about displaying my red scarf in this context. (Swifties will know what I mean by that reference.). If anything, I’m proud of what that experience taught me. I stopped romanticizing the past, choosing to live in the present while respecting the lessons learned from being in a relationship. Whenever that miracle happens again, I’ll be ready.
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Don’t dream it, be it in 2023.
At last, the end of 2023. While it would be too much to hope we begin as a society to pivot away from infamy, manipulation, greed, and gaslighting as being our principal motivators, we can aspire to at least be better people in our own spheres of life.
Until we return to the center of logic, patience, and intelligence again, I turn to the music of Richard O’Brien’s THE ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW and “Don’t Dream It, Be It” from its legendary finale. There you will find my mood board for 2023.
“Whatever happened to Fay Wray?
That delicate satin draped frame
As it clung to her thigh, how I started to cry
Cause I wanted to be dressed just the same
Give yourself over to absolute pleasure
Swim the warm waters of sins of the flesh
Erotic nightmares beyond any measure
And sensual daydreams to treasure forever
Can’t you just see it?
[Chorus]
Don’t dream it, be it
Don’t dream it, be it
Don’t dream it, be it
Don’t dream it, be it
Ach! We’ve got to get out of this trap
Before this decadence saps our will
I’ve gotta be strong and try to hang on
Or my mind may well snap
Und my life will be lived for the thrills.”
Time to find the thrill in living for a better self, a better world again.
Happy new year, mi gente.
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Brains, heart, and courage.
Being short-tempered with total strangers must be symptomatic of our pandemic reality. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself. Throwing a strop because I didn’t notice PreChek was not part of my boarding pass is no one’s fault but my own for not stopping to notice it was missing, assuming my entitled traveler’s privilege was blissfully intact. It wasn’t, choosing smug indignation instead of calm acceptance with the TSA agents when they pointed it out.
Walking away, I started to think. “Fuck, bitch. You are being an asshole. Stop for a moment. Breathe. Be aware of how you’re responding to the outside world. They aren’t to blame for your being sloppy and careless.”
To be honest, everything sets me off. I’ve done more eye-rolling this week than I care to admit, practically a ballet in terms of its poetic flow and technique. Being reactive and not proactive will not serve anyone for the better.
I’ve been hearing people constantly calling out others for their bad behavior, of having the last word to stake the moral high ground. Will anyone take indignation and a finger-wagging, “Don’t do this to me or anyone else ever again!” to heart? Can it make us feel better spelling out such emotions in an era of selfishness and arrogance? If everyone is only out for themselves, is it cowardice to want to just let the shit go, opting to focus on your own peace of mind and wellness?
I’ve been hearing people constantly calling out others for their bad behavior, of having the last word to stake the moral high ground. Will anyone take indignation and a finger-wagging, “Don’t do this to me or anyone else ever again!” to heart? Can it make us feel better spelling out such emotions in an era of selfishness and arrogance? If everyone is only out for themselves, is it cowardice to want to just let the shit go, opting to focus on your own peace of mind and wellness?
How do we reach the point of keeping calm and carrying on without losing our integrity or mental stability? These are the questions I’m looking to answer for myself. Until then, I must remind myself to take a beat before reacting. My point of detonation has nothing to do with the situation; it’s a reaction to my frustration of knowing it is time to find a new path away from past mistakes and erasing my false selves holding me back from becoming a better, healthier person.
Two things come to mind that might work well within the themes of this post. First up, reading Rutanya Alda’s diary on the making of the infamous Joan Crawford biopic Mommie Dearest makes for an entertaining way to spend a flight. Within the juicy diary entries, Alda compiled into “The Mommie Dearest Diary: Carol Ann Tells All,” I found this gem of a quote about her estimation of Faye Dunaway, who submarined her career playing Crawford. Alda, featured in the infamous film as Carol Ann, Joan’s loyal secretary, secretly kept a vigilant eye and ear on the proceedings involving the production of the film. Towards the end of the book, it is clear Alda felt no real love for Dunaway, who distanced herself from the film upon its release and its eventual rise as a camp classic. Alda wrote this section in reaction to La Dunaway’s abusive treatment of the cast and crew during the making of the film:
“A perfectionist ought to be someone who sees perfection and finds perfection around them,” Alda stated. “It’s the imperfectionists like Faye and Barbra (Streisand) who keep looking for the imperfection until they find it, for what we focus on, we will find. Why demand perfection if you can’t offer it?”
Given my current state of mind, Alda’s quote resonated strongly. It became part of a double whammy thanks to watching The Wizard of Oz on the flight, my first viewing in several years. The Cowardly Lion says at one point he’s a “victim of disorganized thinking.” Oh, that hit home, hard and fast. I am aware of my faults and know they’ve been the biggest obstacles in my journey to straighten up and fly right. But I refuse to allow my sentimentality and desire to “keep the peace” to be viewed as either or a crime or a sign of weakness. The world is fighting for bragging rights, last words, and the power of being “right.” Fuck that jazz. I want to live.
As I put these final words down, my playlist du jour is bringing Taylor Swift’s “Anti-Hero” to my ears. I agree with her, too It is exhausting rooting for the antihero, especially when you recognize the problem is yourself. Shut out the noise of people telling you what’s wrong and what you should do to fix yourself. I know it comes from caring, but only you know what it will take to be aware and “healed.” Until then, I offer this bolt of positivity: “You got this, kid.” Don’t lose sight of the prize, which is self-control and contentment on your terms. Engage your brains, heart, and courage. Until then, stop punishing yourself and the people in your orbit. They have their own journeys to reconcile.
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I know you’re broken, but can you hurry up and fix yourself?
Addressing issues of mental wellness cannot follow a timetable. Each person’s process is different for a reason. Addressing your problems is a huge win, but healing is not a sprint. Instead, it is a marathon covering an undetermined amount of distance. The closer you get to no longer fearing your issues, a finish line can appear on the horizon. But I don’t see the finish line yet, which doesn’t worry me. I see a lot of fog ahead as I wind through this unpredictable terrain.
What I don’t need to hear now is that I need to get to that point of healing faster to appease someone else’s timetable. You can’t will people into loving you, so why would you demand anything different when they’re working hard at addressing years of shitty motivations and behaviors?
I don’t know how I feel about making “getting your shit together” a group activity, especially in an office environment. I’m not sabotaging my health now with poor dietary choices. My new meds are working, despite issues of “waning” in diabetes. Not having access to Ozempic right now pisses me off since it was working, but some asshole is promoting its weight-loss capabilities, and now there’s a run on these injectable pens! But I digress. My A1C number is down from the awful high of 11.1 and into single digits again. To give you an idea as to why this number matters: An A1C above 9% increases the risk of long-term diabetes complications like blindness, nerve damage, and kidney failure. Under 7% is considered reasonable diabetes control. I’m currently at 6.8%
Chasing the food dragon is my biggest addiction worry, but I feel good about this progress. The last time I hit that single-digit A1C level, I acted like, “The war is over! Back to Casa Garcia for some ultimate nachos! Extra cheese and sour cream!” Or, “Let’s hit the pasta bar again!” Yeah, that won’t be happening for a long while, if at all. This struggle during the time of COVID nearly wiped out my resolve entirely. My goal is to be under 5.6% when I retest in three months, which is considered normal. (Provided the other tests involving my liver, kidneys, and pancreas do not reveal some hidden complication, of course.)
Yet, the rubble representing my past excesses remains quite a disaster zone. That’s causing me additional worries, which I won’t divulge since it is none of your business. If I seem like a ghost of late, it is because I see the damage in a new light, and it fucking haunts me. I hate what I see lurking, and my self-control still abandons me when I’m emotional or frustrated.
Someone asked me where my imagination lies these days. I didn’t have an answer. I can’t see what I want for my life once I clear this health hurdle. I know what I have now isn’t enough to piece back together this unmoored sense of body and mind. It is why I’ve traded comfort media to replace my using comfort food as a soul-soothing remedy. I bristle at the command, “To get my shit together already.” I am, dammit. But I am digging my way out on my schedule. Why can’t some people understand? Why does it also have to be about them? Is it selfish to expect patience and care, not receive tough love and a “hurry up already?” It makes me want. to scream, “I’m sorry if my effort to heal is proving a drag and inconvenience to you!”
Treading water at the shoals is not fun. I’d rather be on solid ground, and sooner or later, I will be standing on terra firma. I’m tired of endlessly finding soft places to land because it is easier. I acknowledge that self-destruction is not a solo reality because it does create collateral damage. That well of care and support does run dry with some people, and I’m sorry for pushing the limits of their concern to such unnecessary extremes. It ruined one of my closest friendships, which I miss every day. And I’m sorry to make people worry, but I am not doing this without professional help. I am listening.
I knew this process would be complex once I took it seriously. Change is not for the weak, but it can lead to incredible new freedoms and modes of creative expression if you hold on to your well-being with a firm grasp. I’m not alone in living in a mixed-up world. But as Sophie Ellis-Bextor sings in Mixed Up World:
So when you’re feeling kind of mixed up
Just remember, it’s a mixed-up world
And when you’re feeling life is just too tough
Just remember you’re a real tough girl
Trust you’re tougher than you know when you feel your weakest. It will pull you through.
Written by Jorge Carreón 