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:

Christine Ebersole as Elizabeth Arden (L) and Patti LuPone as Helena Rubinstein (R) in War Paint. Photo: Sara Krulwich/The New York Times

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

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

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

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.

What if…?

I have to write this down, or else I will embark on a downward spiral of epic freaking out. I was working, sitting at my desk while minding my business when what appeared to be a spam call logged into my phone. Nothing unusual there, not even seeing that a message was left. I was about to delete it when I read the text, and it seemed to be about a medical referral. Not Spectrum, not an unauthorized Amazon purchase needing approval, which is usually the case these days. No, the folks at City of Hope needed me to schedule an MRI and a consultation with a gastrointestinologist to review the results. I called back without a moment’s haste.

Mind you, I had an ultrasound earlier this week to check the elasticity of my liver. The tech, who seemed to spend a long time on one section of my abdomen during the examination, asked if it hurt when she pressed into said area, and I said, “No.” I didn’t register any cause for alarm, but after speaking with the hospital this AM, I feel a bit freaked. I returned the call to schedule the appointments. Neither order was listed as “urgent,” so a mid-December date was decided and locked in. “Merry fucking Christmas,” I thought to myself.

Did the ultrasound trigger this need for an MRI? Maybe, but I haven’t heard from my endocrinologist yet. I entered the lightning round of the “What If?” game when every fear about medical procedures became a question.

“What if it’s a tumor?”

“What if it’s cancer?”

“What if it is something horrible?”

Sigh.

Seriously, how many more of Mom/Dad’s health gifts am I going to get?! Hahaha. Can I still return them without a receipt? Since my infamous blood panel in July, I’ve minded my diet and health choices with extra care. No, what’s happening is the collateral damage of years gone by catching up with me.

I have a new blood panel scheduled this week, as it is time for a new A1c. I think it is going to be a lot better than July. The next Lipid panel isn’t happening until late December. I see this entire situation as a reality check, by being inconsistent with my diet/health choices, I merely slowed down the damage, not stopped it.

Cue Cher’s “If I Could Turn Back Tiiiiimmmeeee.”

Remarking “aging sucks” isn’t going to cut it now. What sucks is being so willfully ignorant about what my body can and cannot is gnawing at my brain now. I’ve known since 2010 that I developed type 2 diabetes, high blood pressure, and cholesterol issues, the Latino Medical Trifecta. At least I’m not dealing with being 274lbs, which remains the heaviest I’ve ever been. I can’t imagine dealing with that on top of everything else. I’m exhausted by feeling nervous and unsettled. I finally reached a point of acceptance that these health issues are a part of my daily life. I opted for making room for better choices as a daily routine. I acknowledged their presence as being here to stay. I decided not to give them too much attention, to not dominate me or become an obsession. It isn’t just about losing weight and looking amazing. It is about longevity and being responsible for a better, healthier self. Now I’m nervous and unsettled again.

I told a friend I had no choice over the next steps. But, in reality, I do. I can remain willfully ignorant and enjoy the fuck out of my life as so many men have done in my family. Several are no longer with us, taken from us early by the conditions I am fighting now. This war for my health and sanity will not claim me, dammit. I’m the progeny of survivors. Let that show me the way to whatever is next.

Not all of us were meant to be performers worth viewing.

It was a humbling moment, but in the cold light of the pandemic, I realized my reasons for wanting big social media visibility were unfocused and half-hearted at best.

Enough already.

Writing and interviewing remain my best strengths, the outcome of attending journalism school. Structure matters in all storytelling; everything must possess a beginning, middle, and end. Context matters, but we prefer to focus on capturing isolated moments, each carefully curated and filtered but often devoid of profundity or purpose. It exists merely to engage the eye, maybe titillate a few people and little else until the next image makes its way onto a profile.

In the mad dash to amass followers, we became lemmings, often regurgitating or repurposing the same videos other people did, usually worse in the process. Yet, we view them, tag them, share them, and keep the cycle going until the next trend takes over. Or, we keep repeating the same clips or mime the same dialogue from popular films, TV shows, dances from music videos, and other art made by other people to show what? How spectacularly good are we at being copycats, devoid of any real discernable talent? (If I see one more person wearing a white wig to become Miranda Priestly in The Devil Wears Prada one more time…!?)

Oh, and the punditry of it all. Those people who need to constantly weigh in by commenting on the news, pop culture, whathaveyou. Pundits ruined mainstream journalism. Now the water cooler or barstool is a global comment box with effects, music, and often scabrous banter that offers little in terms of analysis or depth. Scott Z. Burns’s script for Contagion (2011) featured a statement I’ve never forgotten.

Jude Law as blogger Alan Krumwiede in Steven Soderbergh’s 2011 film “Contagion.”  Photo: (Claudette Barius / Warner Bros.)

Elliott Gould’s character, Dr. Sussmann, admonishes Jude Law’s character, conspiracy theorist Alan Krumwiede, with this blunt fact: “You are not a writer; a blog isn’t writing. It’s just graffiti with punctuation.” We’ve endured countless real Alan Krumwiede’s since then, like such wicked performers as Alex Jones and Candace Owens, people who will say and do everything for attention, deliberately misinforming others to stir the pot, even if it poisons people. All to live, earn money, and have the power to do it again!

No, I won’t be returning to the socials any time soon, nor will I promote this page in any fashion. The noise I found on social media created such anxiety I became angry at myself for letting it affect me so profoundly. It exists for me to unload what is taking up space in my mind. And it is helping me cope with the unease I feel with our world by having a creative space to deconstruct my feelings, strengthening my ability to communicate as a writer again in an honest manner.

I still value the importance of conversation and sharing, but I want to control the message better by not using external approval or validation as a catalyst to write. So much insight and inspiration can be found in education, understanding the rules and mechanics of writing and communication. Investigating and digesting the works of fabled writers from the past can impact the present and future!

In this era of “The Follower,” we affirm the truth that “We are What We Consume.” Eat empty calories; you will fatten up and atrophy. Consistently wallow in the bile and snark, our souls will darken as the algorithms spew out more and more of the same on your feeds. Imitation may be the sincerest form of flattery, but what about creating something new and unexpected? What about crafting narratives that enlighten and inspire, not perpetuate hateful Reddit myths and conspiracies to justify an evil agenda?

I accepted seeing myself more as possessing a big personality than a performer when I first walked onto a stage to act in a school play. That wasn’t the attention I craved; I wanted to be heard and visible. To a certain degree, that remains true today, but how big or small an audience is doesn’t matter to me. If only I read this blather, that’s fine with me, too. Not all of us were meant to be performers worth viewing. Not everything needs to be said or visualized just because you can’t handle the silence or void. But if you’re going to do it, make it something more than just a pale imitation of what’s been done before.

God, imagine what we all will look and sound like in 10 years? My mind reels, but I remain hopeful.

Bruised fruit.

Southern California is on fire again, filtering the L.A. sunshine through an apocalyptic haze, a burnished glow that is beautiful and malignant at the same time. I won’t be walking today, avoiding the layer of ash that has fallen overnight, blighting the suburban oasis that is my sanctuary, my home.

It makes sense that I chose to spend the day indoors. I won”t speak for all, but these last months of chaos and quarantine finally forced me into retreat. I don’t know if self-preservation is a last-ditch effort to sustain a sense of inner peace, but avoiding fear, anger, and other negative malaise is my true goal. I keep to myself because my penchant to speak frivolously is out of tune with what we are enduring as a nation and society. How anyone can stand the sights and sounds of an American “president” who insists on trolling the world through Twitter to get attention and spread his brand of lies, hatred, and instability is beyond me.

What I find is that I can’t bring myself to contribute to any dialogue surrounding politics anymore because I find my tenuous sanity threatened and edged towards collapse. I think the scarier truth is perhaps my years of misguided narcissism and self-absorption have been reflected at long last.

Perhaps years of continually promoting the false color and sound of the “Jorge Show,” which first exhausted my closest friends, has finally spent me.

Perhaps the years of living breathlessly to contribute overstimulated conversations about all things fabulous are no longer enough to hide the reality that I’ve worked too hard to cover up my truest self and hide it from the world.

Perhaps these months of stripping away the layers of my own corpulent body and emotional self down to the core are starting to reveal a better and healthier?

Perhaps I’ve finally made peace with the reality that no one should have to put so much effort into making themselves “interesting” to the outside world.

I won’t call it an epiphany as this process of self-discovery is still happening in real time. Most days are about clarity, others are definitely opaque. I’m at once eager to move forward and terrified to even make the slightest acknowledgment or move. I’ve had chili cheese fries and chicken nuggets. I’ve stumbled in communicating with people I love. I’ve slept way too long on weekends, avoiding any form of contact on purpose. Is it depression? Yes. Is it debilitating me like before? Not as much. The processes of wellness and its struggles don’t stall me, either. I just aim to make sure the next day isn’t about dwelling on the choices that are not wise and get back on track.

When I do feel able to absorb the outside world, I am able to to accept how we cannot act like these crises of late don’t involve us; they do. What crisis can do is reveal who we are, inside and out. Perhaps that’s why people choose not to incorporate themselves in these waves of change. Yet, change is inevitable. If allowed, it can carry us to a better plane of existence. That’s what I want to see in others and myself. To take the time to feel, react, and be moved to be better at living life.

I recognize that even this expression of thought appears to be an extension of the “Jorge Show” in many ways. That isn’t my intent. What I hope is transmitted, too, is how it is possible to look outward from our safety bubbles. It is possible to bear witness and respect the selflessness and sacrifice exhibited around the world, inspiring the many who choose to care and act in our best interests. It is also essential to bear witness to the subtle reminders that exist in between those moments. We need to keep an eye out for the beautiful lessons that still exist in this reality, despite the screaming heads and endless virtue signaling defining our era:

The little boy living with his parents across the street from me acts out his own Super Bowl moments daily by playing football alone. He is victor, cheerleader, fan, all in one. Completely unfiltered in his excitement, a team of one. I never see him play with other children, which doesn’t seem to faze him in the least. The joy on his face is unbridled and true.

The little girl I saw at the Mission Ave. Metro Line station during one of my daily walks around the neighborhood. She chose her moment to spin in place, smiling and laughing. The happiness of being able to move freely in the warm sun of a weekday afternoon in South Pasadena demanded that she throw her arms out and twirl around as her mother smiled with her.

The father and young son walking down the street near my home, taking their daily constitutional, I hope, enjoying the time together. Seeing the son put his hand on his father’s back, a gesture of such respect and love, nearly brought tears to my eyes. The father reacted positively, not negatively, looking down at the boy with a smile, the world’s most natural thing.

Garfield Park is teeming with natural life, families, birds, squirrels, children, older people, all basking in the breeze found in the shade when the sun feels merciless. Butterflies and hummingbirds dart in and out with purpose, reminding me of Dad whenever I seem them. Or, the little girl singing to herself as she ran across the lawns of the park. I live in a primarily white neighborhood, which is why I was heartened to see how many of these moments included people of color or mixed race families. It is the flip side of the burning rage that cannot be ignored, either. It is the balance that still eludes us.

I know it all sounds and reads a bit soft. I don’t care. The simplicity of it all, the humanity of such moments, gives me a reason to stop dwelling on past mistakes and present tense ennui.

The bruises I’ve inflicted upon myself for such a long time are less purple and painful, and yes, healing. Moving forward, I find myself pondering where do we go from here? What happens after the pandemic, the angst of unrest, and the demand for cancel culture finally abate? What will we become once the hashtag protests, election manipulations, disgusting conspiracy theories, and natural disasters stop long enough for us all to take a breath? How do we protect a state of mental grace when the roar of change and progress consumes us anew?

I take solace in knowing that many of us are all bruised fruit now, but we remain intact. We retain our sense of purpose and our commitment to furthering the message that we can better. I believe we can still nourish one another by skipping the judgments and accepting the flaws. We have to admit that we will never win over those who have chosen to ignore all that is right, just, and scientifically correct. We have to focus on those who teeter on edge, who will benefit from a guiding hand and an open heart.

And we need to take a moment to throw our arms out and spin whenever we feel the damn need. At least, that’s what I feel today.