9/11

9/11

Before September 11, 2001:

I spent the better of the year trying to establish a life in New York City. It was a long-held dream, one that came to fruition after I decided to leave my cushy job a studio publicist. Those months from the fall of 2000 to spring of 2001, I lived in the Carroll Gardens area of Brooklyn. The day to salad day experience of it all seems like a hazy dream to me now. However, certain things will forever stand out. Like making these little trips downtown with my brother and his friends to see movies at a cinema in the Water Garden building, followed up by a little trip to Krispy Kreme, then we’d mosey on over to Century 21 looking for deeply discounted fashion treasure or head into the Borders bookstore. I still have that copy of “Left Behind” in my bookshelf. Don’t ask, but I can’t part with it. Because, by that fall of 2001, it was a final reminder of a place that wouldn’t exist anymore.

September 11, 2001:

I was overwhelmed by the complete selflessness of total strangers helping out the many stranded people all over the US after the horrific events of that morning in NYC. I was one of those Americans, away from home in Toronto, unable to locate my brother Ernesto in Manhattan and frantic for any shred of information that could explain such a heinous and tragic act of cowardice and violence. It was a humbling period of time, where national pride hit this extraordinary and wonderful peak. People did what they could to help those who were lost, who lost someone or simply needed help in coping with the concept of such a staggering loss. Like most of you, I will never forget those who assisted my colleagues, my family and I during those chaotic days. I am forever grateful.

September 11, 2017:

I am overwhelmed by how our now warped sense of national identity has been corrupted through wrath, paranoia, mendacity, narcissism, conspiracy and total ignorance. It has been, the definition of what it means to be an American — to be a citizen of this world. And all for a lousy soundbite to be aired like a Boomerang clip over and over again until it becomes truth.

While you take a moment to remember the past, take a good look at our present because it will dictate our future. We’ve changed in the last 16 years, and not for the better. The very men and women charged with protecting us — from the military to local police and fire departments — are not being given the respect, resources or benefits to aid them in their time of need. More, we have gone from being humbled to something so right of center, I don’t know who we are as Americans anymore. Don’t let these homegrown infidels appropriate our future with more of the same. Remember who were and what we lost 16 years. We have so much to gain through optimism and being proactive. Let’s stop playing the blame game in an endless pissing contest for ratings and attention, tweeting and turning our nation into a reality show that undermines all that it is to be a strong nation of honest, true people.

It’s been 16 years since we faced one of the greatest tragedies in our modern history. Life hasn’t quite been the same since. What we’ve lost still hurts, but who knew whatever precious gains achieved would dissipate in the hateful rhetoric that’s led us to a crossroads moment we are facing as a nation today. As we honor the fallen, we owe their memory something more than toxic tweets, societal unrest, walls and other travesties weighing this great nation down. We owe them love, liberty and the pursuit of happiness who call continue to call America home — or continue to risk the journey here. Because that is the American Way.

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men and women are created equal…”

#neverforget #september11 #truth

Diary of an Angry, Hungry, Fat, Gay Mexican — Week 10, Day 64 — “Failure”

Diary of an Angry, Hungry, Fat, Gay Mexican — Week 10, Day 64 — “Failure”

Not a legend
Not ordinary
Not alternative
No position
No religion
F-A-I-L-U-R-E
I might as well be giving up all the time

— “Failure” by The Ting Tings

I ate a basket of bread today. I couldn’t stop myself. I tried to justify it with a joyful, “It’s Sunday Funday. I’ll be good six days a week, but I’ll treat myself to whatever I want on Sunday!”

Yeah. No.

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The fact is I had zero control. Despite the decision to eat a grilled salmon entree with broccoli, I still opted to consume quite a bit of the endless salad with tons of salty Italian dressing and soggy croutons. And then that bloody bread basket. Our helpful waitress literally wore a path from the kitchen to our table as she replenished our warm, flavorful breadsticks. The less said about the marinara dipping sauce, the better.

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Bloody Olive Garden! Is it any wonder why we are enduring a health crisis in this country? I really do think we are given so much choice, Viking sized portions and other reasons to eat in bulk are part of an insidious conspiracy to keep us all fat, lazy and sick since we refuse to be told how to live. Millions sold, billions earned and we are blind to the reality that we are truly lambs being lead to slaughter. Case in point, Olive Garden’s special was offering a second entree dish to go for free! But is anything ever really “free?” The costs are diabetes, hypertension, elevated cholesterol, heart disease and death, all with a generous side of Alfredo sauce.

Mind you, I can’t blame Olive Garden for my mania. It started earlier at my parents’ house, where I consumed hummus, walnuts, papaya, some Pollo Loco chicken, romaine lettuce, cucumbers and, in a fit of inspiration, air popped popcorn with melted Smart Balance butter and Tajín!

¡Joder, tío!

I am ending the Lean for Life program at Lindora this week. Four more days of regular visits to the clinic. Then, I have eight more visits for check-ups to complete on my own time. It can be eight weeks or eight days in a row or any configuration of eight. After that, it’s all on me.

Why I chose to sabotage myself before the very end is so typical! It harkens back that infamous freshman year at UCLA when I sold my books before my finals in one class — and it was an open book test!

Sitting at the table with Anne and Helen that night, our reminisces about the past circled to the bullying we endured or witnessed when we were in middle school. As I write this now, I realize that I’ve been my own worst bully. The difference between then and now? Those guys who knocked my books out of my hand, slapped the back of my head as I walked down the hallways at Meller Jr. High or yelled the most hurtful slurs about my peculiar brand masculinity were left way behind in Pico Rivera. But, I still say and think some of the darkest shit about myself to myself on the daily. I shame myself for my failures and weakness. I reserve the harshest criticisms for myself.

If any of us are to stay on the path towards wellness, bullying ourselves cannot be part of the regimes we attempt to establish. We have to love ourselves even more as we battle the moments of weakness that will inevitably occur again. It may be on a Sunday or some other part of the week that ends in “y.”

I am angry with myself right now, but tomorrow is another opportunity for a reset. I made a choice to be healthier for a reason. I’m still grappling with the concept that failure is just part of the process. Yet, I do know that success will forever stand right next to failure. They are never that far apart, but you do control the amount of distance that remains to be covered when you experience that moment of weakness. I let 17 months go by before I finally stopped my descent into a full blown health crisis. And I’ve had success in making great improvements.

I contemplated not going into Lindora tomorrow to avoid having to see the scale head upwards in the morning after seeing it drop over the last week. I will go in as planned, however. As I write these closing lines, I ponder that law of gravity that keeps our feet on the ground. Whatever goes up, will eventually come down. And down these numbers will continue to drop.

Oh, did I mention I also hit Yogurtland, too?

Update:  The weigh in at Lindora gave me a case of the Mondays. I was up SIX pounds of sodium-induced bloat, reaching 245.8. My glucose reading was at 119. I’ll be drinking a lot of water this week. 

Diary of an Angry, Hungry, Fat, Gay Mexican — Week 10, Day 60 — “Fat”

Diary of an Angry, Hungry, Fat, Gay Mexican — Week 10, Day 60 — “Fat”

“The girls (and boys) that think they’re ugly because you’re not a size 0, you’re the beautiful one. It’s society who’s ugly” – Marilyn Monroe

Weight: 240.5

Glucose Reading: 106

Body Fat Lost to Date: 6%

Hard to believe, but I am approaching the 10th and final week on my Lean for Life program. Time sure flies when you’re only eating egg white for dinner every damn night. To say that I have mixed feelings wouldn’t be me now, would it? The stagnation I feel has begun to set, anchoring me like a pair of cement shoes, albeit Italian ones. Not feeling so sparkly, either. Rather, I’ve been feeling rather morose of late. And I’m chasing that with healthy shots of: Tired. Annoyed. Fed up. I feel absolutely no joy about the progress I’ve made and that freaks me out.

Earlier this week, Nurse Maria told me the news. I’ve lost 6% of my body fat. The program usually sees patients lose between 2 to 3%. I should be elated. My clothes fit better. I sleep better. Luster has returned to my skin. I just look healthier, period. But all I felt was: nothing. Not like “A Chorus Line” nothing, but null and void. It is then I realized my body dysmorphia has taken a turn and I wondered if I’m always going to see myself as just another “fat boy,” no matter what I do to improve myself.

Last night, as I made my way to the Urth Caffé for yet ANOTHER first date, I started thinking about which of my comfort food venues I was gonna hit hard the minute I end my daily visits to the clinic next week. That’s not good, because I can’t process those foods anymore. The end result is too dire to contemplate even half-orders or a singular visit every other month. But the truth is I feel stuck and emotionally constipated.

I’m literally going through the motions.  I am missing something. A spark. Inspiration. Something to restore a sense of grace and a desire to stave off the demons of depression. Even the armor provided by the Lexapro is starting to show some dents and scratches. Is it my singleton status? Is it my approaching 50 in July? It could be that and more. All I know is that it’s as if covered wagons tented in mediocrity are circling me again. And don’t let me get started on the state of the American Union thanks to President Babyhands.

At times, I feel like I’m serving someone else’s dream. Other times, I get the sense that I’m just floating through life, buffeted from time to time by the obstacles I place in my own way. I just see “Fat Me” through it all because that all I’ve ever known, to be honest. It makes me think of that old Lynn Redgrave film from the 1960s, “Georgy Girl.” The reality of being the perennial schlub, no matter how much I may dress it up, inside remains the marshmallow center of “Fat Me.”

In the matter of being healthy, what you feel matters as much as much as how you choose to view your physical self. The only time I don’t succumb to any these dark swells on my mental shores is when I write. It shines a light on the boogeyman that is the childhood me, that pudgy soul who just wanted to be liked by the world.

As I reach this final week of the Lean for Life program, it is time to reflect on the road traveled before tackling the next journey. He needs to bid a quick retreat because it is when I don’t pretend to be someone I’m not, that’s when I use these fears to help me create and express myself with truth and clarity. It is only then I truly feel empowered and sane.

In no way am I ringing an alarm here. It’s part of the process of change. I knew that stripping away the layers of this unhealthy 40-something carcass was going to stir up some shit. These cycles of feeling woe and sorry for myself are destructive infidels determined to kick me off the course I’ve set for myself. I’m fighting back the best way I know how, this diary. It is my battleground to conquer. Each realization is the flag I will plant on the mountain I own, dammit. I just have to weather these moments of weakness to wrest the focus back onto what matters in this life.

Now, about my visions of those pinche Casa Garcia nachos…

“Better health through chemistry?”– A Prologue

“Better health through chemistry?”– A Prologue

“For a while she had a vague longing to be a psychologist. “Talking therapy is dead,” Gary said when she raised the idea. “It’s all pills now.”
Rafael Yglesias, The Wisdom of Perversity

Better health through chemistry. I’m taking Lexapro because I have brought myself to a standstill.

Active ingredients are: escitalopram oxalate Inactive ingredients: talc, croscarmellose sodium, microcrystalline cellulose/colloidal silicon dioxide, and magnesium stearate. The film coating contains hypromellose, titanium dioxide, and polyethylene glycol.

According to a Google search, my depression can be be attributed to:

“…a combination of biological, psychological, and social sources of distress. Increasingly, research suggests these factors may cause problems in brain function, including abnormal activity of certain neural circuits in the brain.

The persistent feeling of sadness or loss of interest that characterizes major depression can lead to a range of behavioral and physical symptoms. These may include changes in sleep, appetite, energy level, concentration, daily behavior, or self-esteem. Depression can also be associated with thoughts of suicide.

The mainstay of treatment is usually medication, talk therapy, or a combination of the two. Increasingly, research suggests these treatments may normalize brain function associated with depression.”

Is this the Magic Bullet that will blast me out of this cycle of self-harm and despondency about myself, about the world I inhabit?  We shall see. One tablet a day at a low dose. Then, a higher dose after seven days  A Hail, Mary pass if there ever was one.

A new journey begins and while I don’t like the fact that several chemicals are coursing through my veins to keep me from falling into the mortal abyss, I do think this may finally restore my “Want.” That is my want to change, to my want to be healthy. My want to live.

Let us give thanks, indeed.

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“Hay que ser un cabrón de la vida con buenos sentimientos..”

“Hay que ser un cabrón de la vida con buenos sentimientos..”

Quite simply, Spain has claimed me again.

After nearly a year of stewing in my own emotional juices, all lacking flavor or color, I plotted a course back to the place that helped me flourish with a steady rain of words, images and clarity. Of course, that sense of nervous expectation whch has been my lifelong travel companion also made a point to book passage along with me. Yes, I am fretting about a lot of things on this trip. In fact, the most liberating moment of this vacation was the first 24 hours, when I had no real way of communicating on a phone. For that first travel day, I had zero compulsion to reach out and touch anyone. I uploaded one photo onto Instagram to show people that I cleared the first hurdle by getting to the American Airlines gate at the Tom Bradley International Terminal and that was it. I haven’t had much inspiration to write since arriving in my glorious Spain. But that changed when I finally arrived in Salamanca. It was here where I found a narrative point, a glimmer of an idea, something that I was hoping would happen.

Primer misterio: Making a beeline to the Plaza Mayor, it was hard not to hold my breath. We’re told we can’t always go back to the sites where we experience profundity and change. The first thing I noticed was how easy it was to fall into step with the city again. It was the hour prior to “La Cena.” Siesta was over and that familiar symphony of families, friends, students and other branches of humanity reverberated off the cobblestone streets. And then I saw it. La Plaza Mayor. While it wasn’t a clear path anymore, even the construction of a stage in the middle of this perfect storm of Spaniards and everyone else could not prevent the flow of tears I let loose.

No cliches about “being home again” need apply. It was a wave of relief and realization. My slow emotional suicide of depression, poor health and familial woe had not cocooned me entirely after all. I will admit that I had some misguided notion that what I was really trying to accomplish was a remix on the “Shirley Valentine” tip. That was painfully obvious in the first days, when my awkward attempts were greeted with a tender pat on the arm, as if saying, “Oh,  you’re sweet” in that manner we reserve for a pet. It is Wednesday now. Raining. Early morning. And I think I am starting to piece together what the true meaning of this trip is meant to be. I’m older than Shirley now. She was in her early 40s. I’m staring at 50 from the other side. No, I am not traveling alone this time. Yet, I find that his “jolly holiday” is still a journey towards self-discovery. I am leaving a few things out for now as this entire chapter is really just a prologue, you see.

Spain, rather Salamanca, was a generous well of inspiration for me in 2014. I don’t know why I keep reaching for my damn phone, constantly scouring Facebook and Instagram, trolling for likes and comments because my ego is a bit compromised at the moment. Staring up at the ceiling in the dark, it just happened. “I am in fucking Spain! Joder, tío!” So, here I am, dipping my toe into these waters rather gingerly as I am not sure what makes sense to fit into this space right now. All I know is that I am compelled to start composing a few sentences because I felt the need to say something already.

Segundo misterio: I’ve been walking with purpose again. I feel purpose again. More, I am finding the joy in smiling in between the pockets of “OMFG, what am I doing here?” Maybe it was the agua de Valencia that made me drunk on a moonlit beach? Maybe it’s the jet laggy effects of all the planes, trains and automobiles it took to get me here?

Tercer misterio: The first image I took upon arriving in Salamanca was of a door, the entrance to the house of la señora Manoli, whose home was ground zero for the many epiphanies I composed for this diary. A lot of emotion detonated in that apartment during that summer of 2014. While I write today with this longing for a single kiss, I think about a quote I tripped across while idly perusing the internet on yesterday’s long train ride from Valencia to Salamanca: “Hay que ser un cabrón con buenos sentimientos.” Or “You need to be a bad ass motherfucker with good intentions or feelings.”

Yes, Spain has claimed me again, in all its brusque wonder. Could this introspection have happened anywhere else? Perhaps? But, where I’ve been standing of late, being that bad ass m’f’er with good feelings has been a Herculean task. I know I was that before. Somewhere along the way, like so many of us, I became afraid of that strong sense of focus. I confused it with being reckless. I made myself blind because I didn’t like what I was seeing on the daily. I can’t do that anymore. I can’t expect to have so many second chances anymore. As of this moment, I have loosened to tap to let “los buenos sentimientos” flow again. The pipe works are a little rusty, of course. Now, let’s see if I can throw the tarp off that old “cabrón” again and see what happens when I let him roam free for a spell.

Written and uploaded from Salamanca, Spain. Wednesday, October 19.

“GoLightly, young man, and grow up in the material world …”

“GoLightly, young man, and grow up in the material world …”

SALLY TOMATO: Some day, Mr. Fred, you take this book, turn it into a novel. Everything is there. Just fill in the blanks.

HOLLY GOLIGHTLY: Would be good for some laughs.

ST: No. No, I don’t think so. This is a book would break the heart. (READS ENTRIES) “Mr. Fitzsimmons, powder room, $50. Less $18, repair one black satin dress. Cat food, 27 cents.”

HOLLY: Sally, darling, you’re making me blush. But you’re right about Jack Fitzsimmons. He’s an absolute rat. but I guess, of course, I don’t know anybody but rats. Except, of course, Fred here…”

From the film “Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” adapted from the Truman Capote novella by George Axelrod

It is a story to break the heart, indeed.

Last night, I had a coffee date with a real life Holly Golightly, author Truman Capote’s famed gamine immortalized by Audrey Hepburn in “Breakfast at Tiffany’s.” Although, as I wake up to write this recollection, I now see shades Lorelei Lee, the famed blonde mantrap vedette from “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.” Either way, I write this of two minds.

I admired his pluck and honesty when he hurled statements like, “I don’t want to work to sustain myself. I want someone else to take care of me. My mom did that. So did my grandmother. I guess it runs in the family.”

I am also saddened by the harsh reality of his worldview. It was disconcerting to see how a darker shade of self was hiding beneath those incredibly green eyes. Yet, moments occurred during our two hour conversation where it was apparent said eyes could turn icy blue with determination.

God, he was beautiful. He had this classic Pepsodent, that all-American, clean cut look reserved for those who are the physical manifestation of manifest destiny. He knew he had the power to pillage and conquer souls and grab all the riches of the land. It would happen without him ever having to do or give anything in return, a fact he made quite clear.

I was never one of those boys. I never had that power. I was the friend. The confidante. The one that went with you shopping. The one that would hold your hand and console you when you would cry or rage over the one you’d rather be with treated you wrong.  I don’t know what it’s like to wield a sexual power so strong, that men would become automatic teller machines to sustain even the most tenuous of connections. I was never the boy who looked like a teenage dream.

During the course of our time together, I had visions, strong sexual ones. How could I not? I recognized the signs from day one. His careful banter, always appealing, almost demure, was seductive. But as our conversations, or rather marathon text narratives, evolved, an edge was starting to make itself known. Sitting with him at this Starbucks at Downtown Disney, it became apparent to me he knew what he had to say to draw a man in. Shrewd sincerity always wins in the conquering game.

It was fitting that our meet and greet happened at a place where artificial beauty runs rampant and costly dreams of fun and adventure are sold. This temple of cartoon consumerism only compounded my resolve not to engage with this boy again. Clarity hit as I drove by the 605 freeway on ramp. The role models provided by Holly Golightly and Lorelei Lee haven’t lost one iota of their potency.

But I shouldn’t be surprised.

Madonna’s seductive and telegenic anthem “Material Girl,” itself a variation and homage to these archetypes, has never been more resonant than today, where a generation refuses to do the hard work or take pride in making their own success. It’s about the instant gratification of it all, of getting and wanting all you desire.

Bartering with sex is nothing new. From the moment we learn to covet, we will find the right selfie angle with which to succeed of obtaining our heart’s desire. Yet something else is in the mix when you’re beautiful of face and body. I’d like to think a high cost exists to trade one’s souls to appease a hunger for Vuitton.

Lorelei Lee exalts near the end of “Gentleman Prefer Blondes” how “a man being rich is like a girl being pretty? You wouldn’t marry a girl just because she’s pretty, but my goodness, doesn’t it help?”

It does help, Miss Lee. But when all you can do is show your price tag like I was shown last night, I realized the cost would not just be a monetary one. I don’t have the funds to become a sugar daddy for someone who may just walk away when a fuller bank account comes into play. I would never want to pay to make someone love me. I want parity. I want equality. I want to share whatever I have with someone who understands the importance of giving back and not just in a financial way.

Want to know the greatest irony in all of this? He worked at a bank.

It took me a while to fight my way to the middle in this world. I am not going to be a rich man. I’ve pretty much squandered most of the riches of my perceived Hollywood life anyway in a lifetime of unbridled spending. That emotional void I’ve fought most of my life is no closer to being filled, although I recognize the danger of giving it power. It’s a hollow space. Period. What surrounds it, however, is something that keeps me from falling in.

I tire of this app fueled world, where you swipe by thumbnail portraits of the desperate and the damned. It’s a virtual Serengeti. Here, a generation of men, predators and game, roam the space in search of something that can stave off the inevitable, even it’s just for a moment. It’s a network for the anti-social, where you trade innuendo and salacious photos in acts that approximate connection and intimacy. No one ever really wants to go beyond the chat box. Somehow, that’s just inviting the danger and risk of having to actually relate to somebody. (Side note, maybe we ain’t talking, but a lot of us are still fucking the pain away. Which may account why STD and HIV infections are on the rise.)

For a moment, I thought, “Maybe. Just maybe.” He was softening a bit, opening up more and more about his family life, later showing me pictures of his mom and sister on Instagram, which was unexpected. It was the most real aspect of our conversation, the only time I didn’t hear cynicism and contempt. Calculated, perhaps. Yet, an urgency could be heard in his voice, which would fall to a whisper. “This man,” I thought, “is lonely.” Despite the romanticism of a fireworks show in the distance, it was the spark of an iPhone 6 Plus screen that illuminated the truth — and path for my exit strategy.

He joked that he couldn’t live without his phone, a trait that goes beyond generations at this point. And quite a bit of life was happening while we sat together. He’d text and talk, talk and text. I eventually had to sneak a look, only to be rewarded by the sight of a distinguished, smiling gentleman with a beard. Older, like me. Smiling that smile of “Notice me, please,” like me. It was obvious that the Teenage Dream was hedging his bets alright. I was one of a group.

One final boom filled the sky and we began our walk back to our cars. He said he always loses his car in the Disneyland parking lot. Once found, we hugged and he allowed for three tender kisses on the lips. As he turned away, he asked, “Text me” in a voice laden with promise of future heavenly delights. Or maybe it was just polite indifference, the voice we use when we know won’t ever speak again.  Either way, I couldn’t really listen anymore.

This “date” cost me $29: $18, parking. $11 for two lattes, one with sugar and one without. But one thing is certain: his story will ultimately break his heart.

Mine won’t.

Written and posted from Wayne Avenue Manor on Sunday, December 13.

From Fat Boy to Slim… (Week 5)

From Fat Boy to Slim… (Week 5)

I’m getting better. In some ways. I’m out of the stroke zone, which means the blood pressure meds are working. My sugar has dropped more than 50% from its high into a region that may mean I won’t need to take insulin. I’m about 17 lbs. lighter. I should be extolling the virtues of this success.

But I’m not.

Now that I’ve reached the half way point of a 10-week program to get my self into a better health, the introspection is reaching a certain plateau, too. And, to be frank, so is my weight loss. If my body is starting to recognize what I’m depriving it, so is my mind. I can’t shake loose some of that which ails me further.

I’m tired.

I’m tired of being single.

I’m tired of trolling these apps that only reward those who look airbrushed.

I’m tired of engaging in behavior on these apps that is beneath me.

I’m just tired of being lonely. It’s palpable, this feeling, and it is coloring everything a shade of “pity me” that is so frustrating and self-defeating.

I know how to flush away the sodium that makes me retain water. But how in the hell do I get rid of this moronic self-pity?

I look at this entire experience as a tear down. Something wonderful lurks beneath all this fat and fur. I know it.


It’s interesting. I see examples of my mindset in odd places. Like the Taco Bell on 8th street, one of my favorite haunts. It has been razed to the ground. It will be a long while before I can eat there again, if ever.

Things trigger my mania, to the point I can’t stop feeding this insatiable monster that takes total control.

Today was tough. Tomorrow’s the anniversary of Aunt Susanna’s death. I can’t stop thinking about how much we miss her. How much things still haven’t settled down within the family. All I want to do is consume, to spend and eat, spend and eat until this emptiness feels somewhat filled. But nothing helps. I feel the hunger of that beast growing, even as I bloat myself further and encroach on unnecessary debt.

Woe is the stomach and heart that can’t be placated.

From Fatboy to Slim…Week 1

From Fatboy to Slim…Week 1

“I’m not sure I want to let you leave here…”

That’s what the nurse practitioner said to me this AM, not the hot lover I’d rather envision on this day of reckoning. Today, I went to the Lindora Weight Loss Clinic to review the results of my blood work. Short version: I am in not so very good shape.

My triglyceride count is 1,539. Normal is 150

My cholesterol is 271. Normal is 135-200

My CRP is 16.40. Normal is 1.0

My glucose is 293. Normal is 65-99

My blood pressure is 210/122.

I could have a stroke.

My type 2 diabetes is back.

I am developing a fatty liver.

I weigh 257 lbs.

I am 48 and I am slowly killing myself.

The nurse practitioner was calm in delivering this news to me. I was rather chatty going into her office this AM. I said precious few words once she ticked off the list of damage I was causing myself. My blood pressure worried her so much, she wrote me a prescription for meds on the spot and demanded I headed to a pharmacy after I left. (Yes, I did follow her instructions.)

Emotions dictate why I eat. And if you run a quick scan of this blog’s archive, emotion dictates a lot of my writing. I’ve been this way since I was a kid. And the hyperbole driven career I’ve chosen has only added to the 72 pt. headlines I often use to express myself.

In the year since my bohemian sabbatical, I’ve gone from a clear-eyed realist in good shape to a bleary-eyed depressed bowl of pudding. But it is more than depression. It is anger. It is disappointment. It is defeat.

A lot has happened to me and my family in the last year. Still, at some point you have to say, “Enough of this shit!” That moment arrived today. I don’t want to be Sick Guy. I don’t want to be Fat Guy.

I don’t want to die.

It’s not just about going from fat to fit to appease my vanity or turn the head of a former love. It really is about making a definitive life choice to ensure I continue to participate in life as a healthy man of a certain age.

I know I’m not alone in this. If you do find yourself reading along, I hope you share your own wellness stories with me. Support is essential in conquering addictions and I am a food addict. As I continue this journey, I will explore that theme a bit more as I explore the reasons for why I eat what I eat. Food addiction is as real as any other form. It is not just a cultural ism of being Latino, where food is used as a reward or a consoling gesture. My addiction to certain foods is probably my longest running relationship.

Time to break up with a really bad boyfriend.

I started the Lindora Program today and it will run for 10 weeks. Stick around. It’s gonna be a bumpy ride, but the outcome is so worth it.

#forwardmotion

#chooselife

J.

PS — Some might be surprised by the photo that is the key image of this entry. It was a selfie I took in June 2014, just before I left for Spain. That was me at my leanest in my adult life. It’s a reminder of what was possible then…and now. When you have nothing to fear, you have nothing to lose.

How You (Don’t) Get the Boy — #themanthatgotaway

How You (Don’t) Get the Boy — #themanthatgotaway

Man, I hate when the end of the year starts manifesting itself. The holidays always seem to trigger a certain sense of loss in my heart. It’s a nagging sensation, on par with your Mom berating you for not cleaning your room before company is about to visit. But, in this case, it is just me still grappling with  “The One Who Got Away,” even though that event happened more than four years ago.

Right about now, my own group of friends is rolling its collective eyes over this admission, followed by this utterance: “Ayyyyyyy! Get over it already!”

Yeah, I know.

But my own Charlotte York mentality is at play here. I do believe you only get one real love. The rest are variations of that indelible experience. Some men are better, some are worse. Then, you click with someone enough to recognize your heart is still in working order. Still, I don’t think you ever forget the first moment you realize the person sleeping next to you makes you feel like the luckiest guy on Earth. And for a good part of four years, he did make me feel that way.

I’ve moved away from the Judy Garland-scored sense of loss that I’ve fostered with great care these last few years. Although, just to hear the first few bars of “The Man That Got Away” does encourage me to reach for a mental martini. The reasons for our break up have evolved over time. I see it today with a much calmer perspective than during the first year after I walked out his door. While I’ve been able to process it without the melodrama reserved for a cliffhanger episode of a Shonda Rhimes show, it may forever resonate strongly in my own life’s narrative.

I’ve gone into therapy over him. I’ve thought of how I will feel when I discover he has since married the gent that followed me. Sometimes, I am bothered over how we really don’t share much of a friendship. Sometimes, I smile over the good fortune of having him enter my life when he did. Sometimes, I wish I never met him at all.

These are the moments where I turn into a teenage girl, writing my heartbreak into a diary. I wonder if I ever reboot my own heart, does this mean all that data will disappear? At times, that feels like losing him again and it scares the shit out of me. Then, I remind myself that he moved on so completely, I’m a fool for still wanting to hold on to this info at all.

I’ve met quite a few gents since him, two even became boyfriends. Neither stayed. The self-sabotage I implemented made sure of that. I wanted to have the ability to think, “See? If they’re not him, they don’t stand a chance.” I have opted to stay out of the dating fray for longer periods. But, if there is one constant in this world, I can always count on a specific track from a Taylor Swift album to make me feel “this thing” all over again. And the recent release of her monster smash “1989” did not disappoint.

Taylor is certainly peppier than Judy, although I wonder how many other gay men out there are starting to recognize just how we can channel our own pathos through Swift’s music. With “Red” it was the title track that moved to me feel the many shades of emotion connected with losing him in the first place. With “1989” it’s “How You Get the Girl.”

Damn you, Taylor!

The simplicity of this track is insidious, a sentiment so unadorned and straightforward, you are conquered before the first chorus.

I have scripted so many reunion moments in my head. It’s either his choice or mine, a dramatic moment like his wedding or some random party. I’ve envisioned hospital scenes for both of us. I’ve worked out what would happen if he opted to stay with the other guy, complete with telenovela variations where I catch them in our bed. But mostly, I think about finally getting the boy, that love of my life, in the classic sense. It’s when I channel Nora Ephron, George Cukor and Woody Allen. And, these scenes are best underscored by that perfect Swiftian touch, that unabashed blast of earnestness that makes me surrender my rational self.

I’m not ashamed for any of this, but I recognize its limitations. Loss is something we all must learn to process and understand. It’s probably a good thing La Swift pulled her music from Spotify. Maybe now I’ll stand a fighting chance.

Nah.

But, as I was schooled one afternoon by a friend: ‘You’ll never get what you truly deserve…if you remain attached to what you’re supposed to let go of in this life.”

Taylor, if you’re reading, how’s that for a lyric?

Tuesday, November 5. Written and posted from Wayne Avenue Manor.

“How You Get the Girl” by Taylor Swift

Stand there like a ghost
Shaking from the rain, rain
She’ll open up the door
And say, are you insane?
Say it’s been a long six months
And you were too afraid to tell her what you want
And that’s how it works
It’s how you get the girl
And then you say

I want you for worse or for better
I would wait for ever and ever
Broke your heart, I’ll put it back together
I would wait for ever and ever

And that’s how it works
That’s how you get the girl, girl, oh
And that’s how it works
That’s how you get the girl, girl

Remind her how it used to be, be
Yeah, yeah
With pictures in frames, of kisses on cheeks,
Tell her how you must’ve lost your mind
When you left her all alone
And never told her why
And that’s how it works
That’s how you lost the girl
And now you say

I want you for worse or for better
I would wait for ever and ever
Broke your heart, I’ll put it back together
I would wait for ever and ever

And that’s how it works
It’s how you get the girl, girl, oh
And that’s how it works
It’s how you get the girl, girl
Yeah yeah

And you-ou kno-ow
That I don’t want you to go
Remind me how it used to be
Pictures in frames of kisses on cheeks
And say you want me, yeah, yeah

And then you say
I want you for worse or for better
I would wait for ever and ever
Broke your heart, I’ll put it back together
I would wait for ever and ever

And that’s how it works
It’s how you get the girl, girl, oh
And that’s how it works
It’s how you get the girl, girl
And that’s how it works
It’s how you get the girl, girl, oh
And that’s how it works
It’s how you get the girl, girl

And that’s how it works
That’s how you got the girl

Here’s Taylor Swift talking about the inspiration behind the track, one of many stand out moments of her new album, “1989.”

http://youtu.be/jFT1tdGmuqA

Lo que es ser latino. (Cuentos de la vida real)

Lo que es ser latino. (Cuentos de la vida real)

Ser latino es ser una persona emocionado. Pasión es la calentura que vive en nosotros. Es la raíz de nuestro archivo cultural, en donde encontramos material para telenovelas hasta el fin del tiempo.

No quiero disminuir el impacto de la emoción latina. Lo digo porque soltamos nuestros emociones porque no las tenemos miedo en expresarlas.

En la novela chicana, La casa en Mango Street, la niña Esperanza enfrenta las emociones de su calle con ojos y pensamientos bien claras. Para ella, lo emoción es ser humano. Somos débil, con deseos en proteger el imagen de ser un adulto maduro.

Mi mamá, una persona quien es la imagen de ser la mujer latina fuerte, prefiere tragar sus emociones que expresarlas con una lagrima. Pero en el 1977, recuerdo del momento que la vi llorar por la primera vez. Murió su hermana Carlota. Estuvieron peleadas sobre algo que se dejó en el pasado. Ni recuerdo los detalles.

Yo contesté el teléfono, la llamé porque estaba afuera de la casa. La llamada era de Tampico. No entendí mucho pero supe que era algo importante. Mi mamá se presentó, había un silencio y de repente se tumbó al piso.

Ahí, en sus rodillas, fue todo el peso de su emoción, el remordimiento y la tristeza.

Sentí que el mundo cambió en un breve instante. Mi mamá no era de fierro. Era una persona normal, con emociones como las mías. Nunca me sentí mas cerca de ella.

Ahora entendí como es ser alguien sin temor. Se me salió lo que es ser latino ese día. Tomé su mano para darla mi apoyo como su hijo de dos mundos distintos.