Art is dead.

At least, if I'm to take seriously 80% of what I've been seeing lately, it sure is. I blame the internet for most of it, myself.....everyone and her grandmother and her dog has a blog or twelve and has designated herself a 'journalist' or an 'essayist'. Every Tom, Dick, and Harry (particularly the Dicks) has a digital camera, webcam, and/or cellphone camera and a flickr, MySpace, and/or Youtube page and has designated himself a 'photographer' and 'filmmaker'. It's fucking ridiculous, completely maddening. Bad 'art' is everywhere on the 'net, but that's not even the worst part.

Don't get me wrong, talentless gits have ALWAYS tried to pass themselves off as artists. There have always been street poets, Central Park sketch artists, and a gazillion guitar-torturing, self-torturing, and audience-torturing singer/songwriter wannabes making the rounds of the cafes in the West Village, not to mention all the schmucks wandering around in black (who WEREN'T wearing it strictly for its slimming properties) with pained expressions on their faces and nothing between their ears, hoping to be labelled as intellectuals by OTHERS, but with noplace to flat-out label THEMSELVES. These people have always existed, but their delusion was limited to themselves and perhaps a few of their equally dimwitted friends and families, if ONLY because their 'work' was stopped for quality's sake before they could commit it to a public forum.

But not anymore. Bad writers have Blogger and Wordpress and god-only-knows what the fuck else to 'publish' their blather, and scads of promotion websites to get the word out (just take a look at the side of this page, for pete's sake...heh). Bad photographers have Flickr and MySpace, bad filmmakers have MySpace and Youtube, and everyone's got virtually unlimited domain names to scoop up and web services to subscribe to, so they can build their very own, personalized, craptastic pile o' pseudoartistic manure, and when all that's done.....well, damn, skippy. If I've got a REAL LIVE WEBSITE, then I've GOT to be an Artist....right?

Wrong, fool. I'll admit, the net allows for real artists to get their shit seen more widely and a whole lot cheaper than anything that came before it. But the downfall of all this is that people like me and a lot of my friends, who appreciate good art and do seek it out, are getting so fucking sick and tired of reading page after page of unemployed junkies waxing poetic about their cats, their exes, their drug problems, and all the talent they think they have, as they spin around their living rooms till they get dizzy and puke, snapping pictures the whole time with their circa-2002 .5 megapixel digital cameras....that we've all but given up looking. And worse still, a lot of the people who might actually have made MONEY off their writing or visual art a few years ago are limiting themselves to blogging and Flickr-ing, honestly believing they're going to be 'discovered'. I was discussing the latter with a friend the other night over drinks when I realised something else horrifying...I AM a published writer, one who has been getting work published for real CASH since I was a teenager, and who HASN'T been published since Istarted BLOGGING....not because I honestly think I'm remarkable enough or promoted enough to be discovered via the net, but rather, because this has made me lazy. Shit, even my writing STYLE has become lazy. I look at what I've written here so far and can't help but wonder....what the hell is up with all those ellipses?

But I digress. Or rather, I rant. After all, isn't what the internet's for? (Well....that, and porn....)"

Ode to Mr. Barcia, Jr.

Among the men I've met during my travels of late
You were a walking paradox, perhaps destined by fate;
What fate that could be I could not fathom
For dialogue with you was an uncrossable chasm;
The paradox being that someone so free in bed,
Could actually be so uptight in his head;
However, before I go off, I would like to take this moment to say,
That despite being a schmuck, you were a FABulous lay.

Talking with you was perhaps as delightful a chore
As being strung upside down - yes, Sherlock, you were a bore;
Perhaps being brought up a Guido in an armpit borough of New York City
Made you feel the need to try so hard to sound brilliant and witty;
But I'm here to tell you your attempts at intellect and wit
Only made you seem even more of an arrogant shit.

Just because one reads the news and has a teaching degree
Does not make him superior in life's knowledge to me.
Quoting facts, names, and dates like an oral exam
Is not impressive if you don't take time to know who I am.
Christ, just trying to have a conversation with you,
I felt like I was on a fucking job interview.

I wish you well and hope that you find
Someone from Mensa who can treat you in kind;
But the irony is that anyone can talk circles around you,
So a truly smart woman will only want you to screw;
I mean, c'mon, kid - how does a self-proclaimed musician, a DRUMMER whiz,
Not have a damn clue who Art Blakey is?
I mean if we're going to have an intellectual/cultural pissing contest,
Despite all your facts and dates, I'd still be the best.

You've traveled to Greece
I've traveled to Hell
You ate an olive
I rang the Bells
So don't even try to act Joe Cool with me
Because I earned a much higher life's degree.

Introducing Acturhrtout24

Hello everyone! I wanted to introduce myself to the world of bloggers out there. I'm new to this and frankly I'm not sure how it all works, but the journey and experience I'm sure will be well worth the effort. I'm a friend of the great creator of this blog, Ms. Billychic herself. Fabulous woman, by the way. I'm hoping to post interesting works of my personal writing in order to get feedback from readers and contributors of this site. I hope to use my writing towards my acting craft. Feel free to love me or hate me, but if you end up hating me, fair warning, you'll be missing out on something extremely special. So eat your heart out! Here I roll....

On Ornery

Backposted from Bone's Blahg Blahg Blahg 4/24/07:

I'm an ornery person, and proudly so. The word "ornery" typically has negative connotations, so lest you judge me for simply being a grumpy-ass bitch, let me explain why I actually bear it as a positive and even honorable descriptor.

I playfully referred to a much-loved waitress in a local restaurant as "ornery" recently, which resulted in a conversation with some friends about the true meaning of orneriness. I stated my understanding of "good ornery" and "bad ornery," and one friend in particular disagreed that there even is such a thing as "good ornery." So I looked it up on my handy-dandy Blackjack in the car, and sadly the Dictionary.com definition supported her mostly negative rendition of the word with a prolific list of unpleasant qualities:

or·ner·y / [awr-nuh-ree]
–adjective, -ner·i·er, -ner·i·est. Dialect.
1. ugly and unpleasant in disposition or temper: No one can get along with my ornery cousin.
2. stubborn: I can't do a thing with that ornery mule.
3. low or vile.
4. inferior or common; ordinary.
[Origin: 1790–1800; contr. of ordinary]
—Synonyms 1. mean, ill-tempered, ill-natured, surly, testy.
Dictionary.com Unabridged (v 1.1)Based on the Random House Unabridged Dictionary, © Random House, Inc. 2006

or·ner·y (ôr'n?-re) adj. or·ner·i·er, or·ner·i·est Mean-spirited, disagreeable, and contrary in disposition; cantankerous. [Alteration of ordinary.]
or'ner·i·ness' n.
The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth EditionCopyright © 2006 by Houghton Mifflin Company.Published by Houghton Mifflin Company. All rights reserved.

ornery
1816, Amer.Eng. dialectal contraction of ordinary. "Commonplace," hence "of poor quality, coarse, ugly." By c.1860 the sense had evolved to "mean, cantankerous."
Online Etymology Dictionary, © 2001 Douglas Harper

ornery
adjective
having a difficult and contrary disposition; "a cantankerous and venomous-tongued old lady"- Dorothy Sayers [syn: cantankerous]
WordNet® 3.0, © 2006 by Princeton University.

I had just convinced the waitress, a non-native English speaker, that orneriness was an admirable quality, so after reading these various disturbing definitions, I cringed to imagine her looking it up in a dictionary and thinking that I was some sick, self-righteous sadist.

In spite of this negative propaganda against orneriness, I still contend that it can be a positive attribute and argue that the dictionary definition should be revised to include this broader understanding and recognition of alternative cultural uses of the term. Rather than dichotomize it into a dualistic opposition of "good ornery" and "bad ornery" however, I would frame it more in terms of "good-natured" orneriness and "ill-tempered" orneriness.

When I was growing up, ornery was mostly used in the negative sense. If my parents said I was being ornery, they usually meant that I was being stubbornly disobedient. "Ornery" was also frequently used as a synonym for "lazy," which is not documented in a dictionary and ironically supports my own argument that the word has connotations beyond the standard definition. "Ornery" as disagreeable or lazy was also typically applied to support the stereotype of certain classes of people such as "white-trash" or racial minorities.

My understanding of this quality in myself and others has evolved over time to the point that I use the term mostly in the positive sense to indicate my admiration of one's unapologetic self-awareness and tongue-in-cheek critique of taking oneself or others too seriously. I'm not sure when exactly I began to understand that the word "ornery" actually alluded to positive qualities that society classifies negatively in order to suppress individual expression, creativity, and assertiveness; but I believe that it is directly related to its use as a derogatory term to describe individuals and groups that are socially, economically, or otherwise oppressed, underprivileged, and/or deprived of equal access to status and capital. As such, I see orneriness as an almost essential quality for healthy rebellion, activism, and solidarity across seemingly divergent identities.

As an ornery person, I admire this quality in myself and others, and I tend to get along with ornery people. In my search for supporting cultural evidence that good-natured orneriness exists, I stumbled upon a the Ornery American website, which includes a weekly "World Watch" column by Orson Scott Card (an amazing sci-fi author) as well as a detailed explanation of "Who is the Ornery American?" Following are some persuasive excerpts in support of my ornery premise:

The word "ornery" began as "ordinary." In the days when you were either of the "gentle" class or merely "ordinary," parents would say to their stubborn children when they refused to do as they were told, "Don't be so ordin'ry."

On this website, we look for the voices of those Ornery Americans -- the common folk who don't pretend to be intellectuals or elite in any other way, but who are just stubborn enough to think that we ordinary folk are the ones to whom this nation was entrusted from the start.

1. We aren't impressed by your credentials, Dr. This or Senator That. We aren't going to take your word for it, we're going to think it through for ourselves.

2. We don't like being spun. That doesn't mean we aren't sometimes fooled by the way reporters slant their stories, but when we find out how we've been manipulated, we get a little mad and we refuse to trust that writer, commentator, that magazine, that newspaper, that news network, or that politician again.

3. We think America is larger and more important than our self-interest. You can't buy our integrity with a boomtown economy, and we won't let you shame our country just to avoid risking American lives. We Americans have never been afraid to make sacrifices for a worthy cause.

4. We believe that character matters -- our own character, the character of our leaders, and the character of our nation as a whole. We don't like bullies and cowards, liars and hypocrites, and we don't appreciate it when our leaders make our nation behave as if that were what Americans are.

5. We'll forgive your misdeeds, but only if you apologize sincerely and never do it again. Our trust, once betrayed, is not lightly restored.

The Ornery American seems particularly focused on a sort of ornery political sensibility, which I referred to in my own pontification and reconception of the word. But what about the more playful aspects that are essential for well-rounded orneriness? That's where the Ornery Librarian (whose blog tagline is "…because I am grumpy, like to read, and have too much time on my hands") illuminates the way. For example, the following blog review:

Blog,
Entertaining and Witty
Librarian's Guide to Etiquette
Oh, I'll admit it, I loves me some librarian humor. And not even in that ironic way of the hipster. No, I've been known to bust a gut over a good Dewey joke. So, this blog of etiquette tips for librarians is naturally right up my alley. Caustic and clever, the entries have a generous dose of sarcasm. An example:"After interviewing for a library job, it is customary to send thank you notes to the individual search committee members. If you suspect that there's a chance you won't get the job and you plan to send a follow-up voodoo death curse, be sure to collect a strand of hair from each of the committee members during the interview." (Librarian's Guide to Etiquette, 12/12/06)

My only complaint is that updates are sporadic. But, its usually worth the wait.bottom line: alarmingly clever librarian humor

If that's not convincing enough, there is also an Ornery Woman blog, whose tagline is: "Women bloggers extending the middle finger to the majority of the world." Ornery Woman is not an individual person but a collective "group of female bloggers whose backgrounds are both in fiction and expository writing. Although we all have varied interests, ethnicities, sexual orientations, and writing styles, we all share something in common: a desire to get a little something off our chests."

Why have I gone so long without realizing that there is clearly a good-natured ornery community of naysayers in response to the naysayers? There are many more good and ornery examples that can be discovered by a simple Google search, many of which are personal musings and manifestos purporting orneriness as a positive attribute. So again I assert, in my good-natured ornery way, that there is ample evidence that the traditional conception of orneriness is worthy of revision.

Therefore, I offer the following definition, which also reflects my primary personal use of the term, as an alternative cultural vision of orneriness in service of the greater good:

ornery adj.
1. irreverent, witty
2. blunt, honest, forthright
3. playful, mischievous, teasing
4. crafty, wily, sneaky

While none of these individual descriptors stand alone as a complete synonym for "ornery," the totality of this vision represents the existence of an ornery disposition that questions authority, acknowledges personal power, and employs prankster (rather than gangster) methods of vigilante justice. So I encourage you to evaluate your own orneriness and whether you use it with good-natured or ill-tempered intentions; observe good-natured orneriness in others and respect it as a viable and valuable social skill; and educate your community about the vast network of ornery do-gooders who epitomize the only real hope for positive change in an ill-tempered world.

Career Move: A Drag Queen?

I'm thinking about becoming a drag queen.

No, seriously...stay with me here. I like the "I am still a woman (kinda)" bit, so I could be a Drag Queen instead of King (my tits are really too big to try to hide anyway, and I'm not getting breast reduction surgery because I like my bodacious ta-tas) and I could cut my hair (it's shoulder-length, I'm not tied to it) and its dark brown. And then I could just wear a really great wig. If I worked it, I could almost, in my own mind, look like Julie Andrews.

Then, maybe...just maybe...I would land some better fucking roles than what I've been getting - because I've been scraping the bottom of the fucking barrel. What a fiasco. I could at least get a regular Drag gig and at the age of fifty be some tired Drag with my tits hanging down to my knees, but by that point I might be able to wrap them around my neck and pull the loose skin that will be hanging there, like a Perdue chicken, up tight - and save on face lifts. If anyone tries to give me shit, I can just say "You know what? If you want - I mean, if you really want, I can lift my dress and show you the schlong of the century, but I don't think you really want to go there - I know I don't!" and hopefully, that will keep them at bay and they will never know the horrible, horrible secret: that I have a cooter.

Who am I kidding. Maybe I can get a job as an extra on "Deal or No Deal?" or if not an extra - I'll be on the other show (is that lame fucking thing still running?) the one where they strut like 40 people up on the stage and you have to tell who or what they are by looking at them.

As if THAT wasn't just asking for some close-call-racist/elitist/sexist/homophobic/(fill in the horrific blank) classification and generalization possibilities you ever could conceive. Who was the moron who came up with that show?

Which one of these people lives in a trailer park? God forbid the contestant point to the guy wearing the CCR t-shirt chewing the tobbacco. (the answer? Pat Sajak, since Wheel of Fortune really isn't doing to well)

Which one of these people is an "exotic dancer" (and here there is a murmer and chuckle in the crowd as the host grins with that "what? I never had to pay for sex...this week" kind of look) Everyone's eyes travel to the chick in skintight jeans, lots of makeup, and the "come hither and boink me" stare. (Answer? The guy with the beer gut who saw one-too-many episodes of the Full Monty).

Which one of these people couldn't get a paying job as a serious actress, so she got stuck doing this? Everyone will immediately point to me, and I'll tell them to fuck off and storm off the set, and not get paid.

But if I do it in DRAG, at least it will be looking FABULOUS. Actually, it won't be in DRAG, but if I can make them think I'm in drag (I know a good makeup artist who can make it look like I have a bit of an adam's apple) and I am really tall...If I just act more feminine, like the transvestite at my job that everyone knows about but she thinks nobody knows (uh, I've never seen her without a turtleneck and she's an awfully manly looking chick) I think I could pull it off. She's more feminine than any girl I know...so I have to learn to be feminine. I have to learn grace. I have to learn how to walk like an angel...

Oh, fuck it.

BLAHG

Backposted from Bone's Blahg Blahg Blahg 9/9/06:

I've avoided engaging in the blog phenomenon for a while for various reasons. One is a matter of time—having little spare time and not wanting to wile it away in cyberspace. Another is a matter of privacy—most people think I'm hard to get to know, which is true because I don't readily trust anyone in general, much less with my most intimate thoughts and feelings (not to mention the fact that online confessions of even the most innocuous sort could also easily be misused by loved ones, strangers, or authorities). Practicality is another issue since I just re-established a regular journaling habit again last year (a New Year's resolution that I'm proud to actually have kept up with), and I don't want to lose my momentum of physically writing in a journal. Then there's intention and prioritization: who am I journaling for, myself or others, and if it's both, when and what is most appropriate for which audience?

Yeah yeah yeah, blah blah blah… Which is why I've entitled this, my first ever (in a series of who knows how many), "blahg." Ultimately I think this is a pretty self-indulgent and somewhat mundane activity that may or may not be useful to myself or others—thus the triple entendre of "blahg" (blabber) "blahg" (blah) "blahg" (blog). The funny thing is that, if I do continue to blahg on a semi-regular basis, this might be the most accessible route for even those closest to me to understand/get to know me on a deeper level. Perhaps there's something to be said for the insulation and pseudo-anonymity that cyberspace provides—I have no trouble being honest but being vulnerable… well, my vulnerability might actually be a greater risk for you than me.

PostScript:
Obviously, I'm still blogging and feeling okay about it. I'm honored that my online pontifications have resulted in my recent invitation to become an official Ornery Woman (look for my recent ornery blahg to be re-posted here soon).

Men and Basements: Be Very Afraid

Over the last month I have made the acquaintance of a few different men due to a myriad of reasons, the main ones being new clients and my tendency to mix business with pleasure if its not too dangerous.

I've met some nice people...and some interesting people. And when I say interesting, I'm not just talking about wow, he's such a clever fellow! or isn't it great that he speaks three languages and knows Tantric massage! No...I'm talking about interesting in the sense that you know the person is a few fries short of a happy meal - and one clue is that they want to convince you that they used to be a CIA agent...and THAT's why they won't let you come over to their house. Or the fact that there happens to be a couple of pairs of shoes in their apartment that are large enough to fit them...and they are more feminine looking high heels than any that you own. Or because they refer to themselves in the third person more often than not in that creepy way: Scott really likes it when you play with Mr. Happy!

Or, because they are 45 and live in their parents' basement.

I came across this winner through mutual friends, actually; an investment banker who lives in Queens of Italian descent, who enjoys art, fine wine, and is a witty conversationalist and intelligent man. I was delighted, after a couple of dates, at the prospect of going home with him, since our discourse had been so engaging and he was so attractive; I was horrified to find out that what I was going home to was nothing more than the running joke among me and my female friends.

What comes up among single women who are dating is the never-ending, never-not-funny cliché of how we're looking for someone and we end up finding "a guy who lives in his parents' basement". Or how he may not be a great catch, but at least he doesn't live with his folks at the age of 38. Wow, I found him wearing my underwear and banging my girlfriend, but at least he has his own place and doesn't live with his parents! - you get the idea.

So, after an expensive candle-lit dinner, two bottles of wine, a romantic stroll through Manhattan, cocktails at another place that included making out and conversation about literature, the subject of the End of the Evening came up, and he wanted me to come back to his place.

"I'll make it really special for you - I just don't want the night to end." He said huskily, and with that, I clasped his hand and joined him in a cab and we headed for Queens. We arrive at this lovely little house, and I'm smiling as he's paying the cab driver.

He suddenly looks pained.

"I forgot - I left the keys for downstairs inside - we're going to have to go through the front door."
I'm thinking...uh...so? This is your house, we should be going through the front door. I ask what the problem is.

"Well, this is my parents' house - and I live downstairs. So, we're just going to have to walk through the living room. I think they're up; let me poke my head in and let them know I have company."

Dear reader, I didn't know what to say. I was shocked - no, make that horrified. It was like 2am and I was going to be ushered through this 45-year-old man's house to his basement and along the way meet his parents? Thank God I wasn't sober.

He poked his head through the front door and said something like "Hi, I'm home - I have company, but we're going downstairs (at that point, I was thinking is that where he keeps the bodies?)," and then he grabbed my hand and pulled me into this time-warp of Italian suburbia. His mother looked as horrified as I was. His father looked amused. They were in their pajamas, watching television. I put on my cheeriest "Hello!" and made a beeline to wherever I thought the basement door, Dr. Who's Door, any door, might be - just so I could get past them and get the hell out of there.

He led me downstairs to another livingroom area, which I assume is his "space", and said "Well, what do you think? I have a great house, don't I?"

"Your parent's house is lovely." I murmured, and like the lone survivor of a group vampire attack, I waited for dawn to arrive. He couldn't seem to understand why I suddenly had a headache.

Since then, I have met two other men with Basement Issues: one man who is living in his ex-girlfriend's basement of her house and another who is living in a basement apartment in a lovely brownstone in Manhattan. The latter isn't a problem at all, but I'm so shell-shocked from the first two, anything that is not above ground is no longer an option for me.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

I Think I'm Online Too Much at Work

I think I finally popped the proverbial "non-work internet usage zit" today, when, after struggling with both Firefox and IE, both suddenly went *POP* and...ceased to be anymore on my screen. No cryptic Windows messages "Firefox had to suddenly close" (uh, no shit, Gates, thanks for much for the heads up) or not-so-cryptic "THE SITE YOU ARE TRYING TO LOOK AT IS BLOCKED BY ____ AND THIS ACTIVITY HAS BEEN NOTED FOR THE RECORD" (uh, holy shit - so much for shopping online at work anymore for sex toys and feather boas) came up; no windows closing in upon themselves like an astrophysicist's wet dream; nothing.
Just a anti-climactic poof and it was gone...and I'm convinced that somewhere upstairs in I.T., the Tools who monitor which worker does what online saw that the computer at my desk was chugging away like the Little Engine That Could as it traveled across the cybersphere...and decided wholeheartedly to shut my ass down.

I suppose I'll just have to tone it down...or, if I get fired, then it will give me a reason to get off my ass and get an acting gig like I should be doing...

Gettin' My Diet Groove On

Well, it's been 3 months since I started and I've lost 22 pounds. To be honest, I was terrified that I wouldn't be able to do it. Now that I've hit that weird world of "The Mid Thirties" (yes, please note the capital letters) I've come to realize that it really IS a wee bit more difficult to lose the weight; rigorous exercise DOES make me a little more tired; the pounds just don't melt off like they once did.

This has been an ongoing thing in my life. I remember having a big life-altering change in my mid 20's: I divorced my first (gasp!) husband and got on a health program; became a vegan vegetarian who ate 50% raw and lost like 40 pounds. I would smile smugly when people would tell me I was "almost too thin" and dated and wore clothes that I had never been able to fit into as a teenager...and have never been able to fit into since.



I think the last time I was actually petite and not really aware or neurotic about what I was eating was when I was about...five. Maybe even earlier. Two or three. That's kinda sad, when I think about it. I mean...I wonder...is there ever going to be a time in my life when I don't have to plan meals ahead of time or put thought into caloric intake at every meal? Or if I decide to splurge and eat out with friends or a companion, and eat like they do, not kill myself at the gym later?

I have to answer honestly: probably not. My body is just not made to eat like everyone else. I was out with someone a week ago and we were having dinner at a really nice restaurant and I was going to order a salad and an appetizer as my entree. He insisted that I order a full entree "It's the weekend! You're relaxing!" and split dessert with him. It was nice, but later I thought about it and was really annoyed the next few days because HE wasn't going to have to deal with the repercussions of eating a full meal like that in the way I would - nor would he understand.

I see girls eating pizza, really skinny girls, with a regular coke, and I wonder: Where was I when God was handing out the rapid metabolism genes?

My mother was thin all her life. She was a sex symbol all throughout her adulthood. Even now, at the age she's at, I would DIE to have a figure like hers - as would most of my friends (including the thin ones). How come I didn't get to wade into that end of the gene pool? Don't get me wrong...I'm relatively happy with the cards I was dealt; I'm attractive, I have a "youthful" looking face (from both of my parents) and I've done okay...but in the "look at food and gain weight" department, I ended up with the shit end of the stick.

So...at the age of 35, I am finding that I can't do it on my own anymore like I thought I could. I have yo-yo'd so much that I think I broke my string. But I have been using Nutrisystem and the gym, and for now, that is doing the trick. The food is wonderful and I've been very happy on it.

I just get a little unhappy sometimes when I think about the fact that I have to always always keep in mind WHAT I'm going to eat BEFORE I even eat it...like a day before, sometimes. So much for spontaneity...or bread...or wine. I really miss booze. LOL

Oh well, I guess my aspirations to be a gutter lush will have to wait.

Why I Hate the Puerto Rican Day Parade

Let me start off by saying that I'm half-Puerto Rican. Most of the relatives that I have, or, at least, that I know, are P.R. or a hearty blend. My brothers are half Puerto Rican and half Cuban. I speak Spanish and love that part of my heritage. I'm very proud of my roots and love hispanic culture.

That said, why in the world would I hate a day (week, in fact, that culminates into one day) of celebration in NYC of my Latin heritage? There are several reasons, but I'll start with one main one that really burns my ass.

I often get "Wow, you don't look Puerto Rican (Latin, whatever)." I look very much like the English/Irish part of me. My great-grandparents on my father's side (the P.R. side) are actually from Spain, so I have a mish-mosh; but if one knows what to look for, you can tell that I've got some Latin in me without a doubt. My father's whole family is light-skinned (the Spain-to-P.R. bit) so we all get that.

So, the times when I have tried to get involved and celebrate on this glorious day when all of my P.R. brethren are boogeying to Salsa and basically acting like drunken Irishmen on St. Patrick's day, I often get treated with racism and discrimination like you wouldn't believe. I'm not "dark" enough, nor am I fluent in Spanish well enough to speak rapidly. I once wore P.R. colors and a little flag, and was given more than my share of evil eyes and nasty stares by Latina girls; their dark curls and gold chains almost as impressive as their four kids and their moustaches.

Some folks reading this may say "Well, fine, white girl; now you get a taste of the other end of the stick - experience a little racism since it's usually the whites that are the racist jerks." -- well, I agree with the latter part of that statement, but here's my response to the first part of it: kiss my ass. I don't treat people that way and I don't expect to be treated that way. I hate the fact that I am half Puerto Rican and will get treated like shit by PRs that "look Puerto Rican" at this festival, but someone else who could be...say... full Dominican (and DRs and PRs seem to have this animosity towards each other, go figure) could go and everyone would assume that they had more of a right to be there than me. What the FUCK is that all about? Who said that someone who is Puerto Rican isn't white? Or is only darker skinned? There are white, brown, black PR people. Another thing I hate is that "white, non-hispanic" thing that I always get corralled into checking on applications for things. Christ, what happened to "White, mix-o-stuff?"

Today I was walking by a bunch of guys today who were walking in my neighborhood, coming back from the PR Parade in Manhattan. There is a large Hispanic community around here, and with the great weather, there have been several mini-celebrations all week; the P.R. flag flying and people wearing bandannas, etc. Somebody was playing Latin music and I started to boogie a little while I was walking. The Latino guys said in Spanish "she dances like she thinks she's Latina" and then made a comment that suggested that a white girl who dances like that might be good enough to bang.

So...yeah, I hate the Puerto Rican Day Parade and the whole fucking day. Mainly for the racism that I have to put up with. Let's face it: these kinds of celebratory days that are based around a nationality or specific country can get really out of control, because all it does is give folks a reason to get shitfaced and act like socially retarded individuals in the name of their heritage. The possibilites are endless in relation to bumping into an asshole because everyone who has that nationality or culture in their family tree is out that day getting hammered. This includes St. Patty's Day - but I'll tell you: I may deal with a drunken bastard who hits on me or pukes on me, but I don't deal with someone giving me shit because my Gaelic is non-existent or my hair isn't red enough.

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nooo, they don't make me lay awake at night wondering if they are lurking under the bed on alert for when one of my hands falls over the side of the bed so they can munch it up. and no, i don't jump on a chair when i hear the words. they don't even make my spine tingle at the thought. but honestly i am afraid now of the written *and posted* word. i thought when they fired me for having my opinion (albiet a somewhat harsh and glaring and Unkind one but still my god/constitutional given opinion) that i would be able to turn my nose up at them. (Them. said with a big T.) and afterall, what more can they do? come to my house with torches and pitchforks? drag me out into the village square, strip me naked, paint a big red B on my chest? turns out that even if they can't do any more i now have the fear. what if? what if i express my dismay at what these malicious vindictive people did to me because they didn't like reading about themselves in the harsh glare of the day? what if they make sure i can't get a job? i don't know if they have this power but still, what if they make sure i can't use my last 4 years as the valuable experience that it was? ugh. i hate being this way. i want to turn to them. plant my legs firmly, lift my chin and hold up my middle finger (until i hear my mom's voice and i switch it to my middle and pointer finger being even more defiant) and say 'Screw You! you do NOT win! you will still be miserable nasty people who lead small and miserable lives. the satisfaction you may have gotten by taking my job away should be short-lived. turns out there are other jobs out there! your nasty little deeds have in fact turned out to be the best thing to happen to me in a verra long time. (somehow i develop a scottish burr when i am mad it appears) thanks much!' and stalk off laughing. maybe i would skip off gaily, that would work better.

but i won't. instead i will sit and look at the computer and wish that i dared. but daring won't feed my daughter or buy her new socks.