Category Archives: Essays

August 16, 2012 · 7:55 AM

Pause

I wanted to let my followers know that I plan to take a brief hiatus from this blog.  I need to ready my novel for publication.  It just got rejected by another mainstream publisher, so I’m leaning towards self-publication.  I truly enjoy blogging, but it takes considerable time and effort.  I’ve been struggling to balance that with other writings and my new full-time work life.  I haven’t had much time to exercise either.  I’d vowed never to let my health be compromised by anything.  But, I’ve noticed that, as I push 50, life gets busier and more hectic.  It can also become increasingly disappointing.  Still, writing is my first passion; my first and only true love in life.  So, that’s where my heart will be for the next couple of weeks at least.

I feel it’s way past time to get this thing done.  I first had the idea in the early 1990’s, jotted down a few notes and some semblance of a synopsis, before putting aside to deal with other stuff going on at the time.  Yes, life does get in the way; then again, I sort of let it get in the way.  I began working on the novel again in 2000 and – once again – let other crap interfere.  I’ve just put it off for too long.  Thank you to everyone for subscribing to my blog.  I’m not disappearing altogether.  If something really significant arises, I’ll jump back into it.  But for now, I need to get this novel done.  I’m tired of working for other people and corporate entities.  Writing is – and always has been – the only true career path for me.

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August 15, 2012 · 8:57 PM

Working Enemies

If you’re experiencing problems at work, here are your 2 best courses of action:

  • Deal with it.
  • Get the hell out of the company.

Sometimes, the latter choice is the best, especially if the organization’s culture seems so incredibly corrupt that nothing will change for you.  Eventually, those companies self-destruct under the weight of their own arrogance.  It happens all the time.

You actually have a third choice: complain to the human resources division.  But, I’ve learned this can actually backfire and makes things worse for you.  Business news flash: HR is not your friend.  Their purpose is to ensure the company functions smoothly, which means simply making a profit for their shareholders.  If said company perceives an individual to be part of a problem, they’ll do everything short of murder to get rid of that person.  Filing a complaint of some sort – any sort – means something has gone awry.  Managers and supervisors can easily twist things around to make it look like you’re the source of the trouble.  Yes, sometimes they really do target people.  If you’re shocked, then you either haven’t been around long enough, or you live in a fantasy world.  Get over your denial and wake up.

Corporations don’t care about people.  As stated above, they’re only concern is to earn revenue.  That’s why companies rarely do things out of the goodness of their own heart.  They don’t have a heart.  It’s a company.  Mitt Romney may think corporations are people, too, but he’s as clueless as his trophy wife when it comes to the realities average people face every damn day of their lives.  Companies will only make things right, when their profits are threatened.  Then, they’ll jump through hoops and do cartwheels, especially if things have been documented, and an employee or former employee has stuff in writing; i.e. emails.  Believe me – I’ve experienced and seen this firsthand.

I know I was targeted several years ago, when I worked in the wire transfer division of a large bank.  One day in August of 1995, the entire system collapsed, and hundreds of transfers didn’t get sent.  They had to be printed up and dispatched manually; not surprisingly, a few got duplicated.  The largest was in excess of $200,000.  When the account officer called the unit in which I worked late one afternoon, the associate who answered the phone couldn’t handle her.  So, I talked to the account officer and took on the responsibility of contacting the receiving bank to get the second transfer back.  It looked simple on paper.  But then, my supervisor and manager decided to write me up over it; saying I hadn’t acted on it quickly enough.  I tried protesting, but was afraid to lose my job.  In retrospect, it probably would have been best, as I realized later they did everything they could to get me to resign.  But, I didn’t.  I made it through that period and stayed on at the bank until I got laid off in 2001.

That particular manager – who literally walked around with his nose stuck up in the air – resigned his position in early 1996 to work for an insurance company.  Only one year later, however, he lost his job at that company and then tried to return to the bank.  But, they didn’t have a spot for him.  My immediate supervisor – who turned out to be a mentally unstable hypocrite – didn’t fare much better.  She got transferred to another unit at the end of 1995, then booted out of the department altogether because of poor performance.  She came very close to losing her job.  When I saw her a few years later, she told me she was an administrative assistant; a step down for her.  I was an executive administrative assistant by then.  I emphasized the word “executive,” and I think she got the hint.  I don’t know what happened to either of them afterwards and I never gave a damn.  What goes around comes around.  Both those fuckers got what they deserved.  It was my only consolation.

That ordeal was nothing, however, in comparison to what a friend of mine endured around the same time.  He was a CPA for a large software firm and had become the butt of crass jokes by coworkers, which happened to me on a few occasions.  And, as in my situation, it seemed his managers had targeted him.  But, unlike me, he filed complaints with HR; thinking, as do most people, they would help him out and ease the situation.  That’s when things worsened, he told me back then.  But, something else was happening; something that ultimately would turn things around in his favor.  He suspected his superiors were deliberately sabotaging his work just to make him look bad.  I almost didn’t believe him.  In my infinite naivety back then, I didn’t think that would actually happen.  One manager tried to make a game out of it, he said, rejecting his work with coy notes and sad attempts at humor.  They didn’t think it was funny, though, when he walked into the office one Friday – and then, left at noon.  He’d resigned without the requisite two weeks’ notice – on the last business day of the third quarter in 1996.  He contemplated suing the company for harassment, but didn’t have the energy for it.  He was just glad to leave.  But, he said, they paid the price.  He learned from a former colleague that all the work his managers had mutilated simply to make him look incompetent and lazy ended up causing more damage for the company.  They had to spend time and money correcting those alleged “mistakes.”  Heads rolled, he told me with an evil glint in his eye.  What goes around, comes around.

There was more drama at the engineering company where I last worked than in an entire season of The Guiding Light.  And, just like the show, it was perpetual; it just went on and on, over and over; the same crap.  Much of it was self-induced, but other concerns were legitimate.  It was during my 8-year tenure at that company that I realized the truth about so-called human resources.  Because the company handled a multitude of government contracts, they were allegedly concerned about employees’ ethical behavior on the job.  Therefore, some of my colleagues tried to make use of the company’s much-heralded ethics committee, which turned out merely to be an extension of HR.  Every single person I knew who filed a well-meaning grievance with the ethics committee either resigned or got fired.

In the spring of 2008, three women took a leave of absence; one after another.  The first two resigned while still on leave.  The third managed to make it back and eventually became my supervisor; a hyperactive, emotionally-distraught creature who reminded me of that one perpetually-menopausal bitch at the bank in 1995.  But, I learned later that those first two women filed harassment suits against the company after submitting their resignations – and settled.  I also found out that other former employees had sued the company.  It doesn’t look good when a company that boasts high ethical standards finds itself in court, combating harassment allegations.

But, a company’s human resources division is much like a city’s police force.  Both are there to maintain a sense of order and discipline, but they really won’t help you.  You can respect them to a certain degree and work with them when absolutely necessary.  But, you just can’t trust them.  They’re not your friend.  That’s not their purpose.

One of my coworkers at the engineering company was a proverbial good old boy from Louisiana.  He didn’t have any college education, had spent 4 years in the Air Force and had a penchant for daiquiris, cheese and big-breasted women.  But, he was smarter than most people with a string of letters at the end of their surname.  He predicted some of us would get laid off before the end of 2010; months after we lost the prime contract with a government agency, but were kept on as sub-contractors.  He had dealt with the same people and endured the same level of stress and frustration the rest of us did.  But, he never felt compelled to complain to HR about anything – not even an ethical issue.  “HR is not our friend,” he told me, after one of those women who’d gone on sick leave had resigned.

Yes, I knew that; deep down inside, I’d always been aware of it.  But – in my past efforts to hope for the best – I guess I just didn’t want to admit it out loud.  In the cold, brutal world of 21st century business, though, things are much like medieval Europe.  We each have to figure out a way to survive.  We’re all left unto our own devices.  And, sometimes the best device is a resignation letter.

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August 11, 2012 · 9:09 PM

Giving In, Giving Up

Recently, El Mañana newspaper in Nuevo Laredo, México, announced that it will no longer cover certain crimes – mainly those that appear drug-related.  In an official statement, the paper stated succinctly:

“The editorial board of the company has come to this regrettable decision because of the circumstances that we all know about and the lack of conditions to freely carry out journalism.”

The “conditions” refers to several facts; among them that less than half of all crimes in México are solved.  Another is that the drug cartels are winning México’s current war on the narcotics trade, which is the result of yet another condition: the Mexican government has lost almost complete control of its military and police forces.  What happened to Bolivia and Colombia in the 1970’s is happening to México now – but with a lot more blood.  The drug cartels have forced their way into the Mexican fabric of life.  They’ve intimidated people into not running for public office and not voting.  They’ve forced entire police forces to abandon their posts.  Now, they’re compelling newspapers and magazines to stop talking about them.  Someone should have seen this coming.

When newly-elected Mexican President Felipe Calderon formally launched the nation’s war on drugs in December 2006, many American politicians collectively said, ‘It’s about time.’  Many drug policy experts, however, merely shook their heads.  I don’t think any of them really knew what horror would be unleashed upon the Mexican populace.

Thus far, in the past five years, the “war” has claimed nearly 48,000 lives.  The U.S. casualty rate from the Vietnam War stands at just over 58,100 – not including those listed as missing-in-action – in more than a decade of involvement.

The incessant violence has prompted the U.S. State Department to heighten its alerts.  Mexican tourism has experienced a predictable drop in visiting Americans.  Religious missionaries are starting to forsake the poor and downtrodden in México for the safety of their own staff.

But, there’s yet another condition people often don’t admit: Americans are the biggest consumers of illegal narcotics.  As of 2011, an estimated 22 million U.S. residents age 12 and older – almost 9% of the population – use illegal drugs.  In contrast, roughly 5% of México’s population consumes illegal drugs; a fact that Mexicans are quick to point out.  The drugs are flowing north from Latin America into the U.S. and staying here.  They’re not being shipped further north into Canada, or out to Europe and Asia.  The U.S. isn’t a staging ground for the shipment of narcotics; México is.  And, Americans are happy to buy.  They always have been, in part because they’ve always had the extra cash.

That’s one reason why I never felt sorry for Robert Downey, Jr., as he battled his proverbial demons, and never shed any tears for Whitney Houston when she overdosed and died back in February.  People like that are responsible for America’s drug pandemic and – vicariously – the horrific bloodshed along the U.S. – México border.  If they didn’t have the appetite for cocaine, methamphetamine, marijuana, or whatever they take, and the money to buy it, we wouldn’t be in this mess.  It’s really as simple as that.

The solutions, however, are not so simple.  The U.S. has to revamp its entire drug policy.  México has to rebuild its political and law enforcement structures.  They each have to realize the problems lie with both countries and stop pointing their fingers at one another.

Source.

Here’s proof how ingrained narcotics have become in American culture.  Late on the afternoon of July 24, a Dallas police officer fatally shot an unarmed man in a residential area of the city’s far southeastern corner.  It didn’t help that the policeman is White, and the victim was Black.  The dead man, James Harper, had previous convictions for drug dealing and had run from a house that police knew was a place where drugs were sold.  Police had responded to a fake 911 call claiming “four Latin males armed with weapons” had forced a Black man into the house with his hands tied behind his back.  When officers tried to enter the house, Harper and three other men bolted from it.  One man was caught and immediately surrendered.  But, Harper ended up in a physical confrontation with one of the policemen whom he kicked in the chest.  The officer managed to remove his weapon and shoot Harper to death.

Almost immediately chaos erupted on the streets, as scores of residents poured out of their homes.  More police arrived, as did the media.  But, the pastor of a local church also showed up and dived into the agitated crowd.  His presence, perhaps, helped to quell the anger on that hot Tuesday afternoon.

As the ruckus subsided, one woman asked the city of Dallas to pray for that neighborhood.  “There’s a demon here!” she screamed through tear-stained eyes.

Now, residents in the area known as Dixon Circle have joined with the “New Black Panthers,” members of “Occupy Dallas” and others to protest the shooting.  They allegedly want Dallas police off the neighborhood’s streets – which doesn’t seem to be the smartest demand for a crime-ridden locale.  They’re upset about the shooting, but they don’t seem too bothered by the fact that a drug house existed in their midst.  Dallas law enforcement apparently knew about the house since April 2011.  I have to wonder:

  1. why Dallas police let that go for so long and;
  2. why residents are angrier about the death of a convicted drug dealer than the fact that drugs were being sold in their neighborhood.

This is the crux of the problem.  Just as drug cartels seemingly have infiltrated México’s political and law enforcement systems, some communities in the U.S. have let drug dealers operate with impunity.

It’s easy for me to sit in the comfort of my suburban Dallas home and declare that México’s newspapers shouldn’t let themselves be intimidated into silence.  But, that’s just the writer in me.  A number of journalists have been murdered in México in recent years, as they covered the ongoing drug war and linked the violence to government and police officials.  Therefore, I understand why El Mañana newspaper has made that difficult decision.  But, if someone doesn’t speak up for the victims of the failed Mexican and U.S. drug wars, who will?  Silence about these matters just isn’t an option.

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August 10, 2012 · 9:11 PM

Busyness

The other day, at work, as I waited for my lunch to warm up in one of the two microwaves, a woman stepped to the other microwave and – when she popped open the door – was surprised to see someone else’s food inside.  She decided to leave it there, in case that person came back.  But, they hadn’t by the time my food was done.

“They either forgot,” I said jokingly, “or they returned to their desk, and someone grabbed them, saying, ‘I need you to look at this.’”

“Exactly!” she laughed.

Friday morning, as I retrieved ice from the break room, I noticed two halves of a bagel in the toaster.  A few seconds later a man rushed in and snatched them out.

“I forgot!” he said with a sharp chuckle.  “I went back to my desk and got caught up in something.”

“That happens,” I replied.

I’ve seen that before – several times.  It’s happened to me.  I get busy with one thing and then another.  And then, yet something else comes into play, and it goes on and on and on.

That’s how the world functions now – idleness is no longer just a vice; it’s an impossibility.  None of us can sit still for very long.  Like hyperactive children, we have to be doing something.

I know I have to stay occupied.  My mind runs like a Bengal tiger going in for the kill.  That may explain my past insomnia.  I look at my stack of books and magazines and list of Internet news articles that I want to read and keep telling myself I’ll get to them at some point.  Hopefully.  Before I die.

People hate the term “multi-tasking,” one of the few curses born of the 1990’s; a decade that showed how energetic and prosperous we could be.  Then again, multi-tasking may be partly responsible for the extreme productivity of that era.  People rushed to get so much done within a small window of time.

In the late ‘90’s, I was an administrative assistant at a large bank in Dallas where multi-tasking had become embedded into the corporate culture.  We couldn’t just sit at our desks and look pretty.  No one had that much time.  Our division supported an affluent clientele, and those people seemed to demand a lot.  Thus, when one of them called, I had to act as if though I’d been waiting for them all day and had nothing else to do, except tend to their needs.  But then, the bank demanded a lot from us.  One morning, my boss arrived for a meeting, when he should have been at a doctor’s appointment.  I was scheduled to sit in on the meeting for him.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, as he staggered towards his office.

He’d forgotten about the appointment.  The meeting had taken precedence in his mind – the way the Ebola virus overwhelms the human body.  He stood there for a moment beside my desk.  I could see the veins in his forehead undulating.  He contemplated whether to proceed with the meeting or head back out to the doctor’s office.  I finally convinced him to visit the doctor.

“Your health is more important,” I told him.  “You have family.  This shit can wait.”

Work can always wait.  Nothing really is more critical than your health and your family.  Proof: just a few months later that same boss got laid off after nearly 24 years at the bank.  All the time and energy he’d put into his job?  Bam!  Smashed into the floor like a dirty cockroach.  It didn’t seem to matter.  The company had a budget.

But, I know that my busyness is of my own design.  It’s self-imposed.  I did it to myself.  I used to get upset when people disrespected me, before I realized I would let them.  It was their fault that they couldn’t bring themselves to treat me with any sense of decency.  But, it was my fault that I didn’t talk back to them.  Now, I talk back, and occasionally that gets me in trouble.  But, I don’t want others taking control of me.  Yet, taking control of my life has often left little room for what’s really important: my aging parents, my dog, my handful of friends, my creative writing that soothes my cluttered psyche.  I have to step back and swallow the frustration, then spit it back out.

It’s actually good to be busy.  Idleness is a vice – unless you’re trying to meditate and decompress.  I’ve even had to force myself to do that!  But, it helps.  It’s bad, though, to be consumed by so many things at once.  Extremes are detrimental to your health.  And, they’re not worth the trouble.  They never are.

Image.

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August 9, 2012 · 9:10 PM

We Go Through This Every Year

It’s hot.  It’s supposed to be.  It’s summer in the Northern Hemisphere.  That’s when our side of the Earth is closest to the sun.  Physics 101.  Ergo – the temperatures get just a tad bit warmer this time of year.  Deal with it!

We go through this every year.  Even here in Texas – where high Celsius marks are matched only by the arrogance of our politicians – meteorologists and safety officials have to tell people to stay out of the sun and drink lots of water.  Older people, children and folks with perpetual paranoia syndrome (it may not be in medical texts, but I know it exists) are especially susceptible to the heat.  Don’t leave pets in vehicles, count your brood of kids when you return from an outing, try not to fall asleep atop your boat on the lake after downing a keg of Miller Lite – they tell people these things.  Every damn year!  And, some idiot leaves a dog in a car with the windows rolled up or forgets that the youngest child was asleep in the back.

Just recently, a police officer left his two dogs in his police truck – and forgot about them!  And, the bastard was a canine handler at that.  Surprise – both dogs suffocated to death.  He’s been placed on a leave of absence pending the outcome of an investigation.  I have a great idea.  Duct tape his ass to the roof of Mitt Romney’s Bentley and leave him there until after the elections.

I have some nerve to rant.  I actually like to go out jogging in this weather – although I haven’t been out jogging in a few years.  But, in the middle of a torrid summer afternoon, clad in nothing but running shorts, running shoes and matching ball cap or kerchief, I’d head out to taunt the sun.  People look at me like…well, like they’ve never seen someone outside running.

What’s wrong with you?!  Are you crazy?!

No – just had too many sunburns as a kid and got used to it.

Late one Saturday afternoon several years ago, I took a lengthy jog around the park across the street from the apartment complex where I used to live.  It’s a nice little area, and I had it all to myself.  Came back sweating like a Coke bottle stuck up a Brahma bull’s ass and smelled just as bad.  Fully aware of my surroundings though; knew how far to push myself.  As I reached the street, headed back towards the complex, along comes a Dallas police officer, slowly ambling down the street in her cruiser.  Good, I thought, she’s keeping an eye on the neighborhood.  I couldn’t have been more wrong!

She opened her passenger side window and hollered, “Are you crazy?!  Do you realize how hot it is out here?!”

“Yes,” I replied, sweat starting to irritate my eyes.  Are you kidding me?  She stopped to ask me that?!  There aren’t any real criminals to accost?  Can’t she kind a carjacker and yell at them instead?  She wasted five minutes of precious taxpayer time to scold me for jogging on a triple-digit-temperature day?  Must have been a slow crime day.  Or, maybe she just felt like screaming at someone because she had to work on a Saturday afternoon.

People from the cooler climates have the unwitting tendency to ask, ‘Do you ever get used to the heat?’

Do you get used to the cold?

Hell no!  You never get used to it.  Just like you never get used to bad days at work and people driving slow in the left lane.  You just deal with that shit when it slams you in the face.  You can’t get used to extremes.  That’s impossible.  Animals deal with extreme temperature and weather conditions better than most people.  Navy SEALs do pretty well with those elements, too.  But, the rest of us aren’t genetically programmed as nicely.

So, I leave more skin cells on the steering wheel of my truck after it’s been sitting beneath the sun for some time and try to keep my eyes on the road, despite burying my face in a cooling vent.  That’s how I deal with it.  Just don’t yell at me!

Image.

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August 5, 2012 · 5:40 PM

Grinding

As I enter my first full month at my new contract technical writing job, I can’t help but reflect on the way things used to be in the work place.  As I fast approach 50, I find that a common occurrence.  Now, I know why my parents and former coworkers were so bitter all those years ago.  You give your life to a company and often have little to show for it – although through no fault of your own.  People in the 50 and over category have had the toughest time in this dismal economy.  Thanks to Bush’s trickle-down economics on steroids and two unplanned, unfunded wars, we’re still mired in the worst financial crises in almost 90 years.  Somehow the clowns in both houses of Congress don’t really get it.  President Obama inherited this mess and has had a rough time straightening it out.  But, he’s just one person; he can’t do it alone.  Yet, while our elected officials try to upstage one another, real Americans continue struggling.

When I landed this job last month, the recruiter was kind of surprised I didn’t react with more glee.  “I’ll believe it when I start,” I told him jokingly – but, deep down inside, not at all joking.  Last summer I landed a 90-day contract technical writing job that the client pulled after only three weeks because their vendor wasn’t producing the work as anticipated.  And, I never heard from the recruiter again.  So, I went back on unemployment and revamped my resume to make it look as good as it can with all these gaps.  Explaining those three-weeks-on-90-days mess was especially challenging.  Fortunately, most people seemed to understand, given the current economic climate.  Or, at least they give that impression.

I kept in contact with that recruiter; emailing him weekly letting him know, ‘Hey, I’m still here!  I’m still available!  I’m free!  No plans yet!’  And, I never heard from him again.  He must have set my email address to spam.  He was young, probably no more than 30.  I hope he has erectile dysfunction for the rest of his life.

I also did the obligatory 5 contacts per week to maintain my unemployment benefits.  Each time I filed a claim, I wondered when Congress would start proceedings to find out how the big banks and other financial monstrosities were able to destroy our economy in less than a decade.  Seriously!  Herbert Hoover and Andrew Mellon would be impressed.  But, Congress was more concerned about what professional baseball players were using steroids.  Kind of like how the Southern Baptist Convention is more concerned about gay marriage than real problems such as poverty and child malnutrition.

Occasionally, my parents still have bad dreams about their working days.  I don’t want to imitate that part of their lives.  I’ve only had a handful of dreams about work.  I can recall two in the months after I lost my job at an engineering company in October 2010.  In the first one, I was at corporate headquarters in San Diego with the project manager who had hired me in 2002.  The building sat right along the coast, and the entire area was on edge because a tsunami was approaching.  We only had a few more minutes before we had to evacuate to the upper levels, or try to flee inland.  But, because we had so much work to do, that project manager told me we had to remain in the building.  Besides, he said in his usual dull, nonchalant tone of voice, he would stay with me.  Then, as the sirens went off and people began marching up the stairs, he disappeared.  I looked around the suddenly vacant offices, but he was gone.  ‘Fuck him!’ I said aloud and headed up a stairwell alone.  I didn’t need his help.

In the second dream, I was back in downtown Dallas, at the regional headquarters of the federal agency where I’d worked for the better part of my career with the engineering company; laboring on a government contract.  We had a meeting with some federal officials.  I got caught up on a task and left late for the meeting.  But, I couldn’t find where everyone was.  I wondered all over the damn building, it seemed, before I ended up in the break room – tired and butt naked!  Yes, naked.  Somehow, my clothes had fallen off.  I know a lot of married people say that, when they get caught screwing around.  But, there I was – butt- ass naked in a break room with a bunch of equally tired government employees.  And, no one seemed to care.

I could get all philosophical about those two dreams and reveal exactly what I think they mean.  But, I know the inherent theme is that, in today’s business world, you’re pretty much on your own.  Human resources isn’t your friend; your boss isn’t your friend; your coworkers aren’t your friends; and your elected officials aren’t your friends.  You’re like a wild dog; just left to your own devices.

No worries.  I can handle that.  Twenty-plus years ago, people were still going to work for a company and staying there with decent pay and benefits.  That’s about the time things started to change – for better or worse is up to personal opinions.  Now, people work contract and buy their own insurance.  They move from job to job.  They take care of and keep to themselves.  It’s ironic in that it’s how this country was built – people minding their own business and not expecting others to care for them.

No worries.  I can handle that, too.  And, run from a tsunami just as well!

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August 4, 2012 · 9:11 PM

Where Have All the Chest Hairs Gone?

The Chief in a moment of self-adulation, c. 2006.

The Chief in a moment of self-adulation, c. 2006.

While taking classes at a community college several years ago, I met a guy who – when asked why he had such a smooth chest – would respond that “hair doesn’t grow on steel.”  In their youth, every male can hardly wait for at least two things: facial hair and chest hair.  It’s a man thing, so you ladies just have to shrug and roll your eyes.  But, in looking at shirtless men on television, in the movies and on fitness magazine covers, you’d think a chest made of steel is the norm.  It’s as if that part of the Y chromosome didn’t quite take hold when they reached puberty.  I mean, seriously!  What’s that all about?

Admittedly, not all men are hirsute.  But, it’s just one of the many attributes of the human male species – along with a unibrow, a fetish for cars and constantly reaching for a ruler when he gets an erection.  (This latter fact is something no man would confess to publicly.)  So, this trend of men with clean-slate torsos is confounding.

I know that most male bodybuilders shave or wax their physiques to enhance the lines in their muscles, especially their chests and stomachs.  I suppose the hair wouldn’t mix well with the baby oil and spray-on tan mist.  But, even some male strippers wipe their torsos clean.  Check out the latest Matthew McConaughey movie, Magic Mike, and you’ll see.

Matthew McConaughey

It wasn’t always that way.  Even as recently as the 1980’s, men on TV and in the movies still had chest hair.  But then, came the 1990’s and a growing antagonism towards anything and everything male.  We can thank the likes of Geraldo Rivera and Bill “Puff Daddy” Clinton for that.  Suddenly actors and male models were shoved through the pre-pubescent car wash where their bodies were rendered as close to looking female without being castrated.  If it wasn’t for their deep voices, you’d think these guys still ride bikes with training wheels.  The American male has been feminized to the point of androgynous stupidity.

From the Spring 1977 JC Penney Catalogue

I recall reading an Ann Landers column where a woman stated that she made her husband shave his body because she didn’t find it attractive – and the poor sap apparently felt desperate enough to do it!  The letter writer was now worried that he’d start letting it grow back because their young son might ask him questions about it.  Landers – an older version of Gloria Allred, but not as bitchy – told her just to explain gently to her son that his father shaved his body because he loved her.  I thought the man should just tell his wife to fuck off, grow the chest hair back, grab his son and leave her ass.  It’s interesting that women don’t like men telling them what to do with their bodies, yet somehow, many feel they have that prerogative when things are turned around.

1970’s Winston Cigarette Ad

I find it equally curious to note that, among gay men, body hair is not just appreciated, it’s celebrated.  Here, political correctness is tossed into the trash like a used Trojan, and Gloria Allred’s face forms the backdrop of a dart board.  I think it’s this crowd that made shaved heads and goatees fashionable.  Just don’t tell that to the NFL!  But for once, I’d still like to see a hairy-chested male on TV who isn’t a child molester or a serial killer.  In other words, I’d like to see an adult male who looks a little like me and not a store mannequin – steel-plated chest and all!

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July 28, 2012 · 9:02 PM

Brown Out

The death of actress Lupe Ontiveros made me think again about the roles that Hispanics are often forced to play in mainstream American television and cinema.  In a 2009 interview with NPR, Ontiveros mentioned that she’d appeared as a maid more than 150 times during her career.  In fact, her biography on entertainment web sites note that she’s best known for playing maids and housekeepers.  I’m certain she had aspired to do more.  But, maids and housekeepers are pretty much the only roles available for Hispanic actresses in the otherwise eclectic American entertainment industry.  Other stereotypical roles include, at best, gardeners and busboys; at worst, gang members and drug dealers.  Is that all there is for us?

Not long after she won the 1939 Best Supporting Actress Oscar for her role in Gone with the Wind, Hattie McDaniel received staunch criticism from the NAACP for her constant portrayals of Black women as domestics.  McDaniel retorted, however, that she’d rather make a living portraying housekeepers than actually working as one.  That didn’t really satisfy the NAACP, but McDaniel was going to lose either way.  Yet, the housekeeper role was just about all any Black actress could get for decades.  Now, even a cursory glance at television and movies will show Black women as lawyers, judges, doctors, law enforcement officials and business women.

But, Hispanic women still wear that traditional apron, while holding a dust rag.  They aren’t the Hispanic women I’m accustomed to seeing.  Most Hispanic women in the U.S. have done more with their lives than get married and bear children.  They, too, are lawyers, judges, doctors, law enforcement officials and business women.  As with Black women, the vast majority aren’t involved in drugs or prostitution; they’re not gang members; they don’t breed like rabbits.  Yet, that’s what’s presented to the American populace in various entertainment mediums.  Hollywood just can’t seem to move past the stereotypes.  Its producers and directors are stuck in neutral.  It really must hurt to admit the truth, though, and the truth is that the American entertainment industry isn’t as open-minded as it thinks it is.

When Ontiveros took the role of Yolanda Saldivar in the 1997 movie Selena, it was quite a departure from the usual.  This was a tragic true story about the brief life and sudden death of Selena Quintanilla-Pérez, a Spanish-language music star popular in the early 1990’s.  Saldivar had been head of Selena’s fan club.  But, the singer’s parents caught Saldivar embezzling money from their daughter.  When confronted, Saldivar shot Selena in a hotel room.  The younger woman was about 2 weeks shy of her 24th birthday.  That Saldivar had engaged in criminal behavior sort of feeds back into the stereotype that – overall – Hispanics are of the nefarious mindset.  But again, that may have been the best Ontiveros could get.  It was still different than portraying a housekeeper.

It’s ironic that the main star of Selena is Jennifer Lopez who is now undoubtedly one of the most well-known performers in Hollywood.  When Lopez won the part, Mexican-American groups complained because Lopez is Puerto Rican.  They viewed it almost as an insult, which is like some people saying they’re Sicilian, not Italian.  What’s the difference?  And, who really cares?  But, it could have been worst.  Ironically, Hispanics altogether protested loudly just a year earlier when the movie version of the musical Evita came out with Madonna in the title role of Eva Perón and British actor Jonathan Pryce as Argentine president Juan Perón.  I had to wonder, at the time, if the producers couldn’t find any real-life Hispanic actresses who could actually sing and act.  But if you think about it, Eva Perón and Madonna had a lot in common; they’re both ersatz blondes who only think they had talent.  But, Jonathan Pryce?

One of Ontiveros’ last roles was as a cantankerous mother-in-law opposite Eva Longoria’s bitchy suburban princess in ABC’s Desperate Housewives.  Longoria, for one thing, fit in quite well with her Anglo co-stars, and I’m sure no one besides Rush Limbaugh and Bill O’Reilly noticed the difference.  Actress Shari Headley, who starred alongside Eddie Murphy in the 1988 film Coming to America, once commented that auditions often felt like family reunions; the same actresses would show up whenever a casting call for a Black female character was announced.  Ontiveros, Longoria and other Hispanic actresses could have easily said the same.

I know Ontiveros wanted more from her career and could have done more with it, if given the chance.  But, she took what she could get.  It often wasn’t much, but she wasn’t just going to fade away.  And, neither is any other Hispanic performer.  They won’t just drop into oblivion somewhere, so a handful of Americans can feel comfortable with what they see on the TV or movie screen.  That’s an impossibility.  Stereotypes may persist, unfortunately, but we’re changing that – one character at a time.

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July 26, 2012 · 9:36 PM

Road Killers

I read two articles in the Dallas Morning News recently that Texas is home to two of the worst counties in the nation for road rage accidents: Bexar (which comprises San Antonio) and Dallas.  I was surprised.  You mean, Dallas isn’t number one?  Anyone who lives in the Dallas / Fort Worth metropolitan area can feel my pain.  It’s one of the largest and most populous in the U.S.  Both cities are ringed by suburbs with impressive populations.  The entire region is commuter-based.  And, that’s the crux of the problem.  There are too many people on roads and highways that are in a constant state of repair.  I guess you could point to overpopulation as a factor in that mess.  And, no one wants to take what little mass transportation there is.  The Dallas Area Rapid Transit (DART) system has spent decades trying to convince people to use their services.  But, in 1996, when they opened their train line from North Dallas to downtown, I laughed.  The Japanese already had a train that topped 200 miles per hour.  Dallas had one that looked like a glorified toy ornament.  In fact, I called it the ‘DART choo choo train.’

But, it’s not so much congestion and road work.  It’s how people drive.  They’ve become assholes in recent years.  Cell phones count as one of the greatest technological inventions of the 20th century.  But now, they pose a health hazard.  People who talk while driving run the risk of either hurting someone in a wreck, or getting their head blown off because they forgot there’s a turn signal on their vehicle.

It’s easy to get pissed off while driving in traffic.  People do the stupidest things.  I’ve leaned on my own horn more than a few times.  I’ve come close to dropping into road rage hysterics more times than I can count.  Sometimes, I honestly wish I had a gun – just for show.  Seriously!  Just to hold it up and let that idiot on a cell phone know I have it.  I must admit I have anger issues.  But, that’s mainly because I’m not a people person and because most people are jerks – especially when they get behind the wheel.

I feel rather secure in my big black Dodge Ram 1500 truck.  The driver of one of those new eco-cars tried to get tough with me, while traveling up I-35 a few years back.  I have ‘Hot Wheels’ bigger than those stupid things.  I hated to give in to someone else’s stupidity (I really do!), but this guy deserved it, as I cut back in front of him and slammed on my brakes.

Not long after I had foot surgery in 2007, I headed to another follow-up appointment; my first since getting off crutches and into a walking boot.  Some idiot in a sedan weaved in and out of traffic, as if she had designed and built the road, cutting in front of me and I don’t know how many other drivers – more than once.  When I cut back in front of her – just to show her other people can be assholes, too – she had the audacity to get pissed off.  When I stopped at a left turn red light, she got out of her car and stormed up towards my truck.  Here I am – my still-damaged foot encased in a walking boot – and some bitch wanted to start a fight.  But, I quickly grabbed my old truck club and hopped out onto my right foot.  Turning to face her, truck club held up like a ninja sword, I was ready for battle.  She was a big girl, too.  I’m barely 5’8,” but none of that stopped me.  I was already in a bad mood because of that foot.  I didn’t want to reinjure it stuffing up her crotch or her ass.  She stopped when she me holding up that club / sword and approach her.  We exchanged nasty verbiage; the words “asshole,” “bitch,” “fuck” somehow wound their way into the terse dialogue, before she retreated to her car.  I scribbled down her license plate number, as I’m sure she did mine, and thought of calling 911.  But, I had to get to that doctor’s appointment.

The North Texas Transit Authority (NTTA) tells people to drive nice and be considerate of others on the road.  That sentiment worked well in the immediate aftermath of 09/11, when everyone realized how precious life is.  Now that the compassion has worn off, people have gone back to being…well, people – assholes.  Drive friendly?  Well – I do most of the time.  I really do!  I use my turn signal.  I don’t tailgate.  I try to keep my middle finger in its place between its brothers.  But, it’s so DAMN HARD!  Have a nice day.  And, use your freaking turn signal!

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July 23, 2012 · 9:06 PM

Goodbye to Another Cyber Friend

For the second time in less than a year, I’ve pissed off a cyber friend.  This time it was over something rather innocuous – at least in my opinion.  But, you never how people will react to things.  Last year a guy told me to remove his email address from my list.  I complied without a word.  I really didn’t know him, as we’d met online.  Strangely enough, though, he connected with me through Facebook several months ago.  Okay, great, I thought.  Can’t stay mad forever!  What good are cyber friends, if you can’t connect with them anyway?

Ironically, I met that guy through Gary, the one who told me Sunday night to stop sending him “dog crap.”  He means any information about dogs – funny or serious.  As a canine devotee, it’s almost impossible for me NOT to send out something related to the loveable beasts.  But apparently, Gary hates dogs bad enough that the mere mention of them turns his bulging stomach.  I thought he was just joking, or having one hell of a Maalox moment.  But, he issued me a dire warning: send him anymore “dog crap,” and he’ll spam me.  Oh my God!  Not the dreaded spam folder!  That’s not as bad as being blocked – the “Death Penalty” of the e-world – but it’s still pretty hideous.  When someone blocks your email address, you’ve either called them for bail money once too often, or said they look fat in designer overalls.  The spam folder is your computer’s automatic trash disposal; a dumping ground; slush pile.  If you send them a birthday greeting, they won’t get it.  If you tell them you’re dying of cancer and want to make amends, they won’t see it, and you’ll die without either of you knowing what could have been.  If you find an extra World War II bond and offer it to them with a 48-hour acceptance deadline, or it’ll go to charity, they won’t notice it.

I had met Gary more than a decade ago via a web site he runs.  We struck up a quick and curious electronic friendship.  He gave me pointers on taking digital photographs and setting up this blog.  He’s liked my stories and essays.  We’ve had disagreements before – usually over something much more serious, like race or gender.  But, dogs?  All this drama over an email I sent with the attachment below?  I don’t know what’s wrong with Gary, but it must have struck a raw nerve.  I didn’t think anybody could despise dogs that much.  I’m not a cat person, but I don’t get upset when someone sends me cat stuff.  I’ve never threatened to – SPAM someone over a cat-related email.

Gary had gotten annoyed with me recently about another email I sent out regarding pit bulls being put down, or something, with my comment about there being no bad dogs, just bad people.  Gary replied, ‘Yea, until it attacks your kid sister.’  I don’t have a kid sister, or brother, so I can’t relate.  But, when I sent out this one email, he replied, ‘My sister is still injured, and you’re not helping!’  Whoa, I thought.  Is this for real?  Surely not.  So, I replied again – this is where I guess I made my big mistake – pointing out that he was “the only one bitching about the dogs.”  And, that’s what did it.  That sent him over the edge.

If his sister – or any other relative was attacked by a vicious dog – I can empathize.  That would be a horrible sight.  My mother became terrified of Dobermans at the age of 6 when, she saw one attack a man.  Her family had a golden retriever-type dog at the time.  I have a sepia-toned picture of her at age 2 with it.  But, my mother eventually developed a phobia about all big dogs.  Still, she swallowed her fear, when we moved to suburban Dallas in 1972, and my folks got me a German shepherd.  She fell in love with that dog as much as I did.  Then, some neighbors bought a Doberman puppy; a chocolate one who developed an affection for my mother.  He was the type of dog that, once you touched him, you had to keep touching him, or he’d nudge the crap out of your hand.  But amazingly, my mother would sit there at the neighbor’s house and caress that mocha monstrosity that looked like a small horse.

Gary, however, seems to think animals have the exact same psychology as humans and therefore, should be held accountable for their actions.  It’s kind of sad that we kill animals that show aggression towards humans and can’t be integrated into society.  When people display similar tendencies, we suggest aroma therapy.

The city of Dallas has launched an aggressive campaign to pick up stray animals and either try to socialize them, or euthanize them.  No word yet on how they’ll handle the city’s gallery of drug dealers, prostitutes and criminally insane homeless people.  But, I have the perfect solution!  Save the animals – even those that show aggression towards people – and kill the humans who show aggression towards others: human or animal.  It’ll save a boat load of money and heartache for everyone involved.  Their bodies can be used to train medical students, or feed rescued big cats.  Since these humans can’t be socialized back into society, I suggest at least neutering them to prevent their kind from breeding.  We need more German shepherds and Dobermans – not more homeless crack addicts.

But, Gary feels humans who commit even the most heinous of crimes shouldn’t be put to death; they should be sentenced to prison for life and made to suffer.  Like animals.  At taxpayer expense.  He’d never win political office in Texas.  In some ways, he’s a stereotypical West Coast liberal; the kind who thinks Jeffrey Dahmer was worth saving, but an unfriendly Rottweiler needs to be slaughtered because they’re not sociable.  He became frustrated whenever I made negative comments about Judaism and Islam, although he was just as hateful towards Christianity.  Personally, I’m an equally opportunity offender, since I deplore all three of those religions.  As a recovering Catholic, I feel I’m entitled to such angst.

Animals, of course, don’t possess religious beliefs.  In that regard, they’re much more highly evolved than humans.  But, like humans, animals are products of their environment.  If an animal has lived a life of abuse and neglect, their natural response to a person is hostile.  Who can blame them?  Yet, because of their limited mental capacity (relatively speaking), I feel they should be forgiven.  When people react in such a hateful manner, they’re prescribed Xanax and a wine cooler.  If they’re lucky, they get to talk to Dr. Drew.  If they’re really lucky, porn studios reach out to them.  Look at Casey Anthony.

I’m not upset that Gary threatened to spam me.  I guess I need to be more considerate of other people’s feelings – especially those I met online.  Those relationships can be as fragile as the band width on which their lovingly formed.  I have done something with Gary that I haven’t done with many other cyber friends: I’ve talked to him on the phone.  But, that was a long time ago.  A lot of wine has passed over the tongue in the years since.  I said to hell with it and removed Gary altogether from my email address book.  I really didn’t know him THAT well.  But, even with one less email contact, I’ll still be able to pick up the tattered pieces of my life and move forward.  Besides, I have other things to worry about: my new full-time job, my elderly parents and my dog who’s having trouble getting used to me being gone all day.  But, who knows?  I may meet Gary again in another electronic life – with a bottle of wine in one hand and a big black snarling canine at my side!

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