Mexican ghoul...

With a beat that belongs to my ancestors, I come and dance for you. My country was born out of an incestous rape that has scarred my people into smiling and singing. I smile and I sing for you. Clap your hands for me, I am singing. I like to walk under the stars and face the wind, breathe the moonlight that guides me into the morning full of light and birds. A taco and a tequila, my diet is complete. The burning on my back is the sun that licks me slightly, salting my hide, eroding my mind. Something inside (more primitive, more basic, more senseless) me makes me look at death in the face, I stare and I stare until my madness is yours. Let's go and make out next to the river where the water is cold for the feet that dare go inside. Let's spit at the edge of the bridge and kneel at the crossroads. Everybody pass us by, ours is the way of the road that leads into the future that will forget us like a lover in a whorehouse. I juggle with nonsense, I cry with reason. A Mexican ghost that walks at night on the road, repeating my death until forever. Un espanto de verdad. Come here all the priests with holy water, put my soul to rest and I will pull your legs at night. I will laugh my terrible laughter in the middle of your night. Come, let me show how I laugh.

The North Left Coast

Well, once again, Nicky arrives late to the party. I get that from my mother. When I was little, I don't remember ever seeing the beginning of a Mass. But, I'm not writing about religion. * It seems now, the theme is Nationality. Let me borrow some information from my blog bio, since in addition to habitual tardiness, I'm also sort of lazy. * My father is African-American and Greek. My mother is African-American and French. And everywhere I go people tell me I have an accent. * I'm not quite hip-hop. I'm too American to be completely Eurotrash. And I'm too ethnic to be an A & F boy. * Do you remember that scene in Airplane where the stewardess needed someone who spoke jive. I don't speak that. I may occassionally say a'ight. But, I don't speak fluent Ghetto. I don't speak very good French either. So, there you go. * I don't live in New York. I'd like to, but I don't. I vacation there. I read the Sunday New York Times. And I like the New York Yankees. I know I mentioned that yesterday. But, I can't stress my love of the Yankees enough. * I live in Seattle. Yes, it does rain a lot. Pedestrians here wait for the traffic signal before crossing the street. Everywhere you look there are either hills or water. There's not a good public transportation system. There are no circuit parties. And everybody has a library card. * I'm told that Seattle has an extremely high suicide rate, that we drink a lot of coffee, and that we're polite but not friendly. I don't think that last part's true. We're friendly. * But, for God's sake if you come to visit learn the language. * Yes, I know it's confusing. Lattes have steamed milk. Mochas have chocolate. Talls are smalls. The size in the middle is a Grande [Gran-day]. And the big ones are Ventis [Vin] like Vin Diesel [Tee's] like you know T-shirts. And tea is now Chai. No, I don't know why, it just is. * Of course, if you were to ask for a regular coffee, I'd understand you. * But, I wouldn't expect everybody too.

There Should be an Island for You People

There is, it’s called Manhattan.

One can also compare it to an ocean – the place where all the big fish from little ponds wind up adapting to the salt water and swim around trying not to get eaten by the bigger fish – and as a rule, there are always bigger fish.

New York City is unlike any other city in America, perhaps the world even. For the people that live/survive/permanently vacation here, one is considered a New Yorker although not necessarily an American. We host the United Nations and many of the world’s tempest tossed inhabitants needing a place to crash and call home. Everyone is welcome here and every nation is represented by the inhabitants. Chances are there is a neighborhood within the 5 boroughs which define New York City, where a certain ethnic group has converged to create a mini-me of their origins. Some of my neighbors and I would support this place succeeding from the United States and being its own country if that were a feasible option. The rest of the country realizes our exclusive natures and dislikes us like in a way similar to the people in line for an event watching those on the guest list making grand entrances.

To be defined as a true New Yorker, the popular belief is that one should live in the city for at least 10 years. Personally I disagree with this since I was a New Yorker before I actually moved here from the mainland. From my earliest memories I knew this would be the place I would call home and have now for 2 decades. There are many others like me – New Yorkers that took a while to arrive and others that we’re still waiting on to get their asses here already.

Living in a model version of the world has been an opportunity for me to experience so much culture. I can rummage through the stack of menus in my kitchen and order dishes from half the globe. Italian, Mexican, Ethiopian, Thai, Japanese, Mandarin, Polish, Irish, Indian and many others types of restaurants are all within a 5 block radius. We even have an Outback here which really is American food pretending to be Australian as Sebastian has pointed out in a recent post. I can polka, salsa and 2-step on any given night although my personal dance style is more along the lines of gay go-go. I see more subtitled films than Hollywood productions because the latter I get on DVD and I’d rather spend the small fortune for a movie ticket toward films that need support.

Once one has figured out they are a New Yorker, you see we’re born this way but sometimes aren’t aware of the fact until later in life, they find themselves surrounded by other New Yorkers in any other place practically. When I made the mistake of moving to LA (for love – so maybe not such a mistake as a bewitching), the first friends I made and kept we’re all New Yorkers. Pretty much all inhabitants of that city speak against it, but the New Yorkers were always the worst. When you get us to live somewhere else we can adapt but never truly fit in although some hide this fact better than others. Like the sea calls to the sailor when he is on land, the city calls us home when we’re not here. It’s like one of the magnetic poles to the soul for a New Yorker.

As I draw to a close here, I wonder if this post will strike a chord with any of its readers. If so, come home, we miss you even if we haven’t met you yet.

Which America Do I Live In?

I remember on one Independence Day a number of years ago thinking to myself, "What is it that is that makes the United States worth celebrating?" At the time, I was going through a period of serious disillusionment about all things American, in particular the rampant commercial materialism of the mainstream...definitely not a culture I felt connected to. If that was the America we were celebrating, what was all the fuss about? One of the major reasons I had been living in the small mountain resort I was at was to get away from the materialist mainstream of America. But then I considered a different question: Where else in the world could I be doing what I was? Where did I have the opportunity to live pretty much any way I pleased in the high Rocky Mountains with a community of people who had more or less the same outlook? I don't think there are many other places like that. What struck me at that point was that the real America is not the government and its foreign policy, not about the material wealth, not about the Hollywood image and most definitely not about being better than the rest of the world. Its about the fact that the country is so big and varied that it has the room for people like me to have our little unique corner within it. In the midst of a contentious election with implications for the entire world and with the world getting smaller every day, it's sometimes hard to remember that. It can be even harder if you live in one of the big cities. But I almost never drive on that congested freeway. Even here in Denver, where everything is very auto-oriented, I can go two weeks without starting my car. I live close to the college I'm attending, groceries are down the block and most of my travel is done by bike or bus. And sometimes its strange listening to other folks complain about traffic. So I don't live in George Bush's America. Nor do I live in Oprah Winfrey's America. Or in the America of any other so-called governmental or cultural representative broadcast about the world. I live in my own America. And there are a lot of people like me, and a lot of them aren't like me at all. That's what independence and freedom are really about. And I hope that idea doesn't get lost in all the confusing shrubbery of our present government.

I Am Canadian?

Ask an English Canadian what it means to be Canadian. They will furrow their brow, scratch their head, start to talk about Quebec independence before faltering. Then they will say with great conviction, “Well, we’re not American” before launching into a series of descriptions and anecdotes detailing the various atrocities and stupidities of the ugly American. Then they’ll say “We should have coffee some time”, which means ‘good-bye’ in English Canadian: you’ll never hear from them again, although they’ll be really, really, really happy to see you the next time you run into one another. Ask a French Canadian what it means to be Canadian. The answer you hear will depend largely on where in Canada they’re from (Quebec or Manitoba, for example), what the politicians are doing anywhere in the country, how well the Quebec media has managed to look these actions appear anti-Quebec (some genuinely are), what day it is, what their mood is, if it’s raining, and so forth. Then they will tell you about their ancestor who came over from France and founded a family farm in the early 1600s. If you’re lucky enough to be near the farm, they’ll probably take you there. If they’re lucky, someone in the family still owns the farm and you’ll be invited to share a meal in a house built before Shakespeare died. You’ll discuss politics, Quebec pop stars, love, sex, share details you never thought you’d share with strangers and you will not be allowed to leave until long past your bedtime. Ask me what it means to be Canadian and I’ll write this entry. I have felt like an outsider in Canada ever since I realised that American jokes are about my parents. I was born and raised in Canada by American parents. However, I feel Canadian, whatever that means, and have never had any strong desire to live in the States (although I could probably be happy in New York for a couple of years if I had a lot of money; I’d have to come back though). I am often amazed by the insensitive hypocrisy Canadians can exhibit when it comes to Americans. The most politically correct Canadian, the one who shakes their head when you use ‘girl’ and ‘boy’ when you really mean ‘woman’ and ‘man’, will spout off the most amazing generalisations about our neighbours. When I point out that it’s a tad insensitive, they respond that I know what Americans are like. When I counter that, indeed I do, having been raised by a couple of them, the answer is invariably a variation on “Well, they’ve been here for years so they’ve obviously changed”. And I resist my urge to smack. Dan discusses below the Canadian penchant towards profuse apology, and it’s true for the most part in both official languages. However, this is one area where Canadians absolutely will not budge. Although I can’t define it, I love being Canadian. I love all my clichés: health care, lefty politics, etiquette, wintry days with a loved one. I’ll take it all. I’m a gay man who can get married to another gay man. My largest concern with my county’s leader is how he will distribute money to our health care system, not whether he will embroil me in an unwinnable war halfway across the world. Ooop! Even I’ve done it. I’ve defined myself by comparing myself to the Americans. I am Canadian. Now, ask a Native Canadian what it means to be Canadian and I have absolutely no idea what they’ll say. I think that says a lot about my country.

I'm Canadian, and I'm not sorry. At all.

Aaron wrote an interesting post here, where he essentially addresses himself to the world and his nationality. Sebstian followed up on Australia. My (very unimaginative) take-off on their post titles serves as a tip of the hat to insightful pieces, that got me to thinking about another side to his whole idea. I apologize in advance for my distinctly Canadian perspective. If Americans are often written-off as brazen and unapologetic for anything, Canadians are often characterised as apologising for everything. We quietly wander along, never wanting to take up too much space, never wanting to make waves. Never do we come out guns blazing (insert non-existant military joke here). Rarely does anyone hear of an international scandal involving Canadians. And when it does happen, it truly is scandalous, because Canadians just don't DO things like that. Always polite. Never antagonistic. We are, for all intents and purposes, the definition of non-descript. Or so the story goes. I always found it amusing in school that we actually had courses the purpose of which was to help us define Canadian identity (no, really, we did). Often the inevitable conclusion was that we don't really have one. That we're merely an extention of our most excellent neighbours to the south. With such a powerful neighbour next door, it stands to reason that we might get a little drowned out in the process. We get their culture, television, music, books. Even their news often gets more coverage than our own - on our own local stations no less. Truth be told, their news often IS more important. When something big happens in the most powerful nation on the planet, who also happens to be our next door neighbour and greatest ally, well the conclusion seems pretty obvious... Ultimately, (our own) people define us as having as some kind of National Inferiority Complexe. And it's absolutely ludicrous. Take a look at this country. We are a huge land mass, incredibly rich in natural resources. A strong, diverse economy. We have a highly educated population, and are highly advanced technologically. We have a standard of living that is the envy of the world. We take care of our own, as well as those abroad. We have a history of participation in world events that is generally univerally respected: We are peace keepers, diplomats, and, when we believe the cause is just, warriors when we've needed to be. We have our own mind in foreign policy, based on distinctly Canadian ideals, more often than not kinder and gentler. We are culturally diverse AND culturally distinct. Our moral compass is relatively strong. (Oh yeah. And we're really good at snow removal, making beer, and churning out hockey players.) I met an amazing woman recently. We spent about 2 hours talking. She was in the Israeli Air Force. She came to Canada 15 years ago with her only child. She left behind her entire family. Her husband. Her parents and siblings. Her businesses. Financial security. Her culture. Her home. She came to Canada alone so that she could increase the odds that here child would not only have a good life, but so he could have a chance at living at all. She knew absolutely no one here. But Canada was her first and only choice. She's built a successful and secure life for herself and her son here. All on her own. There are not that many places in the world that can offer that opportunity. As a country, we're just quietly going about the business of trying to do the right thing. For ourselves and for others in the world. No fanfare. Well under the radar. Not non-descript. Just low key. And look how incredibly far it's taken us. So I won't apologise for being Canadian. There's just way to much to be proud of. Not 'better than'. or 'superior'. Just cool in it's own right. Eh?

Team Talk

Well, hmm... There seems to be a theme here, that being, Team. * Since I didn't get here first, and thereby have the privilege of setting the agenda, I'm going to go with Team. Hell, a childhood in a military family and the privilege of a Catholic education make me something of an expert on this subject. * So, yes, teams. Damn, why didn't I get here first. Well, my favorite team is The New York Yankees. The Yankees did not win The World Series this year another team did. * Batman and Robin were a team. So were the Cisco Kid and Poncho. At least, I think they were. I could be wrong about that. I suppose you could consider my partner Matt and I a team. I'd say my boyfriend, but I'm thirty-three, so I'm trying to be grown up about it. Matt and I make a good team. I am not the brains of it. * Now wrestling isn't much of a team sport. But singlets are hot. I don't wrestle much these days though. * Now, I think there's a gay porn flick called - Take One For The Team - but I haven't seen it. * So, in conclusion - Damn, y'all really want to talk about teams, huh?

I'm American, and I'm Sorry (sort of)

Since our tag line here reads, “Words from Around the World”, I figure this as good of an opportunity as any to address you – The World.

(steps on some phone books as to be seen above the lectern)

Tap – tap: Is this thing on?

Hello World.

I happen to have been born in an unpopular state, New Jersey (the brunt of far too many jokes) in an unpopular country, the US. Being that I’m a people person, well, only after a large coffee on odd number days, there is a small level of shame attached to my origins. Having spent half my life apologizing for my father, I’ve learned that was a useless task, so I won’t really apologize for my country even if it feels like I should at times.

There are a bunch of politicians that won’t even take my calls much less care for what I may think about my nation’s ability to piss-off the rest of you, but I would think these learned men would get a clue by now. Some of my neighbors don’t seem to understand the fact that many Americans are disliked for simply being Americans. Funny this, as these same people dislike whole nations of men and women because of their birthplace, yet can’t understand the reverse.

One of my favorite artists, Anselm Kiefer, often portrayed the guilt he and his fellow countrymen felt by being born German after Hitler. I can only imagine what it must be like to know one’s grandfather was a Nazi. My grandfather is a retired Deputy Chief of Police but fortunately not one from the state of California, or there would be 2 generations I would have to apologize for. (California has the reputation of being a police state – and my run-in with some Los Angeles cops several years ago has me understanding why)

My point is (yes, I have one) this: identity stems from nature, yet all individuals are subject to the influences of location, family, religion and government. I could spend the rest of my life in Prague for example, but will always be an American to a certain degree. This is the other reason why I won’t apologize for my country - I’d have to apologize for myself which I would never do. Sure I can apologize for a wrong action or way of thinking, but not for who I am.

This presents a dilemma. How do I get my fellow countrymen to understand that we have simply grown too large and in the process have forgotten where we came from – the rest of the world? How do I tell them that we should be ashamed as a group if not as individuals? All I can come up with is by setting an example. Address the rest of the world as a human, not an American, hold a mirror up to myself and look hard and especially pay attention to those groups that frighten me or I have trouble understanding.

Having been in New York during the 9/11 attacks – I was scheduled for an interview at the World Trade Center for later that day – naturally I was pissed-off at the men that killed so many in such a horrible way. Still, writing the attackers off as crazy people wasn’t enough for me. As much as I detest all murderers, the fact that my nation is hated so much by that certain group forces me to look at the why of it all. It’s a hard task from where I sit at this moment, but I am trying. I wish more were.

So don’t hate me because I’m beautiful, oh wait, I mean because I’m from a young nation going through a difficult age presently addicted to power – but you can hate me for my ignorance. At least that is something I can work on. Who knows, it may even become a trend.

Okay World – thanks for your time. I gotta go now to the deli where I will have to choose from 27 different types of toilet paper in which to wipe my spoiled American ass.

Here's Looking at You

My mother had sent me a letter the other day. It arrived yesterday. She usually sends me e-mails, but those stopped for a while when her dinosaur computer that still used DOS finally died. We put it in a museum with all the other dinosaurs. A new computer was purchased and she valiantly learned all about windows, minimising, maximizing, and resolution. There were some vocabulary differences and there have been quite a few revelations – “I can just highlight the text in the website and copy it into my e-mail?” – but she’s pretty good at it. She even has her own website . But yesterday I received an actual letter from her. In truth, it wasn’t really a letter. It was more of a little note or a card. In fact it was a card she’d made herself. She’d found a colourful semi-abstract picture with large eyes on it, folded and cut it into an elaborate pattern, and pasted it into a little piece of paper, a vibrant splotch with great, big eyes looking out. On the front she’d written a little handwritten note. “Here’s looking at you.” Inside, amid the description of her morning so far and her plans for the day, she was sure I’d be amused. “You were once a great fan of ‘Casablanca’”. A sign of things to come, Mum. I wrote my last letter about three years ago. It was the first one I’d written in much longer than three years. I was living in Montreal at the time and I wrote it to a friend who lives in Toronto, where I now live. I wrote and I wrote. There are so many ways to communicate by putting a pen to paper that no emoticon can ever hope to cover. The letter ended up being so long that I could barely fit it into the envelope and I had to seal it with tape, which got stuck on my fingers. I was afraid it would also get stuck on some postal equipment, rip open, and all my thoughts would scatter across the country. I made an oath to myself that I would write one letter a week so that eventually everyone I knew would have received one. My friend sent me an e-mail telling me how much he’d liked the letter. I haven’t written one since. How do you follow a masterpiece? And it’s no fun when no one else wants to participate. It’s not like e-mail, or messenger, or blogging, for that matter, where all you have to do is type and send. Spelling is irrelevant; punctuation inconvenient. Capital letters are monoliths from a by-gone era. They slow everything down. I look at my mother’s card, made just for me. It contains a reference to something I barely recall, but it must have made an impression for her to fold it up neatly so many years later and put it in a little card. I read it and I wish I didn’t live so far that she had to send me letters.

Hanging Out at the Rest Stop on the Information Superhighway

I’ve not seen my best friend for a month now. He lives 1 subway stop away. We’ve not talked on the phone for about the same time.

This is no big deal – we’re New Yorkers – this is common.

Earlier today I was in the middle of a conniption – Blogger was down and I couldn’t read any of the entries my fellow writers and typists wrote. I start and end my day reading blogs and writing my own. When some SNAFU prevents this ritual I get cranky.

There is a clan of people that I consider my friends although I’ve only actually met a tiny portion of the group in a face to face way. The majority are blogger or photo-bloggers (phloggers). Their opinion matters most of the time – when it doesn’t it is because I am being stubborn usually. They have been inspirational, kind, generous, thoughtful, entertaining, inspiring, loving and silly – all of the things I try to impart on those I care about.

Who knew that this universe created of 1’s and 0’s could have me feeling more human and closer to others than the years I spent in group therapy. (Actually I hated group therapy – I felt like I was the one giving it to others and had to pay for this alleged opportunity instead of being paid) The internet was touted as the tool which would make us less social and geeks like me given the reputation of loners. I’ve had a string of hangovers to disprove these theories.

So one of my newer friends, yet no less dear, further north of the Americas than I, invited me to participate in this blog – and I had to say yes. Why? A group blog only lends itself to a greater sense of community for me and my interests. Collaborative efforts nicely balance out solitary ones not to mention keep my ego in check. (Given my remark on the group therapy thing, you can see why this needs to happen often)

Here I am to commune in this, well commune of words and people and places.

I’m glad to be here. The name is Aaron. I’m a terminal New Yorker. In the midst of typing I sometimes write and I take lots of pictures.

Okay, who’s next?

Collaboration

Welcome to event horizon. Perhaps not all that original, it's an idea that started to gel in my mind not long after I started blogging several months ago. I'm often in awe of the ideas that people put out there, accessible by anyone through the miracle of the internet. Kudos to Al Gore for inventing it. In carving out my little corner of Blogdom, I've 'met' some pretty interesting and creative people along the way... The world is getting smaller at the most incredible rate. And over the past few months, I've found myself exchanging ideas, barbs, theories, jokes, philosophies, and general silliness with people of all cultures, backgrounds, religions, ethnicities, nationalities, sexualities, etc. And for the most part, people generally get along, enjoy themselves; revel in the sheer diversity of it all. This would have been unimaginable to most people even 20 years ago. It is the most diverse and inclusive environment I've ever experienced. So it occurred to me to try and mix thing up a bit. I think back to a time when I was more of a 'serious' musician. I very much enjoyed playing on my own, composing, creating new sound, playing solo. I did pretty well at it, and people reactions were quite incredible, very motivating. But some of the best creative moments I ever experienced happened when I started fraternizing with other musicians and artists. People would show up, we'd create, some might leave, others would show up. And each new person that came in added another character to the end result, which was never predictable, and most often incredibly interesting. Music literally started taking on a life of it's own. It was the most dynamic, fluid, and creative artistic situation I ever participated in. I've seen the same effect in Blogdom in the comments section of people's posts. Get a diverse bunch of people from different walks of life commenting on a great blog, or even a mediocre one, throwing their own spin on the original idea. More often than not it ends up being even more entertaining, informative, profound, or simply silly than what the original author had in mind. It takes on a life of it's own. So I thought it might me cool to open things up by inviting some of the talent that I've come across to collaborate on one site. They write what they want, how they want, when they want. They can continue an idea started by another collaborator. Make comments on others' posts. Or just do their own thing. A free-form Blog Message Board, of sorts. A collaborative log. A CLOG. Anyone else who happens to stumble across what we're doing and who wants to collaborate with us is welcome. Just email me, and I'll give you the keys to the place. Come and go as you please. Invite friends. We can set up links to your own blogs, or you can collaborate using a pseudonym if you prefer more anonymity. I'm just curious to see what kind of life, if any, this thing might take on, and where it might end up.