all i want for chrismahanukwanzakah...

It all started two weeks ago, when I brought in my 50s jukebox radio into the shop to listen to 94.9 Mix FM, the 24-hour Christmas station. Not only did the radio add a certain savoir faire to the shop, but the Christmas jingles that jingled out, put everyone in a very, merry, festive mood. That is, all but Ashley.

Growing up near the Mexican border, Ashley and her family weren’t all that big on Christmas carols. In fact, besides the gift giving part of Christmas, Ashley and her family weren’t all that big on Christmas, period. Which is why she rolled her eyes the moment, the moment Barry Manilow came on the radio. But to be fair, it was Barry Manilow. Even I have rolled my eyes more than once at that botox bewilderment. Still, I couldn’t understand what was so bad with Christmas music altogether. Was it the catchy lyrics? Was it the message of the songs? Or was it that most of the songs had over 11 verses that just seemed to go on and on and on and on? Ashley didn’t seem to know herself, just that whenever she heard someone sing, “Deck the halls…” she felt like decking the singer.

It was actually kinda sad that Ashley became irked by Christmas carols, when in reality, they were supposed to have the opposite effect on people’s spirits. Christmas songs were supposed to be festive and joyous as they filled your heart with Christmas spirit. At least that’s what I understood from those old Rankin and Bass Holiday special cartoons. I had to find some way to turn Ashley’s bah, humbug into a fa-la-la-la songbug. Ok, that metaphor sucked, but at least you get what I’m saying.

As I tried to think up of ways to get Ashley into the Christmas spirit, I realized things weren’t much better at home. Nobody wanted to trim the Christmas tree, or the house for that matter. My mother complained about opening boxes of Christmas memorabilia collected over the years, while my father was off on another one of his rants about how much Christmas would cost him this year and whatnot. Then my brothers were off on some idiotic, ego trip, thinking they were way too old and way too cool to stay at home and watch classic Christmas cartoons while drinking hot cocoa . Was I the only one filled with the Christmas spirit this year or what?

It was like a cheesy Christopher Columbus movie where it was my responsibility to save Christmas before midnight or else the holiday itself, along with humanity, would cease from existing. But with my finals just around the corner I didn’t have time to save the world. Hell, some days, I didn’t even have time to color coordinate my shirt to my jacket.

But then last week, a call came through the flower shop that changed my entire perspective about Christmas. The law offices of Weinstein and Berger asked Alice and I if we could deck their lobby with boughs of holly and other gay apparel. And in keeping with traditional style, Alice and I went all out, trimming the tree with bright and colorful accessories and the stairwell with fresh, green garland. In a mere matter of minutes, we turned a drab and dreary law office into a Christmas wonderland that was fab and cheery. And just as we were hanging a giant wreath on the stairwell, Mr. David Weinstein stepped out of his office and asked why we had failed to represent the other December holidays. Most obviously and notably, Hanukkah.

Well, Mr. Weinstein, the answer was actually quite simple. During a staff meeting, earlier that week, when the office was trying to decide how their lobby would be decorated for their annual Christmas party, Mr. Weinstein had no opinion whatsoever. But there he was, the unmistakable voice of menorahs and kosher chocolate coins wrapped in gold foil. And so Mr. Weinstein asked if we could add a giant menorah with hanging stars of David and wrap the stairwell with blue and silver ribbon, all for just twenty bucks. Now, far be it from me to perpetuate the stereotype that certain religious groups are cheap, but come on! Twenty bucks? The singing and dancing Rabbi hamster at Walgreens, alone, was $9.99.

And just when I was about to tell Alice that Hanukkah wasn’t even a big deal until it came to the U.S. and Jewish kids began to wonder why they didn’t get any gifts during Winter Break, the subject of Kwanzaa came up. If we were gonna celebrate the Festival of Lights, why not include the First Fruits of the Harvest? Would the Black community be offended if fruit was not scattered sporadically around the office? I didn’t know and honestly, I really didn’t care. I mean, Alice and I already used the entire budget that the law office would allow us to use, and with just twenty bucks more and nothing else, creating an entire atmosphere that would appease everyone with different religious and cultural backgrounds seemed so exhausting.

Not to sound like a modern day Archie Bunker, but seriously, when did saying, “Merry Christmas,” to people passing, as children were laughing, become so passé? Why did we have to change everything and get so political? They say if it aint broke, don’t fix it, so why couldn’t we just leave well enough alone? And if I’m not able to get into the Christmas spirit, how am I supposed to get everyone else in the mood?

the religion of toys

Some people have asked me what kind of topics do Madelaine and I discuss in our Religion in Pop Culture class. The answer to that is many. We've found the religious aspect in rap music and dieting. We've made connections to God and comic books. And we've seen how modern heroes, like the Tejano music star Selena, can reach "saint-like" status within a matter of days. Leaving us with the final thought, no matter what your religious background or beliefs are, God is truly alive and well. And he's living right amongst in our pop culture.

Which is why, I'm posting my final presentation. Kinda like a tribute to all I've learned from Mrs. Speidel this past semester.


Toys. We've heard of them. We know of them. We have them. It's an object meant to be played with. Usually, for the most part, toys are associated with children, but it's not uncommon for animals to have them and even a few adults. If you know what I mean. Toys, and play in general, are an important and necessary part of the process of learning about the world and growing up. Children use toys and play as part of their education to discover their gender identity, help their bodies grow strong, learn cause and effect, explore relationships, and practice skills they will utilize as adults. But who knew they shared a relationship with religion in general?



The origin of toys is prehistoric. Dolls, animals, soldiers and miniature representations of the tools adults used, made from materials found in nature, such as rocks, wood, grass, and clay are always found at archaeological sites, In Ancient Greece, when Greek children came of a certain age, it was customary for them to sacrifice their toys from their childhood to the gods.


And while they weren't burning their toys, the Greeks were busy searching for Jews who were learning the Torah. According to popular myth, the Jews devised a toy that could double as both a game and a teaching tool, also known as a dreidel. A dreidel is a four-sided top, played with during the Jewish holiday of Hanukkah. It was used by the Jews who played with it in order to fool the Greeks if they were caught studying the Torah, which had been outlawed.

Such is the power of toys. Toys have been even used to predict the future.

In Korean culture, a baby's first birthday is celebrated with a great ceremony. The mother and father lay several objects and toys in front of the baby and whatever the baby reaches out for, supposedly predicts what skills the child will excel in, in the future.


And while toys were busy predicting the future, they are also being used for work. Between the Dark Ages & the Middle Ages, when children were old enough to play they were taught how to work and use weapons and tools.


In the mid-17th century, a wave of religious reform, caused Oliver Cromwell, a Puritan to enforce an Act of Parliament banning Christmas celebrations and Holy Days, all over England. Cromwell, believed it was his mission to cleanse the country of decadence, the reason being that Christmas and Sundays were wasteful festivals that threatened core Christian beliefs. Not surprisingly, the ban was hugely unpopular and many people continued to celebrate these days in secret. Including children. Toy manufacture's came up with the idea of religious toys, like Noah's Ark, so children could still play with toys while learning their Bible lessons.

As technology changed and civilization progressed to what it is today, toys also changed. They were now mass-produced, making them cheaper to make and cheaper to buy in stores. Parents could now spend their money on printed instructional toys that would aid learning and morality, such as pictorial alphabet cards, dissected map puzzles, books and board games.


In the 1890's, when spiritualism was a big fad, someone came up with the idea of communicating with the dead using a small piece of wood, called a "planchette." William and Isaac Fuld cashed in on the idea, and in 1892, they patented the Ouija board. A Ouija board is used to predict the future, but according to Parker Brothers, the Ouija board is simply a game, but to believers, it's much more. It wasn't until World War I that it became a big success because it was used to keep in touch with loved ones who'd been sent into battle. Since then, Ouija board sales have boomed during times of war.


Some toys have the power to influence people. Building blocks can influence future architects.


Model dinosaurs influence can future paleontologists.


Even dolls possess a certain je nais se quais that have the power to influence people greatly.

Cindy Jackson, an average run-of-the-mill girl from Indiana was influenced when she received her first Barbie doll. To Cindy, Barbie was the epitome of glamour and happiness, an icon to be worshipped. In 1988, she was left a small inheritance which enabled her to begin having cosmetic surgery. Cindy used the money to transform herself, with nine surgeries, into a real-life walking, talking Barbie Doll.

According to Cindy, "from an early age I had been made aware of all the things about my appearance that could be improved."


Her extreme makeover influenced Tim Whitfield-Lynn, who changed his name to Miles Kendall, and between both of them, they spent over $300,000 in cosmetic surgery to become the world's first "real life" Ken and Barbie. But Cindy and Mile's extreme lifestyle isn't the only controversy brought on by toys.


In fact toys have even caused quite a stir in recent events. A month ago, during a recent toy drive, the Marine Reserves' Toys for Tots program turned down a company's offer to donate 4,000 Bible-quoting, talking dolls. Bill Grein, vice president of Marine Toys for Tots Foundation, said the offer was turned down because Toys for Tots doesn't know anything about the religious affiliations of the children who receive its gifts.

"We can't take a chance on sending a talking Jesus doll to a Jewish family or a Muslim family," Grein said Tuesday. "Kids want a gift for the holiday season that is fun," yet on the company's website, their mission is stated as: The objectives of Toys for Tots are to help needy children throughout the United States experience the joy of Christmas.

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And in keeping with the Holiday Spirit, some toys are in fact, regarded as holy relics. A must-have for the toy enthusiast, who will stop at nothing to have the hottest, doe-eyed, furryiest, plushest toy of the season adorning the bottom of their Christmas tree, believing this inanimate object can bring peace and goodwill to all mankind. Or at least to their families. And I should know...I'm one of them!

fall into the job

A month ago, my friend Martha's mother was addmited to Sacred Grace. She had been sick for some time and the doctors believed it would be best if she spent the next several weeks at their facility. Which meant, Christmas this year would include nurses and the smell of lemon lysol. It was easy to see why Martha wanted this Christmas to be fabulous, but of course, with fabulous being the price that it is, she could barely afford wonderful. Which is why she asked me two weeks ago, if I would go to the mall with her and apply for a seasonal job.

The first, and well, really, only, place we went to was Gap. Our friend Rachel worked there, so we figured Martha was a total shoe-in. While Martha filled out her application with detailed dedication, I filled out mine with bullshit answers. When asked what I liked most about the Gap, I wrote, "No one does fashion on a budget like Gap. Very reasonable for great separates," and under Any Felonies I wrote, "Dear God, I hope not!" We turned the applications in, with Martha praying for at least an interview and me praying they werent out of pretzel bites at Pretzel Time.

Four days later, I got a call from Gap asking to come in the following Monday for an interview. I was utterly befuddled. Why was my application chosen? I mean, if they liked what I wrote, then surely they would also give my friend Martha a call. But sadly, they didnt.

I couldnt understand why. Martha's application was far better than mine and it was she that needed the job, not me. But as I thought more about it, I realzied a part of me wanted the job too. I mean, Martha did have a point. Fabulous did come at a price and with the employee discount, my bank account wouldnt look so sad and low. I could choose all my own clothes as I helped the customers. In a way, I would actually be getting paid to go shopping. So I went in for the interview.

Betty, the hiring manager, fell in love with me. I had retail experience and worked during the holidays before, so I already knew what was expected of me. And then I was the only one to make Betty laugh when I told her how I once picked out an outfit for my guidance counselor when she went on Oprah, after she got fired from my high school for posing in a porno magazine and she said...well, I guess you just had to be there. My interview with Betty was actually the best interview I had ever had. Normally, when applying for something, I get all tongue-tied, my palms get all sweaty and I get so nervous that I might say the wrong thing that sometimes, I do end up doing the wrong thing. But maybe it was because this job wasnt as important to me as other jobs were, that I was at ease the entire time. After I left, I realized I did wanna work with someone like Betty. I just didnt know how I was gonna tell Martha.

Two days later, I decided instead of waiting by the phone to see if I had been hired, I would go to the mall. That's when I saw Betty on the store phone, with her blue folder on hand. She was making the calls! I sat outside the store, on the malls conviently hidden maroon leather chairs, watching Betty and waiting for my call. An hour later, with still no call, Debbie made her last call and walked to the back of the store. She had hired everybody that she wanted to and I wasnt one of them. Serves me right. It didnt matter that I had a great interview or that I was able to make Betty laugh. What mattered was that I should've just told Martha the truth. I should've just been upfront about the whole thing and should've just been honest. At least that's what I think karma was trying to tell me.

And while karma was busy teaching me a lesson, I decided since I was already at the mall I should buy myself a little happy. But I couldnt. I didnt feel like buying happy. I felt like buying a drink. And as I walked to my car, I passed the Gap store again, knowing it would be a while before I ever walked back in. And that's when I saw Betty walking right towards me.

BETTY: David! Hi!
ME: Oh...hey.
BETTY: David, I have a question to ask you. Did you put your cell number on your application?
ME: Yeah.
BETTY: Ok, good!
ME: Why?
BETTY: Because you got the job. Do you want it?
ME: Shut up.

Ok, so maybe telling my new boss to shut up, wasnt the best first words to say, but I really couldnt believe what I was hearing. Especially, when she told me how much I would be making an hour. And so I took the job offer. I felt somewhat exhilarated. Maybe I belonged out there, among the bright spotlights and cashmere cardigans of Gap. But if so, then why cant I tell my friend Martha?

thanksgiving dinner and a show

It's one of American history's most familiar scenes: a small group of Pilgrims prepare a huge November feast to give them thanks for a bountiful harvest and show them their appreciation to the Native Americans who helped them survive their first winter. Together, the Pilgrims and Native Americans solemnly sit down to a meal of turkey, pumpkin pie, and cranberries.

Of course, if given a second chance, I'm almost postive that the Native Americans would have stayed at home instead of dining with people who would later steal their land in exchange for smallpox infected blankets. Thanksgiving was not a time to socialize with people other than your family. Which is why I couldnt understand why my cousin Camille invited her boyfriend Devin for dinner.

They met one afternoon during football practice, in classic Americana style. He was a lineback, she was a cheerleader, so their paths were obviously destined to meet. There was nothing really wrong with their relationship, except for the fact, nobody could understand how Camille didnt notice Devin's ginormous bobble head-head. It was like a Macy's Parade Balloon he had to balance on his shoulders. It was such an easy laugh, how could I not take full advantage?

I convinced Devin that Thanksgiving was not just a day of giving thanks, it was also a day to give your girlfriend a gift to show your apprieciation and gratitude for not breaking up with you. I'll admit it was a little underhanded and devious, but it was all in good fun and if anything I was actually helping their relationship last longer than one of Pamela Anderson's marraiges...in some, not so obvious, sorta way...

After Devin left to try and find an open store and a good gift, I told my cousin Camille to light every candle in the house and she did, including the candles next to my Aunt Maria's wreath of dry goods. The wreath of dry goods was a craft project, made out of twigs, cotton, and dried lemon and lime wedges, that my aunt had found in an old-fashioned Better Homes & Garden book. No one noticed the flaming candle until we we were about to sit down for dinner. That's when my little cousin blew it out. Or at least, tried to.

Instead the flame just sorta leaned back and ignited the wreath of dry goods into a wreath of fire, which in turn, ignited the satin curtains. The entire dining room was ablaze and so my Uncle Art ran out to get the water hose, while the rest of the family formed a line, passing the Thanksgiving dishes back into the kitchen, hoping to save my Aunt Maria's antique tablecloth from destruction. By the time my uncle got back into the house, the floor to ceiling china cabinet had caught on fire and once again we formed another line to save the good china, for fear it would all come crashing down into a million pieces as orange and yellow flames continued to dance across the china cabinet.

And while we dealt with the problem downstairs, upstairs, my little cousins were dealing with a problem of their own. Remembering their safety lessons from school, each one of them called 9-1-1 until two fire trucks, an ambulance and several police cars came to the front door. I guess it's not really a Tellez Thanksgiving until the fire marshall comes to your house. As we sat outside in the backyard and had a picnic style Thanksgiving, I couldnt help but feel bad for adding to Devin's preset notions about our family.

And I dont know if it was because we were sitting outside, or if because there were new people at dinner this year, or if because my mother didnt make the turkey this year, but I started to think that for some reason, Thanksgiving didnt seem like Thanksgiving this year. It just seemed like any other day, only with enough food to feed Cambodia. And I know Thanksgiving is more than just food, parades, and getting two days off, but this year...I dont know. It seemed that that's all it was this year. When you're a kid, there's an certain je nais se quois about Thanksgiving that makes it a fun, family holiday. But when you get older that you discover there's an actual process to develop that "magic" you once held dear to your heart. And I wonder if it'll be like this for the rest of my adult life?

when opportunity comes a-knockin'

Two months ago, my good friend Madelaine got a job interning at Z-93 The Shock, a local news radio station. It was the kind of job that every student with a journalism/communications major dreams of that came with a lot of perks...answering numerous phone calls, lots of fact checking, endless hours of research, making that cup of coffee just right. But the perk that Madelaine loved most of all, came after a month of hard work and dedication. Madelaine's boss, Staci Griffin, offered Madelaine the chance to produce, write, direct, and star in her own Saturday morning show. And the person Madelaine chose to be her co-host? Me.

According to Madelaine this would be our chance to make our voices be heard around Tucson, with a ground breaking mix of heady talk, music and politics that would break up the mold and shake up the student booty. I mean, body. Well, depending on the music we played, the booty too, I guess. But Saturday mornings? I mean, what self-respecting college student was up at that time? But then again there was the experience and the fact that Oprah Winfrey got her start in entertainment by doing a small radio show.

Still, it was a request I had to think over before giving my final answer. I mean, radio personalities had to have fun and exciting lives. Would mine qualify enough to fill an entire three hour show? And while I was mulling over Madelaine's offer, I got another one.

Down the street, from Alice's Downtown Flower Market, was a community art school, called ArtFare, where one could learn how to draw, paint, sculpt, or even dance. And judging by the people who worked there, one would guess that one could learn the art of flattery there, as well.

His name was Pablo, and like the artist, he claimed to know good art when he saw it. And he claimed that the chalk drawings I drew on the shop board were just that. So good, in fact, he asked if I would come to ArtFare and paint a giant, larger-than-life mural on the three-story stairwell of their building. But I wasnt a professional artist. I was just your average, run-of-the-mill, sketch doodler who still hadnt mastered how to draw hands all that well. Yet, when Pablo introduced me to all his co-workers, he said, "This guy here paints the most beautiful murals you have ever seen!"

Great. I hadnt even dipped my paintbrush into the paint, or rather, I hadnt even seen the stairwell yet and already I was being hailed as the greatest artist of our time. And if things couldnt get any more complicated, after showing me my three-story high canvas, Pablo started telling me about a class he was taking at the local, public cable access television station and asked if I would be willing to take the class with him. According to Pablo, I seemed like a natural television personality, so it only seemed right that I learn the innerworkings of how to produce, write, and direct a television show. Plus, he'd pay for the classes.

Again, I'd have to think it over. Could I really paint an honest-to-goodness mural? And if so, what would be the theme? It would obviously have to inspire people to excel in the arts, using their imagination and creativity, but was I really capable of inspiring people? And speaking of capabilities, was I really capable of being on television? Or was Pablo just pulling my leg? As I began to think about the possibilities of each request, another opportunity came my way. This time, from local writer, James Brook.

James Brook wrote a column for The Tucson Observer and had come across a sampling of my writing when I was had applied at the newspaper earlier this summer. He e-mailed me asking if I would be interested in writing a bi-weekly column for three months about life in Tucson, from a college student perspective.

Being a communications major, all four requests sound like the perfect opportunity to explore my options before I wake up one day, at the age of forty, with the bitter realization that I have wasted my life on a job I hate because I was forced to deside on a career in my early 20s. They say when opportunity knocks at your door, you should greet it warmly with wide open arms, and invite it in for coffee and pie. Ok, maybe "they" dont exactly say that, but that thought that is implied when that saying is said. But when you have numerous doors a-knockin' with opportunities, how do you know which door to open and which door to keep closed?

the juggling act

In life, there are certain events that can raise the stress level on your otherwise average, run-of-the-mill, college student. For some, it's finding out you have class with an ex. For others it's finding that perfect outfit for your first fraternity/sorority party. For me, it's mid-terms.

For the past three weeks, my life consisted of nothing but exams, essays, and everything else in between. From trying to learn an entire language using only my hands to finding religious themes in pop culture, I was completely and utterly stressed. And it wasnt just my work I was stressing over. Four weeks ago, my cousin Katrina asked for help with her 6th grade Egyptian project. A week later, my good blog friend Laurie asked if I could help her 2nd grade son, John, with his Flat Stanley project. And then my friend Britney called and asked if I could help her and her husband Kevin out with their strained marriage. It was all too much.

Take my psychology class for example. I was supposed to write a five page essay on Hamlet’s speech as a window to his madness. What about the window to my madness? Didnt anybody care about the insanity I would soon find myself in? I mean, besides the authors of future college text books that would use this post to be analyzed by future psychology college students, of course.

I was beyond exhaustion and realized, way too late, that I had stretched myself way too thin. Which actually did have it's perks since I saw this pair of jeans in the mall window that were guranteed to change my life for the better. I found myself drinking massive amounts of Red Bull and coffee, sleeping only three hours a night, seeing my life, literally, pass right before my eyes. I was ready to give up. Ready to throw the towel in. Give up on school. That is until I met Judy.

It was a perfectly average Saturday afternoon, and I was visiting with my not-so-average family in Marana to discuss the upcoming Holiday seasons. And during the annual seating arrangement debacle of who sits where and why, my Aunt Mary realized she needed more diapers for her nine month old, twin sons. I was more than happy to go shop with her and headed off to a strange and unfamiliar store, called Wal-Mart. It was there, in the diaper and baby food aisle, where I was mistaken for a parent, by a parent.

Her name was Judy and judging by her blue, synthetic, poly-cotton blend vest, it was safe to assume she worked at the Wal-Mart. When Judy saw me juggling my baby cousin Santos and a pack of diapers, she saw a single parent in distress and knew the situation all too well. She herself was a single parent, trying to balance out her life with a family, a job, and the hope of better future. At first, I was mortified to learn that somebody actually thought I had the look of a single parent, since everyone knows that single parents are dishevled and tired looking, but then I remembered...so was I. So I listend as Judy imparted her single parent wisdom on me. Life's a juggling act and the longer you live it, the more things you're gonna have to balance out. Or until you retire in southern Florida in a refurbished art deco condo, near the beach.

So, I went back to the drawing board and fixed a few things. And surprisingly, so far it's all working out. I got an A on my Hamlet paper. I discovered that diet and exercise go hand in hand with religion. And I even got rid of the dark circles underneath my eyes. This juggling act wasnt exactly half bad and it was just the thing I needed to help get my life back in order. Maybe I should run away and join the circus. But then again, I dont think I was one to live the life of a carny vagabond.

david's declassified halloween survival guide*

I dont exactly remember when my friend Madelaine's obsession with the game Candyland began, but for as long as I could remember, she had always wanted to be the fictional character, Princess Lolly. In fact, a few months prior to Halloween she had even convinced one of the neighborhood kid's to be one of her many accessories, as the Gingerbread Man. So it came to no surprise, when last month, Madelaine asked me to be Lord Licorice.

ME: No, let's just do Archie and Veronica. It's way easier and so much cooler.
MADELAINE: David. I've been known to don a pencil skirt and fake eyelashes in my everyday wear. I'm just gonna look like myself. No one will get that I'm Veronica.
ME: Oh, and like people will get that I'm Lord Licorice? He's not as iconic as Archie.
MADELAINE: Think about it. How many people played the game compared to how many people read the comic book? My guess is more people played the game.
ME: My guess is you're wrong. I just dont wanna be like Ross from Friends in that one Halloween episode where he went as "Spud-nik" and everyone thought he was Doody.
MADELAINE: Trust me, you wont be Doody. You'll be pimp.

And trust I did, as I ventured into several costume shops looking for my costume. Because Lord Licorice isnt exactly a marketed costume, I had to improvise using both my creativity and a pre-packed Vampire of Blood Castle costume. And it was after I bought my costume that I came up with the rules for a good halloween.

Rule number one: buy your costume early. It happened last Sunday morning during Sunday brunch with my family, when Madelaine called to ask me if I could return my costume. Her reason? She couldnt find her costume. Who knew how hard it would be to find a yellow summer dress in the autumn months? But I couldnt return my costume. With the Halloween weekend just around the corner, I knew that would be one task that even my strong powers of persuassion would be defenseless againt and have absolutely no effect on. However, I did use those very same powers on Madelaine and told her I was not trick or treating as Candyland's very own pedophile-looking local, by myself. If I had to be Lord Licorice, then she had to be a character from Candyland as well, whether it be Queen Frostine or, even worse, Grandma Nutt.

Two days later, Madelaine found her dress. It wasnt the right color, but with a little imagination and the right fabric dye, my friend was rockin' a pretty hot lollipop princess look. Maybe Madelaine's Candyland idea wouldnt be so bad after all. They say that fun and happy times come out of the most unusual places, and maybe, just maybe, this would be one of those times.

Saturday afternoon I was still finishing the final touches to my costume by gluing countless red licorice to a gold pimp cane. The glue was still drying as Madelaine and I left and made the party rounds. The first stop was at Madelaine's uncle's house where we learned rule number two: make sure that your costume and accessories are animal retardant. Because we were characters from the fantasy land of candy, our costumes and accessories reflected our fictional origins, which was most appealing, both in sight and in scent. At least that's what the dogs thought as they spent most of their time trying to gnaw off our sweet and colorful creations.

Our next stop was at Madelaine's friend, Daphne's house, where I realized that the Candyland idea was actually well worth the effort. Cruella De Vil, Dorothy Gale, and one of the Mario Brothers were in awe as Madelaine and I made a lap around the house, all agreeing that we both were indeed the best dressed couple of the paarty. The compliments continued well into the night, even after we picked up our friend Bella and headed straight to the north side of town, where we learned rule number three: accept treats only in the doorway - never go inside a house.

The house of horrors we were invited to, turned out to be a house of whores. My boss Alice and Madelaine's new boss Becky, both invited us to the same house with the promise of a good party and an unlimited night of fun, so we had to make an appearence. But by the time we got there, the party had begun to die down. Thankfully though, the drama had not. We were welcomed at the door by the sight of drunken thirty-year old's passed out across the living room floor and throwing up as if they were re-living their high school glory days. My boss Alice was one of them. With drool on her chin and her short black bob wig off-center, Alice tried to look sexy and seductive in her vinyl dominatrix ball gown. Instead she just came off as sick and constapated.

As Alice headed off into the bathroom for a third time, Wendi the Witch graced us with her witchy pressence. Wasnt she supposed to be strapped to a bed in some far away asylum with 3000 units of thorazine swimming in her system? Luckily though, at the stroke of midnight she pulled a Cinderella and totally disappeared. Outta sight and outta mind. Unfortunately though, she was the only one at the party who could perform such a feat, which was a shame since there were some drunken party-goers who should have pulled a Cinderella too, instead of performing the gruesome and horrifying acts of sex on the couch. And so we left.

When you're a kid, you know that a well planned trick-or-treat route is a well way to ensure a good bountiful of fun and candy. Who knew the same rules applied to when you're grown up and old enough to party? Rule number four: plan your entire route beforehand and make sure your family and friends knows what it is. Throughout the night, Madelaine felt as if though not enough people got to see our costumes, because we spent so much time in the car driving from one party to the next. True, had we actually formed a well planned schedule of our night, we probably would have been seen by more people. But that's not the point of Halloween. The point of Halloween is to bump and grind next to George W. Bush and Snow White in El Charro at two in the morning. And to have a contest to see who can down the most medicine-tasting, grape jell-o shots before throwing up. And to eat as much candy as possible, because really, how often do you get to have a hangover with a major sugar high? So I guess, the most important rule of Halloween is just to have fun. Oh and to be safe. But you already knew that...

*RESULTS MAY VARY

needy people

The world is filled with unlikely friendships. How do they begin? With one person desperately in need. And another willing to lend a helping hand. Much like my willingness, early Saturday morning.

I was in the middle of a really good dream, when the annoying door bell rang. And rang. And rang. Where was everybody? Since I couldnt fully go back to sleep without a full glass of warm milk and Excedrin P.M., I got up and answered the door only to find Mrs. Leia Thompson, my mother's friend, and her four-month old baby, Tate, my mother's last minute babysitting gig. But because she and everyone else in my family was away doing Saturday morning errands, I was stuck with this big 20-inch, 20-25 lb. baby.

After Mrs. Thompson left, it was just me and Tate, all alone, with only one thing on our minds: to venture into the unknown and make it out alive. Well, at least that's what was on my mind. Tate just sat there in his car seat, not crying or laughing or doing anything, really. Just looking up at me with his big blue eyes, waiting for me to entertain him for the next few hours. He was the most-well behaved child I had ever met with an overwhelming sense of confidence and assurance, that almost made me feel as if he didnt really need me.

But he did need me. He needed me to help him get out of his car seat. He needed me to make him his bottle. And he needed me to help him turn over, otherwise he would just lay down head first into his blanket because he was still too young to maneuver his own body. If only all children were more like this, instead of drippy snot-nosed brats who want nothing but candy and McDonald's Happy Meals. In fact, if even adults were more like Tate. Like my ex-coworker Wendi.

Wendi had called me later that day, and somehow, convinced me to go Halloween costume shopping with her. Before I knew it, I was in hell. Or as it was more commonly known, Wendi's car, with the strong cigarette smoke and smouldering heat. A few hours and many, many costumes later, I had finally found my costume and was ready to go home and end my improptu shopping date with Wendi. But Wendi wasnt as anxious. After she dropped me off home, Wendi drove around town, killing time by calling old friends and drinking at random dingy bars, when at one in the morning she called me. I was already asleep and clicked IGNORE on my cell, hoping Wendi would get the hint. She didnt. Because a twenty-three minutes later, she text me saying:

Hey bro...j/k, r u still awake?

Why wouldnt she leave me alone?! The next morning during Sunday brunch with my family, Wendi called, asking me why I didnt answer her call. I should've just told her the truth, that I was tired, but I didnt. Instead I made up some story that I was at a party and couldnt hear my phone over the loud music.

WENDI: Oh, uh huh, is that what happened?
ME: Yeah, it was just crazy loud.
WENDI: Oh, uh huh, uh huh, so what time did you get home?
ME: I dont know, like...five, six this morning. I was so drunk.
WENDI: Oh, uh huh, uh huh, because, I went to your house last night to see if you were still awake and I saw you asleep in your bed.

She saw me asleep in my bed? What kind of person was I dealing with? Wendi's surprising answer made me that more determined to prove her wrong with another lie and to make her see she was indeed certifiably psycho. Which I did. But the result lasted for about a second, because Wendi then forgot about the whole thing and asked me what I was doing later that day. I, of course, was "busy", as I was the next day, but desperate Wendi was still persistant with her annoying calls and texts, including the one she left me, Monday afternoon.

"Hello-oooo...Daaaa-vid...where are yoooou? I need to talk to yoooou... I have a surprise for yoooou...call me baaaack...bye!"

When kindness is offered, we are finally able to see the worth of those we have previously written off. And before we know it, a bond has formed. Regardless of whether others can understand it. Unlikely friendships start up everyday. No one understands this more then the lonely. In fact, it's what they count on. But if the lonely are in fact desperate for friendship, is there anyway to make a clean break, while recommending a good mental institution?

the misers club

Turning 21 has it's perks. Most notably is the privillege to walk into a restaurant and/or bar and order an alcoholic beverage that bears a funny name and the ability to make you feel funny all over. Except my mother had different plans.

When I brought home my first bottle of wine, a birthday gift from a dear friend, my religious-fanatic and holier-than-thou mother had a fit. Her house was a Godly house, and "smuggling" a bottle of wine through the threshold was committing a mortal sin. Which was odd, since she had a bottle of merlot displayed in the wine rack in our kitchen, that was given to our family as a house-warming gift from our dearly departed neighbor, Barbara. Why was it ok to have Barbara's wine in our home, but not mine? Was it because Barbara had passed away and throwing away a gift from the deceased was just bad luck? Or was it something else?

I would have investigated into the matter further, but was stopped abruptly when I discovered my mother threw away my bottle of wine and a bottle of malt liquor that I had been saving for over a year and a half to drink after I turned 21. Her reasoning?

"Alcohol, in any shape or form, is a sin against God and indulging in it, is a sure fire way to get yourself kicked out of heaven."

It was pretty out there, and though the quote would qualify any human being as being borderline insane, I could totally respect my mother's wishes to not drink in her home. But the fact that I never got a chance to defend my helpless bottles of bubbly and that my mother took matters into her own hands, made me very upset. I tried using every argument point I could think of, such as Jesus' first miracle was to get the party started and Ben Franklin once said, “Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy,” to no avail. My mother wouldnt budge on her firm decision. Not even after I lied and told her the malt liquor was from Bianca, hoping to use the deceased factor in my advantage. So I did the next best thing I could think of...the silent treatment.

A whole week passed by, and not once did I acknowledge my mother's pressence or even so much as make a sound when around her. Until early Friday morning when she said, "David. Your friend is gone and so is your alcohol. Stop crying about it because you're never gonna see them again."

It was the final straw. I realized, I would not get anywhere with my mother. I tried having an adult conversation before the silent treatment, but in my mother's eyes, I would never be an actual adult. I would never find the steps to walk off the high pedestal she had built for me. And no matter how many times I would try to get my point across, I knew we would never see eye to eye on the whole alcohol issue. So I decided to end the fight.

ME: You know what, mom? I'm through fighting with you. I dont wanna keep being mad.

At least that's what I wanted to say. Instead a weird air bubble got caught in my throat, ending my proposed sentence at the word, "through", which my mother took as an opportunity to state her own opinion.

MOM: I'm through with you too. You can leave my house if you want to. I dont care.

It was the sentence heard 'round the house, as I felt a million and one poison-tipped arrows shoot through my body, causing it to numb to a state of lonliness, forming an ugly knot that twisted inside my stomach for what seemed an eternity. What the hell happened? Wasnt I supposed to be the victim in all this? How had I turned into the bad person?

A dark cloud settled over my head, as I headed off to work, with my mother's words still stinging the fresh wound. After I got to work, I realized everyone else had their own dark clouds, hovering above their heads. Some darker than others, but nonetheless, still there. Ashley, who replaced Wendi, who replaced Ashley after the school semester started in August, was having issues with her recently divorced parents. Each parent was fighting for her love, trying to up the other, putting Ashley in the middle of an unfair battle. And Alice, was battling her own issues with her husband, Azten, who had not come home since last night, leaving Alice to believe something horrible had happened.

There was only one thing to do. Go out for lunch at Cafe Poca Cosa, and get stinkin' drunk.

When the lunch hour arrived, we remembered Ashley was still two years away from the legal age, and so Alice and I promised her we'd drink in her misery as well. We toasted to the fact that love sucks and drank several margarita's when Alice's phone rang. It was Azten. Immeadiately, Alice walked outside, and through the window, I could tell from her facial expressions that a very heated argument would ensue later that afternoon.

When she came back in, she took a long, hard drink and explained that Azten's partying had somehow landed him in Phoenix and had added another strain onto their stressful marriage. One lunch and a highly caloric mousse for dessert later, Alice was feeling much better and oddly enough, so was Ashley. Her mother had called to apologize for her immature behavior, and soon everyone's dark clouds began to fade away. Everyone but mine.

white trash wish

My friend Bella emailed me a joke the other day: a fat, black man found a lamp. He rubbed it and out popped a genie who granted the man three wishes. "I want to be white, skinny, and surrounded by pussy!" said the man and so the genie granted his wishes and turned him into a tampon. The lesson found in that particular joke is, be careful for what you wish for...it may come true. But how often do wishes come true and what factors help make it come true?

It all started three weeks ago, when my boss Alice invited me and my co-worker, Wendi with an I, to a fundraiser event, held by one of our most prestige floral clients. Wendi had offered me a ride to the event, but when the time came to pick me up, Wendi was no where to be found. She claimed she had gone to Vail on a family emergency and left her phone behind in Tucson. And then, in an odd and unexplainable state of events, had to go pick up her phone, in Vail, the following day.

Either way, Wendi's no call, no show left me with no ride to the fundraiser, and so, I stayed home on a lonely Saturday night. It was upsetting that Wendi was so inconsiderate, and as I put away my pale, rose-colored Sean John shirt, I wished ill will towards my co worker.

My wish partially came true the following weekend, when Wendi went out to a local bar with Alice and a group of Alice's friends. Everyone liked Wendi, but there was something about her that made her...unique. Nobody, could pin-point what it was, until, Alice's brother-in-law, Jack, jokingly said that Wendi had moved from Ghettoville Hills and settled into a dingy neighborhood, right smack in the middle of White Trash Trailer Park. I'll admit the off-color comment was a little rude, but it did expalin Wendi's odd behavior.

It explained why she bought 99¢, discount bin, Calgon perfume. It explained why she saved the free makeup samples found in the inserts of beauty magazines. It explained why Wendi thought a pair of olive green denim jeans, purchased at a discount dollar store, was nothing short of a shopping miracle. And it explained why Wendi didnt show up to work last Tuesday. Apparently, a night of cheap beer and pot have a tendency to make one sleep until mid-afternoon.

Alice warned Wendi that if she ever missed work again, without calling in, she would presume it as a sign of voluntary termination, which wasnt at all surprising. But what was surprising was how after the incident happened, Alice gave in her two-cents to the whole White-Trash-Wendi "fun". As a boss, wasnt it Alice's job to maintain a professional manner about the whole ordeal? Wasnt it her job to define the line between personal and professional business?

As the week went by, Alice was quick to point out Wendi's quirky traits as nothing more than white-trash behavior, and like two bitchy school girls, gossiping behind the schoolyard slide, Alice and I made fun of Wendi behind her back. We chuckled at the numerous key chains and pins she hung from the inside of the roof of her car. We giggled at her hemp sandals and metallic blue, toenail polish. And we guffawed at the alarming resemblense she shared with the Bride in Tim Burton's The Corpse Bride. Wendi had unofficially become the laughing stock of our little shop of brutal horrors.

But then yesterday, all fun and games came to a complete halt. Wendi had once again failed to show up for work and failed to let anyone know her whereabouts. It was Boss Apprieciation Day, and because Alice was overwhelmed with the amount of orders, I filled in for Wendi, while Alice waited, by the phone, for Wendi's call. Wendi didnt call Alice until later that evening, after we had closed the shop and after she verbally abused her grandmother for letting her oversleep. Through big, ugly, bloody murder cries, Wendi tried to explaine that she had overslept due to a series of unfortunate partying and pleaded with Alice for her job back. But Alice stood firm with her decision, leaving Wendi to mourn alone in her room, and leaving me with the harsh realization that my wish had come true. Except, this was a wish, I wish I could take back.

Orignially, this post was going to be a post asking for suggestions on how one should deal when working with someone whose odd behavior made her a laughing stock. But now, after recent events, and a bizarre Texas Chainsaw Massacre-esque crying voice mail left by Wendi, I wonder if I should still maintain a polite and cordial relationship with Wendi? But then again, is it ever safe to maintain a relationship with someone after you discover that they had previously been diagnosed with a bi-polar disease that left them with major depression and suicidal thoughts and it was because of said relationship that kept them from going over the deep edge?

a tale of two birthdays

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. No, this wasnt a tale of two cities. This was actually a tale of my two-day weekend birthday.

It all started on the eve of my birthday. I was still undecided as to how I should and would celebrate my special day. Some believed a nice three course dinner at the Star Pass Marriot Resort was a nice idea. Some believed in the grand tradition of bar hopping around town. While others held a drunken strip club idea in the highest regards.

It wasnt until the day of my birthday that I had finally formulated a plan that would allow me to spend my special day with all my friends and family. Unfortunately, since I had taken so long, everyone assumed I just wasnt in the mood to celebrate. Some opted to babysit the children of old family friends. Some chose to go see their other friends perform in concerts. And some, like my good friend Maria, chose to go on a date with the new Colorado Rockies ball player.

His name was Rocky. They had seen each other around the U of A campus, but never really spoke to each other, until one fine day, when Rocky walked through the glass doors at Maria's job and asked her out. Of course, Maria would have to set the entire date up, since Rocky was staying at the Clarion Suite and had no car or the vaguest idea of what Tucson had to offer when it came to first dates. And so since I hadnt any real birthday plans of my own, Maria was much obliged to have a Friday dinner date for her own.

No plans, no friends, I knew my birthday would be just like any other day with no real signifcance and October 6 would soon fade away. That's when my friend Rose called. She was tired of waiting for an answer and planned an entire night of bar hopping with our friends. It was the nicest thing Rose had ever done for me...until she ruined the moment, when she asked to borrow my last twenty, promising to pay me back double later. But I didnt care because before I knew it, I was stumbling around drunk in the living room of our mutual friend Pamela, waiting for the rest of my birthday entourage to arrive.

And in a hotel room across town, Maria had arrived to begin her date with Rocky. Unfortunately, Rocky wasnt as ready as Maria, as she saw that he answered the door wearing only a pair of dirty denim jeans. Ironically enough, it was his roommate's birthday and Rocky felt bad for leaving his birthday friend all alone, and asked Maria if she minded just staying in for the night. It was enough to make Maria feel so bad and so guilty, she made an immeadiate mental note to triple my birthday gift and never cancel a date for a date ever again.

After everyone arrived, I left with Rose and her new boyfriend Jon, ready to paint the town red. Unfortunately, the only thing that was getting red was Rose's face when Jon complained to me that he hadnt been getting any. Sex, that is. No matter how hard he begged or promised, Rose just wasnt in the mood to have sex with Jon, which of course made her mad when he tried feeling her up in the car with me in the backseat. A heated argument ensued, forcing Rose to step out of the car, hoping Jon would put a pause to the unwanted sexual advances. Instead, he high tailed it out of there, leaving Rose in a dark neighborhood, and me with my slow-processing thoughts and a bottle of Chambord. I tried to convince Jon to go back and get my deserted friend, but that only angered him more, and I realized I was in the backseat of a car, being driven by a complete and total, unstable stranger. So, I asked to get out and with my bottle of Chambord by my side, I proceeded to find Rose, only to discover she left her phone in Jon's car.

The evening had turned into a royal mess. I was lost in a dark neighborhood on the corner of Broken Beer Bottle and Prostitute, with only a Visa and BlackBerry as my means for survival. Of course, in a neighborhood like this, a Visa and BlackBerry were also means for getting shot down and left to die behind the tall, yellow grass. My sexually harrassed friend was no where to be found and because I had just gotten my new phone, I didn't have the numbers to the rest of my entourage, and my parents would kill me if they knew where I was. There was just one person left to call.

Even though she was in the middle of dinner with another friend and the drummer and lead singer of a local rock band, Madelaine came to my rescue. When all seemed lost and I thought I would be an unfortunate story on the 10 o'clock news, Madelaine was there on the phone to guide me and lead me to a bus depot that would eventually take me into downtown, where Madelaine and her friend Bella would be waiting for me. I spent the rest of my night with Madelaine and Bella eating Taco Bell and learning how to ballroom dance before I eventually crashed out on Madelaine's bed and ended my birthday with a snore.

Meanwhile, in an empty hotel parking lot, across town, Maria was ending her date with Rocky. Though it wasnt like most "get-to-know-you" first dates, it was still fun. Rocky made Maria laugh and loved it when she confessed she barely knew anything at all about baseball. Minus the It was the perfect first date, that was forced to come to an end when Maria saw it was close to one. Her golden carriage was about to turn back into a pumpkin, when Robert asked Maria if she would dance with him. And right there, under the moonlight, in the deserted parking lot, they slow danced to bachata music, a popular Dominican Republic export, played from Rocky's cell phone.

A little while later, I awoke because I couldn't sleep and spent the rest of the night trying to recall the events of my birthday night wondering if Rose was alright, if I had actually just spent my night the way I did, and whether or not 2 tacos + 2 more late night mixed drinks would = an unpleasant sick brought up-4th from my stomach.

The next day after Madelaine took me home I decided to just stay in and sleep and wait another day to use my I.D. I had the entire house to myself since my dad decided to accompany my mother with her babysitting gig and my brothers were attending the 18th birthday party of a friend. But not for long. Feeling horribly horrible, Rose called the Friday entourage and after many apologies threw an outrageous party at my house.

The alcohol flowed freely and all were merry, and for a mere moment all was right within my kingdom. That is until early next morning, when I realized my family were expecting to come home to a sober and no alcohol zoning area. Never before in my life did I clean so fast or so hard and with Rose's help, windows were washed, carpets were cleaned, and my birthday weekend came to a smooth landing. Next year, I'm totally hiring a party planner.

the dearly un-departed

My high school photography teacher once said that pictures not only captured memories, but immortality. Youth and beauty would forever remain in the confinements of glossy squares, and the subject would continue to live on forever.

Of course, at the time, I took those words with the proverbial grain of salt, not fully understanding how powerful they were. And without giving it a second thought, I photographed an entire roll of film, using my high school crush, Bianca Moreno, as my subject.

After we graduated from high school, Bianca was diagnosed with a tumor in her leg, that transformed into cancer. She had been battling with the disease for the past three years, losing her hair, but not her spirit. It was strange seeing my friend with a colorful Pucci scarf over her head, where her long hair should have been, but what wasn't strange was how optimistic we all were about Bianca making it through. Sadly though, she didnt, and late, last Thursday night, Bianca passed away.

When Madelaine called me to tell me the bad news of our dear friend, I almost thought she was playing a really cruel joke. Bianca couldn't be dead. She just turned 21. She still had her whole life to live. No. She couldnt be gone. She just couldnt. But despite my denial, she was.

We released white balloons that Friday night at Tucson High School's homecoming football game, in Bianca's honor. And once I finally started to slowly accept the fact that maybe Bianca was truly gone, she paid me a visit. Well, sorta.

That night, I had three dreams. In the first dream, I was at our old high school, waiting in the deserted quad, for Bianca. But she never showed. In the second dream, I was at an open deserted mall, waiting to meet up with Bianca so we could continue our shopping excursion. She sent a text to my BlackBerry phone, saying she would only be a few more minutes, but in the end, she never showed. In the third and final dream, outside a small French cafe, I waited for Bianca. She made a phone call, promising to show, but before I could catch a glimpse of my dearly departed friend, I awoke.

I didnt know what to make of my strange dreams. Everyone around me was convinced the reason Bianca couldnt visit me, was because she was having too much fun in heaven and though that should've been reason enough for bygones to be bygones, it wasnt.

Even when I saw Bianca laying in her immaculate satin-lined coffin, I kept expecting her to jump up and apologize to her family, her friends, and our entire graduating class, for playing such a cruel joke. I couldnt fully grasp the concept that she was really gone. She looked exactly the same in the photographs I had taken, just a little paler, a little tired, and a little sad.

This wasnt supposed to happen. I wasnt supposed to see my old high school classmates for another eight more years, when it was our 10-year reunion. But one classmate I was happy to see was my old friend Kelly...or would've been, had I actually gotten the chance to talk to her, before she left. As the funeral began to slowly dwindle down, I left, leaving the photographs I took of Bianca with her mom, and just a little more acceptance and understanding that she was really gone.

That night, before I went to sleep, I started to talk to both God and Bianca. It was a confusing sorta talk, as I was already half-asleep, and half-drunk, but somehow I managed to have a full conversation. Which came to an abrupt end when I asked Bianca for a sign to let me know she was really ok. I, of course, changed my mind and ixnay-ed my strange request, because I rememebered I get spooked real easily by spooks, and ended the spiritual conversation with a snore.

The next morning, I got my sign. There it was, on my French Colony desk, a year-old post-it with Kelly's number, that I thought I had lost, long ago. I had cleaned out the contents of my entire desk a week ago, unearthing both a giant scatter of forgotten papers, and the very unlikely, but very possible, resting place of the post-it. The very fact that I discovered Kelly's number, only a few hours after I asked Bianca for a sign, unnerved me. Was it possible, my mortal friend had become immortal and visited me in the night? Or was my dream and post-it sign just a matter of odd coincidences?

They say that hearts and clocks slow down as they approach the speed of light, the point in which matter is converted into energy. Bianca's heart approached that speed last Thursday, converting her matter into energy. Into pure white light. Though Bianca was no longer with us, was it at all possible that she was still around us?

its not my party, can i cry if i want to?

Eleven years ago, a man saw a small, vague, formless object hiding in the desert bush, on the outskirts of his ranch in Three Points. The pale moonlight cast dark shadows, making it difficult to unmask the strange moving creature. It was too big to be an animal, yet too small to be a threat to his land. But like any frontier, wilderness man, the man had to protect his wife and children, and went out into the night to investigate. What he found, was a small 11-year old boy, sleeping in the cool desert sand with only a handful of clothes to keep him warm. The boy was an illegal immigrant from Mexico, who had been working on the next ranch over. The man could see that the boy was tired and hungry and out of the kindness of his heart, he took him into his home.

The man discovered that the boy left Mexico, after it became clear that his mother's new boyfriend wanted him dead, rather than to be a part of the family. Every night, the boyfriend beat the boy, demanding he go out and work, and every night, his mother stood there and watched, taking sides with the man she believed would give her a future. The boy ran away from home, in hopes of a better life, and a chance to stay alive. After ariving in Arizona and working for weeks underneath the unforgiving, hot desert sun, the boy soon found hope. That man, who found him sleeping in the desert was my Uncle Miguel. And, unofficially, the boy became my step-cousin Juan.

Though he wasnt a blood relative, Juan became part of the family and was included in every birthday, graduation and Christmas gathering. With the help of my uncle and my Aunt Tracy, he learned English, and went to school, graduating with honors in his class. He got a job with my grandfather and uncle's drywall company, bought a truck and was living the above-average version of the American dream. Unfortunately, Juan's dream turned into a nightmare.

Three years ago, Tracy found out her father had been having a highly intense affair with her aunt, and the people she once thought were her cousins, were actually her half-brothers and half-sisters. It was a devastating and crushing blow to Tracy, that caused a major rift in her family, and divided them. Refusing to take sides, Tracy and her family were cast as black sheeps and were sent to live in exile and oblivion. Petty rivalry soon turned into bloodthirsty revenge, when it was discovered that a few weeks ago, Tracy forgave her father for his adulturous past. Outraged, Tracy's mother used the one blackmail card she had on her daughter: Juan.

Tracy's mother knew Juan was living illegally in Arizona, under the loving and caring eye of her daughter's family, making her daughter and her son-in-law criminals, for harboring a fugitive. Several times the border patrol came, and each time, Tracy and her Miguel sent them away, claiming to not know the whereabouts of their "son" Juan, when in reality he was just a few miles away at a friends house, in hiding.

For the next couple of weeks, Miguel, Tracy and their family remained strong. That is, until yesterday, when my family had gone over to help them move into their new house and I asked Tracy where her family was. And it was right there, in her newly refurbished kitchen, that Tracy broke down and cried out every one of her fears. She wondered why her own side of the family had turned against her and wasnt there for support when she needed them the most. She wondered if God had truly forsaken her. But most of all, she wondered what Juan thought of her and her family, and wondered if he saw them as just another family he would eventually have to run away from again.

To reaffirm the faith, that her family would never stop loving Juan, Tracy wanted to do something special for Juan's 22nd birthday, which happenes to fall on October 7, the day after mine. And it was right there, in the newly refurbished dining room, that Tracy, my mother, and the rest of my aunts decided to throw Juan a surprise birthday. In front of me, they discussed possible menus. In front of them, I wondered to myself, if they had forgotten my birthday. In front of me, they talkled about themes and decorations. And in front of them, I wondered to myself, if I was being selfish for wanting a birthday celebration like Juan.

get outta myspace

If you live in Tucson, and are over the age of 20, there are only two suitable activities you can do on a Saturday night; go to a club or go to a house party. I chose the house party.

My friend Steven had just sold his seventh house in the past month, a real record at the real estate agency he worked for, and to celebrate, his wife Ashlee had thrown him a formal soiree, a real high-class affair with catered chicken and mixed drinks so elusive, they could only be found in the middle of a bartender’s bible.

Of course, being a tequilla-shootin', pretzel bowl-eatin', beer game-playin' kinda guy, I knew I couldn’t ignore such an experience, so I took full-advantage to the entrance of this frosty-glass world. It wasn’t half-bad. In fact, the more drinks I tried, the more I wondered if I myself would ever have a signature drink. In classic American culture, when everyone dressed in suits and fedoras, pearls and white gloves, signature drinks were just as much a part of the classic lifestyle. Cocktails were socially accepted and before the health officials stepped in, smoking was just plain sexy. Of course, before I could partake in such adult affairs, I would have to learn to hold my alcohol down.

As I sat on the floor, performing the classic head-over-the-toliet-bowl routine, my friend Maria was downstairs, performing the classic head-over-heels-in-love routine. His name was Michael, one of the real estate agency’s newest prospects, and one of Maria’s newest prospect for boyfriend material. Smooth, classic jazz played in the background…candle lights hid every facial blemish and flaw, showcasing only what was true and smooth…and the intoxicating aroma of Michael’s after shave blended with the smell of bourbon on his lips made Maria weak in the knees. It was the most perfect night of her life. Or at least it was, until the two lovebirds parted ways.

After they exchanged cell numbers, Michael left Maria with one last thought; "Look me up on Myspace." Those five dreaded words any respectable woman fears when dating the six-figure dollar man of her dreams.

After it’s humble beginnings in 2003, Myspace.com had been changing the world all over, connecting people with their pasts and their futures. But unless you live in a dorm or your record label demands it, do you really need a Myspace page? Does anyone really need to know that Nip/Tuck on FX is your favorite show of all time? Do they need to know your body type and sexual orientation? And do they really need to know you have over 7,432 friends? My guess is no, but as my good friend Madelaine pointed out, in an age where the old strive to be younger and the young strive to be older, does age even matter anymore?

Maybe not. And maybe, so. Either way, I feel that if you are over 26, have a respectable career, and do not live in government housing, here are a few tips to keeping a good Myspace.

1) Let your pictures do the talking. It's the first thing anyone will see, and as we all know, a picture is worth a thousand words. It's also the basis for a good first impression, which really is the only opinion that matters the most. All school photos should be omitted, along with any where you are, or appear to be, drunk, topless and/or in a cement holding cell in Mexico.

2) Wow 'em with something sensational in your headline. Since it's the second thing they'll see, next to your picture, your headline better be more than just, "Hello." Try something unique that relates to your latest interaction with the world. If you went downtown to the historic Fox theatre and caught a double feature of Breakfast at Tiffany's and Funny Face, you might want to include a memorable quote. Something along the lines of, "Thursday?! It can't be! It's too gruesome!" or, "When I'm done, you'll look like...what do you call beautiful? A tree. You'll look like a tree." That'll get their attention and will open the lines for further communication.

3) Make yourself look good, but not too good. If one of your friend's went to high school with Cameron Diaz and another friend is Diane von Furstenberg's godchild, dont try to make your own claim to fame. Chances are, you'll be outed and will have a whole list of embarassing comments that'll be too hard to run from. Plus, I hear once you delete yourself from Myspace it's hard to go back and not be discovered again.

4) Myspace is no time to bare your soul. It can be tempting to reveal something mysterious, deep, or unusal about your life to hook your audience in, but chances are it'll only come across as odd. Honesty and openness is one thing, but psychotic and confessional is another. For example, talking about the person you love, is ok. Describing in painstaking detail about how you love to be spanked with a horse crop, while your lover wears a leather mask, is not.

5) Keep it simple and short. Sure, novel-length blurbs about yourself do show that you have a talent for writing, and that you do indeed lead a full life, just brimming with endless stories, but it also shows that you have way too much time on your hands. It's like that old showbiz saying: "Always leave 'em wanting more."

Maria has a date with Michael this Thursday. As for their future? Well, we'll see.

nobody buys you flowers

In every low-paying, under-appreciated job, there are certain customers that one must deal with from time to time. There's the customer that smells like the stentch of death. The customer that likes to explain in great detail their life story, starting at birth. And last, but not least, there's the customer, so extremely perfect in everyway, that it takes your breath away and makes you say, "Damn."

Her name was Christina, and she had come into the flower shop to buy her mother a flower arrangement for her birthday. According to Christina, nobody ever gave flowers to anyone anymore, so why not be original and break tradition? It was the most thoughtful and sweetest gift idea I had ever heard of, that I knew I had to make one amazing floral arrangement. The only problem was, since it was Friday, our floral stock was way low and so was my creativity.

Nothing I put together worked. The flowers were too open, too short, too ugly, and really too bad, since I had hoped to impress Christina with my artistic abilities. But no matter how hard I tried or how many flower stems I cut, it was just not happening. Fortunately, for me, Christina was kind and patient. That's when she asked if she could step behind the counter and help. Working for a local catering company, Christina had managed to pick up a few tricks of the floral trade and put together a really stunning rose and lily arrangement. When it came time to pay, I couldnt full-heartedly charge Christina the full price, since she had put together everything and saved my ass. So I gave her a discount. A huge discount. And in return, Christina invited me to her mother's birthday.

It was the most thoughtful and sweetest thing anyone had ever said to me, that day. But it was also a little weird. So I decided to ask my friend Hadassah, a major party girl who worked across the lobby at Mike's Coffee Shop. When Hadassah wasn't at work, she could often be found sneaking into a club, flirting with older, drunken men, trying to score a cocktail or two.

ME: You know that girl, that just stopped by? The one with the ponytail?
HADASSAH: The one with the flowers? Yeah. What about her?
ME: Do you think she was cute?
HADASSAH: Yeah, I guess. Who is she?
ME: Well, she came in to buy flowers for her mom's birthday, but I couldnt put anything together at all.
HADASSAH: Is that why she was behind the counter?
ME: Yeah. So, she made her own arrangement for her mom and left and...well, she invited me to her mom's birthday dinner. Is that weird?
HADASSAH: Wait! You dont even know her and she invited you to her mom's birthday? Yeah, dude, that is kinda weird. I wouldnt go.

So I went. I knew, from personal experience, to always do the opposite of Hadassah's advice, since she herself was a backwards kinda girl.

An hour later, I was standing at the front door of Christina's mom's apartment, with Christina and the flowers on one side, and a shaky hand on the other. I didnt know what I was getting myself into, and sadly I couldnt find anyone to rescue me. But as it turns out, it wasnt I that needed the rescuing.

For someone who just crashed the party, Christina's mom and Christina's mom's boyfriend were oddly warm and welcoming. But it was Christina's own boyfriend, Gabe, who was even more odd. I, of course, use the term "boyfriend" loosely, as Gabe was clearly gay.Or was he? He wore a bright canary-yellow shirt that matched his flip-flops and glided across the carpeted floor in the tiny apartment with such grace, such poise, and such balance, that I almost thought he was dancing for us.

CHRISTINA: David, this is my boyfriend, Gabe.
ME: Hey.
GABE: I love your rosary! It's fabulous!
ME: Oh, thanks. I like...your...shirt?
GABE: Thanks! It's Paul Frank! And this, my sweet love, is for you!
CHRISTINA: A flower?
GABE: A red anthurium! Beauty for beauty!

One man's beauty, was another man's tasteless gift. Gabe's flower to Christina looked like a yellow penis sticking out of a crooked heart, but the very thought of recieiving a flower made Christina swoon and jump into his arms giving him a kiss that was usually only reserved for sailors on leave.

There we were, in Christina's mom's tiny apartment; me, Christina, her mom, the boyfriend, and the "boyfriend", all enjoying the cocktail and hors d'oeuvres part of the dinner, and ignoring the ginormous elephant in the room. The ginormous elephant being, of course, Gabe's sexuality. It got me thinking if Christina, or if the rest of Christina's family for that matter, knew her boyfriend was gay. Or was I just being a sexist? Was Christina so starved for romance she was willing to settle for a flamboyant boyfriend who gave her flowers? And though I only knew the girl for a total of only two hours, I wondered if it was my place to meddle with someone who had obviously settled for a guy who buys her flowers?

sex, lies, and no videotape

It all started late Thursday afternoon. I was online in the computer lab at school, chatting with my good friend Madame D, when my not-so-hot friend Corrie walked in. A whole summer and a day had gone by, since I last saw my journalism crush, and my, how she had grown. Or at least the amount of tissue in her bra did. As we caught up, I realized I still had some feelings for the girl, but at the same time, despised her. Her little laugh? Sweet, yet annoying. Her outfit? Hot, yet slutty. Even the way she curled my hair around her finger was pure ecstasy, but at the same time it made me mad that she ruined my perfectly messy, coiffed, second-day dirty hair. Still, there was something enticing about Corrie that made me accept her invitation to dinner, later that day.

An hour later, I was at Gentle Ben's, introducing myself to all of Corrie's friends. I realized that this wasnt an impromptu dinner date, as Corrie had suggested, but was actually the result of a month long friendly get-together. I was a last resort date. And though I should've been upset by Corrie's manipulative actions, I wasnt. Normally, I hate going out to dinners where I dont know anybody, but this time, I was actually having fun. Until the waiter came and took our drink orders.

CORRIE: I'll have a Tucson Blonde.
WAITER: And you?
ME: I'll have...I guess water.
CORRIE: Oh, that's right, David. I forgot. You're only 20. You cant drink, because you're still too young!

What a bitch. Humiliating me in front of all her friends, I couldnt understand why Corrie was being so vindictive and spiteful. Had my life been a gangster movie, this is the part where I would have stood up and pumped a full round of lead into her body with my machine gun. Instead, I just pumped myself into Corrie, as we later had sex in her car.

During the course of dinner, Corrie's friends felt bad that I couldnt legally drink along with the rest of them, and so they offered to sneak me their shots and mixed drinks which I happily obliged to. Too drunk to drive, I sat in the passenger seat of Corrie's car, waiting for my buzz to go down. One thing led to another, and before I knew it, Corrie had straddled her legs around me, running her fingers through my hair. All thoughts of Corrie destroying my perfectly messy, coiffed, second-day dirty hair flew out the window...as did my right foot, when I cracked the windshield of her AMC Pacer.

Mortified about my after-dinner aperitif, I decided to talk to my friend Maria, who had a lot of experience in embarrassing hook-ups. She explained that since I, the hook-ey, didnt see Corrie, the hook-er, daily it wouldnt affect our relationship, which had undoubtedly crossed the friend/enemy barrier so far, Webster himself couldnt come up with a word. The only problem was, whether I wanted it or not, the infamous Corrie character would continue to play a role in my life. And hopefully it would only be until I finished paying off her cracked windshield. There went my upcoming birthday money. Depressed at the very thought of losing money, Maria changed the subject and moved on to my upcoming birthday nupitals.

MARIA: What about a little birthday dinner? Like that Poca Cosa place you're always talking about. Something nice.
ME: I dont know. Maybe.
MARIA: Yeah, come on! We'll invite Madelaine and Alice and her husband and all your friends. Just give me their numbers and I’ll put the dinner together. All you have to do is show up!
ME: Well, that might be ok.
MARIA: Should I invite Skye and Isabel?

No sooner had the names come out of my friend's mouth, that I knew I was going to be sick. Isabel was my mortal enemy and Skye was her evil gay sidekick/henchman. Isabel and I used to work at Forever 21 during our senior year but after this huge debacle at the senior prom, Isabel simply told our manager, that I was the ringleader of a recent shoplifting fiasco that had gone down at our store. Of course, it wasnt true, but Isabel lied so well, that I was fired and she was promoted to head window designer, which led to the great divide of 2004, causing many friendships at our school to cease and dismiss. Ever since, I've hated Isabel, but have recently just gotten over the whole thing, after I learned that karma paid her a visit and stayed with her for a whole year.

ME: Are you trying to make my brithday not fun?
MARIA: Well, technically we are all friends now, right?
ME: I dont know. I havent spoken to Skye or to Isabel in forever. Do you think I should invite them?

Maria thought I should, but I wasnt as sure. The truth of the matter was, even though I had no strong feelings towards Isabel or Skye, I wasnt really in the mood to have them help me celebrate my 21st birthday. So I decided to ask my friend Sean for his advice. Sean was currently living in San Francisco with his new bride and had some surprising news for me. Originally, I had decided to go away for my birthday and fly away to somewhere exotic. Like New York. But considering the fact that all my college friends were in debts way over their head, a fly was not feasible. And though I was totally fine with just an intimate dinner, Sean sensed a disappointment in my voice and promised a trip to New York after February.

ME: Why February?
SEAN: Oh, didnt I tell you? I'm gonna be in a soda commercial.
ME: Shut, up. For reals?
SEAN: Yeah, for reals. They called me up, asked me to film a few scenes, and I did.
ME: No, way, you're lying.

As it turns out, Sean wasnt lying. In the commercial, Sean plays an office nerd, which was a far stretch for someone who up until last year discovered the benefits of eye contacts and hair product. He gets a surprise from a certain soda brand, that comes flying in and disrupts the files he's looking at. And though, Sean only made five hundred off the commercial, the company promised him anywhere between 30-50K after it aired during the Super Bowl. Which means, a trip to New York was plausible, but is it still considered a birthday gift even though it's four months late? Should I accept Sean's gracious gift? Should I invite Isabel and Skye to my dinner party? Or should I just forget about everything and do my own birthday my own way?

apathy doesnt live here anymore

Gifted with my new pshycic ability powers, I had to find out more about my odd déjà vu experiences. So I went with my good friend Maria to see our mutual, hollistic healer friend, Rainbow. According to Rainbow, it's been reported that recreational drugs increase the chances of déjà vu. Duh. But what's also been reported is that pharmacological drugs also have the same effect. In fact, it seemed that there was a greater effect if antihistamines were taken. And considering the fact that I had taken a combination of Benadryl, Dimetapp and some herbal allergy medication earlier last week to battle my uncontrollable sneezing fits, I couldn’t rule out the possibility. But what I could rule out was I had a liar for a friend.

RAINBOW: So...somebody’s birthday coming up...
ME: Yeah, but not for like another month.
RAINBOW: Oh. No. I was talking about Maria’s birthday. It’s this Sunday, right?
MARIA: Yeah...
ME: No it's not.
MARIA: Yeah. It is.
ME: Really? Why did I think you’re birthday was in the spring?
MARIA: Uh...I don’t know.

As it turns out, Maria had been lying about her birthday all these years. She was not born in March as she had once suggested, but rather, was born in the fall. A year older and still, none the wiser, Maria didn’t recognize her birthday as a day of celebration, but rather as a day of re-evaluation of how her life was turning out so far. According to Maria, she was no closer to achieving her life goals than when she first thought about them. The social life she once had, was slowly disappearing due to the demanding work that was required of a pre-med student. But the worst part of it all, was that on her special day, Maria didnt have a special someone to wish her a happy birthday.

And while Maria was wishing for a special someone, her ex-special someone wasnt doing any better. It happened last Tuesday, after school, in the computer lab. Topher and Maria were just walking in, as Ray was just walking out. He was disheveled, a total mess with baggage under his eyes and absolutely no color coordination in his wardrobe. For a few slow-mo seconds, Maria almost felt sorry for her refugee-looking ex. But when she remembered that he had broken up with her, she felt thankful that she had worn a low-cut top, because on the off chance you should run into the person who broke your heart, you never want to be caught looking tow-up.

Still, there was something about seeing Ray in his natural school habitat that sparked old feelings in Maria. In fact, seeing Ray had ignited something in Maria so fierce, she had actually considered talking to him just so she could have someone to be with on her birthday.

It was really sad. But Maria’s birthday of re-evaluation got me thinking about my own upcoming birthday re-evaluation. It was like that time Ms. Tyler had made me consider my contribution to the world. And considering that this is my 100th post, it seemed only fitting. So I gave it some thought. Maybe I wouldnt do anything for my 21st birthday. Maybe I would just lay low. But did I really want to lay low, or was this just a bad after effect of feeling low?

Five minutes later, I saw that the day’s mail had brought me the newest issue of GQ. Reading articles of what the new 21st century man should strive to be, I came across an article entitled, "50 Things a Man Does Not Have to Do Before He Dies". I realized I had already done ten of them, which meant I still had a lot more rules to break and a lot more living to do. And if I had a lot more living to do, I couldn’t just sit around like Maria, thinking about what I hadn’t yet accomplished.

Still, if Maria was gonna be sad and cynical on her birthday, I figured my gift for her would have to help her see life the way I saw it. They say that you should live life to the fullest and so to help my friend start living life instead of loathing it, I came up with the ideal gift that would help her out.

• Kermit the Frog’s book, Before You Leap: A Frog's Eye View of Life's Greatest Lessons to remind Maria she still has a lot of life to see.


• The new Beyonce CD, B'Day, to remind Maria to live life with a smile in her step and a song in her heart.


• A chocolate scented candle, to remind Maria that sometimes, all you need is a good scent to help you remember the good ol’ days.


• A gift card for Applebee’s, to remind Maria that no matter how many new things you experience, you cant beat the simple pleasures in life, like boneless buffalo wings.


• And a vibrating cucumber, because really, what’s a good gift without a little sexual humor?

my déjà vu, my déjà vu

We have all some experience of a feeling, that comes over us occasionally, of what we are saying and doing having been said and done before, in a remote time - of our having been surrounded, dim ages ago, by the same faces, objects, and circumstances - of our knowing perfectly what will be said next, as if we suddenly remember it. Charles Dickens wrote that, a very long time ago, in his classic book David Copperfield, a young man living in classic Victorian England. But this was Tucson, circa now, and the same truths held then for the French phrase, déjà vu, were still as strong as ever. Maybe even stronger.

It all started on Tuesday, while I was at work. A customer had just left Mike's Coffee Shop and crossed the lobby of the Frontier building to the flower shop, where she commented on the lovely aroma the flowers gave. Immeadiately, something in my mind clicked and for the next three minutes I was living a very weird, very real, déjà vu moment, it could only be described as déjà vécu. Everything that was said and done, I had seen and heard previously from somewhere else, not so very long ago. As if my history were repeating itself. And like any good déjà vu, I immeadiately shared it with all around me, but didnt give it a second thought.

The next day, my sense of déjà vu was even stronger, when I saw my old friend, Chloe. We ran into each other on the corner of Stone and Pennington, while I was heading off to school, and she was heading off to work. As we laughed, and caught up for the next few minutes, I realized I had had a similar conversation with Chloe, and was struck with another déjà vu moment.

ME: Déjà vu...
CHLOE: Well, call me, ok?
ME: I will.
CHLOE: Here, let me give you my number.
ME: Oh, I already have it. Three-oh-eight...something, right?
CHLOE: How did you know?
ME: I think you already gave it to me.
CHLOE: David, that's my new number. I just got it last week.

I couldnt believe it. Was Chloe serious? Or was she playing some sort of cruel joke on me? How in the world would I know the first three digits of her new number. Unless it was magic. But then again, magic isnt really real...right? At least that's what I used to think. At one time or another we all believe in the possibility of magic. That somewhere out there it exists, waiting to be discovered by us and to be used whenever we need help. But I wasnt in need of help...was I?

The only thing I could possibly think of that I needed help in, was my psychology test. Being a talented procrastinator, I had managed to put off three weeks of studying up until the day, or rather, hours of my first test. But trying to memorize psychology terms and the history of the practice was as useless as trying to finish an episode of Laguna Beach: Season Three, without wanting to strangle half the cast. And so it was with a furiously heavy heart that I entered the testing lab to take my psychology test. But I would surive. I was young and us young people have a way of rolling with the punches.

But surviving my dreaded test, I needed not. As I sat in the flourescent-lit room feeling all low, I realized I had seen this plastic, paper-protected test once before, in the same testing room, not so very long ago. And I had seen this multiple choice answer sheet once before too. Only, when I saw it, it was already filled out with a big purple A on top. It was a déjà vu so extreme, I knew I couldnt ignore my nagging gut feeling no more. I quickly penciled in the empty circles with my number two and finished the test within a mere seven minutes. It was a personal test taking record and I knew it could go two ways: I could turn it in and fail miserably, forcing me to grovel at my teacher's feet for a second test re-do, or I could turn it in and question this whole déjà vu thing later.

Five minutes later, after my test was graded, I got my answer...it was a big purple A. This wasn't a coincidence. This was just plain weird. And I wonder...how long does déjà vu last and how does it all work?