Kick Off Your Sunday Shoes

I would like to think of myself as a fairly evolved person. At the ripe old age of 37, I am who I am. My years of self-discovery and soul-searching have made me into this individual blogging before you: it could be worse. Yet, no matter how old I get there is one thing that remains constant: I love the ‘80’s. So jump into your DeLorean, strap on your Reeboks, tease your hair, pop in a cassette, and join me on this flashback journey.

In 1986, I was a freshman in high school: a total dork. And not JUST a dork; a chunky, bucktoothed, fashionably challenged one. Am I painting a vivid picture? I just want to convey that I was not the cool, popular kid in school: that was my older brother Ron who cast quite a large shadow at ole Saugus High. Ron is thankfully five years older than me, so I didn’t have to endure our being in high school at the same time. What a relief! He was and still is charming, engaging, intelligent, funny, well spoke, and an ectomorph. (See previous entry.) And in high school, he was cute, lean, trendy, and fashionable: the girls loved him. He was well liked by students and faculty alike: Everyone knew Ron. Try following that legacy. No pressure right? My point is high school was by no means my “glory days.” Not by any stretch of the imagination. I would never want to relive those years of my life. However, the world was a much different place at that time.

Life truly was simpler back then. I know it sounds cliché, but it’s true. Most people did not have cell phones: they were huge, heavy, and clunky. Can you imagine carrying a giant battery pack in a shoulder bag everywhere you went? Computers were just starting to become affordable home electronics. CD’s were a brand new fad. DVDs…what’s a DVD? And a Walkman was the hot “must have” item: a cassette Walkman. War was more of a concept than a reality. Sitcoms ruled television. In film, John Hughes spoke for our angst ridden teenage souls. We walked like an Egyptian, danced with ourselves, and partied like it was 1999. 1999?? The mere idea of 1999 seemed a million years away. We had no idea then that the Aqua Net we used on our teased-to-oblivion hair would contribute to global warming. Or that the regular leaded gas we pumped into our first ‘hand me down’ cars was hurting the ozone. Yes, we were a little in the dark on some things, but in a way, it made life less stressful. All we had to worry about was pegging our pants, finishing term papers, and “Just Say(ing) No.” Ahh, the good old days.

I am definitely a product of my generation. Can you tell? I did use hairspray and mousse. Of course back then I had the hair to put it in. I couldn’t peg my pants because my legs were too fat. But, I did say “No” to drugs. I can honestly admit that I have never tried any sort of drug. No lie. Did I have the opportunity? Of course I did. It just never appealed to me. Maybe it was because I was afraid of becoming addicted. Remember that after school special with Helen Hunt, “Angel Dusted?” There is this one pivotal scene where she tries angel dust (PCP), falls out of a two-story window at her school, picks herself up completely unharmed, and runs around screaming like a lunatic. Who the hell wants that? Perhaps it was because I was afraid of my parents’ wrath if they found out. Or it could have been that I was simply scared of being the one in a gazillion people who dies just from trying a drug. Whatever the reason, the thought never attracted me.

Term papers: do students even do these anymore? For those of you not aware of these torturous tasks, consider yourself lucky. I can imagine today, what with computer programs to format and the web to surf for research, a term paper would be a breeze. Not so in the ‘80’s. First, we actually had to go into a library building and look up things in books, magazines, encyclopedias, etc. We couldn’t just “Google” search a topic and have a thousand choices at our immediate disposal. A card catalogue and the Dewey Decimal System were our search engines. I once had to do a term paper based almost solely on magazine articles. Can you imagine? It was truly agonizing. Once we had researched, taken notes, and written our rough drafts by hand, it was time to type them. We typed these term papers on typewriters and if you were lucky, an electric one. Does anyone still use typewriters? There was much more legwork involved. We had to measure our paper with a ruler and mark the spots where to stop typing so we could add footnotes. Footnotes: a specific hell all to themselves. And if you messed up a page, you had to re-type the entire page, you couldn’t just delete, cut, and paste. No, no my friend. Typing a term paper was an ‘80’s’ teen equivalent to Chinese water torture. It took all night. If you were lucky, one of your parents would tag team the typewriter with you so you could sleep for a few hours. My mom did her generous share of helping type mine and my three brothers term papers through our high school years. Regardless of this excruciating task, once it was completed you had a real sense of accomplishment. It taught my generation patience, persistence, and perseverance towards a goal: something that seems to be lacking in our youth today.

Patience seems to have left the building in the 21^st Century. Although our advances in technology are brilliant, it’s left in its wake a generation of Veruca Salts: “I want it NOW!” The pulse of the world is literally at our fingertips. We can find almost anything in 2.5 seconds: directions, phone numbers, music, information, etc. Growing up with the web, wireless everything, cell phones; the list is endless, the upcoming generations don’t have to wait for anything. I think this is going to be a downfall in our society. I’m not saying my generation was perfect, but it seemed more grounded in a true reality instead of a virtual one. Not being able to have everything at the push of a button or the click of a mouse made us have to go out and discover things: explore the world hands on. Ferris Bueller did it and so did we.

Recently, I re-watched the 80’s classic “Footloose.” It was genius. Kenny Loggins’ soundtrack, the young and cute Kevin Bacon, the awful yet wonderful 80’s fashions: pure cinematic magic. But it was the theme of the movie that struck a chord with me. Here is this conservative, close-minded town that is so stuck in its own stagnant microcosm, it has forgotten what it means to find the joy in life’s simple pleasures: in the case of this film, dancing. It seemed very poetic for today’s society. Even though our technological advances have given us many liberties, they have also encapsulated us into our own pods of existence. Instead of writing people letters, we send emails. We don’t always call our friends, we text them. We no longer talk with our voices, we instant message. Technology is enabling us to abandon the need for human contact. Can we resuscitate this trend? I think so. As a society, we need to learn from our past and re-embrace the forgotten simple things in life that make it all worthwhile: it is time to dance again.

Divas and Other Demons

I’m not sure what it is about Los Angeles that causes this phenomenon. Perhaps it is the almost constant sunshine. Or maybe it is the ever-present entertainment industry. Even still, it could be something as simple as its world famous traffic. Whatever the reason, L.A. seems to breed “diva-tude.”

Being a native to Los Angeles, I have witnessed this anomaly numerous times and in various places. Those men and women affected by “diva-tude” are self –centered, selfish, and self-absorbed. Dealing with divas has been an unfortunate reality for most of my adult life. No matter what job I have had, “diva-tude” was a constant. I worked at Starbucks for nine years and caffeine jonesing divas were a daily component of my job. Along with steaming milk, pulling shots, and making drinks, I had the pleasure of waiting on the public. And I survived…barely. People are an interesting breed to say the least. When it comes to something as simple as a coffee beverage, an error can send the kindest individual into a child-like hissy fit. Demands of certain milk temperatures, syrup amounts, and espresso strength, would often send me into thoughts of hermitage. At times, I wanted to scream, “it’s just freakin’ coffee people!” But my better judgment prevailed more often then not. Luckily, I worked with a group of awesome and talented individuals. Together, with our senses of humor as armor, we battled the oppressive coffee prima donnas.

My best friend Curtis taught me many tricks of the trade during our stint together at “the Bucks.” He was like our customer service oracle. Here are a couple of helpful hints from Curtis C: 1) if you forget or don’t know someone’s name, address them with a big smile and a “honey,” “Ms. Thang,” “my dear,” anything that is a term of endearment. This will just make them feel good, feel remembered, and keep them calm. 2) Kill them with kindness. It SO works. I mean how can someone be jerky if you are super sweet? Only the biggest a-holes can reject a soothing voice and a welcoming smile. 3) If you’ve tried everything in your arsenal of kindness but they continue serving up “diva-tude,” then give it right back to them ten-fold. Luckily I didn’t have to resort to giving “diva-tude” too often. I was still a novice on the subject, but Curtis was a “diva-tude” specialist and part-time diva himself. He would only take so much from the masses we encountered daily and if someone pushed too far, it was war. Suffice it to say, Curtis always won and the shattered individuals limped away with broken heels and deflated egos. It almost made me feel sorry for them.

I took those principles I learned from Curtis during my coffee slinging days to the studios where I currently work. . As I have mentioned in a previous entry, I work in the entertainment field. This profession, in particular, seems to generate “diva-tude” at an alarming rate. Just when you think you know someone, it strikes. Maybe it’s a certain outfit they’re wearing, or a hairstyle they don’t like, or a line of dialogue that sets it off. No matter the cause, when this “diva-tude” manifests, it is anything but pretty. Recently, I encountered a diva episode and it boggled my mind. “Diva-tude” makes people look stupid: plain and simple. This attack was vicious, nasty, and unnecessary. At that moment, this beautiful individual who has always been liked, transformed into a heinous, disagreeable, banshee. Thankfully, it was a brief episode that quickly passed. Although most exhibit these classic symptoms, there is another type of diva that flies under the radar. Screaming and confronting isn’t their style, they just simply ignore you. This type has an odd sense of entitlement. Your existence in their world is unimportant to them: basically you are invisible. So no matter how much kindness or smiles you give them, it’s a lost cause. Simply, they have no time for you. They have deleted you from their memory bank. In some ways they are the worst offenders because they don’t react at all: be wary of the quiet ones.

To me, “diva-tude” is a blaring sign of someone’s insecurity. Being vicious, vindictive, and venomous is unwarranted. No one deserves that kind of treatment. Somehow, somewhere, in some way, these unfortunate souls have forgotten the classic and relevant philosophy of the Golden Rule: do unto others. Perhaps they should revisit this simple idea? It’s just a thought. Until then, remember, it’s never you it’s always them: Diva happens.

Have You Heard the One About the Endomorph?

Body types: we see them everywhere we go. We notice the skinny girl at the mall, the buff dude at the gym, and the fat guy at Starbucks. It’s just part of life. But, have you ever stopped to think about yourself?

We are all our own worst critic: well I know I am of myself. I have never looked the way I want to look. I may have been happy once or twice about my appearance, but for the most part, I’m never satisfied. I am always comparing myself, wanting to look like “HIM.” You know, the proverbial Adonis-like “HIM” with bulging biceps, a strong powerful chest, and the abs of Michelangelo’s “David?” It could be because I am gay that I yearn for that god-like, envious physique. Or maybe it’s because I grew up “the fat kid.” OR maybe it’s just because I am shallow. Who knows? I DO know that I am “lucky” enough to have the worse body type ever: the Endomorph.

Yes friends, tis true. I admit it now: I am Jeff and I am an Endomorph. There really should be a 12-step program for us. For those of you not familiar with the three main body types, here is a brief summary. Some doctor guy somewhere came up with explaining and naming the three main, distinct body types: ectomorph, mesomorph, endomorph. The ectomorph is the ‘skinny bitch’ of the three types. This is the person who is slim, lanky, lean, and never gains a pound: we hate them. My older and younger brothers are this type. Try growing up with someone who could eat ANYTHING, never exercise, and NEVER gain a friggin’ pound. Therapy anyone? These are the lean guys who complain, “I just can’t gain muscle! I am too skinny.” Too skinny? Are you freaking kidding me??? Is there such a thing in this day and age? I beg to differ. I digress…

The next body type in our cavalcade is the mesomorph: the grand poobah of the types. This is the one EVERYONE wants to be: the popular kid in school, the king of the jungle, the boss, the “HIM.” This is the guy who has a small waist, a big broad chest, and can add lean muscle mass in his sleep. He is the one people call “ripped,” “jacked,” “stacked,” “yoked”….you get the idea. We REALLY hate this guy…and I would give ANYTHING to BE this dude. Lucky bastards! If you are blessed with this body type I envy you more than any lottery winner: you have hit the jackpot of a lifetime. These guys can gain and lose weight easily and rapidly. Oh, and they can obtain a six-pack in the blink of an eye. Have I told you how much I hate these guys? Yes I am jealous, who wouldn’t be?

Lastly, is the bottom of the barrel of body types and the one I am oh so fortunate to be a member of: the endomorph. These are my people. We tend to carry our weight in our lower abdomen, butt, thighs, hips, and usually have a spare tire or love handles. We can gain weight just by thinking of food, and have high fat storage systems: if that isn’t an advantage I don’t know what is. We are the fat kids, the “chunky monkeys,” the butt of many jokes. Losing weight for us is a constant battle. The idea of having a six-pack is as foreign as the idea of walking to China, barefoot, in full armor, with a unicorn on our backs: pretty unattainable. I have read it’s not COMPLETELY impossible, but either is reversing the greenhouse effect. As an endomorph I have worked really hard to change certain things about my physique, but my problem areas always remain the same: just above my waist to the top of my knees. Yup, I exhibit classic endomorph symptoms. OK, I admit I tend to be hypersensitive and borderline obsessed about all things body related. Can you blame me? I live in L.A., the most body conscious place in the universe. I work in television, DAYTIME television to be exact, an industry where body image is constantly discussed, ridiculed, and gossiped about. AND I am a gay, single, thirty something man. It’s a triple threat: an across the board compulsion. I can’t deny it. I TRY to focus on other things, but this topic always seems to rear its ugly head.

So what does one do? Well you could start a blog to purge all of your feelings into cyberspace. You could run six miles a day first thing in the morning before work, for me that would be 4:30am, on an empty stomach. You could count every calorie, eat chicken breasts and veggies for every meal and obsessively think about what you are putting into your mouth at all times. OR, you could just make peace with it, eat whatever you want, and become a big ole’ lard ass. I would LIKE to think I am balancing all three of these, but it can get overwhelming. For the record, I try to eat 5 small meals a day, train with a trainer 2 times a week, and do an hour of cardio 2-3 times a week. I also try to watch what I eat, but on the weekends sometimes there is nothing like a burrito or a couple of chocolate chip cookies. Do the other body types think this way? Are they, in some ways envious of me? I guess I will never know, BUT that’s just me. Oh, have I mentioned I’m also a Gemini?

Another blog entry for another time……