I Take Sip of my Coffee First
Regular readers (ha-ha) of my blog will probably notice the feminist bent in much of my writing. I am a feminist. Nobody's ever asked me why, but I suppose someday someone might. And to me, this is the most interesting thing about having a well-thought out, analytical approach to certain issues. I'd venture to say most men in this country don't consider themselves feminists, and I'd even hazard a guess that most women wouldn't either. I clearly have a minority opinion. But this is not "why is your favorite color blue?" or "why do you feel that the Beatles were better than the Rolling Stones?" I know I'm right, even though logic dictates that I may not be. I know God does not exist. I know it. I'm in the minority. Does that make my opinion wrong? Of course not, although it might be wrong just the same. To me, the question of "why are you a feminist?" becomes moot. The only response is "why aren't you?"
I would like to write about two women who rock so hard, they'd make Pete Townsend go deaf and start downloading child pornography.
Last month I had to go to a Christmas party for work. It was a matinee of the Radio City Music Christmas Craptacular and then dinner at the Palm on 2nd Avenue. I don't like Christmas and I don't like my coworkers, so I naturally complained about having to go for about 5 months beforehand. The day before the Christmas party, I got a call from my mom - she had fallen and broke her foot. She had been released from the hospital but needed someone to take her to the specialist the next day. I had to call the main office and tell them there had been a family emergency and I couldn't come to the Christmas party. I left work right away to see if my mom was ok - she isn't young anymore, and she lives alone (not counting the cats, but they cause more trouble than they prevent).
Her foot was fine. She made the whole thing up so that I wouldn't have to go to the Christmas party. She figured if I really believed her lies, it would be much easier for me to lie to my boss. She lied, and made me lie. And she thought it was funny. It was one of the best things ever.
Leti is my cousin by marriage. Born in Cuba, she is a delightful soupçon of coolness, talent and batshit insanity. She sang at our wedding, and she even had a one-woman show at Delta 88's in the city, which we took Osvaldo to and he kept staring fearfully at a grown man wearing an Elmo backpack and a glittery jumpsuit. Rather than give you a handful of half-stories, I'll give you one good one.
We were all at a crowded party at Pablo's house and we were stuck in the basement with about 25 Puerto Ricans, all singing and dancing to the loud salsa music, playing each other's butts as percussion instruments. My solution to this was to take three plastic beer cups, fill two with vodka and one with tequila, and merengue back to my seat to try and dull my senses a bit. Apparently, Leti did the same thing.
Pablo had this big parrot in the back of the basement and every couple of minutes he would emit a Jersey-shaking SQWAAAAWWK! It faded into the background, eventually, until sitting next to me, Leti opened her mouth and belted out an identical sqwawk (singer's lungs). The other parrot seemed shocked into silence. I lost half my drink down my shirt. Eventually the other parrot resumed, and Leti battled it squawk for squawk.
There used to be a popular television show in Japan called The Screamer. A short little man in a three piece suit and snazzy bowtie would walk around Tokyo to a background of upbeat xylophone music - streets, subway platforms, even beaches - and when he passed someone talking on a cellphone, chatting with friends, lighting a cigarette, or pretty much doing anything, he would quickly turn towards them and scream as loud as he could right in their faces, and then continue walking. You would wear out the rewind on your remote watching and rewatching the facial expressions and body language of people who had fallen victim to ... The Screamer!
After a certain point, and a great deal more drinking, Leti parked herself at the bottom of the stairs and squawked extremely loudly in people's faces once they descended the stairs. I laughed and I laughed and at some point, my bladder let go and I peed in my pants. The funny thing is, I think I would have peed in my pants even if I were sober.