Why would I buy a book about RickyMartin?
It was something about Jack, I
recall—he used to do this weird stuff. I can still remember the letters from
Westinghouse and the funny little corporate trademark they had. And whatever
happened to Westinghouse? Where’d they go off to?
Well, things are appearing and
disappearing in a strange way, lately. Starting with Sonia—sorry, she’s not a
thing, I know that. But there she was, big as life on my morning walk, looking
at me as if she’d seen a ghost.
Maybe she had….
So we agreed that we had to talk.
That we did yesterday, after I had been
rescued from Rock River (Río Piedras) by an angel (Ángel) who took me home. In his BMW.
No, not for what the iguanas do so
well. This is a respectable household, sex toys on the carpet notwithstanding….
And he didn’t rescue me from the river,
although in a sense he did. It was pretty much a river—just flowing
down, not sideways. It was a water zero (aguacero).
Now where was I?
Oh—Sonia, whom I met with Nicky,
yesterday. And the curious news that Whitney Houston is dead. Wow, I said—that
terrible voice has been stilled! News to me!
“Whitney Houston is dead,” I remarked
to Sonia.
“Yeah, two months ago….”
Oh.
Well, no stranger than learning from
Cousin Ruthie from Minnesota but in Chicago (and at the Drake Hotel, no less!)
that Romney had won the Puerto Rico primary. We don’t actually vote for
president, but we do go to the convention. Well, why not? It’s a party—in
several senses of the word—and we do parties well down here.
OK, I was struggling to hold up my end
of the conversation with Cousin Ruthie, but I was able to keep up by mentioning
that Rick Santorum was, apparently, a family man, a Christian, a believer in
tradi….
“A lizard!” said Ruthie.
Oh. They hadn’t mentioned—or
boomed—that.
Or maybe they had.
OK—so Whitney Houston has gone the way
of Westinghouse, apparently—or maybe they’re both still going strong. I don’t
know.
I do know that I started out
talking about Ricky Martin….
And that there’s a book entitled I (yo) in Spanish and the same book entitled Me (me) in English. Written in English—I did check this—by a Puerto
Rican (Martin, or Martín) living in Gringolandia to be read by me, a gringo living in Puerto Rico.
Oh yes, and I had bought the book
because I really thought that I should get going. Stir about. Get moving on
this failure project, because really, it seems the right thing to do.
Jack would do it.
So Jack wrote to Westinghouse—shouldn’t
I write to Ricky? But what would I say?
That’s why I bought the book.
Gotta find out something about the
man….
Well, I learned that at
Wal-Mart—direct marketing.
And it started out well enough, for
Ricky, it seems, is completely in tune with and connected to his fans through…
Twitter.
WHAT!
No.
I mean, NO!
I am not gonna join Twitter and tweet
to Ricky. And hope that he tweets, or twitters, back. It’s gonna be a letter.
But what to say?
Well, here goes….
Dear Ricky,
First an apology. For years, you were the butt of a joke between
Raf and me at 12:01 AM on the first day of the January.
We’d gulp the twelve grapes, down the champagne, and then say,
soulfully…
“and may this be the year that Ricky
finally meets the girl of his dreams!”
That was snide.
I’m sorry.
We do it all at our own rate.
And curiously, our lives seem to be running parallel, but on
different tracks.
And in opposite directions.
I’m a classical musician, you’re a pop star.
You’re famous, I’m not.
You’ve written a book about me (yo) and I’ve written a
blook—apparently—about my mother.
You’re interested in giving better lives to
third-world kids.
I’m interested in giving better deaths to
ancients (ancianos).
So that’s why I wrote the blook, and that’s
why I need your help.
Your voice is louder than mine….or at least
carries farther.
We have, Ricky, you and I (not me) only one year—actually now
nine months—to get the word out.
You can cheat the nursing home.
You can slip away from the party, go home, and die in your own
bed—all quite legally, morally and comfortably (more or less).
Ricky—read my blook, as I have not read yours.
Who knows anything about me?
Sincerely,
Marc Newhouse
Jack woulda done it better….
