Death of a Puppet

We won’t know if it’s a game changer until, well, we see the game change. But it’s looking very much like one.

Readers of this blog in the continental US will know that there is—sorry, that’s was—a character on local TV called La Comay. And La Comay—who in real life was a guy but who donned female clothing and a big foam head, atop of which was an awful wig—dished up just the kind of stew we all love: racy, gossipy, no-holds-barred and take-no-prisoners.

OK—not all of us. Neither Mr. Fernández nor I ever watched the program. My old boss Ofelia actively unwatched the program once in a doctor’s office. The show was on, the dish was flowing, the patients / viewers were sniggering. So Ofelia strode to the head of the room, stood in front of the television, announced that she was sure of the good taste and genteel sensibilities of everyone present, and knew that they must be offended by the program. Therefore she would take the liberty of turning it off. She did, and the room became one of the quietest places ever heard in Puerto Rico.

There was pretty much nowhere she didn’t go, La Comay. A student who had been a news anchor on another television channel once told me that in the middle of a painful divorce, she didn’t need La Comay commenting on her marital problems for all of Puerto Rico—and Orlando, New York, Chicago—to hear. She was having trouble enough.

Readers will also know that La Comay strolled into what was a particularly grisly murder and made insinuations. What was the victim doing on a certain street at night? Did he know his assailants? Wasn’t the street rife with male and female prostitution?

In short, she got right up to if not quite over the cliff of he-had-it-coming.

Standard stuff.

What was unusual was the reaction. Seemingly with the speed of toadstools cropping up after a rain, Ricky Martin and a host of other celebrities were holding signs saying “Todos somos Jose Enrique.” Then a boycott of the show was announced. Facebook and Twitter went onto overdrive.

Corporate sponsors left the show in droves. Here’s a little list:

Triple-S, Coca-Cola, Ford, Chevrolet, WalMart, AT&T, Sprint, Goodyear, Harris Paint, SC Johnson, Dish Puerto Rico, Claro, Kress, Lanco, Borden, Red ATH, Vanilla Gift Card, Enfamil, Ashley Furniture Store, Aqua Fresh, Carolina Herrera, Mon Cheri, Radio Isla 1320, Lenel Restaurant, Designer Shoe Warehouse, ICPR Junior College, PMC Medicare Choice, MMM, Kia, Burlington Coat Factory, MAPFRE, Goya, Corona Extra, Welch’s, Cold Stone Creamery, Plaza del Caribe, Gillette, Hellmann’s, Mayagüez Resort & Casino, Palo Viejo, Asociación de Productos de Puerto Rico y St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital.

Well, money talks, but also on occasion screams. The manager of the TV station demanded that the program stop being recorded live, but pre-recorded and—presumably—vetted. La Comay said forget it, and walked.

All of this is surprising. More surprising is that the nemesis of La Comay, who is looking very much like the victor here, is a gay activist born on the island and living currently in New York. Nor did he start the battle recently—he had declared it in 2006, when he said “su más grande castigo, como homofóbico que es, que sea un hombre abierta y orgullosamente gay el que ayude a sacarlo de la televisión”. (Roughly, “his biggest punishment, given the homophobe he is, would be for an openly and proudly gay person to help take him off television.”)

The activist is Pedro Julio Serrano, born in Ponce, raised in Isla Verde, and now the director of communications for the National Gay and Lesbian Task Force. We are not in Puerto Rico by any means the most macho of Latin countries. But we are a Latin country. And for a gay guy to spearhead the movement to topple an icon—however disagreeable—like La Comay?

Major.

Pedro Julio Serrano (left), with his fiancé, Steven

So maybe it's time to grow up?

That’s my first reaction, on hearing the news.

A couple kids in Australia decide to have some fun. Call up a hospital in London, imitate—apparently atrociously—the Queen and Prince Phillip and see if they can get through. Fun, hunh? Hey, cool, let’s try that.

You know how it played out. The call was transferred by a nurse—and no, I think I won’t give her name. She’s suffered enough. Why, even in a blog post that perhaps only a hundred people will read, should I drag her further down?

She’s dead, you see, and apparently by her own hand. She leaves behind a husband and two young children. She was, apparently, an excellent nurse. The court at Saint James insists they had put no pressure on the hospital, which says there was no disciplinary action taking place or planned at the time of her death. She had, as well, the complete support of her colleagues.

The radio station says that the two kids have voluntarily taken themselves off the air, and they express, of course, deep regret.

I believe that.

And when I say that it’s maybe to grow up, I don’t necessarily refer to the kids.

They’re kids—right?

What about the rest of us?

Down here in the island surrounded by mirrors, I was busy with a more grisly affair—the story of a publicist and his horrific death. And a scandalmonger in the form of a transvestite with a foam head who repeated all of the worst gossip about his death.

Today, the widow appears in the newspaper and says no. My husband was NOT on that nice-by-day-vice-in-the-night street after dark. It was a carjacking, that and nothing more—except for a vile, vicious, horrendous crime (I quote her directly, though her words were horrendo, vil y vicioso crímen).

A carjacking is a federal offense. Thus, they are being investigated by the FBI, and may be subject to the death penalty. There is therefore every reason for them to paint the picture of a man in search of illicit and paid pleasure, rather than a man standing at an ATM who feels a gun poked in his lower back.

Oh, and by the way, who might be the more credible witness—the wife-now-widow who has a job like the rest of us (well, most of us) or these four people, two of whom—I believe—are kids turned in by their parents, the other two who are low-lifes?

The widow is asking space for the family to grieve—certainly a reasonable request.

Though it may be a bit difficult on the day of the planned march, when the Todos Somos José Enrique group urges all Puerto Ricans to take to the streets and protest the tsunami of violence that has devastated the island.

Or when the boicotalacomay group continues its pressure to rip corporate sponsors from the transvestite’s show.

May I say something?

Corporations act—in general—on strictly economic principles. If there were a show on TV that everybody in Puerto Rico watched that was devoted to ornithology, guess what? Wal-Mart would sponsor it, and have an aisle full of binoculars in every store.

Jump to another island. If everybody in London / Great Britain read only The Economist, would the nurse have killed herself? There being no tabloids to play the story up?

And no, living as I am right here in my own little left field, I probably won’t march. What will it do? Will people—being generous here—who value human life at 400$ say, ‘wow, gee, maybe I should get an MBA!’

Let me propose something instead: the social contract. Let’s set up a booth along the way of the march, and get people to sign it.

Here goes….

I, a proud Puerto Rican, commit to the following:

1. I will say about people only things that I would say to their face. I will only listen to the same—no bochinche.
2. I will drive courteously and safely.
3. I will park legally.
4. I will clean up the island and keep it free of trash
5. I will behave in a way in public that draws no attention to myself—no loud music, loud voices. Oh, and I won’t be drunk in public.
6. I will greet people, even strangers, who are near me, and offer help when needed.
7. I will do my job fully, and give full value for what I am paid for.
8. I will assume that my politicians, my government, and my police are honest and hard working, and I will expect and demand courtesy and efficiency in return.
9. I will raise my children to respect authority, teachers, policemen, and adults in general, being always vigilant for the rare person who does not deserve this trust.
10. I will assume that everyone is operating on these principles, again being alert for those who are not.

I suggest these simple rules, because I have an answer to who killed José Enrique, and who killed the nurse.

We did.

We have blood on our hands, those of us who watch La Comay or read the tabloids. Or dish up a bit of chisme—that’s gossip for you guys up there—or refuse to stop when a cop flags us down. Or park on the sidewalk so that a pedestrian—his name would be Marc Newhouse—has to walk in the street. Oh, and it’s 5PM, and the sun is right in my eyes….

They’re little things, these ten things that I cooked up this Saturday afternoon. Little until the drunk gets in the car that careens out of the blazing sun and hurtles itself onto the pedestrian. Little until a nurse makes a simple mistake and cannot walk to buy milk for her children without seeing her shame screamed out at her.

Little things. But I’ll spend an afternoon under the sun, passing out the social contract, asking everybody to read and sign.

Anybody want to join me? 

No todos

Well, it’s another dog-bites-man moment—I’m left standing alone, watching the crowd race by.

I wrote yesterday about a man who—assuming the reports are correct—had a secret or two. That led him to some people who dispatched him to his death, in a particularly gory and violent way. All for 400 bucks, which he had withdrawn and given them.

Into this picture steps a well-known—if not particularly well-loved—figure in Puerto Rico, and in this blog. La Comay! Yes, the guy who dresses as a woman and says absolutely-to-the-point-of-slanderous things about anybody.

Well, Jack got after me and forced me to sit through the whole thing. Yes—10 minutes of La Comay, which will last me well into my next life.

Really, it was only seven minutes of content. The other three minutes? The phrase aparente y alegadamente—apparently and allegedly. A useful phrase indeed, for La Comay got taken to court years ago, and lost in a highly publicized case.

Besides giving a possible bit of legal protection, the phrase gives the impression of impartiality. Quite needed, because La Comay then dishes up whatever rumor has come to his ears. And since we’ve heard aparente y alegadamente 333 times already—and tuned it out—the phrase does nothing more than announce the coming of a new, more scandalous tidbit.

Right—so what’s La Comay’s version?

José Enrique Gómez—finally to give the gentleman his name—phoned his wife to say that he was leaving a work event at a San Juan hotel, was going to go eat something, and would then come home.

La Comay says no. He was twenty miles away, in the city of Caguas, on a perfectly nice street in the center of town.

Nice during the day.

But, alleges and apparents (nooooo, computer, it’s just a new word! You should be happy!) La Comay, the street is a cesspool of vice—drugs, prostitution, homosexuality! (A fact La Comay never misses an opportunity to insert….) La Comay alleges that José Enrique knew a couple, had had some connection with them, and that because of that, owed them money.  He invites them into his car. Another couple join them. There are four assailants and José Enrique. They force him to go to an automatic teller, and he withdraws 400$. They go to a gas station and buy a container of gas. They then beat him, douse him with gasoline, and set him on fire.

La Comay, taking a high-minded stance, says that all of Puerto Rico is consternated—consternado, or in turmoil! Can we use the ATHs—our version of ATM? Is anybody safe?

Yeah, says La Comay. At least if you’re not on Calle Padial in Caguas after dark inviting a shady couple into your car.

Well, others think differently. Here’s one:

The social networks exploded. A campaign to boycott the sponsors of the television program sprang up. Several companies have already pulled their ads.

In addition, a campaign Todos Somos José Enrique was created. We’re all José Enrique—even Ricky Martin!

Yeah?

I thought the most recent remaking of Ricky was the scenario of a guy raising kids with another guy.

Nor does it help that The New Day, our local rag, corroborates some of the details. The suspects—three of them are in custody—paint essentially the same picture as La Comay.

And it all leads to a moral conundrum—for me, at least.

Let me put it this way.

I don’t walk through La Perla—our famous or infamous San Juan slum. I don’t rack up huge cocaine bills.

And—assuming it’s true—I wouldn’t be on Calle Padial after dark.

Actually, I wouldn’t even know that I shouldn’t be.

I can go 95% of the way with the crowd who decry the tawdriness, the tackiness of La Comay.

Whom I don’t watch.

I’m holding back on saying that we’re all José Enrique. 

Chastity of the Ears

Morning radio—it’s a thing in Puerto Rico. Yes, everywhere else has it, but we do it with a special zest, a Latin flare; we’re liberal in the use of absurdity and silliness, scandal and gossip.

And virtually no one can resist it.

Not even Mr. Fernández, who normally is even less prone to swimming with the current than I. At 6:30 in the morning, the clock radio will startle me into life, and neither willy nor nilly will keep me from listening.

Today, according to CNN, the world’s eyes are on Cairo, and the president, Mr. Morsi. Well, news to me, but son of a newspaper guy am I. I did my best, and read two thirds of the article.

Right—and what is Puerto Rico occupying itself with today?

The morning radio gave me the first clues. Prostitución. La Prieta—the dark (female) one. Rubencito.

OK—what’s The New Day, our number one newspaper, serving up today? Escalofriantes Detalles reads the front page of the print edition. Chilling details.

A man disappeared last Thursday. His family was distraught. The press gave the matter a lot of attention, perhaps because he was a publicist, and thus presumably known to journalists. His body was discovered two days ago—and now the story is out.

Well, the family is now facing two deaths. The first being the publicist himself.

The second?

Their image of him.

If the accounts are true, he had a little secret. And no, you won’t find it here.

I believe in the public’s right to know. I think it’s very important, in fact, to know who won the bid to build the highway, at what cost, under what circumstances. I want the press monitoring how the elections are held, what the votes are, and what the shenanigans are.

What I don’t get is why I have to participate in the shredding, posthumously, of a man’s reputation. Or why I have a right to know sordid details that must be agonizing to a family already decimated.

Confession—I read the article. Not the two thirds that I gave to Cairo and Mr. Morsi, but the entire article. The details of which I am—high-mindedly—denying you!

Nor can I be very proud of the fact that I never once was tempted to look at Kate Middleton’s you-know-whats. Pretty easy temptation to avoid. But the day Mr. Fernández announced, “Hey, here’s a picture of Ricky Martin nude?”

Well, I violated then what I violated today—chastity of the eyes. Which I remembered from my days of reading about religious orders. Nuns, in the old days, were told to walk with their eyes cast downwards. Temptation was everywhere.

Also, of course, it was self-discipline. The will was exerting itself, taking control of the body.

It may also have been respect. There are some things I shouldn’t, and therefore don’t, see. It’s enough that your life has been maimed. I won’t pry into the shameful reasons for it.

Of course, the issue for me is chastity of the ears. A man with better control than I would rouse himself at the first mention of prostitution, stride to the cold shower, mortify the flesh. Not lie under the warm and prurient covers….

And is it only I, or does anyone else think that it’s far more easy to practice chastity of the eyes than chastity of the ears? Somehow, you have less control over what you hear than what you see.

Or maybe not. Try googling chastity of the ears and you’ll get surprising little. The first citation is from a Father Hardon (and speaking of which—is there chastity of humor?), who tosses the term off with no discussion. Three or four citations down, you come to this, from Morning Talks, October 30, 1967:

Out of the five outgoing faculties of eyes, ears, nose, touch and taste, three are most powerful. Lust attacks us eighty percent through the eyes, fourteen percent through the ears and the remaining six percent mainly through touch.  

Well, now, that’s an interesting fact to know.

If true.

Which I doubt. I’d argue that there are visual guys, tactile guys, aural guys.  I could and did go to bed with wildly divergent guys, visually speaking. Didn’t matter to me, in those long-gone days.

I could never go to bed with a guy who had an unpleasant voice. 

Well, if I’ve sinned, I must do penance. Here taking the form of an utterly silly cat video.

Enjoy!