30,000 Tragedies

“The death of one man is a tragedy,” said Joe Stalin, “the death of millions is a statistic.”

Well, he was a guy who should know. And the twentieth century had more than a handful of men who committed their share of “statistics.”

Not surprisingly, there’s an organization that got into bed with a lot of the last century’s despots, all to gain influence and broker some juicy deals.

It’s called “the family,” and it was started, I’m sorry to say, by a Norwegian immigrant in Seattle in 1935. The group has one public activity: the National Prayer Breakfast. The rest of the time they’re underground, or forming a spiritual cell around the next congressman or senator.

And they do keep busy. I know all this because I forced myself, this last weekend, to forego the jacuzzi and read Jeff Sharlet’s book, appropriately called The Family. And here’s Wikipedia on the subject.

The author Jeff Sharlet has criticized the fellowship's influence on US foreign policy. He argues that Doug Coe and the "networking" (or formation of prayer cells) between foreign dictators and US politicians, defense contractors, and industry leaders has facilitated military aid for repressive foreign regimes. Sharlet did intensive research at the Billy Graham Center, before the Fellowship Foundation archives were closed to those other than divinity scholars. Sharlet published a book about the history of the groups and their influence on US domestic and foreign policy from the 1920s to the present.[28] Sharlet in particular details the relationship with General Suharto of Indonesia in the 1970s, and with Siad Barre of Somalia in the 1980s. Also, in the archives, there are at least two nearly full boxes of documents describing the relationship with Brazil's long dictatorship of the Generals.[61]

Regarding his relationships with foreign dictators, Coe said in 2007, “I never invite them. They come to me. And I do what Jesus did: I don’t turn my back to any one. You know, the Bible is full of mass murderers.”[62]

Don’t believe me, or Sharlet? How about this guy?

“The Fellowship’s reach into governments around the world is almost impossible to overstate or even grasp,” says David Kuo, a former special assistant in George W. Bush’s Office of Faith-Based and Community Initiatives.

Well, great to know! Although it does appear that Coe isn’t quite as embracing to absolutely everyone. I copy and paste again from Wikipedia.

The Fellowship, through Representative Joe Pitts (R.-Pa.), redirected millions in US aid to Uganda from sex education programs to abstinence programs, thereby causing an evangelical revival, which included condom burnings.

In a November 2009 NPR interview, Sharlet alleged that Ugandan Fellowship associates David Bahati and Nsaba Buturo were behind the recent proposed bill in Uganda that called for the death penalty for gays.[75] Bahati cited a conversation with Fellowship members in 2008 as having inspired the legislation.[76]

Wonderful! And it appears that it’s not just in Somalia, Indonesia or Uganda that Coe exercises his power. Sharlet indicates that there’s virtually no office in Washington where Coe can’t drift in, pound on a few backs, gather the boys together in prayer, change public policy and broker another deal.

“In Washington, you must have a religion to get anything done,” writes Sharlet, or words to that affect. Even Hillary Clinton gets into the picture. Here she is on Coe.

Doug Coe, the longtime National Prayer Breakfast organizer, is a unique presence in Washington: a genuinely loving spiritual mentor and guide to anyone, regardless of party or faith, who wants to deepen his or her relationship to God.

Ummm, yes and no. The Family is devoted to those who have power. It’s a ministry that makes no bones about it—no money, no influence? Screw you!

The story of the family makes a good read—a shadowy man, a secret organization, evil and misdeeds, a perverted religion. I thought of it all this morning, on the trot. The death of millions is a statistic.

Is that the trouble with the gun control issue? 30,000 is just a number. But behind that number are 30,000 names, faces, lives. If we published the names, would it make it more real?

‘Let’s try,’ I decided. And went to a site that randomly generates names. So here are forty-five names—as much as will fill one page of a document with the font size set at 12.

OK—so how many pages would I need to list all 30,000 victims of gun violence annually?

Hold onto your seat.

666.

A revelation, hunh?

1.   Dona Schrom


2.   Darryl Ferriera

3.   Loraine Pietz

4.   Earnestine Kardos

5.   Mallory Mani

6.   Rae Nassar

7.   Fernando Lamborn

8.   Alana Ghoston

9.   Allan Kittinger


10.   Mathew Hoppes


11.   Jamie Vitiello


12.   Kelly Basler


13.   Jock


14.   Avis Heuser

15.   Malinda Brindle

16.   Javier Mckinsey


17.   Jessie Gowers

18.   Max Miraglia

19.   Saundra Vanderhoof

20.   Jamie Junker


21.   Cody Cassara

22.   Edwina Kilman


23.   Cody Calabria


24.   Marcie Ritts

25.   Tyrone Guard

26.   Kurt Spradling

27.   Lakisha Fasciano


28.   Kelly Mossey

29.   Avis Deasy


30.   Carlene Verge


31.   Allyson Yanes


32.   Guy Loew


33.   Ted Mariner


34.   Lonnie Bart


35.   Clinton Matthias


36.   Tanisha Bou


37.   Lorrie Kowalewski


38.   Elinor Doten


39.   Melisa Roose


40.   Jamie Jarrard


41.   Ted Mahnke


42.   Melisa Cerutti


43.   Roxie Marcial


44.   Zelma Rozar


45.   Sofia Detty


Three-Quarters of a Million Minus One

Well, it was a wonderful little festival. Had everything: what most people call music, warm beer, enforced physical proximity to your fellow drunk.

Even had a murder!

Nobody quite knows what happened, and the incident wasn’t filmed. The New Day, reaching into lyricism, announced that the victim, who had no criminal past, had bumped into his executioner (tropezó con su opresor, and thanks, Mr. Fernández for that translation…). Then hundreds of people took photos of the corpse, and stuck them on Facebook and Twitter.

This was the Fiestas de la Calle San Sebastián in its 2013 reincarnation. And no, the half-million people didn’t show.

It was three-quarters of a million.

At least half of whom were in front of us, after we had coaxed a cab driver to drive us home. Initially, she had refused. How much money could we pay her to drive into that insanity?

Not as much as we had.

Right, we said. So take us to the train station, and we’ll grab a bus home.

The train station occupies a large city block. The crowd had entirely circled the station. Fights were breaking out, the riot police were there, but bottles were still being thrown at the buses.

So the driver had a dilemma. Take us home or abandon us to our fates.

Fortunately, she was a nice—and very funny—woman.

Nor was it bad, until we reached the capitol. We then encountered the half of three-quarters of a million people who were ahead of us in their horn-blaring cars.

We spent over half an hour going one city block.

Until we were met with the cops, who had blocked off the intersecting street, and were telling everyone to turn around and go home again.

And what were people doing?

Getting out of their cars and arguing with the police.

As did our cab driver. She had a little plan to get us into the city, park her taxi at the taxi stand, have a cold beer and a cigarette—richly deserved, both. Instead, she spent fifteen minutes futilely—and erroneously—arguing that she had tourists going to the cruise ship. (There were—the goat that calms the cup or la gota que colmó la copa—two enormous cruise ships in town as well…).

Nor was she alone. EVERYONE was out of their cars, arguing with the police. And we have a facility, down here under the Latin sun, for argument. We do it with passion. And also, of course, with no little amount of body language. Actually, any brisk discussion usually cancels the need to go to the gym that day—you’ve done your aerobics already.

Well, was I going to miss out? Of course not! How often to I get the chance to play the tourist? So I got out of the taxi and looked confused (never difficult for me) and addressed the cop in English.

Me—“Is something the matter, officer?”

Officer looked away!

Well, look, their job is hard enough, sorting through the thousand-plus murders that get committed every year. Speaking English is a trifle….

You’ll have guessed the end of the story. If that taxi driver ever got that cold Heineken and cigarette, it wasn’t at the Sheraton. We walked in, carrying the six bottles of Scotch that one of us had to buy (hey, duty free!), just as did most of the three quarters festivants (well, computer, what do you call people who go to a festival? Bring me the solution, not the problem, dammit!)

It was—predictably—an unqualified mess. Calls are being made to cancel the festival. Other calls are being made to spread it out. This is a map of the old city.

Putting so many people who have drunk so much beer into so small an area is madness. The miracle is that the situation hasn’t turned bad—or much worse—before.

So here’s my idea. Spread the artisans across the city, in every available plaza. But have the music and the other “cultural” events at the Escambrón, in the evening. It’s got a huge open lawn roughly the size of Central Park’s. It’s got a big parking lot for the buses that will be the ONLY way to access the event (residents with stickers excepted).

Get everybody out of the old city and let my people sleep.

Big Guns and Big Money

Suppose there were a disease that killed 30,000 people plus a year. And suppose Congress put it into the spending laws: the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention cannot study it.

Would you be mad?

I would. Or rather, am. Because there is a disease, and Congress indeed did stipulate it—it’s off limits to the CDC.

Death by gunshot.

It seems the NRA has some—sorry—pretty heavy guns. All research has been halted for the last 15 years. So we don’t know the epidemiology of a disease that’s killed 360,000 people in that period.

Bad science, says the NRA. Actually, they claim that it’s not science at all, but politics.

Yeah?

I’d say that any activity that ends in death—whether it’s smoking, drunk driving, or gun ownership is fair game for the CDC. Here’s NBC on the story:

From the mid-1980s to the mid-1990s, the CDC conducted original, peer-reviewed research into gun violence, including questions such as whether people who had guns in their homes gained protection from the weapons. (The answer, researchers found, was no. Homes with guns had a nearly three times greater risk of homicide and a nearly five times greater risk of suicide than those without, according to a 1993 study in the New England Journal of Medicine.)

Well, it seems the money is gonna start flowing again. Obama directed the CDC to start studies again, and has apparently put up the funds. Republicans are predictably furious.

I didn’t realize what this was all about until I saw the clip below. And then it became clear.

The NRA, says Debra Maggart, a conservative pro-gun NRA member, is cynically creating false issues and lousy legislation. When any bill meets opposition, the NRA goes into action, whipping up hysteria in its members. And what do they do?

Write a check.

It’s as cynical as it is evil. And the effect has been to create a mentality of paranoia and intransigence that precludes any reasonable debate.

No, that’s not what I say—it’s what Maggart says. The NRA kicked in $150,000 just to defeat her. Oh, and that’s a state representative. Wanna bet how much they’d be willing to spend on a US Senator?

“Did they bully you?” asks the moderator.

“That’s exactly what they did,” Maggart replies.

Well, at least she got a congratulatory “certificate” from the group after she was defeated. She was still a member, you see.

I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again. I know people who have guns. My father had a gun. I’m not intrinsically antigun.

I am, however, very much against any group that values the almighty dollar more than the lives of men, women, and children.

In Latin, it’s ne fas. A violation of divine law. It gets pretty directly into Spanish as nefasto. Less obvious in English as nefarious.

That’s not enough?

How about despicable and heinous?

Half a Million Minus Two

That’s how many people are going to try to stuff themselves into an eight-block by four-block, fragile, historic, abused-and-still-lovely city.

You can guess who the minus two are….

It might have been the empty rum bottle that got launched at Mr. Fernández, that early morning last year. Granted he was screaming, but so were they. (Now that Franny’s not stirring about, can I get away with saying “well, they started it first?” Or will I get a celestial response on the lines of “well, if everybody jumped out the window….”) Or perhaps it’s the sight of body fluids you really don’t want to see or—especially—smell. And there is something nice about sleep.

The half-million will be celebrating Las Fiestas de la Calle San Sebastián, a charming and also terrible festival that occurs every year at the end of January.

How can it be both charming and terrible?

It’s really two festivals. The first takes place during the day; families come out, stroll through the streets, buy artisan pieces, enjoy the weather.

After dark, it gets considerably edgier. To me, over-the-edgier. Imagine a crowd of people in which a new form of involuntary locomotion gets invented. I tried it once—I lifted my feet, and was carried by the crowd.

And no, it was not relaxing.

Add into this mix “music” at very high volumes. Then a collective blood alcohol level of at least .25. Plus, some idiot dreamed up this stupid horn (called something like “zarzuela”, but it’s not) that is way loud, and guess who has one outside of my door?

Very good—everyone.

It was all dreamed up quite recently in 1970 by a charming old lady, doña Rafaela Valladares, who thought it would be nice to help the artisans, get the neighbors together, raise a little money, and extend Christmas (which hardly needs it). Well, it took off, since Puerto Ricans never need to be urged to party harder. Party is something we do in Puerto Rico.

And there are good things about the Fiestas. You can see cabezudos like this:

Or how about the vejigantes?

Remember when the teacher left the room? That’s how the evening starts out. As  the night goes on and the drunkenness goes up, it turns into a stampede just about to happen. You definitely have to be young to endure it.

Oh, and by the way—thanks for asking—the bottle missed.

But why stick around for the next one?

Will We?

Well, there’s great news this morning, something to lift the spirits of even the churliest (knew that wasn’t gonna fly) of spirits.

Coca-Cola has joined the fight against obesity!

Yup, they’re getting right into the fight, the brawl, the tumult. Here they are, their gloves taken off and their fists swinging!

"…beating obesity will take action by all of us, based on one simple, common-sense fact: all calories count, no matter where they come from. And if you eat and drink more calories than you burn off, you'll gain weight."

Well, that’s reasonable, isn’t it? And they point out that of their 650 beverages, 180 have no calories. You can always drink that water.

"We've never been more committed to doing our part to help address the issue of obesity," Coca-Cola spokesman Ben Scheidler said in an e-mail, adding that "2013 is going to be a landmark year in terms of expanding partnerships and efforts to educate consumers about energy balance."

Whew. Well, it’s good to know that we’re all on the same page, all moving unitedly (stop it, computer) together, all taking this battle on. Now that Coke is on the team, we can really stamp out that little problem afflicting two out of three Americans…their bellies / thighs / behinds.

Nor is it just Coca-Cola that is exercising corporate responsibility and benevolence—look at the latest effort of our friends in the NRA! Here’s Leslie Horn's lead:

Here is some free PR advice for the National Rifle Association: Now is not the time to release a target practice iOS app—especially one intended for kids. According to the NRA, the app is intended for children as young as age four.

Yup, target practice, and not with just any gun. For an additional buck, you can be practicing with an AK47 or an MK11.

Readers of this blog may not be familiar with these guns. OK—fess up. I didn’t have a glimmer of an idea what these things are. So I looked up what the navy seals had to say.

The US Navy MK11 Mod 0 Sniper Weapon System (SWS) is based on the highly-accurate SR-25 automatic rifle. It was originally conceived and constructed to meet a requirement placed by the Navy SEALs. The MK11 is a highly accurate and durable, precision semiautomatic sniper rifle that operates like an M16 or M4A1, and can deliver a 7.62mm round out to 1,500 yards. Due to its high degree of accuracy, (.5 inch MOA), it is has won acceptance by U.S. Special Operations Forces as one of the finest semiautomatic sniper rifles in the world.

Guys? You’ve designed an app for people who have a very poor sense of what reality and non-reality is. Or maybe I can put it simpler. A kid sees a toy gun. He picks it up. He says, “Bam, you’re dead” to his friend Billy, who promptly falls over dead. Hey, fun!

Second scenario. A kid sees his father’s gun. He picks it up. He says, “Bam, you’re dead” to his friend Billy….

You know the rest of the story. Or maybe you don’t. I’m not a parent, but I do.

So what’s with the NRA? How the hell can they be such morons?

I have a little secret for all you guys out there. Despite all the touting about how business is efficient, how—unlike government—it operates like a well-oiled machine, it doesn’t. Trust me, I know. I worked in the biggest company in the world, and saw insanity on a daily, hourly, almost-minutely basis. So I’m not surprised when Coca-Cola makes its grand gesture—coming out slugging against obesity.

Which yes, can kill. And as senselessly as a gun. So isn’t it inconsistent that I laugh at Coca-Cola yet go crazy on the NRA? Aren’t they both killers?

Is it visual? It’s hard to see a death by diabetes, as opposed to the blood and viscera on the schoolroom wall. And a gunshot wound is more immediate than an elevated blood sugar.

Whatever it is, we’ve got a problem. Every time there’s been a tragedy, we go crazy. We clamor for gun control, we march, we write letters and put flowers on the school door and light candles. Then we go back to our lives.

The NRA knows that. And unlike the sane “us,” the crazy “they” are steadfastly passionate. Their guns are their lives, or a big part of them. All they have to do is wait. We’ll go away, until the next atrocity.

Or will we?

Big Deal

I know the official line, which goes as follows: you don’t out anybody unless they’re advocating against gay rights.

So that means that even though you know Senator Smith (you do know that’s made up, don’t you?) is as queer as a three-dollar bill, and you have the photos to prove it, you keep it quiet. But the moment he bangs the drum for family values and the sanctity of marriage? National Enquirer!

I also think that the progress on LGBT issues made in my lifetime has been remarkable. I’ve gone from being sick / disgusting / going-to-hell to being legally married (at least in Massachusetts) and ho-hum-what-did-you-say-oh-you’re-gay?

And the reason for that change?

I wrote a letter to my brothers. I told them I was gay. They took it as they did—one brother easily, another with more difficulty. But the point is that I did it.

So did a lot of people. So much so that gay characters appeared on sit-coms. It became trendy to have a gay friend. And now we’ve got a president who appears at gay events and speaks out for marriage equality.

I did that. Along, of course, with a hell of a lot of other people….

It wasn’t particularly easy. I remember the real fear that I would crush my parents. Jack had a bad heart, the family legend said; he went to the army to enlist in World War II and flunked his physical. Then went to the Mayo Clinic to get evaluated. So would he get up and have a heart attack if I told him? And how can I tell Mom without telling Dad? How is she supposed to go on, with this big secret between them?

So it took courage, for me and all of the rest of us to do what we did. And face it, there were some people who got told, “don’t come home again—not until you’ve changed.” Just as there are parents even today sending their kids off to therapists and programs “designed” to change sexual orientation.

All of this is leading up to Ricky Martin, who tweeted congratulations yesterday to Jodie Foster for being open about her twenty-year relationship with another woman. “This is your moment,” he said. And went on to say that we all do it at our own rate.

And here is where I get stuck.

“How’s Raf,” said Pete, a neighbor of my mother’s.

Pete is an absolutely completely normal Wisconsin guy. He’s got a business installing gutters. He owns guns, goes hunting, drinks beer, drives a truck. You could call him a redneck, but find me the redneck who completely gets that I’m gay, and congratulates me matter-of-factly when I get married.

OK—would he be that way if Franny hadn’t completely accepted, and spoke openly about my homosexuality? Would my cousin’s wife—the one who speaks to the Lord every day—be chatting with Raf at Franny’s memorial service? Everybody who comes out invites other people to come out, too, and news flash—straight people can be in the closet too. Because if you’re straight and think gay people are going to hell or sick or whatever, you’re in the closet.

The irony of it is that once you’ve done it, the rumors, the suspicions, the dark speculations go away. How many trees died because the tabloids spent twenty years luridly hinting—change that to screaming—that Ricky was gay? Or reporting that a man had been seen entering his home late at night? Or that he was seen on a Caribbean beach with a bunch of guys?

So I don’t know. Ricky doesn’t have to tell everybody the details of what he does in bed. But I wonder—does a public figure have an obligation to speak out, or at least acknowledge he’s gay when asked? Right—he’s a singer / performer, not a sexologist. Why should it matter?

I think Jeanne Manford, the founder of Parents, Families and Friends of Lesbians and Gays (PFLAG) would have the answer. Everybody has to come out: the rich and famous; the poor and unknown; prominent or insignificant. Scratch that—nobody is insignificant.

And that’s the point.

She was just a schoolteacher at PS 32 in Queens when she walked down the street in Greenwich Village that summer day in 1972. She was carrying a handmade sign. It was just another day in her life.

No big deal.

Wrong—it was.

Now Then

Well, having dispatched our puppet—La Comay—to wherever it is he went off to, what’s next? We have, as we used to say corporationally (OK, computer, businessly? Companally? Does ANYTHING make you happy?), many opportunities down here. One person in seven is using drugs. Murder rate is over a thousand a year. Forty eight percent of the population is living below poverty level.

‘Well, at least we have absolutely no problems with snow removal,’ I thought on the morning trot, after having glanced at the New Day’s front page. Gobierno irá contra los padres, announced the headline. The Government Is Going After the Parents?

Hunh? Why? What have they done?

It started when our new governor visited a school two days ago, and discovered that very few of the parents had bothered to pick up their children’s report card, much less attend parent / teacher conferences.

How few?

A Department of Education spokesperson says only 30% of parents pick up the grades.

So the government gave the parents un halón de orejas or an ear pulling. It’s a common Puerto Rican chastisement. And now, they’re hitting where it hurts.

It seems that parents get all kinds of benefits from the state—plan 8, that’s the apartment. Tarjeta de salud—free medical care. Departamento de la Familia—money and food. You’ve pretty much got your life taken care of, right there.

But to get all this, the agencies require documents verifying that you do have a kid, and that she or he is in school. So the teachers spend time filling out these documents.

Hunh?

Let me put this car in reverse and tell you that I’m not at my best today. Yes, I did the trot, but it was more instinct / habit than Marc out there. I spent most of yesterday on the only throne I’ll ever own, and when I wasn’t there, I was in bed. I am, to speak frankly, metaphorically and literally flushing out the holidays.

Which may be why this situation, even on an island with a zest for absurdity, seems crazy.

OK—let’s do a list:

1. Teachers teach. They don’t fill out documents, or teach values, or police the school grounds. They just teach, for which they should be paid as much as the governor, easily.
2. Parents parent. Part of which is to say to the kid that the teacher is to be respected, and part of which is to make sure that the teacher is…respectable (OK, but you know what I mean.) Another part of which is to make sure that their kids know—school is work, your education is the most important thing in your life right now, and will be for the rest of your life.
3. Governments govern. Which means that I can drink the water (no), drive the roads without breaking an axle (no), go out on the street at night (what, are you crazy?), or send my kid to a public school (unthinkable).

Right, so now we have all the roles defined. Let’s talk about those public schools.

“Lock your kid in the marquesina!” I was once busily saying—actually repeating—to a student. She had just told me that she had announced to the director of the private school her kids were in, “the only reason I’m paying you ten grand a year is that gate over there!”

(A break for anyone who doesn’t know what a marquesina is. It’s a garage, but much more. It’s also a place where you sit, where you entertain neighbors, where you drink beer and watch fights. Importantly, it’s enclosed and has a gate that can be locked. So it’s safe.)

In the public schools, there are no substitute teachers. So what happens when missis (common nickname for a teacher—a little hangover from the Americans) is missing? The school dumps the kids on the street.

OK—so maybe your child has a cell phone and you’re at home, eating bonbons and reading French novels. You hop in the car and get your kid.

Oh, sorry—forgot. That was the fifties.

If you really would prefer that your child not become a street urchin, then you pay for a private school. The education—with some exceptions, of course—is just as dreadful. But they’ve got a gate and a lock and you know where you kid is gonna be when you drop him or her off at seven in the morning. Now all you gotta do is deal with the boss.

Well, my solution was to lock the kid up in the marquesina every day—with, of course, the 500$ of textbooks you shelled out for him. No, it’s not abuse. You’ll give him food and drink, safety, bathroom, etc. You could, of course, put a closed-circuit monitoring system in the marquesina, and follow him periodically throughout the day. Tremendous idea, if I do say so myself: thinking outside the caja as usual!

Well, I thought it was a good idea.

Predictably, it was shot down.

What I am telling you at obscene length is that the public schools are terrible, for the most part.

It now must be said.

You don’t have a right to have a kid. Not if you’re so damned stupid and lazy and uncaring that you can’t hustle your fat Departamento-de-la-Familia-fed ASS down to the school to pick up a report card. I can’t prevent you from having a kid, but I sure as hell won’t support you, you lazy fat cow who stands in front of me in the supermarket while your kids play tag between my knees, and you’re eating chips and drinking Coca-Cola—too damn busy to fish out your tarjeta de la familia card to pay for all the junk you’re slopping into your kids!

Whew….

Now then, back to bed…. 

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

Interesting Times

Well, we live in interesting times, or maybe it’s just that now, with our technology, we can see just how interesting the times are. Peering into CNN this morning, I saw a guy who was totally carried away. Why? For the first time a giant squid has been seen! And we have footage! Wow! He could barely sit in his chair—by comparison, kids on Christmas morning are blasé.

Well, the giant squid is interesting. I didn’t know that it had been the subjects of myths for centuries—a giant sea creature that swarms up and devours boats. They don’t—apparently—but they are big. Until now, they’ve only been seen when they washed ashore, dead. But they can get to be 60 feet; that’s several school buses.

Have a look—not at a giant squid but at the largest squid of all: the colossal squid.

Something to see, right? You’d remember that day of fishing….

Of course, you’d also remember being in Manila yesterday. That’s because nine million people decided to celebrate the procession of the Black Nazarene.

I can hear the question….

The Black Nazarene is a sculpture made in Mexico in the early 1600’s. It was transported to the Philippines by a galleon that, according to legend, caught fire, blackening but not burning the statue. So three times a year, six to eight million people walk barefoot—in honor of you-know-whom—through the streets of Manila. Well, maybe not walk—“jostle” is the word Wikipedia used. Oh, and “trample” as well, at times resulting in death. The deal? Wiping a white towel on the statue—it’s supposed to bring you good luck.

Listen, everybody, I would hate to antagonize my Philippine readership, and you know that I tiptoe on the topic of religion—but is this rationale? Sorry, forgot that the Philippines is also where they nail people up on crosses every Good Friday. So maybe Manila wasn’t the place to be, yesterday.

Of course, where you REALLY didn’t want to be was with the guy in clip below. But how fascinating to watch someone so fascinated and seemingly so fearless.

There is something compelling about a polar bear…..

104,000 Nuts, All Armed

The great thing about not following popular culture is that it’s so relaxing. I walk by the sea with Bach cantatas soaring into my ears, and drink my orange juice…it’s soothing.

It is, however, a bit isolating. Which is why I had to ask, “who’s Piers Morgan,” when Mr. Fernández told me that over 100,000 people want to deport him.

He explained—a British citizen who has a show on television.

Right—so what had he done?

If you watch the clip below, you’ll know. He wants to ban semi-automatic weapons, force background checks on buyers at gun shows, increase funding for mental health.

And if you watch the clip below, you’ll know something else.

We’re in deep trouble.

If I weren’t an atheist, I’d be on my knees. Why? Because the gentleman—though he seems to prefer the term “bud”—behind the petition is completely insane.

Most people in interviews start off reasonably enough, get challenged, become unnerved, and then unravel. Alex Jones unravels within the first fifteen seconds after being presented the question, “why do you want to deport me?”

A single nut is one thing; 104,000 of them—all armed—is another.

Watching the clip is an invitation to emotional highjacking. The fear, rather the paranoia, is contagious. Worse is the realization—no rational dialogue is possible here.

I know people who have guns. A neighbor of my mother has guns. Actually, at least two neighbors. And they’re good people and I trust them and they’re not crazy. But if they want to keep their guns, they’d better do something quick.

Change—or rather start—the dialogue.

Send this to everyone you know who has a gun. Give them this message.

The NRA is making you look completely ridiculous. And it’s pissing people off. So unless you want the rest of us to get down nasty and fight to ban ALL guns—which many nations have done, by the way—you’re gonna have to be reasonable. Nobody has to have an assault weapon. Not checking background at gun shows while requiring it in gun shops is crazy. Speak up, repudiate the NRA, and start a reasonable dialogue.

Why do I feel that ain’t gonna happen?