the chommo chronicles

.i demand answers.

.traveling while dominican.

My government job* of the past six years involves a lot of trips to places in Europe and Latin America, an occupational requirement that has turned me into a well-oiled business-traveling machine. I’ve got my routine down pat: pack only enough as will fit into my NY&Co** roller suitcase and black backpack; get to the airport two hours before my flight and breeze through check-in and security thanks to my Silver Medallion status***; isolate myself with my [ipod/laptop/trashy romance novel/silent judgment of parents with unruly children] until it’s time to board the plane; eat my crappy vegetarian mean; pop two Tylenol Simply Sleep, drink a Dewar’s on the rocks, and wake up on the other side of Atlantic. If I’m lucky, I get to head to my hotel for a few hours of actual sleep; if not, I go straight into meetings.

But this experience is completely, totally, unbelievably different that of my previous life as a traveler. Today I travel while armed with my laptop, itinerary, and corporate Amex card; back then, I traveled while Dominican.

.wish list.

I wish Ina Garten would invite me to one of her picnics with Jeffrey and her gays.

I wish someone would disabuse men from the notion that their crotchal areas need  to occupy that much space on public transportation.

I wish Meredith Viera would quit her Today Show gig, already.

I wish life presented more opportunities to dance the Electric Slide.

.the end of the affair.

While it lasted, ours was a love that was pure, passionate, and all-consuming. When we were together, people – strangers, even – would stop in their tracks to oooh and aahh over the dashing figure we cut. We were wild, adventurous and globe-trotting, impetuously meeting each other in Paris, Madrid, London, Los Angeles, and once, over the course of three months, Panama. Nothing – not bad weather, not rough terrain, not exhaustion, not injury – could stop us from giddily running around our hometown, excitedly looking for a party, a happy hour, an outdoor festival, a gathering of any kind at which we could revel in our happiness.  

And then it happened. We started to grow apart, the soundtrack to our slow, soft disenchantment provided by Stevie Wonder and his melancholy rendition of “Lately.” 

.don't need no candles and cake.

Haps and The Baby are two of my very best friends in the world, my spiritual sisters even though they hail from the verdant fields of California's Central Valley and I from the concrete paradise of the New York City housing projects. (We met in college.) If ever I need someone to lovingly question my sartorial choices, they're up to the task. When I get arrested and need someone to bail me out of jail at 5AM, they'll be on the top of my list of people to call. And if ever I need partners for a debate on the state of the modern world, they're always willing participants.

Witness this recent exchange on the deep meaning behind current radio smash "Birthday Sex," crooned by a one Mr. Jeremih. Why the unnecessary replacement of the "y" with an "ih"? You'll have to take that question to his mother.

.the who/what/where/when/why.