GOYA (Get Off Your Ass)

Cruising at 35,000 feet on a transcontinental flight from New York to Los Angeles, my iPhone off limits—which means Angry Birds is verboten—and looking at five hours in the air trapped next to a very loving yet noise filter-less French family, and I decided that I had better write to alleviate bordem, circumvent my ADHD, and prevent myself from committing an act of war against the people of France.

When one finds oneself questioning whether or not the Geneva Conventions apply when traveling 500 miles per hour, it is best to do something to redirect ones attention and aggression.

I am on my way to Los Angeles to celebrate the marriage of an old and amazingly dear friend Candise Ketcham. I met Candise my first day on campus at La Universidad de Puerto Rico-Rio Piedras back in August 1999. The first day on campus found all of the international exchange students herded together on a trolley bus. As the students gathered, they broke into several camps: the French Girls (we hated them), the Brits and Cali Gals (we loved them), the Midwestern Posse (exactly two of us: me and Bernie plus we claimed Kylah since she was living in Wyoming and no one knew what the Hell to do with that...plus it was right after the brutal slaying of a young white gay man in Laramie, so I thought it best to keep an eye on the girl from the same town), and an assortment of random Latin kids from the U.S.

I can't remember exactly how our powers combined to form the GOYA crew, but by the end of the first day, we had fairly clearly gelled together. I was the only boy that was consistently with the crew (the other boys were either really awkward or were native Spanish speakers from the U.S., so had easily slid right into making new, local friends). My roll in said group was cemented when the ladies discovered 1) that I was big old gay and didn't want to poke any of them, and 2) to their surprise and my own it turned out that I did, in fact, know a fair amount of Spanish....enough that I was the one that did all the translating, talking, and coordinating of our cross island adventures.

(In one instance, I made a deal with Bernie that if she bought the 10 books required for one of our classes that I would read them and tell her what they said, and we would study together. When we got our midterms back she got an A, and I got a C...I was like...WHAT THE HELL! I grabbed her paper....it was in English....the professor told her to write her paper in English. When I approached him to tell him that I was also a native English speaker he looked at me and said, “You're Puerto Rican...learn the language,” and walked away. Wasn't that a bitch!)

The GOYA crew, so named after the ubiquitous GOYA products found throughout Puerto Rico (and which we turned into an acronym which stood for GET OFF YOUR ASS), could be found together eating rice and beans for lunch and for dinner and for breakfast. We ate most of our meals together (la UP...pronounced YOU PEE...didn't have a meal plan)...and we only had meat about once per week, but with 20lb bags of rice, dozens of cans of GOYA beans and the rice cooker that I carried in my carry on bag from Minneapolis to San Juan, we were ready to go! Our weeks were fairly regular: Monday-Thursday, we had class...Thursday night I hit the gay bar with my queer island friends (and later boyfriend) that I met. Friday was beach day, Saturday was island adventure day, and Sunday was back to the beach. Not a bad way to spend a year of your life, eh?

(The person in the seat in front of me just shoved her seat backwards into my computer and almost knocked my ginger ale over onto the keyboard. There would have been murder a mile high in the sky if that had happened. Trust.)

Since the GOYA Crew officially disbanded in 2000, and we all went back to our respective campuses and lives and went about the business of growing up, some of us have seen each other in various configurations. One year Karly, who now lives with her British gal pal in England (she was our SoCal surfer chic dudette with the kooky Hawaiian middle name) did a road trip, scooped up Kylah in Montana and then drove to Denver to see me when I was staying there in 2001. And a couple of years ago, my beloved Candise aka Crack Ass aka Aunty Crackity picked me up from LAX during a brief trip, and we had dinner. Most of us have kept in some sort of touch over the years, but this trip is going to be extra amazing because one of the core GOYA Crew and my other most beloved of the group besides Crackity, Miss Keeley Pratt of Londontown, has flown in from Merry Olde Anglaterre for the wedding. Oh yes, the British Hussy is back and in full effect!

Keels and Candise kept me in stitches, and over the years, thanks to the Grace of God and Facebook, we have been able to keep tabs on each other, but tonight I will be in the presence of two of my favorite spirits, and I can barely stand the excitement...I may punch one of the Frenchies sitting next to me in excitement.

But wait! There's more!

There's also Ebony, Togba, Pradeepa, Manish, Stacey, Tay Tay, and perhaps even the deliciously sexy Mr. Kurt Gering (he used to teach at my high school...thank God he came a couple of years after I graduated or I would have been a star in my own After School Special). So many of my loved ones have up and moved to SoCal and of all the regions of the U.S., except the Pacific Northwest, it is the one area I travel to the least. And now, I get to see 'em all in one fell swoop!

I am missing my Puma something fierce at the moment, and by the time Tuesday comes around, I am going to be McKookers for Puma Puffs, but I am truly excited to see, spend time with, and love on some really amazing people in my life.

Get Off Your Ass!

Michael Jackson Homocided!

By the power of Latoya Jackson, I abjure you! In the name of the Almighty Joe Jackson, I cast you out! In the name of the L.A. coroner's office, I declare your death a homocide!

Granny get your gun and Dr. Murray get a lawyer cuz somebody is going to jail.

According to an anonymous law enforcement source, L.A. county is declaring Jackson's death a homocide. And Latoya Jackson's crazy ass predicted it. Give that bitch a turban and a 1-900 number...cuz Miss Cleo has been reborn. Call her Miss Jackson if you're nasty.

The story was reported at BlackPower.com, a magazine for which I have formerly written (and those bitches owe me almost $1000...don't make me call Judge Mathis).

The entire tale is a sad one that started with Joe beating Michael's ass and ended with Michael begging for ever increasing levels of narcotic substances best left to an anesthesiologist and an episode of Grey's Anatomy. As one friend of mine put it, Michael's nose died a long time ago, and his body just caught up.

Although I thoroughly believe that Jacko was ready to move on and have words with his maker. I also believe that his death highlights the reality of the ultra rich, ultra fabulous, and ultra unbounded by the laws that encumber the rest of us. I got my ass beaten on an almost daily basis for a good chunk of my life too. I did what most broke ass people do, and I got myself an addiction and a trip to rehab. Only the extremely over privileged get beaten, become mega super stars, build a personal amusement park, die with a billion dollars in assets, a new facial structure, and a different race from which they entered the world.

The world needs to let MJJ rest. For good or ill he had children that he obviously loved. His family and his children need time to mourn. Show them the same respect that was shown Jennifer Hudson when she lost her family. Shut up. Back off. Let the living grieve and let the dead rest in peace.

As for the murder charges...

Find the doctor, smack him in the face, tear up his medical license, and then let him go free. I believe that he did exactly as Michael asked him to do. There is no indication, at least that has been made public, that the doctor stood to benefit from Michael's death financially. There is always the chance that he was working for someone else. My money is on Joe Jackson's evil fucking ass. If that turns out to be the case...then the doctor goes to jail, Joe goes to the electric chair, and his surviving children are given first dibs to draw straws to see which of them gets to throw the switch. Of course, Mama Jackson gets to whoop Joe's ass first while he is tied up in the chair. I hope they air that shit on the season finale of American Idol. Now that would be a goddamn show. The only way it could be better would be if Ryan Seacrest came out of the closet and Simon Cowell admitted to slipping Paula pills.

In the end, the wheels of justice have been set in motion. Black folks tend to come out poorly in our criminal justice system, and the public at large is baying for blood. It doesn't look good for Dr. Murray. In the end, whether or not the death was accidental or pre-meditated, the fault lays squarely at the feet of Joe Jackson and the torture to which he put Michael and the rest of the children. The media are not guiltless or blameless in all of this. And, though it is harsh to say, Michael, at any point, could have asked for help and paid for the best fucking help available on the planet...so there is fault with him as well.

The coming months are going to turn his passing into an even greater circus...the only question remaining is who will be the ringmaster.

It Ain't Sunny in L.A.

Today has been somewhat of a challenge. I got up this morning in a dead panic when I received a text message from David. I thought I had overslept and missed my flight to Los Angeles. On top of that, I had gone to the movies the night before, and I could not find my cash card, so I wasn't sure if I could get out of Oakland to L.A.

I did find my cash card. Which was some relief. Went to the atm. Got cash out for the cab to the airport, and the damn card broke in half.

I had just enough money to get to the airport. But no money for food. David to the rescue with his credit card. Thank god. I ended up sitting next to a beautiful little girl and her Grandma, and I coached the peanut through her first flight. In exchange she taught me a game called "Picachu," which to someone over the age of 12 would be called Rocks, Paper, Scissors.

I arrived in Cali and got a solo van to Occidental College. That was awesome. The conference has been awesome so far. Though I am in a room surrounded by a bunch of media/media techies....which is always interesting. And, frankly, I am scared that at this point I actually understand most of the conversations.

In the interest of not spilling too many personal details of my relationship (you, my faithful readers know that I would normally tell all....but David is a bit more squeamish...such a lady). Today is one of those days that is totally challenging me. And to show mad love to my partner...he has been great. And I am saying publicly that though you are pushing every one of my insecurity buttons today....I am behind you (well not behind you,....ooooooooo holding back on the inappropriate comment...barely holding on......whew)...but I hope you have a blast...in my own selfish interest I hope it is a relatively quick blast.....and I love you.

GEEEEEEEEZZZUSS! Self censorship today is REALLY taxing my strength. Baby...we are going to have to talk about my blog....this is my outlet....and I am going to have to bust through and share sometimes...I am...yes I am...

but not today.

Damn.

Pray for me ya'll.