I Won’t Be Seeing “The Lone Ranger” and Here’s Why:

I was colorblind until I went to high school.

No, not literally. I went to a Catholic school where most of my classmates were predominately white; or, in reality, Filipino, neither of which I am. I’m of mixed heritage–African American, Hispanic, and Native American. If we were to meet at a party, one of your first questions may be about my ethnic background, because I’m pretty ethnically ambiguous.

But my race didn’t make a difference because we were all treated exactly the same when we entered through the preschool doors at 4 years old.

At 14, when I left that sheltered institution for the mean, hard, hallways of an inner city public school, it became evident to me that the small Utopia I was raised in was an anomaly.

I’ve only experienced blatant racism once–and it was in high school from a butt hole boy that happened to be African American and didn’t consider the way I dressed or spoke to be “black enough”.  That’s another story, though.

When I moved to LA, it was even more evident that the playing field is not level in Hollywood, either. 9 out of 10 casting breakdowns (or listings) are for caucasian men and women. After that, comes African American, followed by Hispanics, trailed by Asians.

At the tail end–not even a blip on the radar–are Native American actors.

Hollywood’s attitude towards the First American ethnic group is much the same as America’s general attitude: we often forget they exist.

We stole their territory, killed them with smallpox, and dumped them onto tiny patches of land and said “Go at it”.

We remember them at Halloween when we dress in shambley-faux imitations of their traditional garb, or when we’re kids playing the politically incorrect “cowboys vs. Indians”.

Ever since the dawn of film, Native Americans have been misrepresented as violent, unfeeling, bad guys (take a look at almost any early spaghetti western) who require elimination in order for the good guy to prevail. (For a great documentary on this topic, head over to Netflix and watch “Reel Injuns”.)

For them, the chances of landing a role with a positive outlook on their people, or any role in film and television, is slim to none.

[SN: a big shout out to Parks and Recreation on NBC for featuring an ACTUAL Native American actor, Jonathan Joss, in a role that doesn’t mock their entire existence.  That show is all kinds of awesome.]

ANYWAY, my point is, roles are not readily available for Native American actors.

No co-starring, guest-starring, or even bit roles.

So when a movie re-make as monumental and iconic as “The Lone Ranger” comes out, why the hell is Johnny Depp, by and large A WHITE DUDE, bestowed the privilege of being Tonto?

For freak’s sake, people!

And to mask the fact that Depp is, indeed, A WHITE DUDE, and not a Native American, they paint his face WHITE as if it’s some kind of tribal paint.

WHAT!??

Disney, look at your life. Look at your choices. 

Even the TV version cast a Native American (Jay Silverheels). And that’s back in the early 1950’s when casting was even more whitewashed than it is today!

Yes, Johnny Depp is a chameleon, he’s played lots of different roles, but this is too much. He’s effectively stolen this opportunity from hundreds of actors who get little to no opportunities at all. Okay, okay: he claims to have distant ties to a tribe; so do I (as do most people–it’s the “romantic” thing to do) and I can respect that; but, I’m not going to submit myself for those roles.  There are actors in Hollywood that were born and raised in a tribe and would be much better suited to represent the “people” onscreen.

I would argue that casting Depp this way just further exacerbates “Main Stream America’s” attitude towards completely ignoring the existence of this subset of people. They’re so invisible, that we’re not even going to cast them to play their own people in a summer blockbuster. EVEN THOUGH, they are banging down the doors to gain entrée into Hollywood.

I’m not-so-secretly happy that the movie is getting panned by a majority of critics.

This casting misstep is egregious.

It’s unforgivable.

And I’ll be showing my displeasure by refusing to spend my money on it.

Photo Credit: FanPop.com

Nooope. | Photo Credit: FanPop.com

As I Lay Dying…In My Shower.

If you came here for Faulkner–my bad. This post has no literary merit.

I am up writing this at the insane hour of 10pm.

You read that correctly: 10pm. Way past my bedtime.

I am fairly certain that I’m a geriatric old crone in the body of a 20 something who appears to be in her early to mid-teens. It’s surprising that I don’t have more identity issues.

I’m mostly awake, partially asleep at the moment because my throat has newly adopted a sandpaper-like coating and my stomach feels like it’s full of [insert something that makes you nauseous here because just thinking about the possibilities is making it worse].

I’ll be the first to admit that when I get sick, I turn into a big baby. Actually, I’m worse (sorry, babies, didn’t mean to insult you). I think the reason behind my sickly downward spiral is that I have a wonderful immune system that very rarely succumbs to any ailments. At most, I get sick twice a year. I’m not used to the misery.

Since relocating to LA, my allergies have been non-existent (huzzah!) which is one less opportunity for my body to form a mutiny. But I already feel those tiny little germs banding together to cripple the mighty sailing prowess of the S.S. Short and Feisty.

UGH.

To relieve some of my nausea, I decided to take an extended (read: 30 minute) shower just a moment ago–a remedy I came up with in college after imbibing one or four drinks too many.

This time around, being completely sober, was eye opening. Here are just some of the thoughts that rattled through my mind while coaching myself to keep my dinner from floating down the shower drain:

  1. Life is too short–if I make it out of this bathtub, I’m going to start living life more fully. But I should wait to do that until I put some clothes on because I do not live in a nudist colony. 
    • Where is the nearest nudist colony, anyway? What if I want to tour one–do I have to strip down to do it? Do they ever get tired of being naked? I get tired of wearing clothes–is the opposite possible?
  2. I’m going to look back on this horrible moment, years from now when I am filthy stinkin’ rich, and think “Man. I really did start from the bottom. Rock bottom.”
  3. My hair has been really shiny lately and it’s getting far too long. I’ve only let one person cut my hair, ever, and she lives on the East Coast. Who is going to cut my hair now?
    • I wonder what it feels like if I wear my hair like a mustache (the answer to that is: kinda slimy since it’s wet, but surprisingly satisfying.)
      • That’s what she said.
        • When did I start setting myself up for jokes?
    • Would a beard feel the same way?
      • Answer: Yes.
  4.  I wish I had an agent. Woe is freakin’ me.
  5. I am such a lightweight now that I don’t drink every weekend like I did in my Glory Days. One beer and I’m sick as a dog. Well, I don’t honestly think it was the beer that sent me to Death’s Doorstep. Rather, it was probably all of those drippy little noses I’ve been wiping these past couple of weeks.
  6. When is the next new episode of Parks and Rec coming on and will I live to see it?
  7. Is this real life?! :

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Best. Birthday. Present. EVER.

I wasn’t expecting big presents for my birthday tomorrow (although, they’re completely welcome and I also take Visa, Master Card, and traveler’s checks).

My mom was nice enough to come visit for the half marathon I ran last Sunday (details to come on that one) and she upgraded me from a busted iPhone 4 to a lovely iPhone 5. An expensive piece of technology is an awesome present according to anyone’s standards.

My roommate asked me what I thought an ideal birthday celebration would consist of and I told her ‘nothing’.

Her diplomatic response? “I don’t really care that you don’t want to do anything. It’s your birthday and I’m going to plan something with or without your input.”

Whatever she’s got up her sleeve, I’m sure it’ll be awesome.

HOWEVER.

This morning, my boss gave me the best birthday present imaginable. It fits me like a haute couture glove. There is no better present for this girl anywhere on the planet.

I’m gonna keep you in suspense for a few more minutes while I give you some back story (unless you scroll to the bottom before reading the rest of this…which would constitute as cheating!).

My boss told me that she was going to get me a bag for my birthday. I currently carry around a tote bag that eats my belongings and makes it really hard to keep track of everything I try to shove into its little canvas body.

I wasn’t over the moon about receiving a replacement, but I would have definitely been greatful as PRESENTS ARE THE BEST.

It would have also been a very useful gift and I’m all about utility.

So when she told me that she had gotten me the best present—the present to end all presents— I was naturally a little skeptical.

Because a bag can only be so exciting.

I walked into her house this morning (I’m substitute-nannying for her family for a couple of weeks) and her eager 2.5 year old daughter ceremoniously presented me with a gift bag.

The cute little terrible two-year-old darling baby girl made me a card, complete with scribbles that translated to my name, and I made sure to put on a huge show [read: Oscar worthy] of excitement over her thoughtful card.

I sifted through the tissue paper and pulled out a small box, that had also been decorated by the sweet darling.

I figured out then that I probably wasn’t going to be given the present I was expecting as that box was much too small to fit any bag at all (other than a Ziploc bag, maybe).

I opened it, pulled out a folded piece of paper and immediately heard the sweet notes of a glorious choir of cherubim and seraphim from the heavens above.

I blinked in astonishment and had to wait for my eyes to adjust because, surely I must have been dreaming.

This is what I saw:

I cried tears of joy.

I cried tears of joy.

I KNOW. I KNOW. I KNOW!!!!

That show is my absolute Reason for Life as I previously mentioned. It’s so important to me that I even mention it in the “about me” section of this blog. 

It just so happens that my boss knows someone that is intimately involved with the production of America’s greatest comedy primetime show. She used her connections because Hollywood is REALLY all about who you know, and now I get to meet Amy Poehler.

AMY POEHLER, PEOPLE.

I’m Ready to be a Housewife

I am ready to leave the American workforce.

My two jobs, 7 days a week are finally getting to me, and this single gal is ready to throw in the towel.

I am growing weary of the first dates and the stress of the constant “will I ever get married” mantra scrolling through my brain [to be fair, it only flutters in a couple of times a month now, but for drama’s sake, we’ll say it happens every hour].

Let’s get this girl settled in a homestead, already!

Disclaimer: I know being a homemaker and a stay at home mom is hard work––I do. No. Really, I do! I was a full-time, live in nanny of three children under 5 in a former life. That’s like being a SAHM, minus the conjugal duties and the ability to make decisions about how the children should be raised (which is tough when you’re a primary caregiver).

So, I’ll add that I don’t JUST want to get hitched–I want to marry a billionaire. Because I think rich housewives have got it made. Screw the bachelor’s degree I am still paying off, I’m ready to be a woman of leisure And here’s how I’d live my life:

  1. After ensuring that my three full-time housekeepers have everything they need to scrub my house from top to bottom, I’ll pour myself a mimosa–giving orders takes a lot out of you. Don’t worry, I’m compensating them well above industry standard because I know how hard they’ll have to work to clean my mansion modeled after Windsor Castle.
  2. I’ll be the primary care-giver for my children because I won’t lose my maternal instinct and love for kids just because I’ve got piles and piles of filthy cash. However, I will have an army of nannies “on-call” just in case I need to go to the bathroom in peace (something almost impossible to do while watching an ankle biter) and eat a meal without someone asking me if they can have some. Beyond that, I’m homeschooling and raising my kids to be geniuses. I’ll spend a fortune on tutors to train my kids in Math (the hard kind), Classic and Modern Languages, Art, and Sudoku (because I am really bad at that). I’ll sip on champagne while they work. 
  3. Which car will I drive (Lamborghini or Maserati?) to take a luxuriant trip to the public library? I know, not everyone fantasizes about spending time among stacks of moldy books, but I can’t imagine that gaining money will automatically change my abhorrence of shopping and spas. I’ll treat myself to a glass of wine in those hallowed halls. Everyone’s gotta “Treat Yo’Self” once in a while.
  4. Speaking of “Treat Yo’Self”, I will have every television, one per room, set to loop episodes of the hit NBC show, Parks and Recreation. That show is my Reason for Life and if it ever gets cancelled…I don’t even want to think about it. Hopefully, it doesn’t get cancelled before I’m rich. When I have briefcases full of greenbacks, I will pay NBC to continue airing it indefinitely. And by “indefinitely” I mean FOR ALL ETERNITY.
  5. I’d give half of my wealth to charity–but only for the tax write-off. That’s just standard protocol for people that have stupid amounts of money. But, HEY, I’m giving to charity! I’ll toast them with a glass of port (because apparently, my mental imagery of the incredibly wealthy also coincides with people who have issues with alcohol).
  6. I’d buy a fleet of horses, but never ride them, as I’m terrified of getting thrown (even though I did take a couple of lessons in western riding–never fully conquered that fear). It’s just a known fact that rich people have an impressive collection of animals and such. Maybe I’ll trade in the horses for white siberian tigers. Well, maybe not, we saw how that worked out for Siegfried and Roy.

What’s that, you ask? What about my husband? Well, obviously, he’d be my love slave and give me whatever I want, and always agree with me, and not care that I don’t like to shave and never lost the ‘baby weight’. Because as long as I’m in this fantasy world, I’m goin’ all out.

A perfect example of a "Desperate Housewife" | Photo Credit: Mummy-Mayhem.com

A perfect example of a “Desperate Housewife” | Photo Credit: Mummy-Mayhem.com

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