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August 16, 2004
X FLORIDA X
Last week, I was in Miami.
Whenever I tell people I’m from Florida, I always think they assume Miami because they light up like I just said Paris or something. But Miami is a different animal than the rest of Florida. It’s like a foreign party land that happens to be in Florida. Florida, the rest of it, is just this awesome southern peninsula where you can find tons of strip clubs, nursing homes and death metal bands. And then, you know, the normal run-of-the-mill family of six being murdered by teens with aluminum bats in Deltona over stolen clothes and an Xbox game system. You get it. “Normal” suburban life built on a swamp. You can’t use your sprinkler on Tuesdays. It’s a law or something and my dad wears high tops with knee high socks. Whatever.
I had the craziest two days one could possibly have. Missing persons report? Filed. Arguing in Spanglish with my Latina waitress at a fucking Irish pub? Check the box. Dancing to the neverending 50 Cent’s In Da Club remixed with a mariachi band in the background. Bet you can’t say you’ve done that. Ooh, now I did have some miso soup that had cilantro in it, and what a good idea!
My trip to Miami very much reminded why I actually do love Florida. I almost can’t wait until the end of the month. I’m going home for a week. Yes, a whole week. I sometimes dread going home. Don’t get me wrong. I love my family and my friends and seeing the “cool” people I didn’t like in high school who are now bored, boring or way less attractive (fuck, did I just say that?). It’s just the humidity and the boredom that sucks. The boredom doesn’t usually last long. It’s always replaced by some crazy shit.
I can make my cameo at the nursing home. Signing autographs for my mom’s friends (also known as dying patients, bless their hearts). I tried to tell my mom that they have no idea who I am or what MTV or Oxygen is, but she insists that they can’t wait to meet me. If you’ve ever had to autograph a copy of The TV Guide from the summer of year 2000 for a person that uncontrollably calls you a shithead because he’s totally senile, then hey, we have something in common. I don’t even complain anymore because if you’ve ever had Mercy talk to you through her teeth, going, “Meleesa you just sign, okay?” all short with you, then you know you’re in trouble. You’re never too old to get pinched or chased with the walis ting ting. Or have your heads “bang together.” Did your mom ever threaten that? “I bang your head together!” But she never did, and sometimes I was alone when she said this. Bang my head together with whom, mom? I really just want to make her happy, and if she's telling the truth and my cameo makes the old people happy, then that's even better. My mom told me how to handle those with Alzheimer’s though. She gave me an arsenal of wisdom. She said that when they start calling her a shithead (and that’s a direct quote) and start asking for their parents (sometimes people with this disease revert back to childhood themes), my mother gently strokes them and says, “Your mom is on the way. She just got stuck in the mud.” I now use “stuck in the mud” for almost every excuse. Late for the dentist. Sorry, stuck in the mud. Yeah, I know this is Hollywood. I just don’t have a headshot because that’s still very weird for me. Besides, I was stuck in the mud you shithead.
I had a very off weekend. Fun, but off. At one point, I recall taking my shoe off and putting it on the table. Who am I? Everybody was already done eating lunch. We were at the coffee and chatting phase, but still, why would I ever take my shoe off and put it on the table? Must’ve been all that Florida air. At the airport while waiting for a cheeseburger, I stood next to a fire alarm and in my head, a tiny voice that sounded a lot like my actual rational voice kept telling me to push the button. Push it. Push it. I have that problem with red buttons. Anything warning me not to touch, I just want to. It’s almost uncontrollable. I must remove myself from the sight of the red thing. It’s the worst in elevators. I was near the emergency exit door in my hotel too. That was very difficult for me. My finger actually itches with desire to pull, touch or break.
They put me in a room next to a vacationing family. The parents had their own room, and the two precious nugget kids shared a room with, I assume, their tween older siblings. Did I just say tween? The two little ones, probably 5 and 7, were raw. In the middle of the night, I heard a banging in the hallway and a tiny voice going, “Let us up in here!” I peeked out of the door, and the two cutest little boys were baby thugs pounding on the door with plastic whiffle ball bats. What’s with the bat as a weapon? I, myself, prefer nun chukkas. Have you ever hit yourself in the back of the head fucking with those? Really? Oh, me neither then. The kids had on oversized white shirts (you know, those white t-shirts that are long like dresses that dudes wear with jean shorts that are really just glorified denim culottes), with just their little legs peeking out from the bottom. The toes of their socks were dragging on the floor like they had been living hard for the past five years, just consuming Sunny D and smoking on a porch somewhere. Too hard to bend over and pull the socks up. They were adorable. And they even mean-mugged me like, Lady get back in your room. This doesn’t concern you. They had Sunkist moustaches and they mean-mugged me! I shut my door too. Quick.
I met some dudes from Chicago. They talked exactly like Jamie of Real World New Orleans fame. The intonation, the emphasis on certain words, the syntax, the use of the hands, the reference to several inside jokes. I soon discovered they attended rival high schools and knew Jamie. Small small world. One of them worked in casting for MTV and said to me, “Yo, why is everyone from Tampa so weird?” He meant no offense in this. I’m sure if you sat at an open casting call for MTV in Tampa, it’d be off the chain to you too.
I said, “Where’d you hold the call?” He said they held it at Mons Venus. Okay, well, when you hold a casting call at the place where the lap dance was invented, surely you’ll meet some crazy folks. He then went into detail about the kinds of people he met. Everyone else in the room was like, “That’s insane!” and I was like, “That’s actually pretty normal…” I mean, Tampa was the death metal capital of the world. Represent y’all. The drummer from Obituary, his brother (not the drummer), went to my high school and he was fine. I used to straight up love him. Wrote his name on my folder like he was my man, like he straight up didn’t have Obituary sweatpants on every day. I wonder what he’s doing.
Ahh, the high school memories. Did I ever tell you about the friends I had that wore cow costumes complete with utters, as they sang a revised version of Black Sabbath’s Sweet Leaf? No? Probably because the revised lyrics used vaginal terminology and that would just make it seem like I’m weird for just the association. Whatever though. They were nice people. I liked them. Shorty and Mercy liked them.
On the plane ride home, I read the latest issue of In Touch. You know, the cheap Us Weekly. Dude, what the fuck is going on in journalism? A full page was dedicated to the fact that Cameron Diaz had trouble putting on a pink sweater. And then there was a two-page feature about Paris Hilton allegedly being beaten up by that Nick Carter. This is a quote from the story: “It looks to me like the mark on her arm was made by a strap. You could pull it tight on your arm and create that. And it is not difficult to use makeup on your face.” So are they saying that Paris Hilton has some crazy form of Munchausen Syndrome? Then some waitress was quoted as saying that Mary Kate Olsen ate all her food at a sushi place. Yay! So, why am I reading this again? Oh, the best piece of non-information was the way that Kevin Federline (Britney’s fiancé) wore his tennis shoes without shoelaces. They were wondering if he would “trip down the aisle.” And even worse than that, they pointed out that Britney Spears has acne because she eats Cheetos. Closed up on the acne and everything. There is something very fucked up about that, and even I, a person who half smiles at the discovery that the rich and famous have fake pinky fingers, crack addict children and cellulite, thought that was really fucked up.
I ought to be ashamed of myself for reading (devouring) that shit (cover to cover). It had Jennifer Lopez on the cover too. I was so over that Bennifer shit like 9 years ago, so why I purchased this magazine, I don’t know. Purchased being the operative word. You purchase Flaunt. You purchase Vanity Fair. You purchase Lucky. I usually read the tabloids for free while I get a pedicure. So, since I wasted your time telling you about these inconsequential celebrity stories, I’ll let you in on something way more entertaining. Go to Jennifer Lopez's page. Click on whatever to enter and listen to the intro to the site. That is, hands down, one of the most entertaining things on the Internet. I’d like to welcome you to Jennifer Lopez Dot Com. When I get all high tech on that ass, I’m putting one of those on my page. Same exact accent too.
Oh yes, and for those of you that are total sweetheart peas in a pod, Shorty and Mercy were not hit by Hurricane Charley thank goodness almighty. They are doing very well. And thank you for your concern.
P.S. Tampa til death. Throw up your Xs, bitch.
P.P.S. (if that is such a thing), I went to a Napoleon Dynamite party the other day. Um, they served tator tots, dressed in characters, walked around calling each other idiots in that special voice. I loved it. And, of course, I blew up the whole spot by inviting Shondrella who plays Lafawnduh to the party. Yes, Lafawnduh was totally at a bachelor ass apartment party thanks to me. As a surprise too! Everyone loved her. And she gave us all inside scoop on the movie. Did you know that dance sequence was shot as one long continuous shot, and that homeboy didn't use a choreographer? It's all him. Yes, for that long! And yes, I do think I'm awesome for knowing both that and Shondrella.
Posted by melissah at August 16, 2004 12:48 PM