I’m a binge Facebook consumer. Weeks, maybe even months go by. Then I find myself sucked into the vortex as I endlessly scroll. There’s the cryptic “Thanks everyone for your support while I was sick,” posting. Hey, would you mind adding a little detail? Was it a common cold or Ebola? For those of us who weren’t there for you, it’s hard to know the level of guilt and alarm we should feel.
There are the far right, and the far left rants, which eerily sound like the same rhetoric. There are the inspirational quotes, that change your life, and even a few Bible passages. No offense to The Big Man and God Jr., but the more I try to understand these quotes, the more garbled they sound. I realize a few millenniums have passed since this all went down, and there have been many translations since. I suppose it’s a bit like a game of telephone, so I’m willing to let the obtuse language slide. I’ll leave the interpretation to those who are really in the know.
I’m a sucker for the random nostalgic postings. Over the weekend, a friend posted a grainy “Photomat finish” photo from Cinco de Mayo, year 2000, and it all came rushing back. This was not your average, run of the mill, “Taco Tuesday Party”. The dress code was come as your favorite Latin celebrity. Party goers embraced the theme. Latin lovers, coffee moguls, pop stars, and the requisite revolutionaries; Don Juan, Juan Veldez, J Lo, Che Gueverra, and Poncho Villa were represented. We had three Carmen Mirandas. (Or were they Chiquita Banana?) Chi Chi Rodriquez met his future wife at our party, and yes, they are still married.
Tequila flowed like the Rio Grande. Someone I won’t mention, barfed in our hedges, and the police showed up not once, but twice. Fortunately my husband, in full Mr. Roarke-welcome-to-Fantasy–Island-white-suited-regalia assuaged them with his charm. Tatoo fetched them taquitos and refreshing beverages garnished with colorful umbrellas.