What in all of the airborne albino fucks is going on here? I mean, really

 
America's most successful La Toya Yvonne Jackson impersonator is showing no signs of slowing down despite my string of urgent faxes to Jesus. In what I first thought was a set of photos from some Derek Blanks alter ego shoot channeling the eccentric Jackson sister, the poster child for Extreme Makeover: Collapsed Nostril Edition has hijacked some delusional fan club member's camera to bless you with some new glamour shots. For shame. I didn't dial up Homeland Security to report an alien sighting, so this is praise-worthy.

Can years of active knobslobbing prevent one's mouth from closing?

I have been pretty vocal about my feelings for Kimmie Blanco, so my disdain for all things Queen Bumble Bee Tuna should come as no surprise. These photos are particularly timely for me, as I happened across my response to her warning to Nicholas Minaj, and burst into a fit of almost uncontrollable laughter. If Kat de Luna, Snooki, La Toya Jackson, and an amateur aging Beyoncé-loving dragon queen from some Tennessee punk club (whose repertoire consists entirely of music from Carmen: A Hip Hopera) were somehow combined to form one formerly talented, but currently obnoxious dick-sucking vampire rapper, 2011 Lil Kim would be the result.


If appearances are to be believed, her unverifiably record-breaking Paypal album sales have afforded her an endless supply of Self-Hate Sapphire Blue contact lenses and racks of closeout garments from abandoned Montgomery Ward warehouses. Delusion truly is a disease, kids. It's no laughing matter. Or something.



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Well, after much anticipation, procrastination, and preparation, my time in Los Angeles (and the states) is winding down. I am moving to Panamá on June 30th at 1:10 1:15 1:30 PM. Damn flight changes. See my previous mention HERE.

Excited? Yes.
Nervous? Hell yes.
Ready? Absoluely.

It's time.

Since I became more interested in my Panamanian heritage, recognizing that it meant more than tamales, fried rice, and empanadas at Grandma's house, I have known that a trip to Panama was required. My cousins and I have toyed with some big grand, group trip where we'd tour and shake hands and eat spicy foods and wear sandals and straw hats and meet our relatives who've never left the country. Well, one cousin's out in the Midwest wearing cornrows as an adult, making his parents proud, one impressionable, self-esteemless girlfriend at a time. The other? Let's just say you can find her bent over at the waist on various sites for busty womenfolk. I grew tired of waiting. Who knows when this would ever materialize?

I like to think of myself as an adventurer. I appreciate challenges. I moved to Los Angeles from my favorite city, New York, sight unseen. Knowing a handful of people here, I figured the worst that could happen is that I'd soak up some awesome sun, be offered tons of free cocaine, fail as a dancer and move back East to eat my feelings. No pressure at all. The point is, it wasn't so big of a task that I'd run from adversity.

And there has been adversity aplenty during my time here.

After my savings had dwindled and my dream of starting an independent nation for people with glorious natural hair had faded, there was a time when I was left with less than a dollar to my name.  I kid you not. 87 cents and two packs of chicken-flavored Ramen noodles to be exact. My amazing parents had helped me out, and I was entirely too proud to ask anyone for help. Any inquiries about my Los Angeles experience were typically answered with, "Great!" or "Oh man, it's AMAZING!" or "Dope. You should come," or some similar fabrication.  Near the end of my third month here, when work became harder to find that anticipated, I considered sleeping in my car to save money. It was rough, to say the least.

(i know this is muy dramatical. yes, dramatical. but bear with me.)


Thankfully, it never came to that. Things fell into place. I found work, kept dancing, made friends, gained weight, lost friends, stopped dancing, lost hair, found even better work, started writing, started dancing, lost weight, kept writing, and here I am now, preparing for the next journey.

So, what happens next?

In June, I finish school. I plan to make an extended trip back East, see EVERYONE, eat my mama's cooking, and love on my nieces. I return to LA, sell EVERYTHING, surrender this apparent, and bounce.

That's the plan, anyway.

As this is a big undertaking, naturally, my largest concern is money. I'd been saving heavily upon deciding to make the move. However, adulthood being what it is, the funds have not always been as available to stash as I'd hoped. I'm on the shorter side of 90 days and, sure, things are coming together, but they could always be better.

Here's where you, the concerned, well-wishing reader come in. Wait...

Pardon me while I set my shame over on the counter.

*brief intermission*

Alright. I'll bring all this flowery, hopey-wishy rambling to a point.

The kid could use some help.

I'm not saving for gender reassignment. (Although that's totally cool and acceptable.)

I'm not shopping for a spiffy new MacBook.

I'm not looking to fund a venture to some hedonistic beachside gay pride celebration to frolic in the sand at what is ultimately a dressed-up orgy. Ahem. (Again, totally fine.)

I'm trying to go...home...and connect with a part of my heritage that I haven't always been connected to. I want to trace my foggy family tree, learn the language, the culture, the customs, and all the tiny nuances that makes Panamanians uniquely Panamanian, and, possibly, things that somehow make me, me. I want to teach English if possible.

And I want to document the whole thing.

Whew.

Again, I could use some help. My initial plan to do the immersion thing for three months may now be somewhere around a month to six weeks of study four hours a day, five days a week. This is totally fine. Every day counts. I will continue piecing together what should ultimately become a memoir. And I found some awesome ballet schools in the region where I hope to continue dancing.

No, i do not know how long I'm staying. I am not thinking about what happens after. I just need to get there and make the most of it. Could be a month, six months, a year. Maybe I'll meet a hot Rico Suave man and come up on some cutesie long-haired Spanish speaking chilluns with inherited glorious eyelashes or something.

I've set up this nifty little widget via Chip-In that will make assistance possible. I'm almost there, but a boost would be awesome.


If you can lend a hand, please do so. If not, prayers, well wishes, nude pictures and care packages of fine uniquely American junk food will also suffice.

Additionally, if you have any connections in the country region--Panamá is in CENTRAL AMERICA, and is not "a borough of Mexico," as once asked--or job contacts or suggestions, or other useful resources, please please please please please let me know. Email me HERE if you desire.

This widget will be stuck here, and also somewhere on the side of the page. And on Facebook. It's worth mentioning that I first joked then debated over whether to follow through with this request. I asked around, "Is this tacky?" Still not completely sure. At any rate, as much stuff as I see people requesting votes, clicks, and support for, I figured the least I could do is ask. The worst that could happen: you decline, I move to Panamá, go broke, and find a nice job in a cozy factory making your underwear. No pressure at all. Kidding.

Alright. There it is. If you can help, I'll send a fax to Saint Damita Jo, telling her to bless you and your bloodline with long life and intensified orgasms. I promise.

Again, thanks in advance.



Love, peace, and Zebra Cakes.


-alex.

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