...Union Verdadera

Here we go with another weekend recap.
Friday:
Hopefully, you’ve all noticed the NBA play-offs started a couple of weeks ago and a certain Los Angeles team is thick in the mix of it all, albeit sucking ass as of yesterday. I’d made plans to hang with my girl but also wanted to watch the Laker game. My homies were headed to Hooters in WesCo and in an effort to spend quality time with wonders et al while enjoying some yummy beers and passable food at a less than reputable spot the chica and I made the hour long trek to the edge of the S.G.V. to throw back a pitcher of Heineken and have a bite to eat. A funny thing happened at Hooters. This MMA wanna-be douchebag kept looking at our table as the Laker game went on. At some point we made extended eye contact the way strangers do at the gym and I looked over to Bear and said, “Dude, that guy keeps looking over here, he must be a %$@@&*.” Sure enough, meathead was so taken by my rugged yet refined good looks he managed to read my lips and strutted over to our table in his best WWE entrance walk.
Douche: Hey, why did you mouth %$@@&*?
Dodger fan extraordinaire: Um, that’s none of your fucken business
Meathead: Do you know who I am?
Far from intimidated Monte self: I don’t give a fuck who you are.
Small penis syndrome peanut brain: Do you want to go outside so I can show you?
Bear: Dude, relax
Alpha male exterior, frightened little child interior: Do you know who I am; I’ll fuck you up so fast…
It walks away.
Jesus Christ, what a fucken idiot. I’m a lover, not a fighter, but I’m also a fighter so don’t get any ideas. I guess that whole exchange was my fault, I forget the universe sometimes conspires to teach us a lesson which in this case is, don’t go to fucken Hooters. I forget we still live in an age where the opinion of complete strangers enrages some so much as to want to throw hands. I actually feel sorry this breed. As Joe said, “It’s just natural selection at work.”
I finished my beer, made fun of the Mexican Napoleon some more and headed home. My only regret for the night? Not prompting Mr. Drives a raised truck with customized license plate to speak in third person. That would have been gold.
Saturday:
I actually woke up at about 5:15AM. Why? Because I was golfing that day. What time was I going to golf you ask? 11:30AM. Yea, I don’t know what’s wrong with me either. My dad swung by to take my truck. Since I’ve purchased a new car I figured I’d give my old truck to my pops or sister. After a couple of hours of watching Family Guy I got ready and waited for my buddy Joe to pick my ass up. We got to the course early, met up with Smy, shot the shit for a minute and finally hit the course. We were paired up with a less than interesting 50-something year old Asian man, so we thought. We usually go easy on the brew until maybe 2 hours or 9 holes into our game. This time, not so much. Beers were cracked open before we even teed off at hole 1. By hole 9 we were in a happy place and out of beer. Our golf buddy, Winfred, or Wilfred or Winford – all three of us called him by a different name – bought us a round and Smy and I bought a sixer on top of that. I honestly don’t know how we finished that course and actually shot decent scores all around. I don’t even remember saying goodbye to Wilford. Joe and I headed to The Hat for some booze soaking grub. I knew something was wrong with what we ordered when a couple of obese people saw the cooks making our stuff and said aloud, “Damn, what’s that?” Ooh-oooh, heart, don’t fail me now. A pastrami burger, onion rings and lemonade later I stumbled up my stairs stripped down to my chonies (that’s right ladies) and knocked the fuck out until 11:30PM. I woke for a few hours, watched TV and went right back to sleep.
Sunday:
I woke up late, chilled out, got ready and ran some errands (meaning, I bought Mother’s Day gifts for my mom and sister) before heading over to my mom’s house. We planned to BBQ and that we did; my dad even bought a new grill. A recent resolution of mine has been to spend more time with my immediate family. It’s not like I hardly see them or anything because I see my sister and nephew at least once a week but I’ve felt this need to reinvent my relationship with my family. Thing is we have a great relationship as it is having been through the same heart breaks and all but yesterday was a testament to how great things are when we’re all together. With my dad around, it feels like we’re making up for lost time. My dad’s always been around but rarely side by side with my mom. This tide of change is one my sisters and I have been waiting for, for a long ass time. Even though our parents have no future together, their future with us is undeniably bound and I’m thankful for that. We ate, chatted up a storm, tossed my nephew around, admired each others new or relatively new vehicles and finally called it a night. I drove home with an overwhelming and cheesy sense of happiness and gratitude while pumping Juana Molina tunes into the 10 freeway’s night. Te sigo extranando mi viejita.
“Que tengan union verdadera…”
Juana Molina, Rudo Y Cursi
Labels: fam, Lakers
Adobe, Mole and We

I haven’t been able to find the wit or charm or even inspiration to write anything post Europe. I almost haven’t wanted to write anything if only to revisit my untainted site and easily jump start my very own time machine. Today, there are two distinct periods of my life that I have finally reconciled. B.E. (Before Europe) and A.E. (After Europe). I’ve written enough about it and talked even more. Wait, I’ve talked, talked, talked, talked, talked, talked A LOT about my experiences in Europe (never unprovoked of course) and for the sake of my own sanity I think I need to stop now. It’s become clear that the only way to come to terms with the fact that I am here and Europe is waaaaay the fuck over there is to let go of that far and away elusive lover I’ve come to know as Paris. Te suelto la rienda hasta Septiembre.
Before I forget, tacosam, thanks for your comments and vicarious ways. Those almost daily comments were a gay man’s glory hole in the men’s restroom: unexpected and never disappointing. So again, thanks. If you’re ever in L.A. proper and want a beer or some La Estrella tacos, hit me up.
So back to my regularly scheduled life, which to be honest is really fucking great sans the virtues of Europe because the virtues of L.A. are quite comparable; no joke. I mean, its spring but it feels like summer. Baseball is back and the Dodgers look like a legitimate powerhouse. The Lakers are rolling through the play-offs in Shaq era-like fashion. I’ve been golfing like never before all the while slowly improving even though most of my friends seem to have given up on the sport. My nephew is becoming a mini mad man. Summer is technically less than two months away. I’ve been spending lots of quality time with quality peeps. I return to school in the summer to refine this thing I call writing. My mom has retained some and I repeat SOME level of stability. Conservatives are reeling, crying and tea bagging like the dickheads they are in the aftermath of a devastating lose of the White House. I’ve rediscovered, as I do every spring/summer, the Pixies & J Dilla and the unequivocal musical joy they bring to my everyday. The Hollywood Bowl calendar is stacked with yummy ear candy goodness. Ten years after buying my first car, I finally buy another. My fantasy baseball team is already way ahead of the pack, again.
But I digress. In an effort to get back on the writing track, I’ll cop out and talk about my weekend.
Friday
Friday’s are always the same for almost everyone in the following way. We wake up looking forward to the end of the day as the morning routine feels less convoluted and more pleasant. Co-workers almost feel like friends as the work day flies by. Evening plans are meticulously planned even if the agenda is to stay home and bring your TiVo up to speed. Work flew by and before I knew it, I was playing with my nephew at my mom’s house as my dad waxed poetic about how emotional he’s become as of late which I thought was funny and strange; for the first twenty five years of my life I’d seen him cry maybe 4 times. In the last 5 years? 6 times maybe? I dunno, I could be wrong on that number but what I’m sure of is that the unemotional unfazed machista father I knew as a kid has been disarmed. A couple of hours later, I dashed home, showered and waited for Mina to hit me with the, “I’m outside” text. Mariana made a cameo appearance. We jumped on the 110 to the 101 and were throwing back Heinies at the Little Temple Bar post haste. We danced, clowned and laughed our asses off until last call. My drunken ass ate a hot dog, stumbled up my stairs and passed out on my couch.
Saturday
For no damn reason, I woke up early on Saturday. Crudo and sleepy I tried to fight my way back to sleep but was startled by a missed phone call. My dad needed me to fill out some documents for him so I threw on some pants, jumped in the ride and went to back Monte. We shot the shit for a while as Control played in the background. It took me like 30 minutes to fill out a 3 question questionnaire. If you haven’t seen the show, I’ll just say that even the commercials are dope. Reason 23,486 why it’s great to be Latino. I bid my pop farewell and headed to the cemetery to visit my grandma. It’s one thing to visit her with my family and all but it’s a whole different experience when I roll solo. The emotional walls come crashing down. I revert to the emotional beast I once was as a child and suppress as an adult, a male adult. Never underestimate the misguided power of gender roles kids. I chatted with my G, arranged her flowers and headed to the driving range for a minute. I made it home in time to shower and chill out. My cousin invited me to his place to watch the Pacquiao vs. Hatton fight. I made the 5 minute drive to his house and watched the fight the only way any Pacman fan should; with a house full of Filipinos. It was interesting and extremely heart warming to watch the fight with my cousin’s relatively new family. The parallels in culture, mine and theirs, were way similar. From the welcoming to the overzealous cheering to the “do you want to take some food for your wife?” offer even though I’m not married to the clinginess to the beautiful babies, to the spectacular food to the Lia Durans and Jasmine Villegas' of the world... These small and subtle but enriching experiences reaffirm my belief that we are all beautifully the fucking same. An incredible knock out later I went home and waited for Lilia and Mariana to swing by for another night out. We headed to the Little Cave threw back a few Stone I.P.A.’s and shot the shit until they turned the lights off on us.
Sunday
I developed a bit of a sore throat so I woke up, took a swig from the Nyquil bottle, ate a fantastic soyrizo and beans breakfast and went back to sleep. I woke up round 4:30 and realized most of the days good sporting events had come and gone. Tiger took a big shit, the Dodgers won again and there was nothing else to watch so I fired up back to back to back episodes of Family Guy. Fatima finally arrived; we hung out, ate from La Estrella and watched TV until we both passed out in the living room.
It’s Monday and the Lakers start their series against the boring ass Rockets. I said ass rockets. Anyway, go Lakers, Dodgers and whoever is playing the Giants and Celtics.
Peace.
Labels: boxing, fam, Fil-Mex
El Ultimo de la Fila

Monday was our last full day in Barcelona. We leave to Rome in a couple of hours and as the reality that unfulfilled love is the only romantic thing in this world hits me, I find I've finally fallen in love with Barcelona.
We started the day by going to the Montjuic, "mount of Jews," I didn't see any by the way. Montjuic is a hill that overlooks the entire sprawl that is Barcelona on the east and the Mediterranean Sea on the south. We took this cable car even further up that hill, that lead to this medieval castle where fascist Franco held political public executions. It wasn't the sexiest thing to see but interesting nonetheless.
We jumped back on the train and headed to Gaudi's Parc Guell. We strolled by Gaudi's old house snapped a few photos, avoided children that seemed to have magnets on their heads all trying to connect with my nuts and eventually headed back to the hotel for a nap. I'm telling you, jet lag is a mother fucker.
I was woken by a soft voice that kept saying some variation of, "Baby, I'm hungry." We freshened up and took a stroll. We found this place called something like, Escina de Estrellas. Our waiter was an incredibly nice man from Pakistan; Fatima thought he was very good looking. Me, not so much. We asked him to make a suggestion and what does he suggest? Meat. I thought twice for a second to which he said, "Esta muy sabroso, nadie lo come y dice que no le gusto." Sold.
Now, I recently started eating meat at home to prepare for this trip but this is how out of the carnivore loop I am. That or I'm just a dumb ass. He brings over a plate of what looks like medium slabs of steak. I promptly grab a piece and take a bite out of a cold, raw piece of meat (that's what she said). The waiter comes back with a small cooking apparatus and says, "No, haci no!" Fatima laughed her ass off as the waiter explains how that happens all the time. I think he was just trying to make me feel better. The meat came with this crazy delicious sauce and not much else was needed. It was NorCal hella good. Fatima and I devoured our food, drank and talked up a storm. Now THAT was a culinary boner extraordinaire.
In need of a nightcap we headed further down our street and went into this crotch rocket biker bar. The bar was empty, except for a girl playing video games who happened to be the bartender. We ordered a liter of sangria bought a pack of smokes and talked, talked, talked. We listened to the poetically named El Ultimo de la Fila while sympathizing with the immigrants of the world.
Traveling changes me; it reaffirms or debunks my absolute truths. It does for an umpteenth amount of reasons but Barcelona has, in it's diverse identity (Catalan, Hondureno, Basque, Pakistani) reminded me of how fortunate I am in being not just from Los Angeles, not just from California, but yes, from the good ol U.S. of mutha fucken A. Why? Well, Barcelona is crazy diverse, NYC diverse. People come here from the four corners to make a better life themselves and their family. Why else would they come right? In L.A., NYC, even Chicago, immigrants find refuge in their respective communities. Boricuas have the Bronx, Harlem for that. Mexicanos and Salvadorenos have East Los, Santa Ana, L.A. proper, El Monte for that. Eastern Europeans have Northwestern Chicago for that. For example, Mexicans come to L.A. and never have to learn the language. They should for the betterment of their situation but it's not necessary for survival. In Barcelona, he or she that does not assimilate does not survive. The immigrant in Barcelona has to become a Barcelonian. It's that simple.
But for that I love Barcelona; rarely is a city so unapologetic and telling of character.
While L.A. is a hodgepodge (hi Mariana) of people and cultures it is also a hodgepodge of opportunity, especially for those with deep roots there. I, as an Angeleno do not have to leave L.A. to make a better life for myself, not now at least. I live in a city that will sustain, that does sustain. Shit, with the way I get homesick I could never move to another city, never; this I just realized. But if things got rough and the economy continues to tank and L.A. can no longer allow for the life I have I'd probably rather die in L.A. than transplant these intricate and beautiful roots in another city. My empire wasn't built in a day. On to Rome.
C/S,
Lucio
Labels: Barcelona, immigrant, Los Angeles