Monday, June 30, 2008
Trailblazers
It’s not everyday I write pieces that start with “It’s not everyday…”
It’s not everyday my father waxes poetic about family, alive and dead, about an aunt whose life can be the blueprint for an avalanche of books that speak of truth, life, tragedy, defeat and triumph, about a Torreon childhood I’m still learning 30 years into the fray… Even if for only a few minutes while waiting for the sun to set on a summer Sunday in a park that would make Amnesty International proud.
It’s not everyday I bond with my extended family over a couple of Tecates & Modelos, inside jokes, a Chespirito style volleyball game and a girl with a belly full of my own hopes, dreams and fears.
It’s not everyday the original inhabitants of 5008 Larry Avenue in Baldwin Park, CA minus a couple of excruciatingly loved viejitas spend a day together. The nostalgia in the air was as thick as the knot in my throat.
It’s not everyday my old man walks around in a 2008 Mexican League Champion Santos Laguna jersey demeaning all fans of soccer teams not from the hundred year old town of Torreon, Coahuila in my beloved, vast and beautiful Mexico.
It’s not everyday I feel the love on my tios, tias, primos, primas et al because quite frankly I don’t see them everyday.
It’s not everyday I wish the evening would last a lifetime.
It’s not everyday my father’s youth flashes before my eyes as I see 20-something Mexican men try to enjoy and create a life in a country not their own as they will father the kids that speak this language, that face the challenges souls braver than I have faced and eventually spend Sunday evenings as 60-somethings with the same smirk of that 20-year old of days long gone.
It’s not everyday I forget about the sad state of our planet and become excited about the future inhabitants of the City of Angels with the last names of Rodriguez and Martinez; our eventual replacements.
It’s not everyday 1 hour is the difference between a beautiful late night conversation and an impromptu departure that feels like I’ve been punched in the stomach.
But yesterday was that day.
AND…
It’s not everyday my father waxes poetic about family, alive and dead, about an aunt whose life can be the blueprint for an avalanche of books that speak of truth, life, tragedy, defeat and triumph, about a Torreon childhood I’m still learning 30 years into the fray… Even if for only a few minutes while waiting for the sun to set on a summer Sunday in a park that would make Amnesty International proud.
It’s not everyday I bond with my extended family over a couple of Tecates & Modelos, inside jokes, a Chespirito style volleyball game and a girl with a belly full of my own hopes, dreams and fears.
It’s not everyday the original inhabitants of 5008 Larry Avenue in Baldwin Park, CA minus a couple of excruciatingly loved viejitas spend a day together. The nostalgia in the air was as thick as the knot in my throat.
It’s not everyday my old man walks around in a 2008 Mexican League Champion Santos Laguna jersey demeaning all fans of soccer teams not from the hundred year old town of Torreon, Coahuila in my beloved, vast and beautiful Mexico.
It’s not everyday I feel the love on my tios, tias, primos, primas et al because quite frankly I don’t see them everyday.
It’s not everyday I wish the evening would last a lifetime.
It’s not everyday my father’s youth flashes before my eyes as I see 20-something Mexican men try to enjoy and create a life in a country not their own as they will father the kids that speak this language, that face the challenges souls braver than I have faced and eventually spend Sunday evenings as 60-somethings with the same smirk of that 20-year old of days long gone.
It’s not everyday I forget about the sad state of our planet and become excited about the future inhabitants of the City of Angels with the last names of Rodriguez and Martinez; our eventual replacements.
It’s not everyday 1 hour is the difference between a beautiful late night conversation and an impromptu departure that feels like I’ve been punched in the stomach.
But yesterday was that day.
AND…
It is everyday that I hope for days like this. It is everyday the love of my familia resonates like an old Christmas in the blue house, like a day at the beach in the old brown Monte Carlo, like a birthday party with too many kids, too little cake but just enough bliss for all involved.
Labels: fam, nostalgia, summer
Friday, June 13, 2008
The Buzz is Gone
As I was driving to work this morning (mind you, I drive from the San Gabriel Valley through East Los, L.A. proper, downtown, Silver Lake and Koretown) I didn’t see a single Lakers flag wearing car on the road. I even saw three or four Nissan Altimas and still nothing. I finally arrived to work and found two cars in our purple and gold (I’m not kidding) union building parking lot with Lakers flags on full display. Leave it up to the always optimistic union employees to keep hope alive. As much as I hate those Lakers flags, I love what they represent. I love that Los Angeles finds it’s epicenter through purple and gold. Today, how I missed them so.
As I’m sure all of you know the Lakers lost last night. They not only lost a pivotal Game 4, but they lost a 24 point lead and should ultimately lose the series as they are down 3 games to 1 and as any sports buff knows, no NBA team has ever came back from a 3-1 deficit in the Finals. Not MJ’s Bulls, not Magic’s Lakers, not Bird’s Celtics, no one.
We started out so well.
The Lakers were on fire at the start of the game. From the opening tip-off they looked like the Lakers that bulldozed through Western Conference teams in the play-offs. Aside from Kobe, they looked like a team possessed, they looked like Champs. By halftime their 24 point lead had been cut to 18 and by the end of the 3rd quarter it had been cut to 2. Courtesy of sloppy play, ridiculous shot selection and great Celtics defense the Lakers eventually lost.
I had some friends over for the game and boy how telling it was the way moods swung. At the start of the game, we chatted during the game, cheered, drank beer and happily ate pizza. By the third quarter, the pizza had turned as cold as the Lakers, the beer as stale as Kobe Bryant and I wanted no more. As the final buzzer rang, silence fell upon the group. Quiet stares of disbelief reigned supreme.
And it hurt, it hurt bad.
My friends left my apartment and I sat on my couch staring at the television while having no idea what I was watching anymore. I could have been watching the press conference of Bush’s resignation or an announcement that some scientist in Spain found the cure for AIDS but all I could think of was 24 points. 24 fucken points. In context, I know it’s only a sport but for that moment, for those next couple of hours I couldn’t’ think of anything else.
It’s hard to hate these Celtics, except Eddie House; his face is beyond punchable. In terms of professional basketball I have two favorite teams; the Lakers and players that hail from Los Angeles (born and bred Angelenos like myself). I love Baron Davis, Tyson Chandler, and yes even Paul Pierce; the heart of this Celtics team. There are few proefessional sports in which players wear their city on their sleeve and basketball is one of them. I cheer for Baron and Co. I love that they take the opportunity to give a shout out to their home at any given chance. I love that they represent. Shit, Pierce even threw up a Blood sign to Atlanta's Al Horford and got fined by the league because of it not too long ago. I don’t think you can get more gangster than that. 9 out 10 Bloods agree. Not that I condone this kind of behavior but still. I guess I’m just trying to find a silver lining and this is quite the valid one.
True, it’s not mathematically over but realistically it is. The fact that it’s a Boston team is what really ilk’s me. I hate most things Boston. I hate the fact that that city is well renowned for its accepted racism. That, above all else is why I don’t think that city deserves a championship brought by a team consisting of black and only black players. Am I the only one that sees the irony here? Anyway, as all the young kids are saying these days, it is what it is.
There’s always the chance of a historic comeback but then again there’s always next year. I just feel that in some way shape or form, the karma police has manifested itself in green uniforms and said, “Hey Kobe, time to pay up.” It’s just a shame that my beautiful and beloved city has to pay too.
Labels: Lakers, Los Angeles
Monday, June 2, 2008
"You couldn't love me more..."
I broke my summer concerts seal last night by way of The Cure concert at the Shrine with one of my trusty near and dear partners in crime, Mariana. The night began with a couple of cold Budweisers (you heard that right, Budweisers), a crappy bean and cheese burrito, a few sips from an old bottle of wine (Monte style) and a dope ass parking spot. USC is good for something after all… Fatima’s head just exploded.
“And I feel like I'm being eaten by a thousand million shivering furry holes
And I know that in the morning I will wake up in the shivering cold…
The spiderman is always hungry” Lullaby, The Cure
I had never seen The Cure live before. I mean, it’s kind of weird that they’d be on tour without a record to support or the fact that it’s not 1989, not to mention the popular opinion that they haven’t been relevant since I was in high school; that’s the mid-nineties for those counting. I didn’t expect to see anyone under the age of 25 at the show and I was pretty right on. I can’t say I was extremely excited to see them after all these years of damn near oblivion but I definitely would have lost sleep if I hadn’t taken the opportunity to see a band that parlayed some catchy and beautiful tunes into my heart’s psychologist through the emotionally turbulent time that is high school; a nostalgia craving is a mother fucker.
“I opened up my eyes and found myself alone, alone
Alone above a raging sea
That stole the only girl I loved
And drowned her deep inside of me” Just Like Heaven, The Cure
After waiting in line for a couple of Tokyo Iced Teas and Cape Cods, Robert Smith and Co. were before us: for the record, The Shrine ran out of beer (I bet that never happened when the Grammy’s were hosted there) and having invested 30 minutes and missed the performances of Pictures Of You and Fascination Street, I settled on a couple of Long Island Iced Teas; why I received two Tokyo Iced Teas is beyond me, but thirsty beggars can’t be choosers and I took my drink and went on my emasculated merry way. Cheers to girly drinks.
“Elise believe I never wanted this
I thought this time I'd keep all of my promises
I thought you were the girl I always dreamed about
But I let the dream go
And the promises broke
And the make-believe ran out...” A Letter to Elise, The Cure
I had soon forgotten the impact The Cure had on me in those formative high school years; even today their lyrics ring true as ever. With an open heart I admit to having two true loves in my life and to a lesser extent, one of the puppy love varieties. That sounds funny doesn’t it? I love my girl dearly, I really do. The heart may betray but it never lies and it doesn’t soon forget either.
“I've been living so long with my pictures of you
That I almost believe that the pictures are all I can feel” Pictues of You, The Cure
As Robert Smith belted out heart wrenching line after line, I thought of the scars laid upon mi corazoncito and felt a deep sense of sadness, appreciation and joy. Sadness because lost love may never be relived and what’s once lost may never be again. Appreciation because I’ve been blessed with mad unconditional love the way Lebron James has been blessed with mad b-ball skills, the way Miles Davis was blessed with mad musical genius, the way Che Guevara was blessed with an altruistic heart. Joy because of what I have, of what’s to evolve.
“Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am home again” Love Song, The Cure
My cousin was the first person to properly introduce me to The Cure. I remember him saying, “I want to date a girl that listens to The Cure.” I never quite understood what that meant until I realized my cousin is a hopeless romantic. That not being my stylo I dug the incredible sound coming from Smith’s guitar and the whimsical lyrics of Boys Don’t Cry and others while missing the heartfelt truths about lost love. It was kind of like reading Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet and simply digging the prose. As they say, “Prose before ho’s.” I kid.
“I try to laugh about it
Hiding the tears in my eyes” Boys Don't Cry, The Cure
A couple of hours into the show I realized all this. A came to terms with what this music continues to mean to me and a group of semi-drunken fans at the twilight of their fandom. Yes, Robert Smith is almost my mom’s age and The Cure today isn’t half The Cure of yesteryear but I don’t care. The sight of Robert Smith wasn’t a mere novelty as I cautiously expected. It was like an old friend, from a lost time visiting and saying, “Hey, remember when…"
“And I feel like I'm being eaten by a thousand million shivering furry holes
And I know that in the morning I will wake up in the shivering cold…
The spiderman is always hungry” Lullaby, The Cure
I had never seen The Cure live before. I mean, it’s kind of weird that they’d be on tour without a record to support or the fact that it’s not 1989, not to mention the popular opinion that they haven’t been relevant since I was in high school; that’s the mid-nineties for those counting. I didn’t expect to see anyone under the age of 25 at the show and I was pretty right on. I can’t say I was extremely excited to see them after all these years of damn near oblivion but I definitely would have lost sleep if I hadn’t taken the opportunity to see a band that parlayed some catchy and beautiful tunes into my heart’s psychologist through the emotionally turbulent time that is high school; a nostalgia craving is a mother fucker.
“I opened up my eyes and found myself alone, alone
Alone above a raging sea
That stole the only girl I loved
And drowned her deep inside of me” Just Like Heaven, The Cure
After waiting in line for a couple of Tokyo Iced Teas and Cape Cods, Robert Smith and Co. were before us: for the record, The Shrine ran out of beer (I bet that never happened when the Grammy’s were hosted there) and having invested 30 minutes and missed the performances of Pictures Of You and Fascination Street, I settled on a couple of Long Island Iced Teas; why I received two Tokyo Iced Teas is beyond me, but thirsty beggars can’t be choosers and I took my drink and went on my emasculated merry way. Cheers to girly drinks.
“Elise believe I never wanted this
I thought this time I'd keep all of my promises
I thought you were the girl I always dreamed about
But I let the dream go
And the promises broke
And the make-believe ran out...” A Letter to Elise, The Cure
I had soon forgotten the impact The Cure had on me in those formative high school years; even today their lyrics ring true as ever. With an open heart I admit to having two true loves in my life and to a lesser extent, one of the puppy love varieties. That sounds funny doesn’t it? I love my girl dearly, I really do. The heart may betray but it never lies and it doesn’t soon forget either.
“I've been living so long with my pictures of you
That I almost believe that the pictures are all I can feel” Pictues of You, The Cure
As Robert Smith belted out heart wrenching line after line, I thought of the scars laid upon mi corazoncito and felt a deep sense of sadness, appreciation and joy. Sadness because lost love may never be relived and what’s once lost may never be again. Appreciation because I’ve been blessed with mad unconditional love the way Lebron James has been blessed with mad b-ball skills, the way Miles Davis was blessed with mad musical genius, the way Che Guevara was blessed with an altruistic heart. Joy because of what I have, of what’s to evolve.
“Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am home again” Love Song, The Cure
My cousin was the first person to properly introduce me to The Cure. I remember him saying, “I want to date a girl that listens to The Cure.” I never quite understood what that meant until I realized my cousin is a hopeless romantic. That not being my stylo I dug the incredible sound coming from Smith’s guitar and the whimsical lyrics of Boys Don’t Cry and others while missing the heartfelt truths about lost love. It was kind of like reading Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet and simply digging the prose. As they say, “Prose before ho’s.” I kid.
“I try to laugh about it
Hiding the tears in my eyes” Boys Don't Cry, The Cure
A couple of hours into the show I realized all this. A came to terms with what this music continues to mean to me and a group of semi-drunken fans at the twilight of their fandom. Yes, Robert Smith is almost my mom’s age and The Cure today isn’t half The Cure of yesteryear but I don’t care. The sight of Robert Smith wasn’t a mere novelty as I cautiously expected. It was like an old friend, from a lost time visiting and saying, “Hey, remember when…"
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