Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Homecoming
You've probably guessed it by now. I've been on a weekend shenanigan writing tip. This past weekend was as non-eventful as a John McCain bowel movement. Wait, unless you count Thursday. The partner in crime of the night, Lilia, wrote a dope and funny piece about her adventures with the narrator of these here weepy blog. Check it out... HERE! She said it best so why say it again.
Friday's post work itinerary included a couple October Fest brews with my castrated primo, a Presidential Debate that nearly bored me if it wasn't for the robot posing as someone's great grandfather with cute little T-Rex arms, a Mediterranean salmon dinner and more brew. I was gently buzzing, hella full and tired by midnight.
My sis and Noah came over on Saturday. We all ate, took naps and watched t.v. into the evening. I don't think I've ever kissed a boy this much. Congrats Noah, you had me at BUUUUURRRRP. Raise that fist playa.
Word came later in the day by way of text message that the 35er would be the spot for the night. Lazy as fuck I still wanted to go. What started off as an ex-B.P. double date turned into an Extended Monte Crew Drinking Convention. The trifecta was in full effect: Mary Jane, Osito Panda and So-Fee-Ah among other Garvey Blvd driving professionals. Good times like ol' times. Flashes of 2003 came and went. Kanye and Chris Martin blasted through the speakers and we were back...
For a couple of hours in the 35er basement I was home again.
Sunday! Sunday! Sunday!
The night before, my homie Sofia's bro invited my chica and me to his place to watch football on Sunday. I gladly excepted and made the journey to West Co. but not before a stop at my chica's grandma's place for a a classic Mexican breakfast; Chilaquiles, beans, eggs and Heineken Light.
A couple of ice cold Modelo's, a nap and annoying 49er fan chants later we were headed back to L.A. By the way, I thought Raider fans were supposed to be obnoxious idiots and the shithole fans of the NFL? Well, I know of a couple of 49er fans that would make a 100 story elevator ride to the top with Joan Rivers, Donald Trump and the Republican chick from The View seem like a vacation. I thought I was watching the game with the most annoying kid from high school. Wait, I was watching the game with the most annoying kid from high school. Funny thing, the Bronco fan is my favorite of the bunch.
Eh, maybe it was eventful.
On to tonight. I don't think I've ever seen soo many Dodgers hats on people that shouldn't be wearing hats.
Go Dodgers!
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
White Tank Tops
My Friday evenings usually begin at 5:30PM with a bee line from Koreatown/Silver Lake to the big brown comfy couch at home for an hour nap and some psychological debriefing. This Friday, it began with a 6 week old but always familiar route through downtown L.A. and into the S.G.V. I’ve yet to find a barber in my neighborhood; actually I haven’t even looked for one. I’ve been going to the same barber since I was 16 (that’s 14 years for those keeping score) and have no intention of changing that. Why make the every two week trek to El Monte? I’ve got a dozen reasons. Besides, my barber has become an extended member of my friends. He doesn’t just cut my hair; he’s a sports analyst, movie critic, philosopher, comedian, political pundit, El Salvadorian ambassador, automotive expert, black market broker and psychologist/family therapist. The $9 + $3 tip = $12 price tag is a small price to pay for 15-20 minutes with such a multi-faceted human being.
I had tickets to the Dodger game on Friday. Having sprung a last minute invitation on my friend Sofia, I wasn’t sure if she was going to come through and figured I’d go see my little nephew and sister if Dodger Blue wasn’t in my immediate future. A confirmation and haircut later I jet to my sister’s place to get a quick Noah fix. “First pitch be damned” bounced off the walls in my cranium. I got home just in time to shower and dress seconds before Sofia called and said she was out front. We got to the Ravine, threw back a couple of Dos XX and made our way to our seats only to get a serious hook up from our friend Nicole. We went from Reserve Level seating to sitting three rows from the field and about twenty yards from Manny Ramirez. ‘Twas the start of a beautiful night on the last Friday of summer ’08. Somehow we ended up with club access to some bar/restaurant in the stadium I had never even seen. A few brews and a hunting vs. vegetarianism conversation later, Sofia and I found ourselves in a damn near empty parking lot. We decided to cap the night off with a stop at a bar two blocks from my place.
Now, my neighborhood is relatively safe. Trust me, there are white folks named Todd and Bea that live in my building. There was a freakin’ bunny in my yard last night, a bunny! But damn. I was feeling a bit adventurous and thought we should go to Dusty’s Sports Bar on Figueroa. As I had mentioned in my last posting, I walked by last Friday and saw a handful of questionable characters. What do I mean by that? Tattoos on a couple of bald heads and old men in flannel shirts. Get my drift? Anyway, I had consumed at least five beers at this point and was pretty damn spirited to say the least. As I’m walking to the entrance I see a group of guys standing out front just kinda hanging out. I approached the group and saw wet drops on the concrete leading up to a pool of blood as large as a small doormat. To this I said aloud, “What the fuck is that!?” I hadn’t noticed there was a guy holding his side and on a cell phone, who reluctantly said, “It’s my blood homes, I just got stabbed.”
Now I’ve lived in L.A. my entire life and have yet to see a person that was currently involved in a stabbing one way or the other. All of this guy’s cholo buddies were just standing around puffing away on their ciggies as if their bleeding friend was lining up a 2AM booty call and not on the phone with a 911 operator. I looked at an astonished Sofia and said, “Dude, want to go somewhere else?” I’m not sure if the absurdity of it all of or the osmotic desensitization caused her to say, “Let’s have ONE drink.” An hour later I was in my living room watching Family Guy as I waited for my chica to bring me some late night drunk grub; precious bodily fluids intact.
Saturday was as boring as any ‘ol kid-pretending-to-be-an-adult work less Tuesday. My living room played host to a vegetarian burrito breakfast, a couple of naps and a pant less afteroon until the shower bug bit, the chica arrived and sushi hunger struck. Them belly full, but they sleepy.
Sundays are almost always all good. Except when you wake up early to check the latest NFL injury report, confidently update your fantasy football line-up, watch your favorite transplanted football team cock tease you worse than Laura Cipres did at your last 8th grade dance at Potrero. What’s worse, both of my relevant fantasy football teams lost; my main team losing by one unforgiving point. All I could think was, “Gee, did I just wake up to the filming of Radiohead’s music video for Let Down?”
Anyway, it’s already Wednesday. I woke up today to a surreal summer morning at the start of fall. The beautiful girls from my teenage years will wean themselves off those marvelous white tank tops, the Hollywood Bowl has downgraded its mystique, the stream of cars outside my window no longer sound like concrete waves but like desolate piano keys trying to get home one frustrated driver at a time. The Fall is here.
I had tickets to the Dodger game on Friday. Having sprung a last minute invitation on my friend Sofia, I wasn’t sure if she was going to come through and figured I’d go see my little nephew and sister if Dodger Blue wasn’t in my immediate future. A confirmation and haircut later I jet to my sister’s place to get a quick Noah fix. “First pitch be damned” bounced off the walls in my cranium. I got home just in time to shower and dress seconds before Sofia called and said she was out front. We got to the Ravine, threw back a couple of Dos XX and made our way to our seats only to get a serious hook up from our friend Nicole. We went from Reserve Level seating to sitting three rows from the field and about twenty yards from Manny Ramirez. ‘Twas the start of a beautiful night on the last Friday of summer ’08. Somehow we ended up with club access to some bar/restaurant in the stadium I had never even seen. A few brews and a hunting vs. vegetarianism conversation later, Sofia and I found ourselves in a damn near empty parking lot. We decided to cap the night off with a stop at a bar two blocks from my place.
Now, my neighborhood is relatively safe. Trust me, there are white folks named Todd and Bea that live in my building. There was a freakin’ bunny in my yard last night, a bunny! But damn. I was feeling a bit adventurous and thought we should go to Dusty’s Sports Bar on Figueroa. As I had mentioned in my last posting, I walked by last Friday and saw a handful of questionable characters. What do I mean by that? Tattoos on a couple of bald heads and old men in flannel shirts. Get my drift? Anyway, I had consumed at least five beers at this point and was pretty damn spirited to say the least. As I’m walking to the entrance I see a group of guys standing out front just kinda hanging out. I approached the group and saw wet drops on the concrete leading up to a pool of blood as large as a small doormat. To this I said aloud, “What the fuck is that!?” I hadn’t noticed there was a guy holding his side and on a cell phone, who reluctantly said, “It’s my blood homes, I just got stabbed.”
Now I’ve lived in L.A. my entire life and have yet to see a person that was currently involved in a stabbing one way or the other. All of this guy’s cholo buddies were just standing around puffing away on their ciggies as if their bleeding friend was lining up a 2AM booty call and not on the phone with a 911 operator. I looked at an astonished Sofia and said, “Dude, want to go somewhere else?” I’m not sure if the absurdity of it all of or the osmotic desensitization caused her to say, “Let’s have ONE drink.” An hour later I was in my living room watching Family Guy as I waited for my chica to bring me some late night drunk grub; precious bodily fluids intact.
Saturday was as boring as any ‘ol kid-pretending-to-be-an-adult work less Tuesday. My living room played host to a vegetarian burrito breakfast, a couple of naps and a pant less afteroon until the shower bug bit, the chica arrived and sushi hunger struck. Them belly full, but they sleepy.
Sundays are almost always all good. Except when you wake up early to check the latest NFL injury report, confidently update your fantasy football line-up, watch your favorite transplanted football team cock tease you worse than Laura Cipres did at your last 8th grade dance at Potrero. What’s worse, both of my relevant fantasy football teams lost; my main team losing by one unforgiving point. All I could think was, “Gee, did I just wake up to the filming of Radiohead’s music video for Let Down?”
Anyway, it’s already Wednesday. I woke up today to a surreal summer morning at the start of fall. The beautiful girls from my teenage years will wean themselves off those marvelous white tank tops, the Hollywood Bowl has downgraded its mystique, the stream of cars outside my window no longer sound like concrete waves but like desolate piano keys trying to get home one frustrated driver at a time. The Fall is here.
Labels: baseball, Dodgers, fall, fantasy sports, Los Angeles, nightlife
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
In the middle of your picture...
Last Friday, still psychologically reeling from the news that a Metrolink Train crashed head on with a Union Pacific Train in the valley, I met up with an old friend from high school at a nearby bar named The Little Cave. Since my last posting, I’ve moved from El Monte to Highland Park with my chica (more on that later) and now have numerous reputable watering hole options within walking distance. Reputable meaning: without prostitutes. Three minutes into the fifteen minute walk to The Little Cave I started to question my decision to walk there. I went from, “Ha, look at me I’m smart, I’m walking to a bar,” to “Shit, I don’t know this neighborhood very well maybe I should have asked my friend to pick me up.” I strolled by a super divey hole in the wall sports bar named Dusty’s and heard Dorothy say, “Louie, we’re not in Monte anymore.” Highland Park is highly gentrified as of this posting but as a family of young black folks with shopping carts piled high with their belongings and young kids carrying black Hefty bags reminded me, the hood is always the hood no matter how many hipsters and modern art deco bars spring up. I wondered how I may have looked to complete strangers strolling down York and Fig while wearing a Mexico track jacket, black Converse and a ripped Dodgers hat. Not too intimidating eh? Anyway, I reminded myself that you can take the boy out of Monte but you can never take Monte out of the boy and enjoyed my walk.
This minute exercise in existentialism has proven worthy soon after my move from El Monte. I’m sure everyone, all three of you that read this blog are sick and tired of my “Look at me, I grew up in a city that would break down and psychologically scar the most callous cynic yet I’m better for it because it roughed up my edges, taught me a thing or two about humility, I love the person I’ve become because of it, I’ve beaten some odds yet remain sane and extremely happy, which says more about my testicular fortitude and the beautiful people of El Monte than it does about anything else” philosophy that I bring to what I write. Nevertheless, eat it son because I’m piling on the cheese.
I’ve probably grown/changed/compromised more this past summer than I have since the winter of 1991. A lot has changed in my world and those around me. First and foremost, my sister gave birth to a beautiful baby boy we call Noah. My feelings for this boy defy words so I won’t even try. Plus, one can never assume beauty and love can be understood; it’s all subjective my friends. Cliché but real.
Love? Check. Independent? Check. Baby Momma potential? Check. Gypsy hot? Check. Hates Republicans? Check. After some internal back and forth, a pros and cons list, guy pod debate and an eventual seeing of the light, I decided to move in with my chica. It’s only been a month or so but it’s been pretty fucken great. My biggest concern being uncontested allotted time for myself/golf (yes, golf)/bar hopping with friends/naps/t.v./Xbox/etc. has been anything but difficult to attain. It helps when your chica has the work ethic of a South Korean shipbuilder and a Ph.D in Altruistic Leadership. I just made that last part up. Nevertheless, my time is my own when I want it but we still make time to do the things that got us here. My heart continues to be smitten by her.
On the flip side, moving from El Monte et al. has been quite difficult for me. I miss my roommate turned friend turned border line brother. I miss living so close to my dearest friends; Bear, Mariana, Sofia, etc. The defunct B.P. has exposed The Monte Crew to it’s mortal enemy, separation. I strive to be happy and not much more. I mean real happiness not the kind that idiots try to create by buying BMW’s and parading around in expensive clothes while never realizing the void can never be filled by things but by true self exploration, by that examined life Socrates talked about. The light at the end of the tunnel is not a beam from the headlights of a Rolls Royce Phantom but the Eastern sunrise on a humid Mazatlan morning. The shell may be aesthetically pleasing but if the core isn’t vibrant and alive, what does it matter? I say this because waking up to cumbias on a Saturday mornings, smelling ten different Mexican kitchens at work while walking to Sam’s Liquor for a bag of Cool Ranch Dorritos and a pina flavored Jarritos, singing through 25 minute drives from Pasadena to Alberto’s and eventually home at 2:30AM, 4th of July parties that result in a 5th of July phone call from the Landlord, late night winter conversations on a white leather couch, coming home on a Friday night to find my sister’s laptop sitting on the kitchen table, searching for quarters as a pile of wet polo shirts sit on a rusty old dryer, neighbors that know more about my love life than my own mother, Halo 2 marathons, waking up fully dressed on the floor (on a Tuesday morning no less), a roommate with exceptionally bad taste in music, a stove with one working burner, having an address with more street cred than Peter Camejo (R.I.P.) all made me very happy. A luminous core on the eastside.
CHANGE
The three musketeers have also gone through some changes. The biggest hustler I know, AKA my mom, in her everlasting resilience and servitude has decided to start her life anew and I’m happier than a pig in shit because of it. This goes without saying but like a best friend in a fist fight in the parking lot of the Starlite swap meet, I’ve got her back 1,000% no matter the consequence. In the same vein, my little sista abandoned any notion that she enjoyed living with a full fledged bitch; my mom and sister are so alike. UCLA continues it’s stronghold. The littlest sister created the yummiest soul candy I’ve had since December of 2003. Her return to El Monte couldn’t have come at a better time. The sound of clanking feet on stairs and the Santa Anita freeway off ramp get me love drunk.
A pivotal member of the LSBDP (Lucio Soul Building Development Program) officially retired on August 1, 2008. She’d been a valuable member and we will surely miss her. Truth is, she’d been out of the picture for years now but we’d managed to remain friends and her influence always lingered. Now that the institutional lines have been drawn, I’ve no choice but to throw out her videotape. At one point I thought, “Wow, is this just my defense mechanism, am I being reactionary?” I decided to test myself so like a true American I searched through my iPod and like a true Mexican scrolled to my Vicente Fernandez songs and power listened… and nothing. I had stopped listening to Jeff Buckley because it made me think of the past, it made me think about the part in all of us that misses what we no longer have. Now I listen to Jeff Buckley and am saddened by the fact that he’s gone forever. Plus, the section in my heart that used to miss her has been reduced to the flickering light of a dying firefly in a dusty corner in the world’s largest castle.
Redux need not apply.
Jeff Buckley - Last Goodbye
Uploaded by ioxxxioxxx
Con Safos,
Lucio
Labels: Bear, El Monte, fam, nostalgia
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