The night is over... 

The Last Night

Do you remember the 2nd to the last night before your first day of school? The last night of complete freedom – not the night before that dreaded Monday, but the last night you were allowed to stay out after dark, stay up after 11PM, wake up at 10AM the next day, eat a bowl of Apple Jacks for breakfast and Fruit Loops for lunch?

In an ideal world, that night would replay itself over and over until one day, we pack up, say goodbye, and clock out – on our terms. Since life never plays out as ideal, the next day becomes reality and we try to recreate that utopia through drugs, books, movies, alcohol, material goods, children, love, sex and so on (notice love and sex are separate – let me add something to that real quick – c/s).

I reminisce and dream because as I type this piece, that night is here. Having spent approximately 10 months away from the daily grind, I return on Wednesday and I must admit I feel mixed emotions. I’m excited because of the new experience – I’m a definite “new experience” whore for that matter, but I’m also saddened by the loss of freedom and need for clocks. I’m relieved that ends will meet without a snag and my travels will begin anew – I forget plane rides aren’t free.

Overall, I’m looking forward to this new job. My happiness stock will surely increase – with dividends paying off by way of Friday night Dodger games with my boys. Everything happens for a reason whether we like to admit it or not. These nights wouldn’t be the same if it were not for those ‘in bed by 10PM’ nights we’d rather do without. Green lights look better after a string of red ones – more so by Angelenos.

Funny thing is, it’s not even 3AM (not late by my standards) and I’m sleepy as fuck as all things are plagued by a dab of irony.

- Lucio

Contemplating the answer... 

The Questions!?

Yesterday, my girl’s grandma turned a year short of three quarters of a century – for those that don’t know that’s 74 years old. To most, another ring in the tree trunk of life isn’t much of an accomplishment – a mere part of life if you will. Having lost my grandmother less than two years ago, whom I’ve considered the most influential and inspirational person in my life to date, I view the ticking of time and marking of calendars as not only a day to celebrate, but to rejoice in that fact that one’s not dead, insane, or alone.

Obvious guy once said, “Every mind’s a world.” No fucking shit dude… what he forget to add was, ….full of knowledge, experience, and more importantly advice. That’s one of the many reasons I love and appreciate my father soo much. That dude will give you advice until you’re blue in the face or until you remove any and all piercings, buy a Yanni CD, or solemnly swear to never pay a bill you can’t understand. My dad’s the only person I know that will spend $500 on a night out, but refuse to pay a $5 bill if he felt cheated. I hate the logic, but absolutely love the conviction.

So as I ask this wise woman, “What has been the most memorable experience in your life?” I wonder, will I make it this far, will I be fortunate enough to get to this plateau in one piece, as a fully functioning individual, mind you with minor quirks and such but still leading a life worth living. Shit, I wish, but who knows. Therefore, all I can do is ask; ask the $64,000 question with a straight face… “What’s the key to happiness?” (Although this time I didn’t). For those with older, wiser folks in your life – be it, 1 year, 10 years, or 100 years… ask Amy Goodman/Barbara Walters/Pauly Shore type questions. Ask what life was like through their eyes. I was fortune enough to know that my grandmother was not going to be around much longer, plus the audacity, bravery, and curiosity to ask her what others in my family never did. So hit up your aunt… “What was it like to grow up in the sixties? Tia, did you ever smoke the Chronic? Mijo, don’t tell your grandma, but hell yea I did!”

Abuelita, como era mi abuelito? ... and so on.

Some of my most valuable lessons have been lived by others… by Kathy Polo, Bob Dylan, Lucio Rodriguez Sr., Lalo Medina, Michael James, Herminia Gomez…

Everybody has a story; you just have to dig it out… peel through the layers and find answers to questions you never thought to ask or even wanted to. Growth is important even if one is not proactive in the process. So I pass this piece of advice to readers of this blog, friends and foes alike. Use your resources damnit! I’m sure my sisters hate it, but my gibbering and jabbering amounts to some useful info, whether they take it or not. The other day, I told my youngest sister, “Mayra, I’ve been the guinea pig all my life, Claudia (the middle child) has been the filter, so your ass better be the perfect result - don’t fuck it up.” Words of wisdom – at least I would hope so.

So to answer my question after a long pause and some reflection, my girl’s grandma says in her East L.A. accent, “Mijo, that’s too embarrassing, I can’t answer that question. I’m embarrassed.” I thought to myself… Perfect.

- Lucio

The El Monte Fuzz don't play... 

Vintage Barrio

Nothing drains the mind of creative forces as does stress, rejection, and uncertainty. It’s been a while since I’ve posted anything on here – with good reason. My days have been consumed by coffee, monster.com, FedEx Kinko’s, interviews in hotel conference rooms, mapquest directions, slacks, ties, and way too many slightly moist yet firm handshakes. But it’s over… for now. A new job has been found and another chapter in the life o’mine begins… only time will tell where this leads.

Having spent time on the DL, I’ve been hitting the streets of El Monte via mountain bike – I gotta say, it’s the fucken shit. I never knew how beautiful my city was… in all respects too, aesthetic and otherwise. From Garvey to Beverly Blvd the sounds of life and smell of nature make me sad – American Beauty sad. My turnabout point is where the San Gabriel River meets Whittier. I stand at the top of the dam and view the chapel in Rose Hills where my grandma and countless others have been cried for prior to burial. I think of her to say the least. If I’m lucky, I can see the San Gabriel Mountains – that’s quite the sight. I watch old men play golf and young men ride horses – that’s right, horses. All this within city limits.

This may sound weird but the concrete jungle brings about a smile to my face as does the latter experience. One never truly understands the true beauty that our barrios possess until we stop, observe, and reflect. I see parents wetting their little kids with the water hose as they jump around in soggy t-shirts and torn denim shorts, freshly showered 15 year old girls walking to the liquor store to buy lolly-pops, Mexican men staring at me while standing on the intersection of Rosemead and San Gabriel hoping somebody’s in the mood for a bag of oranges, hookers fronting and waiting at the bus stop next to Asian textile workers. No joke, this is my reality – everyday I ride my bike. Friendly El Monte is a complicated little town. Tragedy, love, culture, and America all rolled into one.

I’ve been fortunate… I love where I’m from. It feels good to be the scrappy baby faced mother fucker with street cred everywhere I go. It’s cool to say “I’m from the streets bitch” and actually mean it. It’s easy to know a good cop from a bad one. It’s a beautiful thing to jump off the 10 freeway, hit up Alberto’s, grab and bean and cheese burrito with rice and guacamole, drive up to my parking spot, lock the door and roll up to my spot on Humbert Ave.

C/S
- Lucio