Straight Up G's...

Words can’t explain the feelings that follow after the checking of one’s voicemail only to hear your father’s broken voice say, “Mijo, hablame cuando oigas este mensaje, mi mama fallesio.”

On November 10, two thousand and five years after this planet lost my boy J.C., I lost the remaining blueprint mother of grand proportions… her soul, as beautiful as the name… Emma.

I’ve never been one to hold back tears as my aunts and uncles can attest to while reminiscing on the fat baby named Lucito, screaming WAHS and pumping tears like oil in Tejas… so bear with me while I type and wipe salty drops from my face – it’s the only way to tell a good story… better to ease the pain.

Flashback to Thanksgiving of 2003… I was supposed to take mi abuelita “Minnie” (my other grandmother) to my mom’s house east down the 10 freeway (those in L.A. know), to Rialto to spend that wretched holiday with my sisters, mom and said character… the woman with hands of steel and a metaphorical 2nd heart – el mio. Plans were nixed early that morning – to my surprise, my grandmother had a minor heart attack and was rushed to the hospital and immediately put in intensive care. The first two things she said upon my arrival, “Mijo, el corazon is muy traisionero,” and “Donde esta Serena?” I gave her a kiss and said, “Pronto viene.”

1 month, a few nights of sleep on an uncomfortable hospital chair, daily trips down Beverly Blvd., hundreds of kisses and hugs, avalanches of tears, curses at GOD, many I love you’s, cries and prayers next to a hospital bed, una bendision, whispers in an ear, a “Pronto nos vemos,” a Rosary, and a last kiss on a cold forehead later… she was gone.

I miss the homemade tortillas, the warmth of her tiny apartment, the angry old lady in the apartments next door, the endless kisses on my cheek, the 11PM phone calls to make sure I was home, the strong smell of perfume, the annoyance a grandmother feels while getting swallowed up in her grandson’s arms to the point of suffocation. I miss her nagging about my not marrying my high school sweetheart. I miss this and much more as much as Che wished for freedom in Cuba – I lie, Che’s Kalishnokov wouldn’t budge me from her side … but the revolution of hearts is never televised as it should never be.

Fast forward to November of 2005… the last of the proverbial Mohicans by way of Torreon has left us. The remaining link to the past… the final beatdown to an already butchered and battered heart has come to a decision… TKO in the 12th round. November has truly spawned a monster – Moz was right. For these reasons I hate this fallacy we call Thanksgiving… para que?

The last time I saw my grandma Emma was about a week and a half before she checked out minus a goodbye. She had been staying at my dad’s place the last few months, seeing her was easiest this way. Lucky for me, she was there when I visited my pops to shoot the shit this last time around. I gave her a kiss and plopped down next to her. I thought to myself, “This woman has a high strain of tolerance, surely my dad’s been watching futbol for at least an hour and she hasn’t moved” She was just chilling there, thumbing her cell phone while my dad flipped through the plethora of Spanish channels Mexicanos are lucky enough to indulge in on the best, I mean west coast – you know how we do it in Califas. That was it, my last interaction with her, a kiss on the cheek and I bounced… nothing poetic, but it was real.

As a kid, she lived with us for years. My earliest memories are filled with her in some scope of my toddler life. I particularly remember her walking my 6 year old punk ass to school to protect me from neighborhood bullies… not that they ever messed with me, but my grandmother never trusted white boys – rightly so grandma, rightly so. A beautiful soul she was – is. Placid, quite, yet hysterical. She and my pops would go at it like little mocosos talking shit on the porch - it was Cantinflas funny. My dad could never get a leg up either… she was cool like that. She had that quite, “I dare you to clown me boy” demeanor… all the while waiting for the right time to counter-punch Julio Cesar Chavez stylo.

But this is life… er, C’est la vie, que no? All the cliché shit people say in respect to losing a loved can be piled onto this orgy of sadness and it will still look tiny compared to the oblivion I dwell in when thoughts of my grandmother(s) resurface… not to say that life isn’t peachy, because it is... I love my life, my family, my loves (lost and found), I write because of these experiences – my first so called ‘piece’ was about mi abuelita Minnie and was written a month after her death… I haven’t stopped writing since.

One day – I envision myself meeting up with them and saying – “Lluege poco tarde pero juntos nos vemos otra ves.” Surely, they’re in a utopian abyss resembling their/my beloved Mexico with strumming trios in the background and two grandfathers – one I managed to watch sleep and one I can only imagine in my sleep.

Obviously, there are easier days… but I find refuge in my love for them – in the idea that their blood dashes through my veins and their mestizo mix shines in my unapologetic inidividuality.

C/S,
- Lucio

Arroz Con Frijoles

There are certain people we meet throughout the span of a lifetime that in some form or another affect the way we function within our own reality… nevertheless, annoyance and elation can never be overlooked.

“Friends… HUH… what are they good for?” The age old question… well, beside bailing you out of jail on a Saturday morning and providing comical commentary while in the trenches known as the platonic odd numbered triple date, they serve less functional purposes which I will avoid for the sake of this piece.

Having been born and raised in L.A. (WESSSSIIIDE!), I tend to have a double spectrum of the social world as a whole. Reason being; I live in quite possibly the most superficial, materialistic, siliconized (whoa, I just made up a word), shallow, self-indulgent city in the world… quite possibly. BUT! As Chappelle would say, “I’m from the streets!” To put things in perspective, El Monte’s not Watts or Inglewood (woo-woo!), but it’s definitely not Beverly Hills (That’s hot!) either. Point being, folks from their respective parts of town – west of downtown or not – share views representative of their local collective best interest… Look, if the glove in your backyard fits, where it – otherwise kill your blonde ex-wife and pretend it doesn’t (“If it doesn’t fit, you must acquit”). Not to say that people from my neck of the woods aren’t caught up in the superficial aspect of L.A. life, but it’s the exception, not the rule. But as bloggers do, I digress.

Back to my original point... my peeps. Rarely, has there been a case when I don’t appreciate the people that have been catapulted to the top of my priority list by way of drunken conversations at BJs, quality time in front of the tube, meaningless quite time checking out the hoodrats while chilling in the front of my apartment – that’s old school shit, but nevertheless worth mentioning. Simple, yet deep interactions between my friends and I have always been a part of my daily reality. I’ve lost a few while on the road, but have yet to look back in vein. Those near and dear to me as of this posting have jumped through the proverbial hoop of friendship with the greatest of ease.

Alluding to me 2nd point… Because in the city of Angels, keeping it real is such a rarity that when we encounter semi-civilized beasts with hairless tongues, one can’t help but take notice, check oneself and mental note a check mark next to “real motherfucker” along side the name of said character. Roommates and cousins keep it the realest.

The roomie…

I’ve always believed that Mexicans still contain a serious ounce of Spanish blooded racism EVEN in the scope of Chicano life in the U.S. My mother always referred to my light skinned sister as “La Princesita” – the princess, while referring to my darker skinned sister as “La Changita” – the monkey. Coincidence? Hell mutha-fucken no. Having said that, one counter part of this piece is the darkest Mexican I know. I love this “Oaxacan with a tan” imposter like the brother I’ve never had – he’s lost one and I tend to believe I’m the bootleg substitute… by no means an adequate replacement, but I do serve a purpose. I stumbled upon this creature through an old friend a few years back while I was on the prowl for a roommate – we flipped a coin to see who was getting what in terms of rooms and the rest is history, as they say. A few years, too many 12-packs, a handful of semi-disagreements and countless alibis later I can’t see my life the same without the presence of the 6 foot naturalized brother, softball aficionado, partner in crime, fantasy football rookie extraordinaire we call Bear.

El primo…

Theoretically, a cousin should be one’s best friend by default. Que no? Despite the fact that I do not subscribe to this idea… it plays out like a fat kid taking the biggest slice of pizza at a pizza party. I’m serious too, I never subscribe to the default portion of life – unless on the dance floor, as Fitimiti can confirm. Let’s not front, we all have that default dance – you know the one. When the cumbias hit, you default to the two-stepper while looking around to make sure you’re not too far off the concept of the dance and at least two other mother fuckers are as confused as you – ah, I can always count on my tio Cosme for that. Come on, if your last name ends in Z, you know what I’m talking about… “Member your cousin’s quincenera? You member!!!” We were always close as kids – I was always fascinated by his ‘me against the world’ mentality while I was the docile, well behaved good son. Fast forward to the present and come to find those rolls have been reversed in an umpteenth of ways. Now, I admire his docile character, his beneath the surface innocence – this may sound strange to some, but I know this guy like Halo controls on an Xbox. As a 14 year-old, he managed to bail me out of situations that even my mother had shunned… and as an adult, it’s no different. Although, things with my mother are a lot better – thank you for asking.

A small glimpse, thanks, token of appreciate and ode by way of words on a blog for two saps in my tiny nucleus of cronies.

C/S,
- Lucio