Fighting Words

"I read the news today, oh boy..."

2006-12-26T11:06:00.000-08:00

There are worse things in life, but today I read that one of, if not my favorite website is shutting down: www.scenefrommylife.com I’ve been visiting this site religiously since 2003. It’s been a quintessential part of my mornings since I discovered it on yahoo as one of the best sites on the web of 2003. It saddens me because of the impact this site has had on my life; regardless of how slight it was. Sounds weird, doesn’t it? I’ve always wondered what life was like outside my own, outside my Los Angeles. I love my city but recognize how tiny it is in respect to the rest of the world. It’s tiny y’all, tiny. I remember as a kid I’d hear about Africa, Sydney, Australia; Europe, I learned about Yugoslavia and actually did a report on it, I learned about many, many countries and umpteenth cities throughout the world, but never did I truly know what a day in the life of a local kid, adult, dog was like there (the site, appropriately used to be www.adayinthelife.org, but due to copyright b.s., it was changed). I never had a window to a world outside of California that was either outdated, via encyclopedias or accompanied by some sound byte on television. This site presented that window in a way unmatched by anything the ol’ tube could provide, adding to the notion that a picture is worth a thousand words…

“The concept is simple. Each day, one new photo will be posted on the site. A photographer is assigned to shoot one photo a day for seven days. The photo can be of anything the photographer wants. The only guideline is that the photo that's posted has to have been taken within the past 24 hours.”

So there it was. A few months ago I had the honor of posting a scene from my life photo everyday for a week. http://scenefrommylife.com/archive/2006/0515.html It was quite the experience. As in previous posts, I’ve always found the beauty of my city as something intangible, something unexplainable to those outside the L.A. County lines since we don’t have an epicenter as does New York in Times Square, as does Moscow in Red Square and so on. Our beauty lies in the details of our sprawl. In the Spanish lyrics on street signs, in the literal transplanted symbolism of our palm trees, in the cross valley bus rides. And this is what I received from scene from my life. I was privy to these kinds of things and a fresh perspective from around the globe on a daily basis. I spent time in Sao Paulo, Brooklyn, Paris, Dayton, Mexico City, Austin, Reykjavik, Chicago, Hong Kong, etc. as a local and I knew what life was like for a week on a tiny spot on a globe and a life not my own. I will miss that.

I will miss the daily fulfillment of wonder, the daily reflection of a world unknown to me yet attainable on a simple web site.

Absolute L.A.

2006-08-07T22:34:00.000-07:00

"You live in a town all your life, and you get to know every street-corner. You've got the layout of the whole land. You have a picture of where you are. ... Since I was raised in L.A., I've always had the geographical and spiritual feeling of being here. I've had time to learn this city. I can't see any other place than L.A." - Charles Bukowski

I always try to unravel an absolute truth when I write or when I talk about life with friends, sisters, chica, strangers, etc. As if all the answers lie right beneath the surface of everyday interaction, of simple life - and they do but we don’t always look for them and they can be elusive at times. I get the highest sense of enjoyment when I employ the curiosity cat and let it run wild on my peeps. I’ve never written a thesis, but my sisters will tell you that I can probably pry one from your brain if need be. It’s these truths that mold our philosophies and eventually end up as a part of our ideological make-up - that which either helps, hurts or just is.

Plato I’m not; but a bar hopping, music loving, left field pavilion sitting, fist raising, Ritz-Carlton accounting, Tofurky eating, Mexican flag waving, dumbbell lifting, Bush hating, nostalgic thinking Chicano version, I just might be.

One of those truths…

It’s a cloudy Monday morning in early August in Los Angeles and surely Orion’s belt must be off an iota or two. My abuelita never liked August - an unexplainable sense of sadness overwhelmed her this time of year and I never understood why. Like clockwork, her demeanor would change - her bomb ass homemade tortillas would downgrade to bomb tortillas. The four kisses on my cheek would reduce to three. My only guess was that the desert rains of Chihuahua brought the August melancholy when she was a little girl - the change of seasons is always an emotional damper - more so when the end of summer and worse, baseball season approaches. But isn’t it always summer in L.A.? Yesterday said so...

As I was driving north on Rosemead Blvd. in my dirty ass truck while blasting Madonna’s "Material Girl" - hey, I’m comfortable with my musical taste and sexuality - I had a typically serene L.A. moment. When a warm summer day is accompanied by a cool Santa Ana breeze on a Sunday afternoon in the city of Angels, all is right. All is right despite the wars in the Middle-East, Africa, etc, despite the sad state of affairs a la Bush cronies, despite Kansas, despite my own fear of what’s to come if our world doesn’t dramatically change, despite Cuba. In no way am I promoting apathy and content but one must acknowledge a truth when it unveils itself from within after having experienced an exterior stimulant even Hunter S. Thompson would try. The truth is that I love L.A. and most everything about it, except the transplants that believe the shit they see on television. If you believe what you see on the E! Channel, please punch yourself in the face and avoid the ballots come November. I’ve been to New York and I don’t understand the fixation with a city that resembles a dump site with tall buildings and an average of 2.4 people per square foot. Plus, it’s quickly become a rich man’s city - it gives added meaning to the term “starving artist.” Randy Newman had it right, not Sinatra. I’ve never been to Rome, granted my lifetime eluded Rome’s rise, nor have I been to The Sacred Mosque in Saudi Arabia, no need I suppose - I’m not Muslim. From my not so humble corner I can say that the true Mecca in my lifetime lies in the old Aztec territory that we call none other than Los Angeles, albeit our metropolis stretches from here to what seems an eternity or even longer, depending on what freeway you’re trying to maneuver through. It’s a beautiful thing when a few dozen or so cities are still considered one.

I've been outside; the clouds have parted for the beaming sun.

I may be naïve to proclaim an improvable truth with none other than intuition & insurmountable epiphanies that I’d rather not bore you with. But that’s the beauty of my stomping grounds. I embrace the idea that words can’t always explain certain things in life - love in its purest form is a paramount example. Have you ever tried explaining what the color blue looks like to a blind person? Neither have I.

"It’s not where you’re from, it where you’re at.” - Mos Def
Still, there’s no place else I’d rather be from, there’s no place else I’d rather be at.
Most definitely.

C/S,
- Lucio

Yo La Tengo...

2006-07-21T12:11:00.000-07:00

I crave waking up to the beautiful heat your body radiates

To the image of your enormous eyes eclipsed by the moon with butterfly lashes

The way my soul drifts from an ecstasy pod to a plateau of sheer gratitude speaks of my love for you

I summon the Berber beauty to exploit my willingness to hurt

Love is as prosaic as time itself, but all stands still and feels youthful when I taste you

I emerge from the abyss of life, I breathe you in and I re-submerge

I thank karma for restraining itself and giving me the honor of holding your hand...

La Lucha...

2006-04-17T22:04:00.000-07:00

Lately, I’ve been floundering my writing prowess in a way that should never be attempted or perfectly executed as I’ve manage to do so these past weeks, months. The logical & valid yet unacceptable excuse of ‘lack of time’ can easily explain the debacle of my current state of writing – or lack thereof.

Certain events within the last few weeks have left a lasting desire to put some words together in form of a constructed blog piece – where introspection through the reflection on the mirror of Los Angeles, American, Human(e), Chicano life form a nugget of knowledge that’s attainable and real.

All hoopla aside, it’s been an interesting last few weeks. Life continues to roll and as I’ve seen the movie ‘V for Vendetta’ I too dismiss the theory of coincidence. In this moment in time, that being the overwhelming sense that a revolution would be nice right about now, but as such unlikely. A few weeks ago, I was watching the championship game of the first ever World Baseball Classic, which for all intent & purpose is the real World Series of baseball. This may not be significant to the average Joe considering the fact that baseball’s reputation is in a continuing state of chaos – not to mention that most Americans can’t fathom sitting through an entire baseball game (it’s a game of strategy folks), but I found it ironic that the U.S. team did not make it to the championship game – yes, the World championship of the national pass time was being played on American soil, San Diego no less, by two foreign countries – Japan & Cuba.

No, I didn’t make that up, yes Japan & Cuba. Just to add insult to irony, the big game involved Fidel’s anti-capitalist communist country versus Japan – Hiroshima anyone? I could go on about this, but the moral of the story here is that when a country can combine some talent and a lot of will, a powerhouse is destined to implode, the ignorance of underestimation and the false belief of superiority will always succumb to the will of one that believes in him or herself more so than the next guy or chica. But as they say, all’s fair in love and baseball. A bit of a stretch? Remember, I don’t believe in coincidence. Side note: Mexico knocked the U.S. out of the tournament… Se pudo mis paisanos.

V for Vandetta… not since the days of Christopher Reeves as Superman did I think to myself, “When I grow up, I want to be that guy!” Many folks that subscribe to my school of thought are very much pacifists and so am I to a lesser extent. My school of thought being; human beings are naturally ‘good’ – Original Sin out the door like yeterday’s L.A. Times. But I’m with ‘V’ – a little violence can go a long way in the struggle for human rights… Gandhi was dope, but Che made him look like a fucken democrat in the House of Representatives… no balls. If you haven’t seen V for Vendetta… stop reading now, get in your car, drive to the nearest theater (Laemmle’s preferably), buy a ticket, a cup of coffee, some gummy bears, and make like a sponge for the next two hours. Your conscious will thank you and in turn, you’ll thank me tomorrow.

The immigrant issue – really, since when is racism okay? Oh yea, whenever the economy is in shambles and/or Septemeber 11 – good ol’ 9/11. There’s absolutely nothing I can say about this issue that hasn’t already been said. Commenting further will not only upset me, but make me feel like the 6th grader trying to prove to the 1st grader that Santa doesn’t exist – no need for to replay an exercise in futility. But still – my people have risen. I forgot who knocked the U.S. out of the World Baseball Classic?

Se pudo…

- Lucito

Mi Califas...

2006-02-14T22:30:00.000-08:00

I love when silence is broken by the movement of trees. By the sound of life in the distance – crowds buzzing, cars dashing, kids playing . I love the sound of summer in the winter time – the kind that only California, in her infinite array of beauty can host. I think of my childhood and of how much I miss baseball, bike rides, scraped knees & elbows, Saturday morning cartoons, innocence, grass stains… did I mention baseball?

Today is that day…

I wish it were mid-June and I had the day off with the woman I love. I wish I was at a Dodger game in the left field pavilions next to a bald guy "named" El Shorty, behind an old man nicknamed little Lasorda, in front of a fervent ten-year old Gagne fan named Alejandrita… comfortably numb between the sky and my Los Angeles playground.

I never take this for granted… I never have to remind myself of the luck I drew in so many aspects of my life – so many. In this case, my city – where angels fly, devils play and the rest of us soak in the goodness of an Aztlan paradise. The cool devil winds as the pre-colonized natives would say, originate in the Orange County barrio of Santa Ana courtesy of the Pacific waters. I remember these same winds smacking me in the face while diving for a fly ball in the outfield of dirt cut diamonds in the valley of San Gabriel.

This is where Mexican, white and black kids alike found friendship and trust in each other by attempting to master the movements of a sweaty leather glove, a tight knitted baseball, and aluminum bats. Where boys became little men and faced mite and bite sized fears that fellow mini-Reggie Jacksons perpetuated. Where a walk was as good as a hit and hearts were broken on Saturday afternoons by shouts of, “strike three, you’re out!”

The summer wind is still a few months away, yet I can’t help to stop and reflect on my current and frequent paradise on earth. I hear New York City is a great place to live also. I wonder if New Yorkers are currently basking in rays illuminated by the shared star we call sol?

It’s a bit embarassing, yet I’m somewhat proud that I’ve never touched snow.

- Lucio

The Melancholy

2006-01-04T00:23:00.000-08:00

I find it important to introduce this piece in the simplest of ways. By no means is it absolute as nothing in life is. It's but a mere interpretation of a life I can only understand in movies and not through my experience - perhaps one day (that's a BIG perhaps). This piece doesn't even take into account institutional marriage through the gay/bi/5th other eye... again, it's not a part of my experience. Enjoy.

Do you remember being a kid and coming to the realization that one day, you too, would potentially marry someone? Well me neither, but there must have been some point in my life when I realized I would eventually get married to someone, somewhere, sometime… at least I thought. I mean, isn’t that what grown folks are supposed to do?

I bring this up because at the age of 27, I still in no way shape or form desire a life that requires validation through a relationship that in itself requires validation through a signature on a piece of paper… it all seems a bit 15th century-like to me. Shouldn’t love be allowed to flourish in its bare sensibility minus “proper documentation?” If one subscribes to such madness, then surely one subscribes to the notion of borders, walls and hierarchies… patriarchy no less. All just my opinion.

It seems that the older you get, the less socially acceptable one appears to be if the box next to single continues to get happily check marked… like single twenty/thirty-somethings pose a threat to the norm of family Americana. “Why don’t these bastards fall in line?!? Honey, I think we should invite Lucio and his girlfriend to church on Sunday. They’re trying to pull some twenty first century hippie type bullshit and I don’t like it one bit” Salmon eventually reproduce don’t they… I mean they swim upstream and manage to co-exist with the rest of aquatic life. Ah, but if only we could mimic the animal kingdom – would make for some interesting reality television no? Really though, I keep tabs on my health insurance – as if my company’s going to cancel it because I continue to pay the bare minimum – single status.

Marriage is one of those things that I’ve failed to accomplish post high school, yet I feel damn proud and accomplished because of it… strange I suppose, but I couldn’t be happier…, at least by my theoretical standards – monogamy is way over-rated! I lie, I love my girlfriend kids. Not to shit on those with un-tanned fingers, marriage certificates in drawers beneath boxers and socks, tax dependants exceeding the singular sensation of one. I don’t think it’s the grass that looks greener on the other side, it’s the folks standing on it… with envy.

So where do we… er, I go from here? As folks previous to me and previous to those I once knew… and previous to those they once heard about and so on and so on and so… I continue to live by the idea that I am capable of loving another, even bearing children with another without “walking down the aisle” as they say… similar to what Tookie must have heard previous to execution Terminator style. “Dead, man, walking!” I believe in love above all else, above a signature, above a tax exemption, above divorce (for without marriage this term would be as useful as democracy), I believe in a society where one can say to another, “Hey mi amor, how’s about we order a pizza and drink some of this fine wine… damn girl, you never heard of Charles Shaw?” ...and not feel uncomfortably obligated to the person on the other end of the 2 buck chuck.

- Lucio

El Sabor Mas Rico...

2005-12-21T23:19:00.000-08:00

Paul Rodriguez once said, “Racism is stupid, nobody chooses what color they’re going to be… some of us just get lucky.” While I can’t completely agree with this statement – by default, my race is human first – I must say that color brings a blank canvas to life… see Monet. Do you recall ever using the white crayon? Didn’t think so. I’m not sure if Paul was talking about simply being Mexican or Mexican on the northern side of the Rio Grande. Truth be told, Califas is my home, therefore my cultural doctrine is of a northern blend… firme.

Up until about the age of twelve, I never thought about race. I never imagined a spot on the globe without Mexicanos on it… I used to watch Univision with my parents and ask, “Is Cuba in Mexico?” I thought all latinos were Mexican – just different shades from different regions… the dark ones from Oaxaca, the light ones from Guadalajara, and so on. In some form or another, we’re all from the same place – comparable barrios in Harlem and East of downtown L.A. are proof to that. I never thought a city could be completely white or black, actually completely one thing. I imagined every American city having a sweet concoction of pinto and black beans – with a side of rice, baklava for dessert and Bob Marley jambalaya representing the rest of my peoples – one love gumbo…

“I’m coming straight out Monte! Crazy mother fucker named Lucio, from the gang called…”

I moved to El Monte at the age of 13, while at the gates of adolescence and with a mentality jaded by a devastating divorce. What-me-worry? Negro please… Zapata blood ain’t nuttin’ to fuck with. Mind you, my grandfather’s uncle fought with Pancho Villa in northern Mexico during the early 1920’s – protecting campesinos, raiding haciendas, killing gabachos and such…you know, the good ol’ days. While in grade school and living in the semi-burban city of Baldwin Park I used to visit El Monte almost every weekend – a large percentage of my family had migrated here - I never liked it though. I used to think, I’d hate to live here, everybody curses like a mug and has a bit of a gangster wit about them. Tupac was right, “…cuz everybody in L.A. got a little bit of thug in em.” I had enough sense to feel ill about shit like that – at the time my reality consisted of weekend baseball games, secret crushes, long bike rides on my BMX, wrestling moves on my little sisters and Nintendo. Life changes and this discomfort soon became my reality… all for the better – I can take that notion to the grave.

I mention the five mile transition because it was significant in the scope of establishing my identity as a Mexican baby/toddler/mocoso/teen/so-called adult/hecho mendigo living on the northern side of an imaginary border that millions cross in the hopes of a humane life for themselves and their offspring, only to end up in homeless shelters, battered tents in strawberry fields, prisons, and barrios amongst other places. El Monte’s as much of a centerpiece to the Mexican immigrant struggle as is East Los Angeles, Santa Ana, and Norcal agricultural towns… that’s why I feel lucky to be from such a place, to lay my head on a pillow in the 91732 zip code. Of course, there are the exceptions we call tio tacos and coconuts (you know white on the inside, brown on the outside), that tread to other worlds known as Orange County, Brentwood, the Godforsaken Valley… anywhere North of the 210, West of the 5 freeway and South of the 91…but like I said they’re the exception. Que gacho.

One must think, but why have this perspective? We’re capitalists’ damnit, we’re supposed to progress. It’s simple… In Vanilla Sky like fashion, “Without the bitter, the sweet ain’t that sweet.” The social infrastructure of this state and country for that matter is not supported by the governmental/corporate ideology and is even more damaging through policy… those in power are the scariest, since dogs are only dangerous on your side of the fence. It’s not easy to accept the reality in which we live in when folks of color are marginalized, oppressed and neglected. Katrina anyone? Hence, “making it” is even harder when the odds are stacked against one since birth. Don’t believe me? Ask the son of a slave, ask Native American kin... Seriously, wouldn’t YOU like a head start at the beginning of every race? Colonization and capitalism have caused consciousness to regress from a human perspective… all European traits. “We didn’t land on Plymouth rock…,” and so on.

But still…

I wouldn’t trade the struggle of my peoples for a comfortable home in Suburbia USA, I wouldn’t trade the city view from Boyle Heights for a swimming pool, King Taco for Outback Steakhouse (white folks actually love this shit!), Don Francisco for Johnny Carson, Legg Lake for a golf course, I wouldn’t trade the cultural richness of my Humbert Avenue apartment for the wealth of a shareholder, tamales for meatloaf (good grief, meatloaf), tequila for scotch, Chicanas named Fabiola for white girls named Kelly (oh my gosh!), brown skin for (insert anything here), rancheras for country, J-Lo for Madonna… oh wait, um, I take that last one back.

If I had the conscious choice to shop around pre-birth at the mall-o-cultures, I’d do it over again… I’d drop in the same store and ask for the same suit, like a Batman re-run. Porque no ay nada mas rico y bello que ser Mexicano y de Califas; ser yo.

If you could only taste it...

I live in a world where cholos are the new age bandits of the Mexican Revolution, where Frida Kahlos hide in stucco homes near freeway off-ramps, donde Saturday morning serenatas are those of a cumbia hymn, where laughter, love and a cold beer facilitate a well deserved pachanga, where love escapes our breath by way of Chente songs, where children find happiness within the walls of a pinata. Where a Chicano strolls though the streets of his barrio and becomes overwhelmed in the deepest of appreciation by the beauty of his people, his culture, his reality… where inspiration takes flight through mental notes and a blog named after my stomping grounds.

C/S,
- Lucio

Straight Up G's...

2005-11-25T14:51:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-07T16:11:00.000-08:00

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

2005-09-22T01:18:00.000-07:00

...all nonsense...

The Noise...

2005-09-22T00:55:00.000-07:00

You know what it was that was making that noise?

It was the beat of my heart – elated to the thought of my life in the scope of this world of this city… of what’s to come, of what has passed of what I haven’t thought of… yet

It was the thump of my brain jolting from wall to wall at the thought of the lost and found loves of my heart of the time of the day that I found you

It was the cries of my soul for those lost without love without food without this that I bear with my fist

It was the idea that I never knew, that I will never know that my wants aren’t always my needs.

It was the science that said GOD is not real yet I feel him like I do my lungs exhaling

It was my love for you all that have lived on a tiny space in my heart… planted and never uprooted because I’m scarred the way love does... without apology

Ya feel me?

- Lucio

2005-08-15T14:25:00.000-07:00

Pronto nos vemos...

El Maz Chingon

2005-08-09T00:32:00.000-07:00

I’ve come to notice that my reflections upon events in my life tend to be a year after the fact – after the daily grind has been re-introduced, after I’ve beat the dead horse of opinion by way of, “My trip to Mexico was the greatest experience in my life.” …and it was.

“Ay ay ay mamá por Dios, por Dios que borracho vengo…”

A year ago today I was in beautiful Mazatlan, Sinaloa – MEXICO… I gotta say, I miss it to no end. I miss the food, the beach, the sunsets, the people, my people. I miss the $1 Pacificos, I miss the fresas from D.F. talking about the night before, I miss falling asleep and waking up to the sound of the ocean, I miss the mid-day hustle and bustle of the 3rd world sort. I miss being homesick.

“Me dicen enamorado, pero de eso nada tengo…”

Like Sinaloa, there is no other… there is no other place on earth where Mangos taste better, while watching the sun give birth to the night… this is the place where our skyline gently holds the Pacific Ocean as does a mother her newborn. This is where heaven grazes earth right before midnight and worry is all nonsense.

“Soy de mero Sinaloa, donde se rompen las olas...”

My reflection causes my heart to ache a little bit – kind of like when you think about your first kiss and realize you’ll never have that experience again – the innocent nature of discovering something new, beautiful, and gone. The only difference is that new “victims” are easier to come by, yet the breaking of the seal is gone forever.

“Ay ay ay mama por Dios!”

So as I get ready for work in the morning, I will reflect on this paradise, my experience, and of how I will never be the same because of it. I will iron my shirt, put on my tie, prepare my coffee… but just before I open my front door, I will close my eyes and listen to the waves crashing, smell the salt water, taste the Mangos, and ultimately feel Mazatlan… with a smirk on my face and a slightly rejuvenated soul.

El Sinaloense por corazon,
- Lucio

2005-06-14T03:06:00.000-07:00

The night is over...

The Last Night

2005-06-14T02:51:00.000-07:00

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

2005-06-08T10:33:00.000-07:00

Contemplating the answer...

The Questions!?

2005-06-08T10:26:00.000-07:00

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

2005-06-07T02:41:00.000-07:00

The El Monte Fuzz don't play...

Vintage Barrio

2005-06-07T02:32:00.000-07:00

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

2005-04-11T22:03:00.000-07:00

Zinn, Tea, and Rhetorical Conversation

Economy vs. Race?

2005-04-11T21:41:00.000-07:00

This entry is in response to a blog posting on my friend's site titled, "chuck d and race relations" - make sure to check it out here . It's been a few days, er weeks since my last posting, so I'm re-wetting my feet as they say... the rust shows a tad bit, so go easy on a brutha.

Hello, Hello
MJ’s at a place called Vertigo!

Let me get this straight… The premise here is that economic needs and wants are the sole motivating factors moving the masses do as they will at the expense of the poor?

Hmm, that makes as much sense as blaming Steve Bartman for the Cubs not making it to the World Series in ’03 while failing to talk about Alex Gonzalez’ error, Mark Prior falling apart when then game was on the line and completely forgetting to mention Game 7.

Economy DOES play a major role in the grand scheme, as does race, “class,” gender, geographic location, and so on. To say that the economy is the primary reason for inequalities fails to address a big picture perspective and consequently makes for a sidestep of sorts – the Snickers bar left to float and eventually sink to the bottom of the punch bowl. Ceep, don’t bogart that shit, pass it over here!

Karl Marx once said, “Labour cannot emancipate itself in the white skin where in the black skin it is branded.” Think what you will about that statement, but race has always been intertwined with economic disparities.

Howard Zinn’s “A People’s History of the United States” clearly and quite vividly illustrates how white peeps felt and wrote about their feelings of superiority towards Indians, Mexicanos, Californios, Blacks, etc during the days of Black Slavery and The Mexican-American War. Why do the history books classify two forms of slavery; your run of the mill basic, standard equiped Slavery versus Black Slavery? You guessed it… not until colonial days did slavery become a racial condition – a belief that blacks were inferior (uh-hum, three-fifths of a person).

Even those opposed to the Mexican War spoke of a “wretched people, wretched in their origin, history, and character,” Theodore Parker. This was from an anti-war advocate! His feelings were the norm throughout the Union. Don’t believe me? Look it up. Countless historians write of Americans perpetuating the notion of superiority and as such blacks were thought of to be black because of disease or because of punishment by GOD or because of a close relation to animals and so on. Is that racist enough for ya?

Economic factors these are not. I still hear white folks holler words such as Nigger, Spic, Nip, etc. You think being called a Redneck carries the same baggage as does calling someone a Coon or a Wetback? Experiment with it… better yet don’t.

Cutting to the chase…

My point is that race indeed plays a huge role in inequalities. I experience it almost everyday – in subtle or not so subtle ways. My sister never really bought into the whole institutional racism thing – are we not a civilized society – after a year at UCLA, she knew different. My little sister – a quarter at UCR – she knows what’s up.

I can go on for hours about this, but I won’t – I hope I’ve articulated my point as intended. Neither race nor economy are sole factors in the inequalities in this country, but race, in my experience (notice it’s not an opinion) has been the most dominating. To a lesser extent, social environment, family, and economic factors all play a role… but so did Rick Fox in all those Laker Championships.

C/S (to the fifth power)
- Lucio

2005-03-15T02:34:00.000-08:00

El Mas Chingon de Torreon...

Sins of the Flesh

2005-03-14T00:55:00.000-08:00

Today, my roommate and I went to "see a man about a horse." Not really, but we did go get him a tattoo. I'm not too big on tattoos, because I do have somewhat a phobia of needles and more so of commitment - but that's a whole 'nother blog site to begin with - therefore I will not tread.

When we got there, the 'tattooist' was sitting next to a little seven-ish year old boy playing a Gameboy Advance while stroking the blonde hair of a little four-ish year old girl. Cute kids I thought - even the little 'very white' looking girl. The little boy, no doubt had some Aztec blood - it was obvious due to his arrogant, fuck you demeanor that I see in my little cousins. Don't ask how I know this - it's just an hecho mendigo thing.

Quickly he got up from the zebra stripped couch, putting "daddy time" on hold for a couple of hours as he tended to my friend, some dark skin, an enormous nipple, and ink. Three hours later I noticed that the interaction with the kiddies had been limited to "what do you want? Okay baby go sit down."

As I watched dad begin work on my roommate's tattoo, I realized these kids must be used to Korn pounding from 12" woofers, while daddy and his tattoo covered body ink aesthetic emotions by way of tribal bands, Spanish Armada type ships, Irish last names in Olde English font, and an infinite list of skin propaganda. Sunday's are spent in a back room in Whittier eating chocolate chip cookies, drinking soda, and bouncing around on a dirty couch while daddy splits fatherly duties and work time.

But all good things come to an end... In conservative mommy attire - like Jesus appearing before the devout, she returns. They storm towards her like Bryant Gumble towards a group of Stepford Wives look-a-likes. Pobresitos, the kids and Gumble. I knew it... she's speaking Spanish to the kids - "que quieres mi amor, has comido?" and the gripes about Daddy begin, but he ignores them and finds an escape route in his art. These kids aren't worth a simple good-bye from daddy. Mom is surely upset and walks out with kids, cookies, and a bad taste in her mouth... she never looks back, but the little ones do.

So I wonder what runs through his mind as his kids leave with mom and he continues with his mundane construction life, while vying for sanity on the weekends by tattooing young and old. Does he know that the permanent ink blots he tats on strangers aren't the only permanent memories he's fabricating. His kids will surely remember these weekends, their father, and his distance. I have no idea what kind of man he is... I try not to judge, but I do form opinions. I hope he's more of a father outside of this place - preferably where it counts, but that's unlikely and doesn't it always count?

A not so funny thing happened - he screwed up my roommate's tat... he shaded an area that wasn't supposed to be shaded (I had left by then). He apologized, said he'd fix it, and chalked it up to lost concentration... did he remember his little girl, his little boy? Was he thinking of them and of what kind of impression they had of their father? Has he done enough? It's definitely not too late if he hasn't, but it's too early to tell he has. Like the ink on his neck, shoulders and arms, these memories stay with children/teens/adults forever.

As I recall my dad spanking me with a thick leather belt for saying or doing the wrong thing, I thank him. I respect him for the man that he was back then and continues to be. Memories of him working two jobs and coming home late and tired tattoo the soul, the memory... But these tats, leave me with the guilt that not many others are fortunate to have the father that I did/do.

I have a deep appreciation for fathers who surpass unreasonable expectations, those who go above and beyond the call of duty by not just putting food on the table, instilling some kind of human perspective, and showing some love, but by doing everything in their power to make a better life for their offspring - as Malcolm said, "by any means necessary." These trailblazers set the blue print for good people who can change the world, who can inspire those around them... it's not to say those without amount to shit, because we all know underdogs overcome and we cheer with glee when they do... but the underdogs remain just that.

2005-03-09T02:19:00.000-08:00

The Blue House of Blues

Girl Soldiers

2005-03-09T01:39:00.000-08:00

Despite the fact that these last 27 years of life have been everything but perfect, it (life) has a funny way of turning tragedy, sadness, insecurity, fear, hate, sorrow, and hopelessness into the exact opposite. The arch rivals and nemisis' to all things pessimistic rule, what many refer to as a soul, by way of brute strength - my soul that is. As if a devine being is reminding me of an inside joke, winking, nodding and reminding me there's a reason for this.

I keep these things in perspective when dealing with emotional, psychological, or just plain physical pain. Blessings from above, below, and in between are absorbed by this protaganist like Tori Amos lyrics in a thoughful head. We've had bumps in the road... some more than others. A few of us stumble across those of Mt. Everett proportions, but the human spirit triumphs.

The past is just that. What we take from it should be one thing and not much else - cliche as it may be... we learn. Some learn to love, hate, speak, think, etc... but we learn to live in a non-forgiving world. In a world that prizes all things superficial. What's real is left for the rest of us, thank GOD/Allah/Jesus/your GOD/no god for that.

I say this because my sisters remind me of what's important, of why life has been and continues to be important - not that I ever thought otherwise. I do know what it's like to raise a child without having my own - these little girls turned women are proof to that. Don't believe me? Ask 'em. I'm thankful for those moments of being afraid of what life will be like without those important to me. I'm thankful for these little soldiers of life that have my back throughout this war we call life. This undeniably winable war.

As overly optimistic as I may seem, I am not... I am as real as they come. As real as I can humanly be even if that hurts, inspires, or offends. A fool I am not for believing in a GOD, in a supreme being that always gives me the last laugh - that lets me hit a home run and jog the bases with a smirk on my face even though I know it's wise to be humble. Time isn't the only thing on my side...