January 16th, 2012 8:32 in the morning, 29 years officially have gone by...A bathrobe and a ciggerrette...feeding my Pet Pink Flamingos. What is wrong with me? Pet Pink Flamingos, really? This is when I really started questioning myself....My 29th Birthday and I still have pet pink flamingos?
I then realized I might have a ciggerrette addiction. It goes well with coffee...the ultimate AA breakfast. Shoot, I think I am going to go smoke one now. I just did. The ash tray was made courtesy of Little Mike, aka "The Knife Fight." It used to be one of my favorite records, Oingo Boingo's "Just a Lad."
During one of the opening nights at "The Space Age Bachelor Pad," (my residence) I decided to throw it at Little Mike just missing him by 2 inches. The vinyl splattered on the linoleum of my kitchen floor. Little Mike took what was left of Elfman's full-length debut and decided to reshape it into a ashtray utilizing a pair of scissors and my stove. (Editor's note, yes I have an Editor now, the ashtray has since been tossed in the trash with the goal of the Edfactor to extinguish his habit).
The record player. Shit's broken. I have two more that I think I will be deconstructing to make one ultimate sound system, or not. (editor's note: The Edfactor has been threatening this action for about a month now. The record player broke during Dylan's "The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll) I scored the record player stand at the Alpine Village flea market for $10 many years ago. That's the Jazz, Herb Albert, and that kind of lounge/Space Age Bachelor Pad) selection of collection.(Editor's note: For some reason the Edfactor thinks he'll get laid by playing this niche of music to whatever lady with the accompaniment of a stiff cocktail and maybe candlelight. I told him to invest in Spanish Fly. Knowing the Edfactor, he'd most likely roofie himself to get all chucked and scambled up.)
So this is where the creative process starts...My typewriter lacks spelling and grammar check, in hence the many grammatical errors and typos that infest the shenanigans. This led me to finally hire an Editor. I pay him in small bills. The left photo is a shot of Trawzilla, Wendl, myself, and the late-great Raw Dawg. I blame Raw-Dawg on getting me into writing, God bless him.
My closet. As I pondered, "What to wear on my Birfday," it was obvious what garment was necessary. Again, what's wrong me? I have more clothes than a sixteen-year-old girl given infinite money to shop at the Wet Seal.
One of my favorite records, "Cocktails for Two." The only problem is...it's seems to be only cocktails for one.
I was debating on taking out Burt for my Birfday celebration. Burt's been around for five or six years now. I bought him at the old poster-button shop in Hermosa Beach near Pier Avenue. Pretty sure that place is now a forgettable Gelato shop or maybe a gym. Burt used to hang from the wall of my 69' VW bus.
(Editor's note: When Burt comes out, or is placed from the front window, it gives Edfactor the excuse to be a complete drunk asshole and totally get caught in his farce of a theme, "Creature of Impulse." He exhibits these habits when he puts on certain outerwear like his pretty gay pink sports coat, his leather, or the worst, "the jacket.")
The self-portrait. I think I had another realization. I drive a 45-year-old car everyday that doesn't clean itself. What is wrong with me?
The Lawyer in prep for a day on the town.
The brewing process.
My only request was for my Lawyer to wear a pony-tail on my birfday. The 49'ers starter jacket is his own choice.
Sushi-Gone-Wild. Fourth year in a row. The Team 2012.
Jimmy, the Lawyer's brother, had the delight of sitting next to me. I kept rubbing his inner thigh underneath the table. He kept saying, "Stop it," in a quick fast verbal discharge. But...it was my birfday.
(Photos on by the lovely Stephanie Hass aka "fade-gurl)
You all know this Assclown.
Edfactor going in for the kill.
The Lawyer after we both consumed mackerel caught of the Redondo Beach Pier. The flavor of the fish is best described as the aroma of the century's old water amusement dwelling. The Lawyer would go on to make a paste of soy sauce with a heavy concentration of wasabi.
Edfactor and Mr. Kim.
More to come once I get the approval.....
eDFACTOR 2012
a SUSHI-GONE-WILD shenanigan from a previous time...
It's 8:00 on a Friday Night...Where is your Edfactor? Santa Ana, California. December 8th. I mustered the Fairlane down McFadden to meet mis Amigos from a former occupation of mine....Los Tigres De Warehouse. For the duration of my stint at this profession, a profession I'd ultimately deny in on-going weeks, (but that is another story,) I promise Mi Amigos I'd come check out their scene. Being a big fan of Los Tigres De Norte and Tucanes De Tijuana, I couldn't resist.
I got into this culture during my first year in college. At the same time I was really being sucked into my roots of old country, and so the mending of my favoritism of these two genres of musica just fit perfect. My roommate Daniel Bedoy, introduced me to the whole Los Tigres Del Norte thing, explaining what's really going on when you hear gun shots, distressed phones ring, speeding cars, and whatever in whatever song Del Norte crooned. These gato's song contents contained drug deals gone wrong, smuggling, abduction, and various gnarly stories that most of the white demographic hears spewed from generic news tv with a heavily bias from a right-wing starch conservative or a left-wing flower totting hip-a-matic.
So I went through a period in my early 20s while living in up in Ventura Country, were I'd only shop, buy entertainment, and clothing from a little Carnceria on the corner of Ventura Blvd. and Lewis. I even had my first flat-top spawn from the residue of this inspiration. My then girlfriend was not too feliz about my new acquired style. I remember walking into her house with a fresh flossy done high-and-tight dew, cowboy shirt, wranglers, and a pair of shiny white Mariachi ankle length boots. She was napping in the other room and could hear the "clip-clop" of my new kicks and immediately yelled. She sent mi culo right out the door. No sexo bueno para mi.
During my professional occupation, Evaristo (picture above) would sing on the top of his lungs various Del Norte songs all through out the warehouse. When I first met this gato, he barely could speak English much like I can barely write it. In the first weeks of working, I traded him a 6-pack of Corona for a hits list mixtape of his favorite Del Norte songs. By the ending of my position at this certain occupation, this Gato was calling a few shots in De Warehouse.
Working with him, naturally we developed a great friendship and so with the other Amigos in De Warehouse our team nicknames would evolved into "Los Gatos Locos," "Los Gatos Sexy," Los Tigres de Mota," "Los Gatos Cocaina," and other variations. When another fellow Amigo quit the packing area, the gato, Octavio, (see below)....Evaristo's partner in crime arrived on the scene and trabajo got so much better. Club de El Festival was ready for these tres amigos.
The hat that Evaristo is wearing...I gave that to him. I bought it in Tecoman, Mexico just after my 19th birthday. I thought it would be the perfect gift for Evaristo. The only thing wrong with it (it's an El Roche, so I had that going for me), as he explained, that the sides of that hat weren't right. Much like a baseball glove, it needed to be broken in by having it's sides mended and fully flipped up. I am pretty sure Evaristo's got that shit dialed in as I write.
The Day of El Festival. I showed up to work wearing a little of the night before, a little hung and a little spun. It was a Friday, so things were a bit casual. It was a typical breach into the weekend. I did the routine, got buy, and kept telling myself, "It's a fucking fantastic DAY!" At lunch time, Evaristo gave me the skinny. I already knew it was his birfday, so at the same time I didn't know what to expect. He told me to meet up in the corner of de warehouse away from supervising eyes. Although, I'm sure they had an idea and knew the happening. Being cool, management kept the shoulder turned away. I strolled into the hidden vantage-point left side pocket and was greeted but the rest of the Warehouse team with Cervazas, and Sminorff ices abound. I sat and drank with my new tribe as I now felt truly accepted. I sipped with my amigos and amigas. The head amiga, with her tattoo of a scratching panther on her upper arm talked and reminisced about El Festival and the muy bueno times she has had at the nightclub. I think she actually wanted to come. After celebrating Evaristo's birfday, I had to return to work. I felt honored as I was the only cat allowed to partake. No front end, no returns, no sales, no management, but this Edfactor.
It was the best lunch break of my life. The warehouse came prepared and fed me peanuts and gum to hide whatever traces I had on my breath. The irony....we were short that day. When, the assistant manager went to lunch, I was called to answer phones and deal with front-end customers.
I had no problem doing it....did it plenty of times before when I started even when I didn't quite understand what I was selling. Now, in my position after many months, I knew what was going on....but then I realized I had to take on a buzz to deal with something I could be promoted back into....something that would influence a few drastic decisions in the next couple of weeks......
I went home after my shift and felt a later drained. Maybe if I continued the party after the most incredible lunch, I'd be totally casual. Evaristo phoned me around 6..."You coming amigo," I said, "Of course." I googled the directions and was on my way. When I was in the process of stopping for coffee, dinosaur juice, and a pack of reds, I received another call from Evaristo. "Where u at amigo," I responded, "Picking up some cervaza!" Evaristo replied, "We don't need some, come." This blew my mind being a student of the whole getting a little lubricated before infiltrating whatever scene. "I'll be there in 30 minutes," I answered back.
I took Mcfadden and elected to skip freeways. Once I past the river, I knew I was out of "Little Saigon," in uncharted territory for the Fairlane. Time, I needed to kill as I was a bit a head of schedule. On one of the busy corners, I saw El Mercado supermarket, so I had to stop....plus I needed cash. Cards, plastic, and what-nots weren't going to work where I was going.
Now, I've been to plenty of Mexican supermarkets in the last 15 years: El Varrata in downtown Oxnard, El Ranchito in Westminster, El Especial Bakery in Port Huemene (more of a small bakery with the best breakfast burrito), of course El Establos in Old Town Camarillo, and numerous countless places. El Mercardo was mind blowing. It had the standard...in-house carnceria, bakery with Pan, cervaza with the premium of Budweiser, calling cards, jugo de frutas, but what set this place a part.....Mezcal Tequila. I've not seen Mezcal since my days lurking in Mainland Mexico. That shit comes in a plastic bottle with a little plastic handle and apparently you see the devil after devouring an entire bottle. I smuggled a bottle home, again at 19, but my Mother, being responsible, took it away from me once I landed in the homestead of Torrance.
El Festival Night Club De Santa Ana. I swooped up Evaristo on the way to the club, but we needed to pick-up Octavio. As you can see in the photos above, Octavio, was already jonzing to go. He also volunteered to drive. I parked the Fairlane on a miscellaneous road somewhere in Santa Ana, locked the doors, and spilled my glass bottle Mexican Coca-Cola sitting on my decrypt red dash while I pushed in my surfboards through the back gate. Now, Octavio, maybe knows about three words of English. Our communication is limited to a few hoots and hollers and whatever broken Espanol I know... "Cervaza," "El Bano," and maybe "Mucho Grande Chi Chi's,"...But now, I felt full communication as I understood while riding in his car the translation of what "Boom, Boom," met in his lexicon regarding the stereo language of his 2001 Nissan Maxima, fully done-up with 20" rims.
Octavio didn't have the right belt as it did not match the flash of his shirt. Evaristo had the proper matching belt and so it was back to where I picked up the Gato a few blocks south. The entire ride, Octavio, kept saying, "Boom, Boom," as I sat in the passengers seat. He had a button underneather the led light engulfed dash that triggered the "boom boom." As we past another T-shirt warehouse I thought to myself, I've never really heard Los Tigres Del Norte at the level Ocatvio was blasting. The bass was shaking the limo tint windows as my seat vibrated so hard making me feel like a mid-century housewife getting off on a washing machine. The aroma of the Maxima was a battlefield of coconut air fresheners dog fighting the cologne of mis gatos. When we got the belt from Evaristo's casa, it was back on the road as I had not idea where this trip was going.
We did a casual drive-by, just to really see how the scene was happening. The dos Gatos were ecstatic. Pulling in front of a dougnut shop around the corner, Evaristo informed me that "we park here always." In my mind, I was like, "what did I get myself into?". The two giggled as both doors opened in unison. Two homeless rave scene rejects with natty dreaded hair-dos in hole drenched jynco pants in front of the doughnut shop asked to bum some change. I turned my head and walked right past.
After a frisk pat-done by the Security, who greeted Evaristo and Ocatvio by first name, we were in El Festival. My two amigos were glowing. Two chicas working as cocktail waitresses immediately came up to the gatos and fully embraced them. I couldn't quite decipher the Espanol being thrown around, but I was casually introduced.
"Little Slow, you see," Evaristo replied as we searched for the perfect seat in front. But my mind was blown, a little shaken as I had to mind my P's and Q's or whatever that saying is. I mean here I am, Edfactor, fully locked into a new scene, a new culture, where for once I had to behave. I was the outsider, retain my gringo-hood, yet blend in at the same time. No crazy shenanigan notions or creature of impulse characteristics for me. I had to be accepted, yet stand my ground in this new realm of radness.
Observant, the animal I became. The patrons of El Festival started filling in as the band, yes, a live band kept the ommp paa paa to a vigorous pace. Once we found the ultimate seat with a correct vantage point to the dance floor, Evaristo bought a bucket of cervaza and told me to put away my cash. His amiga, the cocktail waitress, hustled the Mexican hops to us. A few dancers poured on to the floor within minutes when an upbeat rhythm hit the airways. Behind us three heavy-set chicas, maintained a table. Evaristo and Octavio's eyes lit up. The whole week at work, I joked how, "mi gusta gorda chicas." Here they were. Evaristo and Octavio, with their freshly razorbladed hair-styles had the thoughts of "chica," oozing from their pores more than the rather pungent cologne both were doused in. The Gato's were primered, just in the age of drinking, and ready to pounce. By second song, the duo hit the floor swinging the chicas around. I sat and sipped my Corona. Just, Observant. The major difference in a scene like this as opposed to whatever yupster, beat bop, un-inspirational place for un-inspirational people, "insert name," techno pop-mart, club, (you know, the kind of place were a DJ really thinks he's that bitchin for the fact of an apple computer and some trendy flav-wardrobe) is you just don't go and gyrate your pelvic area on some chicks leg, you've gotta ask, "Tienes bailar? Any actions of normality popular culture club dance rape tactics don't fly in this part of town. As for finding a chica to dance with...My dilemma, no hindsight on whatever chica I assumed to ask. The chica could be another hombre's chica, a sister, a niece, a mother, or just a chica another hombre is jonzing from.
I went outside to smoke a cig. "Is it a sixth grade dance all over again," I thought to myself as I puffed away. "Atleast in 6th grade, the 8th grade chicks abducted me and taught me the art of the slow dance," my mind pondered with the flick of an ash. All of the sudden, two chicas came up to me. I can't really remember what one of them looked like as she was overshadowed by her amiga dressed in a mini skirt with red heels and matching red lipstick. The chica with the red heels began to stare at me. I looked back at her and was like, "hola," trying to keep my cool cat casualness. She pointed at my Marlboro Reds, so I offered one in a friendly exchange followed by a light from my maroon lighter. "Gracias," in a slightly seductive manner she spoke with her red lips pronouncing each espanol syllable. "Denada." I returned back. The two chicas walked away
.
I went back into the club and parked it in reaching distance to the bucket. Evaristo and Octavio came and joined drenched in a little Latino dance Spirit. The bucket was gone and Evaristo made the runs denying me another chance to pick up the bill. It was a bit of an intermission, as the first band ended their set and the second was beginning to set-up.
The place was starting to fill up as hombres lined the wall eyeing down potential chicas to "Tienes Bailar." A family skirted in to the right of me, yes, a family. A husband and wife: the wife was in pumps and a seductive black dress while the husband sported the typical "Los Tigres Del Norte," cabrello drape that seemed to be the theme of the night for the older gentlemen, handlebar and all. Behind them trailled like ducklings, two daughters equally gorgeous in dresses a little more youthfully inspired...skimpy, the correct description word here. Good thing they sat in the far right corner. Can you imagine getting caught by padre while you accidentally glanced over at his two hijas for a spit second because you just got tapped on the shoulder by the cocktail waitress to order a cervaza and accidently looked up the wrong direction?
The second band began to play in a more reggatone fashion. Octacivo and Evaristo sat restless. These two Gatos just needed to dance, especially, when the whole club was on th floor When there was no Chicas to bailar with....the two appeared extremely bummed. Tigres were on a mission. In the idle moments of Chica-less-ness, Evaristo ordered another bucket.
The distraught duo and this Edfactor were eventually greeted by another amigo. There's how I met the third cog to Evaristo and Octavio's dancing machine. I pulled up a chair and the new addition to the team sat down. He was the edgy amigo, with bleached hair and a piecing spiked right an inch under his lower lip. His attire was best described as Tucanes de Tijuana meets Hot topic. We chatted as best as we could beneath the broken beats of the uptempo music sputtering espanol and the act of deciphering our broken dialects. Evaristo filled in the blanks while Octavio kept his eyes open for the next bailar.
She then appeared....the most bonita chica in the building. Our three heads immediately looked up in awe as she was swung around by a well dressed hombre about my age. To the beat and grooving, her hips memorized our eyes in a unison sway. In my scale of beauty,with the Inspiration being number one, she was divinely in the top ten. Maybe it was the environment, her moves, the music, the cervaza, but she knew all eyes were on her. After the song, as quickly as she appeared....she disappeared.
Evaristo orded another bucket. This time though, I step up my arsenal and ordered a whiskey and coke...most likely the only one ordered that night or ever at El Festival Night Club in Santa Ana. The cocktail waitress gave my a blank stare during the ordering process. Nine dollars later, I got my request. I sipped on it while the trio of amigos corralled a few chicas on the left side of the building.
Finally I contemplated, I had to go dance. I turned around to the gorda chicas sitting in the table behind me and spoke, "Tienes Bailar?" Chica in the middle was like, "huh?" So, I asked again trying to hide my accent that muffled the Espanol like a sophomore Valley girl in a Spanish 101 high school class. Again, same response. The Chica looked to the left at her amiga and replied, "Ohh, you want to dance." Chica spoke English, thank God. I nodded. "No," I was quickly answered back. I was like, "Okay," as I was a little distraught as I turned back around to my drink. I looked to the dance floor while the trio of amigos were bobbing back and fourth with a string of chicas. In mid-swig, of the melting ice, flat coke, and plastic bottle alcoholic concoction, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around. "My friend would like to dance with you during the next song," the English speaking gorda chica said.
During the next song, I finally had a chica to bailar with. She spoke not-a-lick of English. I walked to the floor realizing, I had no idea what I was doing. The steps, I would have to improvise. We got to the floor. The song begin, so I just started shaking my hips and trying to mimic Evaristo who appeared right next to me with another Chica from that table. It was more of a slow-dance interlude between the madness of the boom boom sounds. In my replication of the other dancers, my steps got lost in translation to the chica. I kept trying, throwing in a few surf style surfer stomp maneuvers for good measure while I held her arms distance. In my theory of dancing, to counteract bad dancing all you need is a smile. I smiled trying to pull it off. When I looked up at her, it was just an uncomfortable blank stare. I let go of the reins and just tuned into a whole Pulp Fiction like groove. It wasn't happening...now, she would look away with up-and-down forceful movements that screamed, "mede una puta vezde aquí." When the song was over, she retreated back to the table behind us and never would quite acknowledge me again. Evaristo came back to the table. "you, you got what you say, good dancer," he insured me. "But you need know Mexican steps." After a few more Cervazas, we bartered Dance lesson for Surf lessons. From there I wiggled around the tables and the patrons into the El Bano trying not to spill drinks or step on any toes. In El Bano, I took a stall and just sat down and reflected...soaking in what the fuck was going on. "Bllaahhhhhhhhhhhhh," I heard from the next stall. I looked down at my cowboy boots. A blob of upchuck slowly crept underneath the dividing walls in striking distance of my cherished cowboy footware. I did the necessary deed, pulled up the wranglers, and tighten the belt and was out of there in a furry. But, I still took the time to tip the Bathroom Assistant for a towel paper. The poor dude had to clean that shit up. When I returned back to the home base of the our ideal table, the tres amigos were of course on the floor. By this time, another band had started that was more in the vein of Los Tigres De Norte. I looked behind to see what's the story with the gorda chicas, but they weren't there. Insterad, the chica with the red high heels and red lipsticks was there. But, with a dude.
The couple was pretty much attached at the crotch. He had her so close, you couldn't slide a razor blade between the two. When she move to his lap, I know I needed a cigg break. I took a pace to the outside. This is where I befriended the bouncer. I explained to him that I wasn't here to start any trouble and just to have a good time professing to be extra careful for being different. The bouncer insured me security is on every corner and the only trouble I'd find are the too borracho'd cabrellos sitting at the bar gettin' grumpy cause they can't score any chicas.
I retreated back to mis amigos spot. Octavio and Evaristo were both taking an inning out between their next burst of dance. The three gorda chicas were back. I used them as the buffer between the chica with the red high heels and her hombre. The couple started making out like 15-years-old pumped up full of energy drinks and viagra. I was introduced to the couple by the gorda chica who spoke English. The hombre peeled of the chica with the red high heels for approximately 10 seconds to shake my hand. It was a brisk hand embrace as I made sure to look him straight in the eyes not in some intimidating matter, more as a precaution....a precaution in the fact I had security behind me. I was not going to buck horns in a masculine cock fight for his chica in the red high heels....plus I noticed that her teeth were more mangled than a railroad track descending the Sierra Nevada mountain line. He went right back to suffocating her. I should of handed him a pillow.
I bought the last bucket. The cocktail waitress came back around and I made the gesture for the metal bucket chock full of corona and ice. Evaristo finally let me pay. I don't know if I got the "Gringo," discount or not...$36 for 6 coronas. It didn't bother me. Here, Evaristo, making way less than I was, picked up the bill the entire night. I felt honored. Plus, chaperoning me to this entire new world and accepting me as a part of the tribe...
The third band and the last of the night picked up the pace. The hombre and the chica with the red heels got up and trekked to the dance floor. Ocatvio and Evaristo also sprung up and pounced. I sat. Observant. Mis amigos of course found chicas, but I just couldn't keep my eyes off the hombre and the chica with the red high heels. Their dancing...how would I explain it...hmmm. I am trying to stay away from cliches here, but it had to be some kind of mating dance. (I know I am better than that). The duo danced with every part connected to another part of each other. On top of that, hombre had his mouth super glued to the chica in an exaggerated CPR position pausing to slip tongue in on the down beats. It was the most particular thing I'd ever saw. This dance, act, continued and did not stop even between the bridge to another song. I believe he even got closer if that's even possible.
So, I sat there startled as fuck. My mind was bouncing in the hollow shell of my skull. Evaristo came and sat next to me. "No tienes," he asked. I explained to him, I can dance....but I was just observant and sucking it in. Next time, I'd have the steps and would be dancing with Chicas much like him and Octavio. I explained to him, I also had a Chica west of the 405 I'd been really stoked on and would love to bring her here. "She got friends," Evaristo asked. I just smiled and couldn't help but giggle. "I'll see what I can do," I answered back.
"You wanna dance," the gorda Chica who spoke English asked from behind me. "Sure," I replied. So, back on the dance floor I was. It was one of the last songs for the night as the crowded club was slowing down. Again, my ineptness of Mexican dance floors caused me to fall back into the few swing dance moves I knew from lessons I took years ago. "triple step, triple step, back-step....swing around and look at the watch." The hombre and the chica with the red high heels still in their healthy embrace almost knocked us off the dance floor. He still managed navigating the floor even during lip on lip action. So I made small talk with the gorda chica. Through her broken English and my non-existent Spanish, we made due and carried a conversation. We talked about Evaristo and Octavio and how those gatos are at the club almost every weekend. We talked about my lack of formal Mexican Dancing training. We talked about how much I love Los Tigres De Norte. We talked about how I'd like to come again but with a certain Chica. At the end of the song, I thanked her and poured back into the table with two Corona's waiting for me. She moved on to another hombre and continued to Bailar.
SO I sat, and kept observing. The Amigos,"Los Tigres De Warehouse," continued out and about trying to get their last dancing kicks before the night would conclude. Evaristo ended up with one of the Gorda Chicas from behind us, just glowing. I realized, it wasn't just for the Chicas, this Gato wanted to just dance. I finished the Corona and wondered where was Octavio? The band announced in espanol, I believe to mean, last song. When the ommp pa pa, broke the silence, Octavio came swinging in with a chica I haven't seen him dance with all night. I kept focusing, trying to figure out who he was dancing with...It was her, the most beautiful chica in the building. Octavio bagged it. The Gato kept his pace, casually in the critical section, but with the correct right of jive when the song called for it. At the end of the song, he kissed her hand and walked away.
I sat in awe. When both of my amigos came back to the table, I just bowed down to Octavio. At the occupation, Octavio just boxed stuff as most people ignored him because of the communication barrier. Not myself, as I feel ignorant not being able to speak in Octavio's language. Now, I had a story that would change the perception of Octavio in the work place.
We finished the night out, said goodbye, and it was back to Octavio's coche. In all, I danced twice during a four hour period. I felt very humbled and a bit intoxicated as I jumped in the front seat (thank you, Evaristo). Mi dos amigos were glowing, stoked as stoked can be....We played Los Tigres Del Norte on a lower volume....
We pulled back to the front of Octavio's casa. He rented a room at his brother's house. My plan was to just sleep the night off in my Fairlane. It wouldn't be the first time, as I did it over 21 states on the first trip across country. I had the necessary sleeping accessories as well as a gallon water. Octavio and Evaristo wouldn't allow it, forcing me to crash with them.
It was a 30s style craftsmen house, the kind of style casa that once were the main dwellings along PCH decades prior. Areas, like Santa Ana, nook and crannies all over Long Beach, San Pedro, Wilmington, and the Olmstead District in Torrance, still have the beat of the motif of the earliest developers of California. Places in LA, impoverished, and saved from Gentrification that started sometime in the 50s with the beginnings of Suburbia, keep the architecture alive. Here I was. Edfactor. 2:30 in the morning. Still in Santa Ana.
Octavio slowly and quietly unlocked the lock and opened the door. "Muy Silencio," was the objective as we did not want to wake anybody up. I am not sure of the response I'd receive from the famalia. I made sure to follow suit, but again we were still buzzing from the whole El Festival Experience. I kept whispering, "Muy Silencio," every 10 seconds as we navigated the pinch-dark corridors of the depression-era house. Mis amigos, then giggled, and repeated, "Muy Silencio," as I'd join them in the silent laughter. We finally made it to Octavio's room. I, first, was directed to El Bano. I couldn't resist taking a few shots of the pink-drenched interior.
Mis Dos Amigos, Octavio and Evaristo.
The artillery for preparing for a night at El Festival. The Trophies are all Octavio, who, is an exceptional futbol player.
Los zapatos.
After a night of hard dancing, Zapatos need to come off.
To top it off, mis amigos let me siesta on the bed. I offered to just hit the floor, but they weren't having it.
I slept amazing. The room was as dark as a Las Vegas hotel room minus the falsehood of air-conditioning. I woke up a bit earlier than mis Amigos, checked my cellphone, and rolled over back to bed. About an hour later, I could hear the sounds of amusement, the sounds of laughter, seeping underneath the crack of the bottom part of the door. I shifted sides, but the joyous noise continued. Finally, mis amigos woke up. After thanking Octavio for the millionth time, I told the two I had a date with the Ocean and needed to get back to my reality. With Zapatos back on, Octavio and Evaristo, begin following suit and gearing up for an afternoon of futbol.
When Octavio opened the door, the bright light scoured in. The casa smelled of tamales from the cocina. With daylight, the house opened up with life. I envisioned a family during the 40s, much like "The Christmas Story," living in the same way. Instead of tamales, maybe a turkey or pork with the same enviroment of happiness. In the living room, ninos y ninas, were watching Saturday morning cartoons, oblivious to me and situated in their own little worlds. Octavio and Evaristo continued to walk me out. Again, I thanked the duo and asked Octavio to thank his brother for letting me crash for the night. We giggled one last time and I was off on my way.
I was a little bit hungry and so set out to find something of substance to eat. I stumbled onto this place somewhere off Bristol in Santa Ana.
Again being not able to communicate fully en Espanol, I got lucky as the dude taking orders spoke English. I asked him, "What is this place known for?" Carnintas was the call.
Soo like five years ago in the halls of a certain mental institute turned college, I was forced to dabble in structure in regards to poetic expressions. As you can see below, I actually rhyme....no way can I do that shit anymore. This piece was inspired after a certain trip to a certain city....can you guess which one? I promise new stuff very soon!
Sloppy Sonnet 89109
“Bright Star” shimmering—grasped by the black dark abyss!
Implicit Cling, Cling echoes off explicit mountains in unison with neon rays,
Stardust residues on a flamingo, a cowboy and a clown jest.
Mecca…. Pilgrims sit to ritualized relics! Twist, Twist of the wrist they pray!
Worship discards to battle—armed w/ plastic! Hell-bent, Jihad, to foray!
The Millions Intoxicated—benighted tenebrously thriven,
Illuminating Debauchery—guaranteed in the Mandalay!
“Good deals, cheap eats, free drinks,” Is this Dante’s Inferno or Heaven?
Young/old juxtaposition/on the Strip/interwoven,
Trampling over the pieces of seduction,
Dark lights mindlessly hypnotize—SHOW STARTS @ ELEVEN!
What’s the pay out for this cost of admission?
As I walk past New York…… into Paris….
Vegas….Shall I fall prey to your caress!
So in the search for Inspiration, as I am lacking it literally, figuratively, metaphorically, symbolically, and whatever, I decided to start up my desktop from college....I haven't turned on the dusty computer and monitor in about 2.5 years. So amongst sloppy college party pictures, ex-girlfriends candid, literary essays, the one-off research paper, a really bad screenplay, I found this. Here's a piece I wrote about Hermosa Beach in a poetry class at some certain time in the mid-2000's. I am guessing 2005. The language is a little overt and easy to digest. In my mind, this piece is super cheesy....but here it is unedited to my embarrassment. BTW, I used to read this at the Coffee Cartel right out of college and thought I was super bitchin'.
Hermosa Beach!
Westwood-by-the-Beach…
Built
On
Ruins
Of small community.
From Local Surf Ghetto—
To fraternity party!!!
Where is Dewey Weber or Greg “Da Bull” Noll?
Replaced by
Institutionalized Bar-Scene,
F-i-l-l-ed with fashionable alcoholics!
Where is no-pants-Lance posing nude on the hood of a 40’ Ford?
Where is Purpus, star Jacob’s team rider, running for mayor?
Surf Lore Gone and Lost forever,
Only to be religiously recited at the Mermaid by the local drunk,
His withered hands clenching a beer,
And a salty tear evaporating
Into the sea air with the fables themselves.
No more sunny Beach Boy Days!
All engulfed by the eastern seaboard,
Traumatized into submission
By Abercrombie and Fitch!!
SUV’s and Mercedes flash flooding Hermosa Avenue,
As the trendy store fronts battle Greckos, Mickey’s and all of
The other
Lone
Survivors.
Pier Avenue,
a dashing
fashion run-way
for fashionable people
The Smell of Resin that once resonated replaced…
But the Stench!
The Stench of cement and fresh cut Wood,
Another Beach Bungalow desecrated!
Martyred…Crucified…
As the memory and image is nailed to Condos, Condos, Condos,
Juxtaposition is warfare,
Of what is and what was,
Old salty dogs and their spawning
Blended into this turmoil of contradiction,
The offspring of Hermosain’s veins pulse with the blood of punk rock underground,
As the majority of newcomers change and the minority stays the same.
For all those new cats just jumping into the Shenanigans, the Shenanigans started out as an expression of my perspective of being on the road, a travelogue I guess you'd call it. In a nutshell: in the fall of '09, my job situation at a certain international school went sour after the director of the school called it quits. After running my successful Torrance Surf Camp during the summer (like I have the previous six years), the new director made the decision that I was a temp and my years at this certain school building the Activities Department and creating new class courses for academia amounted to shit. I was expandable and so she, of a certain Eastern Ethnicity, decided to cut half my hours, basically half my paycheck. I was living in the Riviera Village, an adjacent disputed land in between Torrance Beach and Redondo Beach, and my apartment was pretty beat. Multiple roommates, parties, wildness, turkeys, a 12x6 mural found in a dumpster from a closed Chinese Restaurant, a stained carpet, and termites had been the cause. On the top of that, a certain Ex-whatever, seemed to be around every corner, finding me where ever, even though we broke up 6 months prior. Things were getting hot for this Edfactor in Torrance and it was time to hit the highway.
SO I left, for 6 months and documented the fuck out of it. I dig a lot of the early stuff, even though sometimes it is painful to read. I've always had this problem starting back to my first creative writing classes in High School. When you progress as a writer, or during my growth, I just feel the early shit is just super "cheesy." Though most people would disagree and say I am really self critical. But then again, once I finish a piece, I am ready to move on to the next thing. The early shit has a level of innocence to it, me just trying to develop my voice...which I sort of dig. But, tons of motherfucking typos.
Here is one of the stories I never posted: The Smiling Alligator with the Golden Tooth Tattoo story. I'll put links to the Charleston pieces at the bottom of the page. The Charleston pieces were some of my favorite to write as at the time I wrote them, I was on the fly and frantic on the road. I was supposed to be in Charleston for only a weekend. If I recall, I left on Cinco De Mayo of all things. Between barbeques, the Piggly Wiggly, the Recovery Room, Lesbian Bike Riding Chicks (awesome), strange substances, buildings no taller than the local church, the motherfucking Waffle house, Folley Beach, The Kicking Chicking, and of course Ryan and his golf cart Mazda driving through a maze of divebars, pre-Civil War southern architecture, and hipsters on fixies, I had to bail one of my favorite cities in the world. The day before I left Charleston, I felt I needed something to really commerate this whole experience. I mean, I drove to Florida barely making it monetarily and physically as my '65 Ford was put through all tests in the process of the drive: snow, heat, wind, and overheating. Simply I was broke and the Fairlane was fucked.
In Florida while living at my Grandpop's house, I just made it happen. I find a temp job were I was making $20 a hour just to drive up and down the urethra of Florida scanning hospital charts for the insurance companies. To think about it, it was pretty gnarly seeing what people were suffering from. I tried to keep a blind eye, but it was tough. The worst was when you'd get a file and realize it was a deceased person. I prayed to God, I wouldn't have to scan my Grandpop's chart. That would of been devastating. But, I didn't. I was the talk of the retirement community as they proclaimed I could "live like a king," in Ocala with my income. It also didn't help that my karaoke prowess at the local VFW and Moose (I could sing country sort of all right, "Turning Japanese" was too much, but they loved my rendition of Ray Parker's "Ghostbusters") gave me some street cred especially with the "Doo Wop Mama," originally from Queens, New York.
I put my paycheck into the fairlane and with the guidance of my Grandpop, made her a road-worthy highway lurking hell raiser. He guaranteed I'd never have a major problem with the fairlane ever again. I currently drive her everyday.
There were times I'd be working on the flux capacitor or whatever, when Bob, who lived in the seafoam doublewide from 1966 on my Grandpop's land with his lovely wife Lynn, would come check on my progress. He'd have a lit cigg in his lips, a busch in his hand, and speak slowly in a double bass grizzly voice, "Hey boy, do-ya wannna smoke a joint."
So with the fairlane ready for some action, a couple of grand in my pocket, I left Ocala knowing that I'd never could replicate my experience. But really, why would I? I will revisit soon enough and it will be entirely different...in a good way. So one day, I woke up on Ryan's couch still drunk from the night before with the hankering for some ink. I told Ryan, "I want a Smiling Alligator with a Golden Tooth." Ryan gave me the number to his friend, a local tattoo artist, at some local tattoo parlor, who also happened to love tattoos of sharks. I have a tattoo of a shark on my left arm. I called this nice young lady and mentioned to her I was Ryan's friend from California, I wanted a tattoo of a Smiling Alligator with a Golden Tooth tattoo, and I also have a shark tattoo. She said, "Be here at 11," and cancelled her afternoon appointment of tattooing a butterfly or fairy on some chicks back or something.
During the process of ink slinging, Ryan ran home and made me a delicious Bloody Mary. He handed it to me while I had the Alligator's snout filled in. His Mazda dodged a parade of cut-off jeans hipster on the way (although I think one of them took out a side view mirror).
With the ink set forth, I left Charleston. I took this back road route through North Carolina as I tried to avoid the 95 as much as possible. Plus I was on the way to Hatteras. (During one of the earlier trips, it took me 4 hours to get from DC to Baltimore. I was in a snow storm with no exit in sight to piss or eat. Where was a fucking Wawas?) By the way, I hate the entire state of Virginia. On this two way highway, It was hard to focus at the scenery..."Highway 61 revisited" playing for the millionth fucking time on the disgruntled CD player...of decrypt houses from God knows when falling on top of each other. I just couldn't stop staring at the Smiling Alligator with the Golden Tooth on my forearm while I turned the cracked red steering wheel guiding my Fairlane down the road into shenanigans.
The reason I held on to this story, I just couldn't post it without informing my parents first. (Even though, I already had a few tattoos...but then again it was a Smiling Alligator with a Golden Tooth on my forearm). I remember in Bristol, Pa, the town of my birth, I was at breakfast at the Golden Eagle Dinner with my Uncle and two Aunts. We decided to call my mother. During conversation, my Uncle kept making references to the Smiling Alligator with the Golden tooth on my forearm. "That was a crock," "How about them gators,"See you later alligator," and what not was said.
At dinner in my Grandmom's doublewide in Morrisville, My Dad's sister (my Aunt), who has a few tattoos of her own, thought it was killer and didn't understand why he'd be super bummed. On the highway to Chicago after a heavy trip in Cleveland (I mean, heavy), I finally broke down to my dad somewhere in Indiana. I had to, I mean...I was meeting him at a sales convention in Chicago (which is another good story). When I told him, I can't repeat what he said...let's just say he hung up on me.
