the beach boys of death

Today was one of those glorious (and rare) Los Angeles. Blue skies, crisp air, snow covered mountains, gentle winds and big billowy clouds all around. Yet lots of sunshine. No smog.

(This is only possible around here after a big rainstorm, and last night's was a doozy.)

The kind of day that The Beach Boys were always going on about. And on and on about. And on local oldies radio, these songs were constantly being played hereabouts during my growing up. Lots of Beach Boys harmonizing out of every little tinny transistor radio or storefront or mall opening, it seemed.

It could easily make you hate all that those boys sang about.

Especially if (like me) you were a fat, nerdy Latino immigrant. None of those blonde tunes had much to do with abject poverty, police brutality, racism, alcoholism or riding in a bus. Later punk rock attitudes seemed to imply that The Beach Boys were the enemy (I can tell you of a surfer/punk brawl with one of the Wilson's sons in Hollywood, but that's another story).

Yet a soft spot always remained in my heart for the Hawthorne lads.

Especially now that I work in Hawthorne-the town most of them were raised in, I believe).

The town that until 1962 could be called a "sundown town"-as in: "Nigger get out of town before sundown"...

Maybe that's why so many of the earlier songs just don't relate to reality much.

The fact that Brian Wilson wrote most of the key songs, yet never got into the water helped me learn to like them as I grew older, and as I began discovering The Beach Boys' darker side (this does not include post Brian Republican Beach Boys - that's just sad).

Brian was a genius. And a nut job. In hiding for years.

Dennis took in Charlie Manson. And was a coked out binge drinker.

Mike Love wasn't.

The creepy Wilson dad used to punish his kids by removing his glass eye and making the kids stare into the empty socket.

I mean, who wouldn't pen 'In My Room' after that?

In 2nd hand stores all over town, one could find copies of "Smiley Smile" or "Beach Boys Love You" or "Surf's Up" featuring 'Don't Go Near The Water'
or 'I Wanna Pick You Up' or 'Student Demonstration Time' and a whole host of other really odd songs.

The fact that "Pet Sounds" and "Smile" have gotten so much attention lately does show that their odder stuff was ahead of it's time, and that's good for Brian and the contrarian "I told you so" music nerds.

But can they really appreciate the epic love song to 'Johnny Carson' or 'Solar System' ("if mars had life on it, I might find my wife on it"...)? I don't have the qualifications to describe these equally LA representative songs. You'll just have to find them (hint: nothing after Brian Wilson left the band, and post "Pet Sounds").

As to me, I walk around their hometown, humming these oddball tunes ("I'm gonna chow down, my vegetables") and thinking of these boys growing up and beginning their careers during the Watts Riots, living in sunny (sundown) Hawthorne. And glass eyes.

Helps me forget my therapy.

terremoto

During a visit to the home country (Costa Rica) 15 years or so ago, I found myself at the graveside of my paternal grandmother (she-who because of her awful temper and alcoholism, we, the siblings-called "grandmonster") to clean up and paint the small bed-shaped cement resting slab for my father's impending visit.

This is a typical Central American ritual, since most cemeteries are rather impoverished, so upkeep is up to the families.

The cemetery was a rather cheerful old place, lush with all sorts overgrown scary looking tropical plants, and a wonderful sign at the entrance that read: 'we only die when we are forgotten' that has always stayed with me.

Joining me on this bit of housekeeping were 2 cousins on my mother's side, Adriana and Claudio, at the time aged 16 and 10.

A rather typical Costa Rican oddity. Halfway down the length of the plots was a table laden with fruit from the cemetery's trees, for patrons to take home, but not to leave for the "guests"-this wasn't Mexico, after all.

Well, we trimmed the weeds, cleaned off the stone and took about an hour painting (whitewashing) the little tomb.

When finished, my cousin Claudio (10, very chubby, pimply faced, goofy and topped with an out of place 'prince valiant' hair-do) decided he was Fred Astaire and began dancing on one of the nearby 2 foot high structures.

"Stop that!" his sister hissed.

"Look, Mauri, I'm Fred Astaire!" he insisted.

His sister was livid. "The dead will get angry, you know."

And right then, straight out of Garcia Marquez, a 6 point 2 earthquake hit.

I managed to carry Claudio out to the waiting car, and he remained in the fetal position he had dropped to during the quake for a few hours. He would later in life try to become a priest.

His sister is the night manager for the traffic police in downtown San Jose.

My dad was in the air when the quake hit, and later thought his mother's sight looked 'good', but wondered why the fruit was all over the ground from the table.

little one

she hemmed and hawed, but finally let it out.
she has a boyfriend. this fellow has been in school with her since age 2, and for a while was the bane of her existence.
teasing, twisting the truth, one-upping, schoolyard ignoring or bragging, more teasing.
turns out it was all because he was sweet on her.
she says her heart was all "bouncy" as he was finally telling her how he felt, and she's feeling pretty good about this.
she looked so shy telling me all this.
she's been saying for weeks now that she thought he had a crush on her, and i would ask her what she thought about that.
it seemed to please her.
now she knows, and i told her to take things slow and to play it cool.
this is true dad stuff, and i have some clues. but lots to be nervous about.

i mean, she is 9 and all that.

why do you do that?

random transit related annoyances:

eating sunflower seeds.
discarding shells.
clipping fingernails.
talking on the walkie-talkie.
loudly.
leaving a slime trail from your hair gel on the
window.
humiliating your child to tears.
taking the aisle seat when the coach is crowded.
sneaking a beer in the back, leaving the trash.
fart dispersal while walking down the aisle.
having your music player on 11.
blocking access to the rear by taking up the whole
aisle.
making fun of the homeless person.
ignoring Asian passengers waiting at a stop.
not giving up a seat to a single dad holding a
young pup.
seeing a billboard saying "it's getting better on
the bus" after waiting an hour for the "every 10
minutes"
letting them film "speed" in your town.
putting TV's on the bus.
having sound only on commercials.
not having covered stops.
in a town with 100 degree temperatures.
or "el nino".

grrr.

ba-duh, ba ba da duh

Once a week I work out of the downtown office for my Union closer to home (I can walk there instead of the hour long train ride) and for that day I am forced to listen to a co-worker's favorite radio station.

Soul and soul light, with the occasional old school funk.

Well, every day that I am there, the ladies at the office feel obliged to remind me of "Mo's song" when it inevitably comes on (it's played once or twice a day, it seems), and I get the chills.

I related the story of "my song" to them the first day I worked, and it never ceases to amuse all when repeated.

So:

Back in the first year of my (now defunct) marriage, the wife and I had an apartment on a tiny street across from a whole family of Mexican gang members. Three generations worth.

They were nice to us (even helped various neighbors and us after the big earthquake in '94) and generally kept to themselves with just one odd exception.

Seems that "Junior" had been released from prison after a short stint, and on the day of his homecoming, some rival members decided to pay him a "drive-by" and pepper the house across the street, as well as "Junior" with some noisy and small metal high velocity gifts.

"Junior" survived, but with massively diminished mental capacities, and his "homies" decided he should get a brand new car with a top of the line stereo for his troubles. "Junior" could not drive, so spending the day washing his "trock-a" and playing his tunes was about all he could do.

Therein lay the problem. He only seemed to have or like one song on one CD. And he wouldn't play the one song over and over again. Oh, no. He would play the opening (by hitting repeat) of one special song.

"Ba-duh, ba ba da duh!"

The first bit of "Genius of Love" by the Tom Tom Club.

"Ba-duh, ba ba da duh!"

"Ba-duh, ba ba da duh!"

20 or 50 times in a row. Just. That. Bit.

"Ba-duh, ba ba da duh!"

For an hour or so, "Junior" would just sit there in his shiny truck hitting repeat. Hitting repeat.
And should we happen to be home, we got to listen to.

We moved six months later, but for the 2 of us, that song is forever tainted, and we go out of our way to avoid it.

Except now. Thanks to some faceless, mindless unimaginative corporate "soul light" radio programmer.

"Ba-duh, ba ba da duh!"

My song.

sioux city sue

Looking at my living room bookshelf the other day I paid close attention to the small vial of ashes and the photograph of my friend Sue.

1991: In a typical Sue moment, she had us each take a picture of the other in front of an elevated freeway exit. We had spent the day wandering East LA as her windshield was getting replaced, and we talked and talked. And typical Sue, she dared my to try my then broken Spanish at a taco truck. Then I had to eat whatever I had ordered (brains). I was smitten once again.

We had met sometime in the late '80's, both seeing others (her odd boyfriend had only referred to her as 'my girlfriend'), but we hit it off as friends. She loved to dive in to things, and had a laugh that would spread. Deep and husky. It always got me.

We traded mix tapes every so often for the next few years, and her favorite was the "sioux city sue" of old country tunes that I had made just for her. Mine from her was the hopelessly depressing British industrial gloom mix called "Happiness mit der Smiths". She loved the title track.

After a nasty break-up and a failed coffee house, I moved to San Francisco, and Sue came to visit a couple of times. I found myself eagerly anticipating her weekend trips. One trip we slept in the old bath house ruins at the cliffs: freezing, freezing, freezing.

One evening, we met at a giant underground tiki/shipwreck bar built around an old pool in the basement of a famous hotel. She had such a grin the whole evening, and as always it was infectious. She made me happy.

That next morning, I decided that I'd had enough of the San Francisco treat, and that perhaps back down home Sue would be there for me (I am forever chasing a woman somewhere).

Well, I moved, but things didn't quite work out with Sue as a partner. We had that one very great day together in East LA shortly after my move (she was the one who first showed me the "Great Stone Seal" and the Charles St Yves mariachi hall), but like a fool I never did tell her that she was my reason for moving back (plus her then boyfriend wouldn't have approved).

We drifted, but remained friendly. Awash happy to see each other, just not much chance to "hang out". She was one of those people that showed me how to live life well. And I loved her for that.

Every time we saw each other she would brag about my DJing/mix tapes to anyone who would listen. It was nice to be embarrassed by her.

Eventually, I got married and had a daughter, and got to do the whole great dad thing. Sue met a great guy and got to have a great writing, living, being a creative soul. She got sick and after fighting off a brain tumor, moved out to the desert.

She had a wonderful set of friends that I've only recently met, plus our old mutual friends who didn't realize that I had no idea what had happened.

About a year ago, she had a relapse and quickly passed.

I found out the same day as a planned wake, and it was all very quick. I've lost 4 of my closest friends over the years, and Sue had always been very supportive of my grief,so it was an odd and somewhat heartbroken mood I was in(what with my recent separation) my mind was on overload.

Sue gone? Yes. And her friends got together and quietly chatted about our friend. Somebody remembered the photo of me in front of the freeway. Her boyfriend told me how often she brought me up.

During the wake, her oldest friend was preparing vials of Sue's ashes to pass out to friends, and I was honored to be a recipient. The friend noticed that some tiny bone fragments had remained in the ashes ("Sue strong like Hulk" somebody muttered) so we passed the fragments from hand to hand.

Well, Sue being Sue, the fragments left a bit of themselves behind in each hand, so there I was, alone in the hallway with a bit of Sue that I couldn't quite figure out what to do with.

Somehow, giving them back just seemed wrong. As did throwing them away.

So I licked my hands. Took Sue in, crying. I felt better but told no one about it at the wake. Just a little joke between Sioux City Sue and me.

***********************************************

"Sioux City Sue, Sioux City Sue,
Your hair is red, your eyes are blue
I'd swap my horse and dog for you, oh
Sioux City Sue, Sioux City Sue
There ain't no gal as true as my sweet Sioux City Sue.

I drove a herd of cattle out
From old Nebraska way
That's how I come to be in the state of I-o-way.
I met a gal and asked her how
She said "Indeed I do"
I asked her what her name was and she said
"Sioux City Sue"

Sioux City Sue, Sioux City Sue,
Your hair is red, your eyes are blue
I'd swap my horse and dog for you, oh
Sioux City Sue, Sioux City Sue
There ain't no gal as true as my sweet Sioux City Sue."

for want of a nail

It had to happen, I suppose.

A few good days, and then today happened.

My day begins as usual, getting my daughter and I ready to head out of the door. Breakfast, get dressed, check backpacks, and the other 2,912 things to get us to her school by 8:10 am.

Partial cheat, I drove her there instead of a brief stroll because we dawdled this morning.

So, she's off to class and I decide to drive to the nearest train stop with street parking, about 4 miles away.

I park the car, and as I walk to the train I realize that I had left my wallet back at home, with cash, bus card, etc. I need the wallet.

So I drive back and on the way home, the car engine begins to smoke.

It dies as I reach my place. So, call the mechanic, arrange for towing, and walk down the street to catch the bus to the train, oops, go back for the wallet, then back to the bus stop.

Call work, let them know that I'll be an hour late or so.

The bus takes its usual time crawling to Downtown, but at least I catch the train, now only 40 mins late so far.

Of course, a third of the way there, we are informed that there has been an accident on the tracks and that all trains are stopped for a while, and that we must get off the train, as it will be sent back.

Scratchy instructions over the station as to which bus to take to get us to the next train stop, and 100 or so stranded commuters walk the 2 blocks to the bus stop. One hour late at this point.

3 of the "special" buses, empty, pass us by. Then we see the train go by, full of passengers.

So we walk back to the train stop and are informed vis the scratchy intercom that the next train will arrive shortly.

35 minutes later, it comes, packed. We all manage to squeeze in, and "ooh" and "aww" as we pass the scene of the accident: A knocked over train/bell/mechanical arm thing and the car that had been hit by the train.

I transfer to the other line, and that train takes a good 20 minutes to arrive (normally 7 minutes between trains).

Finally make it to work, almost 3 hours late.

All because of a wallet.

Ai!

In a city the size of Los Angeles, with the population of a small country, I am still always amazed at the fact that 60 (or so) languages are spoken here, with English no longer in the dominant position overall.

Things can get fairly amusing here at times.

That many of the people speak Spanish here does not surprise me, since this whole region was part of Mexico until the US "won" a war with it's southernmost neighbor, much to the chagrin of the Mexicans living here.

And then 200 years or less of Americans ignoring this 2nd language (I keep thinking of Quebec).

As a child I recall the school principal admonishing my parents to speak to me only in English, as my Spanish could "only be a hindrance to my education". As a result, I basically taught myself Spanish as an adult.

The school system offered French and German classes, but no Spanish language courses. I sure the huge Franco-American population was pleased by this. Wait. There isn't one.

That being said, what always does surprise me are the residents (native born or more than 10 years) in Los Angeles who have never bothered to learn any Spanish and lately seem more and more flummoxed by their inability to get their thoughts across a not so wide gap.

Case in point, the woman I saw who was shouting for directions at the black haired, dark skinned grocery clerk, when her English apparently wasn't getting across, so yelling it was (as if the fellow was deaf). Her "valley-girl" speak was very distinctive.

"I said :I WANT TO KNOW HOW TO GET TO THE 101 FREEWAY. IS THIS CLEAR TO YOU?"

A shrug, and an attempt to open his mouth.

"I WANT TO SEE THE MANAGER. I'VE LIVED HERE ALL MY LIFE AND CAN'T BELIEVE THAT THEY WOULD HIRE A LATINO THAT DOESN'T SPEAK ENGLISH."

The clerk clears his throat, and says:

"Oh, miss. I do speak English. I am Armenian, and I did not answer you because I did not understand your accent nor your question, and before I was able to ask you to repeat, you began shouting at me."

I left before it got too embarrassing.

one of those perfect days

Since my birthday last year royally sucked (I was in the midst of moving out of my 12 year marriage) I was determined to not call much attention to it and just take the day off with my favorite lady...

My 9 year old daughter, Mavis.

Well, I went to pick her up the night before and lo and behold if the little sneak hadn't baked me a cake mostly on her own...classic yellow with milk chocolate frosting, sprinkles and some happy birthday words...

I was very moved and proud, and that was just the beginning!

The next morning she let me sleep in (a rare luxury for me on a weekday, since I take her to school/camp almost every day of the year).

We watched some silly cartoons, then walked to breakfast at a nearby diner, where she bought me a paper.

Then she joined me for a stroll around our local lake (LA does have a real lake) and we talked and talked and joked under a relatively rare fresh air day with big clouds racing across the sky (big rain the day before).

After that, we went back to our tiny apartment and read for a couple of hours (bliss!) and I got a nap.

Mid-day found us heading for the Hollywood Hills for a hike to the top. Mavis decided on a shortcut straight up a cliff (very taxing) which for her was amazing, as she is just discovering what fun being active is. At the top, apples and trail bars and "million dollar view" (her words) of our fantastic city. Snow capped mountains, amazing smog-free sprawl and the ocean to the west! Played "I Spy" with landmarks for an hour.

Headed back home, change of clothes and off to Little Tokyo for too much sushi. Mavis finally let me show her how to use chopsticks, and the waitress complimented her on her quick skill. She also picked up a plate of steamed spinach and enjoyed it!

And we ran into some friends where she got to climb with a boy while the mom and dad talked (Mavis seemed interested if the single mom and I were dating. "Hmm...hadn't thought about it.").The kids went to the local Japanese bookstore and bought comics.

Home again, school night, but a couple of more cartoons, then the little one tucked in to bed (after another slice of her cake with some rice milk-don't tell mom). She told me how much the day had meant to her, and I just melted.

All the anxieties of the last couple of years just seemed to go away for the day, and the prospect of a great friendship with my growing girl made me supremely happy.

A great day, full of love and warmth, all with my favorite lady.

the hiking hellos

Being fond of a good morning hike (try at least 3 times a week, tough with school kid drop off) and living just under a mile from LA's 2nd biggest hillside park, I'm usually in a good mood when I do get to get one in.

So in my cheery mood, I find myself saying a "good morning" to any other early morning hikers that I may encounter (I try to get out of the house by 7 am) since we all seem to be in the same club, so to speak.

I find that most folks are happy to respond in kind (again, that odd "getting away" secret club thingee), and if we loop around the trail again, another "good morning" is in order...perhaps a bit more.

I do know however note that trying the same cheery greeting just walking to the bus or work in the city marks you as insane, but, I digress.

Well, suffice to say that those who choose not to respond to the morning greet fall in to one of a few categories:

1)the guy that exudes "can't you see by my trendy clothes and hair, general resemblance to a member of Oasis, coffee to go cup and general hung over look that I can't be bothered with you, Mr. Sunshine? and don't touch my muzzled dog" type

2)the woman who "has already been to the sweaty yoga and weighs as much as my hand" type

3)the angry knot of 60 something Korean women types (unless you've joined them in AM tai chi)

4)the older "don't tell anyone that I'm gay and cruising the park" types

5)the "I'm the guy/woman with #1" type

6)the "I really am a cop jogging, and not #4" type (there is a police academy nearby)

7)the "I don't speak your language" vibe type (often from fellow 'Latinos' oddly enough)

Over all, though, most folks in the park in the AM are none of the above, so the grumpy ones do stand out.

My cheery mood won't go away, however, despite the grumps. I'm just happy to be in the green, feeling sneaky.

birthday rant

so i turn 42 this fine march 7 and can look back and see what a weird year it has been:

divorce, deaths, job loss, financial instability, estrangement old friends (mostly the ex's crowd), depression, dating, loneliness...

on the other hand:

a tighter bond with my daughter, re-acquainting with old friends, making new friends, dating, being alone to sort things out, dealing with past deaths and familial alcoholism, buying a theremin, losing some weight, moving, getting rid of crap...

does this make a balance?

is the realization that one is not only good, but capable of error, and that the accepting of one's duality a sign of a more complete person?

is the sudden realization that it's OK to like soy ice cream not all that bad?

as i said, weird year.

the man who looked like crumb

So there he was again.

This tall, mustachioed 40 something brown haired 6 foot 3 or 4 skinny white guy in a wrinkled old brown suit and tie with an equally disheveled hat and briefcase, was once again sitting in my favorite local Mission District San Francisco coffee shop (name long since forgotten).

And he was "sketching" the patrons and passersby. I was seething. Did he have to do that?

To explain:

This corner of Mission and 24th had a great variety of people going to and fro, and I often passed an hour or two "just looking" at folks entering or exiting the subway across the street, or shopping along the busy boulevard.

For some reason though, the few times I had spied this "keep on truckin'" wannabe, he just got my goat.

I mean, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery and all that, but to go to the extreme and completely adopt the look, habits, and chosen artistic expression of your idol just seemed to represent all that annoyed me about the pretensions of the Bay Area in the year that I had lived there.

This guy had me seeing red. he had become my own private whale.

That day, he decided to "sketch" the pretty young object of my affection that made the coffee. I mean, she was the real reason I was at this place so often. And of course, she had big legs, so Mr Pretend "R" just had to do it. And he asked her out!

Errgh.

So I waited. Made a vague plan of inaction.

When he put his stuff away and got up, I decided to follow him.

As I trailed him by half a block north on Mission, I mentally conjured images of the various methods that he could succumb to harm.

Wayward bus? Roving gang of comic book critics? Pothole to the earth's core? Heart attack from his 30th espresso of the day?

And just why was he getting to me? (maybe it had been all the San Franciscans that always let me know how "glad" they were that I had moved from Los Angeles).

He meandered a good 15 or 20 blocks, making a right on Market Street to the "seedy" district, where he promptly sat down on a bus stop and once again resumed "sketching".

What now? The afternoon wind had kicked up, and I had something else to do...

I leaned against a building 20 or 30 feet away from him, looking like I was waiting for a cab or somesuch.

He kept drawing.

What the @#$%&! was I gong to do? I had learned nothing about the guy, and I really wasn't prepared to follow him home and burn down his place. But there he was, irking me.

As I considered my options, a bus pulled up in front of him bringing a hefty gust of wind that took the loose sheets of paper out of his hands and tossed them all over the stop.

I could hear him shout and attempt to gather his sketches which were being run over in the street by passing cars. He looked really sad and pathetic.

I suddenly didn't feel quite so annoyed with the man, so I decided to help him retrieve his works.

We got most of them, and he thanked me. There were real tears in his eyes and suddenly I felt like the jerk.

He told me to hang on a second and rifled through his pages, found one and took it out for me to see.

He had sketched me leaning on the building down the street. Not bad. Nothing like his inspirational source. My ego was stroked.

I mentioned that I had seen him around my neighborhood, and remarked on his striking likeness to the comic book artist. I asked him if I could keep my sketch.

He wouldn't give me the sketch. He got very defensive, said I had a small mind, and walked away in a huff.

Weirdo. I never saw him again.

Maybe he's imitating some other cartoonist.