los nicknames

chatting with beth, so to speak, the subject of the various nicknames that we have been given came up. we all have them, but can you remember just what they mean?

it's been fun trying to remember just where or how some of these were spawned.

first off, the baby ones are mostly long gone (all parents saddle the kids with cutesy little monikers that-mercifully-fade with age), but my abuela would always remind me that I was known in her house as 'barcelata' which is some other crying opera clown.

age 4-8 I referred to myself as 'mito ha-ha'...mito is the Spanish word for 'myth' but I have no idea if that was the root.

my mother and father still call me 'mauri'.

at school and in my youth 'mauricio' was the norm.

but then punk rock happened (79-88 for me) and the local musicians and performance artists on the scene all seemed to shorten my name to 'maurice', which I never really liked but grew tired of correcting folks about.

that came from my friend brock (lee) adler who had a brain fart one day trying to add my name to a guest list for some silly function and wrote me down as 'maurice vista'! when I complained, he had cards with that name printed up, so in the best punk rock fashion, I used 'em.

dede, rudy and mia all took to adding an 'o' to both initials, and my DJ nom-de-plume was born: 'mr. mofo'.

david alex called me 'mauritzio', but it never stuck.

jac tried sticking me with 'homey buggin' after a couple of hip hop DJs asked him what I wanted at one of the clubs we promoted (as in "was homey buggin' 'bout?").

jac also tried using 'casanothin' when a few potential dates all fell through one after another when we were roommates. I think of that name when lonely.

I liked the 'mo' so much that when I moved to the bay area in '89 I told one and all that was my name. it's stuck for now. the 'reverend' was added as folks found my side calling as a minister and at the giant music store I worked at back in LA.

nothing like hearing "phone call for rev. mo" over the intercom.

my daughter calls me 'daddio' and 'bum-bum'--an english beat reference.

here and now at the union I work for the bulk of the members are Spanish speakers first, and all have a good chuckle since 'mo' sounds exactly like the word for 'mold'. they're trying to call me 'mauricio' and that's just fine.

I like being able to figure out just how long I've known someone by what they call me. little personal time capsules.

beth worries if it's all right to call me 'maurice' and I say that's fine too, as long as she is calling me.

don't forget that since some people call me 'maurice' that makes me the gangster of love.

perchance to dream

ay, there's the rub.

I will suffer from some form of sleep disorder, I was once told, for the rest of my life.

as a child, I was a somnambulist. sleepwalker for the layman (there's a cruel word!). my folks heard me screaming one night outside in a rainstorm. they would later get in the habit of placing objects in my way at night, so I would go back to bed.

sleepwalking pretty much ended with the advent of sex, aged 15.

(if you are my daughter, do not follow in daddy's footsteps)

around the age of 18 I began having fits of normal sleep, with most evenings averaging 3-6 hours.

trouble going to sleep followed by fitful sleep, ending with early risings.

loads of fun. if you like bags under the eyes in your 20's not due to over indulgence.

also fun if you like constantly experiencing mild hallucinations out of the corner of your eyes, or occasional physical collapse for 20 hours straight once a month or so.

ah, insomnia! t.v. is the enemy, books merely display dancing black squiggles, conversations degenerate into verbal sludge and dream-time references. Ok if your partner enjoys Kurt scatters at 4 a.m. creative forays seem great in the sleepless zone, but the next morning shows those wonderful notes you took to be recycled 'Dennis the menace' strips on valium.

the only positive side was when my girl was an infant, and my 'training' allowed me to stay up with the cholic, allowing the mother unit to get the sleep for the two of us.

(this sort of 'I can stay awake' power comes in handy at busy times)

another amusing bit-my girl loves this-is that when in the worst near bardo state, I will bark a single syllable 'HA' at anything that catches my fancy. sometimes even for the hallucinations (they do bark back).

at any job I've held, the abrupt 'nod-off' could always be available for employee fun. or gossip about my 'problem', which would lead to sincere heart to heart talks about 12 step programs.

people would rather believe that you have a 'problem' than recognize a sleep disorder. it confuses them, and makes their worldview get all wonky: I mean, what possible evolutionary advantage is there to constant low level dementia?

except, perhaps to insure easy prey for larger animals. remind me to avoid jungles. I look over my shoulders constantly. loud and sudden noises induce screams from me.

well, welcome to my world. sleeplessness also brings chronic paranoia.

I wonder if any studies relating mental disorders linked to 'sleep me not' exist?

after a wonderfully busy last weekend (none of your business yet) I realized that from Friday morning until Tuesday I had gotten 14 hours of sleep. the five days were not typical of my sleeplessness, this loss of sleep was due to having much to do, a lot on my mind, and a happy reunion with an old friend. plus 'DJing' and air travel.

sleep was a distraction. as I said, a lot on my mind.

come Wednesday, I was barking at every little thing. and was happy.

now if I could just turn on the sleep engine, before I nod off again...

mary, mary, quite contrary

I do translations between Spanish and English at the union office that I work out of.

my written Spanish not quite matching my speaking Spanish, I use a variety of translation sites on line, and I am occasionally flummoxed by the mis-steps, lost tenses and other varieties of linguistic experience.

my late friend Bruce would make the loveliest dada poetry just by sending a bit of language or dialog through 'English to Spanish', and then back again...

as I have been thinking about him of late, I decided to give it a try.

here's the result on the first try (English to Spanish, then Spanish to English):

"Mary had a little lamb,
it's fleece was white as snow.

and everywhere that Mary went,
the lamb was sure to go."

now poetry is tricky, but here goes:

"Mari­a had a small lamb,
is fleece was white such as snow.

And all over that Mari­a was,
the lamb was sure to go. "

sounds about right, que no?

I would suggest you try the same with this entry!

road trip

How I love that phrase.

Back in my younger days, drop of the hat trips seemed fairly commonplace, especially here in auto-drenched Los Angeles.

Even plane trips to the Bay Area (San Francisco, for all the non-Californian readers) were cheap and plentiful, if you didn't mind the midnight mail run, stand-by only.

Some of my favorite times have been in the context of a sudden journey (too many times involving the desert and some funny snacks), ill-prepared and destination-less. Realizing we had no water in the middle of Joshua Tree at noon was always good for a laugh.

Somehow, never ended up a grisly statistic.

"Just hop in our Citroen and go!" to quote Mr. Mark Riley, former Fall member. Roads-a-plenty, back roads especially, odd small towns, hidden hot springs, scary-assed diners staffed by angry Republicans, fascinating curio shops and thrift stores galore!

Seeing millions of Monarch butterflies with my then pregnant wife in a box canyon near the ocean.

Tracing a UFO coffee shop at Big Rock.

Watching ball lightning attack a power plant in Mississippi.

Giving a ride to the Panther Burns when their van broke down near Fresno.

Seeing a whole warehouse wall full of used irons in Oregon.

Oh, the trips would never end...

Then marriage, jobs you can't blow off, parental responsibility, penny pinching, travel buddy deaths, and the onset of creaking bones and dietary needs, etc. Time marches on, and cold water only hotel rooms don't have that much allure, nor do yahoos in the next camp site.

My oh my.

Then the marriage ends. The kid is older. I've been exercising more. And the job is cool.

Enough of that. Give me land, lots of land and the open country side!

For easter, I'm going to the San Francisco.

More pending.

rudy, a message to you

Halloween,1982 and Rudy and I are trying to take the bus from the Santa Monica beach area (after I got off of work) out to West Hollywood, where we will be meeting up with the Todd and Sheila to go to Northridge to see the Cramps and enter the costume contest.

Rudy is dressed as a dead nun (nice habit) and I'm dead Buddy Holly (complete with damaged guitar).

We've been waiting a while. Rudy lights up a cigarette and says: "Light one and the bus'll come."

30 seconds later, the bus arrives.

He has a way about him.

So, on this night, Rudy and I easily blend in with the general populace. Everyone is a freak in various stages of drunkenness and costume it seems.

We make it to Sheila's (she that we all have a crush on) and join the Todd and a couple of other women to the 45 min drive north.

The Todd is dressed in drag and in black face (he's a white frat boy at UCLA, sympathetic to punks, not the "let's beat up punks" type of frat) and his companions are wearing matching dresses and black face. They are Diana Ross and the Supremes.

Sheila is Billy Idol.

Only Todd knows how to drive.

We arrive at the venue, and the crowd is crazy. Every state of toxic high or four sheets to the wind are well represented, as well as the most amazing outfits (and quite a few folks lacking clothes all together as well).

Rudy, as always, says something to the door person that gets us all in.

Rudy wins 1st place (of course) and gets to dance on stage with the Cramps, and even gets to sing a chorus of the 20 minute version of "Surfing Bird".

A wonderful time is had by all.

Especially the Todd. An hour after the show has ended, we search and search for Mr. Diana. We find him behind a dumpster, face down in a puddle of god-knows-what. Completely and totally unconscious. He with the only license.

20 miles from any of our homes. 3 a.m. We drag the Todd to his car, a'78 Mustang. Stick shift.

"Well, I guess we all take turns driving us home!" Rudy volunteers. Turns out NONE of us has a clue how to drive (oddly enough the others were all east coast transplants from big cities-ie: good public transport- here for college, 'cept for Rudy).

We pick up the Todd (imagine, two Supremes, a Billy Idol, a Buddy Holly and a drag dead nun lifting a former football player in green sequins, black face and wig), dump him in the back seat, and get in.

Sheila takes the first go. Much lurching and 20 Min's later we've made it a block.

We've got all night.

An hour later, lurching, stalling, stopping, we've gone 10 miles or so. On the freeway. Not a cop in sight.

We pull over to a 24 hour Denny's, pile out of the car (the Todd still passed out) and find that the staff has taken one look at us and put up a closed sign.

The magic of Halloween has passed.

My turn to drive.

Rudy rides shotgun. "Don't forget if we crash, I'll go at the same time as you, and will die knowing who killed me."

Gee.

rudy can't fail

It's 1981 and there are too many of us piled into the back of someone's '67 Falcon rambling around West Hollywood on a Saturday night, trying to find the gay bar that: allows underage kids (a few of were 19 or 20), and: that plays punk and new wave music. Me, I've got my brother's green card (with a baby picture that looks just like me!), my black jeans and black sweatshirt, black high tops and a stomach full of black beauties and some sugary soda. I had just left high school for good that week. Everyone else (8 or 9 kids mashed up in the car) is, I believe, white, but appropriately "devo" as the surfers and cholos all call us. Short back and sides all around. Even the women, one of which sits in my lap facing me in the backseat (and me with no girlfriend). We had just pulled over to pick up "Rudy" who everyone said knew where this bar was. He was a cool one, apparently. "Glad you're a Mexican gay." She whispers in my ear. "Um...I'm not." I inform. Neither, I want to tell her. "Oh. Are you bi?" She smells of cigarettes and rum. "I dunno." I answer. I didn't know what that even meant. The car explodes into laughter. In my hyped-up state of confusion and lust, I realize that I really don't know any of these punks, and can't recall how I got into this car. This is one of those times I hate not driving. Not driving in LA = confessing to cannibalism. I mean, back in Culver City (an LA "suburb") I was one of the 3 or 4 "punkers"-as those NOT in the know called us-but here in Hollywood, this group put much of my posturing to shame. I felt a hand (not my lap partner) grab between my legs, followed by a loud male voice: "PACKAGE CHECK!" More laughter. The voice says "No reaction. He's not bi or gay." More laughter. "My hand is named Rudy, just like me." "Uh...Hi." I mutter. Can't see Mr. Grope. More laughs when Rudy answers: "Not yet!" The woman in my lap begins swaying to the tape playing. It's Bowie. Rudy barks: "Turn left here! It's Peanuts!" I envision Charlie Brown and the gang in punk attire, dancing. When we all ooze out of the car in the parking lot I only see a bunch of punk or "gay" looking people waiting in line to get in. No cartoon folk. No piano playing blondies. Rudy, much to my surprise, is a short, dark skinned Mexican punk. Looks a lot like Sal Mineo with an overbite. Rudy says: "Hold on." And goes to the bouncer. Some chatting. Comes back, grinning. "We're in." And just like that, New Wave Heaven. Over beer, dancing for two hours, plus some poppers we've managed to lose our car-mates, Rudy says to me: "So, can you give me a ride home? I live in Mar Vista." (15 miles away). Awkward moment of truth. "I didn't drive. I don't drive. I can't drive...but I live in Culver City." (community just east of Mar Vista). How to explain to ANYONE in LA that you didn't have a car, or drive. Marked as insane, even amongst the punks. Rudy glares. Then starts laughing. "Wows. Me neither...I thought I was just crazy. We'd better find a bus then." No judgement, just some good understanding. "Figures the 2 Mexicans don't have no cars." I figure I wouldn't correct him. And with that, we were best friends.