My recent post about Mario got me thinking of all the random strangers I've met over the years to share a brief moment of love. I usually don't like to talk about my good deeds (it's like boasting) but it doesn't seem like anyone is reading anyway--at least my kids and grandkids will know these things about my life and may follow suit. The story begins with Maria, a woman that lives in the area of South LA. She was the most recent and most memorable motorist to date. But first, let me provide some context.
My first car was a 74 Volkswagen superbeetle. The thing was so jerry-rigged that it had a kill switch right behind the seat shaped like a button to an arcade game. The car had a tendency to stall in traffic, in the middle of intersections, around corners, and in parking lots. When times got real bad, I would have to push it to get a rolling start and then jump in the driver seat to pop the clutch. I'd drive off, sweaty and short of breath, but at least I'd drive off.
Now, anytime I see a motorist stranded in the middle of the roadway, cars whirling by them with honking horns and evil stares, I just have to stop and offer a push at the very least. Maria was one of these pushes.
I've done this a number of times. Some of my most memorable pushes include a man with a lunch truck--a fucken lunch truck--in the intersection of Imperial Hwy and Domart Ave in Norwalk; the gent on the 101 southbound at the 134 transition during mid-morning traffic; a women and her daughter on Whittier Blvd and Maple in Montebello; a man with a moving truck in San Jose; some big burly white man with a motorhome at the intersection of Topanga Canyon Blvd and Schoenborn in Canoga Park; and a Latino couple on the corner of Union and 7th in the Pico-Union area. Funny the things that stay in one's head--and heart.
It's 3:30pm. It's Friday, I haven't eaten all day, and I can't wait to leave work. I call mom and ask if she wants to get some clam chowder at California Grill in Whittier. She's down, but in an hour or so, which is tolerable 'cause I've got rush hour traffic to deal with anyway. I'm looking to hop on the 101 south from Alameda, but street traffic is bottlenecking ahead of me.
And then I see Maria, stranded at the entrance to Union Station--Los Angeles and Alameda. I pull up to the side of the car, face oncoming traffic in my psuedo-AAA manner, and tell her in Spanish to "sit tight" and that I'll be back to help her move the car off the road in a few moments.
I return to the car to find an older woman in the passenger seat and an older indigenous-looking woman in the backseat. Their eyes stare at me in wonder. The woman in the backseat resembles my adopted 'Abuelita' and reminds me of my blood Nana. (Yet another reason to stop when you can). I tell Maria to worry about steering and I'll worry about pushing. A cholo at the bus stop comes over to help me push and we move the car into the driveway--we're all learning how to "Pay it forward" homie.
Once off the roadway, the older indigenous woman in the back seat passes me a "naranja " through the window. I don't know what was better: the awesome and random yet way-too-typical-gesture of our "gente," or their smiles of genuine gratitude. I'd later learn that they were coming from County Hospital and were on their way to an Acupuncture salon in Koreatown. Their long and rough day just got crazier.
I thought it was over when I pushed them into the driveway, but Maria's terrified--she doesn't have a license and she's worried about being deported. Being Mexican while stuck in the middle of an intersection in LA with a hooptie sends chills down your spine like ICE. I talk things over with the security--a real cool sista guiding traffic and a brotha who ranks as a Lieutenant. Man, no sweat. People of color know what it's like to have a car stall on your ass in mid-traffic. They even got one of the groundskeepers to help us push the car out of the driveway and into a side area.
4:00pm. Maria asks me if she can use my cell phone. She makes a couple of calls but can't get a hold of anyone. Her brother operates a shop with a tow truck, but his line is busy.
4:05pm. If I have to hear how I'm their "angelito" coming to their rescue one more time, the guilt will be unbearable, considering that my ex will testify to the exact opposite on most days. I just smile and maintain small-talk. Her mom and Abuelita are cool.
I'm 12 years old again chilling at my friend's pad chomping on candy like Tommy's, Duvalin, and pulparindo as all the family gets a kick out of the guero that has serendipitously entered their life. The memory grows fonder when they begin to treat me like family and promise me a home-cooked meal.
(At this point, I get lost in my own desires to alter life. Suddenly I'm Jules from Pulp Fiction and the thought of leaving behind life's bullshit comes into clear view--"You know, walk the earth, meet people...get into adventures. Like Caine from "Kung Fu").
4:10pm. I've asked her three times if she wants me to give her a ride somewhere--her brother's shop, her house to get help, a friend's place. She finally decides to go once her mother and grandmother say that they'll stay with the car. Uh oh, feels a little like a date and the "senoras" approve--you know how "gente" get.
4:20pm. We drive down Alameda, talking briefly about immigration reform, my experience with non-profit work, and how I learned Spanish at church when I was in my teens. She tells me of her crazy day and how she just can't believe this is all happening. She's real nervous (she's in the car with a perfect stranger and can't believe how close she was to being deported). We make a right on Washington Blvd.
I throw in a mixed Spanish CD--one of the only ones I have--that my ex gave me. It's got great songs about love and separation. The CD puts us both at ease. All I can think about is my ex and how we're over. She keeps talking about how her brother won't pick up the phone and how he's never around when they need him. The CD cauterizes the moment and reminds us how loved ones typically let you down--I'm feeling guilty again and sad at the same time. Somewhere near our left onto Western Ave, the topic turns to spirituality.
4:40pm. The loss of family comes up again for me. It's the next obvious transition from spirituality. The heavier side comes out. And she's got a story of her own. Seems her brother was killed recently. It's been tough on the family. We begin talking about how you see their face, hear their laughter, and remember their existence during the craziest of times. She tells me how her mom was crying in the car earlier--reminds me of my mom's pain, our family's pain.
4:45pm. We arrive at the shop. Her brother isn't there, but the staff will tell him what's going on once he arrives. I have to drive to Whittier anyway so I offer her a lift back to Union Station.
5:00pm. We roll North on Western. She points to an Acupuncture salon near Olympic and Western, saying this was the destination before her demise. The music inevitably makes us turn to the topic relationships. Of course I have to bring my broken relationship and quickly move to gender politics and gender roles--being the academic egghead that I am. She brings the conversation out of the heavens and tells me a little bit about her rough relationship with a past love. Machismo runs deep. I feel it pumping in my own veins and wonder if I'll ever be able to break the mold and come out of the Machismo closet. I tell her this and she laughs. Apparently I'm Machismo-lite compared to the men in her life. I've taken my route to work--down 8th, a left on Figueroa, and a right on Cesar Chavez. She flatters me and I blush.
5:30pm. We get back to Union Station. The older women emerge from the shadows. Somehow we all learn to blend in at one point or another. Again, they offer me a home-cooked meal and insist we exchange numbers. We do. Next thing I know, I'm heading to Whittier. (The orange 'abuelita' gave me was a nice desert).
Maria called on November 1st and tells me how she attended the West Hollywood Halloween Carnaval the night before. I laugh and tell her I did too. She promises to keep in touch and reminds me that she owes me dinner. The gestures nice although I don't think I'll ever take her up on the offer. She's older, we're from different worlds, and I need to heal.
Either way, thank God for those tiny little serendipitous moments where you can create a life-long memory for numerous people. Without these moments, I don't know where I'd be.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Lonely Nights
I usually like to talk to random people, especially if their eyes remind me of my own--lonely, full of struggle, strengthened and weakened by pain, sustained by a peculiar joy.
Tonight is one of those nights when I dreaded coming home to my apartment--opening the door, being in solace, no one to talk to, no one to laugh with, no one to hold close. So when I saw the familiar sight of an older gentleman sitting on the steps near the main entrance to my building, I just had to sit with him and take in the comfort of another's voice; the comfort of another's presence.
His name is Mario. He's originally from Chihuahua, Mexico. He has a son that lives in Montebello with the 'senora.' I know the area, it's one of my hometowns in the SGV that lies east of East LA. His son is 18. Funny what you can learn from--and also share with--another person if you just give it a chance. Silly how I can say such a thing after coming home from some drinks with friends. The bar is full of people to learn from and share with . . . but bars, clubs, and even random house parties seem more and more like places NOT to do such things.
Mario works at a restaurant near 8th and Figueroa in Downtown LA. He sometimes likes to walk all the way down 8th street to get to work, just to enjoy the bustling movement of people around him. Maybe this is why he sits on the main steps to our building smoking a cigarette or two before going to bed. Mario and I are of the same mold.
He's a dishwasher. We agree it's a tough job, adding that it's an unappreciated and underpaid position--important and often unnoticed. And this is what's in Mario's eyes--this is what I see because we are of a similar spirit.
He offered me some of his steak and potatoes, leftovers he snags when security is willing to give him a break. These breaks come often. He likes to heat it up in his studio because cooking in such tight confines makes a stink that's really fierce. We both laugh. It's nice to laugh on a lonely night.
I turned down the food, understanding that it was a kind gesture, yet knowing that if I had taken it, he would have kindly obliged without regret. He talks of overtime and how this week he worked 58 hours. Of course management doesn't like the idea, and he has to hassle with accurate compensation. He takes the overtime when he can, working hard and giving a good showing. Of course he takes it. He needs it.
He tells me how he works tomorrow at 4pm. Sometimes he gets there as early as 2pm and stays as late 1am. If you've ever been a dishwasher, you know the feeling of arriving early to work on a busy day--piles of unclean dishes and pans, caked with tough-to-remove food, grime, and grease. And then there's the water. It gets everywhere and you leave the place feeling like a car just drove by and showered you with puddle water. Nights like these are cold, and the wetness in your shirt, pants, and shoes remind you just how cold these nights really are.
He's tired, and it's more than just his body that aches. I can see it on his face--like looking in a mirror that has aged me 20 years--it's clear as night and day. I see my face in his. Reminds me of how many times I've heard that I'm an old soul, mature for my age. (Gee . . . thanks?). He finishes his cigarette and says he's turning in. Before the door closes, he tells me how he can sleep in 'till 11am tomorrow. We both laugh. Sleep is also a close friend of ours.
I knew he would open the door for a last comment. I knew he would still be sitting on the porch after I finally found a parking in our congested neighborhood and drove by the entrance three times. How did I know? Because, like him, I just wanted someone to chat with.
Tonight is one of those nights when I dreaded coming home to my apartment--opening the door, being in solace, no one to talk to, no one to laugh with, no one to hold close. So when I saw the familiar sight of an older gentleman sitting on the steps near the main entrance to my building, I just had to sit with him and take in the comfort of another's voice; the comfort of another's presence.
His name is Mario. He's originally from Chihuahua, Mexico. He has a son that lives in Montebello with the 'senora.' I know the area, it's one of my hometowns in the SGV that lies east of East LA. His son is 18. Funny what you can learn from--and also share with--another person if you just give it a chance. Silly how I can say such a thing after coming home from some drinks with friends. The bar is full of people to learn from and share with . . . but bars, clubs, and even random house parties seem more and more like places NOT to do such things.
Mario works at a restaurant near 8th and Figueroa in Downtown LA. He sometimes likes to walk all the way down 8th street to get to work, just to enjoy the bustling movement of people around him. Maybe this is why he sits on the main steps to our building smoking a cigarette or two before going to bed. Mario and I are of the same mold.
He's a dishwasher. We agree it's a tough job, adding that it's an unappreciated and underpaid position--important and often unnoticed. And this is what's in Mario's eyes--this is what I see because we are of a similar spirit.
He offered me some of his steak and potatoes, leftovers he snags when security is willing to give him a break. These breaks come often. He likes to heat it up in his studio because cooking in such tight confines makes a stink that's really fierce. We both laugh. It's nice to laugh on a lonely night.
I turned down the food, understanding that it was a kind gesture, yet knowing that if I had taken it, he would have kindly obliged without regret. He talks of overtime and how this week he worked 58 hours. Of course management doesn't like the idea, and he has to hassle with accurate compensation. He takes the overtime when he can, working hard and giving a good showing. Of course he takes it. He needs it.
He tells me how he works tomorrow at 4pm. Sometimes he gets there as early as 2pm and stays as late 1am. If you've ever been a dishwasher, you know the feeling of arriving early to work on a busy day--piles of unclean dishes and pans, caked with tough-to-remove food, grime, and grease. And then there's the water. It gets everywhere and you leave the place feeling like a car just drove by and showered you with puddle water. Nights like these are cold, and the wetness in your shirt, pants, and shoes remind you just how cold these nights really are.
He's tired, and it's more than just his body that aches. I can see it on his face--like looking in a mirror that has aged me 20 years--it's clear as night and day. I see my face in his. Reminds me of how many times I've heard that I'm an old soul, mature for my age. (Gee . . . thanks?). He finishes his cigarette and says he's turning in. Before the door closes, he tells me how he can sleep in 'till 11am tomorrow. We both laugh. Sleep is also a close friend of ours.
I knew he would open the door for a last comment. I knew he would still be sitting on the porch after I finally found a parking in our congested neighborhood and drove by the entrance three times. How did I know? Because, like him, I just wanted someone to chat with.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Homeless in Los Angeles: You Get What You Pay For.
There's a poster in the breakroom at work advertising a 5k family walk to fund raise for homelessness in Los Angeles on November 17th. Over 5,000 are expected to walk in what's being deemed LA's first walk of this sort. Approximately 35,000 are expected to march in DC, which celebrates its 10th anniversary for this same type of event.
I just hope more people come out and even more reach into their pockets to donate. After all, you get what you pay for.
Even the homeless know this all-too-real maxim. A recent article found that the homeless near skid row were given the opportunity to receive free snacks--soda, chips, candy--in return for signing petitions to qualify initiatives to be placed on the California ballot. Can't quite call it an incentive to sign, but free snacks to a hungry soul, I'd work for food.
Wouldn't it be nice if free food was available year-round to the homeless of skid row so that the incentive wouldn't be so enticing? You get what you pay for.
In related news, At&T is offering free Wi-Fi at more than 600 locations around Southern California "to help residents in Southern California in any way [they] can . . . By enabling free Wi-Fi at hundreds of AT&T hot spot locations, we’re hoping to provide families and friends with another way to stay connected — and to reconnect — throughout this difficult time.”
It's a bit ironic that LA is the homeless capital of the nation, but only now does AT&T consider offering free Wi-Fi so that families and friends can stay connected.
It's more ironic when you consider that some of the initiatives signed by the homeless of skid row deal with Internet gambling.
And the irony becomes sickening when one realizes that LA is notorious for dumping its mentally-ill homeless population on the streets of skid row, which some argue is a way to bring the issue to the spotlight and cleanse homelessness from the area to make way for new higher-cost housing (aka gentrification).
This could be AT&T's noble attempt to assist victims of the brush fires, but some think it may be a way to rectify bad press after the company tried to charge a family for not rescuing their sattelite dish of their charred home. Publicity . . . you get what you pay for.
Southern California Edison is one entity that could follow AT&T's lead, though. A recent LA Times Cover Story stated that at least 5 of the 12 brush fires that ravaged California were started as a result of downed power lines in remote areas. They're saying the cost per mile to replace above ground lines with underground lines is about $1 million (and this is in non-remote areas). Of course, Edison will replace the lines if ratepayers are willing to front the bill. I can almost hear my Nana, "Who put the damn things there in the first place?"
I don't think ratepayers will go for a hike in rates, but maybe Southern Californians can attempt to place an initiative on the ballot so that Edison picks up some of the cost. At least we know the homeless population would have our backs. Now, if only we had their back all year 'round.
"We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. What affects one directly, affects all indirectly." MLK
I just hope more people come out and even more reach into their pockets to donate. After all, you get what you pay for.
Even the homeless know this all-too-real maxim. A recent article found that the homeless near skid row were given the opportunity to receive free snacks--soda, chips, candy--in return for signing petitions to qualify initiatives to be placed on the California ballot. Can't quite call it an incentive to sign, but free snacks to a hungry soul, I'd work for food.
Wouldn't it be nice if free food was available year-round to the homeless of skid row so that the incentive wouldn't be so enticing? You get what you pay for.
In related news, At&T is offering free Wi-Fi at more than 600 locations around Southern California "to help residents in Southern California in any way [they] can . . . By enabling free Wi-Fi at hundreds of AT&T hot spot locations, we’re hoping to provide families and friends with another way to stay connected — and to reconnect — throughout this difficult time.”
It's a bit ironic that LA is the homeless capital of the nation, but only now does AT&T consider offering free Wi-Fi so that families and friends can stay connected.
It's more ironic when you consider that some of the initiatives signed by the homeless of skid row deal with Internet gambling.
And the irony becomes sickening when one realizes that LA is notorious for dumping its mentally-ill homeless population on the streets of skid row, which some argue is a way to bring the issue to the spotlight and cleanse homelessness from the area to make way for new higher-cost housing (aka gentrification).
This could be AT&T's noble attempt to assist victims of the brush fires, but some think it may be a way to rectify bad press after the company tried to charge a family for not rescuing their sattelite dish of their charred home. Publicity . . . you get what you pay for.
Southern California Edison is one entity that could follow AT&T's lead, though. A recent LA Times Cover Story stated that at least 5 of the 12 brush fires that ravaged California were started as a result of downed power lines in remote areas. They're saying the cost per mile to replace above ground lines with underground lines is about $1 million (and this is in non-remote areas). Of course, Edison will replace the lines if ratepayers are willing to front the bill. I can almost hear my Nana, "Who put the damn things there in the first place?"
I don't think ratepayers will go for a hike in rates, but maybe Southern Californians can attempt to place an initiative on the ballot so that Edison picks up some of the cost. At least we know the homeless population would have our backs. Now, if only we had their back all year 'round.
"We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. What affects one directly, affects all indirectly." MLK
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
BBQ King: A Prince in Training
The family and I had planned to have this Big BBQ Birthday Bash at my mother's house on Sunday, but unfortunately we had to cancel.
I've had my heart set on BBQ for a few weeks now. Got a decent fill at Chili's on Sunday with my mother--she was feeling a little under the weather, but she ate light (a half rack of ribs instead of a full rack). But you know, Chili's just wasn't able to do it for me the way good BBQ is supposed to. Scratching the tip of my craving for some soul food, it couldn't get down in there deep to put out the fire. Seems I needed some real BBQ to quench that inner craving.
Enter the BBQ King. Located at Figueroa and Cesar Chavez, just north of Downtown and west of Olvera St. where the Avenida turns into Sunset. This place is a definite line item in the sheet of Good BBQ joints in LA.
I knew the place was at the very least decent when I saw a number of black folk role through--c'mon, black people know their BBQ! After some perusing of the mouth-watering menu of greens, mac' n cheese, french fries, tri-tip sandwiches, and potato salad, I decided to purchase the Lunch sampler at 5:30pm. The staff didn't mind that lunchtime had passed. This place was obviously a giver like a real BBQ joint should be. All signs good so far.
With a soda, two sides, a corn bread, and a mixture of beef ribs, links, chicken, and tri-tip, the cost seemed pricey at a little over $14, but reasonable. (I hadn't eaten all day. This combines the cost of lunch and dinner, right?) And hey, what better food can fill up a hungry man's stomach than the filling comfort of some good ole BBQ?
So imagine my surprise when they called my order and it came in one tiny little foil-wrapped basket, my sides of potato salad and mac' n cheese in a container most joints would use to give you ranch on the side for your salad. I should have realized that I ordered the wrong thing when plate after plate of tri-tip sandwich blew by me, french fries flailing away, clinging for dear life on the bending plate like a mound of college students on some Magic Mountain ride. Damn! I paid $14 for this!
These ribs better be made of a golden ticket! I'm saying "the King" better blast through the wall like a pitcher of Kool-aid and promise me some tasty food--"OH YEAH!". But after taking a few bites, I must say the food was pretty damn flavorful. The people at King's definitely know what they're doing in the taste department. Although King might be a bit of stretch, I'd say that maybe, just maybe, this joint is related to royalty.
The ribs were better-than-decent in size and made the basket of meager portions feel somewhat filling. I later realized that I was missing a link and thought to myself that this basket might be a "true sampler" had I received the link in addition--maybe it was forgotten, maybe some redemption for the King is at hand. If the ribs are this tasty, wonder how the links are!
I walked up to the counter and told the cook I ordered the sampler and how it was missing a link. He said that they were out of links and that's why he gave me two beef ribs. "Oh" I said. Seems I was mistaken--two beef ribs weren't part of your typical sampler plate and the cook had not forgotten to add the link like I thought.
That might explain why one of my beef ribs was meaty and robust in flavor, while the other one I can only guess came from Fiona Apple or had been drying on the floor for most of the day when the cook decided to add it to my plate as an afterthought. Thanks for the kind gesture, homie! (Humor, it gets us by when we feel shorted).
The sauce was by far the most delicious part of the meal; and you can't have authentic BBQ without a kick-ass BBQ sauce. A rich sauce, served at the perfect temperature, it wasn't burn-the-roof-of-your-mouth hot, nor was it boring-at-room-temperature cold. It was flavorful and ended up all over the place. I was smelling the stuff in my fingernails all night long, and burping up little gassy reminders in Yoga just two hours later. Some of the ingredients include vinegar, mustard, and lemon juice (some of my favorites) so if you don't like these, you might abhor the sauce. The potato salad was forgettable. The mac' n cheese was pretty tasty, akin to some good home-cooked soul food, but the portion was so small I'm not sure it can really fall in the category of "home-cooked" or "soul food." And the cornbread? I've had better at most truck stops in the SGV.
All in all, I'm definitely going back to visit the King whenever I feel the need for some BBQ and I'm in the Downtown area. Only next time I'll give the tri-tip sandwich a shot and fill up on the french fries like everyone else. Extra BBQ sauce, please!
I've had my heart set on BBQ for a few weeks now. Got a decent fill at Chili's on Sunday with my mother--she was feeling a little under the weather, but she ate light (a half rack of ribs instead of a full rack). But you know, Chili's just wasn't able to do it for me the way good BBQ is supposed to. Scratching the tip of my craving for some soul food, it couldn't get down in there deep to put out the fire. Seems I needed some real BBQ to quench that inner craving.
Enter the BBQ King. Located at Figueroa and Cesar Chavez, just north of Downtown and west of Olvera St. where the Avenida turns into Sunset. This place is a definite line item in the sheet of Good BBQ joints in LA.
I knew the place was at the very least decent when I saw a number of black folk role through--c'mon, black people know their BBQ! After some perusing of the mouth-watering menu of greens, mac' n cheese, french fries, tri-tip sandwiches, and potato salad, I decided to purchase the Lunch sampler at 5:30pm. The staff didn't mind that lunchtime had passed. This place was obviously a giver like a real BBQ joint should be. All signs good so far.
With a soda, two sides, a corn bread, and a mixture of beef ribs, links, chicken, and tri-tip, the cost seemed pricey at a little over $14, but reasonable. (I hadn't eaten all day. This combines the cost of lunch and dinner, right?) And hey, what better food can fill up a hungry man's stomach than the filling comfort of some good ole BBQ?
So imagine my surprise when they called my order and it came in one tiny little foil-wrapped basket, my sides of potato salad and mac' n cheese in a container most joints would use to give you ranch on the side for your salad. I should have realized that I ordered the wrong thing when plate after plate of tri-tip sandwich blew by me, french fries flailing away, clinging for dear life on the bending plate like a mound of college students on some Magic Mountain ride. Damn! I paid $14 for this!
These ribs better be made of a golden ticket! I'm saying "the King" better blast through the wall like a pitcher of Kool-aid and promise me some tasty food--"OH YEAH!". But after taking a few bites, I must say the food was pretty damn flavorful. The people at King's definitely know what they're doing in the taste department. Although King might be a bit of stretch, I'd say that maybe, just maybe, this joint is related to royalty.
The ribs were better-than-decent in size and made the basket of meager portions feel somewhat filling. I later realized that I was missing a link and thought to myself that this basket might be a "true sampler" had I received the link in addition--maybe it was forgotten, maybe some redemption for the King is at hand. If the ribs are this tasty, wonder how the links are!
I walked up to the counter and told the cook I ordered the sampler and how it was missing a link. He said that they were out of links and that's why he gave me two beef ribs. "Oh" I said. Seems I was mistaken--two beef ribs weren't part of your typical sampler plate and the cook had not forgotten to add the link like I thought.
That might explain why one of my beef ribs was meaty and robust in flavor, while the other one I can only guess came from Fiona Apple or had been drying on the floor for most of the day when the cook decided to add it to my plate as an afterthought. Thanks for the kind gesture, homie! (Humor, it gets us by when we feel shorted).
The sauce was by far the most delicious part of the meal; and you can't have authentic BBQ without a kick-ass BBQ sauce. A rich sauce, served at the perfect temperature, it wasn't burn-the-roof-of-your-mouth hot, nor was it boring-at-room-temperature cold. It was flavorful and ended up all over the place. I was smelling the stuff in my fingernails all night long, and burping up little gassy reminders in Yoga just two hours later. Some of the ingredients include vinegar, mustard, and lemon juice (some of my favorites) so if you don't like these, you might abhor the sauce. The potato salad was forgettable. The mac' n cheese was pretty tasty, akin to some good home-cooked soul food, but the portion was so small I'm not sure it can really fall in the category of "home-cooked" or "soul food." And the cornbread? I've had better at most truck stops in the SGV.
All in all, I'm definitely going back to visit the King whenever I feel the need for some BBQ and I'm in the Downtown area. Only next time I'll give the tri-tip sandwich a shot and fill up on the french fries like everyone else. Extra BBQ sauce, please!
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead)
A local non-profit based out of LA's Pico-Union area held a Day of the Dead Celebration near Lake and Colorado Blvd on Saturday night in the city of Pasadena.
I got there around 6:30pm and entered a large room filled with the scent of burning sage. The crowd of about 70 adults and children--mostly low-income immigrants--stood in a circle facing one another. One of the event participants was speaking about the sacred and ceremonious properties of sage and how it's used to connect with the dead and the earth around us. Prior to my arrival, the group shared the names of those loved ones that had passed over the years. This is the one part of the event that drove me to attend in the first place. (Lately I've been keeping the darker side of my life in the recesses of my heart marked 'Do not Disturb', so I was a little ambivalent when I heard that the opportunity to share had come and gone).
Most people don't like to talk about death. Or maybe they don't know what to say. Usually, "I'm sorry" is the typical response and then awkwardness sets in until a proper transition to another topic presents itself. If a person has lost someone (especially if it was recent or the person meant a lot to their lives), the conversation often provides a chance to share with another who the person was, and how and why they are remembered. The two of you embrace one another's humanity and tap into the spiritual energy that often feels larger than ourselves and becomes increasingly keen once one experiences the death of a loved one.
And that is how I will describe this event--intimate, a chance to share, and if not to share, to at least acknowledge those that have died in a way that honors their life. There was an altar and all. Here and there candles, teas, coffee, alcohol, cigarettes, bread, soup, flowers, rosaries, and little skeleton heads and figurines littered the tables of the makeshift altar--items placed by the living in remembrance of their loved ones' favorite items while physically alive.
The scent of burning sage filled the room the whole night long--and stayed on my jacket as a nice reminder. A prayer in the indigenous language of Nahuatl was offered to bless the Sun, the Earth, and the connection of each to the living and also to the dead. There was also a lot of dancing to popular Spanish language music, mostly during breaks to close one part of the evening and to begin another. Various flavors of tamales, special bread made during Dia de los Muertos festivities, and champurrado (a chocolate flavored drink made from corn-starch and other ingredients) was offered free to all of the attendees. I grubbed on 2 breads and 4 tamales. Unfortunately, the champurrado went fast and I only had a cup.
This was my second "Dia de los Muertos" experience. I must say that it's great to live in a city that provides even the slightest of opportunities to celebrate death and life in a way that no other traditional American holiday provides. It's a unique and special occurrence when a group of very different people can get together to honor Life and Death. The atmosphere is open to the possibility of the spiritual realm and embraces the notion that while our bodies may live and die, some deeper connection exists to the dead, the earth and the cosmos, and to our fellow human.
I said a small prayer for those people that have passed in my life, inhaled the pungent aroma of sage, and acknowledged the eternal spiritual presence of the dead.
I got there around 6:30pm and entered a large room filled with the scent of burning sage. The crowd of about 70 adults and children--mostly low-income immigrants--stood in a circle facing one another. One of the event participants was speaking about the sacred and ceremonious properties of sage and how it's used to connect with the dead and the earth around us. Prior to my arrival, the group shared the names of those loved ones that had passed over the years. This is the one part of the event that drove me to attend in the first place. (Lately I've been keeping the darker side of my life in the recesses of my heart marked 'Do not Disturb', so I was a little ambivalent when I heard that the opportunity to share had come and gone).
Most people don't like to talk about death. Or maybe they don't know what to say. Usually, "I'm sorry" is the typical response and then awkwardness sets in until a proper transition to another topic presents itself. If a person has lost someone (especially if it was recent or the person meant a lot to their lives), the conversation often provides a chance to share with another who the person was, and how and why they are remembered. The two of you embrace one another's humanity and tap into the spiritual energy that often feels larger than ourselves and becomes increasingly keen once one experiences the death of a loved one.
And that is how I will describe this event--intimate, a chance to share, and if not to share, to at least acknowledge those that have died in a way that honors their life. There was an altar and all. Here and there candles, teas, coffee, alcohol, cigarettes, bread, soup, flowers, rosaries, and little skeleton heads and figurines littered the tables of the makeshift altar--items placed by the living in remembrance of their loved ones' favorite items while physically alive.
The scent of burning sage filled the room the whole night long--and stayed on my jacket as a nice reminder. A prayer in the indigenous language of Nahuatl was offered to bless the Sun, the Earth, and the connection of each to the living and also to the dead. There was also a lot of dancing to popular Spanish language music, mostly during breaks to close one part of the evening and to begin another. Various flavors of tamales, special bread made during Dia de los Muertos festivities, and champurrado (a chocolate flavored drink made from corn-starch and other ingredients) was offered free to all of the attendees. I grubbed on 2 breads and 4 tamales. Unfortunately, the champurrado went fast and I only had a cup.
This was my second "Dia de los Muertos" experience. I must say that it's great to live in a city that provides even the slightest of opportunities to celebrate death and life in a way that no other traditional American holiday provides. It's a unique and special occurrence when a group of very different people can get together to honor Life and Death. The atmosphere is open to the possibility of the spiritual realm and embraces the notion that while our bodies may live and die, some deeper connection exists to the dead, the earth and the cosmos, and to our fellow human.
I said a small prayer for those people that have passed in my life, inhaled the pungent aroma of sage, and acknowledged the eternal spiritual presence of the dead.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
Shit Happens! Sometimes.
The other night I'm having these distressing and disturbing dreams. I'm tossing and turning the whole night--waking up, falling asleep, and re-entering the exact same dream.
Three, two, one, "Action!"
And so there I am sitting near an indoor pool in a white plastic lawn chair. I was there in a previous dream when some gay guy had lightheartedly flirted with me. I had played along, similar to the way I do when a woman I'm not attracted to is too flirtatious--no need to be mean, flattery is flattery, as long as it doesn't cross a certain threshold.
Unfortunately, that threshold was about to be demolished. A few seconds later, the guy reappears from my right and staggers near me. He's hammered, glass in hand, hair disheveled. He tells me he wants my sweet ass and starts trying to grope me and all. Then the whole thing goes downhill as he makes a b-line for my ass, smiling and saying he's going to put his finger in first.
The worst about nightmares is the inability to fight off a predator with effective force. The brain tells the hand to make a fist, and while the command is obeyed, there's this surreal delay in reaction time. My arms won't budge. I try to swing at him but I can't muster enough force to throw a punch--I'm just laying there, twisting and turning away from his probing hands. Meanwhile my anal cavity is perking up tighter than virgin lips to a shot of Jack Daniels.
Next thing I know, I'm awake. Light shining through my windows. Hollywood sign off in the distance. It's a bit overcast and cold, but at least my anus is intact. Or is it!? I immediately notice something strange!! Oh shit!!
Oh shit!! Did I just shit my pants?
I'm engulfed by feelings of embarrassment. How old am I? Three!? I start to rationalize things. Maybe I had to take a massive shit, and I was subconsciously trying to get myself to wake up.
The mind isn't all there when you first awake. Have you ever grabbed your hand that's fallen asleep during the night and ask yourself, ‘Whose fucken hand is this!?’ Eyes roll around the room to see if anyone is there and then you feel a tingling sensation--it's mine, doh!
Anyway, I'm laying there with thoughts of shit going through my head, trying to make myself feel better, dreading the possibility of some heavy-duty clean up. I start to think that maybe I've caught this little brown prankster playing peek-a-boo and maybe, just maybe, I'm clean and free. I muster up the courage to take the walk of shame from my bed to the bathroom and find out what the damage is without disturbing the little guy.
I shift myself a bit, ease off the side of the bed, and gently begin tugging at the sides of my shorts. It feels like the piece of shit is tightly crammed inside the crack of my ass. I tug a little more. Wha' th' Fuck?! I exclaimed. You gotta be kidding me!
I hadn't shit my pants after all. Seems all the shifting in the middle of the night had given me one of the biggest wedgies ever known to man! No shit! Ahh, relief. And lots of laughter. Truly was a "shits and giggles" experience! It happens! Sometimes.
Three, two, one, "Action!"
And so there I am sitting near an indoor pool in a white plastic lawn chair. I was there in a previous dream when some gay guy had lightheartedly flirted with me. I had played along, similar to the way I do when a woman I'm not attracted to is too flirtatious--no need to be mean, flattery is flattery, as long as it doesn't cross a certain threshold.
Unfortunately, that threshold was about to be demolished. A few seconds later, the guy reappears from my right and staggers near me. He's hammered, glass in hand, hair disheveled. He tells me he wants my sweet ass and starts trying to grope me and all. Then the whole thing goes downhill as he makes a b-line for my ass, smiling and saying he's going to put his finger in first.
The worst about nightmares is the inability to fight off a predator with effective force. The brain tells the hand to make a fist, and while the command is obeyed, there's this surreal delay in reaction time. My arms won't budge. I try to swing at him but I can't muster enough force to throw a punch--I'm just laying there, twisting and turning away from his probing hands. Meanwhile my anal cavity is perking up tighter than virgin lips to a shot of Jack Daniels.
Next thing I know, I'm awake. Light shining through my windows. Hollywood sign off in the distance. It's a bit overcast and cold, but at least my anus is intact. Or is it!? I immediately notice something strange!! Oh shit!!
Oh shit!! Did I just shit my pants?
I'm engulfed by feelings of embarrassment. How old am I? Three!? I start to rationalize things. Maybe I had to take a massive shit, and I was subconsciously trying to get myself to wake up. The mind isn't all there when you first awake. Have you ever grabbed your hand that's fallen asleep during the night and ask yourself, ‘Whose fucken hand is this!?’ Eyes roll around the room to see if anyone is there and then you feel a tingling sensation--it's mine, doh!
Anyway, I'm laying there with thoughts of shit going through my head, trying to make myself feel better, dreading the possibility of some heavy-duty clean up. I start to think that maybe I've caught this little brown prankster playing peek-a-boo and maybe, just maybe, I'm clean and free. I muster up the courage to take the walk of shame from my bed to the bathroom and find out what the damage is without disturbing the little guy.
I shift myself a bit, ease off the side of the bed, and gently begin tugging at the sides of my shorts. It feels like the piece of shit is tightly crammed inside the crack of my ass. I tug a little more. Wha' th' Fuck?! I exclaimed. You gotta be kidding me!
I hadn't shit my pants after all. Seems all the shifting in the middle of the night had given me one of the biggest wedgies ever known to man! No shit! Ahh, relief. And lots of laughter. Truly was a "shits and giggles" experience! It happens! Sometimes.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
West Hollyood Halloween Carnival: MAY DAY in Los Angeles
Spooky Nights:
I'm still recuperating from attending the West Hollywood Halloween Carnaval on Santa Monica Blvd last night. I've known of West Hollywood ("WeHo") for years, especially when at the age of 12 I caught a glimpse of two guys kissing on the corner of Robertson and Santa Monica Blvd. For the first time in my life, my little mind conceived of the notion of an openly gay and lesbian community.
Fast forward 15+ years and there I was at about 12 midnight walking through the crowd of male dominatrices, cross dressers of all sorts, and a favorite of the night, for nostalgia sake: Pee-Wee Herman, red bike, goofy laugh, and annoying voice included. The classic Hollywood iconic heterosexual couples came out too (no pun intended) and included Lucy and Ricky, Shrek and Fiona, and Heff and his three bunnies. Food couples were also big: bacon and eggs and Mcdonald's French fries and Heinz Ketchup to name two.
But c'mon, these heteros had nothing on the gay community that came out tour de force for this event. There were a little under 300 Spartans, which left male and female onlookers desiring to conquer their hot gateway. Tina Turner was present and--unlike love--she was nothing near a sweet old fashion notion. One of the most outrageous scenes included a half-naked man pulling another burly man with a chariot. Imagine pulling someone all night on a chariot for about a mile each way.
Then there was this person:
LA Sights:
But let's compare the Carnaval to another one of LA's sights: a celebration like May Day, which took place on May 1, 2007--known internationally as Labour Day, or International Workers' day. First it should be noted that Halloween, like Baseball, is a national celebration and pastime, but few Americans really understand May Day's importance.
Police Presence and Amenities
There were a lot of costumed police at the Carnaval, looking like LA's finest, but they had on black leather pants like this guy.
Real LA County Sheriffs came out in loads as well, but their presence wasn't at all overbearing, which was nice 'cause people just walked the street having drinks, eating food, and smoking it up.
Police presence was huge at the May Day celebration too (mostly LAPD), and they came bearing their own costumes--riot gear, blunt batons, and guns that fired real rubber bullets. Unlike the Carnaval, the May Day celebration did not offer participants beer to drink and very few food stands were present.
The West Hollywood Halloween Carnaval was marked by organization through collaboration, respect for individuality, celebration without incident, and a heightened--perhaps short-lived--sense of community and solidarity.
The May Day celebration was marked by organization with little collaboration, disrespect for individuality, incident as a result of celebration, and a heightened--perhaps short-lived--sense of community and solidarity, at least between those doing the running and those receiving the blunt ends of swinging batons. (Unlike the Carnaval, at least journalists and reporters had the chance to become part of their own feature story).
Something that Unites!
Both events are meant to provide an opportunity to make a statement about tolerance, solidarity, individual prerogative, marginalization, and celebration. They give the wider public a chance to celebrate and honor different choices, lifestyles, and circumstance and highlight the bedrock principles of US democracy.
I hope that one day the LGBT community of West Hollywood, which is largely white and affluent, very successful at developing events and working with the city, and holding some political and economic clout in the state will align and collaborate with the low-income immigrant communities that make up much of the fabric of LA, the May Day Marches, and the WeHo celebration.
How might this occur? First, let's acknowledge that both communities experience inequality and marginalization. The issue of civil unions as a response to same-sex marriage is just as much a hotly contested issue as a guest-worker program as a response to a fair and just immigration policy. Next, there is something that binds these communities--all communities really--and runs deeper than race, class, gender, and sexual preference.
Ahhh, there is opportunity here somewhere, but I'll save that for a later post. There are at least two more constants I failed to mention earlier: I'm still recuperating from the frightful scenes and the underlying socio-political dynamics that powerfully rocked thousands at both events. Yet, as a result of the deep impact each event had on my hopes for the future of LA, I'm looking forward to celebrating in the streets at both events next year!
P.S.
A view of one of the many food stands at the Carnaval.
I'm still recuperating from attending the West Hollywood Halloween Carnaval on Santa Monica Blvd last night. I've known of West Hollywood ("WeHo") for years, especially when at the age of 12 I caught a glimpse of two guys kissing on the corner of Robertson and Santa Monica Blvd. For the first time in my life, my little mind conceived of the notion of an openly gay and lesbian community.
Fast forward 15+ years and there I was at about 12 midnight walking through the crowd of male dominatrices, cross dressers of all sorts, and a favorite of the night, for nostalgia sake: Pee-Wee Herman, red bike, goofy laugh, and annoying voice included. The classic Hollywood iconic heterosexual couples came out too (no pun intended) and included Lucy and Ricky, Shrek and Fiona, and Heff and his three bunnies. Food couples were also big: bacon and eggs and Mcdonald's French fries and Heinz Ketchup to name two.
But c'mon, these heteros had nothing on the gay community that came out tour de force for this event. There were a little under 300 Spartans, which left male and female onlookers desiring to conquer their hot gateway. Tina Turner was present and--unlike love--she was nothing near a sweet old fashion notion. One of the most outrageous scenes included a half-naked man pulling another burly man with a chariot. Imagine pulling someone all night on a chariot for about a mile each way.
Then there was this person:
LA Sights:
But let's compare the Carnaval to another one of LA's sights: a celebration like May Day, which took place on May 1, 2007--known internationally as Labour Day, or International Workers' day. First it should be noted that Halloween, like Baseball, is a national celebration and pastime, but few Americans really understand May Day's importance.
Police Presence and Amenities
There were a lot of costumed police at the Carnaval, looking like LA's finest, but they had on black leather pants like this guy.
Real LA County Sheriffs came out in loads as well, but their presence wasn't at all overbearing, which was nice 'cause people just walked the street having drinks, eating food, and smoking it up.
Police presence was huge at the May Day celebration too (mostly LAPD), and they came bearing their own costumes--riot gear, blunt batons, and guns that fired real rubber bullets. Unlike the Carnaval, the May Day celebration did not offer participants beer to drink and very few food stands were present.
The West Hollywood Halloween Carnaval was marked by organization through collaboration, respect for individuality, celebration without incident, and a heightened--perhaps short-lived--sense of community and solidarity.
The May Day celebration was marked by organization with little collaboration, disrespect for individuality, incident as a result of celebration, and a heightened--perhaps short-lived--sense of community and solidarity, at least between those doing the running and those receiving the blunt ends of swinging batons. (Unlike the Carnaval, at least journalists and reporters had the chance to become part of their own feature story).
Something that Unites!
Both events are meant to provide an opportunity to make a statement about tolerance, solidarity, individual prerogative, marginalization, and celebration. They give the wider public a chance to celebrate and honor different choices, lifestyles, and circumstance and highlight the bedrock principles of US democracy.
I hope that one day the LGBT community of West Hollywood, which is largely white and affluent, very successful at developing events and working with the city, and holding some political and economic clout in the state will align and collaborate with the low-income immigrant communities that make up much of the fabric of LA, the May Day Marches, and the WeHo celebration.
How might this occur? First, let's acknowledge that both communities experience inequality and marginalization. The issue of civil unions as a response to same-sex marriage is just as much a hotly contested issue as a guest-worker program as a response to a fair and just immigration policy. Next, there is something that binds these communities--all communities really--and runs deeper than race, class, gender, and sexual preference.
Ahhh, there is opportunity here somewhere, but I'll save that for a later post. There are at least two more constants I failed to mention earlier: I'm still recuperating from the frightful scenes and the underlying socio-political dynamics that powerfully rocked thousands at both events. Yet, as a result of the deep impact each event had on my hopes for the future of LA, I'm looking forward to celebrating in the streets at both events next year!
P.S.
A view of one of the many food stands at the Carnaval.
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