hello friend...

Other Words for "fraction"

2012-02-03T20:42:00.000-08:00

...made me turn on the Internet for research. The online thesaurus is always up when I am writing and it is always helpful. But sometimes, it leads me to jump around sites and check email and Twitter, then try to post a great song I heard to my Tumblr but can't because the file is too large so then I try to find another mp3 file that will fit because I am really in the mood to post a song and haven't done so in a while and maybe someone out there will enjoy it. And that is why I deleted my Facebook account. I miss it for very simple reasons. Like, I can't be a cybercreep and no one calls me anymore so I don't know what my friends' new babies look like. The thing I miss the most is sharing my blossoming Photoshop skills with eveyone, Comme ca:

(a cropped shot of a much larger, blasphemous piece)

I couldn't handle it when the FB guy kept talking about "curating you life" for others when explaining the new Timeline. When I first joined, I was having panic attacks about uploading a real picture of myself and filling out all those likes and favorite boxes. I hated the idea of people finding me, getting inside my head, having access. Then, four years later, I am posting pictures of me and my boyfriend on our romantic getaway, pictures of my sister's engagement party, and telling people where I will be Friday night. When I realized I was starting to form patterns and daily rituals for checking Facebook, I got weirded out. I WAS curating my life for others and paying too much attention to how others curated theirs. But it was all online, like SIMS or something. An extended first date where everything remains the best version of itself. Or a blog where I can edit, rewrite, delete, hide, and do all the things that make me seem a certain way to the one or two people that end up here every couple of years. I was using the "make things!" side of my brain to create a presence on an image-driven social network where I am essentially nothing more than a product.

There are people that can log-in, check in with their friends and family, and then go about their business like normal. I am not one of those people. I make up stories about those people and get lost clicking through profiles and links and charts and all that brain space and time gets used up so when I am writing a scene about a Maneki Neko cat that shatters on the floor of a botanica, I forget the word I am looking for is not "fraction" but "fragment". It costs me these three paragraphs of brain power to charge that battery. I had to delete my Facebook account because it was atrophying the part of my brain that makes me productive and softening the part of my brain that revolts at being considered a product.

Words! So close in rhythm but not in meaning.

Exercise! Is how I excuse this blog post.

Beatz! This is the song I was trying to upload:

<p>&amp;amp;amp;lt;p&amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;p&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;p&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;p&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;p&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;p&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;br&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;br&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;br&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;br&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;br&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;br&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;br&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;br&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;Fiiting.&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/p&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/p&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/p&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/p&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/p&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;lt;/p&amp;amp;amp;gt;</p>

THIS GREAT THING HAPPENED!!! And What I Wish for in 2012

2012-01-02T20:50:00.000-08:00

The Los Angeles Times published "How to Make Tamales" in the Sunday Opinion section on Dec. 11, 2011.

So happy!

2011 also resurrected my novel, now 86.7% complete (for the thirtieth time). I am also looking forward to the publication of my short story El Cholo in the fantastic Slice Literary Magazine Issue #10 (spring 2012). I closed out the year writing a new short story about Satanism and traumatic iritis and finding a really great book about cultivating carnivorous plants.

Goals for 2012: I want to stop having to cut the side seams of my pants because I can't afford to buy a wardrobe for my new body (thanks late-night writing snacktime ritual!) and I want to sell my book.
That's pretty much it.

And no, the world isn't going to end. But the world as you know it will.

FOX ON STILTS!!!

(maned wolf)

HAPPY 2012!

2011-12-04T14:07:00.000-08:00

I'm late to the party but this is still great:

Why I Don't Want to Be the Next Amy Tan - Celeste Ng

2011-06-18T12:59:00.000-07:00

Things the Radio Taught Me on a Recent Commute to Work

Matthew McConaughy is a spokesperson for beef. Apparently, this has been going on for a few years. It's not a joke.
You can rent car rims at Easy Rims 4 Rent. Because "friends don't let friends drive stock".
Rhinoceros are vatos. At least according to the San Diego Wild Animal Park ad where the urban rhino said things like "ese" and switched out the "y" for a "j" as in "jou all better come viseet thee Animal Park ese or my homiez will shank you with our horns." Just kidding. They didn't say that last part.

I was going to spend all afternoon Googling the hell out of "rhino ad san diego radio" to add a link, but I have to put in at least 5 hours of solid writing time today so you are just going to have to trust me on that one. Or was it hippos?

It takes at least 32 oz of coffee to burn off my AM fog. I ran out after Cup #1 so I took a stroll down to the neighborhood Salvadoran restaurant that has this really tasty coffee for a buck. It has a hint of canela and tastes kinda like cafe de olla without too much sweetness. It is good.

When I say "stroll down" it is because it is at the bottom of the steep hill where I live. It is a pleasant walk, birds and dogs and little kids being mean to each other. The walk back up the hill is always difficult, especially in flip flops. I thought about the novel and the chapters I have to fix. Then that nice thing happened when you see a scene in your head and, like a hovering video screen, you can place it in between the other chapters that already exist and it builds a stronger narrative bridge you can walk across toward the finish line. Then I stepped in dog shit.

The mean kids laughed at me. The rest of the walk up, I yelled at some assholes in a Beemer that littered Capri Sun pouches from their car window (Capri Sun, the choice of hardcore G's). They pretended to screech to a stop like they were going to back up and pelt me with their Legos or something but then kept driving up the hill because they probably smelled me.

This is enough warm up. On Cup #3 and turning off the Internet.

The Book Puta

2011-05-17T23:25:00.000-07:00

This post was going to be titled HotLatinaSlutReader to lure readership but I changed my mind after reading this on Book Slut.
Particularly point #4.
Replace "gender" with "ethnicity" and "female" with "Latina":

Pick your mentors and role models wisely. Sisterhood can be a wonderful thing, but a supportive and productive working writer-editor/publisher relationship is going to be built around individual personalities, not ethnicity per se. You’ll recognize encouragement and good advice when you encounter it. Don’t assume that allLatina writers and editors will automatically help you; also don’t assume that all male writers and editors are intent on keeping you down. Be alert for evidence of bias, though, and be prepared to contest it. You deserve equal consideration as a writer; you don’t deserve to get published just because you’re Latina. Think about the published writers you admire who are also Latina and take heart from their example. They did it, ergo it can be done.

The one thing that usually deters me from picking up a "Latina book" is not some political opposition to the marketing term. It's because I don't like it. It's either got boring characters, no action, the dialogue sounds fake, or worse - the culture feels like it is deployed as a gimmick. Pretty much the same reasons I ignore other books.

But the lack of book reviews that constructively critique Latina fiction makes me wonder - because there is such a small number of Latinas in the publishing industry and getting published, does that mean we have to be treated (or treat each other) like intellectually weak and emotionally fragile little sisters?

I am in awe of Christine Granados review of Brando Skyhorse's Madonnas of Echo Park. You have to read it. Not only was it an intelligent and well thought out review of modern Chicano literature, it feels like a call to action for Chicanos to not let outside cultures define them. Immediately after reading the book review, I attended a literature reading. Although I did not recognize any of the readers of Latino descent, this being Los Angeles, Mexican culture was referenced in three different stories. These are the adjectives that told the audience a Mexicanito character was in scene: "puta" "illegal" "gardener" "borracho".

I may have been the only one in the audience bothered by (or cognizant of) that.

Reading Granados review and attending that reading made me want to be a better writer. Granados showed how we are at the point in our cultural evolution where we can speak honestly about work and only have our taste questioned if we don't like the work, not our cultural loyalty. And attending that public reading illustrated that it is my responsibility to contribute to the cultural conversation. When the time is right, my novel will have its moment. Until it does, allow me to share the work of writers I like.

Let's start here.

More book things.

HAWT GURRRLZ!!1!

2011-04-20T21:05:00.000-07:00

Silver Lake Jubilee Presents: “Girls, Girls, Girls!”

Emerging Voices alumnae Natashia Deon, Marytza Rubio, Mehnaz Turner, and Rachelle Cruz will read at this Silver Lake Jubilee promo show. PEN Center USA will curate the reading stages for the evening.

$5 Admission Wednesday, April 27 @ 8 PM
Pehrspace
325 Glendale Blvd.
Los Angeles, 90026

The Silver Lake Jubilee is a two-day music and art celebration featuring more than 20 local music acts, multi-discipline artists, crafters, and comedy acts, with literary performances curated by PEN Center USA.

YO!

Come out!

TAROT! BOTANICAS! WRITING! ME!

2011-03-18T19:08:00.000-07:00

SPOTLIGHT ON THE MARK: MARYTZA RUBIO

Marytza Rubio is a writer from Santa Ana, CA. She was a 2008 PEN Emerging Voices Fellow and the 2010 Bread Loaf-Rona Jaffe Foundation Scholar in Fiction. Marytza live s in Los Angeles and can be visited at www.marytzakrubio.com.

In your own words, what is the Mark Program?
The Mark is a focused and structured program that specializes in manuscript finishing and publication for Emerging Voices alumni with complete/nearly complete drafts. We meet for workshop, discuss fellow participants' work with the instructor, and do writing exercises that encourage us to think about our characters or story in different ways. The majority of the program so far has been dedicated to revising and rewriting the work. I feel like I arrived with a novel that was a band performance in a seedy bar and going through the Mark Program has been like recording in a professional studio.

Give is a short synopsis of your current project.
I’m working on an untitled novel about a Tarot card reader, Renata Reyes, whose journey into adulthood mirrors the Journey of the Fool, the protagonist in the story of Tarot. She is gifted, but is handicapped by her hypersensitivity and she is unable to function in society. Renata has a lot of cats. It is told in multiple points of view and takes place in my hometown. Santa Ana is the perfect setting for this story because Mexican traditions and folklore are imbued in the city yet still evolve with each generation. Renata apprentices at a botanica with a rockabilly tattooed psychic. In Santa Ana, Day of the Dead is a citywide event. Growing up there, I used to read Tarot during recess for my Catholic school girlfriends. These modern subcultures and ancient traditions coexist in the city; it naturally invites the mystical.

How did you know that this was the right time for you to apply to the Mark Program?
Last year I accumulated lots of rejections. I put the novel aside and went to Bread Loaf. That blew open my mind on how limited and glossy my story was as it stood. It wasn’t doing justice to the characters, the rich tradition of Tarot, or any of the faiths/healing systems I invoked, including Candomble and Ayurveda. When I came back from Vermont, I knew that if I was going to move forward with the project, I needed help. When they announced the Mark Program in September, it felt like fate.

You are mid-way through the program. What has been your biggest challenge in the Mark so far?
I had a mini freak-out about a month ago when I almost turned my book into a murder mystery and my main character into a total weirdo. I’ve deleted four characters from the original draft, heightened the importance of a minor character and then restructured the entire story to accommodate the changes and new scenes. Somewhere in that shuffle, I lost my point and distrusted the main character. That was tough. That identity crisis has since been resolved but I was spinning all over the place until my instructor, Diana Wagman, helped me get back on track.

There are three crucial elements to the Mark: the Project Defense, Mid-Project Review and the Final Review. Can you tell us what your experience was like going through the Project Defense?
I was given a list of questions to prep for the Defense about the genesis of the project, the writers who influence me, my weaknesses and strengths – similar to a standard job interview but as if I was applying for a job of Author. I don’t usually analyze why I write the things I write or seek out the books I read, I just do it, and that reflected the casualness and more instinctual tone of the book in its previous incarnation – a tone that wasn’t right for the material. I figured out that Renata’s journey was the Fool’s Journey and was only able to have that realization because of the in-depth thought process triggered by the Defense questions. The actual Defense in the PEN office was intimidating because you are set up firing squad style with a group of intelligent writers asking questions about your characters’ motivations, the action, the plotting and pacing...The conversations at the Defense didn’t follow my rehearsed answers, but it was a better dialogue. I drove home feeling lucky that if the Project Defense could inspire all those positive changes, the Mark Program itself would be an invaluable writing education. And it has been.

What does this program offer to the EV alumni that a regular workshop doesn’t?
The small class size and focused instructor attention is a luxury that you won’t find in a regular workshop. Because the entire manuscript has been read, the chapters are critiqued not only as individual pieces but their placement in the larger story is also considered. The limited number of participants gives us the benefit of personalizing and tailoring our critiques to be most beneficial based on what we are each trying to accomplish creatively. We’re all EV’s so our writing skills are solid. That frees us up to take utilize our strengths in regards to story and tone. For example, Avi has an instinct for recognizing when to stay in a moment because the reader needs more information to stay engaged, and when to get out of that moment before it starts to drag. Eduardo has this ability to create sensory details, like claustrophobia and sound, without ever mentioning anything in the room that is crowded or noisy. It’s a subliminal thing and weird how it works, but it does.

Can you leave us with one writing tip you have learned from the program?
In the middle of my freak-out, when I almost turned Renata into a vengeful cemetery-dwelling Tarot reader who dreamt of dead people, I asked Diana for help. She shared her insight about how it is natural to get to the point where you are bored with your work or reach a point of saturation and self-doubt. She then asked a simple question: “Why is this story essential reading?” Answering that brought back the energy and commitment I had when I started writing the novel five years ago. I wrote it as a remedy for loneliness, to show a different path toward happiness. Remembering that at one point I needed that remedy keeps me going.

Tags :

2010-07-16T18:57:00.000-07:00

The voice tones of my fear and intuition are twins. Even though I am their mother, I have a hard time telling them apart.

Young Hearts! Run Free! Unless You Wear Skinny Jeans and Live in Australia Then Please Stay Indoors Because Your Legal System Hates You

2010-06-15T14:17:00.000-07:00

.

Below explains above:

Skinny Jeans Acquit Rapist

It's from May, but the irrationality is timeless.

***

This morning I heard a cover of Young Hearts Run Free by Swell Season. I like the disco one but this version made my marrow quiver; the lyrics are so right on. Well, maybe not the part about the babies... The last time I heard it was in Romeo + Juliet, when crazy Mercutio does his song and dance.

there were several versions available, some extended and more glittery, but I really like the way Mercutio looks in this one with his sparkly sparkle heels and gun: a shiny violent disco ball.

***

Speaking of pretty - have you seen "The Peggy Horror Picture Show"? It is my favorite King of the Hill episode. Peggy makes friends with a drag queen, Carolyn, and the drag queen thinks Peggy is a dude. When this is all revealed, Peggy is depressed and hates her big feet and unfemininity. It's lovely how Carolyn shows Peggy how she is a standard of femaleness and beauty.
It gets awesome at minute 19, but the whole thing is good, especially when Hank opens up to Jamie (Carolyn).

THE PEGGY HORROR PICTURE SHOW

The Frida in the final scene is a nice touch.

AMNESTING FOR ILL EAGLES!

2010-05-12T17:34:00.000-07:00

-
Please join us in the fight for permanent Allocation of Medical Nesting (or AMNesting) for Ill Eagles.

It is the survival instinct of all birds to search for better weather, healthier standards of living, and survival. For a variety of reasons, many eagles have migrated to our land in search of comfortable and safe nesting. They have risked their health and safety to find themselves in a more suitable environment but once here, are unable to soar. With new strict and damaging hunting laws, ill eagles are singled out in an effort to eradicate the species and their migration to this terrain. Now, without proper medical nesting, the ill eagles’ chance of continuity is grim.

The situation is as complicated as a prickly pear cactus: the eagles ingest the venomous Hope snake in order to make the perilous flight across lands. But, once the flight is complete, the very Hope snake venom that enabled them to fly long distances is what prohibits them from obtaining peace and prosperity.

The Hope snake venom is unique in that it carries a specific alkaline that strengthens the wings and lungs of all eagles that ingest it. Unfortunately, once the venom has run its course and the eagle has completed its arduous journey, the poisonous alkaline permanently remains in its bloodstream - resulting in a dark crested crown around the head. This alkaline is identified as toxic in mandatory medical testing that would allow the eagle to establish permanent nesting. This is a distinct disadvantage for the eagle and has created a sort of "groundlevel" work force that exploits the ill eagles need for work and benefits the fat cats that employ them.

Contrary to popular belief, the ill eagles do not have the ability to infect the population at large. Regardless of your stance on the ill eagles, please remember: If you come into contact with a suspected ill eagle, you will not become an ill eagle! It is alright to look them in the eye and engage in conversation. Sometimes, they are not ill at all- their markings just resemble the popular (and often incorrect) image of ill eagles. It is wise to treat all eagles equally.

The ill eagles are visually identified by the dark brown crest growing around their head. At first glance, the ill eagles appear to be very similar to the Crested Caracara (also known as the Mexican Eagle).

The Crested Caracara and the ill eagles appear to be the same but it is impossible to differentiate the two. The ill eagles can be any eagle: the Bald Eagle, the Golden Eagle, the Spanish Imperial Eagle...all species and genus of eagle have been seduced by the opportunity our terrain affords. But new hunting law AZ-L0S3R5 has made it difficult for the Crested Caracara and the mixed offspring of the various eagle species to go about their daily business. Reports of the Crested Caracara being threatened and shot are increasing at an alarming rate...

Strangely, this is the only migratory species unaffected by the venom and the new hunting laws:

But no eagle has it worse than the ill eagles. They are constantly under scrutiny and threat. And while they're able to function and work building the complicated eagle nests and incubating the eggs of the working eagles, they are not offered the same safety and peace of mind the majority of the avian population enjoys. Although able to work and provide for their family despite their undocumented status, without AMNesting, the ill eagles have no protection from hunters.

Please, sign this petition and support our fellow eagles. We have a proud eagle tradition in this land.

Our eagles have always been considered great.

Powerful.

And now, threatening.

Let us join together and stop the mistreatment of our ill eagles, stop the ignorance that leads to hatred, violence, and mistrust based on the shape and color of feathers.

We have an exciting solution, my friends - there is a vast stretch of desert land where we can allocate the majority, if not all, the medical nesting for ill eagles. There is plenty of open space, available water, and prey. It is a wonderful spot the hunters refer to as "Arizona" .

Please my friends, we can make a difference. By not protecting the most vulnerable members of our flock, we are welcoming the eventual extinction of our species.

In solidarity,

Alliance of Gamebirds United and the Incognito League of Avian Soldiers

“When we weaken the bonds of our flock, we strengthen the hunter's glock.”

...

Healthy Snax

2010-04-30T12:40:00.000-07:00

This is my supercool primo Mario's blog:

nonlethal recipes

I know the food is good (and very good for you!) because he is from the Texas family, and everyone that shares my mom's blood is a master chef.

Except me; my cuisine-gene is 87% dad. He cooks rice in a sock.

_

I Am Craving Mexican Food

2010-04-12T11:56:00.000-07:00

The crappy thing about a flash website, or my flash website, is that it doesn't allow for direct pathway addresses. Or it does and I can't figure it out.

The revenge story is out, love story is in.

Here
Then "Other"
Then "Verde"

-
-
-
-

Arco Iris

2010-04-05T10:45:00.000-07:00

The first time a song followed me around was about 7 years ago. It was "Volver Volver". It was in Paraguay, at the beginning stages of slowly losing my mind. I had randomly found out on the street - for the third time in one month - a Tarot card indicating death, heartbreak, and destruction. There was a party at the house I was staying. I peeled the paint off the wall while the musicos sang.

The second time was on a street corner and some wandering musicians catered to my ethnicity and serenaded me with that and "Guadalajara", my dad's hometown. I tried singing along; it was disappointing to all.

The third time was when I returned to the States and needed to start from scratch to build a new & improved brain. It was the best time, not only because it was the last time, but because it was sung by Chente himself. I ran into a friend I'd known in high school at the concert. She had just gotten new breasts and I couldn't stop staring at them. She looked so happy. Then I heard the trumpets, the grito, and finally, after three months of holding it in, I was able to let some of the fluid outta my brain.

This past weekend, a song reappeared as the punctuation for a series of interconnected (although not as disturbing) events. The first time was for my birthday. I was sad and above mentioned big breasted girlfriend took me to eat at a very nice restaurant in some fancy walking around outdoor mall. It was a dude and his guitar singing next to the water fountain and some shoe stores. My girlfriend is not the sentimental type, but she was patient enough to stand with me in her 6 inch heels and rub my back while I listened.

Then, it found me inside a grocery store. It was after the gym and I was getting stuff for dinner. It came through the speakers and I froze. It was interrupted twice with a call for David to return to his register, but it still had the power to shut down my to do lists, my should've done lists, my why can't I do this lists. I stared at the chili beans for longer than anyone should look at ground beef.

(Another time - but this is not my own so I can't really claim it - was in San Francisco. My dear friend was talking about how she was going to use that song to memorialize some very special people during another very special upcoming event. The lounge singer, as if eavesdropping with supersonic bat ears, crooned out her final notes of Celine Dion and began a very slow and very inappropriately sorrowful for a Saturday night rendition of the song. We were at the Top of the Mark looking over the rainy city, the cosmic looking fog and hundreds of twinkling street light stars gave us a view of the galaxy.)

And lastly, this weekend at the near abandoned Citadel outlet mall. I was scarfing down a snack, dressed cute for a hot date, trying not to spill Panda Express grease down my cleavage. It came on, right on cue, and it brought the above described moments into focus all at once like a bunch of different Windows popping open in my head. It wasn't dinner with friends at a fancy restaurant, or a chili bean feast, or a heavy hearted moment of silence, it was a rushed crappy dinner alone in some outlet mall with a tinny outdoor speaker system. I know it's not the last time I'll hear that song but it was the last time I'd attribute any sort of significance to it. You know when it is the last one because it is the best one.

It felt good to eat alone. But I admit, to no one but the 10101010 robots that scan these blogs for email addresses and potential porn content, it felt even better to have hope.

There is a short short short story....

2010-03-17T19:15:00.000-07:00

....that I want to share:

Does this link work for a direct hit?

if not...

clicky here for something uplifting and fun.
Go to the tab called "Other"
Then cliquea "Understudy"

Se trata de un pintor y su pistola.

Sita Sings the Blues

2010-01-22T14:59:00.001-08:00

I saw this around New Years and loved it. It is The Ramayana interpreted in animated form - ancient India is juxtaposed with modern-city girl life.

The creator, Nina Paley, uses some fabulous animation to tell the story of heartbreak and devotion. It uses collage, hip Shag-like cartoon characters, puppets(?)and all these bright vibrant colors!

Ms. Paley said she made this after she couldn't make her marriage work. Her statement and the film itself illuminate the universal truth that whatever it is you are feeling when a relationship fails, it has been felt for centuries.Everyone always asks the same questions "is something wrong with me?" "what could I have done differently?" "why don't they love me?" and on and on.

Making the film allowed me to get in touch with my inner Sita. I didn’t know why
I was feeling the way I was feeling, wanting this man who rejected me. A normal,
self assured woman, I related so much to Sita and the Ramayana, and I felt the
pain of the failed relationship could consume me if I wasn’t careful. Basically
the pain was going to burn me. For me that’s a metaphor of pain. It can either
burn you or it can fuel something.

Four years ago, I started writing a novel because I was heartbroken. I would've burned up if I hadn't. Now, after rereading and analyzing it for further edits, I am sort of thankful nothing went right the past couple years. What a boring, clean, little life it would be if I was right everytime I fell in love.

I'm only disappointed that I can't explain how cool this film is. You just have to check it out. And buy the supacute T-shirts available on the website. So hot... and for a good cause.

SITA SINGS THE BLUES (WATCH)

BOOK TOUR: RENE COLATO LAINEZ

2010-01-13T00:05:00.000-08:00

Hi All!

A special treat today...The fabulous Jo Ann Hernandez of BronzeWord has invited me to participate in a Blog Tour for the incredible children's book author, Rene Colato Lainez. He wrote a clever book about hyphenated last names and how our family and history are tied to our names. It was a pleasure interviewing him and I agree that our names can reveal much about us.

Just like shoes.

Visit Rene's site here

And BronzeWord Latino Authors here

In the comments, tell me what your name means and if you think it suits you. Most honest/interesting answer gets an author autographed book! This is a wonderful gift for the kiddies.

About Rene Has Two Last Names/Rene Tiene Dos Appellidos

Pub. Houston, Tex. : Piñata Books/Arte Público Press, c2009.

Young René is from El Salvador, and he doesn't understand why his name has to be different in the United States. When he writes Colato, he sees his paternal grandparents, René and Amelia. When he writes Laínez, he sees his maternal grandparents, Angela and Julio. Without his second last name, René feels incomplete... His new classmates giggle when René tells them his name. "That's a long dinosaur name," one says. But René doesn't want to lose the part of him that comes from his mother's family. So when the students are given a project to create a family tree, René is determined to explain the importance of using both of his last names.

This charming bilingual picture book for children ages 4 - 8 combines the winning team of author René Colato Laínez and illustrator Fabiola Graullera Ramírez, and follows their award-winning collaboration, I Am René, the Boy / Soy René, el niño. With whimsical illustrations and entertaining text, this sequel is sure to please fans and gain many new ones while explaining an important Hispanic cultural tradition.

I liked that René felt connected to his grandparents by his name and share your belief that names are an important part of our identity and personal history. This is something that you also explore in “I am Rene the Boy/ Soy Rene el Nino”. René means to be reborn – do you think your name suits you?

My name René had a new meaning when I came to the United States. In my country, I was René, a boy with dreams and adventures to accomplish. But in the United States that boy felt that everything was different and that he did not had the skills to accomplish those dreams. René means to reborn and indeed I was reborn in this new country. I learned a new language and a new culture and the most important thing that dreams can be accomplish if you fight for them and never give up. René said in I Am René, the Boy, “I am so lucky that after I was born again, I can speak, read and write in English and Spanish.”

You come from a creative and artistic family. How did that influence your early life as a writer? Do you think it is important to encourage children to develop an appreciation for the arts?

It was always an adventure to visit my grandparents. I learn so many songs, stories, riddles and proverbs from them. My family instilled in me that there were no borders when you use your imagination. As a child, I always have ideas to write about. The arts are very important for children. As an elementary teacher, I can see how my students react to a writing piece after they paint, sing, explore or dance. After doing a fun activity that I able to produce more work. Also by exploring the arts, children are also exposed to the many rich cultures around the world.

Your books must have a significant impact on bilingual families because not only does it encourage pride in culture and language, but on a practical level, it teaches children to develop language skills in both English and Spanish. Tell me a story about a personally fulfilling reaction readers have had to your books.

I had so many stories about reader reactions to my books. During my first author’s signing, a boy approached me with a copy of my book Waiting for Papá. He had tears in his eyes and told me, “Thank you for writing my story. My father is not here with me yet but after reading your book, I know that some day we will be together.”
During the Festival of books at UCLA a girl told me, “I didn’t like to speak Spanish so much but after reading Playing Lotería, I changed my mind. Muchas gracias. "

In addition to your impressive and beautifully illustrated children’s books, you have also written short stories and novels. I read the titles on your website; the one that captured my interest was “Honey Moon in the Caribbean”. What a great title! Are these stories you might share with your readers some day?

I wrote most of those short stories and novels when I was in high school and college. I published short stories at the Spanish school paper “La voz estudiantil.” The novels are in the first drafts. I have plans to work on “Going North”, this can be a powerful young adult novel. “Honey Moon in the Caribbean” can be a great romantic adult novel. Thank you for your encouragement, I might work on it in the future.

I had published some children’s stories and poems at Revista Iguana, a Spanish magazine for children. www.nicagal.com.

5. What music do you listen to for inspiration?

For fun, I like to listen to rock and Latin Pop. Classic music is great when I am writing. As a good Latino, I like salsa, cumbia and merengue. But I need to take some dancing classes.

6. Your next book, “The Tooth Fairy Meets El Raton Perez”, is going to be
awesome. It is an excellent way to illustrate how folklore and myths from both
cultures can shape childhood and the importance of keeping those stories alive.
What inspired you to write this story?

I grew up with el Ratón Pérez. He collected all my teeth and gave me some gifts in returns like coins, books and tickets to the circus.
I had the idea to write the story when I heard my next door teacher screaming and ready to go to the office. One of his students told her that a mouse took his tooth the night before and that he loves that mouse because that little mouse visited his house often. There were five children living at home. “This kid lives among mice and rats. I need to call social service,” he said to me.
He did not go to the office after I told him about that special mouse.

That night I wrote about El Ratón Pérez, the Hispanic tooth mouse collector in Latin America and Spain.

(The book comes out March 23, 2010 from Tricycle Press)

Thank you Rene! Buy any and all of Rene's books here. Or if you are local, here.

Follow Rene! Book Tour Schedule:

Jan 11 Leslie Regular Rumination

Jan 12 Yolanda Cuponeando

Jan 13 Marytza Tartamuda

Jan 14 Lisann LaLicenciada

Jan 15 Jen Devourer of Books

Jan 18 Lynn Chronicle of an Infant Bibliophile

Jan 19 Mayra Latino Book Examiner

Jan 20 Shelia One Persons Journey Through a World Of Books

Jan 21 Ana Rod The Sol Within

Jan 22 Carrie Bilingual in the Boonies

And to learn more about BronzeWord Latino Book Tours, please visit:

http://www.LatinoBookTours.com

Does your name suit you?

Books!

2009-12-28T14:02:00.000-08:00

That are insane!

Weird Book Room at Abe Books

A Cow is Too Much Trouble in Los Angeles by Joseph Foster - I think this has something to do with Hinduism. Or rancheros.

The English, Are They Human? by G.J. Renier - It's illustrated.

Erotic Dots: Join the Dots to Create 60 Sexy and Exciting Pictures - Because porn is too hard to find.

50 Ways to Use Feminine Hygiene Products in a Manly Manner by B. Koz - What a great pen name.

Ductigami: The Art of the Tape by Joe Wilson - My dad should have written this book.

Pills for Cats by Charles Kreloff, Patty Brown, Victoria Roberts

Dead Clients Don't Pay: The Bodyguard's Manual by Leroy Thompson - Valuable business advice.

The Haunted Vagina by Carlton Mellick III - I have to retitle my memoir.

Plus tons of books on dead animals: The Amateur Taxidermist,Critter Cuisine, How to Preserve Animals and Other Specimins in Clear Plastic (other specimins?), Dead Pet: Send Your Best Little Buddy Off in Style (the cover is a gatito strapped to a rocket)

Lots of survival books: Help! A Bear is Eating Me, How to Survive a Robot Uprising, Bombproof Your Horse, What to Do When the Russians Come (thank them for a lovely evening and promise to call); and a book on how to teach your chicken to fly and yourself to teleport.

Knowledge is power.

Classification

2009-11-16T14:00:00.000-08:00

I was going to write something about cooking, because I heard roses and all sorts of other flowers are edible and wouldn't that be cool to make a dish or ice cream or something out of those pretty flowers? But, because I have no attention span, I started hitting "Next Blog" on the header.

You know what I found out? All the blogs following mine are religious. Is this blog classified as a religious? No one reads it anyway, so I guess I should be happy that I may get some accidental hits from lost sheep clicking through to find their e-flock.

Actually, now that I think of it, the essay I am writing about making moqueca de peixe does have some of those elements...so...I guess it is debateable, even if unintentional.

Extinction vs. Death

2009-10-27T22:20:00.000-07:00

I am building an altar for extinct animals.

It is an anthropology class assignment and because I haven’t had a day to sleep in for about three years, I am struggling to make it happen the night before the due date.

How am I going to make this:

Out of this:

6:49 PM
Can’t find my spray paint. Will have to watercolor newspaper.

I haven’t seen my friend Nicolle in a while...I’m going to go visit her. Paint needs to dry, no?

10:00 PM
That that took a little longer than I thought.
I just realized that the box I am slathering paint on is the one that the satellite company said to keep for Very Important Reasons. Oops.

10:11 PM
I spent three hours at Michael's today and did not buy glue. You know what I do have? Tape. Lots of tape.

10: 38 PM
I broke my scissors.

Note the closed position yet open blade? I bet you this never happens to La Crafty Chica.

10:42 PM
I can’t find duct tape and need to support the top two panels of the altar. So I am trying to sew it. The needle keeps poking through my thumb. Sunday night, I helped my friend Victor sew up his Halloween costume and had the same problem, poking through my skin every few minutes. Terrified that my bleeding thumb would get over his hand dyed Corpse Bride wedding dress, he pushed the thimble over to me. I refused. He insisted.
“Those are for wimps,” I said to get him off my back. And then I felt bad because he has three of them. But still. Respect that I don't like thimbles.

10:50 PM
PAPERCLIPS!!

10:57 PM
After he wrapped my bleeding finger in gauze, Victor said something funny that I just remembered - about those type of guys that are at the club that glue themselves to your booty on the dancefloor, "He was on me tighter than a barnacle stuck to the ass of a whale"

11:05 PM
It has been so long that I’ve had the chance to sit down and enjoy a good few hours of shuffle. Right now, it is the Tom Yorke version of “Something”.

11:06 PM
Oh god, I am so lonely.

11:24 PM
"I know my chicken, you got to know your chicken..."

12:30 AM
This is where we are at now:

I’ve been using spray mount and E-6000 and the Santa Ana winds are kicking up outside so the windows are closed. I'm getting a little light headed.

When driving to Victor's house, there were piles of dried leaves in random corners of the street and very subtly, the Santa Anas moved them around. A tumble of them came in front of my car, they crunched as I ran over them and I felt like I was killing something.

12:48 AM
Dead people aren't referred to as extinct, right? Don't you think they should be? After someone dies, that species of person is extinct. Extinct sounds a bit more romantic than Dead. So much more final. And you know what, I think it is more fitting. There will never be another you. When you die, the awesomeness of you will be gone forever. Sure you can have memories and legacies and even kids to carry your name and your blood. But you -You - are extinct. There will never be another you. I think Extinct is a much more respectful and appropriate term than dead. Anything can die; only the irreplaceable are extinct.

I am so fucking high.

12:55 AM
I swore to go mimis before 1am tonight because I have a 7am Portuguese class. You know what else I noticed? I tell people about the classes I am taking a lot and I think it's getting annoying. It's like when people talk to the childless about their kids. No one cares about their accomplishments except you. Sorry.

1:01 AM
Today I saw a murder of crows fly overhead. Nothing to say I just wanted to show off I know a group of crows is called a murder.

1:05 AM
You know what else is murder? Constantly having hope. Imagine starting the week singing in the shower. Then by Thursday, you're back to scrub,scrub, silence. It is like that for me at least once a month. I felt happy, the song just came up like a hiccup.

1:24 AM
This is where I buried my stegasaurusususus:

1:37 AM
There was a daddy long legs in my marker box and I killed it. Or group of crows'ed it.

SLEEP!!!!

I dreamt all night of the horned gopher and tasmanian wolf. The Stellar Sea Cow appeared as well and reminded me to cut up the plastic rings from my soda snacks.

And this is the final product:

(the stegasuarususususus is buried in there! I don't know what extinct animals eat, so I offered them plants)

You know where I really want to go before I am extinct? Oaxaca. I love their black clay pottery. That calavera was given to me by my mom. I returned the favor by finding her a black pottery mermaid. She has several, but collects all sorts of mermaids from all over the world, primarily Latin America. When I am exhausted, for any multitude of reasons, she makes very strong coffee and listens to me tell the same story, over and over again.
Before I am extinct, I'd like her to have everything she wants.

Why Los Angeles is Wonderful

2009-10-05T20:28:00.000-07:00

The OVATION channel on TV was kind enough to those of us who did not get tickets to Bienvenido Gustavo! and too disconnected to know that it was offered on Internet demand(I'm so sorry, mom).

The channel showed a weekend marathon of his concerts.
He is such a beautiful man.

A much better use of your next twenty minutes than whatever else you have planned:

And this is how to test if you have a soul:

Tamborazo!

2009-10-02T21:36:00.000-07:00

When you are in the presence of the divine, please stand up.

Last weekend, I had the great privilege to see Viver Brasil perform at MoLAA. We were in for a treat, as Iyalorixa Mainha was in the house. The night was clear and the temperature perfect.

Before Viver Brasil took the stage, Dance Camera West showed a collection of short dance films from Mexico and South America. They are better described as art pieces and combine the universal language of movement and film into a new distinctive art media. My favorite film? The Swan vs. The Spider from Argentina.

Did you see that Happy Tree Friends type ending coming? Neither did the cultos

I also enjoyed the Uruguayan one where a man is dancing wild in his living room alone to some energetic music, and that dance footage is interspersed with a white screen and black text quotes that made a great big impact on me when I saw them and now can’t remember what they all said. “Fanaticism is always compensation for hidden doubt,” was one of them. Be mellow with your jello, yes?

***

The next day I had the honor of escorting the fantastic Irete Lazo to film a Latino Literacy PSA at Libreria Martinez. You need to buy her book.

We ate at Guelaguetza and found a table next to a dreamy white stone wall that had dozens of delicate female faces with flowy hair wrapping around them, como si estavan debajo de agua. In between every couple faces, were varying sizes of circular blue glass moons.
I described the previous nights event to Irete and how…calm….the audience was, even when the High Priestess graced the stage. I asked if it was possible that the low level of audience energy could be viewed as a sign of disrespect.

Irete looked pensive and then explained that event, and many other things, to me in a way that simultaneously pointed out how spirituality is something that we can easily take for granted, and how much more exciting the world would be if more people spoke openly about their beliefs, or absence of them, without having to apologize or fear attempts at conversion. But considering our history, maybe humans aren’t capable of that kind of tolerance.

“It is like a knob,” she said. “Sometimes it’s just not turned on.” She shared that some people don't receive the signals because they just aren’t open to letting it in and shouldn't be blamed or judged for it. That how can they know they are in the presence of the divine if they have never experienced it? Once you feel it, you want to feel it again and can recognize it. The knob is then permanently switched to the on position and you are no longer an observer, but a witness. Of course, she said it in a much more eloquent way that gave me a buzz in between my head and made the outer edges of everything I looked at glow brightly. I think that is what happens when I get really happy and learn a new truth; the audiovisual equivalent of a dog wagging its tail.

***

My dog first barked two Jack and Cokes in, thousands of miles out, and on a redeye Varig flight from Miami to Sao Paulo. We flew skimming a layer of clouds, parallel to a thunderstorm. The Amazon River below was illuminated by the moon like a metallic snake, and a chaotic bundle of gray at the edge of the sky flashed with lightning. In that moment - the electric white, the silver clouds, the rumble and the light - I swear I saw the face of God.

***

God as an adjective seems fitting, I don’t know if I mean it as God the very proper noun. God is like a catch all name for the Creator yes? Then I mean it as God the very proper noun.

***

While I lived in LA, I listened to a lot of language tapes and took a dance class with Viver Brasil. I sought out the class thinking it was samba and could have people to practice portuguese with, but was pleasantly surprised when it turned out to be something completely different. We had live drums in class and learned the Orixa movements and patakis. We bended and stomped and threw ourselves on the floor. I couldn’t walk for a week.

Now, between school and less high heeled work, I Zumba. Do you Zumba? You should Zumba. My mom and I go to Zumba every week and have a really good time with all the women in the class. It’s in a little slice of activista heaven: portraits of Malcolm X and Angela Davis cheer us on, papel picado hangs from the ceiling, and there is a groove in the middle of the floor we all avoid - a souvenir from a previous punk show’s hyper crowd.

Our instructors deftly incorporate a mezcla of salsa, cumbia, samba, merengue, Bollywood, and occasional folklorico steps into our workout. My samba has still not improved since the girls from the Paraguayan halfway house Hallie and I volunteered at tried to teach us back in, like, 2002. While in Zumba, I flashback to how easy it looked when Las Chicas de Hogar Maria Reina did it. But then I have to stop because that was seven years ago and a lot can happen in seven years.

I can do about 3 Zumba dances correctly. The quebradita one, the Tiburon one (onda,onda, onda onda, clap clap....peixinhos!), and the one we call La Dominicana. My favorite part, in any dance class, is when we clap loud, throw ourselves on our rodias, and genuflect to the tamborazo.

Finally...

2009-09-23T08:19:00.000-07:00

www.marytzakrubio.com

THINGS!

2009-09-16T11:56:00.000-07:00

My fabulous friend Davin is hosting a writing contest on his blog. Not only are they hosting this fun contest with useful prizes, they regularly post useful writing tips and discussions.

http://literarylab.blogspot.com/

Davin is a fox.

***

The Latino Book Fest is coming to Cal State LA!!

Oct 10 - Oct 11

Yes of course I will be there. I'll even have my own booth...doing coat check.

***

BombaZo FANDANGO!

El Centro's Open House!

Day of the Dead!!

Santa Ana es una zorra.

I Have a Confession...I am Bicuspid.

2009-09-14T11:00:00.000-07:00

The novel I have in my drawer is about an octopus. It's also about people: three brothers, two creepy old women, and one little girl. But the octopus is the best part. The other story I wanted to write, that eventually led me to the one I did write, was about the unsolved brutal murder of a beautiful girl in Santa Ana. Those were the things that I thought about when I was a teenager: the octopus and the dead girl. I might need another 10 years to convert the octopus oeuvre from the 4-5 composition books I wrote in long hand to Word, but the other one is best left alone.

The fish at the Aquarium are immune to shiny things and bait. They get their meals square daily so they don't really need to exert the effort on someone's shiny nailpolish that looks like snack. It is a waste of time but I understand the motive. Even when I am at the bat ray tank, I can't help but paint my nails silver and try.

After leaving the Aquarium this weekend, I drove by the Long Beach Lobster Festival going on down the street. I don't like lobster but they had a big sign advertising FUNNEL CAKE STRAWBERRIES ICE CREAM. I didn't have the patience to find parking and be around a bunch of kids so I kept driving but it all reminded me of the best piece of writing on the face of the Earth: Consider the Lobster.

Did you know that lobster was fed to prisoners? And that there is nothing luxurious about hundreds of people in plastic bibs at the Maine lobster festival? And that lobsters are like rats of the sea? It is fun to challenge your perspective.

***

I remember everyone making a big deal out of footnotes as some sort of pretentious gimmick in Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. I enjoyed them in David Foster Wallace's piece, but I can't comment on Wao. I haven't been able to bring myself to read the novel since I already read the New Yorker version and don't want to mess with the readers high I got when I finished it. Oscar (and that awesome part of Maritza and her Ogun energy in the opening pages) already lived and died in my head, I can't risk losing that. When I get dementia, I look forward to getting to know little Oscarito all over again.

***

I hope I never get demented. I'd rather have my family cry because I can't remember their names than cry because I insist I am the center of the Universe and anyone who disagrees with me needs to be destroyed. So I am cool with dementia, but not the demented.

***

Because the drive home was long, I thought of Alisa Valdes Rodriguez and her proclamation she was bipolar in the memorial post she wrote when David Foster Wallace killed himself. It is a tough sickness to live with and most people sort of nodded in agreement like "oh, okay. That makes sense," but then she later denied it and the post is lost in Googlelandia.

Now, her brave proclamations are that La Maquina de Letras Latinas does not support her. She then shares her FRIEND'S batshit rant on Cindy Casares from Guanabee in a transparent attempt to bait controversy to gain publicity and drive blog traffic up. Then I thought, "what a great idea."

:)

It really is a matter of perspective. I always thought of Alisa as the Establishment and Cindy as Anti-Establishment. Isn't Alisa the one no one wants to piss off for fear of her epic blog posts, personal attacks, and their own publishing career? And if someone consistently challenges and calls out the sacred , regardless of the fall-out, doesn't that make them the Anti-Establishment?
It's like when I was in junior high and my friends and I would beef cause we were bored. We'd write letters that were like " ur ugly girl no one likes you and you think your all bad and shit but ur stupid and every1 says so they just pretend to like you becuz they rully hate you...WRITE BACK"

I don't think Alisa lacks support because Latinos are afraid success will run out. I think some people don't support her because she is mean.

***

Toloache

2009-09-09T13:58:00.000-07:00

I bribed my mom and grandma with Pinkberry if they accompanied me to Diwali at the Bowers Museum and then to the LAPL.

At the Bowers, the Festival of Lights had a good turn out. It was crowded but I liked the way it smelled. My mom bought two beautiful silk scarves for $10. I watched the dancers and realized I haven't tapped into the awesome power of controlling facial gestures and hand movements. My grandma got tired and sat down. I made a secret lady promise to myselft to start taking better care of my hands and be more aware of when I make cara de fuchi. I have complete control of Latinaspicyhipswaychachacha, but there is a certain elegance contained in calm hands and subtle expressions. Even the eyes were used as part of the dance; a quick look to the left and hand quiver can have more impact than a sashay and twirl.

***

On the way out, my mom and grandma remarked on the plant in a nearby garden that looked like this:

The plant, I call it hangy tube flower, is Angel Trumpet. It is hallucinogenic. And FaAAaytaal.

My mom told us how our fantastical aunt is cultivating the plant and how she complains that the chiquillos locos are always cutting off flowers and trying to get high off it. "It looks similiar to that tree, but it's more bushy.'

"Es toloache," my grandma said.

"Jimson Weed," my mom translated for me.

"Isn't that fatal?" I asked.

"Lo usan para el amor," my grandma said.

"But it's fatal," I said. They explained that it's used in small doses to make men meeker and easier to dominate. This is jimson weed:

Both Angel Trumpet and Jimson Weed are related to Belladonna. That thing that women put in their eyeballs to dilate them so men would find them more attractive.

Those eyedrops were fatal too.

***

On the way back from the Library, my mom sat shotgun and thumbed through the books. In addition to her complete catalog of art, I picked up Remedios Varo's Cartas Suenos y Otros Textos.

"Oh, I don't believe it," she said. "Look, the first page I opened up and look at the word: toloache. Don't look, you're driving."

On pg 81, Remedios Varo writes to a Sr. Gardner - who may or may not have existed...Gardner = jardinero? "...en los filtros de amor, las cosas son un poco mas complicadas y peligrosas...la costumbre es administrar 'toloache' disimulado en una taza de cafe, y las consequencias de la ingestion del toloache son fatales..."

She had a limitless imagination and had so many references and meanigful symbolism contained in her art and writing. She was subtle; more concerned with expressing mystical ideas instead of violent love and passion. It's impossible to see here, in Unsubmissive Plant, the botanist's hair is made of mathematical equations, and the plants spell out equations and things like 2 + 2 is almost 4:

She is going to get really popular in about 2 years. Buy now.

***

There was a story in the paper about the controversy over new Frida artifacts and paintings that have resurfaced. The "Frida Industry", as referred to in the article, is vehemently discounting the trunkful of drawings, journals, and trinkets as fakes. One of the things that stood out while they were detailing the contents of the truck was the "...11 taxidermied hummingbirds."

"Did you catch that about the hummingbirds in the Frida article?" my mom asked, mixing around the coconut and raspberries in her yogurt.

"Mmhmm."

"No wonder Diego wouldn't leave her alone."

But if Kahlo befriended Varo, Remedios would've encouraged toloache instead of hummingbirds and Mexican art history would be very different.

Gregorio Luke presents 3000 Years of Mexican Art History
Saturday, Sept 12 @ Bowers
and all sorts of other great things happening this month at the BOWERS MUSEUM

I am insane.

2009-09-02T10:03:00.000-07:00

Because I have that annoying little problem, I'm always trying to find different ways to fix it. I think I finally found the key:

Cesar's Way

The Dog Whisperer vato? Yes, the Dog Whisperer vato. He is amazing. This is the only self help book you will ever need. Do not be arrogant, your dog is probably more mentally sound than you are. I used to watch the show and think that all that stuff about withholding affection until it is earned, maintaning your cool, identifying misbehavior and ignoring tempermental flare-ups were excellent tips for dating.

His advice about how to get your dog in a calm state of mind, that nervous energy can be detected and emitted, and all this great wisdom about how confidence really is key to a succesful life and relationship is valid and applicable.

And then there is this:

Dog Whisperer is THE show my family and I would get together and watch (with doggie of course) and we planned a fun trip to a crowded Pet Expo a couple years back just to hear him speak. We all love Cesar Millan, but we don't listen to him. My parents refer to the doggie as la otra hermana and if she wasn't such a fat ass, she'd probably sit at the dinner table with us.

I recommend the chapter "Fearful Aggression". I also find the section on "Red-Zone" especially enlightening.

***

Speaking of Chee-Hua-Hua's... OPI nails has a color I will steal for:
212

My former favorite was My Chihuahua Bites and I am weirdly into pale and metallic beige colors this fall. I will throw all of that out the window, for this gorgeous 212.

It is sold out online :(

only available at Sephora in Times Square. I will now put my shyness away and make drastic efforts to get at least a handful of people to read this. Hopefully one of them will live close to NYC and I can beg them to ship me a bottle. In exchange, I offer a thoughtful handwritten thank you on the most amazing stationary evah, my undying loyalty, and a holiday card with an arctic owl on it.
A very decent trade.

***

more yonque

2009-08-28T11:23:00.000-07:00

I saw this on the Today show the other day and now can't stop myself:

http://www.shopgoodwill.com/

it's like eBay but for only the good stuff at Goodwill. It is perfect when you don't have the time to hunt through the racks and racks and bins of stuff. As an additional bonus, you can find awesome stuff without getting that vague sticky thrift store residue on your hands.

***

Do you know there is a new luxury boutique hotel in Long Beach?

AVIA LONG BEACH

This is exactly the kind of place I have been dreaming about. I love Long Beach; it combines the diversity of LA with the beachiness of OC but has its own cultural identity. This hotel captures that perfectly: dean & deluca snax; rooftop pool with cabanas; pretty bathrooms; close to nightlife and museums and fishies; organic coffee; food food food... It is just gorgeous and so fitting to what the city really is: very hip, full of culture, and clever enough to know that pretension does not equal class.

***

Does anyone want to buy my soap? I make really cool soap. Have you ever had a dinosaur in your bathtub? Or a Catrina next to your handtowel? With my soap, you can.

***

Does anyone want me to read their cards? I've been doing it for 15 years but went on hiatus for writing. Now I am hiatusing from writing. I hope that doesn't last too long...I still puke bile after I read for people who have a lot of bad luck. At least with writing, I only get fat.

***

Does anyone want to buy me this book:

The End of the World Book by Alistair McCartney

This is a higly intelligent person who has original ideas and knows how to write. That combination is harder to find than you would think...

I heard about it in a writing class I took this summer with la Reyna Grande (isn't that the coolest name ever? It's like La Mera Mera or El Gran Premio) and haven't been able to stop thinking about one fantastic excerpt about a painting of Jesus we read in class.

The only problem was that I couldn't remember the author name and swore that the title was ENCYCLOPEDIA OF THE WORLD vol.1 or some verga like that. The only thing I remembered was the "Alistair" and the "Mc" and kept thinking it was Alistair McCrowley or McAlistair Crowley and at one point Google started making fun of me: Did you mean: ALEISTER CROWLEY, dumbass? Which I didn't, but it was a thought provoking coincidence. I finally got the winning combo with satire + encyclopedia + memoir + alistair

Here is an excerpt from the awesome masterpiece:

The Letter M
MACRAMÉ
The most significant art form of the decade known as the 1970s was undoubtedly macramé, that coarse lacework produced by weaving cords into a pattern. However, some contest this, and argue that, on the contrary, mime was the greatest cultural achievement of the decade: mime, that subtle art form in which people with white pancake makeup on their faces, with black markings on their lips and around their eyes, dressed in overalls and horizontally striped T-shirts, brilliantly expressed something, anything, by virtue of movement and facial expression alone, that is to say, mutely, as if their tongues had been cut out of their heads. Although I admire mime . . . I still believe macramé is the higher and purer art form.
In the late 1970s, at the height of macramé’s popularity . . . while other children made charming macramé potholders for their mothers,and macramé owls that would serve as tasteful wall hangings, for my mother, using off-white wool, I made a
realistic macramé psyche.

Please buy this for me. I will make you soap and read your cards.

Gatitos and Soap

2009-07-23T10:16:00.000-07:00

The beginning of the video reminds me of this really out of date article from the usually not out of date Missbehave Magazine about how skateboarding dudes are IT and every girl should have one in their bed. Please don't ask me my opinion on that Avril Lavigne lameness but I will admit that I've never met a guy with a skateboard that has bad taste in music. Since a friend with impeccable taste hooked me up with the mix CD that brought Heartbeats into my life, it reminded me of another song but I couldn't figure out why it sounded so familiar.
Then it hit me: Gatitos!

Shareeeng deef-rent hearrt-beeets een one niiiiiight...

Those cats look racist.

***

Last night, I went to the PEN 2009 Emerging Voices Final Reading at the Hammer. It was awesome. It was MUCH better than our reading at the Kirk Douglas (I am NOT bitter) because there was a gorgeous reception afterward and all the writers looked so cute and ready to change the world. I came in from OC so of course I missed all but the last reader, Mehnaz Turner. She was awesome. Her final poem made me get a lump in my throat; it was breathtaking. There was another great one about getting wasted at a Muslim wedding that gave me ideas for the next time one of my Mormon cousins gets hitched. I am looking forward to hearing more from her. I have the program so will read the pieces from the other Fellows, all who I am sad I missed, but know they are stellar.

PEN USA is now accepting applications for the 2010 class. It is the only program of its kind in the country - Do not be lazy. APPLY: PEN EMERGING VOICES 2010

I also debuted my soap and made some new friends in the process. My soap is not just regular bar soap. You will cut yourself if you try to bathe with it. But it is supacute. If you like clutter, they work great as decorations. My glycerin ones are by far my favorite, it is like working with resin. The shea butter ones seem to be the crowd favorite. Let's see if this soap making kick lasts longer than my cobbler phase.

***

MoLAA is having a lecture on Frida this Saturday. I was at the event last week for Siqueiros. Gregorio Luke's lectures always change my life and this event was no different. Siqueiros was a force of revolutionary nature. In our lifetime - and most importantly, in the lifetime of future generations - we will see the restored La America Tropical mural on Olvera Street. He referred to it as "the Ghost of Los Angeles". The central figure was based on an actual photograph of a lynched worker. It flashed across the screen and the audiences collective gasp created a vacuum.

I am not skilled enough to accurately convey the impact of Sr. Luke's lecture and trying to express it will destroy it. Plus, it is mine. But I encourage everyone to attend the remaining two events (Frida is going to be PACKED!) because your soul will shift in a way that is not possible unless you are near the ocean, under the stars, surrounded by art, and navigated by a brilliant orator.

When You Finish Your Novel, You Will Be Depressed

2009-07-04T09:12:00.000-07:00

^-.-^

Why are so many Latina characters in novels named Soledad? Post Cisneros, why are so many protagonists still named Esperanza? And Caridad, and Libertad, and Triumphar and other words in Spanish that describe emotional states of being or the characters' most prominent innerlife trait? Not all, but many.

I understand the intended poetry; we judge people by their name and are disturbed when the name is ill-fitting. We say things like "funny, he doesn't look like a Giovanni...maybe more like a Steve?" The sound and meaning of a name tells your reader something but should still resonate as real. Maybe even add some esoteric knowledge or foreshadowing to the characters true destiny or be intentionally pedestrian. My sister and I have complimentary first and middle names. Hers mean bee and flower, mine mean ocean and something something moon. Well, maybe not ocean. I think the most accepted meaning of Marytza is "bitter sea" or "bitter sea of tears".

***

Do you take vitamins? Everyone should take vitamins. I just started and although I don't feel better yet, I finally don't wake up feeling worse.

***

A couple months ago, I finished my book but haven't started another one (word on the street is starting the next book is the only cure for warped dimension misery). I have the ideas and know the research it entails but am having trouble committing. So it's like that episode of the Simpsons when Mr. Burns finds out he has like every disease known to man. The doctor is illustrating this point by trying to shove all these little stuffed toy germs through a doorway that represents Mr.Burns body, but because there are so many of them, none of them can break through and manifest. It's something like that, except unlike Mr. Burns, I wouldn't describe the feeling as invincible.

***

One day, I will write about where I have been for the past couple of months. I won't share it, because it is boring and no one cares about whiners, but they'll be words of caution to never wander that far off into my own mind again. Right now, I will focus on writing the story that is the most difficult and requires the most research. That way, I can start obsessing about something other than myself and hopefully be a bit more pleasant to the people who love me.

Also, birth control pills suck.

^-.-^

Foxes!

Les Animaux and Special Events

2009-04-29T16:14:00.000-07:00

I love that sometimes while at work I'll look out the window and see an elephant walk by. It wears a crown of flowers and has happy eyes.

A couple of weeks ago I found a dead hummingbird in the backyard. The last time there was a dead hummingbird in the yard something bad happened, so I took it as an ominous omen. After discussing the carcass with my dad, he said it means that love is on the way and that I should reprogram my interpretation of the chupparrosa because they are just as powerful in death than in life. Enough time has passed that maybe the fallen hummer is the opposite bookend that holds the years of consequence from the first dead colibris. The next morning, one of our Rufous fellows was singing alone on the telephone wire. I think he was looking for his friend.

I can't go out of state to visit my sister for an important event because I have to watch my parent's dog. We could board her, but then my mom would not have any nails left when she returned to Cali because she would be so worried about her proxy grandchild. I am staying behind, even though I miss my sister, because I love my mom and sort of feel guilty that because I'm so relationship challenged, she'll never know the joys of pressuring me to have babies.

Since quitting smoking, massive novel rewrites, and a new gig organizing special events, I have been crazier than usual. I wish there was an excuse single women could use that pregnant woman get like "Sorry I ran over your foot (point to the belly) it's these damn hormones" or "sorry I ate your lunch (points to belly) eating for two y'know!" I'd like to use "Sorry, I rolled my eyes while you bitched about your visit to the shrink for 2 hours straight (point to wrist watch) It's these damn deadlines" or "Sorry I told you to f/ off the other day (points to head) trying to get my life together y'know!"
All this does is remind me that I have so much more to learn and sweat out to get to where I want to be. Working with artists for so many years I've learned that people only tolerate those types of temper-tantrums if you are really good. Otherwise, you are just a jerk that likes to type.

I spend time at the In-Schools program for this wonderful organization: WriteGirl . The program leader, Celine, is a feminist I believe in. She invests her time and talents to the next generation of women. She promotes and has faith in sisterhood and the community. All my absolute favorite activist have one thing in common: They don't waste any time drawing attention to themselves or the nobility of their beliefs. They are activists because their experiences have taught them there is no other way to be. I like that confidence and commitment to the greater cause rather than the self. I've found that most people who hype who they are aren't really spending anytime being it.

Below in purple italics is the WriteGirl event happening this weekend. The I.S. girls' big event is in June and I am excited for their book to be published. It is a collection of short stories and honestly, they are all very good. One of the best parts of this InSchool program is that it is imperative we fulfill their pregnant snack cravings - meaning, lots of cookies, candy, and chips during break time. I like these young writers; their stories have zero BS or fluff. I especially like that when we're moving our pens and eating our snacks and vibing good, their hormones and my neurosis are in perfect positive alignment and it feels like we're a choir.

***

WriteGirl and Pasadena Playhouse invite you to...PlayWriteGirl Girls’ stories brought to life by celebrated actors
“I love that the stories I tell are dramatic, shocking, secretive.” – Jessica Moore, age 18
Don’t miss this night!

Get tickets at http://www.pasadenaplayhouse.org/

Sunday, May 3rd, 2009 6PM

4:30 – 6:00 Silent Auction & Pre-Show Reception
6:00 – 7:30 PERFORMANCE
7:30 – 8:30 VIP Post-Show Reception
$20….. General Admission ($10 students, with ID)
$50…..Premier Ticket – includes Pre-Show Reception
$100…VIP Ticket – includes Pre- & Post- Show Receptions

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

Performers include: Angela Bassett (Notorious, ER), Christine Lahti (Obsessed, Chicago Hope) Sprague Grayden (24), Erin O’Brien, JoBeth Williams (Dexter), Ellyn Stern, Dana Delany & James Denton (Desperate Housewives), Annie Potts (Designing Women, Boston Legal) and more.
********************************************

Tickets online through Pasadena Playhouse at:http://www.pasadenaplayhouse.org/

About WriteGirl (http://www.writegirl.org/)Since 2001, WriteGirl has been offering creative writing workshops, mentoring, public readings & publishing opportunities for teen girls.

All Conversations Lead to Sex, Religion, or Things of Toilet

2009-03-30T22:02:00.000-07:00

in no particular order...

I'm usually all about the Abre Caminos on Monday, a hunter on Thursday, a mermaid on Saturday, and the occasional Fall At My Feet Pendejo as the need arises.

This may be my Sundays:
OBAMA vela

And because I love my president and think we should all buy buy buy, I will share a couple of my favorite things to give up lunch for.

The Stink Drops - I don't know the English name and am too lazy to upload a pic - are sold in Japanese supah-mahlkets and can be easily mistaken for Visine. Don't put it in your eyes. You will die.
Two little drops in the toilet before you go and there is no olfactory evidence that you did anything unladylike. It is also good in office bathrooms, or at dinner parties for you fast metabolizing types. It is a miracle only the Japanese are capable of manufacturing. No matter how much you are rotting inside or whatever trendy detox program you are taking part of, it works. Be forewarned, not good for P2, just solid matter. You will die if you put it in your eyes.

Anything and everything from Benefit:
Touch Me Then Try to Leave Me Cream is amazing. I got this awesome form of urticaria where I am basically allergic to myself -- Benefit and my skin get along well. The company used to make this sweet little compact filled with the solid Maybe Baybe scent. I once toured a Parisian perfume factory where the guide said that every woman should carry un petit truc of solid perfume in her purse. She said French woman put perfume where they want to be kissed. She pointed to her neck and decolletage and said, "Like 'ere and 'ere." Then she waved her hand over her crotch like it was a shiny display case, "and 'ere."

Following the francesas advice, this sexy thing, and a Dame Todo Tu Dinero Cabron candle are a lethal, yet quite pleasant, combination. If done correctly.

Ilha das Flores

2009-03-11T21:35:00.000-07:00

I went to the LAPL for research on leaves and Brazil and origami. The random combination of subjects unlocked a memory of a short documentary I saw late at night when I was a teenager. We all have something that does it, especially when we're all hormonal and feel so intensely and absolutely: a song or a poem or a bong-hit or a kiss. This movie was mine. It got into my heart and planted its roots in the wall behind it. The credits rolled and the world was different.

Nostalgic, and needing the distractive comfort of a genius storyteller, I searched for it in the Library's online catalog. Once upon a time, they had it, but it is now lost in the stacks somewhere.

Luckily, there is YouTube.

When I first saw this, I read the English subtitles but heard the Portuguese. The Spanish translation has the same fist to the throat effect. There is an English version, but it seems to lose some of its soul when translated to ingles. Or maybe I am biased: Spanish is my first language, therefore making English emotionally inferior.

There is No Place Like Home

2008-11-14T11:58:00.000-08:00

Downtown SanTana Music Festival!!!!

Can you believe that line-up?

This slice of audio heaven is all happening tomorrow downtown. That means you can get a mango con limon y chile after eating an alfafa tofu turkey burger and pick up some mad dog weed at the botanica, all while chillin in between sets. Then, if crowds make you claustrophobic, check out the tiaras at the quince boutiques or find refuge in the underground pool bar, listening to everything from Shakira before-she-started-sucking to CCR croon on the jukebox.

Forecast for this weekend is 90 degrees with a slight chance of fire and minor earthquake. After yesterdays "Shake Out" I'm prepped for at least a 6.7 but have my fingers crossed for nothing larger than a 3.4. Got my short shorts ready, my walking shoes relaced, and my "water" bottle ready to go!

Shake it out!

2008-11-04T10:15:00.000-08:00

Election Day!!!

2008-11-03T22:19:00.001-08:00

Don't be lazy!

And because I am not exhaling until January 21st anyway... clickityclick

....Y....

VOTE

NO ON 8!

Because most of my friends are married anyway, let's make sure that ALL OF THEM get the equal opportunity to tell me after their champagne toast: "Oh, don't worry honey! You'll find the right one. Promise!"

People, Places, Things

2008-10-28T19:39:00.000-07:00

I know that in trying to be succesful in what I want to be, I need to be some kind of literary shark devouring books like fishes but no. I don't do the things.

So when I agreed to cohost a book discussion at the West Hollywood Library for the NEA Big Read this past Saturday, I figured it would help to read the book. The book pick this year is "Bless Me, Ultima" Rudolfo Anaya's classic coming of age story about Antonio, a New Mexican boy and the choices he must make about spirituality, family obligations, and his future. Ultima, the elderly curandera, is the only one who knows the boy’s destiny because she buried his afterbirth. One of the central themes is the mother’s fixation to know his destiny as she wants nothing more for her son than to be a priest. My partner thought this was disturbing. "Wasn't Antonio's mother kind of abusive in pressuring him to pick a career? I mean…the kid was only six!" Which I thought was a valid point and decided that New Mexicans are just funny like that.

My cohost and I are both Raza. She has green eyes, small features, and very fair skin. I look straight up india. What I love most about her is that although she can "pass", she fully embraces her Mexican DNA and is quick to point out that she is not white, but half-Mexican. She doesn't get all crazy political about the assumptions made on her skin color. She states her facts and moves on, ignoring the "really?" and giving a look like “yeah, you ignorant motherfucker. Mexican.”

While getting ready for our Big Read debut at her beautiful house in the Hills, she prepared atolé and buñuelos to bring to our discussion group. One of our prep questions was if the book was a fantasy, a romance, or a realistic coming of age story. I said realistic (what? you've never seen a magical owl?) and even argued that it could be autobiographical, minus the part about the Golden Carp. That seemed a bit of a stretch. She got a slightly amused look on her face.

We were raised very differently.

“It is so obvious that you are much more Mexican than me,” she said rolling the masa for the buñuelos. I’ve been called white-washed and spic enough times to neutralize the sting but it’s a special kind of collective pain to realize the Raza Measurement System is still firmly in place.

After her several wardrobe changes, I watched my cohost pass the dough back and forth between her delicate hands and listened to her stories about how even though she wasn’t allowed to speak Spanish growing up, her grandmother taught her how to make everything from enchiladas to tortillas. She learned all the steps of her ancestors: the right amount of masa, the right amount of water to sprinkle, how to gauge perfect temperature, and all those things I’ve seen my own grandmother do hundreds of times out of the corner of my eye but have been too impatient to sit down and really watch.

My partners stories were validated by her rich and delicious snacks. It gave me comfort that even in an increasingly anti-Mexican climate, a strong character and curiosity can sustain the invisible umbilical cord that connects us to our people.

NEA Big Read
Calendar of Events
Bless Me Ultima by Rudolfo Anaya
Running through Dec 10, 2008

***

That evening I joined my parents and grandma for a lecture on El Che. The Centro Cultural de Mexico is hosting a trilogy of lectures on iconic Latinos at the Yost Theatre. I knew little about the man. I was more familiar with the stereotypical reactions to him: angry Miami Cubans, rebellious Chicanitos, the Culture Clash sketch, late night coffee/pot/shroom fueled talks about symbolism and capitalism and irony. What I didn’t know was anything about his awesome Argentine mother, his conflict with Cuba, his superstitious army in Africa, and the ill twists of fate that led up to his final days. The lecture included moving footage of his radio addresses, excerpts of his letters, and details of his death.

Although the history of the iconic photo taken by the fashion photographer-turned-friend-of-the-revolution was fascinating, it was the image of the recently killed Che that proved absolutely haunting. In the video of him exhibited dead on a bed to prove to the world that yes, el Che was really dead, the man’s eyes were wide open. With all the weight he lost in the Bolivian jungle and because the hair he had pulled out at the root after his time in Africa had grown back dark and curly, and those wide open eyes...the man looked immortal.

It is easy to dissect these men of history as figures or lightning rods instead of human beings. Once you learn about their parents, their private letters, their confusion, their ideals, you are reminded they were made up of the same ingredients as you, equipped with the same distracting desires and paralyzing fears. All the more reason to recognize them as giants.

Gregorio Luke presented by El Centro Cultural de Mexico
Yost Theatre
307 N. Spurgeon St.
Santa Ana

Next up: Lecture and Slieshow - Frida Kahlo (i'll post date and time when i find the calendar flyer)

***

I was anxious to finish this new novel “The Accidental Santera” by Irete Lazo I picked up last week. Because of all the prep for the book discussion, partying in san diego, and moving out of my apartment, I had not had a moment to relax and read until this past Sunday. I had started this book after meeting the author at a book signing and was absolutely hooked by her story and craft. I laid out on a blanket with my doggy in my parents backyard and in between breaks of feeding the fish and watching the birds, it was such a compelling read that I finished it right before sunset. It is a fascinating story, a well-written, humorous and intimate account of finding your path. Or rather your path finding you.

The Accidental Santera by Irete Lazo
http://www.accidentalsantera.com/
BUY_IT!

***

Politickin'

2008-10-03T16:22:00.001-07:00

It's an upside down time…Leaving work before the debate there was a crowd of people waiting for the elevator. "Don't forget to watch tonight!" I called out to my coworker and a couple people waiting were all "Oh my god I've been waiting for that all week!" setting off some excited chatterring. Not about Palin's shoes or if the First Lady should stick to de la Renta or Herrrera or go for someone completely new for the Inauguration Outfit. But Katie Couric and suspending campaigns and expectation. When I got off the elevator I remembered something one of my models said after we had spent a good thirty minutes discussing the RNC with coworkers. "You know shits fucked up when the fashion people get to politickin."

I listened to the first 10 minutes of last nights vp debate on my car radio, so all I heard were voices. Even as I learn to feel comfortable with public speaking, I still have that involuntary anxiety attack seconds before I have to open my mouth, no matter how prepared I am. Hearing your own voice on the mic is sort of a barometer to how nervous you are and a reminder to rein it in. I haven't gotten that part down yet - still stutter and choke until I get rolling - but I have become more sensitive to it. That's what I heard in her voice last night in the first soccer game, hocky mom, you betcha minutes.

When I focused on Palin's voice, in those first several minutes and a couple times while watching her as the night progressed, it was that same voice I've had when I'm giving a presentation on five hours of sleep and three minutes of prep. The "fake it till you make it" voice. The one that you practice inflection more than the actual material you are presenting. The one where you have to activate a clarity and confidence in your voice projection because you know an audible quiver is gonna create a fatal "she's weak" ripple across the audience.

I work with strong women. All of my supervisors are women, and each of them extremely accomplished. They've been called to give impromptu speeches in front of crowds of hundreds, tend to unannounced VIPs, and lead tours to diverse groups of people spouting off information and anecdotes like they were running for office. Not once have they faltered. Talking to them, it seems that they could dictate and predict fashion with the flick of a wrist. They are but a necessary cog in that creative machine, not the one turning the wheel. But it is this authority that they have, this bulletproof confidence, that inspires you to trust them when they say "Add a millimeter to the hem or it'll look cheap", "Lose the top button, ah yes, now that looks bold", "35 inch hips? Fat." Because that world doesn't make sense unless you live in it and until you get there, these leaders are the mouthpiece of the past and the gateway into the future you want. You hang your hopes on their judgment because they got their game down cold.

Sarah Palin? Oh my god, does she not have that. I have joked that I have friends that have more qualifying experience than she does and after her recent comments about newspapers and UN field trip, holy shit, its not funny anymore. Her whole fear-mongering and "they hate us for our freedom" lines are sooo March 2003!! And that "well gee golly wow am I also ever a Washington outsider maverick for like, what, 5 weeks" was shorthand for:
"This job sounds like fun, I want it, people like me, so get out of my way and stop asking questions". Then she'd scrunch her face and wink so it looked like she was adding emphasis to a point when really, she had no point at all. I know that trick because its what I do to distract when I have no idea what the fuck I am talking about.

One thing that has stuck with me since watching the debate is that America truly needs a stronger education system. I first had that notion when "member of the PTA" was cheered on as legit credentials to guide a nation in a time of war. And then I heard this:

"Imma gonna give a shout out to all the 3rd graders watchin out there” and all I could think was Pookie in Del Mar tells Linda in Corona to dry your eye, babygirl, you'll be together soon, Art Laboe blows you a besito mija! Muah!

When she said that NuKuLur war would be the end of “too many people…too many parts of the world” I wondered how much the price of pot has gone up since I last smoked because I'm going to need to be baked everyday if these people win. That way when they come out in State of the Union addresses spewin shit like "DC is need of reform, and maverick Alaska is the new capital of the States also" I'll be like cool, when's SpongeBob on? because nuclear war would be the fucking end of the world, lady!!!!

I had to go out for a cigarette at that point because the potential destruction of our planet makes me slightly anxious. But it kinda feels we're in the calm before the storm doesn't it? With all these weird ass stories about Great Whites snacking on surfers in San Diego, lionfish destroying the Caribbean, polar bear cannibalism...Nature has executed this beautiful, catastrophic prophecy of our own doom that can be read like fossilized tea leaves warning us - reminding us - that the lubrication of our daily lives is a fast expiring energy resource that exists solely because of the extinction of the species before us. How much more proof of “past is prologue” do we need?

We’re not in this alone. You can claim God's on your side all you want but you can't beat the force that's been around before man, before dinosaurs (or both at the same time donthchaknow) and these things, science and nature and religion, all intersect and collide. Standing at the edge of a hydroelectric waterfall, mist coming up your legs and on your face, dozens of neon butterflies fluttering on your skin like you walked into some kind of kaleidoscope…yes. That could make an unbeliever into an advocate for Lord Jesus God Almighty, if only for a second. Just as violent waters rising over levees and damns, churning up alligators and snakes and headstones, crushing bricks and bodies and bones flat into the dirt could turn BornAgain’s into Bill Maher.

There are gentle aspects and there are ruthless aspects and more and more the unpredictability of "what She gonna do now?" has got people paying attention. "She" being Nature, not Palin.

The protection of our Earth and les animaux is one of the most important issues to me in this election. (Right after education of course because Idiocracy is only funny if its not actually happening) Because my core belief is we are all connected: The plants, the seas, the wind, the bees. Me and you and the sun and the moon.

Its all a balance, and who knows if the extinction of some South American newt spells destruction for lions in Africa or wild orchids? We don't. And when the most powerful nation on the planet is changing its disastrous guard, you betcha I want a brilliant man who will appoint brilliant scientists and researchers and minds to pay attention and figure out how to make things right. Why is Obama better at this task than McCain?
Simple. Because game recognize game. And after watching Biden's wisdom on display last night, its crystal clear that 72 yr old McCain only recognize some ailing definition of "maverick". Or in other words: one that does not belong.

Because I got the whole "fakin it..." part down, I just spent the whole day writing this, ignoring phone calls, and getting coffee. I took a break in order to do some work and check out a magazine donation that just arrived. Open the box and who is on the tippy top cream of the crop cover of Mens Vogue?
Obama.
Uh-huh. Yeah. BooyaKaShaw.
My coworker is chattering that Tom Ford wants to kit out Obama for Inauguration, and I’m twitterpaiting over rumors that Michelle would wear a dress from Isabel Toledo. But the excitement is less about what they got on, just that they get there. Imaginaté? On January 20th I can finally stop calling the guy in charge “braindeadsackashit" and instead be able to say, See him? That champion right there? This is my country.
He is my President.

Crunching Numbers

2008-09-21T00:10:00.000-07:00

This was "Sucking and F*$%in" but i had too many disappointed porn seekers hitting me up so it had to go.
9/23/08 - okay, it all had to go because i think it sucks. i'll repost once its gelled long enough to be interesting instead of overly self-referential. chau chau.

Because I Missed the VMA's

2008-09-17T09:31:00.000-07:00

Holy shit this song is dope.

Love Lockdown

I heard it out on Saturday night and would've never guessed it was Kanye. In the mix I heard it in, it sounded like some hip-hop + Bollywood export guy that was gonna be blowing up but no. It is the Kanye.

Those drums will make you scream.

Reptiles & Fish

2008-09-11T11:02:00.000-07:00

West Hollywood Book Fair - Sunday, September 28

Doggie!!!!

Robertson Pavillion
11:00am - 11:45am
PEN Emerging Voices Reading

I think I will read the one about the botanicas and tattoos, or if I can stop being obsessed with this election and focus on writing again, the one about hateful words like beating butterfly wings causing the apocalypse. 2012 muthafuckers!

AND

Roberston Coffeehouse
WordTheatre presents: "A Different Kind of Love Story"
12:30 - 1:00pm

An encore presentation of "Mighty, Mighty" (the one about venganza de una sin vergüenza) performed by Mayda del Valle

here she is doing her piece "the gift"

I am especially excited to hear the interpretation of Aimee Bender's "The Meeting" at this performance. It is my favorite piece of hers -

"When they made love that day it was one step closer to making sense"

- and a very beautiful story. That one and Murakami's "the 100% Perfect Woman" always get me. You can have all your ideals and expectations, but will never really be prepared when it happens.

MAP Here

If It's True (and I hope it is)...

2008-09-03T21:43:00.000-07:00

...That it is always darkest before the dawn, then we must be in the Twilight Zone.

This piece of genius - clickyclick - reminds me of the Mad Magazine (before Gaines died and it turned into a giant full color ad rag) classic: "When You're Poor and When You're Rich"
Except there's no fold-in on the back of our ballots.

Quoi?? removed and moving!!

2008-08-05T10:27:00.000-07:00

8/18/08 - I moved this post here
because I am trying to organize my head and get ready for some nice changes.

CHAFA will be the place I talk all things of fashion and cute. Far in the future (Jan 2009) my very special collection of reconstructed vintage clothing, pretty shoes, and specialty items will be available for purchase - hopefully I'll be able to figure out how to pull together a real website during winter break and stuff everything in one brightly colored pinata of fun.

cute things por vida, locas!!!

2008-08-04T14:31:00.000-07:00

PEN Emerging Voices and WordTheatre join forces and cast a super talented Latina poet to play a Latina... <----click!!!

Dozens of gringa brunettes and Italian hopefuls left out in the cold.

The gorgeous and phenomenal Mayda del Valle will read my short story "Mighty Mighty"...just letting it all hang out. YEOW!!! at WordTheatre's upcoming Aug 23 event.
Tix $20 presale/$25 @ door if available

Also:

PEN Emerging Voices is accepting applications for the 2009 Fellowships
DEADLINE: SEPT 5, 2008

If you seriously want to become a better writer, and can live for 8 months in sunny Los Angeles, this Fellowship is worth the postage and several days/weeks/hours of putting together an application. You get paired with a genius writer (mine was the perfect Mary Otis!Yes,Yes!) to mentor you; taught by fine writing instructors @ UCLA (Tod Goldberg! and Mary Yukari Waters! Unbelievable!); get a Master Class by another renowned writer (Ellen Slezak!); hook up for evenings with well known authors/poets/agents (waaaay too many to name) that open their homes and brains for you to rummage through; read at the UCLA Book Fair; read at the WeHo Book Fair; read at your Final Reading; and maybe have the rare opportunity to get sloshed at a Bar while actors perform your work on stage. (WordTheatre. Come to it.)

The Emerging Voices Fellowship will for sure improve your writing, increase your visibility, and keeps those voices in your head productive instead of encouraging you to drive off the freeway overpass. But the best part of the program is you meet people you can stand, maybe even some you like, that are just as crazy and anxious as you are. No explanations necessary! It really is a lifechanging event, it helps you see your writing at the level it is at and be honest with yourself about what you need to do in order to elevate it and deepen it according to your own unique voice. So many stories still need to be told, and no one else can tell yours, y'know?

Except me.
Because I'm psychic.
Just like Jesus.

Tips for Writing Good

2008-06-27T13:05:00.000-07:00

I would like to share with you a list of writing tips I've accumulated since writing sonnets in my mothers womb with nothing but my teeny finger dipped in her embryonic fluid. I assure you not only will they make you a better writer (maybe even possible as well as I) but maybe you too can achieve my level of success: absolutely zero publication credits, no agent, two fans, and hundreds and hundreds of little slips that say “I’m sorry, not right for us.”

1.) Write. Write a lot. About people you hate, about people you love and don't love you back, about that time in kindergarten your teacher ignored you, about the time in sixth grade that your friends didn't invite you to the mall, about the time in high school you discovered de Beavouir or Mazzy Star or Hello Kitty and, somehow, all those things made you oh so special. Write it all and congratulate yourself for being so goddamn precious and witty. Then move on and write something bigger than yourself.

2.) Writers are insecure. Know this, accept this. It will make your life easier.

3.) Writers are jealous. Know this, don't accept it. Disengage and move on.

4.) Don't be a copygato or plagiarize. Unless you are a news writer or fiction writer with a time machine, it has all been said before; your challenge is to make it new.
But if you are going to be scummy and rack up terrible creative karma: at least do it better, not weaker.

- Don't think no one will notice. Remember the news earlier this year about
the romance writer and the science journal? A romance writer lifted the
EXACT WORDS from a science writer’s article on black footed ferrets to
fill her crotch thumping novel? Writers read, readers read, genres
intersect, people know when the words aren't the writers own.

This goes for phrases and voice. We all mimic great writers to find our own voice. But if you're going to mimic them, make sure they are already dead and not across the hall.

And don't act all innocent when confronted by OtherWriter about why you submitted a near identical piece to the very literary journal you suggested OtherWriter submit the piece you were so "inspired by"

And don't get all teary eyed when OtherWriter sticks the newest issue of Literary Magazine in your face and voila! there's Other Writer's original short story, only the names and dates changed and your name is on the byline, not theirs...

...And you best not start whimpering that you didn’t think that they’d accept it (insult!) when you really are saying “I didn’t think you’d find out” ...

...Remember: In two seconds, you may decide to lift a plot point that probably took the writer a good three weeks, 6 days, 14 hours and 27 minutes to perfect.

Right about the same time it takes to heal a broken nose.

5.) Don't assume everyone is copygatoing you. Great minds do think alike. Unless that other person is getting paid for your words... then by all means, hate away.

6.) Read books about sharks. And plants and cooking and child rearing and all these things outside of the Literary World. Non-fiction is one of the few sections in the bookstore you can browse without thinking – Y'know, I just don't believe this bee's motivation to pollinate the lily - or – this hammerhead is completely two dimensional.

7.) You are not smarter than your readers. It's a conversation, not a monologue.

8.) Don't expect everyone to like your writing. Or you. Don't waste your time trying to convince them otherwise. Read a book instead.
-There are also the special ones that will go through every line with an angry eye and pick out every, fucking, thing, that they don't agree with. If you are lucky, they will identify your failings and all your hidden faults that somehow came through in that poem you did about sewer pigeons.
-Do not get defensive. These people are offering you free therapy. Save yourself thousands of dollars and take it.

9.) Learn how to sell out your friends and family. I find if you make them physically attractive in their description, they will forgive you for telling everyone they fantasize about Billy Bob Thornton and are afraid of seatbelts.

10.) Have friends that aren't writers. When I received the coveted Fall 2008 Albertsons Cookie Descriptor Award and picked up my prize of two dozen frosted chocolate chip cookies, one former classmate swore she would've won (if only she had entered), another classmate said my portrayal of snickerdoodles was racist, and a former mentor insisted I consider bagging groceries full time to jump start a lucrative career in cookie copy. My sister, who is a raven haired and voluptuos beauty, said in her dulcet tone "pssh…you think you're hot shit now, don't you?" and ate half of my prize.

11.) Don't make excuses for why you can't write. No "I want to write BUT I have Pilates." No "I want to write BUT I have a boyfriend." No "I want to write BUT my job is soooo stressful." No, no, no. None of that. This one I won't budge on. Your job may be stressful. You may have asthma and no health insurance. You may talk to a stuffed fox because you are so goddamn lonely and eat only popcorn and porkrinds because you can't cook and for the past three months, you may have been woken up by a construction crew outside your window that drills cement from midnight – 4am no matter how many times you call the cops on them but guess what? visiting the doctor, talking with humans, cooking, and regular sleep patterns all take up time. Transfer hours from one activity to another.

12.) Listen to all sorts of jacked-up music.

13.) Date all sorts of jacked-up people.

14.) Be a totally jacked up friend. This validates (or explains) number 11.

15.) Invest in a good USB port and don't worry about looking like a dweeb if you wear it around your neck all the time. Nothing is more unfashionable than deep purple circles under your eyes and red splotchy baldness from pulling out your hair when you realized ten years of writing are absoultely forever gonegonegone because you misplaced that little gigabyte fucker.

16.) Don't get high off your own supply. Keep your ego out of your brains. You may be good, but you can always be better.

Dedicated to Caprichudas for McCain

2008-06-19T15:00:00.000-07:00

especially her, her, and them.

I'm Voting Republican!

Cute Things!

2008-06-19T14:10:00.000-07:00

Give your Virgen de Regla some company:

EMPOWERMENT GUARDIANS by La Craftiest Chica

Peep that sewing machine in the title banner. I know at least ten people that would glue their fingers together or quit halfway trying to make that.

That glitter on the Chi-hua-hua's would make a killer eyeshadow...

Two Colbert Clips

2008-06-19T09:29:00.000-07:00

1.) This was on last night:

2.) And this one about a week ago:

minutes 1:15 - 2:45 will break your heart and then fix it.

Anjelah Johnson

2008-06-18T14:38:00.000-07:00

this is old news but still classic.

the best part, the chinita nails part, is at the end.

"Three Unrelated Incidents in the Last 24 hrs That Have Changed My Life" or "Mongolitos"

2008-06-06T19:41:00.000-07:00

1.)

Last night, my supercool roommate and only friend Shelley invited me to catch a screening of Mongol, the new movie about Genghis Khan. The popcorn is delicious at the ArcLight, but not completely filling. So I also had a hot dog and ruined my diet, while Shelley and I talked about our trips across the US (she Greyhound, me Amtrak)

I told her about trip I took in 2003 from New Orleans to Santa Ana that coincided with the SuperBowl in San Diego. I was traveling alone and there was a bunch of people from Florida journeying to the game to watch some Florida football team vs. the Chargers. They had drink specials throughout the day to keep us from cabin fever and this one drunk guy kept running through the train car yelling “Raider Train!!Raider Train!!!” until the conducter had to handcuff him with plastic twisty ties all the way to Texas.

Shelley told me about the time she grabbed a hamburger in the capital of Inbreedlandia on the way from New York to Cali:
“Everyone there looked like some type of hillbilly monster”
and right before the movie started, we agreed that California and New York were the only states worth living in, if you can afford it, which I barely can.

The first thing that flashed across the screen was a saying that has stuck hard and fast to my craw like tar: Do not scorn the weak cub, for he may become a brutal tiger.

Isn’t that something?

The rest of the movie was just as amazing, lots of fighting and movement, lots of revenge and honor. What was most striking was the way Temugin wanted to unite all the Mongols because they had gone out of control and weren’t bound by any ethics. I don’t know anything about history so I can’t comment on its authenticity, but using the movie as my guide, it was incredible that one person was able to command and lead the diverse and sometimes warring tribes of the Mongol people. He was able to unite them under a common banner and lead them into battle against kingdoms and other groups. They stuck together under a common enemy and no longer had time to nitpick each other.

2.)

I visited the LACMA exhibit of Phantom Sightings . Among a collection of incredible pieces, there was the work of legendary ASCO:

and the recent art of Gary Garay

Paleteros, wessstsiiiiide....

si yo pudia llorar dinero...i'd never go hungry

And other than it being the sickest art I’ve seen since Gajin Fujita, for the first time I believed I could make a difference. I’ve got to write up the Marytza Manifesto and trust that it will be written in turquoise pen on supercute stationary straight from Rapan, but the urge to make something big happen that was triggered by the artwork. Thats how you get into peoples heads through their souls, change their hearts with a stealth attack on their senses, not bludgeon them with a bullhorn and placard. All it takes is courage and unwavering conviction to change the world. All it took was an art exhibit, all it takes is one person.

By the time I got to the next installation, "People of the Sun" was pounding in my head. Once upon a time, Californians lynched Mexicans. The postcards in the exhibit by Ken Gonzales-Day were photos of those hangings with the dead bodies digitally removed. All that was left was the image of the crowd, the tree branch, and the eeriness of having your mind fill in the blanks to what was missing.
The set up was all the postcards were up on one wall and then it was kind of a hallway. (pic below illustrates this better)

Photo on the left side, reflection on the right, postcards straight ahead.

One side of the hallway was wallpapered with one of the images of the hanging. This one:

And the other side was reflective surface where the dark space would be. The “Wonder Gaze”:

The result of this effective and disturbing set-up is that when you stand in front of the mural, you are the strange fruit.

Its strange to see yourself lynched. When you look like me, or like my dad, or like anyone that has never been able to "pass" in American society, it feels like you are looking into a time warp; your face is the face people distrusted and hated. A lot of people still feel that way.
A divided us vs. a united them.

A group of high school kids rolled in, a couple of girls and two guys, all Latino.
As soon as they saw the mirrored wall, the girls shouted “Oh my hair!” and combed through their do's with their fingers and put on lipgloss. The guys laughed at them, took a quick look around and, bored by the exhibit, pulled out their cell phones. The girls took one more look at themselves in the wall and started pose, arms around each other, laughing and yelling out “myspace!myspace” while the guys shot pics, unaware that in their complete lack of interest to their surroundings, they were hanging themselves.

3.)

Last night I stayed up reading on of my favorite author’s Book of Imaginary Beings. Its all about dragons and centaurs, and funky little beasts that live in our literature and subconscious. One of the creatures, the one that adorns the cover, has the head of man, ears of a donkey, body of a horse and wings and tail of a peacock.
It is the Buraq, or Borak. Its name meaning “shining or resplendent one” and in other texts, “purity of intention.”

That sounds about right doesn’t it?

he's soooooo into me!!! - removed

2008-06-04T20:50:00.000-07:00

6.19.08
I deleted this post to put a better piece in its place later tonight. It is one I drafted last week and has the same psycho girl character that is so easy for me to channel. The "crazy email" one I had up before was written in 2006, so the newer version of psychotic escalation emails wins.
Also, I deleted another post about my job. there was nothing negative (too negative) but since I still work there and am paranoid, it made more sense to take it down rather than delete all the identifying parts about location, people, and my social security number. As if anyone actually read this.

Dear Maria Doctora Sabetodo...

2008-06-04T20:40:00.000-07:00

“Dear Doctora Maria Sabetodo” was a regular feature in Santa Ana’s premier Tuesday newspaper, “Santana Sun and Coupons”. La Doctora, as she was commonly known, was a psychologist, herbologist, marriage therapist, nutritionist, Buddhist, part-time physicist, and occasional cyclist. This was her last column.

Dearest Doctora Maria Sabetodo,

I have a boy problem. I have this huuuge crush on a guy that sits in front of me in English! But he doesn’t seem to feel the same way. He's always checking out this other girl, Julia, as if he's totally into her. I just don’t get why he doesn’t look at me the same way. It’s like we talk during class all the time and pass notes and he’s just so cute and funny and he even told me I was pretty! I know he would like me if he gave me a chance but everytime he ignores me, I just hate myself. Help! How can I get his attention?
- Confused in 5th Period

Dear Confused:
Calm down, mijita, it’s okay! We all have crushes that see us just
as friends or have already been charmed by another lovely mujer. It has nothing
to do with you or who you are and the first thing you need to do is stop being
so negative towards yourself! No man, now or ever, is worth that kind of talk!
And for the cutie in English class – keep being your sweet self and take that
extra step to look extra nice when you have class with him. I’m not making any
promises here, but men love confidence! The more comfortable you are with
yourself the more he’ll notice you. And if he doesn’t, then it’s his loss and
there is someone who is going to go crazy for your awesome and deserving self!
Cuidate!
-La Doctora

Dear Doctora:

So I took your advice and now Felipe is not talking to me and worse, he picked Julia to be his study partner! I wanted to look nice so I went on a diet and even borrowed some of my sisters slutty halter tops! Now what am I supposed to do?
-Confused and Desperate in 5th Period

Chiquilla,
To clarify to my readers and most importantly to you previously Confused in 5th Period, I do not advocate or support eating disorders or degradation of young females through their wardrobe choice.I did not suggest you "slut out" or diet. I am concerned for you,Confused, and I hope that you will take necessary steps to avoid any further damage to your friendship with Felipe, your classmates and even avoid damage to yourself. Keep a positive outlook and trust that you are a beautiful woman. There is nothing wrong with knowing what you want, but real strength comes from being able to let go if you can't get it.
Namaste,
-La Doctora

Huh?
-Really Confused

Dear Confused,
High school is a very stressful time and although I hope you are maintaining good
grades and finding a productive outlet for your creativity and hormones, please
keep in mind that you are a beautiful young woman that deserves wonderful
things.
With Love
-La Doctora

Hey,
Thanks to all your awesome proactive advice, I now have an even bigger problem. Felipe is taking Julia to the Freshman Fall Fandango!! I was so depressed when I found out that I went home and punished myself by not eating dinner. I even offered to do it with him and he still won't take me! What am I going to do? And don't tell me to tell myself "I'm beautiful" everyday in the mirror or take a relaxing bath instead or whatever verga like that. Why can't you give real advice that can actually fix shit?
-Tu madre

Mija,
I'm sorry that my advice doesn't make sense to you and that Felipe's good judgement has led him into the arms of another. Trust me when I tell you that this is not the worse thing that will happen in your young life and please listen to me when I tell you that your body is not a tool. You are so young and have a world of potential. Please talk to a trusted family member or a professional. I don't know if I can be of any more help.
Abrazos,
-La Doctora

Yo Doc,

Yeah. So I tried talking to my mom. She said to worry about my homework rather than some stupid mocoso who is going to try to get me pregnant. Then I talked to my older sister Veronica, who had a better idea. So now Vero, me and her friend Chulis are charged for attempted assault and battery. Can you believe that perra Julia carries around pepper spray? She blinded the shit all of us before we could even lift the crowbar. Now the three of us have a hearing next month and I’m all screwed up because I listened to your weak ass advice. Thanks, puta.
-I hate you

Dear Readers,
Do you see what happens when people can’t take responsibility for their actions? More importantly, I need all the mothers out there to please watch over your young daughters as they make that difficult jump from adolescence into womanhood. We weren't like that in my day, we were raised to respect our elders. We carried ourselves properly, like ladies. We didn't chase after guys with our tilingis hangin out all over the place. If "Confused" is any indication of the social climate facing our youth, I question whether I have the training to handle these issues properly.
-La Doctora

Hey Vieja!
Boo hoo you're a hundred years old and fat, you still haven't answered any of my letters. Is it because you're going blind?
-Anoynimous

Hellooo? What's going on? Why are you ignoring me? Don't forget, i have your address. I know where you live. And I'm going to keep driving around until I find this "PO BOX" street...
-Anonymisous

...THREE MONTHS LATER...

Dear Doctora Sabetodo,
The public defender's kinda cute.
Got any tips?
-Confused in Cellblock D

Ani diFranco Has a Daughter, Right?

2008-06-01T03:32:00.000-07:00

Seconds ago, I just signed out of MySpace so I could maybe get some work done when I saw an add for one of those Millionaire match up sites.

It's a dating site that has guaranteed "wealthy men" and "sexy ladies". Normally I ignore MySpace ads but the guys were cute. They had names like "Guccimodel" and "00Rig0" and my favorite nonsensical name: "zizat4love" (is that a line from Borat?)

It listed the dudes age and income.

Like:

00Rig0, 39, $400,000+

HeGotItGoi, 45, $300,000+

and,

Guccimodel, 28, $100,000+ (Pssh. What a loser, right?)

All of these guys are supposedly in Compton. Because Compton is basically down the street from where I stay in K-Town according to my computer.

Curious, and because all the maladjusted weirdos I actually like don't return my calls, I clicked on the site. (The girl on the homepage looks like my friend Diana. Given her tendency for leading quadruple lives, I wouldn't doubt it if it were really her.) Some of these guys have been "verified" on different factors such as JOB, PIC, INCOME. Some of these guys claim 1million as their annual income. Others claim "Between $250,000 - $3million" as their annual income. Like Compton and K-Town are the same because they're in LA, so $250k and 3m are the same because it is a shitload of money.

What was most enjoyable, other than wasting time, was all the impromptu self photo shoots. Like how when girls dress all seductive and shoot themselves with their cell phones in the bathroom mirror, on their bed, in the car, wherever. I'm not knocking it, the only reason I don't have ton of those photos on here is that I can't figure out how to Photoshop out my desperation. But these are grown men, like in their 50's pouting and claiming inflated, unverified incomes. It's not funny that they are looking for love, or a hot girlfriend, because looking for love is not funny. Its horrible. But it is gratifying to know that maybe they have an idea of what women feel like to be judged on things we are constantly made to feel insecure about: looks.

These are men that feel they have to prove something, present an image, so women will want them. They have a screwy idea of what woman want (rich men) and are trying to fulfill it. Maybe some of those dudes really make a million a year but maybe they do it by being big assholes. Maybe they just want a trophy wife who doesn't care what they are made of, just what they make. In which case, they deserve each other.

Men are weirdos about their income and its is awesome. Like all those women that rant and rave about no equality, society sucks, oppression by the patriarchy...NO! Nunca mas! Income is our oppressors Achilles.

So next time a guy tries to holla at you at a bar, scope the thickness of his wallet and give him the beat box if its not at least three feet thick.

Np, it's not right and I'm not serious. It's sad. But men making to be felt like a piece of shit -even the nice guys- getting caught up in the hype and changing their way of life to fit some standard of what they think the opposite sex wants, no matter how uncomfortable or unnatural it feels? Uncomfortable like, say, holding in your gut for a full three hours or breaking your nose or stuffing bags of plastic under your skin to be considered dateable?

That's equality.
A fucked up version, but it may be the closest thing we have for the moment.

Vino and Esprinkles Cupcakes

2008-01-24T08:52:00.000-08:00

Melissa and I went down to Brix in Sunset Beach to get wasted off sugar and expensive booze last Saturday. We could've just bought a bottle of Cook's and eaten packets of Oreos while listening to our neighbor's chunty music vibrate my kitchen windows, but somehow driving down PCH made our sugar high culturally legit. We were each given a sheet of paper with all the wines listed and space to write in our reactions to the scent, appearance and general "impression" of the wines.

I got buzzed after Glass 1 so let's say the decor was hardwood, stucco and "den like". Like that story the Casque of Amontigono or whatever it was that Edgar Allen Poe wrote, but with alcoholic bartenders.

Next to us was a curly haired talkative woman I'll name Sue who was well into Glass 4 and her straight haired friend I'll name Kate that had to hear her alcohol induced confessions: "Martin never really said he loved me but I could feel it y'know," she said putting her fist to her heart, "I could hear it in his voice when he finally returned my phone calls."

The first wine, Konzelman Late Harvest, was the best. I bought a bottle ($22.99) and it is currently rolling around in my backseat in case I get caught up on the 5 and there is nothing good on the radio.It's appearance was a "translucent light gold" and its taste was "open" and "delicious"

Wine #2 was the Galleria Marsela ($8.99) and it had a goldish "liquor looking" appearance. It smelled kind of like "nail polish remover" and "old people red cinnamon candy." It tasted "alcoholic'y" and was best paired with chocolate peanut butter.
At this point, Melissa had eaten all her cupcakes and drank most of my booze. "Can I try that white one," she said taking the best looking cupcake from my plate. "Thanks."

Wine #3 was the Camody McKnight and had a thick crimson color and smelled "cabernetish". It tasted "excellent" with the banana poppyseed cupcake. Sue said "If Martin was here, he'd love this wine. I think I'm going to text him about this," and Kate poured herself another glass.

Wine #4 Harts Desire Late Harvest was also red, looked cabernet-ish (or maybe more merloty) and it smelled like "red red wine" it tasted good with coconut or peanut butter but was "snackable on its own".

Melissa ran her finger across her plate. "I don't know any pretentious language so I don't know what to write," she said while licking off the remains. I reminded her of our quiet days waxing poetic in the backyard torn vinyl pool where the avocadoes fell aplenty on our pavement and the gatitos serenaded us with the gentle scratching of their shithole. "This takes me back to our days of yore riding our bikes and slamming against the tall maple with a chin full of gravel and a mouth full of grass," swirl the glass around and take a taste: "very grasshoppery...with a slight hint of homeless man pee."

Glass number 5 was also red. Tasted red, smelled red.

Number 6 was Ramos Pinto Port and was purpley red and had a "thick mossy" smell and tasted like "only a reformed slut could enjoy." Sue bought a case.

Number 7 - Red. Tasted "like creme brulee" and "vanilla Victoria's Secret lotion" even though it was made out of grapes. Melissa bought a bottle (Rosenblum Desiree $16.67) to take on her romantic escape to Jamaica where its "hot" and "stabby".

"Ooh, Desiree, is that French for 'desire'?" Sue asked. "I betcha Martin would know," she said while pulling out her phone.

On the way home, Melissa was "trashed" and "picked a fight" with her seat belt.

Next week: Wine Tasting + Dog Show
(clapclap clapclapclap clap clap clap clap DOGSHOW!)

New York es kuriete with their ka'avo

2007-12-28T21:31:00.000-08:00

Hace click aqui

This is a big deal in Paraguay. And not just with the "forest people" as the article states. I have a couple of the gourds and bombillas from my trip in my parents kitchen somewhere. I drank it everyday while in the religious capital (the December pilgrimage for the Virgencita brings many devotees in on their knees) but I saw it less frequently in the capital, Asuncion. Yerba maté can be drunk hot as maté, or cold as teréré. I drank it exclusively with my friend Carmen, the only woman in Caacupe who didn’t think I was a hooker because I liked chocolate, Coca-Cola and cigarettes.

When I returned to the States, I expected and hoped that some of Paraguay’s best characteristics would catch on in the US and everyone would stop thinking I was mispronouncing Uruguay when asked where I had been for three months.
Their Ñanduti lace is unbelievably delicate and beautiful - Juan Carlos Obando would just kill it if used in his collection.

Flawlessly.

And maté does have all those things necessary to succeed in fashion – caffeine, energy, no calories, stops that pesky time-consuming appetite thing...

When I left Caacupe (got kicked out, whatever) I gained about 25 pounds in two months for the lack of my daily maté. I was also eating my feelings but again, whatever. Argentina’s economy had just collapsed and my host family had tons of pan, tomatoes, and delicious carne they’d buy every weekend for like, two pesos. I was also walking four miles a day, so it’s not like I wasn’t working it off. Nevermind that I rerouted my walk home through an above ground cemetery just so I could get the BEST steak sandwich EVER!!
That temptation didn't exist in Caacupe. The Basilica didn't allow it. But the Virgencita did allow me to get OCD about flossing my teeth and even guided my hand when I performed minor surgery on my right foot with antibacterial hand gel, a hot needle and nail file.
...

Oh wow. I just realized I was screaming.
...

Paraguay is beautiful. But if you can’t book a trip to South America’s ignored and abused basement darling at least try the maté. Then you can slowly start editing out things like milk, cheese, carne, veggies and the 3rd World Diet will be complete and we’ll be oh my gawd sooooo skinny!

Weird weight trauma aside, Ñanduti is unbelievable. It means spider web in Guarani and it would be a breathtaking clingy couture gown. And if you decide to stay away from the maté and eat things like lunch and dinner, Ñanduti makes a lovely tablecloth.

Summer's Hottest Pediatric Trend!!!!!

2007-12-03T18:04:00.001-08:00

So I guess "highly gifted" is the new "my kid's a brat and I have no control"
This is what I've been eavesdropping lately: "He wrote a very beautiful discourse about freedom entitled 'Recess' …" "I can't punish him for biting the class hamster because I'll stifle his creativity…" "He hit his teacher but something tells me she was asking for it…"

But even with those absolute valid reasons to not socialize your child to become a productive member of kindergarten, it seems that there are still a lot of people – mothers included - who don't understand the complexities and difficulties of raising highly gifted offspring. You can't reason with them because they are smarter than you and you can't ground them because they'll build a teleportation machine and be back in the kitchen eating cookies before you know it.

It's a tough road. I should know, both my son and husband are highly gifted. Carlo (the hubby) is another story I won't get into (I learned to sleep with him staring at me) but our little Tony was a complete monster growing up. These vocal mothers handle it better than I did. I'm now in AA.

Luckily I had the gifted hubby's mom to guide us through the difficult toddler years. She developed this fascinating disciplinary method that worked with highly gifted special needs and I encourage all concerned mothers to try it. She called it the Chancla method. It's very inexpensive and easy to execute. Tony had such incredible artistic talent, expressing himself on the neighbor's garage door and white stucco fence. When our little daVinci thought it would be a good idea to tie the cat to a moving VW to see how fast he could run, Mama Carlo took off her shoe and whacked Tony across his bottom so fast, he barely had time to calculate the velocity at which the shoe was traveling. (137.42 miles, he later informed us)

We did this after he attempted to lynch a girl he liked on the tetherball pole and with each Chancla intervention, he seemed less interested in playing rock dodgeball. Before we knew it, he was getting invited to dances and showing off his engineering skills by constructing theatre sets, and impressing the ladies with his poor hygiene ("I don't like water, mami," he told me at the tender age of 3 so why force him?) and interest in playing the guitar. Thank God the ladies love dysfunctional musicians; we would have gone broke with hookers while Tony learned female anatomy!

I wish private highly gifted schools were around when Tony was growing up and I think it's fantastic to give children whose brains work differently the chance to make friends who will find highly cruel and unusual ways to alienate each other rather than just calling each other weirdos.

The Chancla method. It works.

No,really, only 22! Okay I lied...23! No B.S? Im 17 with a fake ID

2007-12-03T18:00:00.000-08:00

Another old one...

Diana swore when she was, like, born, that she would never pay for a drink and used my turning of a quarter century as the perfect opportunity to try to finally train me to do likewise. I have a problem with authority (some say its the highly giftedness) so even after 10 years of friendship and watching her in action, I still fail miserably to navigate the girthy line of flirt between mysteriously alluring and cranky bitchface. Guess which side I'm usually on...
We went to Horton Plaza to get our nails did with the fast-talking Chinitas ,who after seeing Diana's iced up wrist, fingers and chesticles, referred to us as the vacationing South American drug lord's wife and her puffy assistant.

Since I started celebrating my Cancer birthday the last weekend of May, the water retention and skin damage decided to show up and say "surprise!!!" on the one weekend I could not afford to look a day over 50. although no one guessed me to be over 47 when Diana played the "guess how old we are" game at the bars, the only reason I'm on the computer right now instead of sleeping off the cruda is to order another case of glycolic acid - 25% puro acido to commemorate the year I began to need it.

After drinking our dinner, accidentally causing a fight between a couple (how we were supposed to know the vato would misinterpret "your girl says your DRINK isn't big enough"?); getting called hookers 1-2-3-4-35 times; dancing our asses off at a lezbot bar because the chick at the door said it was womens night and she wasn't closed captioned so I didn't realize she actually said "womyns" night until Diana freaked out that no one was hitting on her; being a shield to two dudes smoking a blunt in front of the popo while I chain smoked my face to leather; getting called hookers 36-37-98 times; dancing buck wild at a bar that didn't have a dance floor...or music for that matter; walking up and down and up and down the same two blocks hoping the scene would magically change like theatre sets if we waited long enough; and finally walking back to the hotel with an army of male escorts who were nice and drunk enough to want to jack my Yves St. Laurent wooden heels to use as a bottle opener because they couldn't find their lighter, Diana and I woke up hanging upside down from our hotel beds like very skankily dressed dead people amazed that our memories must be getting sharper with age because the last time we went birthday wild in San Diego, neither Di, Melissa nor I could remember what happened.

Or maybe we've just gotten boringer. We had to get back to the hotel before the Golden Girl marathon on Lifetime started at 10pm.
(BTW: I'm totally a Sophia and Diana is a complete Blanche!)

Saturday of Beauty - or - Discovering My Skin Type is Sensitive

2007-11-30T19:08:00.000-08:00

Did you know putting Cortisone after dehairing your face eliminates that nasty after-rash?

I am a hairy Chicana.
This is important because I have long dark hair all over and am constantly looking for stylists that understand my struggle. That’s why I love Sefe.

Sefe has glossy split end free black hair down to her waist and eyebrows so perfect they look painted. She is also the only stylist in my neighborhood who understands the fine lines between a pretty long mane, slut locks, and wab hair.

I had just subscribed to this super happy Japanese fashion magazine and was amazed at how many models had similar hair texture to mine. I immediately started ripping out possible hair styles and decided on a heavy banged look with long razored layers. Sefe cut me exactly like the photo of a 14 year old Japanese girl I brought in. I was so excited to look like a super cool fashion fun time girl, but wasn’t exactly thrilled when Sefe pulled back all my hair so all that showed were my thick bowl cut bangs.
"Haha! You look like a cute little China boy!"
Without my morning makeup, the only pigment on my face was from the overgrown patches of hair I'd been too overworked to tweeze and smudged eyeliner. A little male Asian Kahlo.
“Can you help me with this?” I said, circling my face with my finger.
“Oh sure!” she said, “you need Martha. She’s the best for getting rid of all that…stuff.”
Unfortunately, Martha that waxed Sefe's face to perfection was booked for the day, so I did the next best thing and headed to Artesia to get threaded.

Miss India is a clothing shop with walls lined with shiny golden bangles, neon Pyrex bracelets, a glass case full of antique looking jewelry made for elaborate weddings and the chandelier earring and necklace sets you find in the Santee Alleys for budget quinceañeras. The threading was in the back and a cosmetologist license was stapled to the wall. White lines of discarded threads covered the dark carpet.

After I declined the "we have many pretty skirts and blouses, do you like dresses maybe some jewelry" and found a seat in the back, a heavy white woman rose up from her chair to inspect her face in the mirror."Very nice," she said. The Threader removed the white string from her mouth and smiled."How much?"
"$5, please," said the woman in the orange sari.
That's it? I think. I can't even buy razors at Sav-On for that cheap.

When I sat in the reclining leather chair, a familiar woman came from a back room. Renni pet my head and asked where I had been. Amazingly, Renni remembered me from one afternoon 3 years ago when my sister and I got lost looking for curry snacks and wandered into Miss India. The Threader in the orange sari is Renni's sister, Delia. Renni excused herself to finish her lunch and Delia started working my eyebrows. I could hear the "zzzt,zzzzt" of the thread ripping out my cejas.

I had watched her for about ten minutes before I sat in the chair and still can't figure out how the hell threading works. It’s been explained to me that when the twisted thread is pulled over the face, it pulls the hair from the root, much like tweezers. It isn’t painful but it isn’t peaceful. Not like a pedicure or a massage; more like a challenge to your facial senses to determine if the burning you feel from the high-speed twisting thread yanking the hair follicle from your delicate face is normal or if something is actually wrong.

Delia worked my unibrow, my cheeks, and my Morrissey sideburns asi, zzzt-zzzt, facil, sin problemas. All was good until she got to my chin and the thread ripped. I had been stressed about booking models, prepping for the fashion show, and oh my God was it my birthday last week? My recent preference for Diet Dr. Pepper and cigarettes over Aquafina resulted in a little village of zits under my mouth. Maybe more like a metropolis, but nothing I hadn't already applied three tubes of salicylic acid to without success. When the thread broke the fourth time, Delia’s breathing got heavier.
“Everything okay?” I asked. She kept smiling and zzzt, zzzzt-ing away, so I kept my freak out in check. Renni came and joined in with her spool looking concerned. Both of them now, zzzzt-zzzting my face.

When another customer walked in and asked about the wait time, she took one look at me and gasped. I lied to myself that with my furry mask removed and accidental facial, my new layer of beauty was powerful enough to elicit a gasp of disbelief.
"Can you make me that beautiful," she must've asked in Hindi. And when Renni shrugged and stretched her mouth like when a person walks in on a joke about them, she must've said, "Mother Teresa is dead and I do not perform miracles, my child," and the girl walked away, laughing to hide the shame of her ugliness.

Renni brought out a bottle of rose water and swabbed my face with a soaked cotton ball. She started telling me the story of how the gasping woman who walked in was actually the jerky bitch married to her brother. Except Renni is much too beatific to even think the word bitch, but if she wasn't on her final life before Moksha, she would've totally called her a cunt. She talked for another fifteen minutes before I attempted to move up in the chair and check myself out in the mirror. As soon as I got into sitting position, Renni gently pushed me back and started to re-dab my face, making sure to hide the soiled cotton ball from my line of vision.
I think she told me her life story and something about the Ganges but I was so concerned that I might have gotten Fergie eyebrows that I tuned her out. I realized I didn't know anyone who could teach me to draw brows that don't look like sideways question marks.

I waited until I got in the car to check my self out and sure enough, Renni had wisely kept me in the shop long enough for the blood to dry. My entire face was bright red (but it was only $25 and this morning the bumps are almost gone!) and I had chicken pox on my chin and underneath my right eyebrow, a smattering of strawberry jam.
To the women's credit, I couldn't remember the last time I had my eyebrows shaped, put on a Biore strip or had a non-pornographic facial. Driving 70 miles a day will do that to your beauty regimen...
I slathered on Cortisone to calm the inflammation and within the hour, I looked normal and hairless. Much eyeshadow, lip gloss and foundation later, the friend I had dinner with that evening said my face looked "thinner," making the morning pain and humiliation completely worthwhile.

Mr. Iguana's Night of Limping Passion

2007-11-28T14:30:00.000-08:00

Wednesday, March 21, 2007

"RSVP NOW!!! RIGHT NOW!!!"
Shelley is two weeks away from returning to work after breaking her hip three months ago. She's been hitting the gym in her black Spandex and last Monday, went to her 57th the Who concert. She has just won two tickets for a super secret private filming of an Iggy & the Stooges concert and her email invites me to tag along. I like David Bowie so what the fuck, "yeah, I'll go."

"I'm so happy you decided to come," says Shelley hanging the bright red temporary handicap parking card on my rear view mirror and smoothing her even brighter red bob. "I haven't seen Iggy in about 30 years."
"Where did he play the last time?"
"Oh no, not show. I had a drink with him. And David Bowie."
While Shelley was telling the story of how she met the two rockers at the Rainbow Room in the 70's, my theory of her becoming indestructible by drinking Keith Richards blood became more plausible.

When she initially asked me to be her date, all I knew about Iggy Pop was that he used to cut himself on stage and knew a couple of tracks from various movie soundtracks. And that he had a very leathery face. "Yeah, he kinda reminds me of Keith in a way but his body is still fucking hot," she said. I had seen a shirtless photo of him not too long ago. 'sexy' was not the first adjective that come to mind.

By the time we were shuttled to Fox Studios, got sent back to the parking lot for having cell phones, and stood in another 1 hour line, Shelley and I climbed uphill to the sound stage. When deciding what to wear my sister said I should wear something black with "lots of safety pins." Instead I wore a hot pink Hello Kitty T-shirt purple heels and dark denim. Shelley wore her cane. My feet were hurting from standing on four extra inches for the past 10 hours so as we hobbled through the door, the photogs must've thought we were a fucked up social experiment and started shooting us. "They must think you're my caretaker," she said. "Or your 'Save the Children' adopted daughter."

Some house rules, camera pannings and the show was ready to go. Shelley and I and this 40 year old single man that latched onto us were standing less than two feet from the stage. Even though he kept unbuttoning his shirt to reveal his manly chest hair, this 40 yr old was going to stay single: too young for me, too old for Shelley.

Then he came. On the stage. His Jennifer Aniston colored hair and tight jeans and surprisingly muscular 60 year old body twisting around the mic and screaming at us. I couldn't close my mouth; he was hypnotic. He unzipped his pants and I started jumping up to get a better look. The music quickly took over and we kept moving once he regrettably pulled the fly up.

I had been prodding Shelley all night to exploit her injury and when we climbed on the stage, she finally used the skull stickered metal for our benefit. "Oh, I'm sorry miss," they would say and I'd act all concerned guiding her up the stage to dance with fifty other sweaty bodies.

After the last Q&A and his outrageous stories and movements, I had grown increasingly attracted to this skinny 60 year old icon. As he exited through our side of the crowd, I nudged Shelley toward him so she could give him a little wink and was surprised when he ended up right in front of me, sweat running down his chest and face. I couldn't help but to touch it. "Thank you..." he said looking straight into my goddamn soul and shook my fingers, palm and wrist with his hot hand "...for coming." I wanted to lick him. This morning, I regret that I didn't

"See, I told you he was walking sex!!" Shelley said as we painfully trotted toward the parking lot shuttle. As we got closer, I recognized the shape Shelley would later describe as "fat bald pear" waiting to stalk us to our after hours spot.

"Did you guys have fun?" the 40yr old asked. I could see his Brillo pad navel at this point. He and Shelley started talking about something and I was so buzzed from falling in love that all I could hear was "cut" "suck" and "blood". I figured Shelley was telling him her Keith Richards secret of why she was able to mosh only three months after getting a titanium hip but it turns out Fat Bald Pear was telling a story of how Iggy once slammed his arm against a mike stand during a show and the crowd licked the wound clean.
"Isn't that just the grossest thing?" he said.
"Nah," I replied still tasting the sweat that landed on my lip when he passed me, "sexy."

The Bicycle

2007-11-21T09:46:00.000-08:00

The bicycle he had in Tijuana caught fire each time he rode down a steep hill. Ramiro had Frankensteined a bike out of discarded car bumpers, abandoned wheels and stiff plastic tubing. No metal bolts found dumpster diving through America's waste, but he did find hundreds of discarded wooden chips throughout his neighborhood. He used those to rivet the bike together each time the downhill speed turned the wood into ash.

In Guadalajara, away from the overflowing luxury junkyard of the US Border, Ramiro bought a bike for 12 sterling pesos. A real metal melded bike. He pumped the petals to apprentice for his uncle's construction company, molding blocks of clay and concrete to build houses. "Maestro" he called his uncle according to custom. The official title exempted Maestro from adhering to regulated work hours or child labor laws. Those laws only protected 9 year olds in El Norte.

Ramiro Rubio's bike took him to the houses he was building and its handlebars carried his older sister Teresa to the houses she cleaned. Riding home on the dirt streets that burned orange at sunset they saw a man's silhouette and heard it cough. The sticky sound of emphysema that tars the roof of smokers' lungs was familiar. "I think that's our dad," Tere said.

Ramiro permanently released the plastic coated handlebars to help his Tijuana transplant dad find a job; he would stay longer if he had work. Ramiro's dad complained about the lack of opportunity. His son would walk the final step of a three-mile journey home from work through the slanted wooden doorway. "No hay nada," his father would say and the little boy would kick away a copper cockroach and crawl onto his flat linty mattress.
Ramiro's bike stopped carrying the Rubios to work. It was now parked outside le bar. Outside the drunken uncles shack. Outside el otre bar. Perpetually outside of the yard where Ramiro once carefully roped it to a tree to protect it.

For light, Ramiro and his gang of dirt stained friends lit tires on fire and played soccer with aluminum cans. The wet season would turn his ashy discolorations into mud streaks across his already dark skin. Ramiro avoided drinking the local water as it hosted bacteria large enough to be kept as pets. He hated bathing in it even more, a trait he carried into adulthood, and showered only when the weather permitted. When it rained, they all smelled like earth.

Ramiro and his organic scented friends would use their burning tire lit evenings discovering ways to continually amuse and cripple each other. When the soccer got boring or someone sliced their fingers blocking a goal, an avocado pit was then turned into a missile, pebbles into ammo, pen tubes into pistols. After enough blood and limbs were shed playing soldier, the unintentional engineers stomped on the aluminum beer cans to make tap shoes. They were crumpled up scraps of metal. Shiny and malleable. Twisted and deformed. If the second hand shoes they wore were a size too big, they went barefoot. They stomped on the can to mold it to their arches, unaware they were a misstep away from slicing off their big toe.

In Vietnam, Ramiro and his new organic smelling friends dreaded stepping in aluminum cans. They all feared the same deformities and loss of blood Ramiro and his old gang had laughed at as chiquillos. They wore the same clothes Ramiro did; the jungleflage looked different on his skinny frame. They talked different than Ramiro, saying "y'all" and "shrapnel" instead of "jou" and "eskrapnel," which led to the unanimous decision that the wetback with the gooky accent could never be the radioman.

They all feared stepping on the metal can claw filled with the rains and shit and oil and death. Not intended to kill, but to destroy. It would dig its metallic talons into an unsuspecting leg, cutting through the unifying fabric fatigues and into the calf of the soldier who didn't know better and tried to pull out.

But the danger of Ramiro's tap shoes was known and easy to kick off. Continually cutting their calloused feet made his and his gangs' 9-year-old soles as hard as those of men. The familiar clinkity clinks of a Broadway show landed as heavy thuds on the Mexican dirt floor that burned orange at sunset.

Ramiro's bike turned into a tin tap shoe when his dad DUI'ed it on the side of a neighbors house. The bike would've survived if it weren't for the old mans rage that was unleashed through the scraped skin. He threw the little bike against the wall, grabbed it by the plastic handlebars and rammed it a few more times against the stucco perpetrator to silence it from sneering at his manhood.

The crashed bicycle became a rusted sculpture on the side of the cantina - the first of the Rubio outsider art pieces. Ramiro said goodbye to the backyard cemetery of projects his father started, goodbye to the empty glass bottles that finished the job. Said goodbye to the secrets of aluminum cans in the rain. He finally said goodbye to his dad as he lay in a soft cotton bed with plastic tubes running up his genius nose around his ears and through his stomach. Emphysema had finished building its house in that Rubio body.

The small stack of "Return to Sender" letters on the dining room table indicates all Ramiro's dirt covered friends have rebuilt themselves somewhere far and unreachable. They stare out uniformly from the silver frame; the four White guys the Black man and the gooky looking wetback that posted his name and address on Internet 'Nam Vet forums, pecking at the keyboard with one finger, double checking the screen for accuracy:

Ramiro Rubio – Screaming Eagles 101st Airborne

He hopes they have computers in their unlisted homes. He hopes they remember his name.

hello friend...

Other Words for "fraction"

THIS GREAT THING HAPPENED!!! And What I Wish for in 2012

The Book Puta

HAWT GURRRLZ!!1!

TAROT! BOTANICAS! WRITING! ME!

PEN CENTER USA

SPOTLIGHT ON THE MARK: MARYTZA RUBIO

Young Hearts! Run Free! Unless You Wear Skinny Jeans and Live in Australia Then Please Stay Indoors Because Your Legal System Hates You

AMNESTING FOR ILL EAGLES!

Healthy Snax

I Am Craving Mexican Food

Arco Iris

There is a short short short story....

Sita Sings the Blues

BOOK TOUR: RENE COLATO LAINEZ

Books!

Classification

Extinction vs. Death

Why Los Angeles is Wonderful

Tamborazo!

Finally...

THINGS!

I Have a Confession...I am Bicuspid.

Toloache

I am insane.

more yonque

Gatitos and Soap

When You Finish Your Novel, You Will Be Depressed

Les Animaux and Special Events

All Conversations Lead to Sex, Religion, or Things of Toilet

Ilha das Flores

There is No Place Like Home

Election Day!!!

People, Places, Things

Politickin'

Crunching Numbers

Because I Missed the VMA's

Reptiles & Fish

If It's True (and I hope it is)...

Quoi?? removed and moving!!

Tips for Writing Good

Dedicated to Caprichudas for McCain

Cute Things!

Two Colbert Clips

Anjelah Johnson

"Three Unrelated Incidents in the Last 24 hrs That Have Changed My Life" or "Mongolitos"

he's soooooo into me!!! - removed

Dear Maria Doctora Sabetodo...

Ani diFranco Has a Daughter, Right?

Vino and Esprinkles Cupcakes

New York es kuriete with their ka'avo

Summer's Hottest Pediatric Trend!!!!!

No,really, only 22! Okay I lied...23! No B.S? Im 17 with a fake ID

Saturday of Beauty - or - Discovering My Skin Type is Sensitive

Mr. Iguana's Night of Limping Passion

The Bicycle