My grandma used to curse August, lyrically curse it to a bloody pulp.
I’d quizzically look at her wrinkled eyebrows and wonder why?
It’s damn near September and just now it’s hitting me why this month sucks. It’s hot, not hot like June or July, where the A/C in your apartment provides adequate pore refreshment; it’s humid, meaning Angelenoes from Culver City to San Bernardino are sticky from torso to toe. Yuck.
Then there’s the constant reminder in the beautiful Pacific sky that summer is on its way out. More so, these last few days when puffy cumulus clouds have been floating through the L.A. skyline. Oh boy, nothing is more depressing than the end of summer, the end of warm nights out with friends where the only four items covering your body are a thin A Train: Manhattan to Brooklyn t-shirt, some funky striped shorts your littler sister bought you for your b-day, flip-flops and comfortable chonies. I’ll be wearing my Brokeback Mountain jacket before you know it and nobody wants to see that.
Summer concert tours are winding down. Not that great bands don’t make their way to the City of Quartz from September to May, but still, as far as concert experiences go there are few things more magical than a night with an aging Morrissey at the Hollywood Bowl, set to a Hollywood Hills backdrop, a few thousand slightly drunken souls pouring their out of tune heart for the guy/gal directly in front of them and the domino continues all the way down to the Pool Circle seats. I was there earlier this year to see Groove Armada and Café Tacuba. Having previously read the lyrics to a song that could sum up certain elements of my life in the span of nine minutes, my heart nearly exploded when the Cafetas performed it.
Volver a Comenzar:
“Si hiciera una lista de mis errores
de los menores hasta los peores
que expusiera todas las heridas
los fracasos, desamores y las mentiras”
Just when I thought I didn’t need another reason to go Owen Wilson on myself, I’m reminded of my beloved Dodgers. Since 1989, August has been synonymous with Dodger demise. Sure, they might make the play-offs, sure there’s still another month and a half of baseball, sure football season and the yearly expedition to the Bay area is but a few weeks away, I don’t care. I want summer to stay!!!
I know those are all selfish reasons for making a fuss in light of what August is historically known for: Katrina, Hiroshima, Nagasaki (if those three didn’t do it for you nothing will). Needless to say, I’m on board with my G on this one. I had lunch with a co-worker the other day and amongst the discussion of Puerto Rican & Mexican identity in the U.S. and Europe, the transgression and evolution of political ideals in the face of Mexican fascism, Milan Kundera’s The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Boriken colonization and our deep appreciation for the ocean breeze we managed to talk about our shared distaste for this time of year; the antithesis of warmth and light, the end of summer.
As we head into the last unofficial weekend of summer and the last official summer of my twenties (OH, HOW DEPRESSING), I manage to remain optimistic if for only one reason, the infinite future is still out there.
In no particular order.
As mentioned above, I will soon and proudly (despite a losing record) wear an as of yet purchased Bo Jackson Raider jersey as my friends and I chow down on rice and beans while my most hospitable and sweet NorCal friend Vero pours an Anchor Steam down a beer bong in the McAfee Coliseum parking lot. After a season long hiatus I will walk through the underground tunnel at Santa Anita Park to emerge in a sea of beer connoisseurs while we bet on ponies, check the
But most importantly...
Our family will welcome a new soul of the Fil-Mex variety to our humbling planet and we will all find yet another reason to love. I will cherry bomb into this country’s largest cultural pool, El Ay. I will rejoice in my mother’s newfound and most deserved freedom. I will reaffirm my and Kat Von D’s belief that there is no better place on earth to live as we treat everything between the beautiful L.A. County Lines as our very own backyard; where I’d bounce tennis balls off the garage door to hone my fielding skills, where I did my best Tigre Maderas impersonation with a single putter, where I chased my dog Chucky until I collapsed on the grass from fatigue, where I imagined friendly aliens landing and taking me on a flight expedition. Seriously.
Even though I’m bidding farewell to summer like a friend leaving on a 9 month long journey, I will be happy.
“Si hiciera un viaje a mis adentros
y sobreviviera a los lamentos
pediría fuerzas para decir cuanto lo siento
si volviera en un viaje de mis adentros”