New Soul

“I'm a new soul I came to this strange world hoping I could learn a bit about how to give and take”

I’m less than two weeks away from having the privilege of saying I’ve survived the first 30 years of my life. I know it doesn’t get easier so a bit of reflection is in order. Thriving is not the right word but it’s the first that comes to mind. I need to stop ripping off Chuck Palahniuk.

“But since I came here felt the joy and the fear finding myself making every possible mistake”

I started going to the gym about two years ago. Off and on of course, more on than not but we all have relapses of some kind, que no? One thing I’ve learned about life is that it’s a lot like an aerobics class at Bally’s.

“La la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la”

You have the ill-equipped who have an undying will to work it. Despite having been dealt a bad hand they press along, looking around at those better suited for survival. Still, they look straight, put on their game face and try to keep up with the rest of the crowd the best they can. I love the maladjusted.

“I'm a young soul in this very strange world hoping I could learn a bit about what is true and fake”

You have the shy kind that hide in the back. They overcompensate by limiting their space and are scared to flail their arms about, afraid to kick too high. They navigate within the confines of their own personality, not letting themselves invade another’s space in fear of offending, in fear of making their existence and imperfections known to others. Not knowing that embracing these imperfections and occasionally offending those around them for the sake of expressing their individuality is the thing to do. I just want a good yell sometimes!

“But why all this hate? Try to communicate finding just that love is not always easy to make”

There’s the one that does everything wrong and doesn’t even try to do things right; yet exits happy. Exuding the cliché that ignorance is bliss. Even a broken clock is correct twice a day right?

“La la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la”

The perfect one. The loneliest one. Looking the part, doing everything right, hardly breaking a sweat. Succeeding and smelling great in all conditions. Every move is calculated. At times, they wear an undeserving sense of accomplishment on their sleeve. They’re in their own perfect world. But still, when they lay their heads and float into R.E.M. they remain unhappy and unfulfilled for whatever reason.

“This is a happy end, cause' you don't understand, everything you have done, why's everything so wrong”

Then there’s the one that doesn’t care what the next guy/gal is doing. Blindly and carelessly kicking, jumping without a care in the world, running into others; not realizing they are hurting and/or disrupting those closest to him/her.

“This is a happy end, come and give me your hand, I'll take you far away"

There are a few that check out too soon.

“I'm a new soul I came to this strange world hoping I could learn a bit about how to give and take but since I came here felt the joy and the fear finding myself making every possible mistake”

But my favorite is the one smack dab in the middle of the floor. Vehemently opposed to the conventional rhythm of the rest. Jumping to his own beat, closing the door to the eyes of judgment. Loving every minute of it while making countless mistakes, failing and succeeding at once. He knows what the other don’t. He manages to look beyond the crowd and find himself in the mirror only to smile at his immaculate faults.

“La la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la”

New Orleans and everything in between wait. My sister speaks of a new life and I wait. It’s been almost 22 years since I learned to love a soul from scratch, from day one and I look forward to relearning and rehashing old wounds.

To new love(s) and 30 more years!

Volver a Comenzar...

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 USC UCLA football score and consume (in large quantities) the best India Pale Ales the West (and obviously Best) Coast has to offer; but this time the Rodriguez duo will be a trio. I’ll soon speed home on Monday nights while venting to my chica about how I hate Mondays, but love Monday Night Football. I will obsess over my fantasy football teams. I’ll watch the October magic that are the Major League Baseball play-offs despite my Dodgers probably not being there and reminisce over Kirk Gibson & the 1988 World Series and my days as the most feared 11 year old left handed pitcher in Baldwin Park (flex). I will come up with great excuses for having a mid-week drink. I will fantasize with my chica about Rio De Janeiro, perhaps Buenos Aires. I will read, no wait, I will inhale books and more books. I will rock my dancing shoes on the 2nd floor of the Firecracker with Filipino hip-hop heads battling to GangStarr’s Full Clip. I will buy some nice sweaters because I will also be cold.

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”

C/S,
Lucio

L.A. Vida...

Traveling to earth’s version of heaven and still getting homesick

At a house party, when someone throws on Sublime’s self-titled album 23 people stop their chatter and simultaneously break into, “We took this trip to Garden Grove, it smelled like Lou-dog inside the van, oh yea… this ain’t no funky reggae party…”

Having everything to lose but still pitching your heart like a softball towards the chica from Whittier

The clock striking 5:00 on a Friday evening

Watching Kirk Gibson pump a fist and round the bases as Los Angeles leaps all at once to the 2.1 Richter scale

Reminiscing over the little old lady from the apartments next door with your sisters ‘til 2AM

Looking at her baby’s eyes and seeing my ex-girl’s childhood as the reflection

Discovering Bob Marley

Like sex with a great woman, Bukowski status

Sitting in the Left Field Pavilions having caroused 60 ounces of Anchor Steam at 7:58PM on a hot Friday night in June

A crowd chanting, “O-ZO-MAT-LI, YA LLEGO, YA LLEGO!”

Driving by my old junior high and scoping out the spot where I got my first El Monte kiss

Running into Rodney on the Roq at Canter’s

Soundless words on my lips “Get up there # 6,” as I grip three different kinds of Karl Strauss brews, hold a ticket between my fingers and the Daily Racing Form rests in my back pocket

Crashing into salty Pacific Ocean waves with your eyes closed as wet sand squishes out between your toes as they try to grip the elusive ground

Ranking The Doors ahead of Zeppelin in your classic rock top 5 list

Reading J.D. Salinger

Racing down the 101 as warm wind pounds your face and J5 blasts through the Kenwood speakers. “I work the pen to make the ink transform on any particular surface the pen lands on…”

Sleeping shirtless, with the windows wide open as ambulances and trains provide the lullaby and still breaking a sweat

Grooving to soothing hip-hop on the 2nd floor on the first and third Friday of every month at the Firecracker in Chinatown. Ooooh weeee.

Driving through downtown L.A. 17 years later, a CHAKA piece still up

Business signs in espanol and palm trees, everywhere

The smell of chronic smoke at any given moment on any given street

Bumping Biggie on a Saturday morning while taking a shower

Bumping 2-Pac a little louder

Discovering a sushi spot and thinking to yourself, “This is the best sushi in all of L.A.,” finding another spot a month later and thinking the same thing. Having this happen to you three times before you discover Zip Fusion snuggled between East Los and downtown

Redefining 6 degrees of separation to 1 or 2 or 3 at worst

Knowing the funniest guy on radio doesn’t even have his own show, Ralph Garman

Taking public transportation for the fun of it and vowing to never do it again

Driving by any baseball diamond in May and finding 12 kids throwing, swinging, diving, catching, repeat

Remembering and actually having gone to Dublin’s on Sunset

King Taco anyone?

I love sandwiches...

The organization I work for is in the midst of interviewing candidates to fill a vacancy, all of which (to this day) has been facilitated by me; creating a job posting, combing through candidates, interviews, etc. Today, Dion, a co-worker and interviewer said this about one of the candidates. I’m paraphrasing. “She’s perfect man. She’s from Philly, spent some time in Atlanta and ended up here. This is her home now, all roads led here. She’s always wanted to live in L.A. We take it for granted man… everybody wants to come here. I love L.A., I ain’t even gonna front.”

Me too.

I usually take a shuttle bus to work. I live in the “other Valley” and it takes about an hour to maneuver my way through the 10 West Freeway, past downtown, past Echo Park, and just before Hollywood. We’re not quite downtown, we’re not quite Koreatown, we’re not quite Hollywood, but in every which way we’re very much Los Angeles. Today I missed the bus to work and eventually had to drive… I hate it, by the way; but one must do what one must to earn the chedda yo. Whenever I have the misfortune to drive I at least have the luxury of choosing from a variety of lunch options, my favorite being Vons. Yes, Vons. Why you ask? Ah, the sandwiches.

After ordering my tuna sandwich on ciabatta bread with the works, olive spread and provolone cheese I grabbed a bag of cheese Doritos, a cherry Pepsi and the front page, calendar and sports section of the Los Angeles Times and sat my ass at a picnic-ish table outside. I have unlimited viewing access to the parking lot. It doesn’t sound exciting, but I’ll say this. Everything you ever wanted to know about my city is on blast at this Vons parking lot.

I sit there enjoying my sandwich & chips while trying to keep the Pacific Ocean winds from taking off with pages 7 & 8 of the sports section as I’m trying to decipher UCLA’s chances in the NCAA tournament. We’re about 12 miles inland but the winds feel as crisp as if I were walking the Venice strip with a greasy pizza slice in one hand and my chica’s hand in the other. There are even seagulls chilling there watching me eat. I stare one down wondering if I should toss a piece of bread or cheese at it; they look hungry. I hesitate because if the bastard doesn’t eat it, I’m gonna look like a litter bug and in L.A. you don’t want to be that guy. Seriously, I don’t want 3rd St. and Virgil to start looking like Houston Street in New York City. Fo’ real.

It’s classic L.A. From the Korean girl driving the burgundy Mercedes Benz rocking the 20” Bentley rims to the white boy sporting the Vanilla Ice hair cut while driving a mini-van and strutting around with a Bluetooth earpiece and a non-deserving air of arrogance; clearly a transplant. I watch as this little Mexican girl skips along in what looks like a freakin’ wedding dress – Katt Williams was right, that shit is hilarious to me. I always think of my sisters’ childhood when I see that. I sit in front of this homeless woman and observe (without staring of course) as she thumbs through what looks like an address/composition book. It’s refreshing to know that even in the midst of the electronic age, where our lives are virtual in most ways via myspace, gogofrog, youtube, there are still folks whose lives are completely accessible in a little notebook; albeit the perp being a homeless woman, I don’t care.

I continue to eat my sandwich as some pepperochinis fall on the warm concrete which causes a combination of pigeons and seagulls to quickly gather at my feet the same way little brown kids in East L.A. dive face first below broom stricken piñatas. Then it hits me, the winds drive the seagulls inland. I should have figured this out right away but I thought about it too much. The city’s always talking; I’m just not always listening.

I finish my sandwich while not having read much of my newspaper because of my parking lot silent sitcom. Again, I love sandwiches. Those made of kids bicycling up and down Fairfax Ave., teenagers running amuck in LaFayette Park, old men feeding the birds at the Santa Monica Pier, 20-somethings revving up quad engines in Montclair, girls like Lisa & friends chomping at Peruvian food in the South Bay, horses running sprints at the San Gabriel Valley foothills, women reading Bukowski’s “Love is a Dog from Hell” with a smirk on their faces and a tear in their eye.

It was a good day to miss the bus.

My girl can attest to this, I’m a brat; I don’t like sharing… but my city? Go ahead and take a bite. “Take a big, bigger bite.” I’d be more than a selfish prick to deprive one from such a tasty, delightful sandwich.

Lucio

The Boys of Summer...

It’s only a matter of a few weeks before more than 56,000 Angelenos ascend upon Chavez Ravine to partake in the SoCal holiday and staple of Los Angeles culture that is the start of the major league baseball season via Dodgers’ Opening Day.

Someone will call in sick to work an hour too late as he reads the sports section of the Los Angeles Times.

Someone will hit the Santa Anita mall the Sunday before in search of “just the right” Bermuda shorts to go with her “I heart L.A.” tank top.

Someone will toss and turn the night before as a circa 1980 dry cleaned Steve Garvey jersey hangs from the closet door knob.

Someone at Canter’s will beg and plea for scalper tickets with mom & pops while grubbing on potato pancakes with chive yogurt and cheese.

Someone will call his cousin at 7:49AM and yell, “Merry Christmas mother fucker!”

Some will ditch their Poli-Sci classes at Cal State L.A., Garfield High School, USC, East L.A. College, South El Monte High School, UCLA, or any ol’ SoCal institution of learning.

Someone will stroll to the corner liquor store at 9:23AM to purchase a 12-pack of Corona’s and a bottle of Hypnotiq because we all know they don’t sell alcohol in the left field pavilions.

Someone will bring the whole familia along, George Lopez status – ten to a car, now that’s what’s up.

Someone will call his girlfriend at 7:06AM and ask her to miss work because his brother didn’t have the nerve to call in sick.

Someone in San Jose, CA will jump on the 101 South Freeway at 5:00AM to make sure they arrive in time to catch the last 30 minutes of batting practices in hopes of getting a souvenir baseball only to find out that Top Deck seats don’t quite fit the bill as prime foul ball real estate.

Some yuppie will sit in his $225 baseline box seats for 2 1/3 innings before bailing due to the 86 degree heat beading down on his balding head.

Someone will drink half the bottle of Pepto-Bismol because Lord knows surviving a shit attack at Dodger Stadium should be the final stunt on the final season of Fear Factor.

Some will mope at work as they sit in a cubicle as the clock strikes 1:10PM and a knot in their throat emerges.

Some will gleam in the optimism that is opening day while others vow that the season will be a disgrace, but still not miss a single game.

Some 80-something year-old man in Palm Springs, CA by way of Brooklyn, NY will plop his Brooklyn Dodgers cap on his head and tune his radio to KPSI 920 AM as he reminisces of Ebbetts Field and Jackie Robinson.

Some will drive by Glenna Boltuch Avila’s L.A. Freeway Kids in downtown and think, “Good Lord, that’s been up since I was a kid.”

Some will actually ask for the day off.

Some will tune into the crisp cool voice of Vin Scully or Jaime Jarrin as they bare witness to the best baseball announcers on the planet.

A little boy/girl will live a memory that will last a lifetime, one that finds its way to the forefront of his/her mind on a death bed decades from now.

56,000+ folks from all walks of life will experience what the rest of the world should but can't.

Some 29-year old kid from El Monte, CA will do a combination of the above mentioned with a full heart and a Jack Nicholson smile .

This is baseball to me. I don't view it as a sport with a bunch of overpriced, selfish millionaires playing a kid’s game. It’s a way to unite a city that stretches from the Pacific Ocean to the desert. It’s a constant reminder that we were once kids and that life should still be lived as such. Baseball is a strumming guitar in old Mexico, it’s an Opera singer in Italia, it’s the chess of all sports and it’s the crack of a bat breaking the silence in an old Baldwin Park diamond in the warm California sun.

C/S,

Lucio

Lost Vega$

As much as I hate to admit Jason Whitlock went Bill Cosby on us and as one whose passion revolves around dissecting & critiquing race relations and identity, I will say that the NBA All-Star weekend in Vega$ was as sad as Whitlock announced. I had planned a trip to New York City that weekend. I was supposed to be in smoke-filled jazz clubs instead of smoke-filled casinos; I was to indulge in the culinary culture of New York, instead I opted to fill up at Harrah’s Flavors buffet (at least I got $5 off for signing up for a players card). I was supposed to experience the Museum of Modern Art and finally see a Picasso and Dali under one roof; instead I saw bootleg versions of the Eiffel Tower & Statue of Liberty, an enormous gold plated lion, and an array of T&A. As my boy Chris eloquently put it, “Yo son, one man’s cookie is another man’s cake.” That’s right folks; those JetBlue cancellations were very, very real.

As my girlfriend and I sat there in front of my laptop staring at the word “CANCELLED,” while my airport transportation sat quietly watching a Mexican league soccer game, I thought of the inevitable – we’re going to Vega$. We’d been planning our trip to NYC for about a month… I fantasized. I fantasized about exploring Pinero’s Lower East Side on foot, about catching some up and coming trumpet player from Anywhere, USA pumping Miles-like steam from said instrument, about calling my sisters from some Greenwich Village bar in a drunken stupor because I miss them like hell whenever I travel. I was not able to reschedule our flights within a reasonable time frame and ultimately had to cancel the entire trip. After much ado about nothing, my dad went home and Fatima (my girl) & I were on our way to buy a six-pack of Sierra Nevada and bean and cheese burritos lined with rice and guacamole from the usual spot, Alberto’s. We headed back to my place, ate, drank and watched television. We moped a bit, not as much as I’d expected. To be honest, I was secretly relieved to have dodged the cold of NYC. I’m a California boy born and bred; I’ve never even been in or around snow… ever. We bounced around a few alternate trip ideas such as Chicago, Napa Valley, San Francisco, Austin, and Vega$ resulting in a Napa Valley vs. Vega$ affair. Off to bed we went.

Here comes the sun…

Having completely come to terms with our misfortune and dreamt of roulette tables, free Heineken and all out debauchery my mind was made up. I woke up my chica like a kid on Christmas, “Wake up, let’s go to Vegas!” Two hours, an oil change, a few iTunes purchases and a terrible tuna sandwich later we were heading north on the 15 freeway. There’s something about the drive to Vega$ that transcends the fact that you’re in the middle of the desert… it changes you. It conjures silly hope and the excitement of not completely knowing what’s to come; kind of like hitting it off with some hot girl at your favorite bar/club. You’re kinda sketchy about what’s going to happen next, you know it’ll be short-lived but you also know that there’s a strong possibility it will be memorable regardless of how much alcohol is involved. Strike up the Eurythmics!

Once foot was set in the 702 and luggage had been tossed on the semi-stained floor in some room on the 22nd floor of the Flamingo hotel; we hurried down to the casino floor and plopped ourselves at the roulette table… boy was it fun. My girl’s got a knack for predicting shit, she has marginal psychic powers! Nevertheless, the next three nights would be well spent amongst complete strangers turned friends, as we are all comrades on S.S. Next Stop: ATM. We had a blast catching the Beatles Cirque Du Soleil show, eating dinner at 3A.M., betting on long shot ponies and actually winning (teaching some old East Coast fogies at the sportsbook to never underestimate a research obsessed twenty-something year old Mexican kid from Los Angeles that has already beaten a shitload of odds), playing Blackjack, Let It Ride, roulette, even slots. We were hot and remained tepid at worst most of the weekend. We even stayed an extra night and I came home with a few hundred in my pocket. How often does that happen? Almost never. I still wonder if my Algexicana had as much fun… I hope so.

But it wasn’t all gravy.

Whenever I go to Sin City, I need psychological prep time for the cheesy decadence that is Vega$ ß notice the dollar sign. I must set aside all ideals and views of what the world should be. I think of what Gandhi would say to my paramount hypocrisy. “Be the change that you want to see.” So much for that eh? Still, I embrace my faults and imperfections – I embrace my humanity. So I’ll quote him again: “My imperfections and failures are as much a blessing from GOD as my successes and talents.” Ah, much better. I hit the solidarity pause button for a weekend and set my mind on apathetic cruise control.

When I got back to L.A. it was a different story… consciousness returned and it was a little pissed.

As I mentioned, it was NBA All-Star Weekend. I didn’t realize what a spectacle, if I can use that word, it was. Never in my life had I seen so many black folks. I couldn’t imagine that many Mexicans in one place outside of Mexico. Replace the All-Star game with the World Cup Championship game in which Mexico plays Brasil, add a Mariachi festival with Vicente Fernandez headlining the shit and Rebelde as the opening act, bring back Pancho Villa from the dead to meet George W. Bush in the octagon for a mixed martial arts competition at the MGM Grand, bring in a thousand King Taco trucks, George Lopez & Cantinflas (again, from the dead) to M.C. the whole thing and I can guarantee you that it still wouldn’t hold a candle to NBA All-Star Weekend, in terms of attendance of course.

I grew up in L.A. and have been around black folks most of my life – I mean, black and brown folks are as much a fixture of the Los Angeles landscape as palm trees. Back in the Lakers’ Showtime days I had a friend named Warren whom I’d shoot hoops and Slip ‘n Slide with during the summer. Remember that? He didn’t go to school with the rest of the kids in my neighborhood. His father was a minister and I presume afraid of letting his kids go to a predominately Latino/white school. I’ve always been a curious person but as a kid my curiosity was on steroids. I remember asking Warren what it was like to be black and if people called him n*gger? I actually asked him that, fo' real, just like that. I mean I hadn’t even begun to try and grasp my own identity as a Chicanito. I spoke Spanish with my parents, watched Chespirito but also spoke English at school and watched CHiPs. I thought this was the norm, I really did. I had no clue as to how black and white kids functioned at home/school/amongst friends because my experience was/is of the rice and bean variety, which by the way is so delicious on so many levels. Now that I think of it, both of those shows can be snuggled up under the Latino television umbrella courtesy of “Dos Mujeres Un Poncherella.” I always wanted to know what was on the other side of the mountains that provided the backdrop for my childhood full of baseball games, wrestling matches on my front lawn, long winded bike rides in the hot California sun and wonder by way of late nights spent staring at the stars impersonating Nostradamus the best way I knew how: what did the world have waiting for me? Warren’s experience was on the other side of the San Gabriel Mountains and to this day it still is.

“This world go crazy, it’s an emergency.” - Manu Chao

The Strip was crazy that weekend, despite the fun, despite The Beatles LOVE experience it made me ill to observe the culture of capitalism at its Toxic Avenger peak and not the culture of a people. MTV truly spawned a monster. I’m a huge fan of authenticity; authenticity in character, in love, in people. In some cases, teeth weren’t even authentic. Groupies were rolling hella deep; T&A extraordinaires I thought. I heard twenty/thirty somethings spitting out lyrics about wealth and fame while rocking fake Gucci sweaters. I was saddened by the constant reminder that using the word n*gga is accepted and practiced as freely as the word ‘like’ & ‘um’ is used by my sisters. I’ve heard the Mos Def argument of cool inclusion/exclusion as it relates to the word. Fuck that shit, its origin is in slavery, there’s nothing that can be said or done to eradicate the shame in that portion of American history and keeping remnants in our vocabulary doesn’t help lighten the blow of past and present injustices that continue to plague this country…. see Katrina, The Strip, reparations anyone? Meanings change, definitions evolve, but the use of that word bears devolution, nurtures ignorance and invigorates oppression. The “bling” generation is a sad one folks; a tragic one. It will never, EVER be cool to say Wetback, Spic, Nip, etc. I can lie that at anyone’s feet and walk away without looking back. Martin, Malcolm, Rosa, can I get a witness?

I have no idea what it’s like to be a black individual in American. I don’t know what it’s like to be a little black kid, open up a history book and see my resemblance in chains; where the utter exploitation of one’s ancestors was tolerated, accepted and at worse revered; where one’s blood was bought and sold. If only today the same people could accept homosexuality, a right to choose, and all out diversity as they did the latter in sadder times. It’s a new breed of slavery; one of many.

I saw a documentary about the Louisiana prison system a few years ago, I don’t recall the name of it, but there was a scene worth noting. The camera starts off by filming a black prisoner in the dead of heat working the Louisiana soil with a hoe, the camera then pans out showing other black prisoners chained together. It continues to pan out as a panoramic view of the South’s lush greenery and a white man on a horse with a gun as he watches over the chained prisoners comes into focus. I couldn’t help but think of what a circa 1707 extraterrestrial viewing earth and its inhabitants from deep space would have to say about this. While dismissing the blue and green planet of any civility through observation of the enslavement of its fellow beings, it vows to never return. 200 years later, as our beloved E.T. reflects on a life unfulfilled while having nothing to do as the twilight of a mid-life crisis is upon our green friend, a decision is made to seek redemption and return to the blue and green planet. Upon months and months of a steady diet of ludicrous speed, weaving through the cosmos our friend arrives at the Milky Way. With its sights set on planet earth and a hefty amount of optimism, the destination of choice is the same as before, the Louisiana fields. Surely 200 years is more than enough time to erect the flag of humanity in the most hostile of places. Despite technological advances, the Civil Rights Movement and our increasing ability to annihilate the human race, our world hasn’t changed all that much. The way humans, more so Americans, go about enslaving those institutionally and passively deemed inferior has changed by way of the legal system. Those enslaved in 1707 and imprisoned today are still the same marginalized people of color.

To be honest, I don’t know what the solution is; I just know that it lies in the hands of government, in the hands of corporations and the rich who are all less than willing to take a cut for the sake of the rest of us; the everyday people.

A few folks died that weekend on The Strip, some got arrested, some went to the hospital with injuries, many gambled and lost, while a few played the same game Warren and I played way back when the dusk’s slow dissipation of the hoop was the only thing that could stop me from taking Warren to school on the driveway/b-ball court, Magic Johnson style. As I mentioned earlier, I’m still a little uncertain of what lies on the other side of those metaphorical mountains but at least as an optimistic skeptic adult I have an idea of why they are there.

Lucio