All Right, All Right, Already! Part 2

I'm back.

I've been back for a couple of weeks but my muses haven't been at my side, so getting back into the swing of writing has been slow going.

Visiting the homeland... it appears to be a challenge on many levels. There is no denying the beauty of the place and it's amazing how much has changed since I left. Likewise, it's amazing how much stays exactly the same. I've just wrestled one of my more unsettling demons to the ground so I'll make this short and show you pictures from Fiesta. Mostly, I just gave my camera to my 7 year old niece and had her do the heavy lifting for the photo-documentation of the trip. The kid has a good eye.

Here are some of the performers.


They have boys in the game as well…

This boy may look a little fruity, but he isn’t going to have any trouble getting laid. He might have half of the football team trying to kick his ass because he’s a dancer boy, but every single girl he pursues will gladly cast aside her chonies* and have a piece of him.

And, most importantly, the Grand Master of the Parade. Ok not really, but if I was running the zoo, he would be. The parade really looks more like this:


One of my favorite parts of Fiesta is the mariachi culture.

Ok, a leather mariachi suit… a) How very heavy Mexi-metal!, b) I so want a leather mariachi suit of my own… and I’m not the type to wear leather.

A point of pride... my little sister...

At one time there was a private catholic school for boys in this building.


The pedo Franciscan monks fiddled with the boys and those damaged boys sued the ever loving Christ out of the church. They all walked away with copious piles of cash, but are still fucked in the head. The building is pretty, though. And there is a lovely eucalyptus tree in the foreground. Eucalyptus trees are the sexiest trees… sigh….

A big forest fire has been burning since July 4th in the Los Padres Forest which backs up to Santa Barbara. It was smokey and ashy most of the time I was there. I went to Los Angeles to get fresh air and shenanigans with a new friend and an old friend. My life is littered with ironic twists.

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­*chones are the Chicano equivalent of skivvies, knickers, or panties. choners=boxer shorts, chonies= underpants usually female variety, chones=underpants gender unspecific.

All Right, All Right, Already!

I hear y'all barking and I'll have a real post for you by the end of the day. I was working on a post yesterday, but I got boy-distracted. Then I looked at a house for sale and I'm now officially nauseated because I'm very seriously considering making an offer. Finally, there is the small issue of a good friend dropping in for a nightcap last night and keeping me up until 1:30 AM... on a school night no less... T-I-R-E-D... And I have to go and make a many thousand dollar decision.

Here is a preview... More coming at the end of the day.

Dog Days of Summer

The dog days have arrived. All around me the love affair with heat seems to be growing stale. The air is thick with sticky, oppressive heat. I'll be glad when it starts to snow again. In the meantime, I'm initiating an escape.

I'm off to California for a couple of weeks. Dry heat will clear my head, it always does. While I'm there, I will watch my 9 year old step-sister dance flamenco at Santa Barbara's Annual Old Spanish Days Fiesta. This five day festival is all about the world I grew up in.



This is the sista getting her flamenco on a couple of years ago.

I'll visit with much family, eat disgusting amounts of Mexican food, go to the rodeo, finally get some decent clam chowder, and with any luck, meet my new niece who is due to arrive on August 10th. Yesterday my aunt who lives in Indiana called to tell me she's planning to hijack part of my vacation. She and my cousin are coming out and demanding a slice of my vacation time. I was planning on spending as much time as possible with family who actually live there, and any surplus time was dedicated to being on vacation... doing things that bring me peace... things that don't involve family obligation. Usually when I go "home" or on vacation I want to be alone and not have any more obligations than I do in day to day life. That ship is steaming up and heading out of the harbor. New rule for next year: no vacations with or to anywhere that involves family. Look out, Dive. You may have another wayward sojourner on your door-step.

Back in the Saddle

Thanks to everyone who read the previous post and gave such warm and supportive feedback. At rare moments I have something relevant and inspired to say and it's wonderful to have people appreciate it.

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I'm back from vacation and relocating my bearings. I had a fantastic time visiting with old friends and some new ones and breathing in desert air as well as coastal air. Now, I live pretty darned close to the coast as it is... east coast, that is. Which is by no means and stretch of the imagination a coastal desert. Which much of the California coast is. However, the California coast is inundated with Californians and the lowest forms of scum from every other part of the country, but that's a story for another day.

Yosemite.

Somehow the picture from the brochure is so much better than my photo-styling. Ansel Adams I am not.

Yosemite is one of California's gems and worst nightmares all rolled up in one glorious slice of the Sierra Nevada. Just being in the Sierras is enough to make me giddy with glee. However, being there with the ridiculous abundance of tourists that clog the valley is enough to make me want to pull my hair out by the roots. Yay for wine! We camped in a tent-cabin in a tent city where the neighbors were two swaths of canvas and three feet away. I was awakened by our next door neighbor kids who were bickering and yammering endlessly so I projected a particularly voluminous fart in their general direction producing a barrage of kiddie giggles. In spite of the little darlings waking me up, having kiddie laughter first thing in the morning was a lovely mood stabilizer. Have I ever mentioned that I'm not entirely Rainbow Bright in the morning? More like Satan Incarnate... usually. At least until a liter of coffee liberates me from the cruel reality that is the waking world. Then I'm A-OK.

Anyhow, after seeing an orthopedic surgeon and the MRI and whatnot from the previous week, hiking half-dome wasn't really an option for me. Actually, doing anything on my feet wasn't really advisable. (I could, however, hold my own from the flat of my back, yet alas, no takers...) So I did then next best thing and found a quiet slice of the valley with some conveniently located trees in which to string up my handy-dandy travel hammock and read and read and swayed with the breeze as the Merced River babbled along beside me.

Note the grubby in the toes... Pedicure was the first order of business upon return.

I think I may have dozed off a bit from time to time. For the record: It did not suck one bit.

Whilst in California, one of my dearest friends from Santa Barbara came up for a night to drink liquor and tell lies about the glory days. A supreme treat since it's been well over a year since I've seen him. In the meantime, the friend I was staying with was in the process of buying an absurdly overpriced condominium. The real estate market in California is absolutely ridiculous. I'm happy for her because it's what she wants, but really thankful that I live on the east coast. She's buying in Santa Cruz. We went out for drinks in Capitola one night (which is a little beach town) and she pointed out a bunch of beach villas that have at most about 600 square feet in the floor plans and go for about 1 million bucks. Guess what, people buy them. Stupid.

I was supposed to go back to work on Friday but I blew it off. Tomorrow, I'm back in the saddle... No excuses. I'm not entirely looking forward to it. Somehow I'll endure it though.

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Update for Dive: The toes are even cuter when they're clean!

Going to the Ci-Tay

In a couple of weeks, I'm having a long weekend in The City. I live near Boston, and when going there, it's generally understood that "I'm going to Town" means Boston. Likewise, when you tell anyone here you are going to "The City" they usually assume that you will be heading to New York City. However, if you say you are going to "Beantown" for Boston or "The Big Apple" for New York, natives to those areas will cringe.

As a native daughter of California, when I go back home, I go to "California". Here in New England, most people will greet this news with, "Oh, so you're going back to 'Cali'?" as I swallow back the bile that has surged up my gullet. Like two more syllables would kill you...Fuck! I assume that is the feeling that New Yorkers and Bostonians get when faced with "The Big Apple" and "Beantown", or how San Franciscans feel when their town is referred to as "Frisco" (which for the record, among Californians is "The City" while Los Angeles is far, wide, and no matter how you slice it, "LA"). It seems silly that these things should matter, but they all create a visceral response in natives. Curious. It seems that we all have insignificant things we need to cling to.

I'm also planning a trip to California this summer. I spoke with a friend of mine from "back home" who is a linguist and she says my accent is changing. It's clear that I need to recharge my Californian tongue. Not that there is anything wrong with the Boston accent, but on a lady, it just sounds low-brow and trashy. I am many things, but low-brow and trashy I ain't. So off I will travel to the Golden State where the letter "R" is a reality of language, intensifiers include "killer", "ripping", and "rad" not "wicked" and anyone can be called "dude" with a straight face (which for the record, makes me giggle on the inside). And so you don't misinterpret what I mean by a "California accent", I'm not talking about speaking Vally Girl. I don't speak in "likes" and "oh-my-gawd-Becky's". Anyhow, it will be nice to hear people speaking proper English not this railer colloquial New England spewing, but some fully kind local jargon from the west coast. (I'm bracing for the barrage from the Brits)

And speaking of "killer", the collective media is cumming all over themselves more than they have since September 11, 2001. Payday has arrived thanks to the unstable tendencies of an Oriental gunman in Virgina. The moral of the story, perhaps higher education is not always the best call. For that matter, perhaps leaving the house is ill advised. How long do you reckon we will have to hear interviews with people who are neighbors of someone who's child attended Virginia Tech and is alive and well, but we still have to see their hyperbolic emoting over people they don't actually know? Then there are all the other higher learning institutions across the country on high alert and camera crews ready in wait for the media glee of a chain reaction of catastrophic killings to unfold. Cynical? Perhaps.

Gads! Don't ever let me near a computer before I get coffee down the pipe.

And Speaking of Misspent Youth...

I spent the whole weekend roped to my computer writing. Sadly, I wasn’t writing anything fun, but a report to submit to an environmental regulatory agency. By the time I put it in the hands of a reviewer, I was whipped down and spent. That meant only one thing… time had come to drink a whole bottle of wine… and straight from the bottle. Don’t need no stinkin’ glasses!

Fuck! What weekend?!

Whilst drinking said bottle of wine, I removed the technical jargon that was floating in my head after two days straight of writing, re-writing and tweaking text by watching the Lords of Dogtown. Which is a movie that is based on the story of Dogtown and Z-Boys, a documentary that Stacy Peralta made a few years ago. Both are fantastic so I recommend putting them on your Netflix queue or go to wherever you get your flicks and check them out.

Now, I grew up in Southern California, mind you, in the northernmost city in Southern California, but Southern California none the less. Santa Barbara is a surf/skate town and my crowd was the skate punk crowd. The aforementioned movies describe a time that was about 10 years before my era, but I looked up to those guys and had s-u-c-h huge crushes on boys of that ilk. They were tough and performed heroic tricks without any consideration of bumps, bruises, road rashes and broken bones. Perhaps stupid, but definitely dreamy. You see, they tended to have these incredible bodies… but I digress.

Anyhow, the point is these movies get the late 70’s in Southern California right, which is a rare bird. Most of what you see is a polished up Hollywood version of what it was like then and I’m sure in some circles it was like the Hollywood version. What is presented in these movies is the gritty underbelly of the disaffected youth that influenced so much of popular culture that spread across the whole country.

And when you are done with all that, rent Thirteen which is a movie that was directed and co-written by the director of the Lords of Dogtown and shudder in your boots if you are a parent to an adolescent girl in Southern California. Thirteen is not an uncommon story.