David Lynch (1946 - 2025)

My first exposure to David Lynch was around 1998. My dad was a huge movie buff, renting a stack of VHS tapes and DVDs at least once a week. His strategy for selecting films was a mystery to me. As soon as we entered the video store, I'd set off on my own to explore the aisles, mainly interested in finding out which new SNES, Genesis, and PlayStation games were available. On one of those many trips to rent videos, a Lynch film happened to make the cut.

My father mostly watched movies at night, and I often joined him, watching intently. Sometimes, I’d lie on the carpeted living room floor, wrapped in a blanket, keeping him company until I eventually fell asleep. When the films were rated R, I'd pretend to sleep, making sure he could see my closed eyes. With me convincingly off in dreamland, it was showtime.

I probably saw no more than five minutes of Lost Highway's two-plus hour runtime before I fell asleep in earnest that night, but the snippets I did catch stayed with me for over two decades. Vague memories of a first-person view drive down a dark, ominous highway that seemed to stretch on forever, accompanied by the haunting image of one of the creepiest looking mofos I had ever seen: Robert Blake's "Mystery Man." These were not the comforting last images one wants to see before dozing off.

Fast-forward to the stay-at-home era of the pandemic. After passing up Jack Nance's intriguingly obscure portrait on movie nights for months, I clicked and finally streamed Eraserhead out of curiosity.

After experiencing the explosion of Lynch's mesmerizingly disorienting maiden work, I was left grappling with the blurred vision, tinnitus, and confusion that followed. I'd been blown away by cinema before, but never had a film unsettled me like this. It felt like the stuff of unreal and seemingly nonsensical nightmares, yet somehow, it still made sense.

My attraction to Lynch's work wasn't immediate. But after fully processing Eraserhead and deciding to push the needle in again with Blue Velvet, the romance flourished.

Rewatching Lynch films with unsuspecting friends or recommending Eraserhead to them—"It was one of Stanley Kubrick's favorite films!" or "Hey, you like Broadway musicals, don't you? Well, Mel Brooks adored Eraserhead!"—has brought me a great deal of sadistic pleasure. Lynch's style is an acquired taste, but the process of acquiring it is half the fun. His oeuvre redefined what feature films can do both to and for audiences willing to embark on the journey.

Lynch was an avid painter and visual artist who turned to cinema because he wanted to make moving paintings. This motive might seem clichéd if articulated by anyone else, but resonated authentically coming from him. He gave oxygen to the platitude of creating art for art's sake, embodying a rare sense of genuineness in the contemporary artistic landscape.

Unfortunately, such sincerity is hard to find today. Plus, many studios, producers, and distributors are reluctant to support projects that don’t promise the blockbuster revenues typical of Marvel films. As a result, there are fewer artists like Lynch who can pursue experimental and unique visions. Consequently, viewing a Lynch film—even before his passing—often evokes a sense of melancholy. It serves as a poignant reminder that the era when such distinctive and avant-garde films could be made and thrive has long since passed.

David Lynch had a profound love for Los Angeles. Through his art, music, films, and even weather reports, he chronicled and captured the essence of the city and its surrounding areas. As parts of L.A. tragically turn to ash, lives are uprooted, and the prospect of a town forever changed looms, his passing invites us to draw a metaphorical connection. Then again, that'd be too predictable an ending.

TRUMP WINS: On the 2024 US Election

I'll keep this short. It wasn't misogyny that lost Vice President Kamala Harris the election. It wasn't racism, white supremacy, or Biden. Much consideration will be given to how the Democrats faced such a significant defeat against such a heavily flawed candidate, and the party must understand that the answers won't be found in the voices and squeals of its most vocal members. Even the popular justification of displeasure with the economy doesn't paint the complete picture of Harris' loss.

Many Americans who were eager to vote for Joseph Biden in 2020 were less enthusiastic about his pick for Vice President. At most, approval was about 50/50 among registered Democrats, if memory serves, to say nothing of Independents like myself. Add to this the manner in which Harris became the official nominee of the Democratic party, people not having a sense of who she was as a person or how she'd govern, and the rushed presidential campaign that meant she'd have three months to run a perfect race; she had already been dealt a losing hand before her campaign even got off the ground.

However, the factor that shares at least as much of the responsibility as the perceived poor economy for Donald Trump's ascendance back into power was the people's dislike of the culture and policies that became the standard of the new progressives on the left. I'm talking about defunding the police, identity politics, the insistence on pushing gender ideology on children, issues in women's sports, reparations, DEI, victim culture, the refusal to strongly denounce the students on college campuses and hostile protestors in major cities effectively supporting Hamas, illegal immigration, the rebuke of Western values, and more. And if reading this causes anyone to develop a denialistic or dismissive wince, please take this to heart—the circles you run in or the cubic centimeters within your own skull have separated you so much from the common man that you are the one who is out of touch. And it's a fucking shame because now it comes at such a grave cost. Sam Harris, the closest thing I have as an ideological proxy, already spelled out why in a great article, so I won't.

If the Democrats are to regain their footing in future elections, they must unequivocally reject the far-left ideas that have taken root in the party and return to a centrist position. At the very least, they must understand that these are divisive and complex issues that cannot be assumed to represent their electorate's core values and social beliefs. This is not just a suggestion, but a vital step towards future electoral success.

And to the MAGA Republicans on cloud nine, especially those soon to occupy the White House and the future administration, remember—your allegiance is to the country and its constitution, not a party, and certainly not one individual.

PUUUUTOOO

Tensions were high last night as the United States Men’s National Team faced Mexico in the CONCACAF Nations League final. Still, in a rare display of intuited understanding between the two longtime rivals, fans on both sides apparently agreed that the common tongue used to abuse each other would be Spanish.

After Gio Reyna scored in the 63rd minute, making it 2 to 0—the scoreline that haunts every El Tri fan being shown on every screen inside AT&T Stadium in Arlington, Texas—U.S. fans emphatically began chants of dos a cero. Meanwhile, with dimmed hopes of pulling off a comeback and undoubtedly multiple levels of inebriation beyond the BAC limit, Mexico fans began their retort. With each Matt Turner goal kick El Tri aficionados let it rip: puuuuutooo! After numerous warnings over the stadium speakers asking fans to refrain from using the chant, officials stopped the game twice and commentators on both English and Spanish telecasts communicated their obligatory default reaction of disappointment. Yet, the media and unacquainted masses have it all wrong regarding this chant. 

In Mexico, the word "puto" has so many meanings that it would require a Carlinesque tutorial to explain thoroughly. While considered colorful language in all its forms, the most popular uses of the word translate to fucker, asshole, slut, buddy, and coward. Yes, another use of the word is meant as a derogative term for a homosexual man, though the idea that Mexican fans are shouting the equivalent of "faggot” when attempting to taunt the opposing team's goalkeeper is just not accurate. The entire Spanish-speaking world knows this is a misreading, and fans of the Mexican national team have made the argument repeatedly. So why has the taunt become associated with a homophobic slur, then? Well, probably for the same reason Latinx was pushed down our throats for years. The perpetually offended decided that they didn’t like something and made a loud enough and consistent noise until they got their way. 

The former president of the Mexican Football Federation (FMF), Yon de Luisa, was quoted as saying, "It's not the intention with which you shout or with which you chant. It's how the other [people] receive it." De Luisa continued, "If anybody feels it's a discriminatory act, then it is not something that we should include in a conversation. That is no longer a debate. If it is discriminatory, we should avoid it."

Bigotry and discrimination are unacceptable, but taking offense due to deliberate misinterpretation is not a trump card that should be allowed to make false assumptions true. Nor should it stand to reason that no matter how wrong one is, he should never be challenged lest the challenge itself be conflated with hate speech. The answer can't always be that the offended party is automatically always right—end of discussion.

As seen and documented in every World Cup, Mexican national team fans are immensely passionate. They also have one of the most wide-ranging and quirkiest senses of humor you’ll encounter. They're both the life of the party and the most embarrassing drunks and sore losers around. If you want a reason to dislike El Tri fans, you have plenty, but this taunt isn’t one of them. Besides, the worst thing officials and sanctioning bodies could do is attempt to ban the chant and grant disgruntled fans so much power to influence the game, particularly when their team is losing.  

You don't have to be part of the crowd that screams out puto. But you're not a freedom fighter just because you have no idea what you're talking about.

Three Years On

Remember.

Remember what those first few days and weeks of the COVID-19 outbreak were like. It’s been three whole years since the coronavirus outbreak was officially declared a pandemic and the world came to an abrupt stop.

By April 2020, we were all deep in the thick of it. Friends and families had been separated under lockdown for weeks; trafficless streets and highways felt eerily post-apocalyptic; grocery store shelves lay empty; rising infections, deaths, and an unclear r-naught dominated the news; global healthcare systems were nearing collapse or collapsing despite the tireless efforts of frontline workers; and societal fissures became full-on amputations as differing ideologies clashed. Meanwhile, no one knew exactly how bad things were going to get. Nothing was certain anymore as the future took on an ominous shade.

Italy was being particularly ravaged by this time. Hospitals were overrun and the mandatory closure of all non-essential industries, along with a complete lockdown of the country in mid-March, had left the perennially-busy vias of la Repubblica virtually deserted.

It was under this shroud of uncertainty that the great Italian tenor Andrea Bocelli performed “Music For Hope” in an empty Duomo de Milano on Easter Sunday, April 12, 2020. The 30-minute concert was livestreamed across the globe offering a message of love, healing, and hope through music when it was needed most. Nearly three million viewers tuned in live, and within 24 hours the concert had reached close to 30 million views. I tuned in alone from my living room.

Bocelli would sing four songs inside Il Duomo accompanied by only an organist before making his way out to the cathedral steps for a final hymn. What followed was a rendition of Amazing Grace that will forever be emblazoned in my brain as the soundtrack of that time—perfectly encapsulating the wistful yet hopeful spirit in all of us.

There were many elements that made the live stream performance so moving, but concluding the concert with Amazing Grace was the work of genius. Hearing Bocelli sing the iconic refrain from John Newton’s hymn given his personal story—Bocelli was born with congenital glaucoma that reduced his eyesight before he became completely blind after a football accident at the age of 12—further dampened already welling eyes.

I will remain forever thankful to the production crew and Maestro Bocelli for the gift of this concert.

See the whole concert if you like or go directly to minute 18:12, crank up the volume, and imagine yourself watching this live along with millions of others across the globe in 2020. I feel strongly it’ll be the best five minutes you’ve invested in some time.

The House of Nike

This Fall will see the world's greatest tournament captivate the inhabitants of Earth once again. The four intervening years between each World Cup are merely a countdown to these few glorious weeks of passion, joy, heartache, patriotism, and multicultural revelry. Nothing compares to it—not the Olympics, not even the Super Bowl.

Come November, all eyes will be transfixed on the Northeastern coast of the Arabian Peninsula. Current estimates expect nearly 1.5 million fans to follow their teams there, while 5 billion more are expected to tune in from across every continent.

From thirty-two countries they'll descend upon Qatar—squads from across the globe vying for a chance at ultimate glory. The Brazilians will be there donned in yellow with green trim and blue shorts, no doubt. The Argentinians, too, in their iconic light blue and white stripes. The Netherlands decked in orange. Croatia in their checkers. And while all team kits have yet to be officially released, everyone has a pretty good idea of what England, France, Mexico, Portugal, and Uruguay will look like once they hit the pitch. Each team will be armored and ready for battle in its classic colors and design. What about the United States Men's National Team (USMNT)?

After eight torturous years we're back on the world stage and ready to compete with a hungry young squad. We're feeling pretty damn good about our chances in the group, and the excitement keeps building as our first match against Wales draws nearer. So, what will we be wearing when we come face-to-face with the world's greatest teams? What have those geniuses at Nike designed for our grand return to the ball? Well, if the recent USMNT kit leaks are accurate, we'll be dressed up as fools. The home jersey is tragically dull and symbolic of nothing, while the away jersey is a blue tie-die surface of the moon monstrosity. So much for striking fear in the opponent's heart. How the hell do we expect to be taken seriously wearing that? Every sentient US fan, including the players themselves, hates these things. The leak has already inspired the circulation of Change.org petitions calling for a redesign. However, I'd find it justifiable if Nike were tried in criminal court for treason. 

For USMNT fans, punching our ticket to Qatar was a stressful event. After the heartache of failing to qualify for 2018, we didn't care how we got there—though we would've preferred not to have gotten dos-a-cero'ed by Costa Rica in our final qualifying match—we just needed to know we wouldn't be missing out again. And with the Cup coming to North America in 2026, we didn't want the only reason we're in the tournament to be because we're the ones hosting the party. We wanted to deserve to be there. It was do or die, and our boys pulled it off.

The 2022 World Cup was the perfect opportunity to establish a long-overdue jersey identity for US Soccer. Nike wouldn't even have had to look far for inspiration since the people have already spoken loudly and clearly about the obvious move in this department. The 2012 Waldos should be the defining template for our classic home jersey. Period. No other home jersey in recent history has commanded as much respect and screams "U-S-A" as this one, and no competition means more than the World Cup. 

This particular Cup also happens to come at a time when our national team players are kicking ass in some of the world's most prestigious leagues and clubs. Leeds United defeated Chelsea F.C. two days ago at Elland Road with a final score of 3-0. It was their first victory over The Blues in 22 years. They accomplished that feat with the help of three Americans—one scored the opening goal by pickpocketing the goalie, one was central in disrupting Chelsea's rhythm the whole match, and the other is the current team manager. For those not familiar with Premier League football and the promotion and relegation system, you should know that this is a huge deal.

In a post-match interview, Brendan Aaronson was asked what it meant to him personally and what it says regarding the talent in American football that US players are having success in England. "It just goes to show people around the world that Americans can play football too," he responded.

The USMNT means so much to so many. For me, there is no other team that means more. When those eleven players are on the pitch, nothing else matters. Politics, race, religion, gender, orientation, socio-economics—none of it. For those 90 minutes plus stoppage time, we leave our differences and disagreements behind and stand together as one. I’m talking genuine E Pluribus Unum shit here. This team transcends sport and deserves a kit worthy of what it represents.  

US soccer fans, let's send a message. Do not buy these jerseys. Wear an old one, make something yourself or buy a t-shirt if you must make a purchase, but do not buy these fucking jerseys. And when the next pandemic hits, Nike can assist by restocking grocery store shelves with a breathable recycled polyester toilet paper alternative.

2022 - ???

It’s probably safe to say that from now until doomsday 2020 will be the year we remember as fondly as an unsedated colonoscopy. So, imagine when I came to realize that for me 2020 was only the amuse-bouche of a dinner service featuring 20lbs of shit crammed into a 5lb bag as the main course called 2021.

The pandemic caused many of us to reevaluate our lives. We found ourselves analyzing our goals, values, and in large part how we wanted to spend whatever time we had left on this (or any other) planet. As a result, whether by choice or by force we all shifted in some way. Some changes were long-lasting while others proved to be temporary and soon reverted back to their pre-pandemic state. However, the biggest chunk of things most likely stayed the same and among them were some very important things—things we actually wanted to change. But as the dust settled, dulling the edge of our newfound impetus, we ended up placing the most enlightened of our epiphanies sheepishly back on the old dawdling shelf to once again be ignored.

As tragic as this past year was it served one key purpose; it demanded I reexamine my previous findings, drove me to dig even deeper for more, and spurred me to actually reprioritize my life in real actionable ways.

A year, a hyphen, and another year. That’s our life. We’re born, we die, and that hyphen in between represents our entire existence. If I’m successful in my efforts I’ll get some good quality miles out it. The best miles of my journey yet to come.

I suppose it makes sense that some good would come from such a dark and shitty time. After all, new life does sprout from the foulest manure. Happy New Year to all.

“It’s better to be the head of a chicken than the tail of a bull (phoenix)” -Chinese Proverb

宁做鸡头，不当凤尾

TONY: The Movie

In my world it didn’t get much cooler than Anthony Bourdain. His presence posed a direct threat to all the saccharine sweet, eager-to-please, yes-men and women clogging up the airwaves. Tony celebrated the unappreciated and overlooked. He was a champion for the strugglers, the downtrodden, the voiceless, and at the time of his passing there seemed to be somehow less hope in world. I genuinely felt that in his absence culture, travel, food, and frankly humanity would slip into a dark venal place without him to check the evildoers and balance the scales. His distinctive voice has been woefully missed.

While many know him (often exclusively) through his TV shows—phenomenal as they were—they are not his greatest work. That title belongs to the handful of books he left behind.

Fair reader, even if you should have an ambivalence toward food or have the palate of a glossectomy patient, I encourage you to read his books if only to bear witness to what masterful storytelling is like. I tell you, there is a special kind of joy to be experienced when a person who shares your inner most thoughts and vices puts them down on the page so damn eloquently; each sentence articulated in that unique voice of his studded with cigarette butts, charred meat and soaked in beer and punk rock.

When I first caught wind that a Bourdain film was in the works I was pissed. How dare someone make a film about Tony without consulting me? And didn't they know that I was writing the script for the movie based on his life? Who were these rotten opportunist bastards!? Then I found out it was a documentary and my anger abated – somewhat. This was precious subject matter we were dealing with. Then I discovered who was behind the production and I warmed to the idea even more.

Roadrunner: A Film About Anthony Bourdain opens in theaters across the US tomorrow. I’ve purposely stayed away from reading any comments or reviews about the film—I want to dive head first into whatever Morgan Neville has conceived. If done right many people will see a side of Tony they may not of known was there prior to the suicide unless they had been paying close attention. His body of work provided clues of his torment—his darkness. One of my absolute favorite writeups on Tony was this piece by Maria Bustillos in which she burrows deep into Tony’s psyche by way of his fictional literature. Bustillos manages to make just enough of an incision on the exoskeleton so as to allow the reader a peak into his fragmented soul. I read somewhere that Tony himself read the piece and thought it to be unnervingly too on point.

So what would’ve Tony thought if he knew there would one day be a documentary about his life? Well, he’d probably be somewhat embarrassed and tar and feather the notion with that classic self-deprecating humor of his: “How much did you spend on this film? Dude, bad investment.” Though Tony had a downright scholarly knowledge of film. He gushed over his favorite cinematographers, directors and scriptwriters. However, first and foremost he was an ardent cinephile. Something tells me that if Tony were secretly alive today he’d find his way into an old movie house—hoodie over his head, no popcorn—and like many of us, just hope to enjoy a good film.

Hey, Asshole. Who the F@#K You Calling Latinx?

Hear ye! Hear ye! Ye Corporations, Journalists, Professors, Politicians, and Wokesters! Lords, Ladies, and Non-binaries, hear me now! Stop, I repeat, STOP referring to me as Latinx. In fact, according to the Pew Research Center—and confirmed via very scientific polling of my own friends, family, and randoms across various social platforms approximate ages 8 to 73—stop calling anyone that cringingly ridiculous term. The overwhelming majority of us do not like it.

Interestingly, most folks and institutions that actively use Latinx to label a vast swath of people whose roots lie south of the U.S. border are not actually part of that swath. (Those who are mostly said they started using the term because they either “thought that’s what we were doing now” or they thought the “x” sounded cool. That’s right, much less René Descartes and much more 90s throwback.) Now, I acknowledge that in their minds these non-Latin Americans are probably just using what social media has told them is a much more politically correct and inclusive term for us, but they need only untether themselves from their devices and actually mingle with the people to realize they’ve missed the mark with this one. When a resounding 97% of the people you’re trying to identify either don’t know, don’t like, or prefer not to use the label you’re forcing upon them then perhaps you should reconsider. Otherwise, with each utterance of the word you reveal that either a) you don’t understand and care to learn how Spanish actually works or b) you’re purposely being a patronizing self-righteous dick. Now see, at least I gave you a choice. Regardless of whether good or ill intent drives you, cultural ignorance and a lack of respect is the product. But let’s give you the benefit of the doubt and accept a plea of well-intentioned denseness on your part. Consider this your edification.

Spanish is a beautiful language with gendered nouns. Not only do people and names have genders, places and things do too, and utilizing this grammatical characteristic and other linguistic word-specific traits are what makes Spanish so rich, poetic, and romantic. It is unsettlingly weird that mostly non-Spanish speakers would deem it their right to hijack a language with over twelve centuries of history and attempt to make it gender-neutral in a way that isn’t even pronounceable in Spanish.

Respecting culture and advocating for diversity mean something to you, does it? Then how about not anglicizing my parent’s language—a gift they gave me when they decided that despite the potential for discrimination they would run a Spanish-speaking household to raise bilingual children. Ask any immigrant, descendent of immigrants, or person with ties to their ancestral country of origin how difficult it is to conserve a language outside of the motherland. It won’t be long until you find a grandmother who can’t even ask her grandchild—eyes glazed over by their mind-sludging tablet—how their day at school went. Besides, here’s a newsflash for you, “Latino” is already an inclusive term, something you would know if, again, you actually understood the language and culture.

Despite “Latino” and “Latina” referring to male and female genders, “o” is also utilized in Spanish to refer to a collective group. The word Latino already encompasses men, women, and those in any other category. If as a non-Spanish speaker you find this concept hard to grasp then just think about the word “human.” Humans, as in homo sapiens sapiens, are the species of primates we all belong to—man, woman, or neither. Now, how many people do you see fighting a battle against the word “human” because it has the word “man” in it? Does anyone seriously think we need to incorporate huwoman, or better yet hux, into our lexicon? Well this Latinx bull hovers in that same ludicrous space. Except in this case it applies to a specific minority group who find the term to be stupid, disrespectful, and unnecessary. Yet still it gains traction.

Look, if as an indigenous person, mestizo or Latin American of European descendent—especially one that identifies as non-binary or gender non-conforming—one chooses to be called Latinx over Latino, Hispanic, or Latin American that’s fine. It’s an opt-in if desired kind of deal. But that label shouldn’t be forced upon all of us. For those of us who take pride in our heritage Latinx is just another condescending example of the pseudo-enlightened force-feeding us what it thinks is best for our own ignorant sake. (Or at the very least blindly perpetuating a narrative without considering the larger affected populace.) That used to be the domain of a particular wing of our nation’s two-party system, but as an individual who adamantly resists mental colonization from both ends of the ideological spectrum I can tell you that neither side has a monopoly on being overconfident and clueless. Just think for a moment of the incongruence between the purported values of those who advocate for the exclusive use of this label for the entirety of a people and the alleged championing of multiculturalism.

No amount of misguided attempted moral extortion is going to convince me that my parent’s language isn’t sufficiently adequate and in need of an overhaul; particularly when it’s coming from such an uninformed place and peddled mostly by an indifferent lot. We live in a diverse world with different ideas, values, and perspectives. Organizations are committing to greater diversity and inclusion now more than ever. Now call me crazy, but I don’t consider it very inclusive to have one identity come at the expense of another. So to the initial set of parties addressed at the onset, in case you thought we didn’t care I want this to be absolutely clear—we do. So stop, pendejos.

My Father's Keeper

Even now my dad looks so handsome to me. It makes sense as I see him lying in bed clean-shaven, eyes closed with his comfy black shirt on why some members of the family came to call him the Mexican Pierce Brosnan (Jack Nicholson in his younger days)—a nickname he would greet with a coy affiliative smile, but one I’m sure made him feel pretty damn cool. He’s completely bedridden now. The massive tumor compressing his spine spanning five vertebrae made sure of that—a final departing blow delivered before being ripped out. And while his frame has withered significantly, his hands—listless and balmy as they are now—seem as huge as ever, full of a concealed vigor and strength that could hammer a stubborn brake rotor off its wheel studs at any moment. “You have piano player hands,” my dad would tell me (he’d say the same to my sister). “But they’re big and strong too, I can tell.” Though I often hold his hand in hopes of transmitting some sort of comfort his girthy mitt still somehow seems to be holding and protecting mine.

Diffuse Large B-Cell Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma—that, we would come to learn, was the name of the demon that took residence inside my father’s body when the diagnosis was made official in April of 2020. It’s news no one ever wants to hear, but for obvious reasons the timing could not have been worse. And after six grueling rounds of week-long PICC line-delivered chemotherapy treatment, cytarabine lumbar injections, an additional round of chemo, targeted radiation, and a very invasive spinal surgery to remove a rogue metastatic tumor all during a time of overrun medical facilities with highly restrictive no-visitors-allowed policies, in-home hospice is where his journey has led him.

For those unfortunate enough to have personal experience guiding a loved one through hospice this will come as no surprise, but for those who haven’t gone through the ride I’ll just say this up front: this die-at-home stuff is absolute misery manifested.

Of course, each family’s home hospice experience will depend on several factors (e.g. type of illness, presence of comorbidities, mobility limitations, people available to help out, etc.), but all roads will invariably lead to the same destination.

Dying at home is quite an appealing concept. To pass away in your bedroom surrounded by loved ones while a team of medical staff and palliative care professionals provide daily in-person checkups, medications, and the equipment you’ll need to expire with “dignity” sounds wonderful, right? In reality it’s a front-row seat to your family member’s painful and tragic decline. It’s a journey down an abyss of physical agony and powerful opioid-induced confusion that, whether you’re religious or not, leaves you wishing for some sort of divine power to grant an act of mercy.

Experiencing this devolution firsthand I really cannot blame anyone for placing their loved one in an inpatient hospice facility. But that was never going to be an option for us. Despite our best efforts we never did manage to find a caregiver to help lighten the load during the early days and it made no sense to continue searching after a while. There are a whole lotta tasks family caregivers find themselves providing that don’t exactly fit within those 30-45 minutes that the hospice nurse is on location so it would’ve been really nice to have had an extra pair of hands. There very likely will be irreparable yet to fully be determined battle scars left on all of us, but as my father nears his final days I’m glad now that it was my siblings, mother and I that cared for him. At times of alertness he’d thank us for everything we were doing. Even now through the thick veil of his suffering this appreciation is clear.

One thought this experience has brought to the forefront of my mind and embedded itself deep within me is the obvious fact that we’re all going to die someday. And unless you’re lucky this is what death looks like. I simply do not have the emotional bandwidth at the moment to process that my mother too is mortal. So, she’ll just have to live a hundred more years and in turn I’ll make sure to hug her tighter, kiss her more often and tell her I love her every single day.

By the way, my father is the biggest advocate for Moms I have ever known. He cherished my grandmother and he would often say: “Nadie en este mundo te va querer como tu mama. Ella te trajo a este mundo. Cuidala. Apreciala. Porque como la madre, solo hay una.” Rough translation to make sense in English: “No one in this world is going to love you like your mother does. She brought you into this world so take care of her and appreciate her because in this life there’s nothing that can compare to a mother’s love.”  You’re absolutely right, dad. And it takes one hell of a man to know it.

Note: This was written on Monday, March 1, 2021 as I sat by my father’s bedside. I planned to go on, but shortly after finishing the last sentence with one hand—the other was always holding my dad’s—my father began to draw his last breaths. I called out to my mother and she rushed into the room. We both held on to him as he gently passed away at about 12:34pm.

The last 36 hours have been beyond draining and emotional so I’ll have to save my eulogy for a later time. Maybe a different forum. Perhaps my journal. But I love you dad. You were the best father a son could ever have and if I’m a good man today it’s because you taught me how to be one. I needed you here for a few more decades. I wanted to hear more stories about what your life was like when you were young. I wanted you to be around for so many important milestones that were further down the road. We were so fortunate to have you, but this wasn’t how it was supposed to end. Perhaps the one who said it best was my 9-year-old niece: “I love grandpa, he can’t be gone. I didn’t just want him to be here when I was little. I needed him to be here when I was big too.” I know, baby. We all did. I miss you dearly and the pain right now is just a bit too much to bear so I’ll have to leave it at that. It’s just past 12:30am now so I’m going to bed, pop. I’ll be seeing you in my dreams. Please visit me often.   

Thanksgiving Prayer 2020

A Thanksgiving prayer delivered by the inimitable William Burroughs 34 years ago fit for an annus horribilis.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

Mountains From Molehills: LA TACO v. Carnitas El Momo

Skimming through my twitter feed last week, having settled into a comfortable disposition for a little bathroom reading, an article from LA TACO put a hard stop to my scrolling thumbs. ‘THIS IS BIGGER THAN CARNITAS:’ How an ‘All Lives Matter’ post by El Momo underscores deep-rooted anti-Blackness, read the title. Say what? Beyond troubling, I found the possibility that one of LA’s best and most beloved taco slingers was propagating racism extremely disappointing on a personal level. I mean I’d thrown down my share of tacos from El Momo and my experience had consistently been nothing short of superb; each visit akin to stopping by a neighbor’s house to score a plate from an oversupplied family party. While most customers definitely tended to be of Mexican descent, I witnessed people of all shades and socio-economic backgrounds get temporarily adopted by the Momo family, first with a welcoming smile then with steaming chunks of freshly chopped pork. Standing in line the only apparent distinguishing factor between customers was whether they ordered in English or Spanish, and even then that distinction quickly dematerialized once even the bro-iest of frat bros (likely wandered over from USC) managed to utter a mangled “con todo” as the capstone to his order. For me, and so far as I could tell everyone else, a trip to Carnitas El Momo had as much to do with the folksiness as it did with the food. “What could I have missed? Could I have been so blind?” I thought to myself. So of course, I clicked the link, but no sooner had I finished the article than I was viscerally pissed off. It turned out my commode-ious setting could not have been more appropriate because I had just finished reading a load of shit.

So, let’s get a little contextual background. The article centers around the actions of one Juan Carlos Acosta, alias Billy, who along with other members of the family and a crew of carnita mercenaries operate Carnitas El Momo. In the article Billy is accused of perpetuating ignorance, anti-Blackness and racism. The evidence for these crimes breaks down into three main sins which are (i) defending the “good” cops, (ii) requesting people include #BrownLivesMatter in their posts, and (iii) the use of #AllLivesMatter on more than one occasion, doubling down on the justification for its usage via callow battles in the comments. Also, bringing up the attacks on Hispanics by young black individuals as the story quotes was unfortunate given the timing and arguably displayed poor taste.

All right, this is certain, Billy committed some major faux-pas here, particularly in the light of recent events. Put another way, the dude fucked up. For many, the murder of George Floyd at the hands of Minneapolis policeman Derek Chauvin was the final blow in a sustained barrage of mistreatment and egregious disparities the black community has been contending with since the 17th century. There is simply no excuse for this kind of inequality in the richest and most powerful country in the history of the world. And regardless of one’s personal views and agenda, the days and weeks following the chorus of black voices telling the powers that be that enough is enough should have, in my mind, not have come with any pork-barrel addendums. The floor and the focus were theirs; it was all hands on deck for black lives and not a time to ride coattails. Throughout history the black community has carried a massively disproportionate burden on its shoulders. But against a system that has continuously tried to push them down, they rise. And as they’ve risen, they have always brought the rest of us up with them. The civil rights movement not only ended segregation and banned discrimination based on race, color, religion, sex or national origin, it helped pave the way for every individual seen as ‘the other’ to live a life with dignity and respect. In this vein the article brings up valid points regarding police brutality and the importance of supporting our black friends, family and neighbors in their fight especially during this crucial time.

Now the central point of the story is that anti-blackness is a common sentiment among Latino communities. There’s truth in this assertion as racial discrimination among segments of the larger Latino population against blacks certainly exists. In fact, discrimination against dark-skinned individuals in general has a long and sordid history within the culture as it does in many parts of the world. As with all discriminatory behavior based on racial and ethnic identity, it should not be tolerated. However, where I start to take contention with the narrative of the article is how it chooses to paint Billy, and by association Carnitas El Momo, as the embodiment of this behavior. As previously established, the guy made some boneheaded mistakes, but to conflate his actions with the perpetuation of anti-blackness and racism is not only an absurd non sequitur, but unprofessional, irresponsible and borderline dangerous for a publication with LA TACO’s reach to run with. First off, let those allegations sink in for a while. Did it not register with anyone, particularly the editors, how lofty those accusations were? Compounding the disappointment, the author acknowledges that the subject did not know the origins of All Lives Matter, cites his clarifications and apologies, and yet still continues to pen what is tantamount to a takedown. Now I’m not a religious man, but like Jules Winnfield there’s this passage I’ve memorized from the Good Book that sort of fits this occasion. Chances are you know it too. It’s John 8:7 which in modern-speak would translate to “Let the person who is without sin cast the first stone.” The writer…she heedlessly hurled a damn boulder. 

The assumptions and accusations that the article’s author draws from a string of ignorant acts on social media are either indicative of a malfunction in her racism detector, frontal lobe, or are intentionally and carelessly pernicious. Either way the article is demonstrative of the imprecision, bad faith argumentation, hypocrisy, foolish opinion piece(s) and defenestration on social media that is antithetical to the long form conversations that are necessary to bring about constructive change and reform. Hypocritical because the author fails to grant the empathy the subject is implicitly accused of lacking. From what I gather Billy is a proud East LA resident who serves his community and has worked his ass off to earn a living and bring honor to his clan. He’s clearly not a PR professional, he’s a cook from the hood, proud of it and so of course he’s going to speak in the patois he’s accustomed to. However, to twist and weaponize his words in a feckless piece that drags the business that bears his father's name through the mud—now that’s “wack. [sic]” Remember, there are actual racists in our country. So, ask yourself, do you really think this guy is one of those racists? Actually, let’s lessen the threshold for guilt. After reading the article, do you come to the same conclusion as the author and believe that Carnitas El Momo is indeed perpetuating racism? Because if the answer is anything less than a clear and resounding “YES” then this article amounts to nothing more than a glorified Yelp review.

Minorities have a long history of struggle in our country and the fight for progress is something that unites us all. It should be noted that Black and Brown people in particular have a long history of working together to fight for equality and against white supremacy. The Chicano Movement for example, which had its origins in Los Angeles, was directly influenced by the Black Power movement. In the 1960’s and 1970’s, Blacks and Latinos collaborated and formed a united front against racism and discrimination. It’s important to remember this history as recent events stoke the flames of hatred and attempt to divide us. We must not falter and allow for them to succeed in doing so. But this article was not a groundbreaking piece highlighting the cultural fissures and gaps between minorities. This was the product of someone fishing hard for a story and choosing to make an example out of a business by accusing them of felonies and high crimes when the evidence shows nothing more than proof of being ignorant in public. Let us never hold back on calling out real offenders, and let’s not strengthen the adversary by unnecessarily making enemies out of allies.