10/30/2006
Happy Halloween, all my ghoulies. Hummingbird managed to stay #1 on the San Francisco best seller list this week. Had a great visit to Salt Lake City. In spite of my recent dust-up with the Idiotic Front on the radio, the crowd was kind and attentive, and I got to visit the Urreas to boot. Got home and raked leaves. I have a mysterious and sexy lifestyle. Back to SF this week, and I'll write you a better blog when I get back. Adios, L
The Doggie Ate His Homework
10/25/2006
If you were unfortunate enough to be in the Salt Lake City area yesterday, you might have heard me on city mayor Rocky Anderson's show getting it on with a quasi-Minuteman named Mr. Hatch.
If you missed the big shew, let me fill you in on the hilarity. As you might know, SLC chose The Devil's Highway for its all-city read program (like San Francisco, everybody tries to read the same book.) You probably also know from previous posts that I'm tired of that book--if only because cities like Phoenix have to send detectives with Glocks on their belts to watch over my readings in case nutbags like Mr. Hatch show up gunnin' for the commie, beaner-lovin', America-hatin', defeatocrat writer. So, you know, it was lovely talking to Mayor Rocky. He's a real gentleman, and he knows the book inside and out. And fellow guests were informed and, as all Americans should be, concerned about the border situation--all sides of it. Including the poor downtrodden who die slowly, sentenced to grisly fates because they want to fry up your Biggie combo at Burger King. Don't get me started. And then, Mr. Hatch showed up.
Like many of the really het-up patroits, he started off trying to sound reasonable. But he couldn't contain himself. He started yelling, and started throwing the usual accusations: welfare chselers! Third world scum! As soon as he called me "people like you," I knew we had crossed the line into the standard I-wanna-kill-yo-mama-and-all-yo-offspring Aryanist babble. Foolish me, in my general role of mediator and pastor to America, I was trying to concede points about the Minutemen's agenda--my usual ass-kissing about how it's not a crime to worry about the security of your country, about how the issue is one of honoring existing laws, about...whatever. Like, whatever. I was working myself up to the crow-eating announcement that Minutemen had, in fact, shown great restraint in dealing with "illegals," and had in fact saved a couple of lives and given food and water to walkers. But I didn't have to! Because Hatch was so wound up in his hatchet job that it became farce. It was like a Monty Python routine where some mad middle class fellow goes on a rampage, spitting invective that escalates to true hysteria. People like me? I started to laugh. He really got mad when I laughed. But it was hilarious.
Yeah, he suggested I was some Amrica-hater. I was seeking sympathy for, for, for--THEM. I never did anything in Mexico to help alleviate the situation, just criticized the US of A! I coudn't stop laughing. I wish he'd been with me ever since, oh, 1978, to see how long I have struggled to improve the situation! Wish he'd been there to pay my bills, and to cover my endless rounds of illness from, oh you know, working in the Tijuana garbage dumps to help them stay there and not come here. Mr. Hatch! Stop it, you're killing me! Or do I mean you'd like to kill me. At least grease some greasers. Finally, the Mayor couldn't stand it any longer and cried, "Mr. Hatch--have you even read this book?" Our hero sputtered. Mind you, he's a school teacher. He reverted to the greatest bullshit 14 year old excuse which all us parents have heard--"I, uh, I, well, skimmed it. But a friend read it!" Oh no! The doggie ate his homework! How could you not laugh? Then he started to explain that the book was just more pro-Mex anti-US lefty propaganda. Wrong. Like Joan Didion, I am a political agnostic--I write Goddy propaganda.
I managed to say, "You are so wrong about my book." Then I asked him, "Have you ever been to Mexico?" The death-knell. "I've been to Tijuana! Once." I started to laugh again. "I've been to Bell Gardens (California). That's Mexico!!!" he cried. Uh-huh. Nuff sed.
Rocky, Baby--be sure there are good coppers in the hall Saturday night. The right wingers are mad at me because I'm concerned about the Mexicans; raza is mad at me because I am too warm to the border patrol; coyotes are mad at me because I revealed too many of their secrets. Fortunatley, the New World Order, the Bilderbergers, the Tri-Lateral Commission, and the Anti-Christ are all on my side.
.
Plus I got some signed books from Mick Foley! Wrestlers. My peeps!
People like me aren't the ones who threaten to harm writers, or suggest in cowardly anonymous emails that my children are tainted. People like me don't make racially based threats to other people. If these mysterious others, these people-not-like-me are full of love of country--I agree with Mr Hatch that this is the best country on earth...after all, it lets crackpots like us run around spouting our absurdities without sending death squads to silence us--check it out: I live here, duh, and I ain't leaving--why do they spin into hate and rage so easily? I wonder if you boys making threats would say that stuff to Pancho Villa? No, people like me pray for their enemies, though I'm praying to the Old Testament God, that scary one in the whirlwind who sends down rains of fire to burn the wicked because I'm getting sick of the stinging red other cheek
All you need is love, love--love is all you need. Oh, I forgot, John Lennon got shot in the head.
See ya, Luis
We're # 1
If you missed the big shew, let me fill you in on the hilarity. As you might know, SLC chose The Devil's Highway for its all-city read program (like San Francisco, everybody tries to read the same book.) You probably also know from previous posts that I'm tired of that book--if only because cities like Phoenix have to send detectives with Glocks on their belts to watch over my readings in case nutbags like Mr. Hatch show up gunnin' for the commie, beaner-lovin', America-hatin', defeatocrat writer. So, you know, it was lovely talking to Mayor Rocky. He's a real gentleman, and he knows the book inside and out. And fellow guests were informed and, as all Americans should be, concerned about the border situation--all sides of it. Including the poor downtrodden who die slowly, sentenced to grisly fates because they want to fry up your Biggie combo at Burger King. Don't get me started. And then, Mr. Hatch showed up.
Like many of the really het-up patroits, he started off trying to sound reasonable. But he couldn't contain himself. He started yelling, and started throwing the usual accusations: welfare chselers! Third world scum! As soon as he called me "people like you," I knew we had crossed the line into the standard I-wanna-kill-yo-mama-and-all-yo-offspring Aryanist babble. Foolish me, in my general role of mediator and pastor to America, I was trying to concede points about the Minutemen's agenda--my usual ass-kissing about how it's not a crime to worry about the security of your country, about how the issue is one of honoring existing laws, about...whatever. Like, whatever. I was working myself up to the crow-eating announcement that Minutemen had, in fact, shown great restraint in dealing with "illegals," and had in fact saved a couple of lives and given food and water to walkers. But I didn't have to! Because Hatch was so wound up in his hatchet job that it became farce. It was like a Monty Python routine where some mad middle class fellow goes on a rampage, spitting invective that escalates to true hysteria. People like me? I started to laugh. He really got mad when I laughed. But it was hilarious.
Yeah, he suggested I was some Amrica-hater. I was seeking sympathy for, for, for--THEM. I never did anything in Mexico to help alleviate the situation, just criticized the US of A! I coudn't stop laughing. I wish he'd been with me ever since, oh, 1978, to see how long I have struggled to improve the situation! Wish he'd been there to pay my bills, and to cover my endless rounds of illness from, oh you know, working in the Tijuana garbage dumps to help them stay there and not come here. Mr. Hatch! Stop it, you're killing me! Or do I mean you'd like to kill me. At least grease some greasers. Finally, the Mayor couldn't stand it any longer and cried, "Mr. Hatch--have you even read this book?" Our hero sputtered. Mind you, he's a school teacher. He reverted to the greatest bullshit 14 year old excuse which all us parents have heard--"I, uh, I, well, skimmed it. But a friend read it!" Oh no! The doggie ate his homework! How could you not laugh? Then he started to explain that the book was just more pro-Mex anti-US lefty propaganda. Wrong. Like Joan Didion, I am a political agnostic--I write Goddy propaganda.
I managed to say, "You are so wrong about my book." Then I asked him, "Have you ever been to Mexico?" The death-knell. "I've been to Tijuana! Once." I started to laugh again. "I've been to Bell Gardens (California). That's Mexico!!!" he cried. Uh-huh. Nuff sed.
Rocky, Baby--be sure there are good coppers in the hall Saturday night. The right wingers are mad at me because I'm concerned about the Mexicans; raza is mad at me because I am too warm to the border patrol; coyotes are mad at me because I revealed too many of their secrets. Fortunatley, the New World Order, the Bilderbergers, the Tri-Lateral Commission, and the Anti-Christ are all on my side.
.
Plus I got some signed books from Mick Foley! Wrestlers. My peeps!
People like me aren't the ones who threaten to harm writers, or suggest in cowardly anonymous emails that my children are tainted. People like me don't make racially based threats to other people. If these mysterious others, these people-not-like-me are full of love of country--I agree with Mr Hatch that this is the best country on earth...after all, it lets crackpots like us run around spouting our absurdities without sending death squads to silence us--check it out: I live here, duh, and I ain't leaving--why do they spin into hate and rage so easily? I wonder if you boys making threats would say that stuff to Pancho Villa? No, people like me pray for their enemies, though I'm praying to the Old Testament God, that scary one in the whirlwind who sends down rains of fire to burn the wicked because I'm getting sick of the stinging red other cheek
All you need is love, love--love is all you need. Oh, I forgot, John Lennon got shot in the head.
See ya, Luis
10/23/2006
After hovering around the top of the San Francisco best seller lists for six weeks, Hummingbird reached #1 this weekend. Good stuff. But more important--tonight at the Naperville North High School marching band banquet, Eric got the Marching Huskie of the Year award! Our boy, drum god and sex symbol of the band. Cinderella was crying. Megan, in classic little sister mode, was embarrassed: "Mom! You're crying!" she accused. So it's a good week for Eric and me both. Now I have to go to bed. Day job tomorrow. See you in Salt Lake City this weekend, and back in SF the following week. And a big shout-out to my friends at Thurgood Marshall School--hope you're all doing well! Good night, y'all. L
Urrea Family News--RIP
10/21/2006
Sad news from cousin Julia in Salt Lake City (of the Alamos clan). Her husband, Tim Walker, has passed away after much struggle. Tim was a big (very) tough motorcycle riding man. He went through much suffering with chronic illnesses. But he's finally at peace. If you think of it, send some positive thoughts to Julia Urrea Walker and her family.
Limos, Fistfights and Hotel Breakfasts
10/19/2006
Book Tour Breakfast Haiku:
Hotel Monaco, San Francisco
This morning I spent
Thirty-three U.S. dollars:
Special K, coffee.
Here at home, it's gray and cold--before the sun came up, the falling leaves were ghosty and gray. Now the grass almost looks like it's burning--yellow, red, orange leaves. San Francisco, a week with strangers. A week in my favorite hotel. Rock and roll fans will be happy to know that The Kings of Leon were there, too. Checked in under wacky pop-movie names, though I can't imagine hordes of fans were calling around town asking for the Followills. Maybe, The Kings? I stayed right in the heart of the Tenderloin, and I was again impressed that you never know what you're going to see in SF. And I don't mean the lumberjack-looking big man in the skin-tight black mini-dress. I mean the woman with the runny nose rushing by who wiped her finger under her nose, then licked it.
Big shout-outs to my friends at Powell High! Big ups to my good pals at the job corps facility on Treasue Island! As-salaam-aleikum to my limo driver Waheed! Limo driver? Me? You know, I used to wonder who the guy in the limo was. Turns out, it's me. It's me, me in the limo, me on the jet, me in the $33 bowl of cereal hotel. How did this happen?
So I did a gig near the end of the week at Cody's, down on Stockton near the great cable car station at Powell and Market. On the way there, two lovely young women were looking in an art gallery window, and a man stormed up to them--not even a homeless-looking guy, just a middle aged guy in a button-down shirt--and he yelled, "Enjoy the art, you fucking Nazis!" At the gig, we had a pleasant time talking about Hummingbird. Lots of questions. Someone told me she could really tell the first half of the book was written by a man. I wanted to ask--did you think the second half was written by a woman? Then it was over and I was walking up the hill to Geary when I heard screaming and shouting. I looked around the corner, not able to ever tear myself away from street madness, and there was a guy getting beat down by two other guys. I had no idea what was going on--they smacked him down and jumped on his back, and he was yelling "Help! Help me!" We all froze and stared. Then a third guy, just as I started across the street to--I don't know what, what was I going to do, say "Excuse me" or was I going to wade in?--ran up with a metal object in his fist and dove onto the prone guy and reached around from behind, and I thought: Oh crap, they're cutting his throat. But it was handcuffs. They picked him up and ran him face-first into the wall a couple of times, then perp-walked him across the street and unlocked a door in the side of a big store and ran him inside.
I stood there all jittery with the violencia vibe. This guy walked up to me and said, "Quite a production, huh?" I said "Yeah! What was that all about?" He said, "I don't know. You wanna sign my book?" and pulled out my stuff for an autograph.
Mostly, I was alone, feeling lost. Walking into scores of venues where I didn't know anybody, and I didn't know what I was doing. Most folks were nice, no question. But it's a strange day when all your relations are strangers, all the faces you look into are either gathered to gawk or expecting a tip. I always hated those songs where the rocker tells you how eerie and weary it is "on the road." That "on a steel horse I ride" stuff. But I'm learning it really does do a strange thing to your head. You go somewhere inexplicable. It all srats to feel like some bizarre theater piece where everything is just painted on a canvas flat, and the walkers around you are extras. And you are just a fluttering projection on a tattered screen.
On the other hand, I used to scrub toilets for a living. I'll take this.
Ahead, one more SF swing, Guadalajara, Salt Lake City, Yuma, a couple of Chicago gigs. Then good ol' Christmas, and I'll hide under quilts with my beloved and stare out at the approaching new year like a suspicious marmot.
Waiting for the cab to get to the airport. A woman walked up to me and said, "There you are!" I looked over my shoulder. It was me she was talking to. "Going home already?" A fan! Are you kidding me? People know me on the street?
Here's a secret nobody knew: the night before I left for SF, I was flossing, and my crown broke out of my mouth and fell off. I did the whole week with a big evil hole in my jaw. Somebody give me a gold star for being a Good Citizen this week!
See you out there, homies--Luis
Fall
Hotel Monaco, San Francisco
This morning I spent
Thirty-three U.S. dollars:
Special K, coffee.
Here at home, it's gray and cold--before the sun came up, the falling leaves were ghosty and gray. Now the grass almost looks like it's burning--yellow, red, orange leaves. San Francisco, a week with strangers. A week in my favorite hotel. Rock and roll fans will be happy to know that The Kings of Leon were there, too. Checked in under wacky pop-movie names, though I can't imagine hordes of fans were calling around town asking for the Followills. Maybe, The Kings? I stayed right in the heart of the Tenderloin, and I was again impressed that you never know what you're going to see in SF. And I don't mean the lumberjack-looking big man in the skin-tight black mini-dress. I mean the woman with the runny nose rushing by who wiped her finger under her nose, then licked it.
Big shout-outs to my friends at Powell High! Big ups to my good pals at the job corps facility on Treasue Island! As-salaam-aleikum to my limo driver Waheed! Limo driver? Me? You know, I used to wonder who the guy in the limo was. Turns out, it's me. It's me, me in the limo, me on the jet, me in the $33 bowl of cereal hotel. How did this happen?
So I did a gig near the end of the week at Cody's, down on Stockton near the great cable car station at Powell and Market. On the way there, two lovely young women were looking in an art gallery window, and a man stormed up to them--not even a homeless-looking guy, just a middle aged guy in a button-down shirt--and he yelled, "Enjoy the art, you fucking Nazis!" At the gig, we had a pleasant time talking about Hummingbird. Lots of questions. Someone told me she could really tell the first half of the book was written by a man. I wanted to ask--did you think the second half was written by a woman? Then it was over and I was walking up the hill to Geary when I heard screaming and shouting. I looked around the corner, not able to ever tear myself away from street madness, and there was a guy getting beat down by two other guys. I had no idea what was going on--they smacked him down and jumped on his back, and he was yelling "Help! Help me!" We all froze and stared. Then a third guy, just as I started across the street to--I don't know what, what was I going to do, say "Excuse me" or was I going to wade in?--ran up with a metal object in his fist and dove onto the prone guy and reached around from behind, and I thought: Oh crap, they're cutting his throat. But it was handcuffs. They picked him up and ran him face-first into the wall a couple of times, then perp-walked him across the street and unlocked a door in the side of a big store and ran him inside.
I stood there all jittery with the violencia vibe. This guy walked up to me and said, "Quite a production, huh?" I said "Yeah! What was that all about?" He said, "I don't know. You wanna sign my book?" and pulled out my stuff for an autograph.
Mostly, I was alone, feeling lost. Walking into scores of venues where I didn't know anybody, and I didn't know what I was doing. Most folks were nice, no question. But it's a strange day when all your relations are strangers, all the faces you look into are either gathered to gawk or expecting a tip. I always hated those songs where the rocker tells you how eerie and weary it is "on the road." That "on a steel horse I ride" stuff. But I'm learning it really does do a strange thing to your head. You go somewhere inexplicable. It all srats to feel like some bizarre theater piece where everything is just painted on a canvas flat, and the walkers around you are extras. And you are just a fluttering projection on a tattered screen.
On the other hand, I used to scrub toilets for a living. I'll take this.
Ahead, one more SF swing, Guadalajara, Salt Lake City, Yuma, a couple of Chicago gigs. Then good ol' Christmas, and I'll hide under quilts with my beloved and stare out at the approaching new year like a suspicious marmot.
Waiting for the cab to get to the airport. A woman walked up to me and said, "There you are!" I looked over my shoulder. It was me she was talking to. "Going home already?" A fan! Are you kidding me? People know me on the street?
Here's a secret nobody knew: the night before I left for SF, I was flossing, and my crown broke out of my mouth and fell off. I did the whole week with a big evil hole in my jaw. Somebody give me a gold star for being a Good Citizen this week!
See you out there, homies--Luis
10/05/2006
The smallest trees are turning yellow. Our old yellow family blanket has reappeared--it smells like dogs now, and it has a few fang holes, but it's warm. Ah, Fall. Here again. My favorite season. Perhaps it's my favorite because it makes me so sad. My first real autumns were in New England, and if you've got to go from San Diego fall (brown) to another fall, go to Boston. I had never seen anything like it. The way the light slanted, the trees ignited, the air cooled, the river turned gray and choppy. I have never felt so alone in my life, or so happy. Somehow, the sorrow and the silence of that first fall fed my soul.
Now, as you know, I'm living on planes and in hotels. I couldn't have dreamed of this back in the poverty days. Well, I could have, and did. But I thought Motel 8 was way out of my league. When I first stayed in a Four Seasons, some of my degenrate friends came to the room and took pictures of the "hospitality mini-bar." Nobody could believe it.
an Francisco and DC were good trips. I got to meet Anna Quindlen, and that was great. She's very cool. As nice as any author you could hope to meet. I also met the mad mystery master David Corbett. I often tell you I'm more of a fan than an author, and that's how it was for me. In DC I did some stuff for PEN/Faulkner with Ana Menendez. At the genteel and impressive power-party, guys were whispering in my ear, "Those people are with the CIA!" etc. My life of intrigue. Everybody in the room except me apparently knew Dick Cheney and Bill Clinton. Alan Cheuse was the delightful host at the end--taking us to a wonderful late supper with vino and good talk, and I just sat there thinking, Well, I'm the guy from Clairemont High School.
Home to my fam and the dogs, the chilly (and because of this friendly) cat. Back to my classes--I love my students. And my friend Mike Poage and I have been trading poems. There's another guy knuckling down for fall and winter.
Cold, cold, cold is coming.
What I'm listening to. We mere mortals await a new Atomic Bitchwax album with fear and trembling. But until then, I have been reconnecting with my old boy-wonder prog rock interests. Listening--a lot--to the awesome new Ozric Tentacles album. And I get chills from the amazing band called The Frost. A little closer to earth, I was stoked to the max to get the new Gran Silencio cd...and I just can't stop listening to Dylan. The old man is crazy, scary and as happy as a devil. What I'm reading. Oh yes. Tom McGuane's stories are astounding and sweet. Cormac McDeath, er McCarthy, has written the end of the world, and I love it. I'm having the great delight of teaching Joan Didion, and I'm wandering through her landscapes again, wondering how they got so good. Reading poems. Not as much as when I am in full writing fever, but I read a few every day. On the mystery front, I'm in shock and awe over Greg Hurwitz--a rock star. And I'm waiting for my pal Corbett's books to get here. Is there anything better than a good mystery book on a cold fall night? Well, maybe one thing, but we've got that covered, too.
Now, as you know, I'm living on planes and in hotels. I couldn't have dreamed of this back in the poverty days. Well, I could have, and did. But I thought Motel 8 was way out of my league. When I first stayed in a Four Seasons, some of my degenrate friends came to the room and took pictures of the "hospitality mini-bar." Nobody could believe it.
an Francisco and DC were good trips. I got to meet Anna Quindlen, and that was great. She's very cool. As nice as any author you could hope to meet. I also met the mad mystery master David Corbett. I often tell you I'm more of a fan than an author, and that's how it was for me. In DC I did some stuff for PEN/Faulkner with Ana Menendez. At the genteel and impressive power-party, guys were whispering in my ear, "Those people are with the CIA!" etc. My life of intrigue. Everybody in the room except me apparently knew Dick Cheney and Bill Clinton. Alan Cheuse was the delightful host at the end--taking us to a wonderful late supper with vino and good talk, and I just sat there thinking, Well, I'm the guy from Clairemont High School.
Home to my fam and the dogs, the chilly (and because of this friendly) cat. Back to my classes--I love my students. And my friend Mike Poage and I have been trading poems. There's another guy knuckling down for fall and winter.
Cold, cold, cold is coming.
What I'm listening to. We mere mortals await a new Atomic Bitchwax album with fear and trembling. But until then, I have been reconnecting with my old boy-wonder prog rock interests. Listening--a lot--to the awesome new Ozric Tentacles album. And I get chills from the amazing band called The Frost. A little closer to earth, I was stoked to the max to get the new Gran Silencio cd...and I just can't stop listening to Dylan. The old man is crazy, scary and as happy as a devil. What I'm reading. Oh yes. Tom McGuane's stories are astounding and sweet. Cormac McDeath, er McCarthy, has written the end of the world, and I love it. I'm having the great delight of teaching Joan Didion, and I'm wandering through her landscapes again, wondering how they got so good. Reading poems. Not as much as when I am in full writing fever, but I read a few every day. On the mystery front, I'm in shock and awe over Greg Hurwitz--a rock star. And I'm waiting for my pal Corbett's books to get here. Is there anything better than a good mystery book on a cold fall night? Well, maybe one thing, but we've got that covered, too.
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