4/30/2008
People love the trivia. I do, anyway. And folks often ask me what I'm reading or listening to. Students profess shock that I like Nine Inch Nails. I guess I look like an old fart now.
If I put my iPod list on here, you'd be appalled. But I might.
This is what I'm listening to lately. Nothing deep at all. Just for the idle and curious.
I've been taming the moil of inner horror listening to David Wilcox (thank you, Grace and Clarke). The old stuff I have been enjoying (again) is ancient Tangerine Dream. And Midnight Oil (YEAH). And, to replece the horror and pain that Wilcox erased, I bouth all the re-jiggered Joy Division albums. And I am still loving Siouxsie's amazing solo album. And I'm still rocking out to REM and Raconteurs.
New stuff: B-52's, Adrian Belew live, The Black Keys, Black Mountain, Jack Bruce and Robin Trower, Gnarles Barkley, Nine Inch Nails, Johnette Napolitano, Vampire Weekend.
That's this week's playlist, music fans.
Shameless Self-Promotion
If I put my iPod list on here, you'd be appalled. But I might.
This is what I'm listening to lately. Nothing deep at all. Just for the idle and curious.
I've been taming the moil of inner horror listening to David Wilcox (thank you, Grace and Clarke). The old stuff I have been enjoying (again) is ancient Tangerine Dream. And Midnight Oil (YEAH). And, to replece the horror and pain that Wilcox erased, I bouth all the re-jiggered Joy Division albums. And I am still loving Siouxsie's amazing solo album. And I'm still rocking out to REM and Raconteurs.
New stuff: B-52's, Adrian Belew live, The Black Keys, Black Mountain, Jack Bruce and Robin Trower, Gnarles Barkley, Nine Inch Nails, Johnette Napolitano, Vampire Weekend.
That's this week's playlist, music fans.
4/28/2008
It's Monday, and I haven't published a new book since 2005. WTF, as my kids might say. I thought I was the guy who would publish two or three books a year. But I've been so busy, as you know, with those last two books, I haven't published new ones. And I haven't published a book of poetry for over ten years!
But I have been busy in other arenas, like anthologies and the like. So I thought I'd tell you about a few of them, in case you were curious or felt like hunting down some semi-fresh Urrealism.
I am very excited about this new one: Dave Eggers' crazy McSweeney's Books is releasing the amazing Underground America: Narratives of Undocumented Lives on June first. Edited by Peter Orner. They gave me the great opportunity to write the foreword. I think the book will cause a stir in the great immigration debate. And, like all the McS books, it is a great physical production--looks and feels swell.
Just out now: Dan Olivas's excellent Latinos in Lotusland (Bilingual Press). I have a short-short story in there called "The White Girl." It's one of those wonderful opportunities to escape the jail of your marketed voice/persona (at a certain point, you become literary Nikes). I wrote it in a harsh, slangy minimalism. It reflects my constant concern from my own close circle of homeboys and locas about the human heart that has massive things within it, and no way to express these things. What do you do when you're haunted, but you have limited access to things like poetry or literature? How do you express what can't be expressed? So, you know, the book could limit its readers, being a Los Angeles Chicano collection. But there is some amazing work in there, better than my own.
Poetry buffs: I got a strange series of poems in The City Visible: Chicago Poetry for the New Century (Cracked Slab Books). Edited by William Allegrezza and Raymond Bianchi. Honestly, there are too many experimental and too-preciously-"brilliant" people in there for my taste. Come on, man, this is Chicago! The poems are good, though--it's just the poets' personal statements that can make you want to see a new St. Valentine's Day Massacre. Ho ho. Mine is the questionable "The Signal to Noise Ratio: Chicago Haiku." There was a nice lady in Texas who complained that my language in Devil's H was "salty." Salt alert: there is very naughty language in these haikus. Street talk, though,when you're in the groove, makes poems.
Finally, the anthology Best Stories of the American West, edited by Marc Jaffe. I was stunned to find myself in this book! I was REALLY shocked to see the front cover: "Sherman Alexie, Max Evans, Elmer Kelton, Elmore Leonard, Luis Alberto Urrea." WHAT??? Good deal, and I'm going to send Marc a $25 check to pay him off for this insane error in judgment. The story is the die-hard and apparently eternal, "Bid Farewell to Her Many Horses." So, if you heard it on NPR and liked it, and if you don't have the book it came from, there it is in good company.
I am editing the WGN (World's Greatest Novel) Into the Beautiful North. (I don't know what happened to the italics on that.) And I am making amends to the Poetry God by editing, at last, the poetry book, Songs of the Sacrificial Class. Any poetry editors out there who are interested in my newest verse, drop me a line. I feel safe in announcing that Little, Brown would like me to find publishing satisfaction with my poetry...elsewhere.
XXX, L
Sunday: Writing Church is In Session
But I have been busy in other arenas, like anthologies and the like. So I thought I'd tell you about a few of them, in case you were curious or felt like hunting down some semi-fresh Urrealism.
I am very excited about this new one: Dave Eggers' crazy McSweeney's Books is releasing the amazing Underground America: Narratives of Undocumented Lives on June first. Edited by Peter Orner. They gave me the great opportunity to write the foreword. I think the book will cause a stir in the great immigration debate. And, like all the McS books, it is a great physical production--looks and feels swell.
Just out now: Dan Olivas's excellent Latinos in Lotusland (Bilingual Press). I have a short-short story in there called "The White Girl." It's one of those wonderful opportunities to escape the jail of your marketed voice/persona (at a certain point, you become literary Nikes). I wrote it in a harsh, slangy minimalism. It reflects my constant concern from my own close circle of homeboys and locas about the human heart that has massive things within it, and no way to express these things. What do you do when you're haunted, but you have limited access to things like poetry or literature? How do you express what can't be expressed? So, you know, the book could limit its readers, being a Los Angeles Chicano collection. But there is some amazing work in there, better than my own.
Poetry buffs: I got a strange series of poems in The City Visible: Chicago Poetry for the New Century (Cracked Slab Books). Edited by William Allegrezza and Raymond Bianchi. Honestly, there are too many experimental and too-preciously-"brilliant" people in there for my taste. Come on, man, this is Chicago! The poems are good, though--it's just the poets' personal statements that can make you want to see a new St. Valentine's Day Massacre. Ho ho. Mine is the questionable "The Signal to Noise Ratio: Chicago Haiku." There was a nice lady in Texas who complained that my language in Devil's H was "salty." Salt alert: there is very naughty language in these haikus. Street talk, though,when you're in the groove, makes poems.
Finally, the anthology Best Stories of the American West, edited by Marc Jaffe. I was stunned to find myself in this book! I was REALLY shocked to see the front cover: "Sherman Alexie, Max Evans, Elmer Kelton, Elmore Leonard, Luis Alberto Urrea." WHAT??? Good deal, and I'm going to send Marc a $25 check to pay him off for this insane error in judgment. The story is the die-hard and apparently eternal, "Bid Farewell to Her Many Horses." So, if you heard it on NPR and liked it, and if you don't have the book it came from, there it is in good company.
I am editing the WGN (World's Greatest Novel) Into the Beautiful North. (I don't know what happened to the italics on that.) And I am making amends to the Poetry God by editing, at last, the poetry book, Songs of the Sacrificial Class. Any poetry editors out there who are interested in my newest verse, drop me a line. I feel safe in announcing that Little, Brown would like me to find publishing satisfaction with my poetry...elsewhere.
XXX, L
4/27/2008
It is hard to believe, but snow is coming. All our bulbs have popped: tulips and hyacinths and daffodils and little corcuses are bobbing all around our house like soft fireworks. But the never-ending Illinois winter is going to take another shot. Won't the song-birds be amazed. Our white birch has rows of perfectly-placed holes in its trunk--the crazy woodpecker has been banging away at everything that doesn't move. He's small, looks like he's wearing a checkerboard on his back. He's really doing a number on the weeping willow behind our house. And the owl is back, calling his odd muffled whoots at night. It's a welcome chaos of living here: cardinals, red wing blackbirds, goldfinches, chickadees, ducks, the paranoid and clearly demented lone wild turkey, gangs of delinquent geese. So we make Sunday coffee and watch the political shows and wonder if the snow will really come, and if it will kill off all our flowers.
UW in Seattle has selected Devil's Highway as their campus read. This ought to make my immigrant-bashing pals unhappy. 6,000 copies of the book going out in one shot. It's hard to believe. That's basically an entire press run. I cannot state clearly enough that I don't know how to deal with the stress of DH-related appearances. So much seems to depend on how I present and represent material that causes me deep sorrow and pain. Gee, it's so much easier talking about Teresita or creative writing! After all, there are never disgruntled curandera-haters who want to shoot me or yell at me or insult me or threaten me and my family in anonymous e-mails. But I was raised on wrestling. I will crush them all. They are pencil-necked geeks, and I will apply the Iron Claw and watch their brains shoot out of their heads!
Let us pray:
"Meanwhile, let us have a sip of tea. The afternoon is brightening the bamboo, the fountains are bubbling with delight, the soughing of the pines is heard in our kettle. Let us dream of evanescence, and linger in the beautiful foolishness of things." --Okakura Tenshin
Yrs., L
Post 301: The Weirdness
UW in Seattle has selected Devil's Highway as their campus read. This ought to make my immigrant-bashing pals unhappy. 6,000 copies of the book going out in one shot. It's hard to believe. That's basically an entire press run. I cannot state clearly enough that I don't know how to deal with the stress of DH-related appearances. So much seems to depend on how I present and represent material that causes me deep sorrow and pain. Gee, it's so much easier talking about Teresita or creative writing! After all, there are never disgruntled curandera-haters who want to shoot me or yell at me or insult me or threaten me and my family in anonymous e-mails. But I was raised on wrestling. I will crush them all. They are pencil-necked geeks, and I will apply the Iron Claw and watch their brains shoot out of their heads!
Let us pray:
"Meanwhile, let us have a sip of tea. The afternoon is brightening the bamboo, the fountains are bubbling with delight, the soughing of the pines is heard in our kettle. Let us dream of evanescence, and linger in the beautiful foolishness of things." --Okakura Tenshin
Yrs., L
4/22/2008
I am a lucky guy. Bizarre and freakish things happen to me with regularity. Long-timne readers of this blog can recall any number of idiotic or surreal happenings that make me, like Scooby Do, go "Whuuuuh???" What you have to do in a life like mine is try to avoid getting jaded. Like, weird things come along, and you have to really be clear (not in a Scientology way) to receive them.
Take today, f'r instance.
So I'm done with my morning class. I go up the elevator to my office. We are in a building I call The Waffle, because it looks like a cement waffle. If you're driving down 290 tward Chicago, and you look up on the right at the Racine exit, you'll see this waffle and know I'm on the 19th floor thinking about buffalo and fumaroles. The Waffle (University Hall) is pretty weird on its own terms--it's designed to be an upside-down skyscraper. Tres moderne. It gets wider as it ascends. And, since it's in the East German Brutalist style of the entire campus, the windows--which could have awesome views of Chi--are all blocked off by cement sight-baffles so you can't see much at all. Neat-o!
So I get done with my minimal business, and I head for the elevator to go down. The elevator comes after a long wait. Doors open. There's a pleasant looking old guy in there. White hair. Nice business-casual clothes. Pressed into the far corner. Smiling.
I get in. Doors close. I realize he hasn't pushed a button. He's just, apparently, sort of riding around in the elevator. I push 1 and go to my opposite corner--you know how you do in elevators. You study the little screen that tells you what floor you're passing. As the doors close, you notice in your peripheral vision, the old guy is making odd little gestures with his hands. Sort of vague gestures.
So we start down. And the old guy steps up to me, about two inches from my right side, leans in, and starts whistling "Sentimental Journey" through his teeth. Into my ear. Before I can stab him in the eye with my umbrella, the car stops at the 16th floor. He hurries back to his corner like a spider and stands there smiling as two new people get on. When we reach the bottom, he doesn't get out, but stands there smiling as the doors close and he shoots back up.
I.... Well, gosh. Might as well face it--we live in a David Lynch movie. Every angel in heaven is a practical joker.
L
Tony Flags--Close Personal Friend
Take today, f'r instance.
So I'm done with my morning class. I go up the elevator to my office. We are in a building I call The Waffle, because it looks like a cement waffle. If you're driving down 290 tward Chicago, and you look up on the right at the Racine exit, you'll see this waffle and know I'm on the 19th floor thinking about buffalo and fumaroles. The Waffle (University Hall) is pretty weird on its own terms--it's designed to be an upside-down skyscraper. Tres moderne. It gets wider as it ascends. And, since it's in the East German Brutalist style of the entire campus, the windows--which could have awesome views of Chi--are all blocked off by cement sight-baffles so you can't see much at all. Neat-o!
So I get done with my minimal business, and I head for the elevator to go down. The elevator comes after a long wait. Doors open. There's a pleasant looking old guy in there. White hair. Nice business-casual clothes. Pressed into the far corner. Smiling.
I get in. Doors close. I realize he hasn't pushed a button. He's just, apparently, sort of riding around in the elevator. I push 1 and go to my opposite corner--you know how you do in elevators. You study the little screen that tells you what floor you're passing. As the doors close, you notice in your peripheral vision, the old guy is making odd little gestures with his hands. Sort of vague gestures.
So we start down. And the old guy steps up to me, about two inches from my right side, leans in, and starts whistling "Sentimental Journey" through his teeth. Into my ear. Before I can stab him in the eye with my umbrella, the car stops at the 16th floor. He hurries back to his corner like a spider and stands there smiling as two new people get on. When we reach the bottom, he doesn't get out, but stands there smiling as the doors close and he shoots back up.
I.... Well, gosh. Might as well face it--we live in a David Lynch movie. Every angel in heaven is a practical joker.
L
4/21/2008
The cat's out of the bag. Yesterday and today, a flurry of Mexican and Spanish newspapers and entertainment blogs flashed the story that Antonio Banderas was signed to star in, yes, The Hummingbird's Daughter. So there you have it. As Devo once titled an album: Now It Can Be Told!
It's funny. The stories all cite me as "the Mexican." My enemies will see vast Beaner conspiracies in that. But yoiu and I know that for most of my life, the Mexicans have thought of me as "the gringo," "the pocho," or the border-dweller, or some other non-Mexican thing. Ha ha. I guess the hype machine needs me to be Mexican this week.
I said it about "illegals" in other places--if you have something the USA wants, they find a way to give you immunity from prosecution. Well, if you have something Mexico wants, they suddenly embrace you. So don't mess with me. I am The Mexican!
I also must smile for purely selfish erasons. Let's say you thought you were going to marry a Mexican woman once upon a time. her family ahd a real sense of, oh you know, money and status. And what it that woman abandoned you in your darkest hour because she felt you didn't have enough, oh, money or status. I laughed out loud when I realized what the newspaper rattling at their breakfast table must have been like today.
Luis Mandoki, make a beautiful movie. Treat my Teresita well. And Banderas--grow an awesome mustache.
L
Calendar of Forgotten Things
It's funny. The stories all cite me as "the Mexican." My enemies will see vast Beaner conspiracies in that. But yoiu and I know that for most of my life, the Mexicans have thought of me as "the gringo," "the pocho," or the border-dweller, or some other non-Mexican thing. Ha ha. I guess the hype machine needs me to be Mexican this week.
I said it about "illegals" in other places--if you have something the USA wants, they find a way to give you immunity from prosecution. Well, if you have something Mexico wants, they suddenly embrace you. So don't mess with me. I am The Mexican!
I also must smile for purely selfish erasons. Let's say you thought you were going to marry a Mexican woman once upon a time. her family ahd a real sense of, oh you know, money and status. And what it that woman abandoned you in your darkest hour because she felt you didn't have enough, oh, money or status. I laughed out loud when I realized what the newspaper rattling at their breakfast table must have been like today.
Luis Mandoki, make a beautiful movie. Treat my Teresita well. And Banderas--grow an awesome mustache.
L
4/19/2008
Gather 'round, and I'll tell you a ghost story. It's a small ghost story, but it's moody. I tell this to my friends and to my enemies because I love you all. Yes, even those who wish me ill. As the Beasties used to say, "I be chillin', You be illin'."
Megan's end of year hi skool photography assignment was to take 150 pictures of old and forgotten things. I was in full werewolf father mode this morning, so after it was pointed out that I suck and my comportment is ghastly, I drove Meg into the apocalyptic urban squalor to shoot pix. Bad dad, recalcitrant teen, insane eight year old and tooth-sore wife. I told Meg I could find her a million abandoned and lonesome things if we drove down Ogden. Loyal readers of this blog know I love old Ogden way too much for my own good. I have posted poems on here about it, and lofty mystical evocations. Why? I don't know. It's just an old, long, cheesy Chicago road. That happens to be Old Route 66 for much of its length. Where Dillinger drove down the street, and where Capone had his autos repaired in garages that are still there. Dead rail yards, rotting factories, the Sybaris sex motel, timid 1930s farm houses hidden behind the strip malls, winos, rusting bridges, hot dog stands, burned ruins of buildings, smoke stacks, junkies, a thousand storefront evangelical temples. What's not to love? From the tony burbs to the Steak 'n' Egger diner behind the Cicero rail yards. I love Ogden.
I often, you readers know, risk getting to work late because I can't resist going that way instead of the expressway.
You readers will also know that my long apprenticeship during the Teresita works makes me a constant participant in openings of portals and the hidden rituals that bring angels out of the trees. I stumble and I curse, yet heaven comes anyway. And the Yaqui buzz-bomb spirits of Huila (Maclovia Moroyoqui) swarm to my attackers and sting them. My medicine is strong! Even when it is not my medicine.
So off we went--I was listening to Ozric Tentacles, the crazed prog/fusion freak band. It was delightful to me, torture to the women, no doubt. Except Chayo--like her dad, the weirder the music, the better she likes it. We are both, after all, eight years old,. Massive black and purple clouds built walls all around us. And the first thing we found was a burned house. Nothing left but basement full of tumbled furniture and a lone haunted basketball hoop. Meg snapped a few, and it started to rain. I was already falling into the other dimension. It was the rain, I think. The hiss and the sheen on the blacktop. Made me start feeling ghosts. And we went deeper into the Calendar of Forgotten Things. Right on a corner, near a tiny swamp, there was an abandoned fireplace. You'd miss it if you weren't looking. In bushes. Still had wood in it.
Ghosts growing stronger.
In Lyons, the abandoned Snowflake diner.
In Berwyn, the holy cfar spike, for sale now but nobody wants to buy it. A three story tall steel spike with eight cars impaled on it. The anti-surreal burghers of Berwyn are planning to tear it down. It's in a rotting parking lot full of holes and trash and abandoned shopping carts. Americana fiends like me were there snapping away. The portal to the other world was now wide open, and feathers were blowing through from the aether.
Now, we used to live near there, by the corner of Jackson and Harlem. It was a neighborhood with a vibe that often toppled toward the scummy. Beyond this area, there was a soccer field between an old folks' home and a cemetery. It was a freakish spot. Haunted even seven years ago when Megan and Eric were small. You'd go to these soccer games and see eerie white faces of sad forgotten old folks peering out the windows, and they'd be looking into the scraggly woods across the lawn, at toppled graves. Honestly, one of the oddest places in Chicagoland. So I thought: what better place to take pictures of the sort we were seeking.
We made our way down there. It's a little tricky. You have to turn into the commuter-train terminal/caryard off Des Plains. But you don't go into the lot--you drive through the lot and come around the corner to the complex. Except the place had been abandoned.
The rain clouds hurried across the sky. The roof was broken and slipping, and some of the church part seemed destroyed. There was a section of fence collapsed, so we drove in.
It was like one of those movies where a prison or a madhouse has been left empty, and the spirits have overtaken it. You feel eyes watching you. And across the field, the old cemetery still molders among trees and bushes, only there's a high fence around it now. Eric and I used to go in there and find graves with deep holes in them. You could see down to the coffins.
We found the gate. Cindy would not go in. It sounds fake, but as soon as you stepped through the gate, the sad gray graveyard turned ice cold. Fallen branches littered the ground. At least a third of the old headstones had toppled or been kicked over. Great weedy trees had grown among old graves and covered them.
When we walked in, we heard a huge car wreck on the 290 expressway, just on the other side of the train car barn. People yelling and screaming. Then sirens. Huge dogs appeared outside the fence. "I'm so scared," Megan said. Which, of course, is when the cell phone in her pocket stared to buzz. She squealed and levitated.
I kep telling her that nobody there would be mad at her for remembering them.
We walked from headstone to headstone, reading the names and dates. "Dear Sister..." People born in 1893, 1860. The most recent burial we could find was in 1978.
One one grave, a baseball. On another, and ancient white china bowl with flowers on it. But the best thing--one a far grave, a videotape. Home-made, but the writing on it had faded with the weather. Megan would not let me take it. "Didn't you see the Ring?" she cried. "What's the matter with you?"
We left the cold gray boneyard under the clouds and the coming dusk. The tape is still there. Somebody needs to watch it.
I think I'll go back and get it. But shouldn't I go at midnight? Shouldn't I take a tape recorder to catch any voices calling my name?
When we left, we saw a policeman hiding behind the trees. No doubt, he was wondering what we were doing in there. And when we got to the 290, the entire Des Plains overpass section was blocked off by fire trucks, police cars, ambulances. I felt like I'd stepped across some dimensional gate for a moment and heard whispers.
I had carried the cemetery baseball with me, but then put it back on the grave where I found it. I'm not entirely ready to have a catch with the undead. Not yet. Maybe when I'm halfway through Hummingbird II.
Note to friends: from there to Target, where Chayo got a toy, Megan got "Juno," and I got the new b-52s cd. The doors to the other side creaked shut. I came here to write to you.
XXX,
L
Embrace the Pathetic Fallacy
Megan's end of year hi skool photography assignment was to take 150 pictures of old and forgotten things. I was in full werewolf father mode this morning, so after it was pointed out that I suck and my comportment is ghastly, I drove Meg into the apocalyptic urban squalor to shoot pix. Bad dad, recalcitrant teen, insane eight year old and tooth-sore wife. I told Meg I could find her a million abandoned and lonesome things if we drove down Ogden. Loyal readers of this blog know I love old Ogden way too much for my own good. I have posted poems on here about it, and lofty mystical evocations. Why? I don't know. It's just an old, long, cheesy Chicago road. That happens to be Old Route 66 for much of its length. Where Dillinger drove down the street, and where Capone had his autos repaired in garages that are still there. Dead rail yards, rotting factories, the Sybaris sex motel, timid 1930s farm houses hidden behind the strip malls, winos, rusting bridges, hot dog stands, burned ruins of buildings, smoke stacks, junkies, a thousand storefront evangelical temples. What's not to love? From the tony burbs to the Steak 'n' Egger diner behind the Cicero rail yards. I love Ogden.
I often, you readers know, risk getting to work late because I can't resist going that way instead of the expressway.
You readers will also know that my long apprenticeship during the Teresita works makes me a constant participant in openings of portals and the hidden rituals that bring angels out of the trees. I stumble and I curse, yet heaven comes anyway. And the Yaqui buzz-bomb spirits of Huila (Maclovia Moroyoqui) swarm to my attackers and sting them. My medicine is strong! Even when it is not my medicine.
So off we went--I was listening to Ozric Tentacles, the crazed prog/fusion freak band. It was delightful to me, torture to the women, no doubt. Except Chayo--like her dad, the weirder the music, the better she likes it. We are both, after all, eight years old,. Massive black and purple clouds built walls all around us. And the first thing we found was a burned house. Nothing left but basement full of tumbled furniture and a lone haunted basketball hoop. Meg snapped a few, and it started to rain. I was already falling into the other dimension. It was the rain, I think. The hiss and the sheen on the blacktop. Made me start feeling ghosts. And we went deeper into the Calendar of Forgotten Things. Right on a corner, near a tiny swamp, there was an abandoned fireplace. You'd miss it if you weren't looking. In bushes. Still had wood in it.
Ghosts growing stronger.
In Lyons, the abandoned Snowflake diner.
In Berwyn, the holy cfar spike, for sale now but nobody wants to buy it. A three story tall steel spike with eight cars impaled on it. The anti-surreal burghers of Berwyn are planning to tear it down. It's in a rotting parking lot full of holes and trash and abandoned shopping carts. Americana fiends like me were there snapping away. The portal to the other world was now wide open, and feathers were blowing through from the aether.
Now, we used to live near there, by the corner of Jackson and Harlem. It was a neighborhood with a vibe that often toppled toward the scummy. Beyond this area, there was a soccer field between an old folks' home and a cemetery. It was a freakish spot. Haunted even seven years ago when Megan and Eric were small. You'd go to these soccer games and see eerie white faces of sad forgotten old folks peering out the windows, and they'd be looking into the scraggly woods across the lawn, at toppled graves. Honestly, one of the oddest places in Chicagoland. So I thought: what better place to take pictures of the sort we were seeking.
We made our way down there. It's a little tricky. You have to turn into the commuter-train terminal/caryard off Des Plains. But you don't go into the lot--you drive through the lot and come around the corner to the complex. Except the place had been abandoned.
The rain clouds hurried across the sky. The roof was broken and slipping, and some of the church part seemed destroyed. There was a section of fence collapsed, so we drove in.
It was like one of those movies where a prison or a madhouse has been left empty, and the spirits have overtaken it. You feel eyes watching you. And across the field, the old cemetery still molders among trees and bushes, only there's a high fence around it now. Eric and I used to go in there and find graves with deep holes in them. You could see down to the coffins.
We found the gate. Cindy would not go in. It sounds fake, but as soon as you stepped through the gate, the sad gray graveyard turned ice cold. Fallen branches littered the ground. At least a third of the old headstones had toppled or been kicked over. Great weedy trees had grown among old graves and covered them.
When we walked in, we heard a huge car wreck on the 290 expressway, just on the other side of the train car barn. People yelling and screaming. Then sirens. Huge dogs appeared outside the fence. "I'm so scared," Megan said. Which, of course, is when the cell phone in her pocket stared to buzz. She squealed and levitated.
I kep telling her that nobody there would be mad at her for remembering them.
We walked from headstone to headstone, reading the names and dates. "Dear Sister..." People born in 1893, 1860. The most recent burial we could find was in 1978.
One one grave, a baseball. On another, and ancient white china bowl with flowers on it. But the best thing--one a far grave, a videotape. Home-made, but the writing on it had faded with the weather. Megan would not let me take it. "Didn't you see the Ring?" she cried. "What's the matter with you?"
We left the cold gray boneyard under the clouds and the coming dusk. The tape is still there. Somebody needs to watch it.
I think I'll go back and get it. But shouldn't I go at midnight? Shouldn't I take a tape recorder to catch any voices calling my name?
When we left, we saw a policeman hiding behind the trees. No doubt, he was wondering what we were doing in there. And when we got to the 290, the entire Des Plains overpass section was blocked off by fire trucks, police cars, ambulances. I felt like I'd stepped across some dimensional gate for a moment and heard whispers.
I had carried the cemetery baseball with me, but then put it back on the grave where I found it. I'm not entirely ready to have a catch with the undead. Not yet. Maybe when I'm halfway through Hummingbird II.
Note to friends: from there to Target, where Chayo got a toy, Megan got "Juno," and I got the new b-52s cd. The doors to the other side creaked shut. I came here to write to you.
XXX,
L
4/18/2008
Asian writers and poets are so much wiser, in my opinion, than western writers and poets because they are willing to be foolish. O foole, ye art wise! What kinds of fools subscribe to philosophies like wabi/sabi? Who would spend a lifetime perfecting the seventeen syllables of haiku? Or the strict freedom of zen? Who insists on thinking rocks and trees and birds and crickets have feelings and thoughts and souls? Those Asians...and my brothers the Sioux! Lakota Wabi/Sabi! Somebody make a t-shirt!
We, in our academic wisdom, consider this soulfulness a "pathetic fallacy." I want to start a lit jrnl called just that. Join me! The Pathetic Fallacy, Vol. I No. 1. Cats don't have feelings! Buffalo don't think! Mountains and aspens and beavers and spiders and clouds and rivers don't think about God! They're just scientific robots working out their genetic or geological encoding. Tick, tick, tick. Mechanical world.
Dig this. It's a passage by Osho. What a fool! He's as silly as Issa and my jolly master Onitsura! He's as ridiculous as Chuy Christ! It's pathetic! Embrace it:
"Look at the trees, look at the birds, look at the clouds, look at the stars...and if you have eyes you will be able to see that the whole of existence is joyful. Everything is simply happy. Trees are happy for no reason; they are not going to become prime ministers or presidents and they are not going to become rich and they will never have any bank balance. Look at the flowers--for no reason. It is simply unbelievable how happy flowers are." --Osho
Anything that makes me love this world, and my brief moment upon it, is wise and holy.
L
Living Like Trees
We, in our academic wisdom, consider this soulfulness a "pathetic fallacy." I want to start a lit jrnl called just that. Join me! The Pathetic Fallacy, Vol. I No. 1. Cats don't have feelings! Buffalo don't think! Mountains and aspens and beavers and spiders and clouds and rivers don't think about God! They're just scientific robots working out their genetic or geological encoding. Tick, tick, tick. Mechanical world.
Dig this. It's a passage by Osho. What a fool! He's as silly as Issa and my jolly master Onitsura! He's as ridiculous as Chuy Christ! It's pathetic! Embrace it:
"Look at the trees, look at the birds, look at the clouds, look at the stars...and if you have eyes you will be able to see that the whole of existence is joyful. Everything is simply happy. Trees are happy for no reason; they are not going to become prime ministers or presidents and they are not going to become rich and they will never have any bank balance. Look at the flowers--for no reason. It is simply unbelievable how happy flowers are." --Osho
Anything that makes me love this world, and my brief moment upon it, is wise and holy.
L
4/16/2008
Some readers like it when I'm battling dragons, and some readers like it when I'm feeling mystical. Frankly, the sword-swinging gets tiresome. The pondering of ducks and sprouting crocuses is boring, it's true. But it doesn't make you want to go kill yourself.
When I get fed-up, like I am right now, feeling all werewolfed out and sick of everything--sick of Chicago, sick of winter, sick of public appearances, sick of the border, sick of writing, sick of O'Bama and Clinton and McCain, sick of American Idol and driving and eating and coffee, sick of UIC, sick of this blog--I draw great calm from the brooding and eerie giants that stand around my house beding their heads as if listening to our dreams. The trees. The huge old oak in front, the weary pine beside our library, the great maples in the back, and the insanely optimistic white-bark birch. Like my beloved Yeoman Warder at The Tower of London, when things get too crazy, the trees seem to say: "Steady on!"
In his classic book, The Trail Home, John Daniel has a beautiful passage. Those of you who get into the mystical putterer will dig it. The sword-fighters will probably hope I'll find some racists and orcs to engage in battle. But I have no battle. I am eating an apple and petting the cat and looking at that birch. It's trying to tell me something.
Here's the passage:
"If we didn't hide our histories inside us, we'd see our own lives as we see the trees. We'd see how some of us rise true and easily, how some are bent or split from their beginnings. We'd see where we were chafed or broken, where love failed or never was, where love returned. We'd see where troubles beset us, how we bent and twisted beneath their weight, how we've grown as we've been able to grow and never have stopped growing, branching from the single source, how in our bodies' heaviness we touch the air and tremble--how each of us, in one peculiar unlikely way, rises in the light."
Maybe, after all, that is for the sword-fighters more than the mystics.
L
A Meditation
When I get fed-up, like I am right now, feeling all werewolfed out and sick of everything--sick of Chicago, sick of winter, sick of public appearances, sick of the border, sick of writing, sick of O'Bama and Clinton and McCain, sick of American Idol and driving and eating and coffee, sick of UIC, sick of this blog--I draw great calm from the brooding and eerie giants that stand around my house beding their heads as if listening to our dreams. The trees. The huge old oak in front, the weary pine beside our library, the great maples in the back, and the insanely optimistic white-bark birch. Like my beloved Yeoman Warder at The Tower of London, when things get too crazy, the trees seem to say: "Steady on!"
In his classic book, The Trail Home, John Daniel has a beautiful passage. Those of you who get into the mystical putterer will dig it. The sword-fighters will probably hope I'll find some racists and orcs to engage in battle. But I have no battle. I am eating an apple and petting the cat and looking at that birch. It's trying to tell me something.
Here's the passage:
"If we didn't hide our histories inside us, we'd see our own lives as we see the trees. We'd see how some of us rise true and easily, how some are bent or split from their beginnings. We'd see where we were chafed or broken, where love failed or never was, where love returned. We'd see where troubles beset us, how we bent and twisted beneath their weight, how we've grown as we've been able to grow and never have stopped growing, branching from the single source, how in our bodies' heaviness we touch the air and tremble--how each of us, in one peculiar unlikely way, rises in the light."
Maybe, after all, that is for the sword-fighters more than the mystics.
L
4/15/2008
I was reading one of Emmet Fox's books. Long-time readers of this blog and my writing know that I think God--or, you know, the universe--offers revelations that are often funky and funny. Perhaps the strange or noteworthy development in your day can show you something eternal. That's what I bank on. This passage made me smile, and it seemed profound in its own small way.
"I had an amusing ecperience when I first came to America. Passing an attractive-looking restaurant, I went inside, and selecting a table, sat down and waited. Nothing happened. I continued to wait. All around me, people were enjoying their food, and only I was left out. After a while the truth dawned on me--I was in a cafeteria. (This system had not yet made its appearance in England.) I then realized that while there was plenty of food to be obtained, one had to go forward and claim it for oneself, or go without. The universe is run exactly on the lines of a cafeteria. Unless you claim--mentally--what you want, you may sit and wait forever."
Happiness is a Warm Gun
"I had an amusing ecperience when I first came to America. Passing an attractive-looking restaurant, I went inside, and selecting a table, sat down and waited. Nothing happened. I continued to wait. All around me, people were enjoying their food, and only I was left out. After a while the truth dawned on me--I was in a cafeteria. (This system had not yet made its appearance in England.) I then realized that while there was plenty of food to be obtained, one had to go forward and claim it for oneself, or go without. The universe is run exactly on the lines of a cafeteria. Unless you claim--mentally--what you want, you may sit and wait forever."
4/11/2008
Bang, bang, shoot, shoot.... I met one of my several Mark David Chapmans in Washington. Memo to self: when going out to talk about Devil's Highway, always travel with Sheriff Ogden, or get our BP big-man Head of Urrea Security, The Warrior, to come along.
#
It's over, the marathon Flu Tour of Spring '08. I feel like I've been on the road...forever. Hope the posts haven't been too prosaic for you, or dull. I always want to expose the writing life in all its glories on this site. This bit of travel for blab and profit was extraordinary for a couple of reasons: of course, the opportunity to represent Rudy Anaya and Bless Me, Ultima. But also for the sheer number of miles. Especially in cars. Man! Every trip to the airport is at least 40 miles. Start there. The NH gigs, as you'll recall, included 200 mile round-trips in vans. Then the drive from Chi to Detroit, and another bushel of miles driving aruond between Jackson and Ann Arbor. Then driving to San Antonio from Austin and back. Then the 180 miles or so from Denver to Aspen, and back, and the drive to the airport from Tony and Pam's bucking beef ranch.
Here, ultimately, is what it's like: it's your own personal episode of The Amazing Race. You face all these challenges and strange developments, and really, it's up to you to adapt, improvise, and overcome. My personal challendes are always the same: bad eyes, bad sleep, bad stomach. I can't see a damned thing. My gut always goes haywire when I'm out there. I can't sleep worth a darn in motels and hotels. Plus, you're always getting up at 5:00 or 6:00. So the sleep sucks, and you don't get enough of it! Ha ha.
It's strangely envigorating, though. When you're exhausted, and you can't see straight, but you still have a 9:45 post-gig supper with nice profs and students, you have to dip deep to find the source. This is a good thing, ultimately. You have no way of knowing how deep your source goes till you think it's empty and you have to scrape. And you come up with more! (I sound like the trainers on The Biggest Loser--ONE MORE SQUAT THRUST! DO IT! DON'T BE A QUITTER!)
The world becomes a giant puzzle to you, as you figure out all the moves you have to make to get through each event. Mega-Pong.
#
So I dragged my sorry booty out of bed at 5:30 on Wednesday. We had gotten in from Aspen Monday night--kid's still sick. I have to take her to the doctor today. Taught on Tuesday. Drove to O'Hare (O'Snare) in death-traffic. I was sure I wasn't going to make it. It was dead-stopped at 7:00, and my flight was at 8:20. But somehow I got through the snags and went to park and the lot was full. Doh! I ended up parked somewhere I don't even know where, then hoofed it to the terminal--in the wrong direction! Doh! Got to the gate as they were boarding. Challenge One Complete! The Urrea Team Moves On!
Into Dulles. Wandered around squinting. Magically hooked up with my guide and driver, a hiking woman. We had a good time, though we got lost. Went to a nice lunch next door to a Virginia place called Fast Eddie's. I remember the stupidest details. Don't remember my hosts' names, but I remember Fast Eddies. Plus there was a small ravine behind the place with a gorgeous little green and gold stream that I just know was full of turtles.
Hotel! Bathroom! CNN! Iron shirt! Take a bite of the Otis Spunkmeyer or whatever it was cookies the hotel gave me that throw them away! THE URREA TEAM PASSES THE SECOND CHALLENGE! Although he has been on a diet since 1972, Urrea loses weight! The crowd goes wild! Only 947 pounds to go! Urrea scores extra points when his pants fall off as he tries to walk over to the bathroom! He steps out of them and tells himself, "You are v-shaped! You are a solid slab of mightily-thewed muscle and gristle."
To the lobby to be picked up for the reception with strangers and the vaguely confused public!
#
At George Mason U, a fine institution. Even though my psychotic attacker lurks thereabouts. I stood around sipping ice water at the art installation. Very nice people spoke to me. And we then hied over to the theater.
I drew an OK crowd. Not the audience ctaclysms of UC Davis or Austin or even Hope College in Michigan. This wasn't an REM concert--it was more like a Lovehammers concert. But it was funny, I think, and we seemed to get along very well. I went over the time limit. I always go over. Someone warn the venues I will go over. And the Q&A session will go long too. And the signing line will be very long. I could hear my host off stage waving his arms at me, but I couldn't see him in the gloom. Just heard his feet squeaking.
Look, my mind was still processing the bulls at Tony's house, Jay Marvin's astounding 120 pound diet, the Mexican meal in Aspen, the snow, the lovely and sacred Sara Labadie at Gallagher's in Paw Paw, Michigan. I cannot catch up to myself. It's a time-warp out there.
I squatted at the signing table, and my buds appeared. My new friends, and my old friends. The loyal and fierce Grace and Clarke were there. Hugs and kisses! (Is the best part of the tour hugs and kisses? Well, it'll do till the best part gets there.) And my friend Mary Blanchard, whom I had met in France years ago. Yay! And Kyoko Mori, the fine writer.
So I was signing, and I was making the students sign my autograph book. This new feature has been a raving success. It turns the whole event into a yearbook graduation party. And then Travis Bickle stepped up.
Now, your star-killers are not dudes in mohawks. Not tattooed maniacs with chains and face-piercings. Those guys are always in the line, too. And they are the ones who actually read and think about the books. They might toss me a devil's-horns sign, but that's like a hug and kiss.
This freak son of a bitch was a slender man. 46 or 38. Pasty-faced and smiling. Little dark sixth grade haircut, all nicely combed. Little polo shirt and little zipped up windbreaker. Looked like mommy had dressed him for the event, except he had mommy's mummy in his closet.
The thing starts with a few innocuoucs, yet slightly critical, questions. I am fully in my Boddhisattva-Boy mode out there. I have tried to quash the monster within. My werewolf first wife once quipped, "Most people have in inner child. You have an inner serial killer."
Oh well, the slow whine of the engine of rage in his head started to engage. He wouldn't get out of line. He ratcheted up, faster and faster: I had lied, I had failed to explain reality, I had shirked my responsibility, my heritage was corrupt. Mexican culture was debased, I was debased, filthy Mexicans were invading his pristine country, Mexicans were murderers and deserved to be executed en masse, I had a brain of some sort but I obviously could not think. Little mists of spit and demonic orgasms squirted out of the corners of his mouth.
I was trying toi be polite; I started to go all Bill Clinton and turn red and snap. The kids in line stood there agog. What--Buddha is going to give the psycho killer a Tombstone Pile-Driver?
If I have a bone to pick with the fine folks at Geo Mason, it might be that my hosts all stood there observing this scene with the mildest, Why isn't this interesting, looks on their faces. Good ol' Grace and Clarke were about to jump Mr. Bill Zebbub.
Somehow, he was shuffled aside so I could sing the rest of the books. "I'm staying right here!" he called. "I'm talking to you after you're done!"
Hey, great. Just my idea of a swell night.
And he came for more. It got to the next videogame level of repressed assassin wind-up. He got very loud. The Yuma 14 had died coward's deaths. They deserved their deaths. In fact, 14 died, but all 26 deserved to die! We were outside, and he was shrieking from the shadows. Then he stormed off.
I know how this goes. Usually, the cowards who attack on the internet attack at this level, They're bolder when they are hidden in their apartments with their GI Joe action figures and their stained tighty whiteys around their ankles. The next step is, they tell you you're a traitor. And traitors, inevitably, have earned the patriot's bullets. There is only one fate for a traitor to AMERICA, and that is the bliundfold and the firing squad. Oh, yes. I have gotten these messages. And then--get this, fellow writers--they will move on to your wife and children. The kids must go, because that's the only way to stop vermin like me from spreading my gospel of hate, treason, and beaner-loving.
That was coming, as soon as Bill Zebub came back from his car.
With his .38.
Kind of tiresome.
So the friendly prof swooped me up and we went to an Indian dinner and I tried to focus on the questions. After my crazy stalker in Tucson, I have to confess I kept one eye over my shoulder, expecting my new pal to take a pot-shot from the street. (Later, when I told my boy Eric about it on the phone, he reverted to Rock And Roll Asshole Mode, which is what I need when I'm being Buddha-Man: he was upset at first, then started to laugh, and said, "Dude, take one for the team! Let the guy, like, shoot you in the shoulder or the leg! Man! You'll be on the news! They'll be like, He was shot by racists for his humanitarian stance! You'll sell millions of books!" I couldn't stop laughing. Thanks, E.)
#
Adapt, improvise, and overcome.
Up at 6:00. Five minute shower. Into the cab at 6:30. African driver. His father had three wives. He maintained four houses. One for each woman, and one for the 16 children. Poor papa never did get a house of his own.
I had vowed to my students that I'd get to Chi in time to drive to them and teach class that morning. It was hard to find the car at O'Hare, and it was storming. But somehow I got in the Honda at 10:00. I had to be at UIC at 11:00. I was on it! Challenge Number 101!
I kept thinking about what the pilot said to us. It was one of those moments when Grace descends from an unexpected place. He came over the cabin intercom and did the usual we're landing thing. But then he said: "Remember, every day is a gift. That's why they call it The Present."
How about that.
I made it to class, too. The students applauded.
Today, me and the cat are watching it rain.
Thanks.
L
My Life in Ranching
#
It's over, the marathon Flu Tour of Spring '08. I feel like I've been on the road...forever. Hope the posts haven't been too prosaic for you, or dull. I always want to expose the writing life in all its glories on this site. This bit of travel for blab and profit was extraordinary for a couple of reasons: of course, the opportunity to represent Rudy Anaya and Bless Me, Ultima. But also for the sheer number of miles. Especially in cars. Man! Every trip to the airport is at least 40 miles. Start there. The NH gigs, as you'll recall, included 200 mile round-trips in vans. Then the drive from Chi to Detroit, and another bushel of miles driving aruond between Jackson and Ann Arbor. Then driving to San Antonio from Austin and back. Then the 180 miles or so from Denver to Aspen, and back, and the drive to the airport from Tony and Pam's bucking beef ranch.
Here, ultimately, is what it's like: it's your own personal episode of The Amazing Race. You face all these challenges and strange developments, and really, it's up to you to adapt, improvise, and overcome. My personal challendes are always the same: bad eyes, bad sleep, bad stomach. I can't see a damned thing. My gut always goes haywire when I'm out there. I can't sleep worth a darn in motels and hotels. Plus, you're always getting up at 5:00 or 6:00. So the sleep sucks, and you don't get enough of it! Ha ha.
It's strangely envigorating, though. When you're exhausted, and you can't see straight, but you still have a 9:45 post-gig supper with nice profs and students, you have to dip deep to find the source. This is a good thing, ultimately. You have no way of knowing how deep your source goes till you think it's empty and you have to scrape. And you come up with more! (I sound like the trainers on The Biggest Loser--ONE MORE SQUAT THRUST! DO IT! DON'T BE A QUITTER!)
The world becomes a giant puzzle to you, as you figure out all the moves you have to make to get through each event. Mega-Pong.
#
So I dragged my sorry booty out of bed at 5:30 on Wednesday. We had gotten in from Aspen Monday night--kid's still sick. I have to take her to the doctor today. Taught on Tuesday. Drove to O'Hare (O'Snare) in death-traffic. I was sure I wasn't going to make it. It was dead-stopped at 7:00, and my flight was at 8:20. But somehow I got through the snags and went to park and the lot was full. Doh! I ended up parked somewhere I don't even know where, then hoofed it to the terminal--in the wrong direction! Doh! Got to the gate as they were boarding. Challenge One Complete! The Urrea Team Moves On!
Into Dulles. Wandered around squinting. Magically hooked up with my guide and driver, a hiking woman. We had a good time, though we got lost. Went to a nice lunch next door to a Virginia place called Fast Eddie's. I remember the stupidest details. Don't remember my hosts' names, but I remember Fast Eddies. Plus there was a small ravine behind the place with a gorgeous little green and gold stream that I just know was full of turtles.
Hotel! Bathroom! CNN! Iron shirt! Take a bite of the Otis Spunkmeyer or whatever it was cookies the hotel gave me that throw them away! THE URREA TEAM PASSES THE SECOND CHALLENGE! Although he has been on a diet since 1972, Urrea loses weight! The crowd goes wild! Only 947 pounds to go! Urrea scores extra points when his pants fall off as he tries to walk over to the bathroom! He steps out of them and tells himself, "You are v-shaped! You are a solid slab of mightily-thewed muscle and gristle."
To the lobby to be picked up for the reception with strangers and the vaguely confused public!
#
At George Mason U, a fine institution. Even though my psychotic attacker lurks thereabouts. I stood around sipping ice water at the art installation. Very nice people spoke to me. And we then hied over to the theater.
I drew an OK crowd. Not the audience ctaclysms of UC Davis or Austin or even Hope College in Michigan. This wasn't an REM concert--it was more like a Lovehammers concert. But it was funny, I think, and we seemed to get along very well. I went over the time limit. I always go over. Someone warn the venues I will go over. And the Q&A session will go long too. And the signing line will be very long. I could hear my host off stage waving his arms at me, but I couldn't see him in the gloom. Just heard his feet squeaking.
Look, my mind was still processing the bulls at Tony's house, Jay Marvin's astounding 120 pound diet, the Mexican meal in Aspen, the snow, the lovely and sacred Sara Labadie at Gallagher's in Paw Paw, Michigan. I cannot catch up to myself. It's a time-warp out there.
I squatted at the signing table, and my buds appeared. My new friends, and my old friends. The loyal and fierce Grace and Clarke were there. Hugs and kisses! (Is the best part of the tour hugs and kisses? Well, it'll do till the best part gets there.) And my friend Mary Blanchard, whom I had met in France years ago. Yay! And Kyoko Mori, the fine writer.
So I was signing, and I was making the students sign my autograph book. This new feature has been a raving success. It turns the whole event into a yearbook graduation party. And then Travis Bickle stepped up.
Now, your star-killers are not dudes in mohawks. Not tattooed maniacs with chains and face-piercings. Those guys are always in the line, too. And they are the ones who actually read and think about the books. They might toss me a devil's-horns sign, but that's like a hug and kiss.
This freak son of a bitch was a slender man. 46 or 38. Pasty-faced and smiling. Little dark sixth grade haircut, all nicely combed. Little polo shirt and little zipped up windbreaker. Looked like mommy had dressed him for the event, except he had mommy's mummy in his closet.
The thing starts with a few innocuoucs, yet slightly critical, questions. I am fully in my Boddhisattva-Boy mode out there. I have tried to quash the monster within. My werewolf first wife once quipped, "Most people have in inner child. You have an inner serial killer."
Oh well, the slow whine of the engine of rage in his head started to engage. He wouldn't get out of line. He ratcheted up, faster and faster: I had lied, I had failed to explain reality, I had shirked my responsibility, my heritage was corrupt. Mexican culture was debased, I was debased, filthy Mexicans were invading his pristine country, Mexicans were murderers and deserved to be executed en masse, I had a brain of some sort but I obviously could not think. Little mists of spit and demonic orgasms squirted out of the corners of his mouth.
I was trying toi be polite; I started to go all Bill Clinton and turn red and snap. The kids in line stood there agog. What--Buddha is going to give the psycho killer a Tombstone Pile-Driver?
If I have a bone to pick with the fine folks at Geo Mason, it might be that my hosts all stood there observing this scene with the mildest, Why isn't this interesting, looks on their faces. Good ol' Grace and Clarke were about to jump Mr. Bill Zebbub.
Somehow, he was shuffled aside so I could sing the rest of the books. "I'm staying right here!" he called. "I'm talking to you after you're done!"
Hey, great. Just my idea of a swell night.
And he came for more. It got to the next videogame level of repressed assassin wind-up. He got very loud. The Yuma 14 had died coward's deaths. They deserved their deaths. In fact, 14 died, but all 26 deserved to die! We were outside, and he was shrieking from the shadows. Then he stormed off.
I know how this goes. Usually, the cowards who attack on the internet attack at this level, They're bolder when they are hidden in their apartments with their GI Joe action figures and their stained tighty whiteys around their ankles. The next step is, they tell you you're a traitor. And traitors, inevitably, have earned the patriot's bullets. There is only one fate for a traitor to AMERICA, and that is the bliundfold and the firing squad. Oh, yes. I have gotten these messages. And then--get this, fellow writers--they will move on to your wife and children. The kids must go, because that's the only way to stop vermin like me from spreading my gospel of hate, treason, and beaner-loving.
That was coming, as soon as Bill Zebub came back from his car.
With his .38.
Kind of tiresome.
So the friendly prof swooped me up and we went to an Indian dinner and I tried to focus on the questions. After my crazy stalker in Tucson, I have to confess I kept one eye over my shoulder, expecting my new pal to take a pot-shot from the street. (Later, when I told my boy Eric about it on the phone, he reverted to Rock And Roll Asshole Mode, which is what I need when I'm being Buddha-Man: he was upset at first, then started to laugh, and said, "Dude, take one for the team! Let the guy, like, shoot you in the shoulder or the leg! Man! You'll be on the news! They'll be like, He was shot by racists for his humanitarian stance! You'll sell millions of books!" I couldn't stop laughing. Thanks, E.)
#
Adapt, improvise, and overcome.
Up at 6:00. Five minute shower. Into the cab at 6:30. African driver. His father had three wives. He maintained four houses. One for each woman, and one for the 16 children. Poor papa never did get a house of his own.
I had vowed to my students that I'd get to Chi in time to drive to them and teach class that morning. It was hard to find the car at O'Hare, and it was storming. But somehow I got in the Honda at 10:00. I had to be at UIC at 11:00. I was on it! Challenge Number 101!
I kept thinking about what the pilot said to us. It was one of those moments when Grace descends from an unexpected place. He came over the cabin intercom and did the usual we're landing thing. But then he said: "Remember, every day is a gift. That's why they call it The Present."
How about that.
I made it to class, too. The students applauded.
Today, me and the cat are watching it rain.
Thanks.
L
4/08/2008
And the road goes on forever...
I realized, on this endless round of travels, that I have been blessed with only a few magical powers. I have two skills: writing and teaching. I have two talents: love and freedom. They ain't much, but they'll do.
#
When I was a kid, my friends spent a lot of energy not only trying to figure out my mom ("The General"), but trying to amuse her and attend to her strange needs and urges--rides, for example. Lyn (see last road-posting, below) was probably the daughter my Ma never had. When The General died, she left behind some of her antique jewelry. One ring was particularly exquisite--it was made by Tiffany himself. A huge square-cut canary yellow diamond surrounded by small white diamonds. It seemed fitting that Lyn should have it.
But I didn't have a daughter then. Not that I knew of, anyway. I sometimes wake up at night and think, Oh my God! What if----??? But that's a different story from a different life.
In San Antonio, Lyn surprised us and the barf-prone Chayo by presenting her with The General's ring. Tears fell all around.
#
Aspen, Aspen, Aspen. The Aspen Writers folks are always so full of love and good cheer that it's a pleasure to do stuff with them. And, really, who is going to resist a visit to Aspen?
We stayed in the Aspen Alps. If only I knew how to ski. The Aspen Mtn ski run ends at the back deck of the condo we were in. About 25 yards from our door was The Sky Hotel--you snowboarding hodads know it well. The hot pool and hot tub were in back surrounded by fire pits and full of bubbling hardbody ski scrumptious white peeps looking like they were making a six-pack ab and rubber boobies soup. The Steve Miller was crankin' on the speakers and the toddies and Coronas and chocotinis were on the trays. I kept telling Chayo I was going to take her down there at night so she could see drunk naked people. "DAAAAAD!" was her general response.
My first gig was at Aspen High School. Um. I'd go back to high school just to attend AHS. "Ahhhs!" is the right acronym for that li'l institution, situated on a hill with a ski slope to the front door of the school and picture windows looking up at mountains and pines and aspens and cliffs and glaciers. The kids were great, as all high school audiences seem to be. One kid confided: "Dude, school sucks." I said, "Wait! Look out the window!" He was a cool kid: earring, woolly cap. He said, "I've been looking at that my whole life. I can't wait to get out."
Probably Kevin Costner's boy, to boot.
I was in Aspen promoting Rudy Anaya's Bless Me, Ultima for the NEA's Big Read. So I was in superman mode: take me where you need me and I'll dance around like an organ grinder's monkey. The awesome and intense Jordan took us to the school and back to the Alps. We headed out immediately to rejoin our dear Aspen in the adventure of spending money and trying to wrench one iota of oxygen out of the high mountain sky. We went down to Boogie's, the diner everybody loves. 50's diner upstairs with burgers and fries; jaw-droppingly expensive clothes store below. I picked up a tattered pair of girls' half-booty and third-crotch covering short shorts, and was frightened by their $300 price tag. They were so brief you'd have to wax to wear them, and I thought: You couldn't fit $300 in the pockets!
Megan found a cute cashmere sweater selling for half-price, only $499! We decided maybe burgers instead of sweaters. But we do that every time we go to Boogie's. I will feel like I've made it when I take the girls in there and buy clothes instead of Diet Coke.
#
Walk, walk, walk. Cough, cough, cough.
TV and movies and crossword puzzles in the condo. Bad nights: coughing and stomach fits and a heating system set to some sort of atomic reactor that made Cindy think she'd gone into menopause and was having hot flashes. I was having hot flashes myself. Groovin' Colorado breakfasts of Kashi! (Luis's family says, "Yuck.") And down valley to Carbondale, one of my favorite towns. Off to the side, a sweet little ranch selling for $88,000,000.00.
In Carbondale High, the kids of the invisible undocumented work-force that keeps Aspen in margaritas, clean sheets, smoked ahi sandwiches, groceries, yard work, clean dishes, burgers, groceries, study. Mi raza! How weird to be in the High Rockies, in John Denver territory, and hear Tijuana receive cheers from the crowd. Oddly, when I told them I had several relatives who had done hard time in prison, they cheered again. That's the spirit!
Big love. Mostly for me. I love those kids.
One mom showed up with a Spanish Hummingbird, and she and her daughter asked for my autograph and kissed their fingers and made gestures in the air as if my book were the tastiest plate of clams they'd ever eaten.
#
Back up-valley, cruising around. Vegetarian lunch in a lovely bistro with a transvestite hostess. Chayo kept squinting at her, not quite sure what was so interesting about her. I stifled great hilarity as my women-folk tried to figure out what all the weird food was. They settled on tuna-melts, figuring that would be safe. Non-dairy cheese, I pointed out. And tempeh tuna. "What's tempeh?" I told 'em: Think of, like, really chewy firm tofu-like patties that have fish flavor on them! Hyark! I almost snorted water through my nose as they realized they would die if they tried it.
At the condo, the Mexican maids were doing our room. I said hello in Spanish. "Es usted el escritor?" they asked me. We had a swell time chatting about books and writing and Rudy Anaya. "They told us you were coming," one said. "We were so excited."
Oops. Back to work! Back to Carbondale! Another talk! With mayors and senators. Blah blah and ho-ho! They had an amazing Ballet Folklorico that danced up a storm. Then I was outside being interviewed on TV. The sun was setting beyond the mtns, and Mt. Sopris caught a wild peachy glow as if it were being lit from within. It was the world's huge-est plastic decoration. Ever.
The next day was the great treat. The maids at the Alps made a Mexican feast and invited us down to the clubhouse and fed us the best food in Aspen. Then I did my official NEA gig with the official US Government Minister of Wildness and Joy, David Kippen. He's the Director of Literature and the Honcho behind the Big Read. Guy's a laff riot, too. So I did the thing again, and there was all kinds of Big Millionaire Love in the room. And hugs and kisses for all my Aspen pals, Lisa, Jordan, Laura. Our good friend Shere--whom we'd met at Lewis and Clark in Portland a few years back--do you see how this lit thing, this tour thing, is a mind-bending swirl where you don't know where you are or who you'll see?--gave us gondola tickets to ride up to the top of the vast mtn and party with the citizens who were greeting Spring. Snow all day, by the way. So we hooked David and joined Shere in a gondola and swung up scarily into the high rockies. Up. And up some more. And up a whole lot more again.
The big lodge up there was packed with party-goers and jolly jam bands and lots of booze and food. A local woman wiggled her fingers around her chest, twitched her butt, and told me I gave her "Tingles. Just tingles."
Coming back down with David, we were amazed that it snowed up a white-out in the dark and the gondola stopped mid-drop and left us swinging there in the maw of apocalypse.
#
Driving out in near-blizzard conditions. It was amazing. I love driving my favprite American highway, the I-70 passage through Glenwood Springs Canyon. You've got to go down there.
Chayo saw a bighorn. I blasted REM's new cd to my great delight. Then followed it with the Raconteurs' great new cd. A fine music-day, even if I was certain I was going to kill us all in the blinding snow.
On to Tony and Pam's ranch, where the donkeys and the dogs and the cows all yelled at us. I was having some fun with the huge and jolly red Highlands bull, Mack. He picked me up with one horn and tossed me about three feet. Believe it or not, I couldn't stop laughing. Bull humor.
Our radio pal Jay Marvin came, and we had a wonderful supper and lots of talk, even though I had completely lost my voice and am still having trouble getting it back.
Flew home last night. Got up to teach today. Only realized I had buttoned my shirt wrong when I got home. I told Cinderella, "It makes the students love me more when they see something like that."
Leaving for Washington D.C. at 6:00 tomorrow morning.
I am tired.
L
The Hospital Highway
I realized, on this endless round of travels, that I have been blessed with only a few magical powers. I have two skills: writing and teaching. I have two talents: love and freedom. They ain't much, but they'll do.
#
When I was a kid, my friends spent a lot of energy not only trying to figure out my mom ("The General"), but trying to amuse her and attend to her strange needs and urges--rides, for example. Lyn (see last road-posting, below) was probably the daughter my Ma never had. When The General died, she left behind some of her antique jewelry. One ring was particularly exquisite--it was made by Tiffany himself. A huge square-cut canary yellow diamond surrounded by small white diamonds. It seemed fitting that Lyn should have it.
But I didn't have a daughter then. Not that I knew of, anyway. I sometimes wake up at night and think, Oh my God! What if----??? But that's a different story from a different life.
In San Antonio, Lyn surprised us and the barf-prone Chayo by presenting her with The General's ring. Tears fell all around.
#
Aspen, Aspen, Aspen. The Aspen Writers folks are always so full of love and good cheer that it's a pleasure to do stuff with them. And, really, who is going to resist a visit to Aspen?
We stayed in the Aspen Alps. If only I knew how to ski. The Aspen Mtn ski run ends at the back deck of the condo we were in. About 25 yards from our door was The Sky Hotel--you snowboarding hodads know it well. The hot pool and hot tub were in back surrounded by fire pits and full of bubbling hardbody ski scrumptious white peeps looking like they were making a six-pack ab and rubber boobies soup. The Steve Miller was crankin' on the speakers and the toddies and Coronas and chocotinis were on the trays. I kept telling Chayo I was going to take her down there at night so she could see drunk naked people. "DAAAAAD!" was her general response.
My first gig was at Aspen High School. Um. I'd go back to high school just to attend AHS. "Ahhhs!" is the right acronym for that li'l institution, situated on a hill with a ski slope to the front door of the school and picture windows looking up at mountains and pines and aspens and cliffs and glaciers. The kids were great, as all high school audiences seem to be. One kid confided: "Dude, school sucks." I said, "Wait! Look out the window!" He was a cool kid: earring, woolly cap. He said, "I've been looking at that my whole life. I can't wait to get out."
Probably Kevin Costner's boy, to boot.
I was in Aspen promoting Rudy Anaya's Bless Me, Ultima for the NEA's Big Read. So I was in superman mode: take me where you need me and I'll dance around like an organ grinder's monkey. The awesome and intense Jordan took us to the school and back to the Alps. We headed out immediately to rejoin our dear Aspen in the adventure of spending money and trying to wrench one iota of oxygen out of the high mountain sky. We went down to Boogie's, the diner everybody loves. 50's diner upstairs with burgers and fries; jaw-droppingly expensive clothes store below. I picked up a tattered pair of girls' half-booty and third-crotch covering short shorts, and was frightened by their $300 price tag. They were so brief you'd have to wax to wear them, and I thought: You couldn't fit $300 in the pockets!
Megan found a cute cashmere sweater selling for half-price, only $499! We decided maybe burgers instead of sweaters. But we do that every time we go to Boogie's. I will feel like I've made it when I take the girls in there and buy clothes instead of Diet Coke.
#
Walk, walk, walk. Cough, cough, cough.
TV and movies and crossword puzzles in the condo. Bad nights: coughing and stomach fits and a heating system set to some sort of atomic reactor that made Cindy think she'd gone into menopause and was having hot flashes. I was having hot flashes myself. Groovin' Colorado breakfasts of Kashi! (Luis's family says, "Yuck.") And down valley to Carbondale, one of my favorite towns. Off to the side, a sweet little ranch selling for $88,000,000.00.
In Carbondale High, the kids of the invisible undocumented work-force that keeps Aspen in margaritas, clean sheets, smoked ahi sandwiches, groceries, yard work, clean dishes, burgers, groceries, study. Mi raza! How weird to be in the High Rockies, in John Denver territory, and hear Tijuana receive cheers from the crowd. Oddly, when I told them I had several relatives who had done hard time in prison, they cheered again. That's the spirit!
Big love. Mostly for me. I love those kids.
One mom showed up with a Spanish Hummingbird, and she and her daughter asked for my autograph and kissed their fingers and made gestures in the air as if my book were the tastiest plate of clams they'd ever eaten.
#
Back up-valley, cruising around. Vegetarian lunch in a lovely bistro with a transvestite hostess. Chayo kept squinting at her, not quite sure what was so interesting about her. I stifled great hilarity as my women-folk tried to figure out what all the weird food was. They settled on tuna-melts, figuring that would be safe. Non-dairy cheese, I pointed out. And tempeh tuna. "What's tempeh?" I told 'em: Think of, like, really chewy firm tofu-like patties that have fish flavor on them! Hyark! I almost snorted water through my nose as they realized they would die if they tried it.
At the condo, the Mexican maids were doing our room. I said hello in Spanish. "Es usted el escritor?" they asked me. We had a swell time chatting about books and writing and Rudy Anaya. "They told us you were coming," one said. "We were so excited."
Oops. Back to work! Back to Carbondale! Another talk! With mayors and senators. Blah blah and ho-ho! They had an amazing Ballet Folklorico that danced up a storm. Then I was outside being interviewed on TV. The sun was setting beyond the mtns, and Mt. Sopris caught a wild peachy glow as if it were being lit from within. It was the world's huge-est plastic decoration. Ever.
The next day was the great treat. The maids at the Alps made a Mexican feast and invited us down to the clubhouse and fed us the best food in Aspen. Then I did my official NEA gig with the official US Government Minister of Wildness and Joy, David Kippen. He's the Director of Literature and the Honcho behind the Big Read. Guy's a laff riot, too. So I did the thing again, and there was all kinds of Big Millionaire Love in the room. And hugs and kisses for all my Aspen pals, Lisa, Jordan, Laura. Our good friend Shere--whom we'd met at Lewis and Clark in Portland a few years back--do you see how this lit thing, this tour thing, is a mind-bending swirl where you don't know where you are or who you'll see?--gave us gondola tickets to ride up to the top of the vast mtn and party with the citizens who were greeting Spring. Snow all day, by the way. So we hooked David and joined Shere in a gondola and swung up scarily into the high rockies. Up. And up some more. And up a whole lot more again.
The big lodge up there was packed with party-goers and jolly jam bands and lots of booze and food. A local woman wiggled her fingers around her chest, twitched her butt, and told me I gave her "Tingles. Just tingles."
Coming back down with David, we were amazed that it snowed up a white-out in the dark and the gondola stopped mid-drop and left us swinging there in the maw of apocalypse.
#
Driving out in near-blizzard conditions. It was amazing. I love driving my favprite American highway, the I-70 passage through Glenwood Springs Canyon. You've got to go down there.
Chayo saw a bighorn. I blasted REM's new cd to my great delight. Then followed it with the Raconteurs' great new cd. A fine music-day, even if I was certain I was going to kill us all in the blinding snow.
On to Tony and Pam's ranch, where the donkeys and the dogs and the cows all yelled at us. I was having some fun with the huge and jolly red Highlands bull, Mack. He picked me up with one horn and tossed me about three feet. Believe it or not, I couldn't stop laughing. Bull humor.
Our radio pal Jay Marvin came, and we had a wonderful supper and lots of talk, even though I had completely lost my voice and am still having trouble getting it back.
Flew home last night. Got up to teach today. Only realized I had buttoned my shirt wrong when I got home. I told Cinderella, "It makes the students love me more when they see something like that."
Leaving for Washington D.C. at 6:00 tomorrow morning.
I am tired.
L
4/05/2008
Aspen, Colorado. We're staying at the Aspen Alps, in some guy's $2,000,000 condo. Today, the housekeeping staff made a celebratory Mexican meal for us in the clubhouse, and we had a sweet gathering down there.
Sometimes, writers come and act like jerks and divas. But you never know what the writer's going through on the journey or tour. As you know from the last installment, I've been sick the whole time. But I think I've managed to keep from being too mean to anybody.
I flew back to Chi, got a night's sleep, jumped in Tony Delcavo's car to drive to Detroit. Hours and hours and hours. We stopped in Paw Paw Michigan to eat at Gallagher's. Go to Gallagher's. America's sweetheart, Sara Labadie works there. We heart Sara Labadie. Plus, any woman who shows you her chin scar gotten at a baseball game is a goddess. Sara--I'm sending you a book, baby! And on to a dead-stop traffic jam. Many long bored moments later, we slopped into the wreck. A vast dumptruck had oveturned and dumped a couple of tons of eerie orange powder all over the freeway. Tractors were scooping up cancer-causing nuclear waste.
I made it to my hotel with about fifteen minutes to spare. I told the dudes at the desk I wouldn't be able to spend the night. "I'm the Lone Ranger." I told them they'd might as well call their buds and have them use my room. Horrible painful coughing jags, but I got on my monkey-suit and was gathered and driven to the country club or whatever it was where I represented Rudlofo Anaya for the NEA Big Read. Beef Wllington. Nice folks. A surprise demand for autographs. Did't expect that. Tony collected me and we drove about another hour to Ann Arbor where I crashed in his apartment. Off to the airport first thing.
Cindy, Megan and Chayo joined me on my lay-over. We dragged into the plane. I was coughing so much that I felt like my whole face was covered in a thin shellack of boogies.
We flew to Austin. I was so exhausted. No sleep forn the last 12,000 miles. We got a big fat Hertz Nissan Altima and drove around that awesome town. Stayed in the Omni Austin. The Urrea Corporation always stays at the Omni Austin--when you're in town, so should you! Bought Chayo an Austin bat in the gift shop in honor of, well, the Austin bats. I wanted to get the baseball cap with the Davey Crocket quote: "You may all go to hell. As for me, I am going to Texas."
Quivering legs and room service and cable. And--Chayo--started to vomit. VOMIT. And VOMIT. We fell asleep and every twenty minutes or so, PUKE! RETCH! I'd get up and cough up a quarter pound of lung just to join in.
It looked rough the next morning, but we got dressed and joined my ol' high school sweetheart Lyn Niles and drove down to San Antonio. Wanted to show the girls the Alamo. And--Chayo--started to vomit! Fortunately, there was a bag which we filled with gut-bomb. Yum yum. Lyn drove around looking for a drug store. We found a fancy hotel and Cindy ran in to find meds in their shop. I had completely lost my voice. We got Chayo settled down--the bounce-back kid said she felt great after she unloaded. So we went to my fave, Mi Tierra, to eat. the waietr made Chayo a special flan so she could eat something. The musicians serenaded her. The waiter said, "I could tell you were a Mexican." I asked how he knew. "Your eyes. You have Mexican eyes. You look like you're from a drug cartel."
Lyn dropped us off at the Omni after about ninety hours on the road, and Chayo fell ill again. Bad ears now. Fever. Yellow goo pouring out of her head. Megan must not have been feeling all that swell either. We had to take Chayo to a doctor, but we knew no docs in Austin. So we locked Meg in the suite and rushed Chayo to the city's emergency room. Yikes. Rummies and fight club types and crack-heads shuffled around. The intake guy actually told us to take our daughter out of there. That was a first!
We rushed up I-35 to the fancy and green children's hospital, where we waited for hours. Chayo had somehow ruptured her ear drum. Here it was nearing midnight, and we had to go find a drug store open.
I coughed and choked and poured sweat all night, then leapt up to go visit classes at UT! Dr. Charm! Mr. Affable! After that, lunch with really cool people. I soaked through my shirt.
Omni: bathe, change, make sure girls are all right. Cindy and me, back down for The Event. A huge crowd. A signing line that went all the way through the theater and down the stairs. My hosts thought I could sign books in ten minutes. "Good luck with that," I said. "I tend to sign books for hours." It was awesome--and I busted out my autograph book and made the fans sign it for me. I was photographed about thirty times. "We gon' put you on Facebook" all my new Chicana girlfriends insisted. The cops working security actually took pictures for us. "Just doing our duty," one copper quipped. My Teresita-cousins Dave and Grace were there, but I was so buried in people I couldn't get to them.
Dinner (I had KILLER duck enchiladas), and some mind-boggling ideas from UT that I can't discuss at the moment. Back to the hotel. Girls OK. Pack like maniacs because we had to get up at 5:30.
I AM TOO OLD FOR THIS.
To airport in the dark. Girls dead asleep on airport floor. Uneventful flight to Denver, all of us sleeping and coughing. In Denver, we rented a big-ass SUV to brave the 20 inches of fresh snow in the Rockies and up, up, up, into God's country. When we got to our condo, Megan threw up. I was only sorry we didn't bring one of the dogs so it could poo on the floor and I could step in it!
Last night, after an amazing event in Carbondale, Cindy and I sat here at the breakfast counter of the condo, choking down Wendy's. I shook my cheeseburger at her. "Fame," I said. "This is the high life." Then I coughed up some more lung-cheese. But we laughed. We laugh a lot, except when we think we're dying. Or....maybe we laugh hardest then.
I was on the front page of the newspaper this morning. Maybe Antonio Banderas/Tomas Urrea saw it and will come down to ther gig tonight. Maybe some of us can barf on him.
I have done 4 events so far here in Aspen. Two more tonight. Drive down Sunday. Fly to Chi on Monday. Teach on Tuesday. Fly to D.C. on Wed. morning and do yet another dancing monkey show that day. Fly back to Chi early Th morning so I can teach all day.
But Friday's coming. And I am going to sleep. Until the following Friday.
PS In spite of the billionaires and drunken hot tub byootyful people and the million dollar jets clogging the little airport, Aspen could not be more lovely. And it's good to see our literary friends again. And my beloved Latina maids and I are having a swell time.
Megan and Cinderella are out buying expensive Aspen crap. Chayo found the Spongebob Channel. I'm reading a book about a guy who keeps a buffalo in his house.
L
Sometimes, writers come and act like jerks and divas. But you never know what the writer's going through on the journey or tour. As you know from the last installment, I've been sick the whole time. But I think I've managed to keep from being too mean to anybody.
I flew back to Chi, got a night's sleep, jumped in Tony Delcavo's car to drive to Detroit. Hours and hours and hours. We stopped in Paw Paw Michigan to eat at Gallagher's. Go to Gallagher's. America's sweetheart, Sara Labadie works there. We heart Sara Labadie. Plus, any woman who shows you her chin scar gotten at a baseball game is a goddess. Sara--I'm sending you a book, baby! And on to a dead-stop traffic jam. Many long bored moments later, we slopped into the wreck. A vast dumptruck had oveturned and dumped a couple of tons of eerie orange powder all over the freeway. Tractors were scooping up cancer-causing nuclear waste.
I made it to my hotel with about fifteen minutes to spare. I told the dudes at the desk I wouldn't be able to spend the night. "I'm the Lone Ranger." I told them they'd might as well call their buds and have them use my room. Horrible painful coughing jags, but I got on my monkey-suit and was gathered and driven to the country club or whatever it was where I represented Rudlofo Anaya for the NEA Big Read. Beef Wllington. Nice folks. A surprise demand for autographs. Did't expect that. Tony collected me and we drove about another hour to Ann Arbor where I crashed in his apartment. Off to the airport first thing.
Cindy, Megan and Chayo joined me on my lay-over. We dragged into the plane. I was coughing so much that I felt like my whole face was covered in a thin shellack of boogies.
We flew to Austin. I was so exhausted. No sleep forn the last 12,000 miles. We got a big fat Hertz Nissan Altima and drove around that awesome town. Stayed in the Omni Austin. The Urrea Corporation always stays at the Omni Austin--when you're in town, so should you! Bought Chayo an Austin bat in the gift shop in honor of, well, the Austin bats. I wanted to get the baseball cap with the Davey Crocket quote: "You may all go to hell. As for me, I am going to Texas."
Quivering legs and room service and cable. And--Chayo--started to vomit. VOMIT. And VOMIT. We fell asleep and every twenty minutes or so, PUKE! RETCH! I'd get up and cough up a quarter pound of lung just to join in.
It looked rough the next morning, but we got dressed and joined my ol' high school sweetheart Lyn Niles and drove down to San Antonio. Wanted to show the girls the Alamo. And--Chayo--started to vomit! Fortunately, there was a bag which we filled with gut-bomb. Yum yum. Lyn drove around looking for a drug store. We found a fancy hotel and Cindy ran in to find meds in their shop. I had completely lost my voice. We got Chayo settled down--the bounce-back kid said she felt great after she unloaded. So we went to my fave, Mi Tierra, to eat. the waietr made Chayo a special flan so she could eat something. The musicians serenaded her. The waiter said, "I could tell you were a Mexican." I asked how he knew. "Your eyes. You have Mexican eyes. You look like you're from a drug cartel."
Lyn dropped us off at the Omni after about ninety hours on the road, and Chayo fell ill again. Bad ears now. Fever. Yellow goo pouring out of her head. Megan must not have been feeling all that swell either. We had to take Chayo to a doctor, but we knew no docs in Austin. So we locked Meg in the suite and rushed Chayo to the city's emergency room. Yikes. Rummies and fight club types and crack-heads shuffled around. The intake guy actually told us to take our daughter out of there. That was a first!
We rushed up I-35 to the fancy and green children's hospital, where we waited for hours. Chayo had somehow ruptured her ear drum. Here it was nearing midnight, and we had to go find a drug store open.
I coughed and choked and poured sweat all night, then leapt up to go visit classes at UT! Dr. Charm! Mr. Affable! After that, lunch with really cool people. I soaked through my shirt.
Omni: bathe, change, make sure girls are all right. Cindy and me, back down for The Event. A huge crowd. A signing line that went all the way through the theater and down the stairs. My hosts thought I could sign books in ten minutes. "Good luck with that," I said. "I tend to sign books for hours." It was awesome--and I busted out my autograph book and made the fans sign it for me. I was photographed about thirty times. "We gon' put you on Facebook" all my new Chicana girlfriends insisted. The cops working security actually took pictures for us. "Just doing our duty," one copper quipped. My Teresita-cousins Dave and Grace were there, but I was so buried in people I couldn't get to them.
Dinner (I had KILLER duck enchiladas), and some mind-boggling ideas from UT that I can't discuss at the moment. Back to the hotel. Girls OK. Pack like maniacs because we had to get up at 5:30.
I AM TOO OLD FOR THIS.
To airport in the dark. Girls dead asleep on airport floor. Uneventful flight to Denver, all of us sleeping and coughing. In Denver, we rented a big-ass SUV to brave the 20 inches of fresh snow in the Rockies and up, up, up, into God's country. When we got to our condo, Megan threw up. I was only sorry we didn't bring one of the dogs so it could poo on the floor and I could step in it!
Last night, after an amazing event in Carbondale, Cindy and I sat here at the breakfast counter of the condo, choking down Wendy's. I shook my cheeseburger at her. "Fame," I said. "This is the high life." Then I coughed up some more lung-cheese. But we laughed. We laugh a lot, except when we think we're dying. Or....maybe we laugh hardest then.
I was on the front page of the newspaper this morning. Maybe Antonio Banderas/Tomas Urrea saw it and will come down to ther gig tonight. Maybe some of us can barf on him.
I have done 4 events so far here in Aspen. Two more tonight. Drive down Sunday. Fly to Chi on Monday. Teach on Tuesday. Fly to D.C. on Wed. morning and do yet another dancing monkey show that day. Fly back to Chi early Th morning so I can teach all day.
But Friday's coming. And I am going to sleep. Until the following Friday.
PS In spite of the billionaires and drunken hot tub byootyful people and the million dollar jets clogging the little airport, Aspen could not be more lovely. And it's good to see our literary friends again. And my beloved Latina maids and I are having a swell time.
Megan and Cinderella are out buying expensive Aspen crap. Chayo found the Spongebob Channel. I'm reading a book about a guy who keeps a buffalo in his house.
L
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