4/27/2009
The thing about the LATfob, as the twitterers call it, is that you always get a coffee cup. This was my third cup acquisition, so I'm feeling like an old hand. After several visits, and severeal appearances in the LAT op-ed, it's still weird to get there and know everybody working there looks at you and wonders who the hell you are. You can't blame them--they have Michael J. Fox and Clive Barker hanging around. Alyssa Milano! Dude, it's L.A.! All us writers form a wall of protoplasm in the green room, grunting our way through coffee and free pastry. I was dying, though, listening to the obscure drop the famous people name-bombs. "John Cusak said to me--and I LOVE that guy!--blah blah blah." That sort of thing.
My own fame-dog name-bomb? Uh. I was hanging around to say hi to T.C. Boyle, but he didn't show. Is that being a fame-whore? I'm not sure. Like, if the famous guy isn't there, if you're just creepin' in the shadows, are you still name-dropping? I enjoyed meeting Leslie, publisher of the awesome new HOMEBOY journal, and I wandered around w/ ol' Tucson pal Tom Miller, looking for our coffee cups. We went from room to room. Where are those confounded cups! Then we found them, and we had to sign for them. A writer w/ no NAME TAG (very important universal validation) grabbed a cup and was chased down and had the cup removed from his grasp. To save face, he announced to all watchers: "Hey, no prob, man! It's not like I don't have lots of coffee cups at home!"
Miller gave me a copy of his Border Literature Map, with all the names on it. "Yours isn't there," he said. "And fuck you! Make your own map!!" Yeah, Tom! Off he went, cup in hand.
I was staying at the Angeleno. You'd like the Angeleno--it's the old Holiday Inn "where Sunset and the 405 meet." All retro-decked out w/ art and cool gewgaws and an insanely friendly staff. (When I got back to the hotel after my appearacnce, the staff called "High fives!" and high-fived me.) Everywhere I went, authors eyed each other wondering if the other guy was a Pulitzer winner or had a hit novel about Nazi sex orgies and death. But without the NAME TAGs, it was impossible to tell. And, since we're writers, our eyes are shot, so nobody could make out what the name-tags said.
You'd hear, "Well...I wrote the biography of Eugene Debbs currently being discussed on NPR...." Can't put that in a laminate on a cord around your neck.
My event was wonderful. We had a great time. The publisher had arranged to send advance copies of Into the Beautiful North, so the audience actually saw the hardcovers before I did. I still don't have one. The line was long--I signed a lot of books. All copies of the new one sold.
Thank you, L.A. Thank you, fans and supporters. The big love came out, and I was fed and
uplifted by you all.
XXX, L
PS How do you like this new website design?
Artisas y Amigos!
My own fame-dog name-bomb? Uh. I was hanging around to say hi to T.C. Boyle, but he didn't show. Is that being a fame-whore? I'm not sure. Like, if the famous guy isn't there, if you're just creepin' in the shadows, are you still name-dropping? I enjoyed meeting Leslie, publisher of the awesome new HOMEBOY journal, and I wandered around w/ ol' Tucson pal Tom Miller, looking for our coffee cups. We went from room to room. Where are those confounded cups! Then we found them, and we had to sign for them. A writer w/ no NAME TAG (very important universal validation) grabbed a cup and was chased down and had the cup removed from his grasp. To save face, he announced to all watchers: "Hey, no prob, man! It's not like I don't have lots of coffee cups at home!"
Miller gave me a copy of his Border Literature Map, with all the names on it. "Yours isn't there," he said. "And fuck you! Make your own map!!" Yeah, Tom! Off he went, cup in hand.
I was staying at the Angeleno. You'd like the Angeleno--it's the old Holiday Inn "where Sunset and the 405 meet." All retro-decked out w/ art and cool gewgaws and an insanely friendly staff. (When I got back to the hotel after my appearacnce, the staff called "High fives!" and high-fived me.) Everywhere I went, authors eyed each other wondering if the other guy was a Pulitzer winner or had a hit novel about Nazi sex orgies and death. But without the NAME TAGs, it was impossible to tell. And, since we're writers, our eyes are shot, so nobody could make out what the name-tags said.
You'd hear, "Well...I wrote the biography of Eugene Debbs currently being discussed on NPR...." Can't put that in a laminate on a cord around your neck.
My event was wonderful. We had a great time. The publisher had arranged to send advance copies of Into the Beautiful North, so the audience actually saw the hardcovers before I did. I still don't have one. The line was long--I signed a lot of books. All copies of the new one sold.
Thank you, L.A. Thank you, fans and supporters. The big love came out, and I was fed and
uplifted by you all.
XXX, L
PS How do you like this new website design?
We're having a pre-release party with (and for) our good friends at the Ragdale Foundation and La Casa Norte. If you're in the Chicago area, please come and celebrate with us. Good food, good friends and good causes! (And an early copy of the book before the official release date!)
I believe Ragdale is one of the most precious resources for writers and artists in the country and everyone involved with the Foundation is so passionate about the work they support. They've only recently introduced me to La Casa Norte and I'm hoping it is the beginning of a very fruitful relationship. I love what they are doing for at-risk youth and families.
Looking forward to seeing you there!
4/23/2009
My episode of NPR's "This I Believe" aired today. If you'd like to give it a listen, you can find it here:
http://tinyurl.com/c7hI82
New Poem
http://tinyurl.com/c7hI82
4/20/2009
(Join us on Twitter.com/Urrealism.)
Valley of the Palms
When people tell me their problems, I think
of Maria: wasn't every girl named Maria
in Mexico then? Bt this one lived
for a time at a high desert rancho in Valle
de Las Palmas, a place of cattle, thin horses,
scorpions, baby owls in cages, rattlesnakes caught
by the orphan boys who slept locked in pens
so they couldn't sneak out and raid the beds
of girls locked in their own pens ten feet
from the boys.
If a fire ever came through...but God was merciful. Was He not?
No fires. Just orphans. Just work. Just fried pork skins
and indigenous gods washed out of the hills in floods: fat
bellied women crouching with jaguar screams on their faces
carved in the local gray stone. Just missionaries
making popcorn and bringing thrown-out clothes.
The endless uproar of orphans.
The voices like a tide of laughter and insults.
The rusty clank of evening cowbells.
And Maria.
Never smiling. Maria.
Off to the side. Staring.
Maria who would take my hand and walk with me but who
would not look at me. Maria six years old. Scabby knees.
Somber as a priestess in that burned orange sunset in her valley
on her rancho with these strangers.
And I asked. I had to ask. I always asked--the poet needing to know
the secrets of the valley. Looking for notes, looking for stories, I asked
Why is Maria so serious all the time? Why does Maria
not smile or play?
And the adults said, Well, her father
worked in bad cantinas in Tijuana and Mexicali.
Her father took her from bar to bar, where he made her work.
He made her work in these bars where strippers made love to animals.
In these bars where strippers made love to animals, her father made love to her
for money and had men make love to her for money every night.
Every night she cries in her bunk and she does not smile in the day
and she does not play.
Maria walked around the rancho holding my hand.
It was spring. The little yellow flowers exploded from the dirt like skyrockets.
Every wind smelled of cows and horses and dust moved like smoke in the roads.
We sat on a wall. She twisted my finger. I said, "Maria.
Do you want me to pick you a flower?"
Dusk was coming, purple through the valley. Crows
like black glitter fell upon the dead trees. No water in the river, just
a buried Ford station wagon. Cows shuffled home with orphan boys
poking them with sticks.
"It will be dark soon," she said.
And, "Do you love me?"
We didn't look at each other once.
"Of course," I said.
"Say it."
"I love you."
"Yes, then.
Give me
many
flowers."
The Book Video Is Up!
Valley of the Palms
When people tell me their problems, I think
of Maria: wasn't every girl named Maria
in Mexico then? Bt this one lived
for a time at a high desert rancho in Valle
de Las Palmas, a place of cattle, thin horses,
scorpions, baby owls in cages, rattlesnakes caught
by the orphan boys who slept locked in pens
so they couldn't sneak out and raid the beds
of girls locked in their own pens ten feet
from the boys.
If a fire ever came through...but God was merciful. Was He not?
No fires. Just orphans. Just work. Just fried pork skins
and indigenous gods washed out of the hills in floods: fat
bellied women crouching with jaguar screams on their faces
carved in the local gray stone. Just missionaries
making popcorn and bringing thrown-out clothes.
The endless uproar of orphans.
The voices like a tide of laughter and insults.
The rusty clank of evening cowbells.
And Maria.
Never smiling. Maria.
Off to the side. Staring.
Maria who would take my hand and walk with me but who
would not look at me. Maria six years old. Scabby knees.
Somber as a priestess in that burned orange sunset in her valley
on her rancho with these strangers.
And I asked. I had to ask. I always asked--the poet needing to know
the secrets of the valley. Looking for notes, looking for stories, I asked
Why is Maria so serious all the time? Why does Maria
not smile or play?
And the adults said, Well, her father
worked in bad cantinas in Tijuana and Mexicali.
Her father took her from bar to bar, where he made her work.
He made her work in these bars where strippers made love to animals.
In these bars where strippers made love to animals, her father made love to her
for money and had men make love to her for money every night.
Every night she cries in her bunk and she does not smile in the day
and she does not play.
Maria walked around the rancho holding my hand.
It was spring. The little yellow flowers exploded from the dirt like skyrockets.
Every wind smelled of cows and horses and dust moved like smoke in the roads.
We sat on a wall. She twisted my finger. I said, "Maria.
Do you want me to pick you a flower?"
Dusk was coming, purple through the valley. Crows
like black glitter fell upon the dead trees. No water in the river, just
a buried Ford station wagon. Cows shuffled home with orphan boys
poking them with sticks.
"It will be dark soon," she said.
And, "Do you love me?"
We didn't look at each other once.
"Of course," I said.
"Say it."
"I love you."
"Yes, then.
Give me
many
flowers."
4/18/2009
Holy moley!! Just stumbled across this on YouTube. Check out the book trailer for Into the Beautiful North and leave a comment.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9D4g0k3E7Q4
This is so strange .... a book video? Who'da thunk it???
My Life in High Fashion
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9D4g0k3E7Q4
This is so strange .... a book video? Who'da thunk it???
Hmm. Let's see. Elle magazine. Ah, yes--skinny women in underwear! And, some more underwear. And some kind of teddy deal with lace fringe, and--OH! Undewear. No, wait, maybe that's a bathing suit. (Whoa--I didn't know they made girdles anymore...with those clips for nylons...brings back memories, ahem.) When, suddenly, we spring to PAGE 166! The section called "TRUST US."
They say, of Into the Beautiful North, "Heartbreakingly, Urrea relates the quixotic quest of a young shopgirl to find a few men up north to rescue her man-depleted town--Magnificent Seven style--from marauding bad guys."
Thanks, Elle. Especially for that nasty long-line girdle. I mean, for that kind and generous review.
URREA Alert!
They say, of Into the Beautiful North, "Heartbreakingly, Urrea relates the quixotic quest of a young shopgirl to find a few men up north to rescue her man-depleted town--Magnificent Seven style--from marauding bad guys."
Thanks, Elle. Especially for that nasty long-line girdle. I mean, for that kind and generous review.
4/17/2009
I was snooping around Twitter.com, and I saw a lot of URREAs on there! Urreas I never met or heard of! And my niece Iris! Urreas in New Jersey. Urreas everywhere! So I thought, just for an experiment, we ought to start hooking up and following each other. Eh? Are you listening, cousins, uncles, aunts, offspring? Twitter.com/Urrealism.
I Love Lawrence
Thank you, Kansas! I had a great time at KU, with the warm people of Lawrence.
As the plane flew down from Chicago, I stared at the vast quilt of prairie and plains--the patches of corn, soy, wheat, oats stitched together by threadworks of windbreaks. Dirt paths. County roads. You'd see thin creeks with cottonwoods break the geometry with a welcome scribble of wildness. And as we came down toward Kansas City, the regularity of the immense farmlands was revealed to be filled with hidden secrets and surprises. Gulleys were full of chokecherries and trees. Ponds and creeks and little bogs revealed themselves. It seemed a good metaphor for the state and for the region and for the plains: we assume regularity and flatness, but the depths and curves are full of joyous secrets--and some not so joyous, but rich indeed. Proving again that God is the better poet.
So my new pal DaMaris Hill picked me up in her hot Jaguar, and we enjoyed the drive to Lawrence. Then, the bell sounded and I was off! Off to the races! 197 speaking events between noon and ten p.m.! And hey--if Kansas has a mountain, it looks like KU is built upoon it! I know, because I ran up and down the hill about 19 times! So my trainer Nicki will be happy I left bloody footprints all over the campus!
Seriously, the classes were great, the meetings with young warriors who have gone to the border and done humanitarian/witness work at great risk were amazing, the faculty were kind and welcoming and funny, the food was good, the hotel was interesting. I tried to twitter about it: it was a wee bit Twilight-Zoney in that Marriott. The woman at the desk seemed to be reeling with some profound dread--she watched me trot in and out between meals and gigs as if she had her finger on a red Homeland Security alarm button. I think I was really scary to her, BUT I DIDN'T KNOW WHY. Also, along with the genuinely friendly Kansans (everybody I met, even the people deeply upset by illegal immigration, were nice--I didn't get hollered at once, which was rare...OK, wait--I got hollered at by my beloved faculty members who were trying to keep my nine hours with the fans tendencies in check because we had to get to the hoedown at the Provost's showplace house--but that was friendly hollering), there were a few groups of haunted people I was immediately in love with and wanted to follow around. There was a woman who was very very heavy and who could apparently barely breathe who dragged outside to smoke and then struggled back inside again. Then there was a woman on a walker with oxygen and her friend, who was also very heavy but in blck shorts. And they wanted to know where Wal-Mart was, and also where Applebee's was. As always, on the road, I want to know them. I want to know their secrets. I want to go shopping with them and eat lunch with them. I want to pet their dogs.
This is why Chayo (patent pending) is such a boon for me. My li'l one just walks up to folks and inserts herself in their lives. If they have dogs, fuggedabouditt. She's on the case. I mentioned before that she somehow took mental control over tables full of supermodels in Hollywood, and when we left the joint, all these blonde love-bombs waved and shouted, "BYE, CHAYO!" Hmm. I know who the star in this family is.
The even itself was well-attended. Seemed like a full house to me. 300? I think it was something like that. My friend, the poet and reverend Michael Poage showed up! Yay. After e-mailing each other for ages, we finally met. Though meeting for the first time at the men's room does not, necessarily, affect the quality of the encounter.
Lots of laughs, lots of love. Big love. In fact, it was all love. And, in spite of the press for time, and the time-rangers who kept me aware of the clock, I managed to sign all the books people had, and chatter a little buit, and shake hands and hug and take the usual few Senior Prom snapshots. And off! Again! To the provost's house! Yummy snacks! Mo' talk! Mo' questions! I answered, by my official iPhone app Author's Answer Calculator, 951.8 questions in ten hours!
Finally, as steam started to leak from my ears, Marta my new English department Chair (I join the faculty of every college I visit, it seems) dragged me away from good people and took me to the hotel. She really did--she actually stopped a young woman part-way through ehr question (that's the ".8" on my questions calculator). Someone had asked me if I was tired, and I said, "I'm asleep right now. I'm sleepwalking. I am answering you in a dream." (I'd only slept two hurs the night before--that pre-trip insomnia.) So I was walking sideways when I got to the room. Managed to call Cinderella before passing out.
The next morning was gorgeous. Big prairie winds. Birds in the trees. Coffee and banana in front of the paranoid Marriott, with the same lovely woman watching me from behind the desk.
Nate picked me up and we had a fine literary drive back to KC.
So thanks, good people of Kansas. I hope I can return to see you again. You have a kind and handsome state, you have a stunningly beautiful campus in Lawrence, and there were some young ladies doing excellent hula-hoop maneuvers outside Henry's bar--and that's something I don't get to see on every trip. Just brace yourselves--next time I'm bringing my daughter. Get your dogs, cats, cows, buffaloes, horses, donkeys, pigs, chickens, peacocks, snakes, frogs, crawfish, goats, sheep, llamas, canaries ready.
Oh, and your super-models.
XXX, L
Gracias
As the plane flew down from Chicago, I stared at the vast quilt of prairie and plains--the patches of corn, soy, wheat, oats stitched together by threadworks of windbreaks. Dirt paths. County roads. You'd see thin creeks with cottonwoods break the geometry with a welcome scribble of wildness. And as we came down toward Kansas City, the regularity of the immense farmlands was revealed to be filled with hidden secrets and surprises. Gulleys were full of chokecherries and trees. Ponds and creeks and little bogs revealed themselves. It seemed a good metaphor for the state and for the region and for the plains: we assume regularity and flatness, but the depths and curves are full of joyous secrets--and some not so joyous, but rich indeed. Proving again that God is the better poet.
So my new pal DaMaris Hill picked me up in her hot Jaguar, and we enjoyed the drive to Lawrence. Then, the bell sounded and I was off! Off to the races! 197 speaking events between noon and ten p.m.! And hey--if Kansas has a mountain, it looks like KU is built upoon it! I know, because I ran up and down the hill about 19 times! So my trainer Nicki will be happy I left bloody footprints all over the campus!
Seriously, the classes were great, the meetings with young warriors who have gone to the border and done humanitarian/witness work at great risk were amazing, the faculty were kind and welcoming and funny, the food was good, the hotel was interesting. I tried to twitter about it: it was a wee bit Twilight-Zoney in that Marriott. The woman at the desk seemed to be reeling with some profound dread--she watched me trot in and out between meals and gigs as if she had her finger on a red Homeland Security alarm button. I think I was really scary to her, BUT I DIDN'T KNOW WHY. Also, along with the genuinely friendly Kansans (everybody I met, even the people deeply upset by illegal immigration, were nice--I didn't get hollered at once, which was rare...OK, wait--I got hollered at by my beloved faculty members who were trying to keep my nine hours with the fans tendencies in check because we had to get to the hoedown at the Provost's showplace house--but that was friendly hollering), there were a few groups of haunted people I was immediately in love with and wanted to follow around. There was a woman who was very very heavy and who could apparently barely breathe who dragged outside to smoke and then struggled back inside again. Then there was a woman on a walker with oxygen and her friend, who was also very heavy but in blck shorts. And they wanted to know where Wal-Mart was, and also where Applebee's was. As always, on the road, I want to know them. I want to know their secrets. I want to go shopping with them and eat lunch with them. I want to pet their dogs.
This is why Chayo (patent pending) is such a boon for me. My li'l one just walks up to folks and inserts herself in their lives. If they have dogs, fuggedabouditt. She's on the case. I mentioned before that she somehow took mental control over tables full of supermodels in Hollywood, and when we left the joint, all these blonde love-bombs waved and shouted, "BYE, CHAYO!" Hmm. I know who the star in this family is.
The even itself was well-attended. Seemed like a full house to me. 300? I think it was something like that. My friend, the poet and reverend Michael Poage showed up! Yay. After e-mailing each other for ages, we finally met. Though meeting for the first time at the men's room does not, necessarily, affect the quality of the encounter.
Lots of laughs, lots of love. Big love. In fact, it was all love. And, in spite of the press for time, and the time-rangers who kept me aware of the clock, I managed to sign all the books people had, and chatter a little buit, and shake hands and hug and take the usual few Senior Prom snapshots. And off! Again! To the provost's house! Yummy snacks! Mo' talk! Mo' questions! I answered, by my official iPhone app Author's Answer Calculator, 951.8 questions in ten hours!
Finally, as steam started to leak from my ears, Marta my new English department Chair (I join the faculty of every college I visit, it seems) dragged me away from good people and took me to the hotel. She really did--she actually stopped a young woman part-way through ehr question (that's the ".8" on my questions calculator). Someone had asked me if I was tired, and I said, "I'm asleep right now. I'm sleepwalking. I am answering you in a dream." (I'd only slept two hurs the night before--that pre-trip insomnia.) So I was walking sideways when I got to the room. Managed to call Cinderella before passing out.
The next morning was gorgeous. Big prairie winds. Birds in the trees. Coffee and banana in front of the paranoid Marriott, with the same lovely woman watching me from behind the desk.
Nate picked me up and we had a fine literary drive back to KC.
So thanks, good people of Kansas. I hope I can return to see you again. You have a kind and handsome state, you have a stunningly beautiful campus in Lawrence, and there were some young ladies doing excellent hula-hoop maneuvers outside Henry's bar--and that's something I don't get to see on every trip. Just brace yourselves--next time I'm bringing my daughter. Get your dogs, cats, cows, buffaloes, horses, donkeys, pigs, chickens, peacocks, snakes, frogs, crawfish, goats, sheep, llamas, canaries ready.
Oh, and your super-models.
XXX, L
4/13/2009
"Love will lead us, she will lead us...." --Live
Thanks to all the kind people who have commented, twitted, written e-mails about Pasadena/Easter/immigration/working out/Kansas/the garden. Kindness is everywhere.
Thanks to the rain that has charged the chrysanthemums and made them explode.
Thanks to our trainer, Nicki Anderson--even my sweatpants are too big.
Thanks to Mary Oliver for her new book, and Charles Wright for his new book, and to Robertr Sullivan for his generous and amazing new Thoreau book. Thanks to Thoreau.
Thanks to books.
Thanks to Prince for plugging in his guitar and taking his Jimi/Santana/Funkadelic pill on his new CD.
Thanks to the wild turkey that refuses to leave our block and chases off the squirrels--I'd rather have the turkey eat the bird seed, yo!
Thanks to Little,Brown for making Into the Beautiful North so insanely beautiful--I can't wait till you hold it in your hands.
Thanks to the readers, bookstore owners, book reps, book buyers and Twitterers who are saying such good things about it.
Thanks to Luis Mandoki for filming The Hummingbird's Daughter.
Thanks to the chickadees, cardinals, robins, juncos, mourning doves already starting to haunt my garden.
Thanks to the Border patrol who taught me new ways to write.
Thanks to the human rescuers who take water to the dying in the desert.
Thanks to my cat--she never fails to bring comfort in sad hours.
Thanks to my memories, even the bad ones: no poetry without memory.
Thanks to poetry.
Thanks to lost loves, many of whom find me on the internet and I try to live up to the love you once tried to give me when I was panicky as a skunk trapped in a kitchen. I am sending you flowers.
Thanks to skunks.
Thanks for this day; thanks for Easter; thanks for Spring; thanks for my family; thanks for my ass-kicking iPod with all the kickin' tunes; thanks, thanks, thanks.
The greatest form of prayer is one word: THANKS.
"It's all right, all right, it's all right--she moves in mysterious ways...." U2
I'm gone like c oool breeze, baby. See you out there in America.
L
I Used to Call it "Eastern"
Thanks to all the kind people who have commented, twitted, written e-mails about Pasadena/Easter/immigration/working out/Kansas/the garden. Kindness is everywhere.
Thanks to the rain that has charged the chrysanthemums and made them explode.
Thanks to our trainer, Nicki Anderson--even my sweatpants are too big.
Thanks to Mary Oliver for her new book, and Charles Wright for his new book, and to Robertr Sullivan for his generous and amazing new Thoreau book. Thanks to Thoreau.
Thanks to books.
Thanks to Prince for plugging in his guitar and taking his Jimi/Santana/Funkadelic pill on his new CD.
Thanks to the wild turkey that refuses to leave our block and chases off the squirrels--I'd rather have the turkey eat the bird seed, yo!
Thanks to Little,Brown for making Into the Beautiful North so insanely beautiful--I can't wait till you hold it in your hands.
Thanks to the readers, bookstore owners, book reps, book buyers and Twitterers who are saying such good things about it.
Thanks to Luis Mandoki for filming The Hummingbird's Daughter.
Thanks to the chickadees, cardinals, robins, juncos, mourning doves already starting to haunt my garden.
Thanks to the Border patrol who taught me new ways to write.
Thanks to the human rescuers who take water to the dying in the desert.
Thanks to my cat--she never fails to bring comfort in sad hours.
Thanks to my memories, even the bad ones: no poetry without memory.
Thanks to poetry.
Thanks to lost loves, many of whom find me on the internet and I try to live up to the love you once tried to give me when I was panicky as a skunk trapped in a kitchen. I am sending you flowers.
Thanks to skunks.
Thanks for this day; thanks for Easter; thanks for Spring; thanks for my family; thanks for my ass-kicking iPod with all the kickin' tunes; thanks, thanks, thanks.
The greatest form of prayer is one word: THANKS.
"It's all right, all right, it's all right--she moves in mysterious ways...." U2
I'm gone like c oool breeze, baby. See you out there in America.
L
4/12/2009
Life begins again at Easter/Passover/The Equinox. Out there in the chilly sun of Illinois, enjoying our black earth. Picking up a juicy half pound of winter dog poo with Chayo. Picking dead sticks and old maple leaves out of our slaughtered garden. The squirrel somehow got a squirrel SWAT team up on the tall bird feeder and managed to bring it down. Did they use evil squirrel ninja tricks? Grappling hooks?
Under our happily decomposing logs (I'm a sucker for soft decomp logs), the slugs and millipedes are waking up. Snails slightly larger than this period. We reset all the edging stones to delineate the border of the coming joy of grunt-work as we prepare the flower bed for my next experiment in landscaping. (What if borders were only the edges of gardens?) (If I were King!) My garden usually looks like an explosion in a cheap florist's shop. But I'm getting better. Got my anti-rabbit pepper spray to save this year's sprouts. My old friends, the columbines, are already coming up and looking around. Bulbs are popping like the cameras of paparazzi.
So much coming--I recorded my episode of NPR's "This I Believe" this week. I don't know when it's airing, but I'm honored to be among the last guests, ever. (In fact, I was the last one recorded. How cool is that?)
I'll be on my way to Kansas on Wednesday.
The usual unease and terror of going to talk about immigration again. I hate immigration. I am sick of death and anger and rape and fear and violence and rage and insults and death and death and death. This is not where I want my soul to reside. Not anymore. Yeah--I was a fire-breather. I liked the Mad Max vibe. And now?
Just think: I have been writing about this particular shit-storm since 1992. I have punched my foul-union dues-card over and over. I have seen human blood, I have seen human insides, I have had guns pointed at me, I have cried like a baby, I have been in floods, fires, Mexican jail, Mexican hospitals, Border Patrol stations, trucks, caves, under bushes, in children's prison, in orphanages, in smuggler villages, among the undocumented, among the prostitutes, the junkies, the cholos, the cops, the street gangs, the murderers, the torturers, the guards, the pastors, the criminals, the glue sniffers, the punks, the gay activists, the gay victims, among the Border Patrol agents, in their homes, drinking beer with DEA, talking to FBI, smelling dead human, hanging with Mexican immigration cops, being watched by narcos in the desert, hiking, running, car crash with Mexican drug smugglers, years in the Tijuana garbage dump, being conned by waves of Hollywood fast-talkers, doing medical exams with American doctors in plywood shacks, feeding the poor, washing feet, crapping my guts out, eating cooked garbage, sitting in fancy rooms with fancy pols talking fancy lies, in consulates, in lawyers' offices, in newsrooms, in TV studios, on CNN, on MSNBC, on NPR, on "This American Life," in churches, among minutemen, among missionaries, among activists, among communists, among far-right Republicans, among Mormons, among Obamites, with Rush Limbaugh's cousins, among Chicanos, at 100 colleges, on Conservative talk radio, talking to rock stars, at BEA, on the web, on my blog, on Twitter, in newspapers, in the classroom, in books...talking about FREAKIN' IMMIGRATION. Trying to give the low-down on the border!
IT NEVER GOT ANY BETTER.
I'm tired. Tired of it. It's spring. It's time for flowers. But they found eight new skeletons in Arizona. But the dead keep walking. But they're beheading people in Juarez and Tijuana. But my Border Patrol contacts are under more deadly assault. But, but, but....
I just hope the good people of Kansas don't feel like yelling at me. I am especially tired of being yelled at. I have lost my shell. I am all raw soul now. The dead have dismantled me.
Still...we put that fairy castle in the garden, hoping a toad will move in. My daughter doesn't yet know anything about evil. So we give thanks this Easter. Give thanks for the cold sun of April.
And I give thanks for you.
XXXOOOXXX,
Ludwig
25 Things I Love About Pasadena
Under our happily decomposing logs (I'm a sucker for soft decomp logs), the slugs and millipedes are waking up. Snails slightly larger than this period. We reset all the edging stones to delineate the border of the coming joy of grunt-work as we prepare the flower bed for my next experiment in landscaping. (What if borders were only the edges of gardens?) (If I were King!) My garden usually looks like an explosion in a cheap florist's shop. But I'm getting better. Got my anti-rabbit pepper spray to save this year's sprouts. My old friends, the columbines, are already coming up and looking around. Bulbs are popping like the cameras of paparazzi.
So much coming--I recorded my episode of NPR's "This I Believe" this week. I don't know when it's airing, but I'm honored to be among the last guests, ever. (In fact, I was the last one recorded. How cool is that?)
I'll be on my way to Kansas on Wednesday.
The usual unease and terror of going to talk about immigration again. I hate immigration. I am sick of death and anger and rape and fear and violence and rage and insults and death and death and death. This is not where I want my soul to reside. Not anymore. Yeah--I was a fire-breather. I liked the Mad Max vibe. And now?
Just think: I have been writing about this particular shit-storm since 1992. I have punched my foul-union dues-card over and over. I have seen human blood, I have seen human insides, I have had guns pointed at me, I have cried like a baby, I have been in floods, fires, Mexican jail, Mexican hospitals, Border Patrol stations, trucks, caves, under bushes, in children's prison, in orphanages, in smuggler villages, among the undocumented, among the prostitutes, the junkies, the cholos, the cops, the street gangs, the murderers, the torturers, the guards, the pastors, the criminals, the glue sniffers, the punks, the gay activists, the gay victims, among the Border Patrol agents, in their homes, drinking beer with DEA, talking to FBI, smelling dead human, hanging with Mexican immigration cops, being watched by narcos in the desert, hiking, running, car crash with Mexican drug smugglers, years in the Tijuana garbage dump, being conned by waves of Hollywood fast-talkers, doing medical exams with American doctors in plywood shacks, feeding the poor, washing feet, crapping my guts out, eating cooked garbage, sitting in fancy rooms with fancy pols talking fancy lies, in consulates, in lawyers' offices, in newsrooms, in TV studios, on CNN, on MSNBC, on NPR, on "This American Life," in churches, among minutemen, among missionaries, among activists, among communists, among far-right Republicans, among Mormons, among Obamites, with Rush Limbaugh's cousins, among Chicanos, at 100 colleges, on Conservative talk radio, talking to rock stars, at BEA, on the web, on my blog, on Twitter, in newspapers, in the classroom, in books...talking about FREAKIN' IMMIGRATION. Trying to give the low-down on the border!
IT NEVER GOT ANY BETTER.
I'm tired. Tired of it. It's spring. It's time for flowers. But they found eight new skeletons in Arizona. But the dead keep walking. But they're beheading people in Juarez and Tijuana. But my Border Patrol contacts are under more deadly assault. But, but, but....
I just hope the good people of Kansas don't feel like yelling at me. I am especially tired of being yelled at. I have lost my shell. I am all raw soul now. The dead have dismantled me.
Still...we put that fairy castle in the garden, hoping a toad will move in. My daughter doesn't yet know anything about evil. So we give thanks this Easter. Give thanks for the cold sun of April.
And I give thanks for you.
XXXOOOXXX,
Ludwig
4/07/2009
1. Every single person we met on the street or in shops or restaurants and at the big event was incredibly warm and friendly.
2. The librarians rock!
3. The library is amazing.
4. Vroman's Bookstore.
5. The mayor!
6. Raul and the Salinas family and their kids and friends.
7. Palm trees.
8. The new convention center is a marvel.
9. Inside the convention center, they have these inflatable white stars that look like jellyfish until the lights come on and the air warms and expands and they swell up.
10. Across the street from the convention center is a fancy grocery store that I can't remember the name of that is so deluxe and delish that I wish I could shop there every day. And they make good coffee, too. And see #1--nice people in there.
11. The astounding Virgen de Guadalupe tile portrait in the Mijares restaurant.
12. Mijares.
13. The town is very pretty.
14. Sunshine!
15. I do NOT in ANY WAY love the semi-nude Englishwomen all around the hotel pool!
16. Fountains in courtyards.
17. The Latino community and history and culture.
18. The mountains.
19. The clouds on the mountains like little cowboy hats.
20. The Pasadena PIO!
21. All my new Yaqui friends who came to say hello.
22. When they had a meeting to discuss The Hummingbird's Daughter, a hummingbird flew into the room.
23. Right before one of the moderators of talks about The Hummingbird's Daughter got the phone call to ask her to do it, her copy of the book flew off her shelf and fell on the floor.
24. The students and faculty at Pasadena Community College.
25. The hip-hop kids in their gangsta outfits in the elevator at the mall with us were hysterically funny--and they knew it. See #1.
I could write more.
Gracias, Pasadena. I'll see you soon on the Into the Beautiful North tour at Vroman's! We want to move out there and settle in....
Loyally, L
Update for Cafe Observer
2. The librarians rock!
3. The library is amazing.
4. Vroman's Bookstore.
5. The mayor!
6. Raul and the Salinas family and their kids and friends.
7. Palm trees.
8. The new convention center is a marvel.
9. Inside the convention center, they have these inflatable white stars that look like jellyfish until the lights come on and the air warms and expands and they swell up.
10. Across the street from the convention center is a fancy grocery store that I can't remember the name of that is so deluxe and delish that I wish I could shop there every day. And they make good coffee, too. And see #1--nice people in there.
11. The astounding Virgen de Guadalupe tile portrait in the Mijares restaurant.
12. Mijares.
13. The town is very pretty.
14. Sunshine!
15. I do NOT in ANY WAY love the semi-nude Englishwomen all around the hotel pool!
16. Fountains in courtyards.
17. The Latino community and history and culture.
18. The mountains.
19. The clouds on the mountains like little cowboy hats.
20. The Pasadena PIO!
21. All my new Yaqui friends who came to say hello.
22. When they had a meeting to discuss The Hummingbird's Daughter, a hummingbird flew into the room.
23. Right before one of the moderators of talks about The Hummingbird's Daughter got the phone call to ask her to do it, her copy of the book flew off her shelf and fell on the floor.
24. The students and faculty at Pasadena Community College.
25. The hip-hop kids in their gangsta outfits in the elevator at the mall with us were hysterically funny--and they knew it. See #1.
I could write more.
Gracias, Pasadena. I'll see you soon on the Into the Beautiful North tour at Vroman's! We want to move out there and settle in....
Loyally, L
I did stay in a Pasadena hotel. (Comment on last blog.) The Sheraton, room 213. Like I said. It was nice, too. We'll be back!
Pasadena
4/06/2009
Orale, vatos y rucas! QUE ONDA, homeys, weesas, locos y chuntaros! AJUA, Banda! Wow, I'm in a raza mood after our visit to Pasadena and the tasty reception the city threw for us at Mijares restaurante. The mayor offered to buy us margaritas, but somebody else had already beat him to the punch!
If you watched our Twitter feed, you saw pithy notes about the whole trip. But, briefly: we flew west last Wednesday (Cinderella, Megan, Chayo et moi). We hit LAX in the leftover daze from getting up too early in Chi cold and landing in early morning (time travel) in LA heat! Sun! We were pale as Edward Cullen! (That's a cheesy plug for Little, Brown books--brownie points. Oops. A pun. Darn it.) Got to Hertz and found our car--one of those really tiny Chevy deals that looks like a 1941 panel truck that got zapped by a UFO's shrink-ray. We toodled off in the putter-wagon. Got checked in to our Santa Monica hotel. Hit the bricks, checking it out. Drove the girls into Hollywood. My agent amigo Mike invited us to the Chateau Marmont so Megan could see somebody famous. This was my obsession: find Meggy a star to sneer at.
I did not expect Chayo, the Urrea Goodwill Ambassador, to join the various supermodels at their tables and schmooze. I don't know what angle she was working, but perhaps the little one was hoping to be discovered. Meanwhile, the iMac commercial guy--you know, the guy from Die Hard 4--Megan knew his name--was at the next table. OMG! THAT'S LIKE SO TOTALLY HIM. Meg was, I think, bored by our movie talk, and started playing games on my cell phone. Had that dark shades and icy face only a 17 year old girl could have. The iDude got up and walked behind her and leaned over her shoulder to see what she was doing. She never noticed! Meg could have kissed the Mac-Daddy if she'd turned her head.
All in all, a great movie-slut afternoon. Satiated, we went back to the hotel. Up in the morning to walk Santa Monica. Miles of shops and shops and coffee shops and shops and, well, shops. We went out of the pier, and Chayo rode her first roller-coaster. Four times. Trooper of the year. We rode the ferris wheel. We watched seals steal fish off fishermen's hooks. I taught Chayo how to feed pigeons and seagulls. She vanished under an undulating mound of birds. Good thing her mom didn't see that.
Seriously put in four or five good miles of walking. Then drove to Pasadena. Still, being the barbarous wad of man-meat that I am, I uncoiled my two oiled pythons and did my muscle workout when we got back to the room. The skin squealed for mercy as it stretched over my smoking magnum sixguns! Room 213 of the Sheridan was a terrifying riot of manhood--the women cowered.
In the morning, Cinderella got up and went to the treadmill. I slept. Yes I did.
Pool! Couldn't keep the girlies out of the pool! Hot sun and Brit tourists in bizarre open-legged squat poses with bikinis much too small. I observed as a poet might, noting piquant yet tender images and pondering the fleeting moment of life we are given, evanescent and lace-winged. I did not notice jiggling buttocks nor thongs.
Somehow, we managed to walk another two miles.
Yes, Olympic triathlete that I am, I hit the treadmill that night.
We embarrassed yet thrilled Megan by buying as map to the stars' homes and invading Hollywood again. We were on a mission. Ozzy's house! Where Ozzy doesn't live anymore! But Christina does! Tom Cruise's driveway! The house where Superman was shot! (Girls: huh?) Bruce Springsteen's private winding road! Oh, oh! Gene Simmons's front gate! We were almost done when we saw...wait for it...we saw...hang on now...we saw K-FED! In a Mercedes! Like, all backward baseball cap and jammin hip-hop megabass! Go, go, go, go, go, Daddy, gooooo! Chase K-Fed! GOOOOO!
Uh, then what happened. Um. I spoke at the local community college, and we had a really happy time. Except one quivering-with-rage Mexican yoiung lady who wanted to fight because I had dissed the Virgin of Guadalupe. "What book did you read?" I asked. "YOUR BOOK!" I said, "I didn't write whatever you read!" She said, "Yes you did!" I asked, "How much of the book did you read?" She said, "Well, I didn't read it, but our teacher showed us one page!" Wow. This was so weird I simply smiled at her and said: "Whaaaaat?"
One of the young men had me sign his copy, then he showed up at the next gig and had me sign it again--but this time in the back. He told me to write: NOT YOU AGAIN! So I did.
Cindy and I went to a lovely supper at local lawyer/superstar Raul Salinas's MANSE. Let's not even kid ourselves, that homeboy lives large, and I was thrilled to be invited, but Chayo was even more thrilled because she got to swim in their pool. A nice group of local pols and lawyers and readers gathered, and we talked into the evening about Teresita and the Hummingbird's Daughter. Sitting in front of his back yard fireplace. Just a fine, fine gathering.
We LEAPED from bed in the morning! Yes, we did. Honest! Teresita's great-grand daughter, Sylvia, was meeting us for lunch and sharing of stories and secrets before the Pasadena One City/One Book celebration. It was our first meeting. I wasn't expecting a movie star. Muy guapa, mi prima. She brought us many pictures and many family secrets and legends for Book II. It was big love all around.
We all went to the convention center--there was a fancy marquee, and a red carpet, and a mariachi group outside. Banners and big posters. We went inside to a ballet folklorico. Chayo said, "Daddy--all this for you?" I wanted to say somethimg cosmic like, "It is all for Teresita." But I was more like Hell yeah. Sylvia's familia came. Librarians came. Urreas from Clifton-Morenci came. My dear old pal Elia Esparza and her beau, the actor Miguel Najera came. There were between 600 and 700 people in attendance. Pretty stunning, when you think about it.
I introduced Sylvia to the audience, and she rose to the occasion--you could feel all the cosmic folks straining to touch her. Whew! The mystery is still with us.
Well, the event went well. Lots of laughs, anyway. I could hear Chayo hooting and laughing--I even heard Megan laugh. Probably because I looked so gargantuan on the Jumbotron TV screens. It's pretty ghastly, when you feel like your face already looks like a boiled hamhock, to have one on each side of you bigger than a Hummer. I could constantly see, in my peripheral vision, two giant mutant me's coming from either side to eat me.
I sat onstage with our Librarian Goddess, Jan, and we chatted.
An unexpected standing O at the end. Gracias. You really didn't have to do that.
The signing line was over 100 people long. I have to report the best thing that may have ever happened on book event tours: six different Yaqui people or families thanked me for telling their story. I was so happy. That's where it's at, right there. Sylvia seemed happy, and my yaqui brothers and sisters were happy. What more can you ask for? (Except a margarita from the mayor!)
At Mijares, the second bizarre and uncomfortable moment, though. Man, I got scolded in Pasadena! A crew of "concerned women" waited till all the fans had left and I was clearly trying to go to bed so we could leave for the airport this morning at 5:30. "If you had used language like what is in your book in my house, you would have gotten smacked in the mouth!" the head Taliban said. I was tired, cranky, and astounded this person had sat through the event, sat through the long long signing, then come across town and waited through the entire reception to attack. I said, "My book isn't about your house. It's about somebody else's house." She said, "I am extremely uncomfortable with your choices as a writer." I said, "Who told you that your comfort was my responsibility?" (I was thinking: get your Sherman Alexie on, Luis!) I found out later that the book had been banned! Yes. From high schools. Duh. They could have called me, and I would have suggested it was never intended for a high school audience.
We said a sad farewell to all our new Pasadena friends, kissed Sylvia good-night, went back to our room where I brooded. Why is it that 700 people tell you they love you and your work, but one angry girl and four women who look like they just smelled a fresh cat turd as they stare at you can pierce your heart? Well, I don't know.
It's all in a day's work. I sought God, and God came. Even when I used naughty language.
We dragged out of bed today at 5:00. Crawled to the putter-truck a half hour later. And have spent the day in the plane, coming from brilliant sun and heat to fresh snow. No K-Fed, dawg! No iMac commercial Die Hard dude! Just us. Our cat. And early bed.
Still, being the Visgoth warrior prince that I am, driven by my superhuman genetics, I mounted the treadmill tonight and squirted blood out of my eyes before writing this note to you.
And yes, damn it! I cried while watching "Marley and Me" on the plane. All right? Are you happy now!!!
XXX, Luigi--El Santo de Cabora and Shit-Talker
If you watched our Twitter feed, you saw pithy notes about the whole trip. But, briefly: we flew west last Wednesday (Cinderella, Megan, Chayo et moi). We hit LAX in the leftover daze from getting up too early in Chi cold and landing in early morning (time travel) in LA heat! Sun! We were pale as Edward Cullen! (That's a cheesy plug for Little, Brown books--brownie points. Oops. A pun. Darn it.) Got to Hertz and found our car--one of those really tiny Chevy deals that looks like a 1941 panel truck that got zapped by a UFO's shrink-ray. We toodled off in the putter-wagon. Got checked in to our Santa Monica hotel. Hit the bricks, checking it out. Drove the girls into Hollywood. My agent amigo Mike invited us to the Chateau Marmont so Megan could see somebody famous. This was my obsession: find Meggy a star to sneer at.
I did not expect Chayo, the Urrea Goodwill Ambassador, to join the various supermodels at their tables and schmooze. I don't know what angle she was working, but perhaps the little one was hoping to be discovered. Meanwhile, the iMac commercial guy--you know, the guy from Die Hard 4--Megan knew his name--was at the next table. OMG! THAT'S LIKE SO TOTALLY HIM. Meg was, I think, bored by our movie talk, and started playing games on my cell phone. Had that dark shades and icy face only a 17 year old girl could have. The iDude got up and walked behind her and leaned over her shoulder to see what she was doing. She never noticed! Meg could have kissed the Mac-Daddy if she'd turned her head.
All in all, a great movie-slut afternoon. Satiated, we went back to the hotel. Up in the morning to walk Santa Monica. Miles of shops and shops and coffee shops and shops and, well, shops. We went out of the pier, and Chayo rode her first roller-coaster. Four times. Trooper of the year. We rode the ferris wheel. We watched seals steal fish off fishermen's hooks. I taught Chayo how to feed pigeons and seagulls. She vanished under an undulating mound of birds. Good thing her mom didn't see that.
Seriously put in four or five good miles of walking. Then drove to Pasadena. Still, being the barbarous wad of man-meat that I am, I uncoiled my two oiled pythons and did my muscle workout when we got back to the room. The skin squealed for mercy as it stretched over my smoking magnum sixguns! Room 213 of the Sheridan was a terrifying riot of manhood--the women cowered.
In the morning, Cinderella got up and went to the treadmill. I slept. Yes I did.
Pool! Couldn't keep the girlies out of the pool! Hot sun and Brit tourists in bizarre open-legged squat poses with bikinis much too small. I observed as a poet might, noting piquant yet tender images and pondering the fleeting moment of life we are given, evanescent and lace-winged. I did not notice jiggling buttocks nor thongs.
Somehow, we managed to walk another two miles.
Yes, Olympic triathlete that I am, I hit the treadmill that night.
We embarrassed yet thrilled Megan by buying as map to the stars' homes and invading Hollywood again. We were on a mission. Ozzy's house! Where Ozzy doesn't live anymore! But Christina does! Tom Cruise's driveway! The house where Superman was shot! (Girls: huh?) Bruce Springsteen's private winding road! Oh, oh! Gene Simmons's front gate! We were almost done when we saw...wait for it...we saw...hang on now...we saw K-FED! In a Mercedes! Like, all backward baseball cap and jammin hip-hop megabass! Go, go, go, go, go, Daddy, gooooo! Chase K-Fed! GOOOOO!
Uh, then what happened. Um. I spoke at the local community college, and we had a really happy time. Except one quivering-with-rage Mexican yoiung lady who wanted to fight because I had dissed the Virgin of Guadalupe. "What book did you read?" I asked. "YOUR BOOK!" I said, "I didn't write whatever you read!" She said, "Yes you did!" I asked, "How much of the book did you read?" She said, "Well, I didn't read it, but our teacher showed us one page!" Wow. This was so weird I simply smiled at her and said: "Whaaaaat?"
One of the young men had me sign his copy, then he showed up at the next gig and had me sign it again--but this time in the back. He told me to write: NOT YOU AGAIN! So I did.
Cindy and I went to a lovely supper at local lawyer/superstar Raul Salinas's MANSE. Let's not even kid ourselves, that homeboy lives large, and I was thrilled to be invited, but Chayo was even more thrilled because she got to swim in their pool. A nice group of local pols and lawyers and readers gathered, and we talked into the evening about Teresita and the Hummingbird's Daughter. Sitting in front of his back yard fireplace. Just a fine, fine gathering.
We LEAPED from bed in the morning! Yes, we did. Honest! Teresita's great-grand daughter, Sylvia, was meeting us for lunch and sharing of stories and secrets before the Pasadena One City/One Book celebration. It was our first meeting. I wasn't expecting a movie star. Muy guapa, mi prima. She brought us many pictures and many family secrets and legends for Book II. It was big love all around.
We all went to the convention center--there was a fancy marquee, and a red carpet, and a mariachi group outside. Banners and big posters. We went inside to a ballet folklorico. Chayo said, "Daddy--all this for you?" I wanted to say somethimg cosmic like, "It is all for Teresita." But I was more like Hell yeah. Sylvia's familia came. Librarians came. Urreas from Clifton-Morenci came. My dear old pal Elia Esparza and her beau, the actor Miguel Najera came. There were between 600 and 700 people in attendance. Pretty stunning, when you think about it.
I introduced Sylvia to the audience, and she rose to the occasion--you could feel all the cosmic folks straining to touch her. Whew! The mystery is still with us.
Well, the event went well. Lots of laughs, anyway. I could hear Chayo hooting and laughing--I even heard Megan laugh. Probably because I looked so gargantuan on the Jumbotron TV screens. It's pretty ghastly, when you feel like your face already looks like a boiled hamhock, to have one on each side of you bigger than a Hummer. I could constantly see, in my peripheral vision, two giant mutant me's coming from either side to eat me.
I sat onstage with our Librarian Goddess, Jan, and we chatted.
An unexpected standing O at the end. Gracias. You really didn't have to do that.
The signing line was over 100 people long. I have to report the best thing that may have ever happened on book event tours: six different Yaqui people or families thanked me for telling their story. I was so happy. That's where it's at, right there. Sylvia seemed happy, and my yaqui brothers and sisters were happy. What more can you ask for? (Except a margarita from the mayor!)
At Mijares, the second bizarre and uncomfortable moment, though. Man, I got scolded in Pasadena! A crew of "concerned women" waited till all the fans had left and I was clearly trying to go to bed so we could leave for the airport this morning at 5:30. "If you had used language like what is in your book in my house, you would have gotten smacked in the mouth!" the head Taliban said. I was tired, cranky, and astounded this person had sat through the event, sat through the long long signing, then come across town and waited through the entire reception to attack. I said, "My book isn't about your house. It's about somebody else's house." She said, "I am extremely uncomfortable with your choices as a writer." I said, "Who told you that your comfort was my responsibility?" (I was thinking: get your Sherman Alexie on, Luis!) I found out later that the book had been banned! Yes. From high schools. Duh. They could have called me, and I would have suggested it was never intended for a high school audience.
We said a sad farewell to all our new Pasadena friends, kissed Sylvia good-night, went back to our room where I brooded. Why is it that 700 people tell you they love you and your work, but one angry girl and four women who look like they just smelled a fresh cat turd as they stare at you can pierce your heart? Well, I don't know.
It's all in a day's work. I sought God, and God came. Even when I used naughty language.
We dragged out of bed today at 5:00. Crawled to the putter-truck a half hour later. And have spent the day in the plane, coming from brilliant sun and heat to fresh snow. No K-Fed, dawg! No iMac commercial Die Hard dude! Just us. Our cat. And early bed.
Still, being the Visgoth warrior prince that I am, driven by my superhuman genetics, I mounted the treadmill tonight and squirted blood out of my eyes before writing this note to you.
And yes, damn it! I cried while watching "Marley and Me" on the plane. All right? Are you happy now!!!
XXX, Luigi--El Santo de Cabora and Shit-Talker
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