Mexican Revolution: El Paso History in Song

photo stolen from riowang blog

The El Paso region is rich in history and drama.
As an epicenter of the Wild West,
the Mexican Revolution,
a massive military contingency
our Chihuahuan desert;
this Pass of the North--
our international border
is unlike any other place.

I aim to learn more about this city...
a place I have called home for many years...
alas, with both eyes barely open.
I hope to find a little more of myself
as I experience our historic culture....

'Corridos of the Mexican Revolution 1910-1920 and Beyond'

Tonight:
Thursday Sept. 17
Museum of History, 510 N. Santa Fe,
6:30-8 p.m., free, 351-3588

Free lecture on the popular lyric-narrative folkloric music.
The presentation will offer historical recordings of ballads
made between 1904 and 1974 in the United States and Mexico.

Guest speakers include Local Historians:
Elias Bonilla, Leon Metz, and Miguel Juarez.

Part of the 100th Anniversary of the Mexican Revolution ongoing events.
Countdown to the 100th Anniversary of the Mexican Revolution



image stolen from mexicowoods.com

Do You Have a Story or Memento of the Mexican Revolution?

I have become involved in the efforts of this committee
to document and archive stories and mementos of the Mexican Revolution.

Do any of you know people who have first-hand knowledge
of the events that occurred during this tumultuous era?
If you do, we would like to hear from you.

This committee has a goal:
To archive a vast collection of interviews, photographs,
bibliographies, writings, films, advertisements, etc.
pertaining to the Mexican Revolution.

Any items or stories you might have to share
In English or Spanish language
in El Paso or in Juarez....
would be captured on hi-def dvd
and entered into the archive or time-capsule
to be revisited at a date some 60 years from today.
The committee will provide all contributors
with their own disc of what they have shared
immediately after it has been documented.
We will come to you, film your story
and or mementos, and give you a dvd copy.

Please consider sharing your knowledge
so that future generations will have access
to the important details of their heritage.

Are You Ready for Some ....

Pizza?



I mentioned a few months ago
that I have been slowly working on this project
since I first read about it back in December.
Sunday was the day.
We fired up that portable pizza oven,
and here is what happened:

I scrambled Saturday night to create a Neopolitan style dough.
Having never made one, I was a bit nervous,
and waited until the last minute to go and purchase flour.
By 11 pm I had managed to throw together
2 double batches using a mix of all purpose,
whole wheat, and bread flours.
I tried to keep the hydration high,
as this is essential for this type of pizza
to be cooked at high temps.
I wasn't too sure about the amount of yeast needed
but I did document the exact weights for each ingredient
and set the doughs aside to rise.

Brett and I took off to drink a few brews
and throw darts at my cousin's house.
Well, not at her house
but we did throw them at a dart board inside her house.
By 2 am I was home witnessing with alarm
the blob that ate my kitchen....
2 extremely full bowls of dough.
I needed to transfer these into larger receptacles,
so out came the really big bowls.
The growth of this dough really surprised me,
and I was sure I had erred somewhere in my calculations.
Well, that's okay...this is a learning process
which I intend to master over time.
Maybe a little less yeast...who knows?

8 am and I hear Brett's concerned voice in my ear--
the bowl you stuck in the microwave for safe-keeping has
overflown.
Oh hell, I don't care...let me go back to sleep...
3 minutes later and I was jumping up to view the chaos.
I spent about 5 seconds pondering
over whether to take a picture of that mess.
We had just purchased a new camera
and I hadn't taken it out of the box yet.
In the end, I decided it just didn't matter.
I was surprised this dough had expanded
almost beyond control;
although it was messy, it was not a disaster.
Grabbing all that dough, punching it down
and giving it a gentle few kneads
transformed it from a bubbling experiment into
a gorgeous silky orb of sweet-smelling succulence.
Whooooo baby!
I got my game face back on!
I separated it into 200 gram portions,
placing each blob into a sandwich bag; setting them aside
to begin that incredible bulking process once again.
27 dough balls later, and we were ready!

We had planned for this day at the Raisch home,
with their refreshing pool and hottub
available to relieve stress if needed.
We had the Dallas Cowboys to divert our attention,
and 17 witnesses to the mayhem that would ensue.


I am seldom nervous, but I began flailing my arms
and causing my friends to wonder if this was a good idea.
Here we were in unknown territory,
and I had no idea how it would all turn out.
Brett had cautioned me several times,
(damn why does he do that?)
to just try this at home first,
but I wanted to see all the reactions, good or bad.
I am not afraid of failure.
It was gonna be interesting no matter what,
and we had back up food plans if needed.

At halftime, Dallas led the game and we lit up the grill.
While Paul and Brett monitored the heat,
Jon declared it was never going to get hot enough
due to lack of oxygen. Yeah, thanks, bro.


I nervously went inside and tried my hand
at rolling out the pizza dough.
Not the simplest thing to do with that wet stretchiness,
but I could see that I may actually have a decent mix
since the dough was acting just like it should.
I managed to build the first pizza onto the heavily floured peel.

We were beginning to get real heat on the pizza stones,
the top stone was getting over 500 degrees,
and the bottom stone had just hit over 400.
Once we acheived 500 on the bottom stone,
I opted to get that first pizza on,
knowing the top stone would be much hotter.
It looked good after just 90 seconds of baking,

but it was burning on one side--
too much flame coming up around the fire brick on that side,
and no charring on the bottom yet.
I panicked and took off that first pizza at just over 2 minutes.
Everyone was amazed because this really looked promising.
Jon stayed off to the side, with his doubtful eye on things.

Virginia wanted to try her hand at tossing the next pie
(she worked at Domino's when she was a teenager)
and it was her skills that literally saved the day for me.
She's a pro, I tell you.
We began to crank them out, and began calling out
to each kid and kid-at-heart for their "special orders"...
The stones began to smoke and burn red (exaggeration),
we were beginning to get into the high 600's and the hot spot was hotter!
We tried spinning the lid every 30 seconds to force the overdraft
but the hot spot was caused from my not cutting that firebrick to fit.
I'll fix that and eliminate the problem.

The pizzas were cooking beautifully
with a decent rise to the crust edge,
beautiful charring (leoparding) on the bottom,
and nice browning on the top.
The pies were cooking through within 2 to 2-1/2 minutes.

Wow!



After about the 6th pie, I sensed we had lost heat,
and sure enough the flame had gone out.
We thought it might have been the wind's fault,
but it turned out to be....
the lack of oxygen my brother kept warning me about.

I'll need to modify the cutout on the bottom of the grill
where the flame element enters, and leave a larger gap around there.
At the moment it has maybe a 1/4" gap all around
and most of that is taken up by the foil liner.

I also need to cut the firebricks so they set flat,
and hopefully eliminate that hot spot flaming up around one edge.

We had to get the heat back up, so we had a lull at this time.
Enter my cousin the "Michilada Queen".
With our tasty red spicy beers in hand
we resumed the process and lifted the lid
sporadically to keep the flow of oxygen going.

By now, Virginia was literally tossing and spinning dough!
The look on her face was magic.

I was maneuvering the peel and sometimes fighting
to release the pizzas onto the stone
without flopping everything right off the dough.
I did fold one before it got all the way off the peel
but we just made that one into a calzone.
Some of those pizzas were literally flying off the grill.

We had many toppings to choose from.
Pepperoni, canadian bacon, cheap red sauce,
mushrooms, black olives, sausage, jalapenos,
green chiles, onions, pineapple, mozarella...
I was going to bring some other toppings:
roasted red peppers, fresh basil from my garden,
white or garlic sauces, a variety of cheeses (feta, parmesan, asadero)....
but this day was sort of overwhelming already.

I've got to give kudos!
Props to all those who inspired me at Pizzamaking.com.
If it weren't for all their modifications,
and their exuberance and helpful tips
I would not have reaped the reward
of high fives, broad smiles,
and the virtual shock and awe
of fantastic made-to-order personal pizza
anywhere we want to make it!

This one is a keeper.

Hatch Chile and The Whole Enchilada!

In all the years I've lived in El Paso,
I had heard from everyone who had gone before
that the Hatch Chile Festival was not worth attending.
I should have ignored them, and I finally did ignore them.
In 2006, the year of the great and devastating floods,
Brett and I drove out to Hatch
along with my brother and his family
who had recently moved to Las Cruces.
The festival had to be moved to a different location
due to the city being mostly flooded out
and partially destroyed by all the big rains that summer.
We did not really know what to expect,
but we made the most of what we found there.

I won't lie;
a major disappointment for us was the lack of a beer garden.
The change of venue had created a glitch
in their ability to obtain a license
to serve up that particular brand of "cold ones."
Chile without beer, a travesty, I tell ya!

When we attended the fest in 2007 the beer tent was up
and Diana earned her Designated Driver Badge.
This year the beer garden was missing again,
and we could only speculate that something nefarious had occurred.
Perhaps a father had gone too far
as we witnessed in the parking lot this year,
The elder man slapping down his son
while the family goaded him
and the small children looked on with fear;
their mother screaming all the while.

The deep fried green chile chips
all but made up for the lack of cerveza
(okay, now I really am lying).
This year there was not a fried chile chip to be had.
Typical fair fare was consumed en masse by our little group.
We tried almost everything, all the while noticing...
there weren't really a lot of chile-specific types of foods.
This festival is annoyingly inconsistent.

Why was nobody serving chiles rellenos?
Where's the chile ice cream?

Aha! This year a very cool display of chile ice cream making,
and the sensation was almost perfect; hot and cold, spicy and sweet.
We stressed to this entrepreneur that he should roast the chiles
for that perfect chile flavor,
but he expressed worry about charred bits in the ice cream.
Obviously, the man does not know chile consumers,
but he's got a cool John Deere set-up churning the cream.

While I spoke to the gentleman about his ice cream
Brett managed to break the camera,
so that was the end of photos for today.
We've decided he will be getting a disposable camera
for use on Labor day from here on in.
He broke our last camera on Labor day last year
by driving full bore through a stream in the Gila Wilderness,
soaking me in the process and flooding the camera to its death.

Somebody needs to make a roasted-chile scented candle!
Wait, I read later that someone did just that
but we never noticed, because they weren't allowed to burn it.
Fire laws won't allow them to burn a candle
even while chiles are being roasted non-stop.

We have speculated each year on how we could create
our own chile concoctions and get in
on our own slice of the chile fest pie.
With our collective ideas we'd have the longest line;
we'll slay 'em with our chile-cookin' prowess!
Just you wait and see!


My nieces enjoyed the carnival rides
loads of laughter and whooping it up
these jubilant joy-riders...
spinning in bright silly machines.
Their teenage sensibilities kick in--
finding this festival to be a collosal bore
gives them leave to stay home from now on.
Killjoys, the lot of them!



I gotta say this:
Hatch's Chile Festival leaves something to be desired.
It's such a puny festival in a podunk town.


The town of Hatch is at once beautiful and a little sad.
Oddly, this quiet beauty is exactly what makes it so charming.
Hatch's Chile Festival delivers something
not to be found anywhere else in this great country.

Why do we keep going back?
For the chile, silly.



The Whole Enchilada Fiesta
runs September 25 thru 27 this year.
It's a much larger scale event
with Los Lobos playing on Saturday night
and many bands throughout the days and evenings;
and multitudes of rides and booths to choose from.
We especially enjoy watching the process
of cooking up the World's largest enchilada.
This year, we hope to have Brett's Alaskan nephews
here to enjoy the festivities.
My brother Stan did the T-shirt art again this year.

Inglourious Basterds

I am fortunate that I have a husband who tends to enjoy the same movies I do.
We find comfort, fear, and a somewhat joyful disgust
in the same sorts of celluloid dreams and nightmares.
He also likes to attend sporting events,
and I have a love/hate relationship with that concept
of sitting in the stadium, gymnasium, etc.
and watching others duke it out.
I find it utterly frustrating,
especially when my team ain't winning.

Today I've got 2 sets of "Inglourious Basterds" to discuss,
so I think I'll start with UTEP's inglorious football team.


photo stolen from www.mill1on.com

We've got a history here.
A history of dashed hopes and broken dreams.
It goes back many decades and I lost interest long ago.
It's just too freakin' painful.

Several years back, when Mike Price was gonna convert our team
into something respectable, I was reluctant to jump in
and try to be a supportive UTEP football viewer.
Still, I went along with Brett's desire to get season tickets.
I regretted it almost immediately and feel that regret more today.
Half the battle is getting through the tailgating
without wanting to throttle somebody who has indulged too much.


image stolen from Fox tv

Then there's the other dilemma
of wanting to throttle players, referees or coaches
for all the bone-headed plays and poor calls.
Saturday's showing by UTEP against Buffalo was excruciating to watch.
I'm not going to say that our team is weak.
I don't really think they are.
The Miners showed great promise in what they were able to execute.
What they also exhibited was a severe lack of discipline.
Some of the most ridiculous mistakes were made over and over and over again.
All those yellow flags declaring incompetence.
I can only sum it up in one way:
Pathetic.
My husband can find somebody else to go to the games with.
I've had my fill of wasted days and wasted nights.

Adios to Mike Price, and hasta la vista Paydirt Pete.


Image stolen from art.com

I feel calmer already.

And now for part 2 of my observations on how I spent my Saturday:

Despite many flaws in the Quentin Tarantino film,
I'd definitely recommend it.
I'd take in 3 movies like this over 1 UTEP football game any day.
For most who know me, that should be taken as a resounding
"No, don't waste your money, you will hate it"...
unless you like Tarantino's films.
This guy knows how to weave magic.
His ability to make you laugh
while trying to choke back the bile
after seeing someone get their head bashed in
...pure and simple film harmony.
It is all about the details
and it is all about the lack of details...
Taking great liberty with history
casting Brad Pitt in this redneck character
the absolute brilliance of Christoph Waltz


image stolen from hollywoodreporter.com

...a truly mesmerizing performance by Waltz
...that weepy close-up sadness in the eyes of LaPadite
...the fantastic imagery of Shoshonna's fiery face on the big screen.

Every nuance cleverly calculated by the director
and I'm sure I missed out on a lot of it.
A second and third viewing is in order to catch each one
and I aim to see this one again very soon.

It was bold and brash, and almost excruciating to watch
but there was no worry about this film's final score.
2 thumbs up and no sign of yellow flags on that battlefield.

image stolen from fotosearch.com

Tis the Season...

In El Paso there is one thing
to cause me to rejoice each year
more than any other thing.
The end of summer.
Don't get me wrong,
I enjoy the summers
with the incredible heat,
and sometimes torrential rains.
Hailstorms are always a special treat as well.

Festival season and UTEP football,
cooling breezes,
motorcycle riding weather,
my favorite fall fever in El Paso finally has arrived.
This time of year has always made me giddy.
I'm no spring fever chicken,
what with all the spring cleaning,
and the ugly windstorms here.
April is the cruelest month.
Give me autumn.

Yesterday I got a call from my brother.
You still going to the chile festival?
Sure, it's on the 26th.
No, it's tomorrow, it's always on Labor Day weekend.
Huh? I looked it up, it's on the 26th.
No, that's the Whole Enchilada Fiesta.
You mean the Hatch Chile Festival,
I thought that was in October...
Nope, tomorrow and Sunday.
Oh, gee, thanks bro, for calling me up at the last minute.
No, really, thanks for calling me.
Now, I won't have to miss it!

Today is the season opener for UTEP football.
My husband and I have already made plans
to check out the movie Inglorious Basterds,
and then to the Sun Bowl for some Miner Football.
Hatch will have to wait until tomorrow,
but rest assured,
I'll be getting my fill of Chile Verde and beer.

I'll be back in a few hours
and attempt to critique the movie,
which I am sure I will thoroughly enjoy.

What's better than rednecks and Nazis
trapped in Tarantino land?
I'd venture a guess...
NOTHING!

The Temple of my Familiar

For whatever reason,
Alice Walker's book resounded deeply with me
when I read it 10 years ago.
I may need to read it again,
but there was something strikingly familiar
about the way she wove the character of Miss Lissie.
I especially latched on to Miss Lissie's idea
of seeing a different person
within the many photographs taken of her
through the years
(appearing older when she was young,
and child-like in later years,
boyish in some, sultry in others).
I have witnessed a parallel
in the photos taken of myself
over the years
captured looking so unlike myself,
but seldom on purpose
or with any forethought on my part.
Many images in which few who know me
can believe what they are seeing.

I'm not talking glamour shots
in some studio, garishly made up
like those poor girls on America's Top Model
or whatever it's called.
I never knew how truly funny and harsh this show is.
It's all about the edge,
being a poseur for the big superstar model payoff,
and catering to any whim the advertiser might whip up.
Seeing a model wannabe
crying about her recently made-over short shorn hair
and then being reprimanded by Tyra Banks
for the inevitable tears in her eyes.
Too sweet for words.
It's evil mean in a very materialistic way.
Yeah. I guess you could say I liked it.
If anyone is dumb enough to hook up with a reality show
and not know they will be propped up for ridicule,
they deserve my laughter at their expense.

So anyway, I was trying to write about Alice Walker,
and this particular photo aspect of her book,
when I decided to download the pictures from our recent vacation.
I'm a multi-tasker, dontcha know?
These reminder pictures of July 2009,
coupled with a memory of watching a television show
about models trying to win a career posing for pictures,
and the beginning premise for this blog today
about the photographic aspect in Walker's book
it's just too much coincidence.
trouble is, I don't believe in coincidence
or karma or anything like that.
So what the heck am I talking about, huh?
This must be my age of Sternonation,
which of course you have no idea
what I'm further rambling on about now.
Sternonation is on the comeback, I tell ya!
You'll see.

So in this novel, The Temple of my Familiar,
I also read with interest the feelings of this character
about having lived many lives before,
and a knowledge that she would continue to travel
through time and gender.
Not that I really believe in reincarnation,
but it is a subject I have studied
since I was in high school.
I find the many aspects of it intriguing
and confusing, and rather ridiculous.
I want to know what happens to those images,
those faces who aren't really you
but some pixelated product of electricity.
Do they become pixel dust?
Do we?

Photographers always scared me.
My earliest "studio photo" when I was 4
shows an intense face,
non-smiling with a slight hint of frown.
It looks just like me!
My father informed me
I sat there under threat of spanking
if I didn't stop fidgeting, complaining or crying.
Almost all earlier photos of me show a screaming,
terrorized, deer in the headlights face.
Maybe it was the flashbulb with that bright explosion
of light that so terrified me.
Maybe my father's threats worked to a degree,
as I didn't see many more crying visages in print afterwards.
Still, I don't like to have my picture taken.
Invariably, there I am looking like I'm chewing cud,
my eyes half open, looking like I'm 80 when I was 25!
Yowzers!

Is the camera the temple of my familiar?
Does it hold all of the secrets to who I am?
Is it stealing my soul with every click?

Que Barrio?

So, there I was in San Dimas, California, enjoying a few brews (not with Bill & Ted) and practicing my Spanish with Ricardo Mares (an illegal immigrant dishwasher) from Arizpe, Mexico. We had just finished our shifts (I was the cook and he was the new dishwasher) at the Old West Steakhouse, a stone's throw away from Zendejas' restaurant.

(player card image from insidesocal.com)

We were drinking a 6 pack of Beck's Dark in the parking lot, like all good working-class peons do after an evening of toil.

One of the first questions he asks me is "Que Barrio?" I laugh. "La Loma," I tell him. La Loma? He has no idea...I then tell him about my life in El Paso, and he says El Chuco? Oddly, I had never heard the term outside of El Paso, and here was this young kid, telling me how his uncles had all emigrated to El Chuco, or to Los Angeles via Tijuana and Juarez.

Mares told me how they would struggle to get into the USA and infiltrate the restaurant industry.


(photo from worth 1000)
They'd become cooks, waiters and dishwashers, and skirt La Migra as best they could; constantly saving their money to bring yet another cousin or brother in. They avoided the coyote traders, and did it all themselves to save money and avoid being ripped off. He mentioned that some coyotes would take their money and then turn them in to the officials.

(photo from www.internationalist.org)

After years and years of working in the U.S., and saving what they could after sending money home, they might try to bring in their female family members: wives, girlfriends, mothers, and sisters.

I asked him about his traditional name, which I knew had to include at least 5 surnames, and he delivered a very long and rhythmic identity that I cannot possibly recall with about a dozen surnames attached. He commented on how far his family was from an ocean or sea, to be given the name Mares and living so far from water was too ironic even for him, the bearer of that name.

I liked this kid, and the vibrance in his actions and manner of speaking. There was a spark about him which I found to be very intriguing. He was just there struggling to survive with his on-again, off-again 6th grade education, a huge amount of humorous street-sense, and a determination to make a better life for himself and his extended family. His strongest wish was to bring his girlfriend to California and make her his wife; to settle down and have a family. I was curious as to why he wanted to marry at such a young age. Amor! He missed his girlfriend of 3 years, she was pregnant, and they had been planning their matrimony for a year before his uncles secreted him across the border.

Was he worried about being caught? No. He knew from experience that it was a simple matter to come back. He laughed about this. I felt a bit betrayed, knowing that our lack of enforcing illegal immigrant laws provided this freedom for those who were willing to abuse them. I could not fault the boy for his actions, though I did ask him about going through legal channels. He told me it wasn't needed, all that paperwork and waiting years when he could just pay some guy for his counterfeit papers. He showed me his California Driver's License.


(photo at photobucket)
Okay that is not it, but his id looked legit to my untrained eye, although it showed him to be 5 years older than his 17 years, so he could get into the bars. I admit, I sympathized with him, even as I became angry at his mocking tone. Que onda cabrón?

I have thought often about Ricky Mares over the years. I always wondered if he got married, brought his mother across, or got caught. I worked with Ricky near 17 years ago. Did he bring his girlfriend across quickly enough to have an anchor baby? One more kid to drain our system?

Our immigration laws need to be enforced. I have written to President Obama. I will continue to write to him and I will continue to write to Silvestre Reyes. Our country is dying in the most agonizing way, and allowing illegal immigration to continue in the manner it has does not behoove us. Putting up that atrocious fence is not the solution. Amnesty is not the solution. Enforcing the law is the only viable way towards reformation, and harsh penalties for those who hire illegals is a must.

Please write to your President and to your State Representatives.
They are your voice, and they need to hear you, loud and clear.

(presidential seal found at idea champions)

Opinions are like

...you know the rest.

Common phraseology that speaks ill of our ideas as well as our posteriors.

I certainly don't see a literal correlation between opinions and a-holes. But I've thought upon this popular saying many a time since it makes no sense to me. Not a hell of a lot in life makes sense to me.

While we all have many varying opinions, and many of us expound upon our own virtue, there are few of us who can claim more than one A-hole. Who would actually want to admit to it? All that spouting from the mouth, or from a keyboard. Spouting...damn visuals. This is not a great topic. It's just rambling. Back to the scatalogical ramblings. Damn, I've got a problem.

Why does this always happen? Gut, gas, bowels, brains...I think too much, and the detritus gotta come out somewhere.

BURP!

Gets out the cobwebs.

Today I've been trying to cheer myself up. Earlier I was having difficulty thinking. Functioning. Speaking. I can't stop worrying about my friend. So I'm trying to laugh. Nothing really works. Until very early this morning. I'm free.

For many years I've played an odd role on a bookseller forum...played at being an old Southren man whut's got an overwhelmin' innerest in sheep an othah strickly ass-backards thangs. What started as a fun an generally harmless game, ended up making me feel impotent. Who the hell am I, that I can switch from one persona to the other and be compelled to act upon it in a public forum? It all began to weigh heavy and I'd lay off the posting for long stretches, even as I found joy in the laughter I was able to arouse in others. Nothin' bettah in life than a good ol' belly laugh 'bout sumpin' stupid. Sho' nuf cain't hep mesef on 'at.

Now I've given up the ruse. They knew ol' fried weren't fo' real, but they egged him on, made him real, and I couldn't find a way to keep it up indefinitely. I mourn for the loss of my alter-ego. He ain't a comin' back no mo' but I keep feeling sweet relief that I can stop hiding behind that codger. He's prolly gwine remain out back moonin' ovah a ewe or 2. Laws if'n dis doan beat all. He don't wanna go way!

Separation of Church and Self

Faith.
What is it?



This past week has been difficult for me. We learned that a good friend in California was attacked on the 4th of July and is in critical condition. My head and my heart ache for him. I need for him to be better, to pull through, to fight for his life...though I fear he doesn't yet know what has happened to him. I don't want to cry, because that seems defeatist, but the tears come. He's got a brilliant mind, and I fear he won't be the same. Sadness pervades my very core just thinking about this. What can I do?

Praying is not an option for me. Who would I pray to? Possessing belief in a higher being just is not in the cards for me, and that may prove to be my undoing. I'm very conflicted, with rampant thoughts of who to call out to. I don't believe in God. I find the concept of a higher being to be completely irrational. I've been calling out to Chris...be well my brother...you are loved, please, be well.

In the past, when my grandmother was still alive, she would tell me to pray to Jesus whenever she knew I was troubled. Each time I would tell her that I don't pray, and that I don't believe. She always thought I was joking. One day she realized I was sincere, and she was truly shocked that my Catholic upbringing was that easily brushed aside. No grandma, it was not easily brushed aside, but slowly and deliberately negated by my own rational thought processes. Grandma would always tell me that she prayed for me. That gave me comfort, and I thanked her for that each time she mentioned it. Could the strength of her faith actually help me? Somehow, I was able to hold my own semblance of faith in that.

When an individual accepts that faith in God, it seems to comfort them. For me, faith in God makes me feel extremely uncomfortable. I've had uncountable discussions about this with many people over the years. Many of these friends and family members pray for me, and it is indescribable how that makes me feel. The strength in their faith is powerful, and I don't see it as a waste of time because they do actually own their faith. It's a tangible thing to them. I don't begrudge or belittle a person for having religion in their lives, as I see how it enriches them. That's a good thing, right?

I suppose this blog is a request to those who do pray.

Please say a prayer for my friend Chris Bowd.



We need this ornery cuss in our lives.
Be well my friend.

Get a Rope?

I admit it. I'm very late to the party, and not fashionably so.

photo: www.rampantscotland.com

No way could I have foreseen that I'd be jumping into the fray where local politics are concerned. I find others really have an aversion to discussing politics in mixed company. They are always trying to change the subject, or avoid looking me in the eye. Once I dig in I can be just like a pit bull who thinks she's just a little old lap dog. You didn't see that one coming, did you? Oh, the multitude of things I could say about how stupid people are about their so-called knowledge of "menacing" pit bulls. Alas, this is not my intent today.

photo: haynespitbulls.com

No doubt, I've got my ass-backwards opinions and self-righteous 'tude just like anybody else, but I mainly disturb my immediate friends and family with them. Why I ever decided to begin blogging about my idiosyncratic life, I'll never quite be able to fathom. This no doubt says a lot about me, and my troubled *pysche. I've spent a long time doing things I thought were important. Listening to and respecting the voices of children who grace me with their wonderful presence has always seemed so important to me. Those kids have taught me so much about life; yet I realize there is still something missing. That something was "civic involvement" and actually striving to leave something better for those children I hold in such high regard.


(*furtive glancing, to-and-fro, for the men in white coats)

Many moons ago, at an El Paso high school far, far away (about a mile from my house which I walked to every day) I was granted the


Rona Barrett critic of the year award during my Junior year. My Senior friends found this an apt title (those bitches!). I had no idea what they were talking about. Probably had my head stuck so far up my ass, I was simply oblivious to my own BIG MOUTH.

The next year, I was told by "Skeets" Aguilar that I talk a lot of shit. My jaw dropped. I gave him a good hard slug in the arm, but I knew he was right. Then he called me a Candy Ass, and the game was on. I rather enjoy talking a lot of shit. It's good for the soul, to let out what ails you. I enjoy forcing debate, even when I know I am dead wrong. It is amazing how some folks can be easily swayed by words. It is also amazing how some folks can see right through the bullshit.

How dare they?

Anyway, there's actually another party that I will not be late to, and that's Mayor John Cook's so-called lynching party. "I never mind going to a lynching as long as I'm the guy holding the rope, not wearing it," --El Paso Mayor John Cook.

I'll be sure to drink a few Margaritas to numb the pain, and maybe some refritos while I'm at it (you never know when backup power may be called for). I'll be sure to wear a steel collar around my neck, just in case. I do expect Cook to bring his now infamous rope, and I expect to keep my own neck out of his line of sight by any means possible. If this meeting actually does take place, I'll try to keep my feet moving...float like a butterfly, sting like a bee, and all that. I'm hoping we won't have to resort to the rope-a-dope tactics. I swear, vigilantes get no respect, whether they're giving or receiving injustice.

Convoluted logic: The best kind!


www.motifake.com/demotivational-poster

The fiasco of Johnnie Washington forcing her will upon Cook to kowtow to some perceived racial slur or politically incorrect slight just absolutely amazes me. Mayor Cook, you never should have apologized to her. You should have apologized to those you directed your statement to, if you actually thought there was anything wrong with your joke. I smirked when you directed your comment to us, because it was slightly amusing...but you fail to see that you already hold that rope, and you're trying to lynch your citizenry with many of these "progressively divisive" tactics of late.

What a bunch of hoo-haw over Cook's comments, which were fairly straightforward and most decidedly directed towards the few individuals who deigned to darken the city council meeting last week, trying to talk about bridge locales. Another overblown cry of racism for nothing. NOTHING? I'm no fan of politically correct humor. Political correctness is the worst oxymoron of our times. I'm no fan of Mayor Cook, but his remarks were nothing about race, and everything about desperation. While most would see lynching as no laughing matter, the impetus for Cook's use of the phrase is decidedly humorous.

It still galls me that no proper plans are forthcoming before the bridge feasibility can be determined. Is this a 2 lane proposal, a 15 lane monstrosity? A commuter footbridge?

Where's the meat of the matter? Where's the public disclosure? My own witnessing and realization that half of city council has no idea how their MPO works, or how they conduct their business is appalling. I assume they are too busy taking time off to get to the real nitty-gritty and boring paperwork involved in deciphering that mess. I lost a good part of my life these past few weeks doing just that, only to be greeted by city council with stone-cold stares, and a few suspiciously over-anxious remarks from Steve Ortega. I'm no public speaker, but I said my piece for what that's worth. City council could give a rat's ass about what any of their constituents have to say. (apologies to Eddie Holguin, who actually seems to be hearing something). It creates more work for them if they actually have to pay attention to any of it.


Before anyone gets their panties further bunched up, I'll preface this next part by saying that I wish no harm to come to any person of any race, creed or political affiliation. It's merely my summation of the absurdity of what compels us to act and react to life as it assails us. (my own absurdity included!) My husband has warned against posting this, but I don't listen to him most of the time. Why does he put up with me? Cuz I'm special? Yes. That's it, exactly.

Here is a little politically imbued ditty that sums up fairly well what I think of all this bollocks:


Cock Sparrer: Get a Rope

Get a Rope

From the streets of Aberdeen to the Brighton scene
There's something going wrong
From the Woolacomb shore to the tots dance floor
They all shout what's going on?

You promised us a country fit for a queen
But the queen doesn't have to pay
You promised us a future bright and clean
For a vote on election day

Is there no-one left to shout?
There's some people round here need sorting out
'Coz for you there's just no hope

Get a rope, get a rope

Sitting warm and snug in your council seat
In comfy shoes and tweed
With your rules and regs wrapped nice and neat
Deciding what my kids can't read

We're sick and tired of your liberal views
What's politically correct?
Come judgement day, I'll be tying the noose
And slipping it around your neck

Can't you hear us shout?
There are a lot of people like me about
But for you there's just no hope

Get a rope, get a rope

We want to make life one big joyride
But the roadblocks get in our way
We want to fly off to the Spanish seaside
But the plane's always delayed

We want to sing songs on radio 1
but the BBC says no!
And we want to do deals on a mobile phone
and have something left to show

Can I stand up and say
There's some people round here need blowing away
'Coz for you there's just no hope

Get a rope, get a rope
Get a rope, get a rope
Get a rope, get a rope


So, I have posted this with full expectations that I will now be called a racist, card carrying member of the KKK, a Commie asshole, skinhead, or an Oi! idiot.

Alt Press review on Cock Sparrer's Here We Stand

Idiot may not be entirely stretching the truth, but I'm willing to be your scapegoat on this one. Go for it. I welcome the discourse and I have no regrets.

Recess Monkeys?

The other day I got a note from CoolArrow Steve of The Xit Wounds.
He was telling me about an SCTV episode where John Candy plays drums in a band called Recess Monkeys (SCTV, Second City Television Network Volume 3). Rick Moranis, Eugene Levy and John Candy make up this power trio of Recess Monkeys, and sing the Chilliwack hit "My Girl (Gone Gone Gone)." It's so awful, I find it hilarious. Just looking at John Candy's 'fro cracks me up. I guess it reminds me of what happens when my husband and I get together to play music. While Brett is a very talented player on guitar and bass, I realize I'm merely a hack who hates to practice. In truth, I'm lazy, and it shows. My attempt to deter scrutiny by making crazy faces, giving myself beer baptismals, or hitting myself over the head with a beer can or a microphone (if anyone has been dumb enough to put a mic in front of me) is usually quite successful.

One of Brett's favorite shows growing up was Fernwood 2Night. We keep hoping they'll release the episodes on DVD. Many of the best episode clips can be found on YouTube.

The outrageous musical stylings of Happy Kyne and the MirthMakers are a sight to behold. Martin Mull and Fred Willard had some great comedy there, and were a perfect match to the Mary Hartman/Mary Hartman ethos. Total silliness. I sort of lost interest in the show when it morphed into America 2-Night. It turns out that the song Skateboard Angel had hit Brett so hard between the ears, he had to appropriate it and crank it up to match his own punk stylings.


RIP Farrah aka skateboarding angel

I always thought Skateboarding Angel was his original, until he told me where he got the idea. No wonder it's such a great song. Frank Devol and Tommy Tedesco wrote it.

While searching for our elusive tocayo Recess Monkey, I came across a wonderful site of Fake Bands

and a reference to the book Rocklopedia Fakebandica by T. Mike Childs. All your favorite, almost ready for prime-time bands can be found here. I wholeheartedly agree with this sentiment:
"...one of the most refreshing online wastes of time since the birth of the Web..." -- Information Week.



While there are a plethora of fake bands who never really amounted to anything, there are a few who actually had talent, and commercial success. Spinal Tap (...but these go to eleven) and The Blues Brothers

(rubber biscuit?) are the first to come to mind.
Something about the comical talents of SCTV and Saturday Night Live alumni when mixed with their musical talents creates magic. I was watching an episode of Conan O'Brien a few weeks ago, and Eddie Murphy was talking about how James Brown seriously wanted Murphy to play him in a biopic based on his James Brown Celebrity Hot Tub antics. Maybe Eddie should have taken that bait. I miss the old Eddie Murphy irreverence and political incorrectness.

This man could seriously make me laugh until I cried.

Another amazing musician is Chevy Chase. He opted out of continuing to play drums with Donald Fagan and Walter Becker (Steely Dan) to pursue other interests. How is it that so many of these talented actors and comedians are also well-rounded musicians? It boggles the mind. In all honesty, some of them are better musicians than anything else they pursue.

I'm amazed at how well Steve Martin can play that banjo of his.

What happens when Spinal Tap mellows out? A Mighty Wind ensues. While this movie was not necessarily a comedic gem, it's soundtrack certainly is. In 2004 Eugene Levy wins the Grammy for A Mighty Wind Best Song written for a motion picture, television or other visual media. I'll never forget seeing the Folksmen perform Blood on the Coals on MadTV, and seeing Harry Shearer as Mark Shubb in drag (maybe on Letterman?). My first thoughts were WTF? and I went out to rent the movie the next day. Gotta give props to the ingenuity, and brilliance of it all.

Have you ever heard of the The Queenhaters? I never saw this episode of SCTV. Yep, that's John Candy in that picture above. Check out the youtube video featuring Martin Short's snotty vocals in this quintessential punk parody.