Rite of Passage

I went over to my brother Bobby’s house to change my brake pads on my car. Bobby said he was an expert at it, that he had changed brake pads a million times, but I quickly realized that Bobby had overstated his experience.

We jacked up the car and took off the tires. Bobby gave the brakes a quick look and said, “I’ll be right back.” I found him some time later at his computer researching my car's brake system.

            We managed to figure it out, and as the job was coming to a close I turned to Bobby and said, “we’re good Mexicans for doing the work ourselves.”

            “You’re not Mexican unless you work on your own car,” Bobby said. “My friend Gary won’t buy a new car, because he says you can’t work on them.”

            “What kind of car does he have?” I asked.

            “An older model Nissan. He broke down on the freeway once and he fixed his car at night, in the dark, with limited tools. When he got home he told his father what he had happened, and how he fixed his car in the dark, His father swelled up with pride.

            “Oh mijo, I’m so proud of you,” his father said.

            It was like a rite of passage, as if Gary had passed a test to being a good Mexican.

Vince The Boom

I ran into my friend Vince at Taco Fiesta. I hadn’t seen him in over a year. I didn’t recognize him right off, and he knew it.

“Is that Anthony?” he asked. Maybe he didn’t recognize me either with the question.

There was a confused look on my face before I figured it out. 

Vince is a boom operator for a reputable television show. It’s a funny show and frankly I’m impressed that he’s in such close company with the actors on the show. It wouldn’t be right to name drop so I won’t.

“I tried to get in touch with you. You must be too good for me, because I never heard back from you, “ Vince said.

I do the best I can to answer text messages and what not so I was surprised by the comment.

“It doesn’t sound like me to not respond. I think I’d respond if you sent me a text,” I answered. “What number do you have?

Vince dug into his pocket and fished out his phone.

“831.”

“Oh, that’s my old number, no wonder. I have a new number.”

              I gave Vince my new number and the problem was solved. My order came up and I said good-bye to Vince. I walked away wondering how long he was holding on to his hurt feelings, and if he wished me wrong for all that time. Things change quickly, one minute I'm a too-good jackass, the next minute I'm a stand up guy. 

Cliff Soon To Be Carolyn

My brother works with a man named Cliff. Cliff is going through a gender transformation, so soon he will be known as Carolyn.

Every year, the department my brother works in has a talent show, or a day when the workers who are musicians break out their instruments and play some music. It’s a chance to let their hair down and celebrate rather than work.

Cliff took the opportunity to read a couple of his poems. The first poem was entitled, “On Transformation." It was a detailed account of how a man turns into a woman- the process of transformation, the creams, the pills, the makeup, the surgeries.

The other poem Cliff read was called "On The Womanhood Express." It was another intimate description of his gender transformation, but this time written from the psyche of a woman as opposed to a man. I’m thinking it gave liberation a new meaning.

            Nobody could say anything disparaging while Cliff was reading for fear of losing their jobs. So instead, my brother and his friend turned towards each other and opened their mouths as wide as they could and brought their open hand to their cheeks and opened their eyes wide in a show of playful fright, an expression of the feelings they had inside. My brother was angry at Cliff for not giving him more time to get to know Carolyn. 

What's Wrong With The Lakers?

What’s wrong with the Lakers? Why are they so terrible? Leadership. It starts at the top. Jim Buss has proven to be a bust. He’s a good argument against nepotism as a means of promotion. He’s made one bad decision after another, the Dwight Howard debacle his latest and greatest. Dwight Howard doesn’t have championship in him. We should trade him while we have a chance.

D’Antoni is no better. He’s proven one thing to me, and that is being stubborn is a recipe for disaster. He hasn't played Devon Ebanks, of his best defensive players, in weeks. He should be playing Ebanks. He should not be playing Chris Duhon, Why he’s playing Duhon is a mystery. I guess he likes guys who pass the ball and then run away.            

            D’Antoni does not have a great basketball mind in my estimation. It’s clear as a bell he doesn’t have the skills or talent to turn the tide towards winning. Fire him tomorrow. Let Bernie Bickerstaff run the show. Trade Howard for Brooke Lopez to save face. Howard doesn’t have the resolve to play in Los Angeles. He won’t re-sign next season. I'll take Andrew Bynum with two bum knees over Howard any day. 

Today's Your Birthday

I went to the beach yesterday. It was my birthday. I went with a lady friend. It was a beautiful day. It was clear and sunny, and there was nobody around.

We stumbled upon a beach that I had never been to before. I didn’t even know it existed. There was a trail hidden by bushes that led to a white sand beach. I’m not telling anybody where it is. I’m keeping this one to myself. I’ve blabbed about a beach before and soon thereafter there was a mass of people hanging about. I’m not saying I had anything to do with the influx, but I’m sure it didn’t help.

            I don’t feel older, and I don’t feel younger, but it’s always special to have a birthday. I had a good day with my lady friend. She walked about and collected rocks. I sat on a rock and sang songs to myself, songs that were melodic and pretty, but without meaning or words. 

The Iron Will

I ironed a shirt today for the first time in years. It use to be that people wouldn’t leave the house unless they looked proper. When I was a kid I’d sometimes iron my clothes before school so as not to look like a slob. Even the kids in gangs took the time to iron their clothes back then. They were the most meticulous. They had perfect creases on their pants and shirts. I think they used heavy starch to get their creases razor sharp.

            My mother ironed for hours at time to make sure I looked presentable. My aunt Margaret was the same way. My mother and aunt were good at it. I’ve never mastered it. I don’t have the patience for it. It’s like a wrestling match when I do it. It doesn’t matter if it’s a shirt or a pair of pants, I’ll have trouble. The fabric folds or bends in a manner that simply drives me nuts, and when I apply the steam it seems to make it worse. It makes permanent the impatience I’m feeling. It makes evident my state of mind. I don’t want to wear my state of mind, so I'll keep trying until I get it right. 

Sunday Driver

            I exited the highway on a street called Catholic Center Drive, and then made a left turn on Buddhist Circle. I drove a few blocks and made a right turn on Hindu Pass. I still had no idea where I was so I turned onto Judaism Road. Judaism Road turned into a cul-de-sac, so I doubled back and made a left on Islamic Trail Avenue. I wondered how a trail could be called an avenue. The city planners had made an error in my estimation. I saw a series of small streets: Mormon Tabernacle Way, Confucius Lane, Baptist Choir Road. I stayed the course on Islamic Trail avenue, and somehow I found the highway again, and didn’t look back for fear of turning into a pillar of salt.