waiting

sitting in a mailboxes etc in madrid, now it's a ups store, just like over there on that side of the charco. getting a manuscript bound. waiting. waiting in a ups store.
madrid, tuesday afternoon. cloudy. damp.

Historias from a bar in Madrid

There's a great book of short stories by David Toscana, Historias del Lontanaza . The collection revolves around a bar, Lontanaza, and the people who go there. Sitting yesterday evening with friends at the Madroño, I thought of that book.
It's a bar that I wouldn't consider one of my hangouts, though I've been there a few times. It's a good place to meet friends for tapas in La Latina. A few months ago I was with some friends when someone, a young painter, asked, "Are there more safe or unsafe things to lick in the world?" a few minutes later another friend talked about the time she took a rapelling course in the Golan Heights. I asked her if this was some course offered by the Mossad.
"I once drank a whole bottle of mezcal, followed by a bottle of Baileys. The next day I called my father to say Good-bye because I was convinced that I was going to die." This is how the best story I've heard in a bar begins. We were sitting at the corner table of the Madroño with three friends beneath the television on the wall that was showing the F1 race that would make Fernando Alonso racing champion for the second year in a row. She was homesick at the time, she said. She was in Germany on vacation with her grandmother at a gigantic German estate that belonged to some billionaire friends of the family. She had gone out with the wife of the tycoon who liked to escape into town for drinks. She drank the bottle of mezcal, and then the wife and she drank the bottle of Bailey's. The next day, sick and convinced that she was dying she stayed in bed. Then came the hunger. But the estate had no food. She remembered the five year old daughter who had a Mr. Potato Head. Better, a family of Mr. Potato Heads. They were real potatoes that the daughter had decorated with bits of glued on paper. The kid loved that Potato Head family. But the survival instinct kicked in and she went after them. Delirious and with a serious hangover she pulled off the bits of paper and glue and placed the potatoes in the microwave.
The next morning --death averted, and feeling better-- she awoke to the screams of a five year old girl asking for her Mr. Potato Head family.

The waiter at the Madroño then served us our cañas and our huevos rotos con patatas.

Buy a souvenir, get a free gift

For a young newly married Spanish couple from Galicia it sounded like a honeymoon to remember. A week in Cancún. Check out the sights, hang out on the Mayan Riviera. Fly back to Spain and begin life as a married couple. Easy. The problems began when they were departing from Cancún. She was detained. A problem with her bags. A serious problem. She was taken to jail. She fell sick and was taken to the infirmary. She began to get news about what happened. She was being held on explosives charges. Bullets, explosives, and a detonator cap were found in her checked luggage. Military grade. After more than a week in incarceration she was allowed to return to Spain.
How did the weapons end up in her bag? Some possibilities:
1. She's a pija and she's heard that the pijos have coopted the revolution. La revolución mola. Of course, once the pijos have appropriated the revolution, what's left for the hipsters?
2. She's got friends in the falange, and the falange are having a demonstration in Madrid on the 28th of October. En defensa de España, the flyers glued on the walls proclaim. These "extra" items are to help out the fascist cause.
3. Now when she warns her husband, Ahora te vas a enterar, she's got something to back her up.
4. Detonator caps and bullets are a steal in Mexico!
5.The couple are shopping for souvenirs. In the mercado someone offers them a Mayan reproduction. Maybe Chac-Mool, the Mayan intermediary between the god of rain, Chac, and man. Maybe he offers up a special. Buy this souvenir, and get a free gift.

Whatever the reason, upon her return to the airport in Santiago de Compostela the couple was met with great acclaim by neighbors, family, and friends.

The bride told the press that she would return to Mexico, but she wasn't going to check her luggage.

The news from rainy madrid

10 things that have struck me so far about being back in Madrid and back in Spain:
1. The cigarette cartons still have the frightening "scared straight" warning labels: stark, large black text on white backgrounds. For example: "Fumar causa impotencia."
2. In a convenience store one night I see besides the display of Chupa-Chups suckers that they are now selling Chupa-Chups in a box that is a little larger than a cigarette carton. Like those cartons, there are warning labels. The one I see reads, "Chupar relaja."
3. Catalan nationalism has moved into the ludicrous zone. One of the nationalists argues that you can't be president of the Generalitat if you weren't born in Catalunya. The president of CiU speaks of the Spanish migrants from other regions to Catalunya in the 1960's as the "llegados." Montilla, not born in Catalunya, leader of the PSC, is taken to task by a Barcelona paper for not speaking perfect Catalan.
4. The PP shows its fascist stripes at a recent public meeting in Cáceres when someone in the public yells out, "España, una, grande y libre!" (the old fascist lema).
5. Rajoy is determined to be the leader of the new Spanish troglodytes. Corruption from land speculation? It's all fault of the PSOE.
6. Madrid in the rain is really beautiful.
7. Walking into Luke Soy tu Padre on a Friday night, for the first time in four months, and the owner telling me, "Un amigo tuyo estuvo aquí la semana pasada."
8. Barça losing to Real Madrid 2-0. Aaaarrrggghhhh!
9. A Spanish woman on her honeymoon is stopped and detained in Cancún as she is departing Mexico to return to Spain. Explosives and a detonator cap are found in her checked luggage. She makes it back to Spain, but will have to return to Mexico to face charges. She says she's not checking her bag this time.
10. Construction continues at a mad pace. the areas around the construction sites are mud pits in the rain.

Saturday Night Lights

Sábados por la noche, esperando el fin de semana para poder reventar en el baile.

Mi mamá organizaba bailes mexicanas. Los Humildes, Los Diablos, Mike Laure. Me acuerdo de todos. Todos pasaron por nuestra sala. Y detrás de ellos estaba el grupo que todos querían ver. El grupo con quien todos querían bailar un sábado por la tarde después de una semana larga de trabajo en los files. Una semana larga protegiéndose del sol, de los moscos y de la migra (que podrían ser la misma cosa).

Sábados por la noche, esperando bailar con ese grupo que siempre se esperaba ver por esos lares; esperando el grupo que nunca llegó, Los Bukis.

Odiaba esa música.

A los quince años ya estaba metido en la onda del new wave, la música de cumbia, la música norteña, la música tropical; no lo quería. Pero allí estaba, los sábados por la noche: en el baile. Años después salía con amigos a los bares mexicanos en San Jose y Redwood City para bailar a esa música y recordar un poco de esas noches cuando salía al estacionamiento para sentarme en algún lowrider estilo northern California —los batos de allá eran como un especie de Cholo light— para escuchar oldies o alguna otra rola.

Cuando entré a la universidad y me volví locutor de radio en una estación punk, mi mamá se volvió locutora en un programa de música mexicana en otra estación. Allí estábamos otra vez, sábados por la noche.

Después empecé un programa de rock en español en la estación donde trabajaba mi mamá. El público: una bola de pissed off norteños que querían escuchar Chente (Vicente Fernández).

The Phases of the Moon

Back in the mid-90's, the Tijuanense writer Luis Humberto Crosthwaite started a small, independent publishing house, Yoremito. It was dedicated to publishing books by authors from northern Mexico, and was positioned as an avenue towards further strengthening a growing readership in northern Mexican literature. Unfortunately the press folded after publishing about 11 books. While a project that gained a lot of interest, it couldn't survive without financial support.
However, those few books that were released are out there still. A testament to the power of independent publishing, I still hope that Yoremito can be somehow resuscitated.

One of the final books that was published was dedicated to rock albums. Written by one of the great music aficionados in Tijuana, the poet Roberto Castillo, the book --Banquete de pordioseros-- was a listing of 50 great rock albums. But the book was not an encyclopedia in the style of the Trouser Press. Rather, it was a memoir: Castillo's life as framed through music. A type of literary mix-tape of the author's top albums. For example, in his listing on Manu Chao's Clandestino, he writes about a weekend in Tijuana, drinking beer, being at a carne asada, talking about music and making random lists while Chao's album plays throughout. Almost a decade later, Nick Hornby --another great music fan-- published a similar book, Songbook (later published as 31 Songs) on another independent publishing house, McSweeney's.

Banquete de pordioseros included not only the essays by Castillo, but also an essay by David Ojeda and top ten lists by musicians, writers, and artists. There was also a top ten list by me. Making it was one of the most nerve wracking experiences of my life. It took me days to create. At one point, Crosthwaite sent me the essay by David Ojeda, to share how cool it was. It didn't help, as I noticed that Ojeda also faced the same issues on how to put together a top ten. HIs solution was to look at the records that were always stacked by the stereo. I began to write a response that I never submitted to Crosthwaite, though I sent in my top ten. Going through the archives this evening, I found it.

Here it is. A piece I called "The Phases of the Moon," and that I dedicated to David Ojeda:

I remember them all, the Psychedelic Furs, R.E.M, the Talking Heads. Bands that affected my life. And what about Wire Train? How to forget Wire Train? These were the bands, growing up in northern California, listening over static filled airwaves to a small radio station in Nevada City. A station which had a program on late night Friday nights dedicated to the newest sounds, punk, new wave, alternative sounds. By day it was high school, surrounded by a student population that listened to Phil Collins, Air Supply, REO Speedwagon. Occasionally there would be someone who believed himself a New Waver and would go off doing New Wave things: multicolored hair, dog collars, sing the lyrics to “Teenage Enemas Nurses in Bondage.” On Friday nights I’d be upstairs in my room, listening intently to a radio station from high in the mountains, trying to decipher the sounds that came through the speakers, the Gang of Four “Damaged Goods,” the Cure “A Forest,” the Stranglers, “All Roads Lead to Rome.” Occasionally the local rock station, would venture from its staple of the Moody Blues, the Rolling Stones, and Led Zeppelin, to play new music: the Plimsouls, “A Million Miles Away,” R.E.M. “Radio Free Europe,” Wall of Voodoo, “Mexican Radio,” Translator, “Everywhere That I’m Not.” I remember them all, coming in over the speakers and sometimes through the television via the new medium of music videos: Killing Joke “Eighties,” Ultravox, “The Voice.” And what about Wire Train? How to forget “Chamber of Hellos,” or “I’ll Do You?” How to forget “Love Against Me?”

At the age of 18 I was uncertain of many things: uncomfortable within my own skin, unsure of dialogue and face-to-face relations. At the university I attended I headed straight for the one logical area for me; the campus radio station, KCSC. As a disc jockey on the Saturday night shift I had no problem with communication. I spoke into the microphone to an imagined listener and expanded my musical knowledge outward by reading the music journals and encyclopedia’s that were left lying around: CMJ, Trouser Press, and The History of Rock and Roll. I discovered Guadalcanal Diary, I discovered Big Black, I discovered X-Mal Deutschland.

I entered the radio in 1984 in the waning days of Post punk and left it in 1990 as Grunge was rearing its ugly head through the College music underground. In between were six years, from Public Image Limited to Sound Garden. I remember them all: the local bands, the radio station parties, concerts by Los Lobos, the Replacements, the Del Fuegos, the Cure, Fugazi, X-Mal Deutschland, Wire Train. It was about music, the soundtrack to the crazy musical that makes up our lives.

Yes David, it is true, music affects all of us.

Music too for me is one of those unlisted essentials that governs my life along with those other essentials as breathing, air, and food: coffee in the morning, a shot of tequila in the evening, waking up next to my wife, watching movies —mindless action films in the summer, “art” films in the winter—, discussions with friends, lounging on the carpet. Music is the thread that runs through all.

Music has defined my life for many years, the earliest song that I remember is Terry Jacks “Seasons in the Sun,” a terrible confession to make from one who later listened to punk rock. Maybe that’s the explanation for my later musical tastes. From those questionable beginnings it was the music that filtered through my house, the pop that my parents listened to —the overrated Beatles, the music of the American Top 40— the Chicano Afro-Latin stylings that my tíos listened to— Santana, the Tower of Power— and the Mexican boleros that filtered throughout my grandmothers house in Mexicali.

Music grabs us, takes us into its grip. With particular songs we are transported to other times, moments, memories. Yes, it is true. You know it and I know it. Coming home from a day at the office I will first turn on the stereo to whatever I had playing before I left for the day. Before leaving on a trip I will flip through my cassettes, choosing the tapes that will form the soundtrack to my drive. My wife in particular hates this last one as she prefers to listen to the radio when we take a long drive.

But you understand, don’t you? You too have felt the grip of a particular song that has winded its way through your insides.

So our friend Luis Humberto Crosthwaite called to talk about this book on rock music by Roberto Castillo that his press was publishing. Luis was hoping to including top ten lists from members of rock bands, writers —among them José Agustín and you—, and why not? A list from a former college radio disc jockey. A cool idea, no? And I thought, yes, of course, an excellent idea. But then the terror set into me too.

My ten favorite albums?

Where to begin?

As I wandered about town, I considered the problem I had placed myself in. Do I take the academic and pedantic route, list the albums that I believe every rock listener should have? Or do I take the more personal route, simply make a list of those albums which have defined my life (and if Billy Joel is on that list, then so be it)? Driving home from the office I thought of the different paths that my musical memory was taking. Santana to Tower of Power to the Velvet Underground to The Stooges to Robert Palmer to Café Tacuba to Pere Ubu to War to Caifanes to Nina Hagen to Mecano to the Talking Heads to Tom Waits to the Cocteau Twins. And what about the Lounge Lizards? Could they be considered? And if so, what about the Balanescu Quartet?

And yet, David I cannot agree with you. The choosing of the ten favorite albums is not easy to do. It is not a question of pulling out those albums that we always have near the stereo. What about those of us who constantly change those albums? What then? Does this make me less a lover of music? Less a man because I cannot pull 10 albums out of the air? My musical tastes change, my ever-changing moods; perhaps governed by the phases of the moon:

New Moon: This moon presents new or distinct waves, populated by such bands as Kraftwerk, The Psychedelic Furs, OMD, Plastilina Mosh, Magazine, and Devo.

Red Moon: a moon of muffled sounds mixed, transformed, and filtered through sonic blasts held together by odd beats. Bands like: Pere Ubu, Wire, Sonic Youth, Meat Beat Manifesto, the Propellerheads.

Quarter Moon/Sickle Moon: sounds that weave brief flashes of light through darkness. Bands like X-Mal Deutschland, the Cure, King Crimson, Caifanes, the Stranglers.

Harvest Moon: The Pixies, Midnight Oil, R.E.M, the Police, Soda Stereo, the Smashing Pumpkins, the Jam, Manu Chao, Wire Train.

Half Moon: The Style Council, Mano Negra, Café Tacuba, Paralamas, the English Beat, the Fabulosos Cadillacs, Poncho Kingz, the Beastie Boys.

Blue Moon: The blue moon is a rare moon. These bands are more ethereal in sound, bands like Dead Can Dance, Cocteau Twins, Xymox, This Mortal Coil, Japan, Breathless, Air, and Madredeus.

Full Moon: The night of the full moon is a classic moon. The bands; Creedence Clearwater Revival, Santana, War, ELO, Steely Dan, the Replacements.

Black Moon: Big Black, Mission of Burma, Gang of Four, Víctimas del Dr. Cerebro, the Cramps.

My musical history is wrapped around my life. While living in Mexico City, friends would send me mix tapes to keep me up to date on the scene. One friend from the radio station sent me a few tapes with the new stuff that was coming into the station station. One tape I remember contained the latest single from Xymox, a band whose album, Medusa, I had been listening to constantly the year before. There was also “I’ve been Tired,” from a band I’d never heard, the Pixies. I remember it changed the Mexico City air as I traveled on the metro, listening to the song on my Walkman. It reminded me of the first time I heard Big Black. “Kerosene” was requested one night during my show. The crazy metal sounds that Steve Albini drew out of his guitar hooked me immediately. The Pixies took me back to Big Black who took me back to Wire who took me forward, years later, to Nirvana and Rage Agains the Machine.

I remember them all, those songs that sank below my skin, those albums that played constantly on my stereo. In the end, the exercise that brought me to formulate a list of my favorite rock albums became a trip across the musical geography of my life. It’s all about music isn’t it? The soundtrack of our lives.

Music is my radar

One of the best novels about being a music listener (or a rock snob) is Nick Hornby's High Fidelity. At times, that level of involvement with a thing like music (or film, or sports, or..) can seem foreign to someone who's just not into that thing in the same way. Relationships can fail, just read Sarah Vowell's classic essay "Thanks for the Memorex," or can become strained. I am often criticized for my constant references to music or to always having music playing while I work. I'm a terrible road trip partner, especially if I'm driving, as I prefer to listen to music rather than talk. Some friends of mine will often preface any music comment with a statement along the lines "you probably won't like this, but.." I've learned to keep my mouth shut as I've also received the "I'm not surprised" response if I've commented on dislking a certain record being listened to, usually before I can offer any reason for my dislike.
I consider myself fairly tolerant of all genres, though I certainly have my preferences. Occasionally I'll fall into a 70's classic mode and drive around listening to a mix of ELO, Foreigner, Cheap Trick, Elton John, Stevie Wonder. Other times I'll listen to a mix of arabesque music from the few cd's I've bought in Turkey, some of it so unashamedly over the top that it probably qualifies more as a guilty pleasure. Recently I've been listening to a mix of the latest cd's added to my iPod: a couple of Sleater-Kinney discs I was given by another extremely cool music fan; a couple of Cat Power discs --The Greatest, The Covers Album, and You Are Free--; Spoon, Gimme Fiction; Feist, Let it Die --this disc was given to me by a friend a few months ago right before I moved to Spain and I forgot to add it to my iTunes, and it wasn't until July that I discovered I had it--; Coralie Clement, Salle des pas perdus; Kinky, Reina. The mix is a good moving into fall mix, loud stuff interspersed with more introspective stuff.

Where is that, out there?

A few months ago a friend invited me to one of those social networking sites that sprout up every so often. I've recieved a few invites in the past for various sites of this type, but usually not from close friends. So I contacted her to see what was what, to see if the invite was legit. It was, she was inviting me to join friendster. So I thought, Why not? Of course, by now Friendster, if it is remembered at all, has become something of a punch line to a bad joke in the fast moving web. A victim of its own early success, it couldn't scale upwards quickly enough and slowed to a crawl, and its long time users moved to other sites like MySpace. But I signed up, not thinking much about it, and moved on. Last time I checked I had three friendsters. Sometimes I think about being more active on that page, thinking that maybe I'll be able to make more friendsters. But then I think that if I were to have joined up something like MySpace or Facebook that the results would be the same, I'd have three linked friends.
This morning, as I had my morning cup of coffee and surfed news and culture sites to see what was going on in the world, I came across a reference to a new social networking site that takes a different approach. The Experience Project, a site that asks users to "share, discover, connect, discreetly." It reminded me of one of the most devastating blogs I stumbled on a couple of years ago, PostSecret where users are asked to send in an anonymous confession on a postcard, either one they created or one that represents their secret. It's a site I check out every so often, not to peek into the secret lives of people, but because I think that the confessions, by being anonymous, also allow us to secretly confess things that we didn't want. We connect with certain confessions. One that I read a couple of years ago stayed with me: "I hate her for what she did to me, I hate myself more for what I did to her."
The Experience Project uses a similar model. On the homepage there are a number of experiences "I hate country music," "I film," I trust people too quickly," etc. The idea is to click on whatever experience you also have, "I don't know who I am anymore," and that link will take you to a page where people can share their stories. Of course besides clicking on the "I don't know who I am anymore" link, I also looked into the "I didn't get the memo" group (this one is for those who "feel out of place in life... at work, in relationships..."). Once you find experiences that you want to share in you can subscribe to the group.
As a social networking model I think it's really fascinating. What are some of your experiences?