Wednesday, December 27, 2006

Tamales

     Opening the door to my parent’s house sent a surge of warmth and aroma of tamales shooting straight at me, rejuvenating my Christmas spirit in one whiff. Both my brother and I arrived to a pair of smiling parents and delighted sister, constructing dinner and setting the mood to entertain the two most pampered people in our family (my brother and I). It took a couple of minutes for my eyes to completely adjust to the bright Christmas decorations glistening and reflecting off of the wine and tequila bottles in my dad’s bar. The greetings were quick and comforting with hugs, kisses, and technical handshakes.
     While the tamales were steaming we began our holiday mingling, something that happens three times a year: my mothers birthday, Thanksgiving and Christmas. It’s quite a site, observing a family of secrets and mixed emotions trying to be intimate and personal with each other in front of one another. It’s a challenge for all of us, considering we are not used to sharing our sensitivity with one another: A shy family. The night continues like all holidays, my brother bullying me all night and my mom ending the fight with me getting the blame (because somehow I put myself in that situation), my sister and I making dumb jokes to entertain my mother, my dad trying to get some personal time with my brother, and my mother in the middle of all of our craziness.
     Finally it was getting late and my reunion with my co-workers was inevitable so we pursed in opening objects covered in paper boxes finished with sparkly colored paper: Materialism wrapped in materialism. There was nothing special given but instead we used those gifts as an excuse to take pictures with each other (something we are too scared to ask in a “regular day” in fear of rejection). These couples of minutes were the most uncomfortable and best minutes of all Christmas (I get to hug my brother!). The night was over and it was time for me to head to work, giving our goodbyes and gathering our presents my brother and I headed back towards our home. I dressed quickly and headed towards work on the eve of Christmas.

Tuesday, December 19, 2006

Coffee and a Homosexual

     The creamy and bitter taste of coffee has for some time seduced me to a daily habit of consumption. Working from midnight to morning is a challenge that has become manageable thanks to the assistance of that Colombian bean, roasted until all the moisture leaves the it, crushed into powder and then brewed in steaming hot water and finally drank by night crawlers like myself, using it only for its caffeine content. A matter of survival and pleasure. Although I must admit that I have come to enjoy its flavor with no sugar added-black like the night sky-or any flavoring at all; I love coffee with Irish Cream flavor.
     Seven Eleven has been contributing to my Irish ecstasy, having fresh brewed coffee anytime of the day and a gay smiling face awaiting my arrival. Yes I did say gay. While indulging in my bitter addiction I have conquered a young man heart unwillingly. My handsome face and sex appeal has a young man cuming in his pants every time I go in to buy a cup if coffee. Thanks to his crush on me he has been giving me free coffee drinks, stamping my coffee card two to three times every time I go in. I cant say I feel bad that I am using him for the coffee but I can now say I understand the power that woman use against men to get what they want, never giving up their goodies but using us to hook them up.
     I have been neglecting him for the past week or so, feeling a little guilty from my newfound powers (that and I don’t want to send the wrong message). Then again if I could have a gay guy get a crush at me at all the stores I shop at and get hooked up I really would not mind, considering the possibilities of cheap merchandise. The funniest part about the gay guy at Seven Eleven is that he is the stereotypical gay Mexican, having his feminine accent and dramatizing homosexuality, having highlights in his hair and colored contacts. With every sip of coffee I take I can taste my chargeless appealing powers to gay men. If only it worked with women.

Saturday, December 16, 2006

Masturbation Makes It Better

     I have found myself tossing and turning all through the “night” these past couple of days, haunted by something beyond my conscience mind. My dreams have all been skewed, finding myself in real life situations but in doomed bearings. Yesterday I was trapped in a math problem with a couple of other colleagues. While they proceed in answering all their Herculean mathematical problems, I struggle to find the solution. Almost unwillingly I abide in formulating an answer, tossing my body with every failed attempt and loosing sleep.
     I had another dream, staring off pleasant, agglomerating myself (and yes I’m still fixated) my ex but they’re a twist. Time had past and although I still looked the same-a sexy, charming young man-she had transformed into something hideous, losing her congenial beauty that captivated me. I still gave it a try, remembering the good times we had shared together but she had lost all essence of the person I had known, condemning me into a questioning reality.
     Before that I was surrounded in my usual atmosphere of inmates and jail bars, conducting my usual business of running my kitchen. Then my mind lost the grasp of power and the inmates no longer listened to me, leaving me vulnerable to their tauntings and misbehavior (doesn’t sound scary but it was horrible). That night my bed was a running ground, waking up with tossed blankets and wet from perspiration.
     There were others to faint to remember in detail except for the agony that I felt all through my half dazed sleep. I don’t understand the significance behind my apocalyptical dreams but I must conclude that my daily stress has finally caught up with me, portraying itself in an imaginary gauge. All I can do now is masturbate (releasing some stress of cores) and hope for the best.

Wednesday, December 13, 2006

Work and a Soundtrack

     Driving towards the dungeons of jail is not the most exciting thing to do on a weekend, but it pays my bills. During the winter the night air seeps into your bones, effortlessly sending your body into an indomitable shake, starting from your malodorous bowls, shooting simultaneously down through your (hairy for me) legs and up into the back of your neck. With my hands in my pockets and with an erratic skip I head to my car, avoiding running to fast so that my beak of a nose doesn’t freeze up.
     Once in the luxurious TIJ bought Ford, I strap on my seat belt and have my usual weekend drive down Santa Ana. As I conduct down the streets, windows down, seat tilted low, and smooth music playing in the car (all this to look cool of cores), I see the lustful body of a Latin princess. Her hair so black that it almost seemed to be night itself, holding the stars in her hair, and as I admired her beauty the guitar starts to play, Its Santa Ana: Maria Maria. My heart begins to race, intoxicated in the untamed eyes of the street flower; I slow to link our sight together.
    Getting a red light I stop only a couple of feet away and I smile at her, taking the initiative in embracing a connection. She takes a swift glance at my dazed eyes and immediately turns away, giving me a little smirk to hang on to (dare I say a flirt?). My blood begins to race through my body, sending a volcano of heat to my cheeks, creating a beacon of excitement. With every Maria Maria being sung in the song, my heart skips a beat, being sucked into my fantasy of lust and romance. If I could only step out of this car and take her into my arms, showing her the passion that her beauty had ignited in me, exploring every curve in her body that screamed to be caressed.
     Suddenly the light turns green and the song abruptly stops, delivering me back into my car. I look back the lady and realize where I was. It was Bristol, known for male prostitutes that dress up like chicks. I slam the gas on my car (avoiding anymore contact with her, him, or it) and abide in going to work. Shaking off the awkward feeling of me fantasizing over a guy (in my defense it might have been a chick, I’m just not sure) I promise myself not to mention it to anybody (but I must be faithful with Blogger) and I park my car next to the stone fortress.
     Going through the huge iron doors, the comforting smell of the jail wakens me up and sends me into an apathetic mode. I head to the bubble (where there is a sexy deputy and yes it’s a woman) to receive my power and rite given to me by the county: Jail keys. As I hand my identification card to the cold and heartless but beautiful deputy my head wonders off, playing the Eagles: Hotel California. Receiving my keys the song continues, walking and song playing in my head, I can imagine the deputies singing me the song. From the entrance all the way to the kitchen the intoxicating song controls me, sending me in sudden burst of smooth dancing (when no one is watching), thinking of all the inmate residence in the fortress and wondering what at that minute they were up to. With only the sound of my feet echoing through the walls and my humming, with sudden burst of me singing “Welcome to the Hotel California, such a lovely place” (the only words I know to the song) I continue into the underground depth of the kitchen, becoming more romanticized as I imagine it as a hotel. I stop in the tunnel to enjoy my last moments of my imagination and deep connection with the badass jam and step into a world of cock and balls, leaving the Hotel California behind for another midnight entrance.
     Inside the kitchen I meet my fellow cooks. All of them crazy, obsessive, or just down right fucked up in some way, then gain what do you expect when dealing with criminals and grown children. At exactly 12:15am we all meet in the supervisors office, receiving the daily information on what happening for breakfast and also not forgetting the gossip. Everyone smiles, laughs, and shakes hands but once we step out of the office and head our separate ways the shit talking begins (the formalities of any job). I quickly run out of the office grab my equipment and head to the IRC kitchen and call for my crew.
     As I sit in my office waiting for the crew to come in I work on the endless paper work, thinking about the speech I will give the crew and how I will stand and move. Slowly I feel the beat hitting me, giving my speech some rhythm like a free style rapper feels his flow. When I hear the door open with blue jacks and tired faces walk into the kitchen my heart starts to race and the sudden rhythm of Mos Def: Mathematics hits my head. For a minute I’m not Ed anymore, I’m Mr. Gonzalez, gangster tamer, always having to seem harder, smarter, and tighter in order have control in the kitchen. Having the beat stick in my head and seeing the inmates lined up in front of me I bust my lyrics, having Mos Def trapped in the back of my mind, I talk.
     After my “Monday” speech I give every single inmate a responsibility or job to do, sending each to their positions and giving instructions to all the new workers. Once everything is settled I head to my office, keeping an eye on the inmates and working again on the reiteration of paper work that County demands but never reviews, writing down every temperature of every refrigerator and every word I say to any inmate. There is not much to do for the first hour so I sit comfortably and wait upon the arrival of breakfast (either eggs and potatoes, eggs and beans, or potatoes and beans) to serve the inmates. The office smells of old and new coffee (brewed 24-7) with paperwork spread all over the office. Glass walls surround the office, giving me full view of the kitchen the entire time, making sure the inmate are not tiring to steal form me or beat each other up. As both the inmates and I wait we have our usual morning staring contest, seeing who chickens out first with the dirty looks (I always win, but it wasn’t always so, especially when I first started), giving me a sense of pride (I’m Macho Man).
     Finally the food arrives and to my surprise its minced meat and potatoes (or as the inmates call it “shit on a stick”), sending the inmates in a jubilant mood shown in their smiling faces as they get the whiff of the beef. I step out of my office and like a traffic officer gives the cars directions in who goes next, I stand straight in the middle of the kitchen, giving orders in where everything goes and what people should be doing. The first twenty minutes are intense, keeping me on my toes as I safely get the “line” in order. As the inmates line up on the food serving line and I give my final inspections, getting ready to serve about 1300 people in one hour, there can be no mistakes. Looking into the solemn faces of the inmates lined up, forced to work in my kitchen, Nina Simone comes to my head and her interpretation of…Work song. The line starts to run and there is no stopping it until all the inmates are fed. The blues song hits me hard as I see the inmates start to tire from the repetitive movements they make, sending sweat dripping down their faces, muscles tensing and steam burning their already hot faces. Just as fast as the song finished the line seems to finish, relieving the inmates from the hellhole called the “line”.
     For the next half hour the inmates get feed their double portions (something I like to reward them with). I sit back in my office again filling out another packet of paperwork that I have come to memorize, no longer thinking while filling it out but instead just a repetitious thought. While I work I observe the workers, seeing the complexities of human behavior and the spirit that rest in our hearts. The inmates always win. Although they were jailed and raped of their natural freedoms they still laughed and smiled and joked and played. It boggled me. And at the same time it gave me hope, knowing that if I was in their spot, lively and hopeful people like them would surround me.
     After their half hour of eating was over it was time to get the kitchen clean, messed and ragged form a couple hours of intensified work. I step out and give the shot callers the orders (leaders of each gang) to start the cleansing. Like a brush fires starts in late summer the inmates stat rising and picking up brooms, mops, towels and soap, smiling and happy after a well earned rest and hardy breakfast (for them at least). I go back on my office and watch the frisky inmates, dancing and singing as they clean the kitchen. The happy workers remind me of a song I heard in “Scrubs”, a German eighty’s song. I still haven’t been able to find the song but it matched the dancing inmates to a “T”. As I watched their spunky cleaning I could not help but smile and laugh at their interpretations of what is called “dancing”, ones doing the robot, others the fast movements like dirty dancing, and others doing the gangster twist (I’m good at that). My first instincts (as an oppressors) was to stop the fun and go out yelling and threatening for them to stop having fun and start being bored as they clean, but my conscience convinced me not to.
     A couple of hours later the three shot callers come to the door in my office asking me to give my inspection of the cleanliness of the kitchen. I agree and head out to review my kitchen (and yes its MY KITCHEN!). Walking around the kitchen seeing the tired faces of the inmates sends a chill down my spine. What sent these guys to do the things they did, robbing cars, dealing drugs, beating their wife or joining gang violence. Staring into their faces the Beatles: Eleanor Rigby came to my mind as I saw all these lonely people, coming back to jail for the comfort and love that they get from each other (something they lack in “the outs”) and for a minute I hated myself. Good hard working men jailed up because of addictions brought upon them by society and life were suffering and here I was making a profit from them (Something I loose sleep over). The sad violins of the song finish and I head straight to my office, avoiding the truth of the business of jail.
     In the office I wait for lunch to be sent up, thinking of anything that pops into my mind. The continuous subject of my ex-girlfriend always comes up everyday, considering that I have told some of the inmates about her and I still haven’t had the balls to say that she had left me, thinking that they might see that as a weakness and use it against me. So when they ask me everyday how she is doing, I smile and say “she’s good” and as they ask another question I dismiss their questions with a “don’t worry about it” and head to another corner of the kitchen, acting like I’m to busy to talk: Skilled trickster. So while sitting in the office reminiscing of good and bad times the only song I can think of is by David Olivares: Cosas Del Amor. The Tuba is hypnotic and the accordion flutters my heart with amazement, considering that the song was written just for me. As I go off and hear the song in my head, thinking of my old romance, my supervisor contemplates of my awkward smirk and nod shaking. Later speaking to me that I need to “remain in jail with him” and not go off in my dream word.
     Lunch arrives and my head comes back to reality, leaving the wondering mind and going straight to work. Again I come out of my thrown and start my finger pointing and order giving gestures of authority. For the next half an hour I assemble the line, inspecting and following food health codes. Once the line is calibrated I send the inmates to go get clean and adjust to go back to the barracks. One of the inmates, calling himself Edge reminds me of Aerosmith: Living on the Edge and while seeing the battered and forgotten inmates wash their hands, changing their working clothes, and put on their county jackets the song plays along. As Edge stands next to me he can hear me whisper “There’s something wrong with the world today…” and he turns to look at me and abruptly mentions, “Mr. Gonzalez you really can’t sing.” Sending me into a moment of embarrassment and denial.
     When the deputy arrives and picks up the inmates I feel relief hit me and the knowing that another morning has passed unnoticed inside the concrete walls of jail. Little by little the new cooks come in and one by one I inform them of what to expect for lunch. Once I have transitioned form my shit to the next shift I take a big breath and head back to the tunnel, accompanied by some of my coworkers, eager to go home to their wives, husbands, and children (me my bed). Again I see the sexy familiar face of the female deputy, smiling at each one of us and willing to give us back our cards. Maybe it’s the fact that she is leaving also that puts her in a good mood every morning but I like to imagine that it’s the fact that she recognizes every morning just how long and hard we work and gives us the little dignity and respect we deserve.
     As soon as I hit the fresh air outside I take a beep breath, remembering the nasty used air inside the jail (great smells). My eyes take several minutes to adjust to the blinding sunlight and I hid from it for several minutes like a vampire. I walk to my car, considering the work day and all that I have learned from the inmates and myself. Once in my car I turn on the radio and an appropriate song comes on Queen: We are the winners. I turn up the radio and drive safely back to my awaiting puppy Boo and my warm bed. As I drive away, winning the days work and smiling at my badassness in every job, I sneak past the wakening city that has no idea what occurs as they slumber.

Tuesday, December 5, 2006

Mother:Lover Father:Teacher

     It seems that the more I think about the actions and tribulations in my life the more I discover that they are all centered around women, harnessing their seductive and subconscious power over my weak mind, lingering in the depths of my neuron paths, congesting it with their comments and remarks: A teas in my head. Every insignificant detail or thought turns out to be manipulated, almost directing me to the path that I should follow. For example when I choose the clothes to buy (always sexy by the way) for myself it becomes almost an immediate thought if any chick (woman, girl, lady whatever you know them by) would perceive me as “sexy” while wearing them.
     Subconsciously I roam deciding things in life that ultimately are skewed by a force I have no power over. Women, for me, are these being I try to understand and want to be coveted by, but so far I have landed short. They have for so long been something I longed for that now they are instinctly in my every handshake, smile, laugh, and reason. How long have they gone unnoticed by my conscious mind? Was it on the blurry night when my reproductive organs finally gave out and shot that first stream of ecstasy out of my body that they crept into my mind? Maybe it has been even earlier than that, growing up as a little child, seeing a woman’s firm breasts in my father’s magazine, which he so possessively hid.
     The answer I have concluded comes much earlier than that. It comes those nine months of contentment inside the woman that harness nothing but love and well being for us. In the dark-with no sight to blur our vision-we fall in love with our physical creator. Although our father does add to the splendor of birth, it is our mothers, who share her flesh with us, her young. While lying in an almost dormant state we grow, hearing the heart beat of the “creator” or our other half, creating a pace for our own hearts to follow.
     My mother has been for me a strong woman that irritated the fuck out of me. Her connection to my own was apparent in how she read my mind and it baffled me away. Growing up as a Latino and male unfortunately obstructs that link between mother and son (dare I say daughter too?). A good Mexican son had to be strong, outgrowing the childish love he held for his mother, dragging him down into the depths of lonesomeness and idleness. For years I pushed away what in the ocean of my mind always held as great and beautiful. Instead I threw myself at what man must do, work, brining in the “bread and butter” for the family-the imaginary one I have-to enjoy.
     Now that I have thrown the cloak of ethnicity off my shoulders and instead stored it in my head for a lifetime of memories, I feel the cool breeze. I feel free to the fact that my macho attitude no longer stands in a pedestal of images and stereotypes but by the words I have to say and the actions I take. And again women contribute this action of almost re-awakening. The search to find her has lead me to a path of self-absorption and thought and the creator has been there every step of the way. I have fallen for her.
     It is cliché to say that all men want to marry their mothers, following with the argument that only their mothers can love them the way they are. Recently I have been slowly disembarking away form my architect because of the new found love I have found form her. I have been “romancing” her; wooing her to show her the vision of love she has tough me. Arriving at her house I would be sat down on the table and feed dinner, which she has made (something she rarely does). Instead of drinking soda I bring her a bottle of wine, soft and smooth so that she could enjoy it. We sit at almost candlelight dinner, talking about whatever hits out minds, sharing secrets and laughing at the world’s expense. Smooth music swayed around the dinner table and we both smiled.
     Often times her favorite song would come up and I would ask her to a dance (I’m not a good dancer so there was a lot of toe stepping) and she would give me a smile that I have never recognized before. With a look into my eyes she saw my tenderness that has won the hearts of those women I so loved and I also saw the love witch one faithful night captivated my father. It was at that moment that I realized my creator, mother, daughter, sister, and soon grandmother was nothing more than a woman. She was the basis of all my past and future love, creating the love and yearning for that connection the moment her heart beat rang in my body. It was that epiphany that helped me let go of her and her of me, knowing that the woman I choose will be because of something she gave me so long ago and not something I have come to develop.

     It is true that my designer has influenced me greatly in the matters of women and love but my father has proven to be a skilled teacher. Although I have never shared a great connection with my father; we share a connection that no other men can share. Like the creator gave me flesh, blood and soul my initiator has given me knowledge. My work ethics and strong will has come from years of his teachings and patience in willing to teach me everything he knows. His mind is free to me and his children that want to know anything. Not many being in this planet can give you that, giving of knowledge for nothing. Many clench to their knowing and hid it form the world, greedily wanting it all for themselves.
     That figure of a father has been a strong one to me, everlasting and willful. Through the years of being married to an emotional bitch the initiator has hung on to his loved ones knowing that to let go would mean to fail, becoming less than a man and more of a child (he’s crazy). I can only imagine if my sister shares that bond with my father that I share with my mother. Is he her idol being, reasoning her choosing of males based on his structure of life, love, and work?
     Working in the kitchen the seed planter has created an image of himself that not one of us has been able to seize form him. His skills in the kitchen are bountiful, creating meals worthy for the riches and poorest man in the world. I have long tried to capture his knowing of food and love but his knowledge seems so immense. The moment I feel my skill are adept to his I find that he shatters my wisdom with his eternal knowledge. It has been his dexterous hands and mind that has initiated my wanting and drive to surpass him, reaching that glory of being a man. My father.
     Even my longing to be a good friend comes form my father. He has always been that knowing friend willing to help, just because. His kindness and joking being has contributed to my almost lust to-just like my father-being a great friend to anybody needing one. I have never seen my idol fight or become vengeful at anybody that agonized him. It has been his ethics that have bound into my soul and given it innocence and understandings, helping me get ahead at work, liberating me to understand the lost and hurt.
     I find myself more open for my father to teach me and hand me some advice that he as rightfully earned. I have set aside my foolish young pride and have given up to his mightiness and I know that I will never reach his state of patience, love, skill, and being until I have walked the path he has: Long and arduous. He has although armed me with a weapons mightier than any sword or gun, giving me the strength to pull ahead in trouble times. Teaching me that love is no more than a game than work is, but it can be fun. My mother gave me body and soul but my father gave me reason and will. With them together I have become the person I am today.
     If I have been shackled by the emotions and teaching of my parents then what about those who have none? Are they bound differently than most people and where do they get their inspiration in becoming who they are and what they want in their mate? I have for a long time never been able to see myself as a married man with children and a house. It has come to my mind but the fear that I would be a horrible parent has bound me to my faults. Now as I steer away from my old family and head into a new and maybe even more insane one I know I can handle it. I know now that even though I will affect my children in the way they act, love, live, and work I will do a good job, reasoning that my parents are instilled inside me.