Bosnian Rainbows: A Los Angeles Experience

Bosnian Rainbows: Blasts from the Past and Scaffolds of the Future, A Los Angeles Experience

by Armando Ortiz

“Perhaps when you watch all your dream lovers die

You’ll decide that you need a real one.” – Townes Van Zandt

Bosnian Rainbows

            A few days ago I went to see the Bosnian Rainbows perform at the First Unitarian Church, which is located on 8^th Street, a few hundred feet east of Vermont Avenue; it was the first time in many years that I’d walked down Vermont let alone 8^th. The band is made up of Omar Rodriguez Lopez, guitarist and overall excellent artist, Deantoni Parks, avant-garde drummer, Teresa Suarez a.k.a Teri Gender Bender, vocalist and performer, and keyboardist Nicci Kasper. Before that I had been waiting for my friend at the corner of Wilshire and Vermont, a major transit point in the city, sitting on one of the benches while reading Bolano’s The Third Reich. On this intersection there is now a subway stop and I can no longer see what it is that was here at this crossroads a few years back. In the past I’ve waited for friends by stations like this one, but outside of Los Angeles in other countries, so I did not think much of the experience. Nonetheless, sitting on one of the benches near the exit I got to see the flow of people; all kinds bodies coming and going, resembling the flow of an airport runway and a conveyor belt of suitcases being loaded and unloaded that were students, daily workers and quasi professionals, all under different hues of skin and wearing different kinds of clothing exiting and entering the underground station. Finally, my friend, Scott, arrived and we walked to the venue. As we made our way there we discussed Lev Vygotsky’s Thought and Language, with him explaining how author argued that language, in a sense, makes us conform to certain boundaries, and identified the difference between teaching, instructing, and learning from experience, yet as we moved toward our destination, I could not help to recall the many times I had walked through this part of Los Angeles, but many years ago, as a child. Hoover Elementary school is only a few blocks away, and as I reached my destination I also remembered walking with my uncle around this area, and looking for a wedding ceremony that he had been invited to attend, and was immediately transported to that day where we aimlessly walked around trying to find the address, it seemed like a distant dream, since these days we use GPS. As we were about to make a left on 8^th street my memories took me back to the day I bought a Chuck Norris action figure from a small toy store that was down the street, and I also recalled how I’d walk back to my house every day after-school. The duplex where we lived was located on Berendo Street off of Olympic Boulevard.

First Unitarian Church, Los Angeles

            Today the streets were lined by a caravan of parked cars, and the movement was unusually heavy for being Los Angeles. Though, in contrast to the past the traffic hustle and bustle of people was significantly more, though not a new thing for this particular area of the city. Across the street from where I waited for my friend the massive steel scaffolds surrounded the metal infrastructure that in a few months will become luxury apartments for the new urban people that will quickly fill the empty rooms and walk on its marble courtyards. The residents that once called this district will most likely be displaced in the coming years, due to the rising costs of living in the city. The church, had a tall four sided tower that pointed to the sky and iron gates at the entrance that quickly let the people that were waiting in line. I doubt there ever was a line of church goes waiting to go inside to hear the sermon, but life is strange. As we entered we saw the beer garden that was located on the brick tiled courtyard, the sun’s lingering light was slowly disappearing, the sky was now a faint yellow and the flood lights were slowly beginning to emanate their electric white glow.

            I had once gone to a church that had been converted into a club in Shanghai, China, but I’d never been to church to see a rock band, so this was a new experience. Like any typical Sunday service, you had the early arrivals, the dedicated people who get to sit close to the stage, and get to choose the right spot where they will be able to see everything that is going on the platform at their preferred angle, taking me back to the days when I’d arrive to church and see the early arrivals kneeling on the ground with their elbows resting on the red upholstered benches, while others were reaching to the sky like baby hoping to get picked up by a loved one. They were praying for something, maybe for some type of relief or a request, but we were there to get good seats and have a good listening spot. Soon the lights dimmed and Sister Crayon, the first band, began their performance and gave an excellent show.

Kali

As soon as the opening band was done, the stage lights began turning purple and the shadows neon green.  Standing there and checking out the band one went from being in a live music performance to drifting from a Sunday sermon into an opera experience of the netherworld. Teresa Suarez's dance resembled Kali, with movements that mimicked the ancient deity that destroys all men, making you wonder where she had come from, definitively an outer space being possessed her body. The wails that emanated from her larynx became calls to the other world and opened up the gates to the gods of old. I thought, what if there was reincarnation, and we returned to this earth, and then remembered the words Marcus Aurelius saying that the good thing about life is that we only have one, all of us have one life and that is it, and again I wondered, what if we had to return to this world as a punishment, like Juan Rulfo’s Pedro Paramo, who returns only to live in a world of personal nightmares and into a place where everyone was a not allowed to enter the gates of heaven. The image of the mountain people coming down to the village and selling their trinkets amidst the rain and cool weather immediately came to mind and at that point a high pitch holler resonated with me and I was there, with the lights flooding the stage and the audience, purple everywhere, with shadows of green. Then a mental image came to life and I saw a series of wooden crosses in the middle of the desert matching the still life photography of Rulfo.

Juan Rulfo Photography

            A particular song of theirs, “Morning Sickness,” made me think of the people we meet and wondered if we ever mutually think of each other at any time of the day. Relationships come to an end and there is always an aspect about a person that though not present is still within our memories and within our psyche. She might no longer be next to you or beside you when you wake up but the faint traces of her smell still lingers. Sometimes though, we think a connection has been made, maybe we are stuck reliving a Garcia Marquez short story, where we only meet our lovers in dreams and wake up to a world of solitude. We might in fact be more selective with the people we choose to remember and the type of outlooks that they might have of the world. Still the very thought that to another person we might not have been adequate or perhaps someone in our life was not able to fill a space in our long term memory might be more telling of the things we find to have value. True beauty, in this sense, is like our memories, selective of the things we wish or have no choice but to recall. As this carousel of thoughts and memories went round and round my mind I returned to my temporal moment, and took a sip of beer. The ceiling was high enough that wails seemed to reach the skies. The haunting cries of a distant love and of a birth untold that yearns to grab hold of something tangible was my impression of the voice that performed on stage. Soon the roof disappeared and all one could see was a collection of stars in the middle of a forest of thoughts, and for a moment the distant galaxy that’s closest to earth came into focus. In between this musical ceremony, we took swigs of our beer, and the rhythmic, and hypnotic dance of the guitar and the base became an old ritual dance that included a synthesizer, and yet I was there in a spot that I had been and walked by many years ago, listening to a band that I’d wanted to see live since the first news of their visit to Los Angeles. Bosnian Rainbows momentarily transported everyone to a world of music, universal sound waves and merged with the resonance of the planets. It was a good show indeed.

Joshua Memorial Park: Poem

Joshua Memorial Park

by Armando Ortiz

In September, the high desert is an oven,

with plastic flowers and visitors,

that can’t silence the laughing crows,

perching on green pine trees.

The last time I saw you,

death had already taken your lungs,

but now artificial carnations wont wither,

and stand straight against the sun.

Growing up in Los Angeles (Part Fifteen): D.A.R.E. to Save Each Other

Part 15: D.A.R.E. to Save Each Other

By Armando Ortiz

About three of us almost broke down that day. It might have been four, but I can’t exactly remember. Mariela was the one that actually shed a few tears, but they dried before streaking all the way down her cheek. We had finally graduated from the D.A.R.E. program. None of us in the class had signed up to take the bi-monthly class. The officers came and talked about their experiences in the field and the dangers of drugs. I knew drugs were bad, heck, these eyes had seen people smoke crack, and observed crackheads go at it on the sidewalk of our neighborhood, but could not conceptualize drugs in a family or my life. The cop wore a deep blue uniform, and her long hair was kept in a bun. She was Hispanic, with light brown skin and green eyes, which made you think of Veronica Castro every time she visited our class. Her last name was Garcia. Officer Garcia would stand in front of the classroom and talk about life as a public officer and give us many reasons why not to turn to illegal substances.

After the program was over we were going to get awarded a black T-shirt that had the acronym D.A.R.E. emblazoned across the front of the shirt, with bright red letters. If you wanted a shirt and if you wanted to complete the program you had to give a speech/pledge about never touching drugs. Well, the day came and all of us had to go up to the front of the class and each had to promise to never do drugs and explain the dangers of drugs. Two classmates whom I rarely spoke with standout from that day. The first said that he would never do drugs, because drugs could kill people, but before he could complete the word “kill,” he jerked a bit and his face, especially around the eyes wrinkled up. He had dirty blond hair, and his parents were from El Salvador. He liked eating cheese pupusas and his favorite sport was kickball. He was one of the best in our class. The next up was Evelyn. She went up there and stood tall.

“I will never do drugs because drugs hurt your body, and my mother’s cry,” right after she said “my,” she looked at the audience, which was about 25 six graders, who were all too familiar, but now she looked lost, like a deer that was about to get slammed by a car.

She had a desperate look, and those hazel eyes looked side to side after she completed her first statement going on to say, and with a slow tone, “Drugs were dangerous because it hurts family and make grandparents cry.”

Evelyn was from Guatemala, from the highlands of Quetzaltenango, and a bit shorter than the rest of the students, but was smart, witty and always full of smiles. She would tell jokes to make us laugh, but on that day those marble eyes glazed up and got unusually watery, and suddenly turned completely black. After completing her speech she managed to get back to the seat, not one tear fell. Only sniffing once or twice, but we convinced ourselves that it was probably some type of cold that she had suddenly acquired.

It was my turn. I had not given this activity much thought. We had been told weeks prior about this mini-ceremony and that we’d get some T-shirts but we would have to make a pledge. So, the time for me to go up came, “I promise to never do drugs.” I began to choke up, but continued with my talk.

Other students, who made up the crowd, just saw the image of their classmate in the flesh. He promised never to do drugs and to not do bad things, like get drunk because it made the family unhappy. Though it didn’t seem like he choked up, and no one noticed his eyes glaze up. At that instant the cop tilted her head and wondered. Though her body posture had changed a bit she was too preoccupied in fulfilling her duties to really pay attention to what was going on or maybe she was observing.

At that moment as he gave that speech the class before him was silent and appeared motionless. Ms. Hopkins, to the right, was silent and heard our pledge. She wore a white Adidas sweater, and light blue Adidas running shoes. She sat on her desk and took notes. The class was still there, silently listening to all the other classmates go up.  No one really knew what the other was experiencing or going through. We were all inside that shoebox of a room, in the maze of our minds, and the momentary experience of being social, and yet though we were all there, none of us really knew each other or our very selves. Too many things were happening to really comprehend the gravity of life and all its consequences. We were all forced into that situation, as speakers, audience, and public servants, and yet none of us could really protect the other from themselves or their temporal realities. At that instant the handcuffs of the police officer were made obsolete, her gun was powerless, the ears of the audience were blind, and their eyes dumb to the sounds that the children saw in their homes, and the strange and incomprehensible situations that would continue to occur.

That Same River: Poem/Sonnet

That same river

by Armando Ortiz

By the river we shed tears

Reliving age old battles

As the fallen floated by like withered flowers

On the streams we were born with screams of lorn;

Into the flow of time, bloodied, we were thrown-

With her we fell in love, and her milk we yearn

Into the rapids of vice we were swallowed

Hoping to drown the sorrow with handmade gallows

Only to open our eyes to the white garble of life’s desire

The currents are ceaseless, and relentlessly ever present.

The Intercept of Land and Ocean: A Sonnet

The Intercept of Land and Ocean

by Armando Ortiz

Look at the ocean, close your eyes, and see the sounds of midnight;

Waves crash and come alive with the phosphorus glow of magic,

Sit on the sand and feel it adjust like a mattress that offers a starry delight,

Grains, though many, make up a bed of golden feathers found inside heaven’s attic,

Dreams, though never known, come alive with holy heart felt rite,

And play with the words of soul and sole and stroll on the tattered valleys;

Walk in darkness with ease and sleep with the light of sun, lacking fright

Swinging the cane of Cain and carrying on shoulders Sisyphus’ chain

Lying at the edge of the ocean pondering the unseen noises of morrow

And after traversing through unknown lands and pondering the deepest thoughts

Attempting to grasp the complex instances of gesture and words of sorrow

Like Poe we ask ourselves as our eyes look west, and the mind thinks to be; is a dream within a dream.

The Scent of Orange

The Scent of Orange

by Armando Ortiz

Today I remembered those white hands, as I cut these oranges in half. The scent felt like touching fine silk.

You’d wake up in the morning with my hand tracing the contours of your thighs and we made fresh squeezed orange juice. The transparent yellow pulp would float to the top of the glass.

I also remembered the endless rows of orange groves that were hidden from view, off the highway.

My family would drive to Lake Piru and stop the car beside the road and everyone’d get off to pick a few oranges and fill a couple of market bags while cars zoomed bye and paid no heed to the city people that were picking fruit.

A lot of things are hidden from view these days, like your voice, which I carry with me always, and the mornings when we’d have breakfast together on the 17th floor of the building where you lived, hidden from the people outside below.

Somehow your breath is intertwined, like a braid of hair, with earlier memories talking to me in indecipherable languages, and I get lost, like my fingers did when feeling your Hellenic curls.

I squeeze these oranges, to cool my body and absorb its vitamins. The citrus scent you had that night was sweet to the tongue. The taste still lingers.

I recall riding my bike up the Glendale Hills, with my friends, where all the homes had orange trees in their backyards, and we’d stretch our arms and grab two or three, taking them and peeling as we rested. They were sweet and full of water, just like you were that day.

So many images that a simple fruit can conjure up is amazing. What will my future memories be mixed with is a questions that is better left for the present moment I am enjoying

Turquoise and Coral

Turquoise and Coral

by Armando Ortiz

Coming into your focus is my hope,

To exist in your memories the goal

Allow me to enter your world and feel your sorrow

Let’s paint the sky a turquoise blue and shed coral tears of joy.

Let’s go inside the room of silhouettes

Where hopes reveal the path

of coral and turquoise,

The sky dangles from your ears held by silver moon light

And you carry dawn’s aura in your arms

Your eyes are embedded with coral and turquoise,

Your legs feel hot, like the desert air

we bleed sugar cane beads making corral

and turquoise mosaics on beds of bliss

Pink flesh and blue cries

The sky is born from your thighs

And you weep tiny dew drops of ecstasy

We see the true and real

Touching and groping, we traverse dark planes

we are at home with each other.

Dawn is permanently frozen in turquoise and coral

Dreaming of Life: An Essay on Edgar Alan Poe, Walt Whitman and Zhuang Zi

Dreaming of Life: Poe, Whitman, and ZhuangZi

By Armando Ortiz

As I searched for some topic materials for a student I was tutoring, the idea came up of introducing him to a few poems by Edgar Allan Poe, and while looking for two that would be a good fit, I came across A Dream Within A Dream. After reading it I was left feeling that somehow this particular piece went well with a poem by Walt Whitman, though I had trouble remembering which piece that was. After choosing the later and The Raven, the lesson was pretty much set on what the discussion would involve; hope, dreams, and the symbolism of the raven. Later the idea that had been born while examining some of Poe’s works returned like a bird that lands on a branch and perches outside your window, propelling me to write on A Dream Within A Dream, and Whitman’s Facing West from California’s Shores. Though plenty has already been written by both authors, my reinterpretation of their pieces along with personal past experiences will crystallize, in some way, the messages that these two authors attempted to convey. I will then end my brief discussion on these two poets with an older writer, Zhuang Zi, and compare his piece The Butterfly Dream to the ideas gathered from Poe and Whitman.

Both authors stand at the edge of the giant land mass of the North American continent  and look towards the ocean, watching the waves and viewing the horizons of the East and West coasts while the approaching, yet diminishing soapy waves slightly touch their feet, concurrently their different perspectives connect with me on a personal level. My experiences matched the things they talked about, though not in the manner that they wrote. Reading their passages transported me back to the Summer of 2001, to the beach, where my body sat on the sand and looked out towards the ocean, my mind pondering the future; I’d be flying to South Korea soon. Sitting there I thought of the other side of the ocean, and wondered if there were people also sitting and looking toward the ocean facing my direction, as I faced theirs.

In South Korea, I visited Seoraksan National Park, which lies on the East Coast, and on the first day of arrival I explored the fish market that was by the coast and got to see the Pacific Ocean for the first time, from the other end of the world. The ocean was still blue, maybe a slightly deeper blue, and the waves appeared magnificent with their engulfing white noise, and with my back to the fish market, where hundreds of squid hung drying on wires- I stared across the massive body of water, thinking what people on the other side of the ocean were doing.

My eyes had glanced through A Dream within a Dream, but they had yet to decipher the words of Whitman, and still the meanings of both writers were far from becoming internalized in my life, but that’s no longer the case. Ten years later, as I read those passages once again, the past immediately reappeared, like discovering an old random photograph of vivid memories. Whitman stands looking West, pondering life, and all that has happened to mankind and his own life, and takes us back to the times when we traveled alone in a cramped bus or inside a cold train cabin where people asked innumerable questions about our lives and family in a language one was yet unable to register. On a personal level, the things seen and experienced in the past twelve years have been like one endless adventure, like an extended journey of discovery and learning, and yet all of that was expressed and rediscovered within Whitman’s lines. As I read those lines for the first time, I was immediately transported to the places I had once walked through, like the night market of Urumqi, China and as I continued toward the end of this piece it seemed to affirm life’s great gift. It took me through an epic journey where my life joined the life of many strangers that have walked and traveled this earth and have made the present moment their home.

Whitman has several lines that punctuated with realities that I had once experienced, like traveling through the Northern parts of the Himalayas in Sichuan, China and though I’ve yet to claim having traveled around the world, the long road trips and the long train rides seemed to merge with his lines, “Long having wander’d since, round the earth having wander’d,” and there I was now in Santa Monica beach pondering life, and wondering what the future held. With every gain there is a loss and with every action there is a reaction.

Facing West from California’s Shores

Facing west from California’s shores,

Inquiring, tireless, seeking what is yet unfound,

I, a child, very old, over waves, towards the house of maternity,

             The land of migrations, look far,

Look off the shores of my Western sea, the circle almost circled;

For starting westward from Hindustan, from the vales of Kashmere,

For Asia, from the north, form the God, the safe, and the hero,

From the south, from the flowery peninsulas and the spice islands,

Long having wander’d since, round the earth having wander’d,

Now I face home again, very pleas’d and joyous,

(But where is what I started for so long ago?

And why is it yet unfound?)

         -Walt Whitman

Reading Poe pulled me back to the present and made me think of life’s ephemeral experiences that are accented by our present emotional roller coaster rides, and the pace at which nature, though slowly, at a patient and steady pace passes us bye, making us reflect on our unfolding realities that can be traced back to the moments where we made decisions on a whim or due to someone’s random advice. Decisions that took you from climbing a peach tree in the front yard of the house as a child to hiking up the sacred TianShan in China as an adult, and the thought of the undecipherable future comes into focus. “Is all that we see or seem, a dream within a dream”?  His piece is more personal though in the sense that it revives emotions experienced with loss and with the closing of relationships along with the uncertainty of tomorrow’s hope. At the moment it happens all these feelings come alive, like a dry creek bed in the desert that suddenly becomes a raging river with the rabid summer rains that are difficult to control, and yet after an hour of downpours, everything dissipates and things go back to normal. Poe looks at the waves making contact with the coast, and thinks, “Yet if hope has flown away, in a night, or in a day, in a vision, or in none, is it there for the less gone?”

Time passes, and we want to hold on to the precious memories that seem to keep us from getting hurt by the world, but as we head West and we follow the sun to the edge of the continent one comes to the conclusion that at times we just have to let go of the past and move on because time is ceaseless;  “I stand amid the roar of a surf tormented shore, and I hold within my hand grains of golden sand- How few, Yet how they creep through my fingers to the deep,” and in the end we will ask if all this that has been experienced was a dream or “a dream within a dream.”

A Dream Within A Dream

Take this kiss upon the brow!

And, in parting from you now,

Thus much let me avow –

You are not wrong, who deem

That my days have been a dream;

Yet if hope has flown away

In a night, or in a day,

In a vision, or in none,

Is it therefore the less gone?

All that we see or seem

Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar

Of a surf-tormented shore,

And I hold within my hand

Grains of golden sand –

How few! Yet how they creep

Through my fingers to the deep,

While I weep – while I weep!

O God! Can I not grasp

Them with a tighter clasp?

O God! Can I not save

One from the pitiless wave?

Is all that we see or seem

But a dream within a dream?

         -Edgar Allan Poe

Zhuang Zi

The possibility of Chuang Zi, a Chinese poet and philosopher from the Fourth Century BCE, having visited the ocean and pondered the very same thoughts that we have while looking at the waves and getting caught up in our introspection of life is very likely. In this case though, he writes about dreaming as another being, and gets caught up in his dream, but then stops to wonder if what he dreams is reality or a dream. As time passes and as we come to the realization that we cannot be anyone but ourselves, and reflect on the decisions made, one cannot help but think that if this life is and were a dream then we are living an incredible reality, because it suggest that we are in control of this dream and all possible outcomes are probable, and yet they are not, because in life the future is obscure.

                 

The Butterfly Dream

Once Zhuanzi dreamt he was a butterfly flitting and fluttering around, happy with himself and doing as he pleased. He didn’t know he was Zhuanzi. Suddenly he woke up and there he was, solid and unmistakable Zhuangzi. But he didn’t know if he was Zhuangzi who had dreamt he was a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming he was Zhuangzi. Between Zhuangzi and a butterfly there must be some distinction! This is called the Transformation of Things. -Zhuang Zi

Life in its entire vicissitudes remains ours to make, like the painting that all writers have claimed life to be. It is ours to set up, sketch out, test out, prepare and paint, and like Gabriel Garcia goes on to describe in his epic novel, One Hundred Days of Solitude, we choose what to do with the life that we are given. 

Farewell to Manzanar: Book Review

Farewell to Manzanar

By Armando Ortiz

            The book Farewell to Manzanar details the life of Jeanne Wakatsuki Houston, before, during and after World War Two. The book tells the story of her family that lived at the Manzanar War Relocation Center, which is located in Manzanar, California and the different modes of socialization that shaped her life; from family, religion, media and the people she met at camp. It is also about her life as an American that despite being U.S. citizen she was treated differently, and regardless of all the barriers that were confronted, hopes and dreams, as well as independence were nurtured in her family.

            I was surprised to find out how quickly Japanese-Americans became targets soon after the bombing of Pearl Harbor, and the haste with which they were relocated to camps. People took advantage of them by paying pennies for the valuables and property that they owned. Nonetheless, the narrative shed some light into the manner in which people cope with tough circumstances. At Manzanar, a community formed and people adapted to their new environment and made the land theirs, for example a lot of the bungalows started to have small stone monuments in front of every entrance, and the community built a small park to have normality in their lives.

Jeanne’s father was authoritarian and influenced her life and though as time passed she lost respect for him, his disposition in conjunction with an adventurous spirit and independent mind were aspects of his character that greatly socialized her. Having taken the risk of moving to America, and spending time in places like Idaho and Washington made him a man with a full life experience. There is a point in the story where she tells of the time she wanted to convert to Catholicism and he tells her that she was not old enough to think for herself, thus stopping the conversion process. Jeanne describes an instance where Mr. Wakatsuki and her brother, Woody, had a long discussion on the rational and moral consequences of becoming a soldier for the United States. Eventually, Woody, joined the Army and went on to fight in Europe. It was through such examples of giving his children feedback that Jeanne and Woody were raised to think for themselves independently.

While growing up in Inglewood, her access to Japanese culture was limited, but at Manzanar she came to discover socio-cultural similarities between the community that developed there with its traces of Japanese culture, and the American culture she knew outside of camp. At camp, she learned about Japanese traditional dancing, and was exposed to Japanese aesthetics and symbols, like rock gardening. This was well illustrated when she explained the connection between the Japanese National Anthem, also known as “Kimigayo,” and the Japanese belief that even in a barren landscape, like a rock island, hope can exist, which is symbolized by the moss that grows on the rock.

Religion was a socio-cultural force that she kept experiencing throughout her stay at Manzanar. There catholic nuns offered catechism classes to the community, and at one point she decides to convert to Catholicism though she was too young to really understand the choices she was making. Though not explicitly told, her experience at Manzanar accented certain aspects of Japanese culture in her life. Towards the end of the book she states her belief in spirits and ghost, as she explains the sense of respect and silence that gripped her during a visit to Manzanar as an adult, solidifying her belief of Shinto traditions.

Media and mainstream culture were prevalent throughout her life and she connected more with Western and American culture than her Japanese heritage. She knew the different actors in films, and had liked watching television. Extracurricular activities like baseball, and ballet classes were available. Though different forces passively and actively influencing her life, slowly, and progressively an identity of individuality was being forged in Jeanne.

            

Music in Los Angeles and the Hotbed of Talent: Birthday Weekend

Birthday Weekend

by Armando Ortiz

My extended birthday weekend began a few days before Spring Break, soon after completing my last final at Cal State L.A. Once that was done my brain shut down and all I wanted to do was relax. A day before my actual birthday began, and during the self induced brain coma of not learning theories and ways of teaching, and with a somewhat rested body that had had two days of longer sleep and endless hours of downloading music, a pre-celebration took place. The day before the big birthday a friend, Tom, would be performing at the Hard Rock Café in Hollywood with Rivet, a local hard rock band, with whom he plays bass.

My friend Tom on the bass.

I arrived early to find a spot to sit, but inside the place was packed with people of all kinds eating burgers and other greasy foods. The shatter and murmur of the people was a mixture of English and other languages that I did not have the time to decipher  There was a pit where most of the family tables were located and where the majority of people sat and that's where I stood for a while searching for my friends. I began texting Tom but there was no reply, so I kept walking around the venue until I found his wife, Semmy, at a distance. I approached, announcing my presence and she took me to the green room where Tom and the band were getting ready and chatting it up with the other bands that were competing in the Battle of the Bands, which included Lookin' For Trouble, Take 48 and Kid Gramophone.

Rivet

After a few minutes of being introduced to the other members I ordered a Hard Rock burger, a Cesar salad and a glass of water. It might have been one of the best burgers I’ve had in a while, though it wasn’t able to replace the tasty Tommy’s Burgers' sloppy tastiness  In the middle of the meal Rivet went on stage and began blasting away with their hard sonic rock sounds. Their style resembles a slower version of Queen’s of the Stone Age with a bit of an edge to the lyrics. I left the burger half way and went out to the pit where a mass of people was gathering and swaying to the live music. As everyone stood watching them perform energy began to fill the entire room, these guys were in the pocket and were getting the crowd into their music. Their set ended and everyone cheered them on applauding the four song performance. Returning to the green room greetings and congratulations, along with handshakes were given and the burger that was left on the table was finally finished. All there was left were specks of fries and smears of ketchup. I'd requested to go in late to work that night, and once all formalities were done I took La Brea Ave south to LAX. The drive was about thirty minutes, and from the hilly slopes of Hollywood one could see the grey fog at a distance, but once driving past Jefferson and driving through the oil fields that divide Los Angeles from Inglewood, the watery clouds were beginning to settle. This is one of the few spots in LA that while driving makes you wonder how it must have been driving these areas fifty years ago, when there was more nature and less people. The incandescent street lights gave a light orange glow that perfectly blended into the natural and man-made Los Angeles landscape. The drive to work was smooth and easy matching well with the music that was coming out of the speakers of the car- Lil Keke's Addicted 2 Fame.

            The next day was the birthday celebration which was a bit subdued due to extenuating circumstances that made me want to relax more than go out and party. After completing a tutoring session with my student at the Chinatown Service Center a bee line to the LA Bakery was made, where I bought a delicious chocolate mousse cake. I was going to go home to eat cake with coffee, and relax, maybe watch a netflix film. Nonetheless, after relentless calls and questioning from a friend I decided to go check out a local band called Buyepongo. 

Honduras Kitchen flyer:
Punta Cartel

            I took the 10 Freeway east, and exited Alameda, making a turn at the stop light and then drove to the place, but missed my destination by a few blocks. Driving around the mean streets of South Central was a reality that had to be lived out at that very moment. I finally got to the venue, Honduras Kitchen, at around ten thirty in the evening, which is located on Santa Fe and Slauson. It was my first time there and the parking space in the locale was packed, so the security guard suggested parking the car across the street from where the place was. I contacted my friends, who were inside their car, too scared to go out and blend with the environment. Entrance was simple with a cover charge of ten dollars. Once inside we were told to go to the table that was nearest to the band that was performing at that moment, Cumbia Cartel, who is made up of musicians that are from different parts of the Caribbean and Central America. The performance they put down was good, and one of the guys even had a set of instruments made of turtle shells. Their combination of West African beats with their mixture of accordion like synthesizer at times made for a very enjoyable rhythmic ride. I was transported to a beach, where I drank cold coronas, enjoying the punta/cumbia beats that were emanating from the instruments of those unknown musicians.

Buyepongo

Once their set was done DJ Subsuelo began his hour long set, which started out good, but ended up turning into an odd mix of cumbia and house, which was made a bit hectic with the house sound systems which was out of whack. Finally, Buyepongo began their set. They do not need all that sound system stuff to get their groove on because once they start playing the dancing begins and things get off fast with people beginning to move to their groove. The venue was ideal for a band like theirs because the need to connect a lot of electrical and sound devices is not necessary. What especially stands out from this particular band is how well they sound as a whole unit, and the fact that they play a variety of instruments makes them one of the more versatile and original bands in the Los Angeles area. They have soul, grove, estilo, and some firme sounds that will make anyone get up and dance. My good friend Ismael, though, who is more of an observer and an analyzer of people decided to stay in his seat, next to his wife. I went up to the dance floor and asked a lady to dance, who moved like a snake, and swaying like a Heron. She would quicken her pace with her youthfulness, and moved as if her feet were touching fire, with a seasoning of ritualistic fire dancing, I was humbled but was too excited to care because I was in the pocket. There is a sense of satisfaction that comes when thinking of the choice that was made for that day because Buye always puts on bad ass shows, and the fact that beautiful women show up and are down to dancing with anyone is one big incentive to show up and shake one’s skeleton.

House Lounge flyer featuring
all the bands.

            Saturday evening had me at the edge of Maywood. To continue my celebration and for entertainment purposes my friends invited me to dance some Spanish rock at the House Lounge, which changes their name to El Ritual on Saturdays. To my amazement there was a huge Ska concert in the back of the venue, which everyone that entered the club had access too. The bands there were getting down and a giant mosh pit had been made by a giant human circle that moved clockwise. The scene was a bit intimidating, seeing people in their twenties with beer bottles, and Pendleton shirts buttoned up while others wore wife beater shirts made you think twice of where you stepped, but I walked around and found a sweet spot where I could watch the show without being bothered by some crazy mosher that might suddenly push you. I climbed on a platform that was beside a wall and from there watched The South Central Skankers, Matamoska, and Roncovacoco put on a show that was a mixture of punk and symphonic banda trumpeteering that included about two saxophones and one trombone. I went back inside and bought a beer and there found my friend swaying to music from Heroes Del Silencio. Though the mosh pit was big and lots of people would join the pushing and the bumping nothing serious happened. I ended my night by driving west on Washington Blvd to where I live.

Good Micheladas

Flyer for the nigh's event.

            My weekend ended with meeting up with a good friend at Eastside Luv located in Boyle Heights where there was yet another live performance, but this time it was a lady’s show with women that were not only beautiful but very talented. There was a lady whose name I never got who was busting out some amazing mariachi songs, and was being backed up by a female band that played the fiddle, the guitar and a guitar bass. Eastside Luv has one of the best micheladas that I have had anywhere in Los Angeles. The show, which was a 5 dollar cover charge, was really good and made the drive east well worth it. I even got to see Marisoul who makes up part of the La Santa Cecilia, a very talented band that has been touring the southwest for a good minute. My birthday weekend ended, and I had to finally wake up from the brain haze and readjust to the new quarter and picking up from where I left off. 

Me