TT: Geek and Freak?

Let me tell you gentle readers, I never imagined this subject would make me think so hard and ponder on what to write. Geek. Its connotation once held such negativity that I sometimes shudder to hear the buxom blonde with black framed glasses to proclaim her moniker as geek. The fuck chick, the only thing geeky about you is your barbie collection softly stored in the hall closet, and even I have something like that. But its true, in this day, the word no longer means the end of a social life. Geek no longer encompasses trench coats and dungeons and dragons ( I had a brief d & d phase, and I didn't call it d &d). In this day, almost all can quote Star Wars, make references to Khaleesi, and explain the history of House Harkonnen. But in my infancy, in my dawn of creation, I had many phases of geekdom,  many of which lead people to believe that not only was I this geeky chick wearing two sizes too big pants and band shirts, but that I was a amrginal frreak. I present to you, my many stages of Geektacity:

The Truth is Out There
The truth is out there, and I was certain that the love of my adolescent life, Mr. Fox Mulder was going to lead me to this truth. Let me tell you people, the X-files was more than just a show, this was THE show that introduced me into puberty. I didn't know what crushing, daydreaming, or tingling was until I watched this show. Yeah, I know what I just said. This was more than sci-fi, this was my life. It helped that I had been softly steered towards sci-fi whle I was still a toddler, but it was Fox, Mr. Hot man Mulder that really dragged me in to the depths of the unknown. He was the one that made me question our existence and to look for signs everywhere. I didn't care that they weren't on the cover of teen people, or that his hair didn't wisp like JTT (in case you didn't know, that's Jonathan Taylor Thomas), this was a man's man, with a gun, and a badge! I was going to join the FBI and find this man, and together we would gather the evidence to prove once and for all that the existence of aliens is here!!! And then after we would settle down on Catalina Island and have geeky FBI babies. I had to settle for the X-Files special edition barbie dolls. But I want to believe.

ASOS
Let me tell you, if you don't know ASOS, you don't actually know Game of Thrones. And if you only know Game of Thrones through HBO, that's ok, but shut the fuck up, because you don't actually know shit. You don't know what it is to sit there, at 16 years old, and cry yourself to sleep because the hero of the hour just had his head chopped off in front of everyone. You didn't lay awake at night wondering why George hates you so fucking much, why he chooses to pick off those people (and they are people, not just characters) and leave you there in a vat of tears, your heart in your throat, compounded with a loss of appetite. I do want to take this time to thank my friend for introducing me to the series and essentially making me the most annoying girl that my boyfriend has ever had to endure. Thanks for letting me geek out on you babe. And quite honestly, I am grateful to HBO...that show is fucking amazing.

History
I spent my Senior year perched on a tree in the quad of my high school, or in the corner of the media center reading about Henry Rex (VIII) and his marital conquests. Why? Because he was bad ass whose dick prompted a religious reformation and broke ties with the Pope. He was also a bad ass because the guy married six times...six times!!! I believe that number can only be rivaled by Elizabeth Taylor, who conincidentally was married to Richard Burton (twice), who played the role of Henry in "Anne of the Thousand Days". But now I have gone off on a tangent.

Lets not forget Schindler's List and the impact it made on my historical brain. Ralph Fiennes in a SS uniform. Holy shit...I was sold. I had to know everything and anything about World War II, Germany, the SS, Hitler, genocide...my world had become endless, a vast canvas of lives and events that had all come before me. I had to learn of them all. I had to know them, their speech, their dress, their friends. I devoured each sentence and voraciously searched for the next chapter. I still do.
It doesn't stop there. Each event that passes I somehow tie in to fascism and fanaticism. My references to the wars, great or civil, sometimes are too much for my listener to comprehend. Many a time I have gotten the "here we go again the with nazis" or "the romanovs are dead".
But those that know me and love me, and maybe not love me, but know me, will tell you, "that's just her, she really geeks on this shit."

TT: Yankees vs. Confederates

For those of you unaware...I am a big fan of "Gone with the Wind". Film and Book. My three year old little mind basques in the southern charm and beauty of hoop skirt and pantalet. Now, this movie might be set in the Civil War, but it certainly does not share the true atrocities, or the content for which the United States had decided to turn on each other. To me, and maybe to many, but mostly me, this film was about a southern way of life completely destroyed by those "damn dirty yanks", the scoundrels of the north whose sole purpose was to uproot a tranquil, quiet world. It was not until I wandered in to the history section of Empire Library that I learned about whipping posts and middle passage. As I got older, I felt guilty for rooting for the Confederates. After all, the dashing Clark Gable/Rhett Butler (same man) enlisted at the end of the war, but fought for the South none the less. So naturally I was torn. How I could I choose between the dashing men of the South but still accept the atrocities of the "S" word. Eeeek. So I did what I do as always. I made a list of why Confederates suck, and why Yankees suck.

Enjoy.

Confederates:
1. It's the South.
2. Slavery.
3. The cute Southern accent, its not so cute anymore.
4. They threw a monster hissy fit because they didn't get their way, and they fucking seceded. Wah.
5. The men don't actually look like Leslie Hamilton/Ashley Wilkes and Clark Gable/Rhett Butler, not at all.
6. Gone with the Wind was fiction, Margaret Mitchell lied to us ALL!
7. Jefferson Davis. End point.

Yankees:
1. They tried to kill Leslie Hamilton/Ashley Wilkes and Clark Gable/Rhett Butler.
2. They tried to destroy that beautiful Southern way of life, a world of cavaliers, gone with the wind. 
3. They raped and pillaged many of the unmanned homes of the South...those women were not the enemy. Well, I guess they were, sort of, but still. There was no uniform on them.
4. Lincoln was a liar whose last resort was the Emancipation Proclamation. He really did not care if slaves were free. He wasn't a fan of slavery, but rather, at best, ambivalent.

If I was asked which side was the better side, what little semblance of humanity I have left inside of me would always say the North. Slavery was deplorable, an institution that remains alive in the world today. It's disgusting and barbaric.

On a lighter note, I always wanted to be the Mexican Scarlett O'Hara.

Ode to Canelo v. Mayweather.

September, you are much too far for me.
I long to see those heavy arms as they smash in to the face of the one I loath.
"Hit him, kill him", I yell as my hero of the flat screen lunges towards the king of pomp and arrogance. The dip splattered across my chin, a chip left crushed among the sea of unwashed rug.
The pre-fights, oh how they drag on. Those men who dare to call themselves fighters, mere pansies tap dancing in the ring.
Come to me September 14, come to me as I host an early Mexican Independence day party.
Come to me as I eagerly watch that beautiful Guadalajaran beat the arrogance out of that dick whose father etched his name in boxing history.

I will wait for you. I will read on you. I will watch you.

Because its Monday

After an unintentional hiatus, I decided to come back on to the keyboard and type something that had nothing to do with Immigration Law. So here I am.
After this unintentional hiatus, I have come to appreciate my blog, my rough and unedited writing, and to toot my own horn.

While I was gone, I received the news that someone I love is dying faster than I would want them to go. It's a certainty that we will die, but the time frame is what I hate. This dwelling on time forced me to dwell on this word we use, "love".
I had a grandmother that died almost three years ago. It was sad, a lot of people cried. But in an effort to maintain transparency, I only cried because she was my father's mother. Yes, in the last years of her life I had gotten to know this woman through and through, more so than when she was virilent. But it was not until she was close to the end that she seemed to care on who I was and whether or not I came to see her. It was nice to see her so humbled, and in turn, creating an emphatic and humbling experience within me. But the day she died, it was not sadness for me or for my loss, but a sadness for my father who's complex relationship with his own mother has yet to be unearthed. I often wondered if he was sad, regretful, angry? But I have never dared to ask him. And it was for those reasons that I was sad, that I cried. Not for the love of a woman, but for the selfish answers that I will never have answered, and for the father who couldn't seem to bring himself to visit his own mother in life.

Now it is me that is legitimately crying. This will be the first "family" member that I have loved, and will now lose. Perhaps I have lost this person a long time ago. I had stopped my frequent visits to Texas years ago, and only recently resumed on a vacation a few months ago. A wave of guilt went over me. These were people I loved, that loved me. These were people that were excited to receive my call, and embraced me with the largest hugs I have ever felt. And now one of them is leaving sooner than I would want.
I got to visit with him one last time. He sat up at the table, proudly showed off his PICC Line, and told me how the next time I visited, he was going to kill and grill a goat in my honor. He still looked the same, just slightly slower and with a bit more white hairs. That is how I want to keep it.

You will have to excuse the "dear diary" entry. But its been quite some time and there is so much I want to say. I will have to cut it here. I can't seem to continue without shedding a tear.

TT: Sigur Ros and Vomit do not mix

I was a late bloomer in many if not all part of my life. I was raised with some awesome people whose musical tastes were all I could hang on to, unbeknowst that I had free will to like my own music.

Last year, for the babe's birthday, I bought him a pair of tickets to go to SF Outside Lands, this awesome music festival located in Golden Gate Park San Francisco. We were excited to see the multiple bands, but more importantly, the fact that we would be seeing Sigur Ros, those beautiful Icelandic voices lulling is in to a dream like state. As the date approached, we realized that the Saturday of the festival was to be the same day as the Mexico vs. Brazil Olympic game, a match for the fucking gold. We had to watch regardless of where we were and what we were doing. I quickly called a bar that we had frequented before to make sure that a) the soccer match would be on their tvs at 630 in the morning, and b) they would be open to the public at 630 in the morning. The bar confirmed both.

We were headed to a bar on a Saturday morning to watch Mexico dominate the shit out of Brazil. Didn't matter to us that we, the Mexicans, were the under dogs, we were pumped and ready to kick some South American Ass. We arrived to a surprisingly busy bar. Everyone was in there already drinking, shouting. The far corner of the bar was decked in yellow, rooting for Brazil. We took a seat at the bar, ordered our breakfast, and tequila shots...yeah, that's right, tequila shots for breakfast.

As fate would decide, Mexico won Olympic Gold (VIVA FUCKING MEXICO). This only meant that my babe and I would continue the shit show and down the tequila. Shots were bought for the bar, the bar bought us shots. It was great...until I hate the wind outside.

We decided it was time to retreat, only that by the time I made it to the street, I was piss drunk...literally. We went outside and I passed out on some patch of San Francisco grass, and then pissed myself. No vomit, just piss. The poor babe, equally as shit faced, but no piss of his own, was left to his own to try and get us a cab back to our hotel, and who drives up...a fucking cop. Luckily for us, we were the tamest of San Francisco's shit show, so rather than cuff us, SFPD hailed a cab for us. As soon as I am in the cab, my German speaking skills kick in. Yeah that's right, German...A Mexican girl is speaking German to the Filipino cabbie...this of course made no sense making the drive to the hotel amusing for me, cumbersome for my babe, and annoying as fuck to the cab driver.
There is a point...
I pass out only to wake a few hours later realizing we have a Sigur Ros show to catch. I pull my shit together, shower, and make it out the door. But the fun didn't end there. As we are getting ready to park the car so that we can catch the shuttle to Golden Gate Park, I puke all over the front seat of my car. In some sick twist of fate, I did not puke on my clothes, but it was all over the fucking car. No time to clean, we get on the bus. And then I puke on the shuttle, on a cloth seat. No big deal, I put some paper towels, mutter some "uh someone puked back there" and get off the bus.
So we make it to Sigur Ros, and its beautiful, only I am STILL FUCKING VOMITING!!! And I am vomiting in a crowd, among the feet of these poor souls who will soon trample me if I don't stop vomiting. It was no matter, we were going to watch these Icelandic angel voices ...

We only lasted ten minutes...I was forced to retreat to greener or pastures, or at least to an area I could vomit without being stepped on...

I am too old for this shit.

Dissecting a hate site

Recently I  stumbled across this site http://shesahomewrecker.com/. Well, stumble I did not, but rather came upon via Facebook.

 The site is filled with women dragging their marital indiscretions, detailing their pain at the hands of their man some "nasty whore". Its riddled with written excrement, berating this other woman, publicly shaming them for "wrecking" their home.

Let me preface by stating that I am not excusing the action of women who involve themselves with attached men (or women, whatever the preference). I am however condemning sites like these that solely target the woman. At some point we have been cheated on or have cheated. Its happened. You can admit it or sweep it away. For whatever the reason, we took the asshole back, or we were the asshole and begged them to take us back. But the issue remains that there were two willing participants in order for this to happen.

A dissection of this pitiful site produced the following:

Target words like manipulative, and home wrecker and splattered throughout. If a man is willing to stick his dick in something else after years of a "happy" relationship, then he is a weak shit that was easily manipulate. This man probably believed that Jesus really did turn the water in to vodka and that Santa shit the coal in his stocking Christmas morning.   The reality is that it is the weak that are easily manipulated, the unhappy and distressed that welcome such destruction. Its an excuse to leave, to create a conflict, a passage to exit. Its the thrill and drama in an otherwise considered mundane life.

Terms like "on a break". I had a field day with this one. A break is a break up. If you want to fuck around and get back together after, then just say so. If you need some space, and a few days to be with your friends, then just say that, but fuck off with the break. Breaks happen in high school in between periods, they should not be happening in over 21  relationships. Break the fuck up already. You were not on a break. You were on a "hey I am going to fuck this bitch, and grind on this guy, but there is still a chance we are going to fuck around together in the future so make we don't find out about it...bitch."

Too often the descriptions started with "my guy was calling this girl, but she was the one that wrecked my home because he was with me". Oh my my my. Mi amorcitos, you are so deluded. There was a hard lesson I once learned -  they were never yours, they were never with you. They were just there. The fact remains is that the commitment was made between you and the significant other, not you, him/her, and the third party love triangle. You are responsible to the feelings and commitment, not this random third party. Your heart was in your partners hands, he/she was the one to fuck things up, not this "other" person. "Other" person was not in a relationship with you, they do not owe you anything. Your significant other did.

Ladies, don't be pendejas. We are better than this. Yes, we are woman, we are human, thus subject to petulance and insecurity.  We have all made mistakes, impulsive choices, and emotional decisions. But we are women. We all struggle. Don't do this to each other.  Nothing that was beautiful and sacred was ever wrecked by this one person. She was one person, with so little power that was given to her disposal.

The internet has some scary shit out there.

Disclaimer: May I note that I am not ok with cheating. I am not ok with being in this immense amount of pain. I empathise wholeheartedly and feel that the anger is justified. I am just opposed to shaming sites such us this. There is usually so much more to these stories, and rather than tearing women down, and splattering them for anyone with an internet connection to see, we should be building up our own self esteem. I never ever mean to hurt anyone with my posts.

Antonio

I tell anyone that will listen so many things about you.

I tell them how you loved to dance, that my first memories are of you in the kitchen doing the twist, and carrying me to the tunes of Fats Domino and Ramon Ayala. You still tap those feet despite using a cane and the walker. 

I whistle for the babe, the same way you whistled at my mom. 

I repeat the story of you and my Padrino, that night before his son's wedding in Mexico. I tell them of how drunk you both were, the rose that you bought, or maybe it was my Padrino, and the Mariachi serenade you sang to each other. I laugh at how you both were too hungover to have any drinks at the wedding. 

 I talk about the way I am more your daughter, that I took after you, despite you not being my biological father. 

I describe the days at the ranch, the animals that we had, the gun that you taught me to shoot.

I boast of the bowling trophies, and how you made me a mini bowling practice set in the backyard so that I could be just you. I still remember the little ruby red ball with my initials that matched your big red bowling ball.

I describe the morning breakfasts at the bowling lane diner, how we would take our own cloth napkins, leaving them stained with ketchup. Remember how we giggled when we gave them to mom to wash, how irritated she would be with us. 

I laugh at the days you were trying to teach me how to drive, and remind myself of the day you taught me to ride that purple bike. 

I tell them how lucky I am that I got to call you dad, that I got you as my father in the best time of your life. 

I remind them all, the friends, the readers, the followers on twitter, that you survived that Christmas day. That you will remain my dad for many years to come, that you are a bull, a giant of a man. 

I tell them you are my dad.