Little Bull

The minimalist version of a drink that gives you wings
Or they type of specialty shot at a bar that sets you back $12 for no good reason
Or a little bit of ish and a little bit of this but you can't bs a bser.

At first I considered calling this "shopping with AKs(47)" but that seemed to simple. Too easy to call my countrymen something that I am distinctly not as I stroll around in boat shoes, pastel colored shorts and a graphic tee that's desperately trying to toe the line between preppy and alternative.

I should wear a button down shirt that is one size too small uncomfortably tucked into skinny jeans in such a way that leaves little to the imagination. A look that screams club and home at the same time. And a singular gold chain with Yeezus hanging on for dear life in a bramble of machismo and attitude.

But there I was, shopping with everyone, amidst a small army of soldiers  mall cops sporting cans of maze and walkie talkies (AKs and shotguns) as I ordered twenty ounces of a delicious and blended mix of coffee and Americana and asked if they could heat up my Mrs. Fields.

Lovely lady.

Shopping for people unknown. Or I should say people that are my family that I barely know. Some of whom I actually don't know - nieces and nephews - some of whom I kind of know now - you know siblings. And a whole lot of uncertainty as the traditional song and dance I have come to expect in Christmas has been transformed into uncertainty.

Workers are keeping my parents and myself off of the roads between Guadalajara and my grandparents' home in Uruapan. There's something wildly unappealing about being stopped in the middle of nowhere, being politely asked to exit the car, nudged gently with the barrel of a gun in the right direction to start walking as your car gets parked perpendicular to traffic and set afire. It's just, sub-optimal.

The kind of workers that typically hear their retirement package in the 'click' before the smoke.

In a way it has brought my family together. Were it not for it I would be sitting snugly in between my favorite aunt and my best cousin friend wondering if there's any more hot fruit punch left and whether or not someone will whip out a guitar for us to start singing tonight. There would be a combination of crying as we remembered relatives past - mi abuelita Chole - and joy as we saw the youngest of the great-grandkids running around completely impervious to the chilly 40 degree night. All of them excited at the prospect of 'bang' 'bang' 'bang' - the broom's stick striking at the 7-coned pinata.

So in a way I have a reason to be mindful of the booming and entrepreneurial spirit of my country.

The same spirit that brought about the little bull - el torito - the breathalyzer now rampant throughout my city that imposed a harsh $1,300 fine - and the focal point of discussion for many ladies and msseurs of society who are indignant at the idea of not being able to drink of life.

We have our priorities right - family.

Don't Ask

Because you might be afraid of the answer or of the reaction the answer might create not only in you but also in the person you're interrogating.

For a spell there (abracadabra) I was a little afraid of asking for advice and I wasn't even talking to a cursed jones played by a sly Foxx. The advice would come and it would be good and sound and not remotely surprising or telling. The problem with asking for advice is that I most often asked for it as a form of validation for what I either knew to be true, an excuse for the truth I wanted to avoid or a comfortable lie told between friends in full understanding that maybe half truths were not all bad.

Now I'm over it and I'm being honest about asking people questions.

What do you want to do? Would you like to have a drink? Do you want to run away with me? From me?

Even better is when you get to ask questions with your eyes and if you know the other person as well as they know you and then the sweetest thing is to be able to smile with your eyes, frown with your nose and point with your tongue (Panamanians actually point with their lips).

....

Yes, me too.

Growing up I was a Third. I was Ender (the term Die and Go). I wasn't ender in the literal sense for I am neither smart enough nor am I nearly accomplished enough to claim such moral rectitude as that kid had. Nor have we been nearly vanquished from existence by bugs. We are the bugs but that's a debate for another forum. And I wanted to be him in the questions I asked - being deep without coming across as vacuous or superficial or inane. One time in chemistry, wondering out loud whether or not you could reason out the list of formulas we studied down the hall in physics through a careful understanding of the little negative signs we called electrons I flirted dangerously with the possibility of making a smart question.

Now I do research and toe the line from time engaging excitedly in rabbit holes and (sometimes, thought hopefully not too often) circular argument trying to reason whether or not a snake can eat its own tail continuously. Also, balance (sheets) matter.

....

But rest assured, if i'm not asking it's not because I don't want to know. It's a combination of the fact that I'm not feeling lucky and it feels like Jeeve's has been out of business for quite some time now. It's a combination of the fact that everyone who knows wonders how I don't.

How could you not know? Because I know that if it has not come up then it hasn't come up because you appreciate my silence and dearth of interrogatory remarks. Or if you don't, you haven't brought it up. Because I'm afraid that if I do there might simply be a slight look of fear in your eyes.

So for now.

Don't Tell.

After-Glow

And I did love the 90s hit.

And I'm not talking about the meteor strike that left a light "seen only once in my lifetime" - well not my life time but the lifetime of a blogger who saw it go down. Pun unintended.

Last night was a reminder of the times you stood in a staircase or a park bench or simply from the entrance to a grand hall and thought to yourself - it's good to be king. Or in some cases I thought to myself (with a big fake mane) Man I can't wait to be king.

Neither here nor there but the song that goes apropos is not Anthony's Freedom or Cole's Power Trip but Club Can't Even Handle Me by The Panhandle.

Last night was vintage, red, sisterly, brotherly and full of bromantic moments centered around looking at each other in the eye, telling each other that you loved and missed each other and an agreement to tear the city up with a BNO to best all others.

Make it home by 6:01 rocking the 6:06 and smile to yourself on the walk down your hallway thinking boy am I lucky to be who I am, with the friends I have, in the city that I am, trying to juke it all.

That's the kind of afterglow you only get around your mid20s (bit of a stretch but let's roll with it) and that I'm sure (and hopeful) it continues to evolve as you progress and hit your peak around age 65 and you're on a shore somewhere rocking the perma linen outfits, dark old-school ray bans, boat shoes and hair so white it looks like sand (from Cancun).

Or you know. Whatever.

Maybe there's palm trees in the back and on your lap is a coconut with a little bit of happy juice and by juice I mean some rum from the bottle half buried in the sand next to you so the popo don't see it and your machete is stuck at the base of the tree where you hacked the coconut open.

And maybe just maybe there's kid playing at jumping waves like I used to do with my dad - sometimes going into the way, sometimes jumping and occasionally getting beat up by them, standing up shakily, a bit terrified and dizzied wondering if you were still wearing your bathing suit or if the ocean had reclaimed what was rightfully hers.

Alarm clock goes off and it's my favorite part of the saturday, cozy up in bed, open eyes, hand flail on bedstand looking for glasses/waterOHSWEETGOODNESSwater/phone. Slip into sweatpants and shirt grab gym bag and walk out to the solstice except this time you're a bit more awake and you're a bit happier.

GSB. and AG.

Gym. Shower. Breakfast. And the sweet dulcet tones of Andy Grammer.

And the afterglow of bacon and eggs and pancake mix and cocoa powder and a pen from a special place.

-D