Olafuctory

Here’s a hint: if you’re on a crowded train yet people miraculously avoid sitting near you, it’s probably because you stink. And unless you’re homeless, chances are your smelling like shit is your own doing. And IF you say to yourself, “I could never smell! I wear perfume/cologne!” – spare me. You apparently never learned how properly to apply perfume/cologne, you eyesore of a bitch! 1x neck, and 1x per wrist. No need to bathe in your perfume just because it was on clearance at Ross.

Stop wearing so much fucking perfume!

Blind Date, or why you should always first insist on a photo

I’m sitting at a bookstore, trying to enjoy a book and the barista’s cleavage, and I notice a fidgety, plum, middle-aged woman getting comfortable in a chair next to me, absently flipping through some seriously dull magazines.  She recognizes one of the other patrons, a glum man, and strikes up conversation with him.  I’m wearing earplugs, but I’m able to catch a few buzzwords and I can observe their body language.  I can tell the glum man doesn’t want to talk much.  She asks him what he’s doing there and I guess he asks her, too; I can’t hear their answers.  But then I hear the woman say something like, “I’m not desperate, you know.  Guys *something something* women my age *something something* desperate.  *Chuckle*.  Internet?  *Another chuckle.”

About 10 minutes after this woman arrives, another man shows up, this one also middle aged but tall, lean and fairly well put together.  They sit at a table about eight feet from me, so I can hear their words clearly despite my earplugs.  So can others, probably.  But the two strangers don’t seem to care.

I gather they’ve never met.  She hassles him for being late.  “Nice to meet you,” he says.  She says, “you recognized me even though you’ve never seen my picture.”  “Your hat,” he replies.  I think to myself, holy shit.  He didn’t insist on a photo beforehand?

I feel awkward for the guy.  The woman is annoying and plain looking.  He wants to leave, I know this because he places his left arm far back on chair armrest and leans back into it.  He displays nervous speech, things like “good for you” and “very cool,” shit that no self respecting person should utter to someone they’ve known only five minutes.

Awkward cannot begin to describe this blind date.  Maybe “painful.”  But I cannot look away, it’s too damn intriguing.

Pete Ippel Moves Beyond the Modern

Pete Ippel does not do many of the things one might expect of a young artist.  For one, he doesn’t live in a decrepit studio apartment in some burgeoning neighborhood nearing gentrification in some crowded metropolitan area—at least not anymore.  He doesn’t brood.  He doesn’t smoke—anything.  He doesn’t dismiss disagreement or criticism with haughtiness.   And he doesn’t passively wait around for success or acclaim: he creates it.

“September 1 marks the half-way point of my 64 week accelerated art plan.”

Pete’s Facebook status usually gives a blow-by-blow account of his efforts and successes in both art and life.  I have insider knowledge about his 64-week accelerated art plan, so I know it’s less romantic an endeavor than it might otherwise sound. As Pete explains, his 64-week plan is like an athletic training regimen or a multi-phased business plan, complete with benchmarks and deadlines.

In the interest of full disclosure, I should reveal this tidbit: Pete and I have been close friends for over a decade. We met as naive pimple-faced teenagers in college where we did our fair share of navel gazing, philosophizing and the like.  Pete received two degrees from our university: a BFA in art and design, and a BA in psychology.  Sometime after college, we both found ourselves living in San Francisco, where Pete completed a MFA program and embarked on his career as a professional artist.

As a practical matter, though, Pete did not dedicate all of his time to art while he was living in San Francisco.  Because he had bills to pay, he had to work—as a program manager for the San Francisco Ballet Academy, as a personal trainer with the YMCA, as a basketball coach for University High School.  Nevertheless, Pete was periodically commissioned to create various pieces and it was during his years in San Francisco, in fact, that he made one of my favorite pieces, “The Fantastic Solution to Global Warming,” a colorful dreamscape of what we just might do with all of that carbon dioxide in the atmosphere: capture it using a giant siphon in the sky and compress it down to brilliant, conflict-free diamonds.  Of course.

In 2009, Pete heard about a new artistic residential program that was being created in, where else, Ventura, California. Working Artists of Ventura, or WAV, is a joint venture between public and private interests aimed at coordinating, fostering and integrating an artistic community into Ventura.  Selected artists get to live inside of spacious lofts that double as personal gallery spaces.  The lofts are housed inside a “green” LEED-certified residential complex complete with a community theatre and other spaces.  The top floor lofts are reserved for private purchasers, just another grace note in the program’s efforts to integrate the artists with the larger community.

Pete applied to the WAV program, never having spent any significant time in Ventura.  When he was asked to interview for the program, he rented a car in San Francisco, spent most of the night driving to Ventura, interviewed with the program coordinators, and drove back that next day.  Once accepted to the program, he threw caution to the wind and packed his room full of belongings—clothes, supplies, books, work, memories—and made the permanent 300 mile trek down south.

As he explains, the move was both liberating and frightening—liberating because he gave up all steady work commitments for an abundance of work space, peace and time; frightening because he gave up all steady work commitments.  His only sources of income were what already sat in his account and his artwork.  Hence, Pete’s response to the challenge: a multiphase 64-week program involving intense production and self promotion.  Pete began accounting for every hour of his day to ensure at least eight were spent working.  He set production goals, printed business cards, polished his “elevator pitch,” re-worked his blog, and assiduously tracked and reached out to all persons in his growing network.

“I solve problems. I think abstractly. I make decisions.”

Pete’s efforts paid off.  He recently installed a piece commissioned by a couple who sought an artistic solution to a practical problem.  The couple had recently purchased a new home and wanted to install a divider between the master bedroom and the adjoining bathroom.  Though they wanted the divider to separate the two spaces and create some privacy, they also wanted it to allow natural light from the bathroom into the living room, all while reflecting some artistic qualities.  Also, because the divider would be installed adjacent to a bathroom, it had to resist moisture.

Pete solved the problem—by using innovative materials like Tyvek and by developing new ways of manipulating the material. The result is a translucent, waterproof panel that is also a two-sided canvas depicting images of fertility and growth, themes that were important to the young couple.

Untitled? by Pete Ippel

 

“I’m in the business of communicating ideas.”

I understand why Pete does what he does.  Or at least I think I do.  I’ve seen him work on pieces.  I’ve heard him discuss completed projects.  I’ve listened to him explore new concepts.  I’ve seen his eyes flash when discussing someone else’s work or ideas.  I’ve seen the fanciful doodles and word associations scrawled in his notebook.  The guy is truly tickled by all of the mysteries art allows, indeed invites, him to explore.

But Pete is less interested in the solo expedition.  He is more interested in engaging his audience with ideas and creating a dialogue.  This dialogue, he says, is critical to the cycle of creating compelling art.  Thus, even Pete’s most abstract pieces are anchored in a concrete idea and invite dialogue.

Pete is so serious, in fact, about generating critical discourse through art that he started organizing monthly talks on a variety of topics—“why I do what I do?”, “ethics and morality”—that are not directly related to art, but will nurture, Pete hopes, Ventura’s artistic community.  As he acknowledges, Ventura attracts a number of artist  Now, he says, it is a matter of getting the artists and the art to talk to each other.

Critics, too.  I recently had a very candid discussion with Pete about some of his earlier art projects.  One piece in particular, I told him, confused me because it looked to me like a child’s furious scribble.  As I explained to him, I thought perhaps he was toying with my sense of perception to see if I could bring myself to be critical about a piece done by a highly educated artists and a close friend.  He laughed, but he assured me that was not his intent.  He acknowledged that the piece in question was inferior on a technical level.  But, he explained, art does not require technical prowess at every brush stroke.

Pete’s interdisciplinary approach to art is itself remarkable. And it is overshadowed only by the art itself. Pete’s artwork evades description in much the same way complex concepts resist singular definition.  For one, Pete does not confine himself to any one medium.  To be sure, he works plenty with two-dimensional representations on paper, but even that repertoire is diverse: he has used watercolor, ink, even wax, all on materials ranging from butcher paper to Tyvek.

Then there is Pete’s 3-dimensional work, like “The Absence” and “Checkered Past,” both of which were born out of significant introspection.  “The Absence” challenges viewers to reconsider the aesthetic qualities of materials normally reserved for displaying art—wooden frames, wines, tubing—by stripping away the contents of these framing devices and balancing them in intricate arrangement that only hints at the potential energy bound up within each frame and wire.  “Checkered Past” reflects a longer personal history for Pete.  It involves an extensive collection of blank checks from various bank accounts Pete had opened earlier in life.  Each account is indicative of a phase: from the little track man with Olde English font printed on recycled paper when he was 18 to the iconic deer, pheasant and bears from Ithaca to the soaring golden-embossed eagle of First Republic Bank in San Francisco. Upon moving to Ventura, Ippel wanted to simplify, closing all the accounts, and rendering the checks void.  What is one to do with an extra 1500 pieces of paper?  Recycle.

As an act of catharsis, Pete grabbed the checks by the handfuls and, standing in the middle of his studio, threw them high in the air and watched them flutter to the ground.  Then, using a sewing machine recently purchased to complete Gender Resolution, Pete, began sewing the checks together into a tapestry of settled debts.  When finished, Pete hoisted the finished product off the ground to reveal a ten-foot whirlwind of canceled negotiable instruments collapsing in on themselves.  Checkered past is a self-portrait, a metaphor, an action, and a striking form.

Checkered Past by Pete Ippel

“Art is the most practical, essential, and exciting field of work in the world today, and I look forward to sharing it with you.”

I once made the mistake of asking Pete to define art.  I say mistake because his answer far exceeded all of my preconceived notions.  Because rather than talking about form, context, intent, technique, he talked about practical decision-making.  I’ll be the first to admit, my head is just too small to wrap around the looming implications.  Pete, on the other hand, seems happy to relish them.  If you don’t believe me, consider this: Pete was recently commissioned by the Ventura County Museum to design a tee-shirt for their Dia de los Muertos event last weekend.  He designed the shirt alright.  But there was more to it than just a simple graphic design.  To move the shirt beyond its normal life expectancy as a wearable garment, Pete incorporated a subversive suggestion in his shirt design: that its wearer should destroy the shirt and create their own art.  He did this by making one simple decision: he included dotted lines and a small image of some scissors on the shirt design.  So Pete’s shirt, for example, became:

Calacas by Pete Ippel

Does that make you smile or even laugh?  If not, then how does it make you feel?  Because I bet the answer to that question is what Pete would be most interested in hearing.

Balls to the Wall

From an installation at the WAV.

Half Taught

A friend recently called to apologize for not being able to make an upcoming birthday celebration. I hadn’t heard from him since earlier this summer, so we spent a few minutes catching up. He told me about his summer internship in Sacramento with MALDEF and, while he lamented being away from his beloved Los Angeles for the summer, he seemed to be enjoying the Sacramento scene.

He then told me that he had spent the afternoon testifying before some state Senate committee about a legislative proposal MALDEF is working on. It would require California school districts to make proportionate cuts to teaching staff across all schools in a given district if layoffs became necessary. Apparently, and this was news to me, when a school district, whether by choice or necessity, must reduce its teaching staff, they tend to cut most heavily from already low achieving schools. And, given the strong correlation between the level of achievement at a given school and the median household income of its surrounding area, this has the practical effect of eliminating teachers in less wealthy areas. So, “los pendejos se quedan mas pendejo,” as my friend eloquently put it.

Like I said, the current state of affairs was news to me. But what was even more startling was my friend’s personal experience with the current policy. Now, my friend — let’s just call him “Leon” — grew up in Downey and attended some, shall we say, less illustrious schools in LAUSD. Leon told me about an admittedly hillarious substitute teacher he had in junior high: Mr. Shablow. As would be expected from most sixth graders, Leon was fuzzy on the “why” — all he knew was that his class had this sub, Mr. Shablow, for damn near the entire school year.

What kind of pedagogical giant was this Mr. Shablow? Well, let me tell you. His most memorable and compelling lesson plan went something like this: “Okay class, uhh, today we’re gonna watch a movie. Uhh, pay attention cause, uhh, it’ll teach you about the evils of drugs. So, uhh, let’s quiet down.”

Down went the lights and into the VCR went a plastic videocassette tape bearing one of the finest discursive meditations on drug-addled loss and redemption — “Half Baked.” You know, that early 90’s movie with Dave Chappelle and Jim Breuer and the Guy on the Couch? The one where the guys spend most of their free time getting high and cracking jokes about giving girlfriends pear necklaces? You know — “Yo, The Guy, you kill Killer? *Silence* I believe him yo…I dunno why, but I believe him.” Yes, that “Half Baked.”

Now, I hope my flippant attitude isn’t misconstrued as distaste for the movie. I love “Half Baked” — I think it’s funny as shit and is probably the best stoner flick since “Up in Smoke.” But remember the audience: 6th graders!? And remember the context: a substitute teacher voluntarily showing this movie!? A substitute teacher, I think, should be just that: a person standing in the shoes of another person who regularly teaches kids things like, oh I don’t know, math, science, grammar…

I know this one anecdote doesn’t prove anything. Could’ve been a fluke. Maybe Mr. Shablow was having an off day. Maybe Shablow himself was an outlier. Still, the story makes me want to grab Shablow by his dandruff speckled collar and say, “HEY! THE HELL ARE YOU THINKING?!”

Here’s the kicker: Mr. Shablow was eventually offered full time employment with LAUSD.

And here’s the other kicker: Leon is a USC graduate and is entering his last year of law school, all thanks to Dave Chappelle.

Sorry to Queer Your Ballot Initiative, California

I’m feeling relieved and proud of our legal system today.  Today, Chief Judge Vaughn Walker of the Northern District of California decided Perry v. Schwarzenegger after a pretty lengthy trial.  His order, thankfully, declares that California’s Proposition 8 violates the U.S. Constitution.  As most people with any social or political pulse know, Prop 8 amended the state constitution to add the following: “Only marriage between a man and a woman is valid or recognized in California.”  The practical effect of this amendment was to ban same sex marriages in California, with a few nuances.  (For example, Prop 8 was not retroactive, so same sex marriages performed before its enactment were still valid.)  Judge Walker’s 136-page order concludes that Prop 8 violates both Due Process and Equal Protection afforded by the U.S. Constitution.

I’m happy with today’s outcome even though it doesn’t impact me directly, per se – I’m not gay and I’m not marrying anybody of the same sex.  Still, I’m happy with the outcome because, personally, I believe it is the right legal, political and, frankly, moral conclusion.  I have a number of unmarried friends who are in same sex relationships and I can’t help but smile at thinking that today’s ruling eliminates a significant barrier that previously kept them from truly equal rights under the law.  It’s been said before: why should same sex couples be deprived of the same right to postnuptial misery that married men and women enjoy?

I’m also happy with today’s outcome because, seems to me, it’s a logical and natural progression from the right to interracial marriage that the U.S. Supreme Court granted in 1967.  Think about that – before Loving v. Virgina was decided in 1967, states had the right to pass anti-miscegenation laws that made it a crime (a fucking crime?!) to marry someone of a different race.  Think about that – how many people do you know that are in mixed race marriages?  How many of you are in mixed race marriages?  That shit was illegal in some states not less than 43 years ago.

Now, I know some people, probably many, view the “mixed race marriage” question as entirely different from the “same sex marriage issue.”  Not me.  And I know there’s hardly convincing some people to the contrary, but let’s consider some of the rhetoric that surrounded both issues, just for shits and giggles –

The trial court judge that sentenced Richard Loving (a white man) and Mildred Jeter (a black woman) to 1 year in jail wrote this in his opinion:

“Almighty God created the races white, black, yellow, malay and red, and he placed them on separate continents. And but for the interference with his arrangement there would be no cause for such marriages. The fact that he separated the races shows that he did not intend for the races to mix.”  Loving, 388 U.S. 1, 3.

The judge then suspended the jail sentence on the condition that the Lovings leave the state of Virginia for 25 years.  (Leave Virginia to avoid jail?  I would’ve taken that, sheeeit…)

Now let’s look at one of the chief arguments that was made at the trial leading up to today’s decision in support of Prop 8:

“Proponents’ procreation argument, distilled to its essence, is as follows: the state has an interest in encouraging sexual activity between people of the opposite sex to occur in stable marriages because such sexual activity may lead to pregnancy and children, and the state has an interest in encouraging parents to raise children in stable households. Tr 3050:17-3051:10. The state therefore, the argument goes, has an interest in encouraging all opposite-sex sexual activity, whether responsible or irresponsible, procreative or otherwise, to occur within a stable marriage, as this encourages the development of a social norm that opposite-sex sexual activity should occur within marriage. Tr 3053:10-24. Entrenchment of this norm increases the probability that procreation will occur within a marital union. Because samesex couples’ sexual activity does not lead to procreation, according to proponents the state has no interest in encouraging their sexual activity to occur within a stable marriage. Thus, according to proponents, the state’s only interest is in oppositesex sexual activity.”  (Aug. 4, 2010 Order in Perry at 10:5-22.)

Do you read the same moralistic, holier than thou mumbo-jumbo I read?  (Don’t answer that cause I’ll just think less of you if you don’t.)  It’s about, oh, half a century later and people are still caught up with this sanctimonious nonsense?!  Don’t get me wrong – I believe in marriage.  I, too, will be married in about a year.  But what the hell do I care whether a black woman wants to marry a white man, a Micronesian a Swede, a fabulously dressed gay man another fabulously dressed gay man, a marvelously sculpted transsexual with a 12-inch-schlong-toting pre-op wearing wings?  I don’t!  I don’t fucking care – marry whoever the fuck you want, it bothers me none!  And however much it is my business, it’s less the government’s business!

But, wait! you say.  Prop 8 was not the product of an overly concerned government, but was an amendment resulting from a ballot initiative, the truest form of democracy that exists.  And I say, ahhh, now we’re talking!  In my opinion, that was the only rational argument in support of Prop 8.  But that argument also has its limitations.  First, consider the media campaign leading up to the general election in support of Prop 8.  Remember those TV ads with the little boys running into the kitchen to tell their mommy that they had learned about gay couples in school – “Teachers could be required to teach your children that gay marriage is like ‘traditional’ marriage.”  That media campaign was the biggest crock of shit-smelling steal and subterfuge I’ve seen!  First of all, like kids learn anything in school anyway…Secondly, when is the last time you’ve heard of a grade school teacher teaching about any kind of marriage?  As part of an anthropology lesson on Mowry wedding traditions, perhaps?  Give me a fucking break.

Agree with me or don’t, I don’t frankly care.  The point is this: how truly democratic can a process be when one incredibly well-funded viewpoint runs an aggressive, paranoid, largely inaccurate media campaign?

The more important point, though, is this: one of the primary functions behind any Constitutional protection is to protect the rights of minority groups from the whims of the majority.  In other words, even if you assume that all people who voted “Yes” on Prop 8 were fully educated on the subject despite an aggressive one-sided media campaign (how’s that for a fair characterization?), so what if a majority of voters cast a  “Yes” ballot that day?  It doesn’t necessarily mean their vote is (a) a good idea or (b) Constitutional.  A majority can’t just shit on a minority group’s fundamental rights because they want to.

So, yeah, I’m happy about today’s decision.  And while it’s obviously not the last word on the subject, it’s a very important one as it’ll very likely be appealed all the way up to the Supreme Court.  And if, on some happy day in the not too distant future, the Supreme Court affirms today’s decision, that’s pretty much all she wrote.  (Unless, I guess, the U.S. Constitution is amended – good fucking luck with that!)

And how’s this for irony: Judge Vaughn was appointed by Bush, Sr., that champion of the moral right.  I guess democrats aren’t the only ones susceptible to appointing rogue “activist” judges.

Estee Lauder on the Train

During the week, I commute to work by train.  It’s not an ideal arrangement given that I spend three hours a day on the train, but it’s a helluva lot better when you consider the alternatives – driving, cycling, walking?  Most of the time, it’s a fine commute with only minor annoyances.  Like the woman with the hyena laugh, I could punch her.  Or the guy who shouts some Russian sounding language into his cell phone the entire way – I really hope he goes bankrupt someday.  Again, minor annoyances.

But this fucking woman sitting across the table from me takes the fucking cake!  She rolls up with a small blue rolling suitcase.  This is a commuter train, but okay, I get that.  After siting down, she unzips the suitcase and, to my horror, produces a Hollywood fucking makeup studio: plastic bags with beat up tubes and lipsticks, a gaudy rectangular silver case with lord knows what (maybe a blow dryer?), and clips and tissue paper and and brushes and all this, just, shit!  Worse still, she’s been applying makeup for the last 30 minutes and still looks horrendous!

To be fair, I understand it’s sometimes necessary to finish getting ready on the train, especially when it picks your ass up at 7am.  But let’s not get carried away.  Don’t crowd other passengers’ space with all your plastic baggies and shit.  Don’t spend 30 fucking minutes scowling and making other ridiculous faces at your compact while applying mascara.  Oh god, now she’s reaching for the cotton swabs!  Lady, the train is not your personal fucking make up studio!

I’m shaving on the train tomorrow.

What’s in a name?

Last week, I read a VC Star article about a proposal to rename Oxnard to “Oxnard Shores: the International City.”  The proposal was presented by a Seattle-based business development consultant who was hired by the Oxnard Chamber of Tourism, for a modest $125,000, to help the city recast its tarnished image.  The idea behind the proposal is that most people unfamiliar with the area don’t readily assume Oxnard is some wonderful beachside.  (It is.)  Or that it offers various water sports and other activities, like surfing, boating and skinny dipping.  (It does.)  Or that it offers one of the best, perhaps the best, climate in the world.  (No joke.  The temperature rarely goes north of 80 or south of 59.)

Today, I saw the LA Times picked up the story, which made me think the proposal is more than some half-baked fleeting notion.  (Sorry VC Star, I know this suggests the LA Times is a more serious news source, but it’s kinda true.)

The jaded 20-something in me wants to turn its nose up to such a superficial proposal and dismiss the idea out of hand.

But the nearly 30-year-old in me finds reason to pause.

See, for many years, when college classmates or co-workers would ask me what my hometown was like, I’d sparingly say, “it’s by the beach and has strawberries.  And the population is about 2/3 Latino.”  And, for many years, I felt bad that I couldn’t come up with anything more intriguing.  But after having lived in a number of other places, I’ve decided that Oxnard really does has a helluva lot to offer.

For one, the city’s natural resources and geographic location are top notch.  The soil, I am told, is one of the most nutrient rich soils in the world.  Who knows if that’s really true, but the strawberry, lettuce and other farms around the city provide pretty compelling, albeit anecdotal, evidence of that.  Plus, at the risk of repeating the obvious, the city is on the coast and has a number of beaches.  This is a significant resource when you consider that most parts of the world, let alone the country, don’t.  And, the city has a mountainous backdrop.  On a clear day, you can step from the beach dripping wet and see mountains in the distance – aren’t too many other places in the world like that.

Then there’s the climate (comfortable temperatures year round), relatively low cost of living (when compared to other California coastal cities, not places like Akron, Ohio), relatively low traffic levels (again, when compared to similar California cities), and the great Mexican food.

Yet despite these pretty significant natural resources and quality of life conditions, Oxnard gets a pretty bad rap for several reasons.  Some people say it’s a “boring” place and “there’s nothing to do.”  Okay, so there isn’t a concentrated area of cafes, bars and sit-down restaurants, that much is true – I understand there is only so much TDM a person can have without going mad.  Other people cite its relatively low-achieving school districts – also true.  And of course, many people deplore the amount of violent crime in the area, like the shootings, stabbings and fights that are frequently reported.  And, while I doubt Oxnard resembles Detroit or Times Square in the early 80s, there are violent crimes and gangs in the area, much of which probably explains the relatively low cost of living.  (Still, keeping in mind the fact that Oxnard is the most populous city in Ventura County, I bet the crime rate is not that bad when compared to similar cities, but perhaps someone should look into it?)

So, while I may take issue with the way some of Oxnard’s problems are characterized, I don’t dispute that they exist.  But what bothers me more than anything else is how little people talk about solutions.  Many of Oxnard’s problems can be traced to one condition: it is economically underdeveloped.  The question then, I think, is how to leverage the city’s unparalleled natural resources to achieve significant and sustained economic development?

And here is where I see this “branding” consultant potentially fitting in – in order to get people talking about solutions, you need to change their perception about the place.  You need to convince people that solutions are possible.  After all, Oxnard is not some hopeless Mad Max wasteland or Sodom and fucking Gomorrah.  It’s a mid-sized California coastal city with an economic development problem.  How do we change that?

So is the name change a good thing?  Who the fuck knows.  “Oxnard Shores” is a fine name, I guess.  But the point is, I don’t see how a name change alone will do anything unless its part of a larger campaign to change peoples’ attitudes about Oxnard.  (To be fair, this seems to be what the bus dev consultant was getting at, though the articles aren’t entirely clear.)  And if I’m wrong, and you tell me that a name change will have that effect on peoples’ attitudes, then I’m all for it.

Hell, if it is true, why not ditch any riff on Oxnard and just call the place “Disneyland by the Sea”?

Who is Pedro Navaja? (redux)

I am a young, acerbic Latino male with bona fide proof of my American citizenship and an opinion on most everything.  I was raised a bastard in an underground nunnery that ran a soup kitchen for the blind and dismembered.  At nights, I’d ride a schizophrenic Newfoundland Mastiff to the poor part of town, the part with no busses and no women over 25.  There, I learned how to rig cockfighting matches, and how to disappear into backyards so neither vigilante creditors nor their dogs could chase me.

When I reached puberty and my accelerated physical development made me a patron saint for the opposite sex, I broke free from the ravenous clutches of the nuns and started several businesses in Oxnard, California – a taco stand, a pager store, a car stereo-immigration-check-cashing shop, and a state-certified, fully-licensed oriental massage parlor.  What I lost in sleep I gained in money and notoriety. Before my 16^th birthday, I was dubbed “The Birria-Bumping Fist-Pumping Rub-A-Dub Mogul from the 805.”  I trademarked the name but then lost it to a retired city council member after a bitter and costly lawsuit.

I attended every high school in the Oxnard Union High School District, sometimes simultaneously, but never graduated from any one.  Instead, I completed a correspondence course for certification as a Master Sommelier.  Shortly thereafter, I moved to Chartres, France and started a wine newsletter/mail order bride catalog called, “Bois Vin, Baise Femme.”  This was a happy, carefree time in my life.  Unfortunately, I was forced to flee under cloak of night when a disgruntled and violent customer sought to subject me to the same acrobatic acts of promiscuity that deflated his life-size, life-long companion, never to inflate again.

I vowed never to return to France and fled east.  While wandering through a Belgium forest, I picked up a log and totted it as my traveling companion. I named it “Wilson.”  By the time I reached Germany, we were famished.  But Wilson, who was a severe and stilted altruist, agreed to sacrifice himself for my good.  I carved into Wilson with a rusty nail and bootlace, all the while sobbing.  I took the finished product into the first German pawn shop I saw in exchange for a juice harp and one hundred Deutschmarks.

Not before long, I grew homesick.  One night, while drinking beer out of a boot, I met a Finish merchant marine who planned to sail to Staten Island on a junk ship made of densely woven hair donated by forlorn Japanese concubines.  We charted our course and sailed five days later.  While at sea, I divined a solution to the Riemann hypothesis, and intuited all but one of the texts granted admission to Harvard University’s pre-1960 literary canon.

Despite my worldwide wandering and prolonged esoteric navel gazing, I am happy to call Oxnard my home once more.  I have recommitted myself to tantric perfection and virtuosity as a foul-mouthed bon vivant and raconteur.

Why should you read my blog?  For one, I’m not sure you should unless you’re part of a very tiny sliver of the population who might actually be interested in the musings of a wry Latino male living in Oxnard, California.  Beyond that, this blog may best be suited for people with ADD, drinking problems, sex addictions or some combination of the three.