The New Johnny

I'm the new Johnny.

If you had met me when I was in elementary school, you would've probably noticed my flat top haircut. Looking back I wish it would've been the prototypical late 80s early 90s hip hop hair style. But alas, it wasn't. The cut was styled after the standard Marine Corps buzz cut—gasp! A little ashamed, I will admit to wanting to be a Marine when I was growing up, but hear me out here's why.

In my neighborhood there was an older kid that I looked up to. His name was Johnny and he was my hair stylist's son. You might be asking yourself why such a young kid had a hair stylist, well ask anyone who grew up in Koreatown and they probably had someone they always went to (if they don't still). Johnny was in his late teens when I first met him. All the adults in the neighborhood admired him because he was respectful to everyone around him, got good grades in school, owned his own car and had a beautiful girlfriend. Every time he came home I'd run out just to say hello, so would other kids in the building. In retrospect, I suspect he didn't even know my name.

After graduating high school he joined the Marines and moved to Camp Pendleton. Shortly after that he started sporting the flat top that Marines tend to have. And of course, shortly after that I started sporting the cut myself. I was impressionable what can I say?

Now in my adult life I have a very different perspective on military service, that said I was reminded of Johnny this past week when I was back home in L.A. Every kid in my old neighborhood knew my name. Many of them didn't even live in my building when I moved to Minnesota but they still knew who I was. My last night home before trekking back one kid in particular stopped me on my way out to dinner and said, “You're leaving tomorrow morning right? Have a good flight.” Kid knew my itinerary better than I did. I'll admit, I didn't know this kid's name.

I realized I'm the new Johnny, except I'm not in the marines, don't have a girlfriend, and didn't get the best grades in high school. So what does it take to be the Johnny of a neighborhood? Is it anything like what it takes to be the mayor of a block in New York?

My theory: It's about a desire to be older. I looked up to Johnny cause I couldn't wait to be his age. I was the antithesis of the Toys R' Us theme song, I wanted to grow up and I didn't give a shit about Toys R' Us. Nowadays walking through the old hood I'm reminded of simpler times. From playing hide and go seek with the other kids in my neighborhood to talking shit with the Korean kids down the block. Remember I said simpler, not smarter.

I have so many memories of playing baseball at Seoul International Park, just a few blocks away from where I grew up. When I was 15, In an effort to get better at baseball I would go down to the park on Sundays when the adults in the hood would organize a fast-pitch baseball game. In my first game, I had three at-bats and struck out the first time, walked the second time, while on my third try I fouled off a pitch. I eventually struck out but it was the happiest moment of that Sunday. I made contact with a pitch. Yup, simpler times.

This last time I was in town, I went to Seoul International Park and tried kicking the ball around with my brother and that proved almost impossible. The baseball field which makes up 90% of the park is fenced off and not open to the public. The actual non-concrete space open to the public is a very small and uneven surface. My brother accidentally kicked his ball over the fence. He hopped over to retrieve it and ended up stuck inside unable to jump back out. (Probably the only Latino in L.A. that could not hop that fence.)

My advice to all the children (whose names I don't know) enjoy the simpler times, complication is an inevitability as our world becomes smaller and finite. It's tough to admit, but I wish I was a kid again.

Piñata Rituals

Every time I visit Los Angeles I'm reminded about how much I've forgotten. Not in the Ronald Reagan sort of way but more so that memories and experiences have gotten stored up in the limits of my brain that rediscovery feels new.

I feel it every time I am near my godson Alessandro. He's the pioneer of the new generation (a title I hold for my current generation.) My aunt Carmen, his grandmother, was the woman who raised me while my mother worked and now she does the same while Alessandro's mother is out working.

Every morning you can hear my aunt tell Alessandro in the shower, "Lavese los huevitos bien," which roughly means "make sure you wash your balls well". (Trust me it sounds a lot cuter and sweeter in spanish). No doubt that's exactly what she would tell me when I was a baby.

Most days you can find Alessandro posted up by the window waiting for someone to come home, much in the same way I used to wait by the window late in the evenings until my mother came home. By comparison he probably beats me in the cute department, the similarities trigger a wealth of memories.

At his birthday party we brought out the piñata for the kids. As the birthday boy he got first crack at it. Being only two there was only so much damage he could do. As is customary, kids at the party are allowed to come up and try (from youngest to oldest).

There is major intrigue factor at all levels. There are few cuter things than a young kid trying to hold on to the stick and give the piñata a whack. Many of them just ran away afraid of it and others clearly had the desire just not the physical tools to achieve any real damage. With the middle of the road youngsters the piñata will begin jumping up and down. They may be strong enough to cause a dent but the moving target makes it very difficult to have an impact. Frustrated by its constant movement, many of the kids will attempt a leap swing, always missing the piñata by inches as it projects upwards away from them.

Then there are the older kids that will certainly tear the piñata apart within seconds. By this point the crowd has gotten into the spectacle, children and adults alike. Many adults are contemplating if they would embarrass themselves by diving into the crowd along with the children (most opting not to do it). I must admit I got excited watching this go down. It occurred to me it's been about 5 years since I've experienced the Piñata Ritual and yes I was one of the adults contemplating jumping in.

When that final hit occurs and the candy comes raining down, a sudden exchange of energy occurs from the piñata as its focal point to the diving children below. The aftermath is a series of transactions, bartering among the children for each other's candy. It's enough to make any swapmeet blush.

It's such a simple ritual, one riddled with joy, laughter and triumph. I'm glad I was able to relive the experience for the first time.

DJ Ren: Se Me Perdio La Cumbia

I recently released this cumbia mixtape on the FunkMass blog and wanted to share on this blog. It's a mixture of cumbia from Mexico, Colombia, El Salvador, Guatemala, the U.S. and I'm certain a couple other spots as well. Below is the tracklist and a link to download.


DOWNLOAD CLICK HERE

(01) los angeles azules-como te voy a olvidar

(02) pilar montenegro-quitame ese hombre

(03) xochitl mejia-vuelve

(04) grupo cañaveral-el palacio de amor

(05) socios del ritmo-mama cumbia

(06) grupo megaton-si quieres llorar

(07) grupo cañaveral-llorar

(08) residente calle 13-atrevete te, te!
(09) ozomatli-cumbia de los muertos

(10) fito olivares-juana la cubana

(11) selena-como me duele

(12) kumbia kings-shhh

(13) celso piña-cumbia del rio

(14) los pedemales-la del moño colorado

(15) fito olivares-el colesterol

(16) la sonora dinamita-se me perdio la cadenita

(17) grupo bravo-ritmo sabroson de el salvador

(18) los corraleros de majagual-cumbia campesina

(19) hector fabio-la cumbia

(20) pastor lopez-cariñito sin mi

(21) unknown-la guatemalteca

(22) aniceto molina-fiesta cumbianbera

(23) kumbia kings-chocolate

(24) celso piña-cumbia poder

Zoo International Airport Pt. 1

It's a zoo. Heart beating out of my chest, flirting with jogging and speed-walking, unsure of which one was faster. There's an air of intensity, competition, anxiety. Like stressing over money or not looking forward to an inevitable conversation with a friend or loved one. The security warning on the way in to the airport said the threat level was “orange” but everyone is operating on “red.” From suspicious eyes to pissed off growls and authoritative footsteps, everyone is on a mission. I was in the middle of this madness, huffing and puffing my way to the ticket counter. With only 35 minutes left before departure and a line at the ticket counter that would easily eat up 10 minutes plus another 20 minutes to get through security the math just wasn't adding up. I forged ahead anyways hoping through some miracle that the airlines attendant would whisk me away like some lost child looking for help.

Because everything is digital, the computer refused to print a boarding pass. Stupid computer. The flight attendant came over and I said, “the computer refuses to print out a boarding pass for me.”

“Where are you going?”

“New York La Guardia by way of Philadelphia.”

He clanked away on the keyboards summoning up an alternative. And like that, I missed my flight. I was placed on a flight set to leave four hours later. The anxiety, competitiveness, more than anything the stress of traveling just disappeared. I walked back to my car stationed in the long term parking garage and the rest of the traveling world flashed by me. If I had long hair I'm certain it would've swung back and forth like a dramatic scene in the Notebook, where Noah runs after Allie through some murky forest trail. [Confession time: Yes I've seen it and I liked it, what of it.]

There are fewer depressing places in the world than the airport. Mostly cause traveling is expensive and most of the time solitary. As I weave in and out of the high-speed onslaught of people rushing to their airlines ticket counters and security checkpoints there are people whom are under no hurry to be anywhere. This airport is a temporary home, missing a connecting flight and waiting the countless hours until their next rush of stress. They look depressed, alone, lost while knowing exactly where they are, if that makes any sense. I feel for them cause I've been there.

My circumstances, however; could not have been any better. I missed the early flight in my home city to a destination where the city never sleeps. I'd be able to get my car out of the parking garage and save myself the 80 bucks [It was a desperate effort to make the flight]. I could go home, sleep for a couple more hours and later slowly make my way back to the airport.

Walking back to my car there was this inner peace and moment of enlightenment. While everyone was being pushed to the margins of sanity, I could sit back and relax and not worry. I say peace because this zoo reflects a daily routine for me. Though I lost out on four hours of sightseeing in New York [My first time there], I gained a few hours of calm.

I tweeted on my way back home, “Life slows down once you've officially missed your flight.” I should miss my flights more often.

Griffith Park Observatory & the Best Chicken Ever!!!

Griffith Park Observatory
My last day in Los Angeles this past April was like a college freshman's cram session during finals week. I tried to do everything I didn't get a chance to do in the first 8 or so days I was in town. I have a bit of a ritual of places I go while in town, and I make every effort to visit these places.

Santa Monica Beach

Griffith Park Observatory

Dodger Stadium

I got Dodger Stadium out of the way during the first couple days in town. But after a week of being there, I still hadn't made my way out to see the beach or to visit what is arguably my favorite spot in Los Angeles, the Griffith Park Observatory.

A lesser known fact about me is that I'm fascinated by stars. As a kid I'd step outside my apartment and sit on the balcony staring towards the sky, looking at the stars. I realize star-watching in Los Angeles (no pun intended) is a bit of a challenge. It would be like looking for a beer at a Mormon wedding. Somehow, the brighter stars that could navigate through the layer of smog would have me sitting outside for a couple hours at a time. There's something peaceful about staring out into the endless sky while Los Angeles' soundtrack plays in the background (cars, music, ghetto choppers, sirens). It's no doubt to me then that the Griffith Park Observatory holds such a close place in my heart.

Griffith Park Observatory is located on top of the Hollywood Hills and provides one of the greatest nerdy experiences and one of the best views of Los Angeles. Their giant telescope peers into space every day, their beautiful amphitheater provides patrons with a deeper history of our universe (as narrated by Leonard Nimoy, only fitting), and it's view provides the perfect backdrop for a date or a moment of reflection.

As a kid I visited all the time, soaking in as much information about astronomy as possible. As a teenager this was my date spot, yes I've given my secret away. And now as a twenty something visitor, it's nostalgia that keeps bringing me back. There are few places like it, and the closest Minneapolis alternative (Prospect Park's Witches Hat) pales in comparison.

Dino's Burgers

Go figure that the best place in Los Angeles for chicken would be a "burger joint". Dino's Burgers is one of those places you know about because someone shared the secret. As with most patrons of Dino's, your first experience of the best chicken ever is with someone that's already been there. It's kinda like riding a rollercoaster for the first time, you don't go with people who've never done it, you want to be around people who've experienced it already.

The same is true with Dino's. You don't wanna look like a fool showing up your first time and not knowing what to say and how to order. The diner is typically busy at all times of the day beginning with breakfast through the evening. The greek recipe is flavorful and will have your mouth watering in every bite.

I introduced my high school clique to Dino's. In fact every 5 weeks, right around the time our progress report would come out, we'd go to Dino's and share one last meal together knowing full well that our grades would land us in trouble and likely grounded for a while.

In honor of sharing the wonderfulness that is Dino's chicken, here's my quick guide through some Frequently Asked Questions to help you survive your first trip to Dino's:

Steven, where is Dino's Burgers located?

The northern tip of what people would consider the hood. It's off of Pico Blvd and Berendo Street on the southern edge of Koreatown. I'm sure there's an address but I'm too lazy to track it down.

Why is it called Dino's Burgers if you say they have awesome chicken?

Cause they do sell burgers but I've only witnessed one person ever buying a burger there before. The chicken is where it's at.

So, how's the chicken cooked?

After being marinated in what I could only call "crack juice" and once it's developed a reddish orange tint, a 1/4 of chicken is grilled and served on a bed of unhealthy french fries with a side of cole slaw and tortillas. Vegetarians stay away.

How do I order this chicken?

Here is where it can get tricky. Generally I would say don't order it by it's actual name El Pollo Maniatico (yes I know this is confusing). Pollo maniatico means the "crazy chicken." I feel like that's too formal. When I go, I simply say "Give me (insert amount of meals) chicken(s)." Actually it's not that tricky at all, just say "chicken" or "pollo" and they will know what you mean.

But Steven, that can't be it?

That's all there is to it...though if you really wanna shave a year off your life, you'll order the chicken with "extra jugo (juice)". They will douse the marinade used for the chicken on your fries. They become soggy, irresistible, and death sticks all in one. Enjoy.

Can I Make A Request?

I don't agree with the term Hispanic, but last night I realized we really are "His" Panic. I was throwing down some cumbia and rock en español in honor of the homies who were present that night whom I knew could get down to it. After about a quick 10 minute set I was looking to transition into some funk when a guy walked up to the DJ booth and said, "Can I make a request?"

I said, "sure."

"Can you play some fucking music in ENGLISH now?"

I responded with, "We'll get there." Sure, I should've just punched him and he would've deserved it. I probably would've were it not for the fact that I respect the DJ who gave me and my DJ partner the opportunity to spin there. Cooler heads in this situation had to prevail.

He went off on a rant about being a truck driver and driving through California and Florida and how he's used to hearing this stuff but that he can't understand a word of it. That in Minnesota he wants to only hear music in English cause everybody speaks English and not Spanish. He also mentioned that in 5 years Mexicans are going to take over anyways but that "here" in Northeast Minneapolis it was English only. He even had the "Nordeast" beer to prove it. That Nordeast is for Nordic, meaning white.

This guy lives in this constant fear that his white picket fence and apple pie "America" is being overtaken with white picket fences built by Mexicans and instead of applie pie they're pastelitos. He reeked of a white man with a deep seeded sense of racial superiority and bigotry fueled by a fear that the "other" that is not white is changing his reality. It's this fear that drives drunk white men to say stupid shit but it also shapes policy and the political framework around us.

If you dabble in social networking, be it Twitter, Facebook or Myspace then you probably already know that raza is pissed. The recent law passed in Arizona (SB1070) has riled up the masses quicker than a "yo momma" joke. But it's not just our raza, it's everyone who's experienced systematic legal discrimination through actions of any organized government.

This law makes racial profiling a legitimate tool of police in Arizona with regards to detaining immigrants. The Governor of Arizona, Jan Brewer, can make all claims to the opposite but I know better (can anyone google WMDs and Iraq?).

The brilliant state of Arizona also passed a bill making "ethnic studies" an illegal subject to teach because it creates "separatists" and teaches content geared towards a specific "ethnicity" instead of promoting the education of "pupils as individuals". Plus teachers are being banned from speaking english with an accent.

And in Texas they're rewriting the history books which is going to have a ripple effect on other states because they're the largest purchaser of school textbooks. The new history will reflect a more "Conservative America" and will eliminate the use of words like "imperialism" and "globalization" and replace then with more nuetral terms.

So what's happening? "His" panic is manifesting itself in anti-immigrant and let's be real anti-Latino sentiments. Our community is rising up, pissed off, and ready to march. I foresee more people coming out across the country in this year's May 1st marches just like in 2005. I think that's great, but I also think it's bullshit that it takes this much for us to come out to a march.

And let's be real, a march isn't going to change anything. For public actions to be effective they need to engage a specific target. In Minneapolis we have two marches and I won't dive into the stupid politics behind this, but one of the marches is going to stop in front of the Convention Center where the Republicans will be voting on a Gubernatorial candidate. I'll admit it's not a bad move but my pushback is around why most people are rising up.

In 2005, Latinos across the country were labeled the "Sleeping Giant" because of the massive demonstrations that took place. Most people would generally remember these demonstrations happening for Immigration Reform. The truth is the catalyst for people coming out in numbers was the amendment attached to the Senate bill at the time which would make it a felony to provide services to immigrants.

The overwhelming uprising led to the amendment being tanked but the immigration reform bill tanked as well. This time around I definitely foresee some legal challenge to the Arizona law, and once the civil lawsuits are said and done I see Arizona going bankrupt. I see other states attempting to do something similar, if Tim Pawlenty's heir to the throne in Minnesota makes it, we could definitely be one of those states.

My request to all the gente that marches....don't stop your actions at the end of that march. Real change means reacting to fucked up shit as it happens but it also means sustaining that momentum to build a larger movement. Challenging SB 1070 is important, but so is getting rid of 287g. And lets get beyond this idea that the immigration system is a couple reforms away from working for us. It's working exactly how it's supposed to work, to generate money and generate oppression. The only way to change that is by abolishing it altogether.

Ummm...L.A.

I have what some people might call an addiction. I prefer lifestyle. I, like many music heads, love purchasing vinyl. I've resisted some major urges to hit up Amoeba music while I've been in L.A. visiting family.

It's taken me a while but I'm at the point where I've developed enough of a collection that I can spare some of my favorite album artworks and hang them up on my wall. (El Chicano-Revolucion; Millie Jackson-Feelin Bitchy; and Herb Albert and the Tijuana Brass-Whipped Cream and other Delights) I have enough that I'm contemplating purchasing the $200 IKEA bookcase.

My love is two-fold. I love digging for albums both known and unknown to add to my collection. That search can take me to record shops, music stores, flea markets, garage sales, even to individual collectors on the fringes of life.

I also love the sound. The crackling noise of needle on vinyl, an invitation to listen to a set of songs as it was meant to be heard, side A to side B. I still believe album listening is an underrated pastime, a musical story constructed by the artist with strict intentionality. In the digital age of iPods and short attention spans it seems there's no time to appreciate something as a whole, instead we glorify compartmentalization or at least what we're fed with.

Recently I was watching Californication with my little brother (yes I know it's not the most appropriate show for young minds but he's seen breast and male nudity before). In one scene, David Duchovny's character Hank Moody is listening to an Ozzy album on vinyl with a younger woman as he explains why vinyl is so much better. She says to him, “You're just an analog man stuck in a digital world.” I definitely feel that way too.

I grew up in a one-bedroom apartment in Koreatown, Los Angeles. With such limited space we still somehow manage to hang a hammock, it's a Salvadoran thing I guess. Not much has changed since we first moved in back in 1991. The kitchen has the same cabinets, our bathroom got a tub upgrade recently but still the same size. The closets are the same and the pictures on the wall have slightly grown as the years have gone by but my pre-kindergarden graduation picture still hangs above the heater that doesn't work. I still consider it home even though I haven't lived here for an extended period of time in over 6 years.

In 1993 my mother bought me the World Book Encyclopedia. Back before the internet age, this was your portal to any information. I spent many a countless afternoons reading about presidents, countries, scientists, philosophers, theories, heck Pope John Paul II is still alive according to my version.

Even after I got a computer I still loved picking a random book from my Encyclopedia to read any assortment of random facts. For some reason this has not translated into major success with Trivial Pursuit. So I valued picking up a book and reading over sifting through a computer and browsing. Might be why I refuse to fuck with E-books.

That might sound odd coming from a guy who's day job is teaching said digital technology to people and organizations that have limited exposure and access to it. I'm also the guy who enjoys using Serato for DJ gigs. (Serato is a program that allows DJs to spin on their turntables through their computer.)

Hypocritical? Maybe. My apathy stems from a resistance to what mainstream culture views as “progress” or the idea that something new is better than what it replaced. In my hometown neighborhood of Koreatown progress has come slowly but at a price. Every few months I return something new has sprung up, and something old from my fond memories has been taken away.

Older buildings that once housed Latino families were converted into condominiums with off-street parking. One of the metro subway stations was redeveloped to house high end commercial businesses including the first Coffee Bean I'd ever seen in K-town. I'm assuming we won't have to wait much longer before we can walk to the nearest Starbucks and get that caramel macchiato.

I was driving with a friend of mine off of Wilshire Blvd and Vermont Ave. There was an empty plot of land on the corner. She said, “I can't even remember what that used to be.” I said, “I think it was a clothing store, my mom and I would come there to shop.” She remembered, “Yeah, my mom too.”

There's been rumors for a few years that the apartment building I spent most of my childhood years in is one good offer away from being redeveloped. The Koreatown being re-built isn't for the people who have inhabited this neighborhood for the past couple generations. It's getting a face-lift but not in a way that it avoids driving out the people currently here. Whether through increased property taxes which will inevitably lead to increased rent or an absolute displacement it's clear my Koreatown will only exist in my memories.

So I savor the opportunity to listen to music on vinyl. I cherish the imperfections of the apartment I grew up in. Whether a skip on a record or a slight crack on the wall, they fuel my progress even though one may not be around much longer.