Cindylu, the writer of my favorite blog loteria chicana, tagged (or should that be tasked?) me with the request that I post 5 things you probably don’t know about me. Considering that I don’t really post anything about my personal life, that should be quite easy!
Un Pelado. I’ve had Cops and Cholos pull their guns on me: the Cops took my time and name, the Cholos have taken my beer and money. Still, I’m mostly wary of cops.
Dos Pollos. After much harassing by Animal Control and an official looking legal notice posted on our door, my parents made me give my 2 pet roosters to my Abue so she could take care of them for me. A week or two later, when we went over for a chicken mole dinner, I asked about my roosters but it turned out they had escaped just a few days earlier. It was some time before I finally realized what had happened to my pets, how now they would always be with me (or inside of!) and my Grandma, as usual, just laughed at this turn of events, without ever admitting anything. Â¡Ay Carmela, que cabrona eras!
Tres Pobres. On Saturdays, driving around in my cd-less carcancha, I often wonder if I am the only person switching the radio station to avoid the crappy singing of Garrison Keillor and then back to it to avoid the crappy commercials on La Nueva 101.9
Quatro Pedidos. I very much enjoyed the riots in ’92 and think it was one of the best things to happen in LA. That opinion doesn’t make me many friends.
Cinco Puntos! Many years ago, a friend couldn’t stop her bike going downhill on Whittier (near La Mascota) because the brake didn’t work (now they call this a “fixed gear” feature, lame) and she crashed into a new Camaro/TransAm/UglyCar backing up into a driveway. The man driving got out, ignored her on the floor, started to fret about the scratch on his hood and called the cops. After a group of friends (we called ourselves Punks on Bikes, fucking clever!) convinced him that I would take responsibility (as she was a runaway, of course!), they all left and I waited with Mr. Asshole for the cops to arrive. Needless to say, at the first opportunity, I peddled away as fast as I could on my tank of a bike and he chased me in his puny vehicle, trapping me inside the park known as “the hole” since he could quickly get to any exit where I might escape. When he finally got bored of waiting and close enough to catch me, he bolted from the car and gave chase. I had the mind working on all cylinders that day and biked right through a futbol match, yelled that he was trying to jump me, and the old guy chasing a teen was quickly surrounded. As I somehow peddled up that steep 7th St. hill with my shaking, exhausted legs, I could still hear him trying to explain his way thru the crowd of players. Crap Bike 1 – Crap Car 0!