El Gringoqueño

I know it’s a TV, but what a TV it was. That TV was over 15 years old. I bought it my sophomore year of college and proceeded to haul it with me literally all over the world for the next fifteen years. That JVC television went through a lot, but alas, all of this earth ­is mortal and it was handed off to the city disposal last week. It actually hurts a little bit. I’m a dork, I know, but bear with me as I recount our tale of adventure and perseverance.­

The TV started its life off in St. Louis Missouri, at Washington University where it endured three years in a Fraternity house, beer, room fire, smoke, and things unmentionable. It hung in there because it was young and full of life.

After college it traveled cross country in a U-haul to Boston, Massachusetts. It hung out with me for six months while I worked at a new job. We were single and loving it. I was then transferred to San Francisco in December of 1993 and my faithful TV tagged along as it was lofted up to the dizzying heights of Noe Valley, even putting up with my crazy rollerblade antics around town. We were still young and stupid, but we had fun.

Then Laura and I got married and moved to Oakland. She didn’t just get a husband, she got a TV, and what a TV it was. As she will tell you, she has some kind of jinxing field that follows her wherever she goes. Any home electronics equipment found within ten feet of her sphere of influence has a drastically shortened lifespan. I don’t know how, but the TV seemed to take to her, and like her tough husband, seemed none the worse for wear. Experience had made us tough, and we lapped it up.

After a few years, the time to move had come again. This time, we were to head to the Basque country of Spain to complete Laura’s doctoral research in Anthropology. Our NTSC buddy tagged along, never mind he did not speak PAL. It’s all PAL to me, he said, besides they don’t even have my kind of 110/120 V 60 Hz food. But like a trooper, with a weird pinched screen, strained to play VHS tapes of shows sent to us from various family members. Like seasoned competitors we pushed through and survived.

So after a couple of years, we moved to Puerto Rico to start a new life. Laura was pregnant with Olaia, and we moved into a little seaside apartment in the Condado. Our trusty TV was there with us, happy to be back on native soil, but cursing the sea air.

We were comfortable and safe, until that fall when Georges decided to pay a visit, a category 3-4 hurricane that knocked out electricity, water, cable for the better part of three weeks. Mr. TV was wobbly, but like us, pulled through, and we began to think we would live forever. You hit us with everything, and I’m still here.

Fast forward to our new house in 1999, and on into 2000. Olaia, ever our little helper, decided to dump Windex onto the screen of Mr. TV and with her trusty paper towel "clean" it. Mr. TV had had enough, and it was the first time we had indications he might leave us.

Two days, of patient waiting, hair dryer blowing, and sighing (or cursing), and Mr. TV came reluctantly back to life. Why do you molest an old man, he asked. Let me die in peace.

Sometime between 2000 and 2004, after staggering on creaking joints, he stopped responding to our calls for entertainment from time to time. Crotchety he had become, a withered old man who didn’t give a damn anymore. Make me care, he said to us. I could still smile and admire his spirit, but it was getting more annoying by the month. Make me miss one single Buffy episode and I will heave you into the trash.

Next came the trial by fire. Desperate to light a barbecue and without lighter fluid, I pulled out the only flammable liquid I could on short notice, 180 proof rum. Hmmm, rum flavored charcoal for barbecuing steak. In a Tim Allen moment while dumping alcohol onto the open fire, flames entered the neck of the bottle, ignited the vapor and shot fireballs across the patio, through the open door up the side of the TV, and up the side of the house. Airplane pilots mistook it for an SOS call. I quickly smothered what I could but let the rest burn itself out. "Guess what I just did?" I said to Laura laughing nervously. You married folks know the sigh, right?

So fire, flood – we just need plague and pestilence and this would be a complete Biblical tale.

Tropical Storm Jean paid a visit in late 2004, and Mr. TV finally gave up the ghost. I’m done, I’ve had a full life, let one who is young and strong and brave take on this family now. I have given you all my best, and he ceased to function for ever more.

There he lay in state for several months as I contemplated a fitting end. Should he be dumped into a landfill or be properly recycled with his heavy metals? Does Puerto Rico care that TV’s are being dumped into landfills? Well, I’ll keep you around for a little while longer until I figure out how to dispose of you.

And the day finally came. Friday, April 1^st 2005, you finally made your way to your final resting place. I know not where, only the City of San Juan knows for sure, but good-bye faithful servant. They don’t make ‘em like you anymore.

You know how there are various funny websites making fun of numerous
English product translations to Chinese? For example, Coca Cola comes
out "happiness in the mouth" as its literal translation. I sometimes
think it helps fuel our distrust or timidity over these alien Chinese
and their weird language and their body lotion translated as "imposing
lavish experience focus and well-being for your dermis." They’re weird,
otherworldly. Whatever.

I was driving the other day and one of
those local radio station vans passed me. You know, the ones with the
KROCK 100 "all the hits fit to play" or WLOVE 103 "We put your groove
on french toast" or some such nonsense. Well, I saw the following, ONDA
94 "Toca lo que Pega" or literally: WAVE 94 "(It) plays that which
sticks". I swear I almost had an accident. Now, comeon, Spanish isn’t
that different from English, but you’d be amazed how much goes into a
translation to make it palatable to its audience. For example, if I was
to translate ONDA 94′s slogan to English, I’d just say, ONDA 94 "We
play the hits", not "The hits are played" or "We only play what sticks"
neither of which actually capture the exact phrase in Spanish.

In
Spanish, I might come up with the following: ONDA94, "Tocamos los
grandes exitos" which means "We play the greatest hits." It’s simpler,
more literal. But for some reason, "Toca lo que pega" has more
immediacy, more puissance. It sounds hipper, more local, less about
waiting for something to be a hit and then playing it like a follower.
"Toca lo que pega" connotes leadership. It makes me think that they
know what holds up, what people like, and they play it because they
KNOW.

In Spanish I instantly understand the phrase "Toca lo que pega" but when put to translating it, I have to think about it a bit.

Anyway, back to sticking to my popular tunes of "prevailing essense" or something.

I’ve mentioned it before, touched on it but not fully developed the details of my relationship with my son’s excrement. Or rather, let me say, I haven’t delved into fully illuminating just how much Jaimito’s poopies mean to me. Err, can I say that again? That didn’t come out right. I’ve thought about this for a while, not knowing how to approach it, not being able to find the courage. Thanks to her, I think I’ve found my voice.

My son’s love for his daddy and his daddy’s love for him as explained through changing poopie diapers.

Hmm, still sounds wrong. It’s not so much really the poopie, but rather the poopie as metaphor for being a parent. Wait, don’t run off, I didn’t mean that either. Geez, you people with no kids are awfully squeamish. Get a back-bone. No, what I am trying to say is, the act of changing a diaper, if appreciated properly (all inhale now – again, kidding), can reveal corn, raisins, spinach… sorry I can’t help myself. Really, this is hard. There is a reason that love and caca haven’t been paired together in any romantic comedies (well, Ben Stiller aside).

Bah, just breathe in this example:

"Daddy, I bring you da diaper an’ da wipes." Jaimito placed a fresh diaper and a container of wet wipes under my nose and announced, "Daddy, I caca!"

I am, for the first time, truly impacted by this announcement – and the odor. After all the diaper changing in his short life, Jaimito has selected me to be the honored bearer of the royal caca, cleaner of his little derriere, preferred ass wiper, trusted cleanser of the cheeks.

Is this how you moms feel all the time? Hey no more kudos for you… you’ve just been hogging all the fun and pawning it off as "sacrifice." I know the truth now.

My son prefers me to his mother for poopie changing. Mommy asks, "Jaimito, do you want me to change your diaper?"

Jaimito responds, "No! Daddy do it!"

"Okay little boy, I’ll do it." I grin, truly warmed and appreciative of his little needs and that I can fulfill them. I’m not kidding. I’m not being sarcastic. It’s the greatest feeling in the world.

Fear not the caca, for it will lead you to a profoundity of love the likes of which you have never experienced… just follow the smell, and you shall find it.

Hey look Amazon, I know you’re
all busy and whatnot to ship one stupid little itty bitty CD to me. I
ordered it in February and by June, you’d not sent it. Your suggested
resolution was to cancel the order. I did so and selected another under
the false hope that I may one day hold it in my little hand.

It
is now October, and I still have not seen ANY product from you. You
sell CD’s, right? I see that they are featured prominately on your
website.

Your little shop does, however, seem to be entirely
uncontaminated by CD’s. I just have to ask you: Do you in fact have any
CD’s at all?

I opened the freezer and my heart leapt for joy. There they
were, chocolate chip cookies with their delicious golden brown tops
and their moist frozen goodness. In a moment though, my hopes were
dashed as I realized they were burned on the bottom. Why? Why, I
beseech thee, why do you taunt me? WHY!?

“Hon, I’m gonna throw these cookies out. Every time I open
the freezer, I see them and I feel a joy so profound that I believe I
may collapse to my knees in a quivering mass. Yet only a millisecond later I
must bear the pathos of tragedy. I can’t take it I tell you. I
can’t take it. I have enough drama in my life without having to
endure this, these mocking cookies, with their lying tops and their
false hopes. Hey, that’s like a metaphor, you know, like life. All
of the universe and the struggle of human existence contained in an
infinitesimal period of frozen time. Hey that’s very literary, isn’t
it? Hon? Isn’t it?”

“Yes dear, go ahead and throw them out.”

Hey, J.M., just got this… Tell me what you think. T.J.

Subject: Gorgeous French properties.
To: f_father2@msn.com
From: bonaparte75@aol.com
Date:
08/01/1802

Take advantage now while the market is undervalued and before
cities go up. Need a place to retire? An international shipping
port? Want to make sure your family is well taken care of? Want to
double the size of your country? At less than 3 cents per acre, you
can’t beat these prices.

How can we sell so low?  Simple, we like you.  That and we need funds to fight the British.

Do you have a sense of Manifest Destiny? Fulfill that destiny by
taking advantage of this one special offer. We’ve even taken the
special care of pacifying the local inhabitants. Don’t worry, they
won’t cause you any problems. We promise.

Patent #10298498 – Method for the Consumption of Crunchy Cheetos to Avoid Orange Finger Syndrome.

I’ve
done it. They say that necessity is the mother of invention. Well this
one is a mother indeed. Eureka! I jumped, I danced, I rejoiced. Never
again shall I have orange fingers from eating Cheetos brand corn puffs.

Chopsticks, my friends, chopsticks.

Ahem,
it’s only the crunchy ones for me. None of that poofy nonesense. Real
men eat crunchy style Cheetos which, curiously enough, go well with a
rum and coke (lime, not lemon… perhaps another patent opportunity?)

I’ll make millions, I tell you. Millions.

I dismounted my bike, grabbed a couple of dollars from my bike bag, and started into the bakery. Coming up the sidewalk were four young attractive women. A man walking into the bakery ahead of me, stopped short, arching his back and his head at an awkward angle as he gawked. I almost walked into him. I cleared my throat, "Ahem, con permiso." I shook my head, wasn’t that the damnedest thing. He should’ve taken a picture. It would have lasted longer.

I made my way to the line in the panadería. It was just after eight o’clock in the morning, the busiest time. The line was long, the bakery crowded. I tried to get there earlier, but sometimes, you just can’t get out the door.

The young women, stepped into the bakery, chatting loudly, giggling, carrying on. They were noticeable because they were all dressed in filmy, revealing, noodle strap dresses, high heels, and an unusual amount of makeup for so early in the morning. There were indeed hot, and they were about to unleash their wiles on a bakery full of old weak men. Poor devils.

The bakery came to a complete stand-still. It was like a television freeze frame, ala TJ Hooker. A fifty-ish short balding man walking toward where I stood, muttered to his friend, "… e gusta el lechón con gandules." I didn’t hear the first part… Me, te (you), if it was a question or what… but the point was clear. "Pork and pigeon peas" go well together in a sexual way. The innuendo was unmistakable, and I tried to contain a smirk. Only a Puerto Rican can say he likes pork meat and pigeon peas in a way that connotes sex. I mused on comical variations, taking liberty, but couldn’t push it to hyperbole in Spanish. I like marshmellows in my coffee. I like ketchup on my burger. I like little toys with my happy meal. And slowly, with feeling… I like salty… deep fried… artery clogging, pork rinds mashed into gigantic mounds of green bananas. Nope, just cannot push it far enough. Everything sounded sexual in Spanish.

I shook my head to myself, and watched the funny time warp within the bakery. The women were standing directly behind me in line, carrying on, obviously excited by the eyes burrowing holes in their flimsy clothing. I had a good vantage point to observe the leering, as I was directly in its line of site, and despite being clad in a bright red spandex skin suit, bike helmet, and sunglasses, was completely invisible. I was a camouflaged nature photographer, dressed in bright orange, invisible to the color-blind wild beasts. It was absurd. It was hilarious. I continued to watch the reactions from behind my bright blue lenses, the population of older men visually undressing the women with their unabashed desires and their longing gazes. These people have not even the tiniest slice of shame, their decorum thinly dressed in colorful food metaphors.

I asked Esteban for a dozen eggs. "Esteban, I don’t have an egg carton today, do you think you could rig me something up?"

"Sure," he said as he proceeded to put the eggs in a paper bag.

"Um, do you think you could put them in a cardboard container? I’m on my bicycle. They’ll surely break in a paper bag."

"Oh, sorry, he proceeded to break down one of the cardboard trays used to deliver the eggs, and put it inside a plastic bag."

"Um, do you think you could put some plastic wrap around it. They’ll surely fall out. Sorry for the bother. Next time I’ll be sure to bring my receptacle."

"No bother, really. Service is why we are here." And he handed me five eggs crudely wrapped in plastic.

"Esteban, I wanted – Um, nevermind, good day." I wasn’t going to get my twelve eggs today. The sirens had conspired with the gods to keep me from my goal.

I installed all fresh shiny brand new super gooey-licisous software on this server today. The new OS and tools weren’t the hard part, it’s the migration of all the old data, the interesting easter-egg hunt of new features masquerading as error messages, and the cursing. Ahhh, it wouldn’t be a software upgrade without the cursing… sigh, I’ll look back fondly on this one day and remember the cursing, for it was rich indeed.

"Son, in my day, we knew what voice activation was."

It was the subtle nuanced language that only system admins knew how to speak… that and the sound of the keyboard being impact-hammered into oblivion. Pure poetry…

*sniff* brings a tear to my eye. I need a pint, I’m feeling in a bit o’ a brood.

Just think of all the potential presidential candidates that would be disqualified for being nose-pickers.

Worker on phone with headquarters

"We can’t support that candidate, sir. He was caught on a Walmart security camera rooting around in his nose."

"No, we couldn’t supress it. CNN’s already got copies. You think Ford’s
stumbling was bad… Sir, we’re going to have to dump him. Inviable
candidate. Need to find someone with shorter softer nose hairs and less
mucus buildup."

"We will start looking for a clean nose right away. There’s
nothing more important in a presidential candidate than naturally clean
nasal passages."