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.”