View from my Hammock

VINYL!

In my garage I have many gorgeous black disks of joy. Vinyl. Records. LP's...the real deal. Lot's of reggae, lot's of punk, jazz and ska. Much of it out of print, and everyone valuable to me. Every record has a story, a meaning, a purpose. The music of my youth, the music of my years of definition. Most of what I am today is a result of what I lived with then. Music, culture and college shaped me. Music on MP3 is glorious (you can fit your entire library in less space than a cassette!) but an album is so wonderfully tactile. The art makes you feel what you hear. Just look at this Cheech and Chong cover...how could you not laugh?

The Sons of the Pioneers? That's what my Mom put on when I went to sleep as a toddler. LA's Wasted Youth? That's what drove me to college during the Reagan years. Glenn Miller was a gift from Mom. The Wall by Pink Floyd I won in a radio station call-in. I picked it up on my bike...riding from Orange, California to Anaheim. I got it home, slapped it on the turntable, and immediately thought "what the hell is this?"

Disraeli Gears by Cream? My Uncle Richard's wife Laurie gave it to me one Christmas. I disregarded it because punks in SoCal tried so hard to break away from anything with long hair. But God...years later is is so powerful. I bought an ION USB turntable so I could start to RIP some of these albums. Bradley had already browsed my collection and brought me his choices. Some Jacob Miller (RIP, Jacob), some DanceHall style (Yellowman!), Peter Tosh, Lone Justice, Angry Samoans and some classic Cheech and Chong. Brilliant.

Our whole family has purchased music as MP3's for years now. I used to take our older kids to CD Warehouse in Orange and let them buy CD's; they would end up gravitating to the LP's because of the art. The lack of art, is what is the worst part of the modern age of music. It is sad to think there are thousands of people that listen to stolen P2P downloaded songs they have never seen the covers for. Don't steal, you bastards!

Boston had beautiful covers. Foghat Live. Pushead Lamort's cover for LA's Wasted Youth "Reagan's In" LP is burned in my head. The Cheech and Chong LP pictured at left, Los Cochinos, is beautifully printed. The sleeve pulls out to reveal, well, see for yourself.

The insides of the door filled with pot. Yerba. Mary Jane. Weed. Mota. And no...I never smoked it. You can't do this with an MP3. Some studios send out PDF files with the music, but it is just not the same. You have to FEEL it...not just SEE it. I noticed how many of my album covers are so worn from being pulled out of the rack and played. We'd pull my huge-ass speakers through my windows into the side yard, cue up some music and hang out for hours. Whoever made it to the record rack first played the next album.

Working in a record store during college had it benefits; I probably spent half my check on records. If I couldn't find it at our store I'd head to the Sound Spectrum in Laguna Beach. Every time we'd go up to Northern California I would take $200 dollars to spend at Amoeba records; 100 for San Francisco and 100 for the Berkeley store. It's amazing how well the USB turntable works; only my most used records need more than just a one-click cleaning. It's also sad how I forgot how to balance a tonearm! I'll post pics of my favorite album covers to my Flickr stream during the next year. This project is going to be fun.

Cute Chix...Not what you think!

No...it's absolutely not what you think! It's not Girls Gone Wild. I could deal with that now, but not then, when I was innocent and young. I was digging in a drawer and found this old notepad from Demler Farms in Anaheim, a wholesale chicken vendor. The Demler family sold live chicks and chickens in Orange County. Their product, baby chicks, were called DemlerChix. My Grandfather Rosario (Chayo) had a ton of these notepads. I was lucky to find one with his writing in it.

I was lucky enough to grow up on egg ranch, the Rolling "R" ranch in Orange California. My Grandfather Rosario started the ranch, producing thousands of eggs per year for delivery throughout Orange County. His Son-in-law Rey Lozano came aboard, hence the second "R" in the Rolling "R" ranch. Growing up on the Rolling R was glorious...the freedom to roam, run and play. The people across the street had horses, our neighbor (Uncle K) grew strawberries and raised Koi in a pond on his yard. All during my life the Rolling R was the central point of gathering for all my friends and closest cousins. I loved it.

My Grandfather delivered fresh eggs to stores, individuals, markets...everywhere. His eggs were the best; people would drive for miles to our house to purchase eggs by the flat. People came from Tustin, Villa Park and Orange Park Acres...they came to our driveway to buy fresh eggs. They would walk to the end of the driveway, grab what they needed, and put money in a box. Sometimes they would stop by later and pay for what they had taken.

We had eggs or chicken every day...it was a staple. At some point I refused to eat eggs...around age 6 or 7 I think. White meat chicken I eat reluctantly, but I refuse if it has skin. Those chickens and roosters were friends, and you don't eat friends. Chicken life is a lesson in cultural anthropology...there is a strict hieracrhy, levels of being that exist to keep everyone in line. You can tell who is where by feathers; the lowest have feathers missing. Sometimes their backs are raw and void of feathers. The higher-ups tear the feathers out of the lowers. It's a violent clash, but it keeps everyone in line...hens and roosters. Gender doesn't matter...both have levels. You get set in your place...if you are a peon, you get feathers torn outta your back.

Roosters and Hens do well to increase their numbers. Not quite rabbit-like, but leave them to their own devices and they do quite well. Every now and then my Grandfather, through some Ranch science, would know when to let a few select hens eggs grow to hatch. My cousins and friends would watch as the little chicks would push their golden beaks out of their shells and struggle to stand. Their transformation from ugly, wet, wobbly chick to cute, furry and firm chick was surprisingly quick. The lazy eggs would be placed in our incubator until they hatched. If it was especially cold, or if there were only a few lazy eggs, my Grandparents would place them in a slightly heated oven with the door a bit open. If we slept, we'd wake to the sound of little chirps. We'd fluff up their feathers to give them insulation from the cold, and put them in a nest with a hen. They would disappear under a wing, with the hen, alseep, not even knowing it had been placed there. It was rare if, in the morning, a hen did not take it as it's own.

Hens are sensitive...wind, cold, food, age and hierarchy troubles can hurt egg production. Every few months my Grandfather would have to purchase wholesale chicks for the Rolling R. They would come home in big boxes...a day or two old. They were a mass of chirping, pecking, soft and feathery yellow cuteness. We'd put our hands into the box and they would come in mass to see if you were food. The brave would peck your hand or finger and move away. They'd shake their head as if the taste was terrible and walk away. Weeks later they'd have that ugly-teenage chicken look. Half-grown tall and spindly, with half their grown-feathers. A bit of a chicken mohawk. Ugly. A far cry from their soft-cotton-ball cuteness.

I miss those days.

I need some Just for Men...

Is it my gray goatee? I'm 42, but is that old? Last week Diego and I were in the living room relaxing. It was great...he was building castles with his blocks and I was watching Fox Soccer Fone In. I love watching him build things; the way he uses his hands to position things, the way he chooses colors and shapes. So exacting, so precise.

Then he stands up and knocks the whole thing to the ground and laughs.

Anyhow, we have the front door open and I see a young girl coming up the walk. She is coming up our walk with purpose, and it seems like she knows where she is going. She is pretty, with a nice smile, and says "Hi! How are you?" At first I think it might be a cousin of mine (hey Joletta!), then perhaps a college friend of Krystal's we have not met.

Diane is a tooth person...I had no idea there were "tooth people", but Diane notices teeth. For some reason, I am focused on her teeth. She has a pretty smile, and I think I might have seen the faint glimmer of a tounge piercing, but I'm still trying to figure out who the hell she is. She reaches into her back pocket and pulls out a laminated card...she's SELLING something. Carpet shampooing. We don't have carpet. She tells me she needs points for her bonus...we have nothing that needs shampoo. She asks about floor rugs, the couch, anything. I tell her we are not really interested.

"OH MY GOD!" she blurted. Her eyes turned towards Diego, who was stacking a block on his castle.

"He is SOOOOOOO cute!"

Yes, she said "SOOOOOO". She dragged out the so for emphasis. As if on cue Diego sent her a big smile and held up his block for her to see.

"Is he your Grandchild?"

Damn. She might have gifted me a cane and rocker.

"Grandchild? Are you kidding me?" I said. "He's my SON!"

She begged a bit more for some work (I guess I can always brag that a young woman begged me for SOMETHING) before I told her that she would have to come back in a few hours and talk to Diane. It's easy when I make Diane the villain. She says thanks, and waves to Diego. He waves back, but she turns away before she can see him. Serves her right.

Grandchild. Damn. I am getting old.

Divided I stand

This was me growing up. Battling between the Cholos, Surfers and Jocks. The expectations of my family were the easiest to conquer; keep out of trouble and NEVER disgrace the family name.

Keeping from getting my ass kicked and trying to be a Peacekeper was something else.