Urban Exile: Collected Writings of Harry Gamboa Jr

URBAN EXILE

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URBAN EXILE

Collected Writings of Harry Gamboa Jr.

Harry Gamboa Jr. Edited by Chon A. Noriega

University of Minnesota Press Minneapolis London

“In the City of Angels, Chameleons, and Phantoms: Asco, a Case Study of Chicano Art in Urban Tones (or, Asco Was a Four-Member Word)” first appeared in Chicano Art: Resistance and Affirmation, 1965–1985 (Wight Art Gallery, UCLA, 1991). Reprinted courtesy of the Regents of the University of California.

Copyright 1998 by the Regents of the University of Minnesota All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Published by the University of Minnesota Press 111 Third Avenue South, Suite 290 Minneapolis, MN 55401-2520 http://www.upress.umn.edu Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Gamboa, Harry. Urban exile : collected writings of Harry Gamboa, Jr. ; edited by Chon A. Noriega. p. cm. ISBN 0-8166-3051-8 (hc : alk. paper). — ISBN 0-8166-3052-6 (pb : alk. paper) 1. Mexican Americans—California—Los Angeles—Literary collections. 2. City and town life—California—Los Angeles—Literary collections. 3. Los Angeles (Calif.)—Literary collections. I. Noriega, Chon A., 1961– . PS3557.A453U73 1998 818′.5409— dc21 98-14991 Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper The University of Minnesota is an equal-opportunity educator and employer. 10 09 08 07 06 05 04 03 02 01 00 99 98

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Contents

Author’s Acknowledgments ix Editor’s Acknowledgments xiii No Introduction Chon A. Noriega

1

Essays and Interviews

Three Interviews (Written in Collaboration with Gronk and Willie Herrón) Interview: Gronk and Gamboa () 27 Gronk and Herrón: Muralists () 32 Gronk: No Movie Maker () 44 Urban Exile () 51 Reflections on One School in East L.A. () 56 Serpents in the City of Angels: After Twenty Years of Political Activism, Has L.A. Chicano Art Been Defanged? () 64 In the City of Angels, Chameleons, and Phantoms: Asco, a Case Study of Chicano Art in Urban Tones (or, Asco Was a Four-Member Word) () 71 Past Imperfecto () 88 Light at the End of Tunnel Vision () 97 Refractions of Home () 121 No Movies

A La Mode () 131 No Phantoms () 135 Young Boy in the s () 139 The Gores () 143 Waiting for Tickets () 147 Stapled () 151 Scissors () 155

Autologüe Series Fade In/Fade Out () 161 Autologüe  () 162 Autologüe , , and  () 163 Young Boy in the 50s Series Angel’s Flight () 166 Bomba () 168 Artopsy () 168 Pistolwhippersnapper () 172 No Slapstick () 178 Performance

Cafe O’Lay () 183 Pseudoturquoisers () 189 Pinguino () Written in Collaboration with Gronk and Willie Herrón 196 Shadow Solo: Detour via Obsession () 202 Void and Vain () 209 Orphans of Modernism: A Radio Play () 215 Jetter’s Jinx: A Conceptual Drama () 224 Antizona: A Conceptual Performance () 241 Ismania: A Conceptual Performance () 252 Bravo Heights: A Comedy for Television (unfinished) () 268 No Crossing () 278 There Was Eternal Disorder in the Silence Which Followed the Expulsion of the Species () 282 Club Limbo () 285 Ignore the Dents () 305 Double Negativity: A Play in Desperate Acts () 324 Vex Requiem: A Play with Music in Two Acts () 329 Fiction

Cruel Profit () 365 Día de los muertos () 371 Phobia Friend () 378 Vacant Tour () 384 A Rival Departure () 396 No Gray Matter () 404 INS and Outs () 408 Alibi No () 413 Off Lines () 420

No Beans in My Tortilla () 427 Writer’s Blockade () 432 Head’s Turn () 436 Kiko’s Kut () 440 Hate Male () 448 Whichever Way the Lead Blows () 452 No Alibi () 458 Rush Hour () 462 Low and Slow () 465 Chavalo Was Lost at “Sí” () 467 Where They Found Javier () 472 Oscar’s Middle Finger (unfinished) () 480 In the Realm of the Senseless () 488 The Chosen Fugue () 490 Poetry

I Don’t Buy My Tacos from Trucks Parked Too Close to Sex Change Clinics () 509 Hiss-Panic and Other Poems (1988 –93) Ruby without Redress 513 Celebrity without a Cause 514 No Atonement 516 Azure Seizure (in Idahopeless) 518 Authority Figureless 520 Roll of the Dyed Ice 522 Liar’s Nix 524 Deleted to Meet You 525 Gila’s Alibi 527 Furious Descent of Crows 528 Urban Decay Buffet 529 Relativity 531 No Jalapeño Hot Enough 532 Phantoms Speak My Languish 533 Opposing Fast Lanes 534 Nothing’s Wrong 536 Two Tongues 537 Man under the Influenza 538 The Little Prints 540 Rebuilding 542 Publication Information

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Author’s Acknowledgments

I

t all began long ago when I got lost in the translation. I tripped over traditional/pop cultural debris, stumbled into phantoms in the aftermath of multiple riots/disasters/parties, banged my head against the invisible sharp edges of the antispectrum, and repeatedly fell into conceptual chasms that could be traversed only via burned bridges. As I reflect on the various individuals to whom I am indebted for their influence and support in the development of my work, I am awed by the natural flow of beauty and absurdity that poses as the continuous process of everyday life. In the blink of an eye several decades are transformed into a faketeardrop tattoo of laughter and sorrow. There is no time to relive the many moments because acute awareness is a subjectively ephemeral human experience. As far as dreams and memory are concerned, there is a convergence of impression that is subject to clarity and/or collapse. I must therefore extend my gratitude as a series of sincere embraces and sustained enthusiastic applause. My love and affection for my family is life-affirming and has given me the strength to enter/exit incongruous realms of creativity successfully: For my son, Diego, thanks for sharing the brilliant light in your eyes, which illuminated my path out of darkness and into the present; for my daughter, Barbara, thanks for regenerating my sense of hope with your wonderful smile. I will forever love you both. My wife, Barbara Carrasco, artist, mother of our daughter, and trusted friend, has been an inspiration of love, strength, commitment, and creativity as she valiantly struggles to overcome the odds and pain of cancer. We love you. My mother and father, Harry and Carmen, have given me more than they will ever suspect. All of my respect and thanks for your unconditional love. My best wishes and love to my brothers: Victor and his wife, Karen; and George and his wife, Rosa, along with their children, ix

Ken and Josie Zaragosa. The creative dynamics of my sister Diane is inspirational. The powerful poetics of my sister Linda and the sincerity of her son, Marlon Gamboa-Martinez, have broadened my scope of awareness. My love and appreciation go out to each of my family members who have added to the complexity, creativity, and warmth of life in East L.A. During the late s I drank coffee and ate pan dulce as my uncles Javier Perez, Mariano Perez, Miguel Perez Sr., Rodolfo Perez, my aunt Amparo Martinez, and my mother engaged themselves loudly in the most fabulously absurdist conversations I’ve ever encountered. Their humorous stories of El Paso versus L.A., World War II, family gossip, and unfounded theories of life and the afterlife provided a vast foundation of images/ideas from which to question reality. During that period, my cousins Miguel Jr. and Ricardo Perez showed me how easy it is to lose one’s marbles. My cousins Norma Astengo and Maria Elena Franco provided a counterpoint of calmness and understanding. As a young boy, I was also given the grand tour of the bars and architecture of Bunker Hill by my aunt Socorro’s husband, Chavalo Martinez. My cousin Ramon Orellana instilled in me the urban survival theory and practice of preemptive first strike. The early teen years of the s were spent exploring the limits of excessive energy and unfinished freeways with friends Ed Romero, James Hanamaikai, Enrique Martinez, Dean Furukawa, Edmundo Armijo, and Rick Cornejo. A few years later, John Ortiz introduced me to the dictionary and to Ralph Cuaron. This was my ticket and they were my guides to the roller-coaster effects of the high school walkouts of  and my entry into the Chicano movement. I was simultaneously inspired by the music of the era and appreciated the creativity of Francisco Gonzalez. It is here that I must give special thanks to David Hidalgo, for making me aware that music was not my forte. I was an ardent student of the performance aspects of Reyes Tijerina, Sal Castro, and Bert Corona. I must also thank my twelfth-grade high school English teacher, Owen J. O’Callaghan, for being the only person up to that time to challenge my intelligence respectfully. The s began as my community and I choked on clouds of tear gas. The need to inject some fresh air into East L.A. became necessary and was met when Francisca Flores appointed me to edit Regeneración. Shortly afterward, I cofounded the Asco art group with Gronk, Patssi Valdez, Willie Herrón, and Humberto Sandoval. As intensely creative artists, performers, and friends, we shattered myths/stereotypes as we danced a fun and protracted marathon of twists, spins, and splits on broken-glass mirrors. During that time I was inspired by the eloquent poetry of Sylvia Delgado and the comical musings of Arthur Marchand. Thanks to psychology professor Michael Wapner, Ph.D., for conveying the idea that the infinite exists within oneself. I also want to thank Morrie Camhi for x

Author’s Acknowledgments

wisely pointing things out in B&W. Thanks to my ex-wife, Evangelina F. Gamboa, who changed my life with the birth of our son, Diego. The s and s have been extremely intense and rewarding. There are many people who have been very supportive of my work. I am especially grateful to my friends Zaneta Kosiba-Vargas, Ph.D., and Zaragosa Vargas, Ph.D., for our ongoing dialogue into the sunset. Thanks to Ramon Favela, Ph.D., for his friendship and understanding. Thanks to Shifra Goldman, Ph.D., for her friendship and support. Thank you Max Benavidez and Kate Vozoff for being good friends who have helped during difficult times. Thank you Eloy Rodriguez, Ph.D., and Helena Maria Viramontes for making video possible in the s. Also, thanks to Jesús Salvador Treviño and Bobbi Murray for your generous support. Special thanks to my in-laws, Frances Carrasco, Leandra Kamba, Martha and Bob Heredia, for all of their help. The following friends and colleagues have also contributed to my understanding of being human at ground zero: María Elena Gaitán, Gerardo Velázquez, Henry J. Gutierrez, Ph.D., Ruben Guevara, Marcos Sanchez-Tranquilino, Holly Barnet, Ph.D., Raul Villa, Ph.D., Rita Alcala, Ph.D., John Valadez, Jerry Dreva, Juan Garza, Roberta Ikemi, Lorraine Ordaz, Ed Forde, Yvonne Yarbro-Bejarano, Ph.D., C. Ondine Chavoya, Luis Pingarron, Mark Olsen, Rudy Guglielmo, Karla Gutierrez, Eddie Ayala, Ralph Cordova, Roberto Bedoya, Willie Garcia, Paulina Sahagún, Bobby Verdugo, Frances Salomé España, Willie Varela, Sean Carrillo, Daniel Villarreal, Robert Buitron, Rene Yañez, Teddy Sandoval, Josine Ianco-Starrels, Tiffany A. Lopez, Ph.D., Daniel J. Martinez, Jack Vargas, Yolanda Arroyo, Mundo Meza, Cyclona, Ricardo Gonzalves, Fabiola Torres, and David Avalos. My belief and hope for a better future is additionally inspired by Apolina Vargas, Summer Gonzalez, Octavio Tizoc Gaitán-Diaz, Jason Ordaz, Maria Elena Chavez, Amanda Carrasco, Anthony Sandoval, Nora Benavidez, Lola Benavidez, Yoltic Sandoval, and Citlalli Sandoval. The Chicano Studies Department at California State University, Northridge, has been especially supportive. Special thanks to Professor Gerald Resendez, chair; Professor Rodolfo Acuña, Ph.D., and Lupe Compean; and Jorge Garcia, Ph.D., dean, School of Humanities. Special thanks to Roberto Trujillo, senior curator, Stanford University Libraries, for his support in establishing the collection of my work at Stanford University. Additionally, I would like to thank the following for their support: Louis Hock, chair, Department of Visual Arts, UC San Diego; Visual Arts Department, California Institute of the Arts; Carlos Vélez-Ibáñez, Ph.D., Dean, College of Humanities, Arts, and Social Sciences, UC Riverside; Department of Visual Arts, CSU Los Angeles; and Chicano Studies Department, UC Santa Barbara. Author’s Acknowledgments

xi

Several visual and text works were supported in part by grants from the following: National Endowment for the Arts; J. Paul Getty Trust Fund for the Visual Arts; California Arts Council; Arizona Commission for the Arts; Art Matters, Inc.; Los Angeles Festival, Peter Sellars, artistic director; Rockefeller Foundation; Mexican American Legal Defense and Education Fund; Ford Foundation; Los Angeles Theatre Center, Bill Bushnell, artistic director; Los Angeles Contemporary Exhibitions; and City of Los Angeles Cultural Affairs Department. Special thanks to Daniel Saxon Gallery, West Hollywood, for representing my photographic works. I am also grateful to the numerous individuals who have contributed their creativity and presence in the creation of dialogue, photographic images, video, radio, and live performances since . Thank you all. However, if it were not for the perceptiveness, insistence, humor, and persistent vision of my friend and editor, Chon A. Noriega, this book would not have been realized so completely in its present form. Thank you.

xii

Author’s Acknowledgments

Editor’s Acknowledgments

H

arry Gamboa Jr. has had a profound impact on my scholarship, first by way of rumor and innuendo, as he and Asco have done more generally since the s, then as a friend and as a role model for ethical living in urban exile. I am honored to be able to present his writings and to have shared more than a few laughs with him as we proofread his pages. I am grateful to Guillermo Hernández, Raymund Paredes, Robert Rosen, and Roberto Trujillo for their generous support. My editor, Micah Kleit, has been a real mensch in keeping this project alive and on track, and a good friend in sharing in its vision. David James, Kathleen McHugh, Bryan Wolf, and Tomás Ybarra-Frausto provided invaluable commentary on earlier versions of my introduction, and the readers’ reports provided both encouragement and insight into the manuscript itself. Special thanks to Michael Forstrom, who transcribed the lion’s share of the manuscript, and to Rebecca Esptein and Melissa Sine for their work on the lastminute entries. I am grateful for grants in partial support of this project from the following sources at the University of California, Los Angeles: Academic Senate, Chicano Studies Research Center, Institute of American Cultures, Office of the Chancellor. I was able to complete final editorial work on this manuscript while on leave with a J. Paul Getty Postdoctoral Fellowship in the History of Art and the Humanities and the President’s Research Fellowship in the Humanities, University of California. A grant from the University of California Institute for Mexico and the United States helped in the final production of this book. Finally, I want to thank Harry Gamboa Jr. for the words, and Kathleen McHugh for inspiring me to listen to them for a meaning outside meaning. xiii

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No Introduction Chon A. Noriega

NO ALIBIS

Harry Gamboa Jr. has no alibis. He entered school speaking Spanish and left speaking English only. He graduated from Garfield High School with a . grade point average. At the time, Garfield—later the setting of Stand and Deliver ()—had the highest dropout rate in the nation, sending more students to Vietnam than to college. In early March , Gamboa helped organize student “blowouts” protesting racist school policies and inadequate education. More than ten thousand students walked out of six East Los Angeles high schools. The action and subsequent increase in Chicano student activism marked an intensification in the growing Chicano civil rights movement.1 For these efforts, Gamboa had his picture taken with Bobby Kennedy and by the Los Angeles Police Department (LAPD). Later, Robert J. Thoms, a sergeant in the Intelligence Division of the LAPD, listed Gamboa as a militant “involved in the violent disruption of the establishment” in testimony before the U.S. Senate on the “Extent of Subversion in the ‘New Left.’” Thoms used these claims to challenge Gamboa’s right to be in college—because he had protested for better education in high school. In particular, Thoms drew attention to the Education Opportunities Program (EOP) for the California State College of Los Angeles, which provided fellowships to Gamboa and forty-two other so-called militants in –. (A total of  students on campus received funds that year.) By claiming misuse of federal funds, Thoms impugned the entire EOP, conflating “minorities” with “militants” while sounding the alarm that the program was about to increase fivefold the next year. For Thoms, the program’s expansion would mean an increase in subversive activities, rather than an increase in educational opportunity; it would be a part of 1

the problem, not the solution. The final irony, however, is that Thoms repeatedly admitted that he had no evidence to substantiate his claims.2 Harry Gamboa Jr. has no alibis. He didn’t need any; he was guilty by association. He was a young boy in the s. In the early s, poised between Vietnam and college, and silenced by the photographs and testimony of the establishment, he became an avant-garde artist instead. He had been at Chicano protests that devolved into police riots, seen Whittier Boulevard turned into a police checkpoint for Chicano youth, and then marveled as the mass media rearranged images and text to tell another story. As Gamboa recalls: I grew up in East L.A. and the environment there was so violent that it was almost like absurdist theater. . . . I had seen instances where the police came on campus and beat the shit out of kids. . . . But of all the things I had seen I was always constantly amazed at how people could manipulate material— your story—and change it. And I guess it was right after high school that it kind of clicked that they had pictures, and I didn’t have pictures to prove my point.3 And so Gamboa bought a camera with his EOP grant and headed off campus and back to the streets, teaching himself how to shoot. In , he also became editor of the second volume of Regeneración, where he invited Patssi Valdez, Willie Herrón, and Gronk to collaborate with him on the artwork.4 Soon the four artists, together with Humberto Sandoval, formed the art group Asco (–), engaging in conceptual art—from street performance to image-text pieces—that refused to offer alibis to the accusations promulgated by the police, the state, and the mass media. Asco was not about to enter into a struggle over negative and positive images—accusations and alibis—because the rules of evidence were stacked against Chicanos in the first place, the first rule being that those in power don’t necessarily need evidence. If this was so, Gamboa needed no alibis—that is, no stories to place Chicanos outside the scene of the crime and hence outside discourse. His stories would be about the silences within history.5 PAST IMPERFECTO

Thus to call Harry Gamboa Jr. an avant-garde artist is to raise questions about the absence of Asco itself from art history and historical exhibitions—an absence that marks, for example, the exhibit Reconsidering the Object of Art, – at the Museum of Contemporary Art (MOCA), Los Angeles, from October  to February .6 Until recently, Gamboa and Asco have also been placed at the margins of Chicano art history, and their internal critique of Chicano art itself remains conveniently misunderstood.7 What is at stake in both instances is a historical question: What does the avant-garde look and sound like when it blooms 2

Chon A. Noriega

Asco, 1980. Left to right: Harry Gamboa Jr., Gronk, Patssi Valdez,William F. Herrón III. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

outside the hothouse of the bourgeoisie? What does social protest against racism look and sound like when articulated outside a realist code? For a Chicano working-class avant-garde group raised in the barrio, assimilated to American mass culture, and making discourse the object of its social protest, the answer is simple: It looks like both and neither; and it sounds the same, but different. Part of the paradox stems from the fact that art history often takes congruence as influence, thereby sustaining its modernist genealogy. Gamboa’s performance texts have been linked with the European avant-garde of futurism, dadaism, and surrealism.8 And, in fact, his writings do share certain affinities with Bertolt Brecht’s ironic distantiation and Samuel Beckett’s “sentence in free-standing isolation,”9 and his urban peregrinations (both literal and literary) across Los Angeles suggest the Baudelarian flaneur or nineteenth-century stroller, whose “object of inquiry is modernity itself.”10 But Gamboa owes less to an intellectual tradition and more to an urban environment that makes flânerie obsolete in the face of random acts of violence. In “The Chosen Fugue,” the narrator records the following in a small spiral notebook after an earthquake: There, it’s over. Lucky that was a minor quake. I’d prefer to walk but everyone looks so desperate and nervous. No telling how many fingers are on the multiple triggers out there. Don’t want to stumble into someone’s frame of reference. If only I could be more eloquent in saying that I hate to live in fear. It is such a primal problem. I want to be a conceptual stoic and never blink. Wait. This is it! The narrator’s writing is done between tremors in a car parked in neutral beside his destroyed house. The title, which puns fugue and few, also plays with the Latin meaning of the word flight, finding an overarching sense of sacrifice in the contrapuntal fragments that make up the story. Gamboa’s use of the word fugue suggests a hybrid discourse—of the baroque and postmodern—that not only bookends modernity, but deconstructs the flaneur, revealing his privileged location within its critical blind spots: a state that controls the means of violence, and a marketplace that mystifies racial, class, and gender inequities. Gamboa was not schooled into a modernist patrimony, nor, upon closer examination, do aesthetic homologies do more than validate the antecedent (as precedent) and destroy the latter’s context (as irrelevant). If the flaneur represents “the ‘ur-form’ of the modern intellectual,”11 he does so as a writer situated within the market of an emerging public sphere that no longer exists—if it ever did in the way that civil libertarians now lament. In fact, for Walter Benjamin, the modernday flaneur is none other than the reporter and photojournalist who divert rather than describe their urban audience.12 Thus, whether at the service of a public 4

Chon A. Noriega

sphere or the mass media, the flaneur-cum-intellectual “goes to the marketplace, supposedly to take a look at it, but already in reality to find a buyer.”13 Gamboa, on the other hand, has no option but to replace flânerie with the freeway—his writings have no marketplace. For Gamboa, the freeway—“where obscurity is the fastest way home” (“A Rival Departure”)—becomes his map for writing outside the mainstream. But rather than constitute the marketplace and home as discrete categories—with the fantasy that racial groups, genders, and sexualities exist in separate spheres—the freeway situates Gamboa’s “exile” across a sprawling urban environment whose center must be imagined rather than traversed per se. The freeway becomes a lived metaphor for writing that takes an ironic stance toward the marketplace, a writing that is at once exiled from but circulating within society’s essential channels for trade and discourse: transportation, communication, and currency exchange.14 Exile from history does not mean one wasn’t in its frame. A CONCEPTUAL DRAMA

In the s, Gamboa was active in the emerging Los Angeles art scene, with its emphasis on performance and conceptual art. In , he cofounded Los Angeles Contemporary Exhibitions (LACE), an influential artist-run gallery funded through the Comprehensive Employment and Training Act. LACE was perhaps the first arts center in downtown Los Angeles, appearing before the creation of the Cultural Affairs Department and MOCA itself.15 His numerous interviews, essays, performance scripts, and fictional op-ed pieces speak to an alternative arts sector that can neither see nor hear its Chicano participants.16 But, as Max Benavidez notes, “Gamboa has always been at the edge, a card-carrying member of ‘the elite of the obscure,’ a transient celebrity from a phantom culture,” while his schizophrenic satire serves as a metaphor for “the fractured, glinting age of unreason.”17 Asco’s conceptual art had neither the imprimatur of the museum nor the support of the art market. If, in conceptual art, the idea prevails over the object, the document nevertheless secures that idea to the object-driven system that conceptual art challenges. But Chicanos were excluded from the museum outright, as Gamboa discovered in  when Gronk, Herrón, and Gamboa approached the Los Angeles County Museum of Art (LACMA) about including Chicano art in its exhibitions. In response to the flat refusal, the three artists spray-painted their signatures on the museum itself, claiming it as their conceptual art, and thereby achieving the paradox of an exhibition at LACMA that could not be inside LACMA. The photographic document did not enter the museum, nor did it circulate in the mass media; rather, as neither beauty nor truth, Spray Paint LACMA hovered somewhere in between as Asco developed a conceptual art that not only placed the idea over the object, but insinuated it into the unstable interstices of contending social practices. No Introduction

5

Subway Limited: Washington D.C. to East L.A., 1989. Harry Gamboa Jr. awaits nonstop subway ride home. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

Gamboa has been a pioneer of multimedia and hybrid formats for nearly three decades, from photo-based texts to mixed-media performance to conceptual video.18 His seventy published and unpublished texts (essays, drama, fiction, poetry) present a significant challenge to the prevailing history of Chicano and avant-garde literature in the United States. Indeed, this work stands at the crossroads of two histories—and, ultimately, two canon formations—usually seen in isolation: Chicano (and minority) art, on the one hand, and the post- avantgarde in the United States, on the other hand. That Gamboa stands at the crossroads of these two histories makes his work at once unique and difficult for either side to accept, especially insofar as his work unsettles the autochthonous cultural claims of the former and the universalist formal claims of the latter. On one level, Gamboa’s work presents an alternative chronicle of the Chicano community, poised against the ethnographic romanticism of social documentary, the stereotypes of the mass media, and the essentialism of Chicano identity politics. On another level, his work presents a self-consciously male, urban, ethnic, and parodic critique of the postmodern condition, standing alongside (and in dialogue with) the underground cinema, conceptual art, and performance of the s and s. In addressing these two seemingly discrete artistic movements, Gamboa challenges both sides as “imagined communities” based on mutual exclusion, while he also constructs a new, hybrid language with which to narrate what he calls the “urban exile” of Chicano artists. This hybrid language, based on interlingual or macaronic puns, alliterative word association, and telling titles, destabilizes meaning in order to produce a double movement in Gamboa’s work toward both cultural autonomy and global interdependence.19 In Gamboa’s fiction and performance, street preachers, fractured families, and artists enact their violently absurb dramas in the shadow of a built urban environment, state violence, and global disease and nuclear annihilation. Jetter’s Jinx, for example, takes place at a birthday party for a gay Chicano artist in which only one friend shows up, Nopal (a macaronic pun meaning “no pal” in English and “cactus” in Spanish). The other guests have died or are dying of AIDS. Jetter and Nopal’s verbal repartee, from free association to homonyms, produces startling linguistic connections among AIDS, nuclear war, illegal aliens, two-party politics, and mass murderers. When Jetter solves Nopal’s pantomime after frenzied free association, Nopal manipulates Jetter’s mouth as he repeats the answer: Many festivals destroy tiny successes. Many fest, destroy tiny successes. Many fest, Dest, Tiny suck excess Mani, Fest, Des, Tiny, Suck excess. Manifest Destiny Sucks. No Introduction

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But there is no “place” for this statement as a conventional politics; rather, the social critique embedded in Jetter’s Jinx emerges outside literal meaning, linear narration, and realist characterization. As Gamboa acknowledges in his essay “Urban Exile,” his goal is to expose the contradictions and lacunae within any social formation. In doing so at the level of language, he reveals the particular and the universal as necessary fictions, using these insights to speak against the grain without succumbing to the piety of an oppositional politics. In short, he is a Chicano artist who pursues activism outside identity. ASCO FIASCO

Interestingly, Asco members became artists for many of the same reasons as their peers within the Chicano civil rights movement. For Gamboa, poor education, police violence, state surveillance, and media distortion made him realize that “they had pictures, and I didn’t have pictures to prove my point,” leading him to engage the issues of public space and the mass media through performance, photography, and fiction. In contrast to the contestatory realism of other artists-cumactivists, Gamboa was not content to struggle over content. Nor could he and other Asco members deny their intense engagement—critical or otherwise—with American mass culture in order to speak from an other tradition. But this was not always the case. In his first publication, “Another Day, Another Murder” (), Gamboa expressed outrage at police brutality, using the idea of “internal colonialism” to explain racism as an attempt to “control or eliminate” Chicanos.20 Although Gamboa sought to motivate readers to act, he theorized power relations in such absolute terms that it reduced his own outrage and call for collective action to an empty threat. Nevertheless, Gamboa found a toehold, not in a theory with descriptive or prescriptive powers, but in the instability of language itself, found in the essay’s occasional pun, deadpan description, and deferment of the question of violent resistance to the reader. In performance, Asco likewise turned to the meaning outside meaning. In the early s, Asco members engaged in conceptual art that was notable for the way in which it recoded so-called subversive acts—street protest, graffiti, leaflets—as performance, a move that allowed the group to reclaim public space, articulate a political critique, and have its message circulate within public discourse.21 At the time, police violence had restricted Chicano public space, first through provocation of several demonstrations against police violence, then in the cancellation of the annual Christmas parade in East Los Angeles. In response, Asco staged two Christmas Eve processions down Whittier Boulevard, wherein last-minute shoppers were caught in an impromptu communion between consumerism and death. In the first, Stations of the Cross (), Pontius Pilate aka Popcorn (Gronk), Christ-as-calavera or skeleton (Herrón), and a zombie-altar 8

Chon A. Noriega

Scissors I & II, 1974. Cover image for Regeneración, Volume 2, Number 4. Pictured: Patssi Valdez. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

boy (Gamboa) walked one mile among the confused and hostile consumers, before placing their cardboard-box cross at the final station, a U.S. Marine Corps recruiting station, blessing the site with unbuttered popcorn. The pun on “stations” conflated Christianity and Vietnam around the trope of a spiritual sacrifice in the name of consumerism—hence station as social position, a place for service, and a bastion against communism. But Asco also planned the event as an intervention against the newspapers and television stations that glossed over the political upheaval and social unrest in East Los Angeles. In the end, Stations of the Cross found another mode of communication in the rumor and innuendo that attended the performance. The following year, Asco turned its attention to Chicano nationalism itself, parodying the static quality of its mythology, iconography, and politics as represented in muralism. In Walking Mural (), Asco members marched down Whittier Boulevard dressed as absurd mural characters: Patssi Valdez as the Virgen de Guadalupe-in-Black; Willie Herrón as a multifaced mural; and Gronk as X-mas Tree, wearing three inverted chiffon dresses. Gamboa filmed and photographed the procession. The performance critiqued muralism as an inadequate strategy for reclaiming public space, especially given the incongruity between the usual mural images from the conquest of the Americas and the present-day social drama that unfolded in front of them on the streets. In a wry commentary, Herrón’s tortured mural faces—perhaps a veiled reference to the tripartite “mestizo head” symbolizing the racial mixture of Spanish and indigenous people in the Americas—become so bored with their place within the racial mythology of Chicano nationalism that they walk off the wall and into the streets. The performance also suggested how nationalism occluded issues of gender and sexuality within the Chicano movement. But Asco did not simply try to reform Chicano identity by questioning the authenticity of nationalist stereotypes or by adding more social categories to the mixture. In other words, Asco did not attempt to supplant the Virgen de Guadalupe with the more “authentic” Chicana of the day—the late-s “Jetter” dressed in black who used high fashion and fast language to resist the role of victim. Nor did it try to supplement the traditional gender roles of the Chicano movement’s straight and gay veteranos with its own style of youth-oriented “gender diffusion.” Instead, Walking Mural argued for both and neither by collapsing these contending images onto each other. Thus Patssi Valdez became the Virgen de Guadalupe-in-Black, while Gronk’s X-mas Tree embodied an elaborate pun that placed taking up a minority identity (ex-mass) within a secular-cum-camp version of Christmas. In the same way that Gamboa worked with verbal puns, Asco’s performance broke with the naive realism that undergirded cultural nationalism, with its search for the real Chicano and the right politics, and presented Chicano identity as performative. 10

Chon A. Noriega

But, it is important to note, Asco did not imply that Chicanos performed identity, with its inference that one can choose better or worse roles to play. In fact, what makes the group distinct is that it was not vested in identity politics in the first place. For Asco, what made Chicano identity performative was not that it named itself against all odds, as an act of defiance, but that it was constituted within a set of social relations largely defined by the mass media and the corporate liberal state. As such, Asco saw identity as less a question of form and content— that is, a proper name—and more a question about the context for speaking and being heard. Straight description would not work because of the ways in which the public had been conditioned to receive information. Needless to say, such a politics upset many within the Chicano movement, who claimed the group made them nauseous (me da asco). Gamboa dealt with this conflict in his first published story, “Cruel Profit,” a collage of nationalist responses, artist statements, and sexual longing somehow related to Asco’s first Super- film of the same title. In the film, Willie Herrón tries to immolate a doll, but the doll resists. In response to the film, one carnal (brother) warns Gamboa, “Things are too abstract already, the world doesn’t need any more confusion, obstacles that confuse people while they try to cope with reality.” But Gamboa’s story subsumes the trappings of the carnal’s public identity as revolutionary within a broader exploration of subjectivity as the crossroads of desire, capital, and politics. In the end, the carnal is a “cruel profit” because he cannot see his own location within the “dangerous bourgeois bullshit” he rejects, and because he holds others to his sentimental stereotypes about oppression and revolution. The narratorcum-author emerges in the final segment, saying goodbye to the carnal: “I leave tattoos on this typical disaster and besides I still fear you more than the midnight dark in which I’ll disappear, besides, you’re not alone. In fact, you’re the third this week.” But if Gamboa and Asco feared such nationalists, they did not back down, but outflanked the veteranos in drawing attention to language itself. Thus, in , in a move that mirrored the self-designation Chicano (which had been a derogative term within the Mexican-descent community), the artists took Asco as their proper name. YOUNG BOY IN THE 50S

Asco refined its politics of negation by co-opting the Chicano movement’s own efforts to integrate the mass media and thereby change the national imagination. In the early s, Chicano student activists and would-be filmmakers promulgated “Chicano cinema” as a way to bring positive images of Chicanos to the silver screen. Although a broad-based media reform movement resulted in minority public affairs shows on network and public television between  and , Chicano cinema never quite made it to Hollywood. No Introduction

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For its part, Asco went for a special effect that had no apparent cause, replacing Chicano cinema with the No Movie. As S. Zaneta Kosiba-Vargas explains, “Asco understood that racial discrimination limited their access to the American television and film industry and responded by creating and promulgating the illusion of success against a backdrop of Hollywood-style glitter and glamour.”22 The No Movies took various forms, although always with Gamboa’s camera in mind: performance pieces, published interviews, mail art, and media hoaxes. Cause and effect were fractured, allowing Asco to forgo the cinematic apparatus but still use cinematic discourse (as circulated by the press and word of mouth) in order to “project a concept” before a global audience. These efforts insinuated themselves into the mass media, operating like a computer virus, the glitch in the system that, however briefly, reveals the system-as-system. In this manner, Gamboa made the processes of mass media (rather than their form or content) the real issue, exploring a postmodern condition in which Chicano identity and history are increasingly mediated and constituted through electronic culture. But, if Gamboa questioned the media as inherently objective, he did not so much reject truth claims as identify them as rhetorical strategies within public discourse. As Gamboa explains about the No Movies, “They were designed to create an impression of factuality, giving the viewer information without any of the footnotes.” Or, as Gronk explains in an interview written with Gamboa, “It’s making a movie without the use of celluloid. It’s projecting the real without the reel.” The No Movies isolated a single mm image—as if it were a still from an actual movie—and thereby conjured up the before and after of an implied narrative. Gamboa applied text to these images in the same way the LAPD had done to secure a narrative to its visual evidence.23 Central to this attempt to project the “real” was a political investment in form itself. As with Walking Mural, the No Movies produced an intermedia synesthesia, using one “very affordable medium” to critique and replace another, more exclusionary, one. In a way, the No Movies share affinities with Sheldon Renan’s notion of “expanded cinema,” wherein “the effect of film may be produced without the use of film at all,” an idea developed further by Gene Youngblood.24 In contrast to these counterculture experiments, however, Gamboa was not after the mere “effect” of cinema, but rather a conceptual critique of minorities’ limited access to the mass media: “It was sort of like a political protest based on the economics of financing films, and also based on the reality that maybe I only did have five dollars.”25 In , now working as a bus driver, Gamboa had the resources to expand the No Movie, producing image-text flyers that were photocopied and mailed to five hundred addresses in Europe, Mexico, Argentina, and the United States. The phrase “Chicano Cinema/Asco” identified the flyers as part of an ethnic film 12

Chon A. Noriega

Asco, 1975. Left to right: Patssi Valdez,William F. Herrón III, Gronk, Humberto Sandoval, Harry Gamboa Jr. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

movement. In one series, Young Boy in the s, Gamboa follows the story of a young boy who uses massive explosives against the Immigration and Naturalization Service, in protest of its mass deportations. The boy disappears and is later found dead. The series started after Gamboa was assaulted on his bus route, causing him to experience aphasia over the next year. In dealing with loss of memory, Gamboa correlated the “severe blow to the skull” with social injustices that produce “the same perceptual disorder.” (Fittingly, the Rapid Transit District initially claimed that Gamboa had been drunk instead.) Gamboa reworked his autobiography as a political allegory, insofar as he was a young boy in the s, an alleged militant “involved in the violent disruption of the establishment” in the s, and a hapless bus driver in the s. The images used in the series are from snapshots of Gamboa when he was about three years old. In the series, Gamboa resituates protest outside the rhetoric of a social crisis, identifying himself instead with a generation that grew up with television, drop drills, and an otherwise quiescent body politic. It is these same children whom the police, mass media, and state pathologize—as subversive agents within that body politic—when the children protest for social equity. As Gamboa notes with deadpan humor in Pseudoturquoisers, “A small child is slapped in the face by a stranger on a public street corner; the parents approve and pay taxes. Where is the comedy in desperation?” It is this misrecognition—both within the family and throughout the nation— that Gamboa makes the basis for a critical and conceptual melodrama. PHANTOMS SPEAK MY LANGUISH

The bulk of Gamboa’s writings since the s fall into the area of performance, including performance art, plays, radio drama, a teleplay, an urban opera, and fotonovelas (mixed-media performances presented through slides, video, and audiotape). Other writings, such as mail art, staged interviews, absurdist fiction, and, most recently, e-mail communiqués, also function as “performative” texts written in medias res and designed to compel action of one sort or another. In using “Standard English,” Gamboa insinuates interlingual puns, Spanish syntax, and other deconstructive strategies to reveal the racial logic of everyday life and urban culture in Los Angeles. But, in contrast to such writers as Gloria Anzaldúa and Guillermo Gómez-Peña, who retreat into the opacity of a multilingual otherness, Gamboa turns English itself into a weapon. For Gamboa, the English language becomes a weapon against itself, the social system, and the subjectivity its structure supports. Gamboa entered elementary school speaking Spanish, whereupon he received his first art lesson: cutting and pasting a dunce cap out of construction paper, onto which the teacher wrote the letters, “------.” Six years later, Gamboa could not speak Spanish, but the shift to English-only did not change the segregated environment of Los Angeles 14

Chon A. Noriega

in which he lived. The imposed cultural literacy of the classroom and television aside, Gamboa would be nearly twenty years old before he interacted with a nonChicano peer. These experiences inform “Chavalo Was Lost at ‘Sí,’” a short story in which the character’s name (a nickname meaning “lad”) suggests the general and generational impact of the interlingual pun (sí meaning “yes” in Spanish, but also a homonym for sea). When the teacher asks, “Will you speak in plain English?” Chavalo politely answers, “Sí.” He is then forced to wear a dunce cap he had been ordered to construct on the first day of class. As the students recite the Pledge of Allegiance, he tries to remember his grandfather’s words, only to come up with images from television. Watching the other children with their hands over their hearts, Chavalo laughs to himself and whispers, “No, no, no.” Unlike his acquiescence, which had been uttered in Spanish, Chavalo’s resistance uses a word that is the same in English and Spanish. If Chavalo was forced to play a role in constructing “------” as a stigma (and Gamboa is deliberate in his use of “construct” and “construction paper”), he also deconstructs the English language in finding that point where it overlaps with Spanish. But to grasp the full extent of what Gamboa reveals about his own writing in this scene, we must pay attention to the fact that Chavalo laughs to himself in rejecting the Pledge of Allegiance. That laughter and the interlingual negation reveal the pledge to be more a statement about language than it is about citizenship. After all, one pledges allegiance to a signifier—the flag—because it “represents” the republic and its spiritual and political ideals. Chavalo laughs because the children pledge their hands and their hearts to an absolute relationship between the signifier (flag), the signified (liberty and justice for all), and the referent (the state). But, as in language itself, neither the signified nor the referent can be secured. The final irony, however, is that Chavalo’s knowledge itself must be based on a negation—the pun between no and know—that subjects him to the very language and system he resists. While his peers pledge their hands and hearts to an idea, Chavalo pledges his mind to its negation. But his wry pun opens up a space within the English language for him to exist, not as its antithesis, but as something else that must be, for the moment, whispered. The lad was lost at “sí” until the citizens’ ship of state made him “no” better. AUTOLOGÜE

Gamboa’s story reveals how a young boy’s identity is constituted in the negation between languages, producing a split subject who articulates his knowledge— his no/know—by laughing and whispering to himself. In the No Movie series Autologüe, Gamboa explores this conversation with oneself—that is, between “I” and “Me.” The Autologüe suggests a schizophrenic self, but one that resonates with No Introduction

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Gamboa’s verbal and visual puns. When “Me” offers a definition of an autologüe— “A conversation with oneself ”—“I” answers: “Almost.” Because “I” and “Me” represent repetition with a difference, the conversation between the two is not selfcontained, cannot be reduced to a unified subject, but slips into the social by way of the unconscious. As “Me” explains, “Your dreams intermingle unchallenged with your waking states disrupting all of your opportunities to perceive the ugliness that surrounds us.” In another autologüe, “Me” refuses to participate in a dream, whereupon “I” concludes, “The autologüe is the only means of combating the horrible inability to control dreams,” and falls asleep. The autologüe serves as a metaphor for the alienated artist in which the conversation with oneself takes place in the shadow of the unconconscious and the capitalist state: : Contemptuousness is a suicidal action. : And the sweet smell of blood is in my wallet. The autologüe takes place between an “I” and “Me” that are as inseparable as self and society. Only the irreducible “almost” signals a way out of the prison house of language. As an artist, Gamboa finds his “almost” in the space between a certain style of Spanish-language narration—overheard as a child in the “fabulously absurdist conversations” between his mother and her brothers and sister, and read somewhat later in the Mexican tabloid Alarma—and the deconstruction of the English language that became his only tongue. Gamboa is not satisfied to make a point about the inadequacy of language itself, given that language proves adequate for the oppression of one group by another. Instead, what he struggles with is the fact that speaking against that oppression will not be heard. In “Día de los muertos” (Day of the Dead), Gamboa juxtaposes a first-person lament on a long-lost love with several drafts of a new journalism dispatch on the police riot that ended the Chicano Moratorium Against the Vietnam War on August , . Gamboa had been at the march-cum-riot, where he met longtime community activist Francisca Flores, who recruited him to edit Regeneración, beginning his life as a writer. During the riot, a Los Angeles County sheriff ’s deputy shot a twelve-inch tear gas canister into the Silver Dollar Cafe, not up into the ceiling, but down into Rubén Salazar’s head, killing him instantly.26 Salazar, a journalist for the Los Angeles Times, represented a lone voice in the mainstream press for the Chicano civil rights movement. As Mario García notes, Salazar’s death “silenced an expression of hope that American society would keep its promises.”27 In Gamboa’s short story, the narrative voice slips between Gamboa and Salazar, and between romantic lament and social description, until the two converge in the final paragraph. 16

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I preferred you in the shadows of our youth, together, kissing; touching teeth to flesh, entering our bodies in a hypnotic dance of eroticism by the garage. My dreams were always safe because you’d tell me not to worry; gray matter flying from my head in a strange distorted orbit. . . . A kiss to your wet lips, as the chromium-plated projectile shoots through the air; a woman screaming outside the curtains; words for you, none left: Gray matter covering the sky, smeared on all the looted liquor in this bar, as I wave to it, knowing that it can see me as I fall to the floor in defeated convulsions; you wore no underwear; you told me not to worry. In melodrama, sentimentality limits the focus to the domestic realm and personal travails of the bourgeoisie. Its characters become objects of pathos because they are subject to forces beyond their control or understanding. But we feel melodrama, and hence we tend to believe what it says: namely, that the erotics and pathos of the couple can stand in for and resolve social contradictions. Gamboa remotivates melodrama by juxtaposing it with the journalistic account of the police riot. Such a move proves too extreme for pathos and erotics to offer a symbolic resolution—its limits are exposed. But Gamboa also knows that as a journalist he cannot replace Salazar—his description of the riot will be unbelievable, no matter how accurate, hence the four drafts as his language drifts toward metaphor. Instead, Gamboa critiques and uses melodrama at the same time, bringing it to bear upon events described by the news media. In this way, the pathos over desire and death reconnects the reader to the political, and makes us feel the silencing of Salazar as Gamboa’s literary legacy. ORPHANS OF MODERNISM

In all his art and writings, Gamboa rejects both the moral certitude of an oppositional political art (that works largely in modernist terms) and the cynicism of contemporary photography (whose postmodernist claims as an avant-garde are belied by its market function vis-à-vis painting). In effect, Gamboa has walked the line between the political and market functions of art, calling into question the underlying binary oppositions used to sustain such a distinction: representation (signifier/signified), gender (female/male), race (color/whiteness), generation (modern/postmodern). In this respect, Gamboa is a unique voice within both the Chicano community and the alternative arts. Indeed, throughout his career, Gamboa has worked largely outside the art market and other support structures, while mentoring younger artists, actors, and writers. But Gamboa is by no means “pure” in standing outside these institutions—his position is as much imposed as it is chosen, expressing both unrequited desire and affectless hatred for the consumer culture within which he exists and from which he speaks. This ambivalence No Introduction

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Zero Visibility, 1978. Pictured: Harry Gamboa Jr. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

is counterbalanced by a more profound one: a critical distance that is neither a “politics of the signifier” nor a “politics of the signified.” Here, caught between flânerie and the freeway, Gamboa intervenes within a social space constituted as dreams (Hollywood and Chicano movement discourses) and nightmares (an urban environment defined by social-cum-geographic inequities, state surveillance, and police violence). And, at best, language can “almost” bridge the gap. Since the late s, Gamboa has been the focus of revisionist scholarship that has begun to challenge and expand the historical record of conceptual photography, performance art, and experimental media.28 Gamboa, however, presents an enigma to the cultural historian, being someone whose craft involves selfeffacement in order to speak against the grain of the mass media and the alternative arts.29 Indeed, his own writings often confound attempts at autobiographical and historiographic certainty. Gamboa’s position as Asco’s documenteur in no way contradicts his urban deconstruction. In “Light at the End of Tunnel Vision,” he offers a caustic warning against a nostalgia inspired by Asco’s own notoriety: The viewer must beware that several zombies do not constitute a living or relevant art group. . . . . . . The tangible evidence that remains of Asco is supported by hearsay and conflicting memories of plausible events. The works of Asco were often created in transitory or easily degradable materials that crumble at the slightest prodding and fade quickly upon exposure to any glimmer of hope. It is unlikely that the objects, historical accuracy, or spirit of Asco will ever be recovered. Indeed, Gamboa’s most notable work—No Movies, media hoaxes, mail art, and performance—is evanescent by design. The short story “Where They Found Javier” provides a satirical meditation on the historiography for a conceptual artist, weaving together testimonials, correspondence, journal entries (excerpted from a foundation-supported research project), tape recordings, a published interview, an archive inventory, and a eulogy by an anonymous television reporter. History is in the negation, the contradiction, the paradox. But it is also in laughter. In “Past Imperfecto,” Gamboa rejects even his own position—“Forget what I just wrote. It is a lie. I remember everything!”—before returning once again to relativism with a difference: “Sometimes it is impossible to give an accurate account of my personal history since I have maintained extensive notes since  (along with support documents and photographs).” Exile is a human condition as much as it is a geopolitical one. The general difficulty of obtaining Gamboa’s published and unpublished work makes Urban Exile an important and timely resource.30 The particular difficulty of grasping Gamboa’s writing makes the book a challenge, if not a paradox. No Introduction

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By the end of the s, Gamboa would be the only Asco member not incorporated into the art market; and, now, at the end of the s, this book shows why that “exile” has been the case by bringing him before another market. NOTES 1. See Carlos Muñoz Jr., Youth, Identity, Power: The Chicano Movement (New York: Verso, ), especially chapters  and . Gamboa is featured in the four-part documentary series ¡Chicano! The History of the Mexican American Civil Rights Movement, which aired on PBS stations in  and is available through the National Latino Communications Center in Los Angeles. See also the companion book of the same title written by F. Arturo Rosales and published by Arte Público Press. 2. U.S. Congress, Senate Committee of the Judiciary, Extent of Subversion in the “New Left”: Testimony of Robert J. Thoms, hearings before the Subcommittee to Investigate the Administration of the Internal Security Act and Other Internal Security Laws, Part , January ,  (Washington, D.C.: U.S. Government Printing Office, ), –, and pullout section facing p. . 3. Interview with Harry Gamboa Jr., Los Angeles, May , . 4. On Patssi Valdez, see Margarita Nieto, “Patssi Valdez,” Latin American Art (Summer ): ; Susan Kandel, “Valdez’s Morbid Vision of Domesticity,” Los Angeles Times, March , , F; and Susan Wiggins, “Patssi Valdez,” Artweek, March , , . On Gronk, see Max Benavidez, “How Do You Spell Gronk?,” Los Angeles Times, June , , Calendar sec., pp. , ; Elston Carr, “Just Another Painter from East L.A.: Gronk Goes to LACMA,” L.A. Weekly, March –, , –; and ¡Gronk! A Living Survey, - (San Francisco: Mexican Museum, ). In addition to painting murals, Willie Herrón played a pivotal role in the Chicano punk and new wave musical scene of the late s and early s, fronting the mariachi punk group Los Illegals and founding Club Vex. In , Los Illegals recorded Internal Exile on A&M Records. See Yvette C. Doss, “More ‘El Lay’ Stories: Influential Chicano Band Los Illegals Makes a Return,” Los Angeles Times, May , , F, F. 5. One such silence is the history of East Los Angeles itself, as seen in Mike Davis’s otherwise insightful City of Quartz: Excavating the Future in Los Angeles (New York: Vintage, ). While I must necessarily be brief on such historical context, it clearly informs Gamboa’s own work, especially insofar as his writings, photographs, and videos self-consciously construct a critical topography of Los Angeles. For a general history, see Ricardo Romo, East Los Angeles: History of a Barrio (Austin: University of Texas Press, ). See also George Lipsitz, “Cruising around the Historical Bloc: Postmodernism and Popular Music in East Los Angeles,” in Time Passages: Collective Memory and American Popular Culture (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, ), –. 6. See Ann Goldstein and Anne Rorimer, Reconsidering the Object of Art, – (Cambridge: MIT Press, ). 7. For an example of the first major exhibition to integrate Asco into Chicano art, see Richard Griswold del Castillo, Teresa McKenna, and Yvonne Yarbro-Bejarano, eds., Chicano Art: Resistance and Affirmation, – (Los Angeles: UCLA Wight Art Gallery, ). 8. See, for example, S. Zaneta Kosiba-Vargas’s Ph.D. dissertation, “Harry Gamboa and

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Asco: The Emergence and Development of a Chicano Art Group, –,” University of Michigan, ; and Max Benavidez, “Latino Dada: Savage Satire from Harry Gamboa Jr.,” L.A. Weekly, May –, . 9. Fredric Jameson, Postmodernism; or, The Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, ), . Jameson is speaking about a condition in which schizophrenic disjunction becomes a cultural style, making the “isolated signifier” able to produce meaning beyond the discontinuities between sentences. 10. Susan Buck-Morss, The Dialectics of Seeing: Walter Benjamin and the Arcades Project (Cambridge: MIT Press, ), . In “Latino Dada,” Benavidez identifies Solo in Shadow Solo as “a nihilistic, self-hating Skid Row flaneur [who] walks through the desolate urban chaos around him with ready putdowns of the horrific and bizarre rituals of the underclass.” 11. Buck-Morss, The Dialectics of Seeing, . 12. Ibid., –. 13. Walter Benjamin, quoted in ibid., . 14. As David E. James writes about oppositional cultural production in general: “Enabled by capital, they are never entirely free from it, but neither are they reducible to it. Neither fully integrated into industrial production nor the fully autonomous preserve of some fraction of the social formation whose authenticity they could articulate, they ceaselessly cross intrinsically unstable positions.” Power Misses: Essays across (Un)Popular Culture (New York: Verso, ), . Thus if “power sometimes misses” (), so too does the antihegemonic; each is imbricated in the other. I am also grateful to Bryan Wolf for stressing this point with respect to Gamboa. 15. See Los Angeles Contemporary Exhibitions, LACE:  Years Documented (Los Angeles: Los Angeles Contemporary Exhibitions, ). 16. In this respect, Gamboa’s writing blurs the boundaries that separate fiction, autobiography, and political commentary. For example, two short stories, “No Alibi” and “In the Realm of the Senseless,” were published as op-ed articles in art magazines. The short story “Writer’s Blockade” comments on Gamboa’s experiences writing a commissioned play for a Hispanic project at the Los Angeles Theatre Center funded by the Ford Foundation, whereas the play itself, Vex Requiem, represents Gamboa’s most dystopic vision of the artist in late capitalism. 17. Benavidez, “Latino Dada.” 18. For a discussion of Gamboa’s video work, see his own article “Past Imperfecto”; my article, “Talking Heads, Body Politic: The Plural Self of Chicano Video,” in Michael Renov and Erika Suderberg, eds., Resolutions: Contemporary Video Practices (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, ), –; and Klaus Kertess,  Biennial Exhibition (New York: Whitney Museum of American Art, ), , –. On Gamboa’s photography, see his article “Light at the End of Tunnel Vision”; Shifra M. Goldman, “Brown in Black and White,” Artweek, June , ; and Phoenix Art Museum, Contemporary Identities:  Phoenix Triennial (Phoenix, Ariz.: Phoenix Art Museum, ), –. 19. For an insightful discussion of puns, including macaronic puns, see Gregory Ulmer, “The Puncept in Grammatology,” in Jonathan Culler, ed., On Puns (Oxford: Blackwell, ), –. 20. Harry Gamboa Jr., “Another Day, Another Murder,” Regeneración . (): –. See also Gamboa’s cartoon, “Genocide Patrol,” –. 21. Asco’s performances in the s included Stations of the Cross (), Walking

No Introduction

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Mural (), Spray Paint LACMA (), Día de los muertos (), First Supper (After a Major Riot) (), Instant Mural (), and Decoy Gang War Victim (). Gamboa discusses these performances in his essay, “In the City of Angels, Chameleons, and Phantoms.” 22. Kosiba-Vargas, “Harry Gamboa and Asco,” . 23. For an example of this struggle over the interpretation of visual evidence, see Requiem  (), which was shot by Chicano film students amid the police riot that ended the Chicano Moratorium Against the Vietnam War on August , . The film also documents the subsequent inquest into the shooting death of Los Angeles Times columnist Rubén Salazar by the Los Angeles Sheriff ’s Department, during which Chicano photographer Raul Ruiz challenges the judge’s red-baiting and biased assertions. 24. Sheldon Renan, An Introduction to the American Underground Film (New York: Dutton, ), –; Gene Youngblood, Expanded Cinema (New York: Dutton, ). In their early years, Asco members appear to have been generally unaware of events in the art world, responding instead to their more immediate environment: the Chicano working class in East Los Angeles and American mass culture. For his part, Gamboa engaged in only casual and sporadic reading until , when, having dropped out of college, he began to teach himself; and he did not start reading about art until , by which time he had developed his voice as an artist. Thus, although Gamboa may have read Youngblood’s articles on expanded cinema in the L.A. Free Press in the late s (which Gamboa can neither confirm nor deny), they would have left a haphazard and unnoticed influence on the development of the No Movies. 25. Gamboa interview. 26. The Sheriff ’s Department refused to turn over its training manual in order to establish proper procedures for use of tear gas. The deputy was cleared. See Mario T. García’s account of the police riot, Salazar’s death, and subsequent inquest in his introduction to Rubén Salazar, Border Correspondent: Selected Writings, –, ed. Mario T. García (Berkeley: University of California Press, ), –. 27. Ibid., . 28. In addition to Kosiba-Vargas, Susana Ortiz deals with Gamboa’s work in her M.F.A. thesis film, The Art of Resistance (Stanford University, ), available through the Cinema Guild. See also Lucy R. Lippard, Mixed Blessings: New Art in a Multicultural America (New York: Pantheon, ), –; Marcos Sanchez-Tranquilino, “Mi casa no es su casa: Chicano Murals and Barrio Caligraphy as Systems of Signification at Estrada Courts, –,” M.A. thesis, Department of Art History, University of California, Los Angeles, . The following people are currently completing Ph.D. dissertations that include chapters on Gamboa and Asco: C. Ondine Chavoya (University of Rochester), José Gámez (UCLA), Ramón García (UC San Diego), and Mario Ontiveros (UCLA). 29. As Max Benavidez notes in “Latino Dada,” “He is the one Asco-vite who has carried on a tradition of artistic purity, sometimes to the point of self-denial.” 30. Gamboa’s papers are archived in the Mexican American Collection at Stanford University Libraries, Palo Alto, California.

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E S S AY S A N D I N T E RV I E W S

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Three Interviews (Written in Collaboration with Gronk and Willie Herrón)

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Interview: Gronk and Gamboa

: What is a no movie? : I use the three point dot system for preparation of a no movie. First: no film. Second: thinking within an ½″ × ″ format. Third: postal distribution. The no movie is a concept that involves the aforementioned system. : It is perceiving life within a cinemagraphic context. : It is thinking of life before the advent of a view finder. It is projecting the real by rejecting the reel. : It is a series of life events which can be edited into any number of no movie productions. : How did the idea of the no movie develop? : It started with  cents in my pocket and  cents in Gronk’s pocket. With a dime between the two of us, we used it to call a mutual friend but he wasn’t home. Gronk and I were broke but we still wanted to make a movie so we made one about two artists who only had a nickel each and who spend it foolishly but then get the idea of how they can make a movie. : With the idea that everyone (not just filmmakers, artists) can make movies, also a rebuff to celluloidic capitalism of contemporary cinema. : Do these no movies have titles? : Yes and no. : A La Mode, Ascofiasco (which is a no movie remake of the original celluloid version), the Autologüe series  through , Gronk as 27

a decoy barrio gangwar victim on a recent local television presentation. We don’t discuss our flops. : We have a repertory company of no movie performers that includes Patssi, who starred in A La Mode. : A La Mode was based on the relationship between scoop and slice, a matter of the subliminal violence in submission. : It was a primal dance set against the backdrop of eighteen bags of sawdust. : Did you have a traditional background in filmmaking? What I mean to ask you is, have you made movies with film? : Yes. One movie was about a family that is overcome by Dixie Cups. They become slaves to the Dixie Cups. When the family tries to dispose of them they find themselves buying more in order to drink their water (symbol of life). They become so assimilated in disposing and buying, rejecting any other means of drinking. : A technology which allows for only minor variations of the same product. : If they were to stop buying the Dixie Cups they would die of thirst. They live for buying and disposing the product (as we all do in this capitalistic system) for survival. The Dixie Cup becomes their whole life. The ending of the movie is rather weak though, I had the children in the family discard the Dixie Cup (Capitalism) altogether by removing it as a household product and from their lives. Replacing it with a more durable and stronger utensil to hold water/life. : Cruel Profit was a movie which I presented at the L.A. County Museum of Art. It was based on torture as a medium of love, i.e., relationships perverted by antiquated cultural norms in a complex colonial situation. : At what point did you reject the celluloid format of cinema? : When I realized Chicano filmmakers were making the same movie over and over again. Unable to discard their Dixie Cups. : When I discovered for myself that a multimillion dollar project could be accomplished for less than ten dollars and have more than  copies circulating around the world. : What conditions do you work under in order to produce a no movie? 28

Three Interviews

Fashionable Confessional, 1978.Video performance by Harry Gamboa Jr. (left) and Gronk. Photo credit: Margaret Magellin.

: The special effects of altering conditions in the process of making the no movie. : Under extreme exhaustion; with images and incidents incubating at their own gestation rate. Being impatient I remove them by intruding into my subconscious and use whatever suitable materials are available for their construction. : What subjects are used for no movie scenarios? : The ABC’s of an impoverished existence: Altruism, bullets, and crying. : Life/art standing and sitting repeatedly until you are doing neither. The point between standing and sitting. : Brutality serves as a fluid containing the lives of billions which sink to the bottom as the sedimentary waste products of interdependent economies. : Repetition of movement, in front of and behind a frame that is circular rather than linear exercising liberation. : A suicidal statement taken for granted. A subject is a rat for psychological observation; a subject is a person for psychological assault. : The abuse of polycorporations that are the thorn in the foot of Latinoamerica. : A young woman walks alone; concentrating on the rituals of massacre she inadvertently steps onto the street and into the flow of traffic. She is run over by her lover who is then sentenced to life imprisonment for premeditated murder. The no movie is a sarcastic reply to the established popular consensus that one may not manipulate dreams. : Art/politics Work/life Real vs. Reel A concert in contempt Artmoreorless : Are you currently working on any projects? : A montage of wounds mixed with familiar sounds. Photographing lightning and babies. Analyzing the self repudiation that is necessary in order to stab someone and then I’ll place the findings in the form of a good-bye note that can be duplicated and placed amongst the graffiti. 30

Three Interviews

: I would like to realize a no movie that I was unable to exhibit. It involved a movie projector that was left running without reels, a block of ice would be placed in front of it and a screen in front of the ice. Facing the projector-icescreen would be two pushpins tacked to a letter that asked for my explanation of the no movie concept. Next to the letter, two more pushpins and an empty page with a microphone facing it.

Three Interviews

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Gronk and Herrón: Muralists (1976)

G

ronk and Willie Herrón became aware of one another through their mural and graphic works which had been published in various periodicals (–). In early , Gronk and Herrón met in a City Terrace alley where Herrón had been painting his second mural, “Cracked Wall.” They discussed the feasibility of working with one another on murals and other art activities at this and subsequent meetings. Throughout the following years they brought forth the many combatable and compatible results of their collective efforts. By developing portable murals, walking murals, and instant murals, they have elevated muralism from a static medium to one of performance. With their masterful usage of the brush and imagination they have transformed inanimate walls into multicolored mirrors that reflect life and death. Since the opening of their first exhibition in East Los Angeles in November , Gronk and Herrón have had a variety of their multimedia works displayed in national periodicals, televised presentations, and numerous galleries. Recently, their activities have revolved around the mass communication formats of radio, video, and film. With them as actors, much of their work appears to be well executed props for their plots in the theatre of the absurd. In September , Gronk and Herrón along with Patssi Valdez presented their worst works of that year in a show entitled “Asco” (nausea). After the success of that exhibition they adopted the name as a collective title for their group. Gronk and Herrón have played diversified roles in establishing and advancing the definition for the concept of Chicano art: Asco adds a new dimension to it through the subtle surgery that only the rubber knife of creativity can perform. The following interview with Gronk and Herrón was conducted at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art where they had participated in the “Chicanismo En El Arte” show in May . After two cups of coffee,

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one newspaper, and a stale bearclaw, Gronk and Herrón showed up as they had promised: late. : Where is Chicano art headed? : Towards destruction because Gronk and I are leaving for New York. : It’s tucked away in my sleeping bag. : What type of dreams do you have when you sleep? : My dreams are all over. The dream is over. All power to the people. : To tell you the truth, I don’t have any dreams at all because I really don’t. Except for a couple that I had a while back where I actually die in the dreams. And since then I haven’t dreamed anything. : I had a dream last night about an assassin and urinals in a public park. The assassin was on a freeway ramp and people were dodging his bullets, running from pillar to pillar underneath the freeway. : Are your dreams in color? : Yeah, they are. : Red. : What was your childhood like? : Unnatural. : Too natural. : What’s your definition of art? : Antonin Artaud: “No more masterpieces!” : I don’t have one. I’m not that old. : What would you like to see? : People taking murals less seriously. I’d like to see Siqueiros come back to life in City Terrace. : As a bumblebee. : I’d like to receive Orozco’s left arm in the mail by Gronk. : Put it next to Joe the parrot in the governor’s office. : Those are muralist jokes. Three Interviews

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: I’m not being treated as a star like I should. : What type of work will you be doing soon? : To do a mural in semen. : I think I’m going to try to paint a mural in the rain, in tempera paints to see how long it will last. Start petitioning to remove the ugly murals that make East L.A. a disgrace. We all know which ones they are. : I support all those actions. I’m the first one to sign those petitions. : Boycott murals until we start getting paid for them. : No more muralists saying, “I’m the first.” : What do you plan to do in New York? : Look around. Talk. : Stand on street corners. : Take pictures. Paint a mural. : Tell muralist jokes. : Write. Sing. : Talk to all the Chicano artists. : Where’s the Statue of Liberty at? : Do you want people to understand your work? : Yeah, I do. : Yes, I do. My work is life and that’s difficult to understand and sometimes so is my work. : How would you classify your work? : Gronkart. : I couldn’t. I can’t really classify it. I’ll let someone else do it. Then I’ll say whether I agree or not. : How do you feel about people who use your murals without giving due credit? : They’re smart people. There’s also smarter people. 34

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: I’ve always admired rip-off artists. : It’ll be their turn soon. : Sunday at six o’clock. : How would you compare your present work to the work you have done in the past? : My past is better than my work. I have more work than I do a past. : If you weren’t an artist what would you be? : I’d own a liquor store . . . : I’d be a little boy. : . . . and get robbed. : I’d collect flyers and Leslie Gore records if I were not an artist. But it’s so much fun being an artist. : I’d be in the Army. : Such a big hero! : I’d be a student, studying art. : I’d be one of Los Four. : What helps to stimulate your creativity? : Pressure. : The same thing. : What time of day do you usually work on your art? : Anytime. : No time. Now time. Every time. Somebody else’s time. Tomorrow time. Yesterday’s time. Free time. Slave time. Sleep time. Ice cream time. Speed time. Waiting time. Play time. Stop time! : Do you previsualize your work or do you create spontaneously? : Both. : Semi. : What has influenced your work the most? Three Interviews

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: Showbiz. : Violence. : And grasshopper lice. Clutch Cargo. The Little Red Barn. : Getting ripped-off and ripping-off. : My living room. : My mirror. My toilet bowl. : Underarm smells. Air. Cufflinks and the color red. Communism. : Beautiful dames. : Marxism. Capitalism. Fascism. : Bad murals. : Muddy people. : Phonies. : Fanatics. Lunatics. : Angel dust. : King Kong. Sal Mineo. Ku Klux Klan. : Superman. Daisy Mae. : “Fanny Hill.” : Betty Boop. Darla, from “The Little Rascals.” : White bread. White shoes. : Black suits. : Ivy League pants. Zebra skin collars. : Sleep. : Zippers. Crayolas. : Bad breath. Shit breath. Bird shit on my windshield. : This is supposed to be about what influences our work? Burnt hominy on a frying pan at three o’clock in the morning and a lot of other things I don’t have time to talk about. 36

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Gronk and Herrón: Muralists, 1976.This image accompanied the 1976 Neworld interview. Gronk (left) and William F. Herrón III. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

: Good food and money. Sounds like the world! : In what way would you like to affect the people who view your work? : To buy it. : To steal it. : That we’re good and to like it. To want it. To write about it. Copy it. : To laugh about it. : To drink about it. : To get sick about it. : To say it’s worth it. : To play with it and pose with it. : To add things to it. : To have sex with it. To asco-ize it. : What’s your most common medium? : Doubt. : Burps in public. : Helpless people. : Have the police had any influence on your work? : Yes they have. They’ve broken into my pad. I’ve been busted for things where I was innocent. I’ve seen them beat unarmed people with weapons. I’ve seen them speeding without sirens or lights on. I’ve seen them cause automobile accidents. They’ve hit my mother for asking questions. Etcetera. : Yeah, man. You know what? The police are prejudiced. : Do you prefer to work alone? : No, I don’t. I hate working alone. I hate living alone. : I was born alone and I’m going to die alone. : Has religion played any role in shaping your life? : Definitely. 38

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: No, but first communion did. I had to wear a white bow on my arm; white suit with grass on my knees because I fell on my way to church. : It affected my life ’cause I had to take my first communion pictures with a haircut that my mother gave me because she shaved my head. And when I received the photographs, I got an eyebrow pencil and professionally drew my hair back in. : Is it true that you’ve both shaved off your own eyebrows at one time or another? : I think that’s just malicious rumor . . . : I agree. : . . . spread by jealous artists. : I shaved myself from the eyebrows. What you saw was me left behind. My eyebrows were twenty years ahead of me. : Mine were just bleached blond. : Can you tell me about any of your Asco performances? : The first one I remember was when I was jumped and crowbarred on McBride and Whittier Boulevard, then I walked bleeding to the Angeles Emergency which is no longer in existence on Arizona Street. The first one I did with Gronk was on Christmas Eve, , dealing with the different stages of the cross. : I played Pontius Pilate in burgundy with Kress popcorn. : And I was the crucified one: Jesus. : The next one was more elaborate. The next one was a hopscotch through Mara Villa projects with my green bowler hat. : And I was a black shadow with a skeleton face. : We were inspecting hidden murals. : Ideas! : And scaling large dirt hills. The next one was the “Walking . . .” : No it wasn’t. It was the U.S.C. mural. We were filmed on the roof of the Centro Chicano, in action. : The “Walking Mural” was next. Three Interviews

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B&W Mural, 1977. Artists William F. Herrón III (left) and Gronk pose in front of their mural located at Estrada Courts Housing Projects, East L.A.

: Four people participated. : And , fans were at our feet as we walked by with last-minute makeup jobs that were cracking in the sun. : They ripped my cape, man. They tore my tail off as they screamed “putos.” And Patssi Valdez was the shadow of the Virgin Mary. Oh yeah, then we took first place at the Evergreen Cemetery and we won  Aztlan Awards for “El Día De Los Muertos.” I was the Grey Baron with my tri-plane from World War One. : I was a missing envelope. : A used envelope, thrown in the trash. : With an out-of-date stamp that concealed a camera and was delivered to Evergreen Cemetery. Another piece was the “First Supper.” : On an island floating on Arizona and Whittier Boulevard. : Instant muralism came onto the scene as I taped Patssi onto a wall as the sun was setting. : Hey! We forgot “Birds Wave Goodbye” at the L.A. County Music Center on Cinco de Mayo, . : There’s been hundreds of others. Too numerous to sing about and we have a very pressing schedule. : How long have you been making movies? : For about the last five years. : For the last two and a half years. : My first movie was made in . It starred Dixie Cups. : I’ve heard that you’re both involved in making a new film. : There’s a big difference from the first one to the ones we’re doing now. In the next movie I play Gore Number Two. : I have to agree with Gronk in comparing the first ones. My first ones were films when I wasn’t aware that I was in them. And now I’m aware that I’m in them and play an actual character. In the next film I’ll be Gore Number One. : We’ll be brothers. We’ll attack and kill a thief on Whittier Boulevard who is in the midst of robbing our mother. Three Interviews

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: Who will be played by Apache Valdez. : The movie is directed by Humberto Sandoval. He won the Aztlan Award for Best Actor in . They are all different types of films. The next one will be a musical and it will be a break from the silent ones that we’re used to. : Why did you choose Christmas Eve to have the “Walking Mural”? : Because when we got the idea, the closest holiday we were able to gear it to was Christmas, so we chose Las Posadas. : I have to agree with that. Just like August is “Ascozilla” month. : What does “El Día De Los Muertos” mean to you? : Candy, floats, airplanes, tanks, envelopes, sky, lightning, and stars, and more stars. : Will you be celebrating “El Día De Los Muertos” this year? : I don’t know. I might be in New York and they’re not into “The Day of the Dead.” : Yes, if I remember. : What films have impressed you? : “The Time Machine,” but there’s another one that had some bad fuck’n dinosaurs. In fact, I just saw one that was pretty good at the Garmar, “The Land That Time Forgot.” : Chinese movies. Scary movies. Documentaries. Comedies. : It had scenes where the ship would shoot the dinosaurs and chunks would just fly off and the blood would just gush out. : “Forbidden Planet.” : It’s beautiful, man. Like when the submarine gets lost. The submarine gets stuck. The volcanos are exploding! : “The House on Haunted Hill.” “The Bride of Frankenstein.” “The Tami Show” with Leslie Gore and The Supremes. “Ray Red’s Red Car” was one of my favorites. “½.” That’s it. Oh, “Stagedoor.” : What’s in the future for Asco? : “Ascozilla.” 42

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: The ocean. : An underwater exhibit. : Bubbles. : Bubble murals. More muralist jokes.

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Gronk: No Movie Maker (1980)

I

f Gronk is the detonating device to all of the explosive art activity in the barrio, what is it that gives him such a great timing device? A conversation with this artist leaves symbols battered like careless pedestrians who wander into the path of a speeding cross-town bus. Gronk’s interpretations of urban surreality effectively elude the typical notions of sanity and hilarity. Through his work in the unlimited media of concept, he has been able to transcend art as product or process by augmenting it to a condition of ruptured instincts. His use of brush and pen is equalled by his fluidity of wit. Gronk’s No Movies are a series of events that are creatively effected to mimic or realize a cinemagraphic sense of being. A No Movie may incorporate graphic, photographic, written, and performance components in order to achieve its primary goal of projecting a concept. As opposed to the formalized filmmaking of glamorized conglomerates and their well financed technicians, the execution, promotion, and distribution of a No Movie need not be a tremendously expensive ordeal. The political ramifications of the No Movie focus on the potential for full participation by the general audience in the production of popular propaganda and alternative imagery. Many No Movies have been critical of racism in the mass media’s approach to “objective” news reporting which manipulates the perceptions and emotions of its audiences to various levels of animosity. As the auteur of autism, Gronk’s influence on the ’s left an indelible path on the art scene’s incredible pathos. His early experiments with Cyclona introduced that decade to cultural resistance via performance. His involvement with Willie Herrón and Patssi Valdez as part of the Asco art group allowed him to participate in cooperative expressions which led to the development of his “Instant Murals” and “Photo-Sentences.” Gronk

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closed the decade by playing a major role in establishing downtown Los Angeles as an important backdrop to the contemporary drama of artists in urban exile. The No Movie became a by-product of fame and no fortune. This interview with Gronk took place in early  at his quarters on the grounds of a replicated th Century Andalusian estate in Pasadena. Photos of barrio stars and low lit examples of his work dotted the walls with bizarre consequence. His portfolio of drawings on family restaurant napkins was astonishing as well as his collection of international correspondence. The night offered us a numbing cold which was partially offset by my new pair of gloves and Gronk’s never-ending cups of breakfast tea. We conversed and shared an odd shaped doughnut with Gronk complaining that he received the half that had the bone in it. : What significance did the ’s hold for you? : It was a series of major events in my career as an artist. In the early seventies I was a fashion entrepreneur, designing as well as wearing my creations in East L.A. and beyond, dragging my  pound fur purse wherever I’d go. By the mid-seventies I was known as the Skid Row Manicurist, giving pedicures to sleeping derelicts. Upon waking up to red toenails they were hit with the realization that they had been had. It was my idea to take art out of the galleries and into the alleys, after which I wrote The Boo Report. By the late seventies I became the first to host the New Wave in a gallery setting. : What was The Boo Report? : The Boo Report was the chronicles of my life in downtown L.A. sneaking up behind people and saying boo. : When you were designing fashions, what were some of your creations? : I designed Tumor Hats, hats large enough to conceal tumors in people’s heads. You can have cancer and still be fashionable. : It is known that , people attended the reception for the Dreva/Gronk exhibition. Did it turn out as you had expected? : Better than I had anticipated. I was behind the bar at eight o’clock with about  people in the gallery wondering where everyone was at. Within a few minutes the gallery was packed with people pogoing and posing, putting my handkerchiefs into their pockets. Blood was everywhere and mud also, but where that came from I’ll never know. Later in the evening Betty Topless was on top of the bar waving a palm branch while people below her were screaming that she was a star, which she denied. The bartender, dressed in a large cowboy hat and a small jock strap, was opening beer cans into people’s faces. A group of people on the Three Interviews

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fourth floor just above the gallery were tossing Margaret Magellan look-alike mannequins out of the windows and into the street below, causing the rumor of a mass suicide on Broadway. Mock fights punctuated the evening, with people wearing my buttons pinned through their cheeks. They’ve since become collector’s items. Someone tried to sell me one for two dollars the other day. Anyway, the police arrived in force and uninvited, demanding to know who was throwing the “party.” With , fingers fingering on me, I declined their definition of party and said it was art and that art is no party—anymore. Needless to say, they (the LAPD) demanded that the show be closed. A similar event took place at another exhibition I was in but that time several of the people who were experiencing the show were arrested. : You repeated your success as host a few months later by hosting the Miss Gallery Pageant. : Yes, I felt that the art scene was like a beauty pageant, since both were obsolete. I had people wearing banners representing different art galleries such as LAICA, ARCO, and Otis competing for the title of Miss Gallery . One of the contestants competed in the nude after hammering his clothes into the wall. Another in the talent category sang, “Going to the Chapel,” wearing a plunging neckline wedding dress. Melody Maker loved the two shows but the mainstream gallery scene snubbed me with their pugged noses. What I mean by the beauty pageant and the art scene being obsolete is that you have to look the same to compete. : Are you still hosting these kinds of events? : I’ve been doing this type of work since the early seventies. The first one was titled, “Cockroaches Have No Friends.” It ran for three performances, after which I was banned by Parks and Recreation from ever performing in a park again. What caused the expulsion was a scene involving a Coca-Cola bottle and raw egg between a young boy’s legs which were then yanked off and thrown at the audience by Cyclona, the legendary street artist of the early seventies. Why doesn’t Peter Plagens or William Wilson know anything about the true avant-garde of Los Angeles? Shortly after the final performance Cyclona was placed into an asylum and has just recently come back to town. I’m hoping for her to star in a comeback performance for my new No Movie “Titanic,” like the boat. : You were last interviewed by Neworld in ’. What’s happened to you since that time? : In ’ I was called a muralist. I’ve been called many other names since then, a lot of them not even associated with the arts, thank God. I’ve had several 46

Three Interviews

different haircuts, my newest being the “Diamond Cut” by Patssi. I’ve been to the Circle Bar, I’ve had my first martini. On two separate TV appearances I declared that I would erase the Mexico/U.S. border with a giant eraser. : Does Gronk ever lie? : Never. : You have been known to work collectively with other artists. What type of work has this generated? : Work which I don’t have to take the blame for alone. Working with other artists I’ve been able to make my No Movies, one of which went on to win the best No Movie of . “Dreva/Gronk” was its title. : What is a No Movie? : It’s making a movie without the use of celluloid. It’s projecting the real while rejecting the reel. It’s life before the advent of the viewfinder. : Will the meek inherit the earth? : Only if they have clean laundry. : During a recent TV talk show you were introduced as being to art what punk rock is to music. Do you agree with this typecasting? : After a couple of Indian-burns on both wrists I agreed. : Do you consider yourself to be a performance artist? : No. I prefer to be known as a No Movie maker. It’s like imitation of life versus imitation of art. : Do you believe that current events influence art? : Yes. I felt that the Pope’s shoes on the cover of Time was very tastefully done and of cultural importance. : Do you fear a trend in the arts toward the right? : The arts have always leaned towards the right. LAICA’s a gas chamber. : Would you consider running for political office? : No. My name is too political. : You recently hosted a delegation from China on their tour through the U.S. Three Interviews

47

: Yes. I broke pan dulce with the delegates after which I gave them a tour of Estrada Courts, whereupon one of them commented to me that the young shall rule the world. I agreed. I suggested that they visit Madame Wong’s. : What will your generation be known as? : As the  Burritos generation. This month’s flavor is Hickey Colorado. : Are you ready for the future? : Yes. I’m running gagged. : Can you give me an example of a No Movie which you have underdeveloped? : The Asco production of the “Cholo Syndrome.” The plot revolves around two gangs in East L.A., one called the Pseudoturquoisers and the other the Pinkeyes. They simultaneously discover that the little balls in spray-paint cans are made of radioactive plutonium. It opens up with Margaret Magellan revealing her whale-hole which had developed after accidentally spraying herself by pointing the can in the wrong direction. She’s walking on rd and Lorena Streets wearing her elephantiasis anklet anchor playing kick the can. Her opening line is, “I trust these dead cholos as far as I can kick a cream pie.” Old cholos never die, they just glow in the dark as she continues to walk down rd Street. It ends with her suffering a nervous melt-down. I directed a short subject starring Patssi Valdez called, “I Did?” for those with attention spans that come in lumps of  and a half minutes followed by five short bursts of  second spots. : Why have your No Movies gone unrecognized for so long and on such a massive scale? : Because when someone does not belong to the dominant culture and yet comes up with concepts and/or theories that are equal to other ideas in the market, he is generally overlooked and not taken seriously by those who are in fact agents, provocateurs of that culture, such as art critics, curators, and museum directors. Look at the Third World novelists, filmmakers, artists, dancers. They become victims of double standard criticism. Western culture unilaterally judges Third World works based on the lack of linear ideas as opposed to their contributions to a universal art. If a Third World artist creates a conceptual work, it is called folk art, but if Chris Burden, Alexis Smith, and others create a similar work it is hailed as fine art. I started peddling the concept of No Movie on th and Broadway in  trying to create an atmosphere where the No Movie could flourish amongst the masses. I was competing against the low budget street peddlers 48

Three Interviews

who had successfully pawned off their own concepts—jelly beans/white rice and their anti-animated versions of the end of the world. : Your last piece contained well over  footnotes. How do you expect your audience to understand all that? : If it had contained any less I wouldn’t have understood it myself. : What is the purpose of making your work so complicated? : Because it is the result of exploring the urban life as an isolated being amidst the massive intrusions of popular notions, bodies, modes of communication, and all that is included in the confused packet I call reality. : Do you feel offended when the critics charge that your No Movies lack substance? : The critics may charge but I never do. They suffer from hysterical blindness, anyway. : There is a rumor circulating that you’ve written an art book called Fascist Father. : Actually, it was a paper doll book designed to underscore the destruction of the nuclear family. Various father figures of the past can be clipped out and worn on the hand. : Will you be doing any more books? : I’ve been working on ten manuscript books that contain an approximate total of , drawings. : In your newsletter, Stripe Digest, you indicated that fashion dames Patssi and Betty were conducting a war of the high heels. : Yes. Their battle hymn was, “If You Can Walk, Wear It.” That’s what I call wearing tomorrow’s fashions today. : Are there artists which you admire? : Camus and Daffy Duck. I think that I’ve been influenced more by literature than by the visual arts. It started with The Five Chinese Brothers all the way up to The Plague with a little Goddard and Crayolas. Too bad I don’t care for Carlos Fuentes. A serious artist goes to bed with water colors and wakes up wet but an artist who takes himself too seriously goes to bed wet and wakes up with water colors. Performance artists perform for the art community and become a part of Three Interviews

49

the culture by default. Some people think that art is a melting pot but if you ever mix chocolate with vanilla you don’t get vanilla. : If the seventies was paragraphical art what will the eighties be? : A series of one liners. : Can you give me an example? : Minimal eyesight. : I don’t see what you mean. : It’s working already. : Do you believe in parallelograms? : Yes, but it gets my hands all red with all of those little red seeds. : What do you think about being called avant-garde? : I’d rather be called El Monte. : How many lepers can dance on the head of an armadillo? : With or without noses? : Do you have any fears? : Sharp teeth. : Do you still work with Willie Herrón? : Yes, we fence with crowbars. : What will your final words be? : Wild volcano!

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Three Interviews

Urban Exile (1984)

T

he changing identity of Chicano art can be a matter of trick mirrors that reflect fluctuating images of social incongruities and/or personal maladaptation. In the City of Los Angeles it is easy to lose one’s own innocence or to have one’s own naive idealism drown in the shadowy sea of cultural sewage. As a somewhat polarized brew of talented mixedmedia artists, Chicano artists of the eighties can appear to us as exploited painters, radical illustrators, broom muralists, sociopathic conceptualists, up-and-coming born-again capitalists who deride the welfare state, propagandistic photographers, cholos in jetter clothing, Olympic tokens, misguided fingerpainters, true believers of Aztlan/La Raza Cosmica, jealous plagiarists, zealous pledge-of-allegiancists, those who connect the dots, those who erase the Border, those who color by the numbers on their multiple grant checks; and in this primary crowd we will discover works which create anxiety and exotic fantasies of assimilation, or which portray the frenzied fiasco of depersonalized survival in the urban environment. It is difficult to delineate this changing identity because it is undergoing a retching schizophrenic turmoil of perceptual flux. What we have is an identity of multiple personalities that speak concurrently in disharmonic voices. What we have is filtered statements which are only sparingly reproduced by mainstream and quasi-alternative mass media for their artistic/hyperbolic/political/commercial propriety. We have voices that speak to the poor class/upper class/middle class/no class. We have voices that promote the snitch mentality (that kind of voice that resonates with a self-hating paranoia). We have voices which are pragmatic/ dogmatic/automatic. But in most cases, we have voices which are silent. It is an insidious silence that speaks to no one. In this voiceless vacuum we find apathy, neglect, denial, disillusionment, an impoverishment of social consciousness, a retraction of social 51

commitment; it is here that we discover a muted/co-opted enthusiasm for social and political change. Maybe it is here, too, that we can locate a disordered sense of survival in a mainstream system where poverty, official misinformation, racism, sexism and militarism are viewed as basic by-products of citizenship, that aspect of the dominant culture which can be hypnotically erased by the premise of popularity, the pretense for art stardom, the prospect of total acceptance and the premise of sky-rocketing sales. It is within the context of this wide-angle view that I’d like to focus our attention onto the peripheral distortion of the contemporary urban Chicano experience; the contention that Chicanos, in general, are passive, violent, passively violent, violently passive, passe, passed out, pissed off, is a matter of racist stereotypic opinion, is an image and idea that sells newspapers and television series, but it is a concept which is unacceptably offensive, counterproductive and qualitatively unverifiable. However, since it is impossible to arrive at an absolutely objective definition of the collective experience of a group of people, it is necessarily important to create subjective versions of the individual’s experience with interpretations that express the individual’s dual role as participant-observer of that culture. Artists have traditionally served as the catalysts in abstracting their culture. They have processed these abstractions, analyzed/recombined/verified their findings, and have created new forms in a wide variety of media that help to articulate the meaning and meaninglessness of their culture via their experience of it. It is the social and inherently political impact of the artists’ work which is ultimately relevant to the culture which is being represented. It has become increasingly difficult to impact on one’s own environment without fully utilizing the available support systems which include the mass media, finances, public-political contacts and private sector influence. These pragmatic considerations have served to redirect many of the original goals, ideas and images which were set forth by many Chicano artists who have been continuously active in creating work since the s. In some cases, artists who have been astute in their development of a viable support system have done so at the cost of losing cultural validity, personal integrity and artistic quality. The use of art as a form of protest was popular in the seventies. The use of art as a form of acquiescence is now popular in the eighties. Fortunately this is not a truism for all instances of contemporary Chicano art. The compromises which are involved in securing private-for-profit gallery representation, continued corporate grant funding and the good graces of locally established critics make for good art business. But do they make for good art? Without financial support of the artist’s community, the artist is subjected to various pressures which may negatively affect that artist’s commitment towards the same community. Art can be bought and so can artists. You do not buy the starving artist with bread, but with cake. If the Chicano artist of the eighties expects to 52

Urban Exile

Unlinked, 1980. Cover photo for La Opinión special supplement “Cultura Chicana,” which focused on Los Angeles Chicano Artists. Left to right: Humberto Sandoval, Cindy Herrón, Gronk, Evangelina F. Gamboa,William F. Herrón, Daniel Villarreal. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

succeed in the mainstream art world, the contradictions, distortions and compromises must be swallowed whole along with that cake. But for those artists who prefer the taste of pan dulce, without having to chew on the bitter aftertaste of defeat, an alternative approach must be taken which goes beyond the confines of mainstream sanctification. The Chicano artist who chooses to make statements on the neocolonial quality of barrio life, who decides to express concerns over contemporary racist public/private policies, who comments on the unequal sharing of America’s souring pie, is most certainly going to find it difficult to achieve the rewards which are available to less socially and politically threatening artists. But these are urgent times, when entire families are allowed to go hungry, when children can be held hostage by the Immigration and Naturalization Service, when the mentally ill are wandering aimlessly on the city streets and in the White House, when nuclear war can ruin your day. These are times when silence is an empty promise of apathy, but this silence echoes a deeper sense of fear and loathing for oneself and for others. The fact that contemporary Chicano culture is as multifaceted and is as valid as any other global culture should be reflected in its art. To create works that are concerned with the urban Chicano experience is to be placed onto a desynchronized track that does not blend easily with mainstream concerns or compassions. To quote Gronk from a published interview, “Some people think that art is a melting pot but if you ever mix chocolate with vanilla, you don’t get vanilla.” For the artist to become involved in creating images and concepts that defiantly oppose the false mystification and negativism which has been popularized against Chicano culture, the artist is then effectively participating in a form of self-imposed urban exile. The artist who is exiled is free to question, to denounce, to mispronounce, to bring ugly truths to the surface. These truths can be the psychologically damaged goods which are strewn over a wide area of intercultural conflicts, including the loss of self-esteem and the adoption of fake identities. The artist must also be adept at poking holes into the eyes of skeptics. The elements of humor, ridicule, sarcasm, satire and ironic wit are essential mediums for the development of effective visual and auditory statements. With the artist in exile, how is the work made accessible to the public? It is inevitably the artist’s responsibility to promote his or her own work regardless of the initial lack of popular support. The support must be generated from among others who feel an affinity to the artist’s perceptions of self and society. The artist has access to a loosely knit constituency, a group that is similarly attracted and appalled by the glitter and gangrene of urban reality. However, the competition for ideas and images is acute. How does one point out the subtleties of the Chicano experience without being drowned out by the static of racist commercials, regurgitated folklore and the phony quaintness of imitation culture? 54

Urban Exile

The Chicano artist must be determined to succeed, must be technically qualified to execute the images and concepts, must be effective in scaling the walls of resistance to the urban Chicano experience. The artist must draw from personal experience, must extract the significance from events, must engage a hyperactive imagination and, hopefully, create works that will result in meaningful pieces of cultural information. The creative output of the Chicano artist should have a social application that will facilitate the growth of the viewer’s understanding of the artist’s interpretation of the individual-as-producer-of-culture. There is a social responsibility which the artist is confronted with: it is the responsibility for creating beauty, controversy, real and surreal visions, absurd versions of actual events, symbolic interpretations of his/her environment, and also to express the universality of our culture’s uniqueness and our culture’s interdependence on cross-cultural understanding.

Urban Exile

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Reflections on One School in East L.A. (1987)

L

orena Street Elementary School is an aging complex with an asphaltcoated playground where children can familiarize themselves with the harsh reality of urban hardball. Lorena is one of the academic outposts of the embattled Los Angeles Unified School District, located in the broken heart of Boyle Heights. The school is skirted by an imposing chain-link fence encasing an overcrowded student population that reflects the demographic composition of the surrounding Chicano community. This institution of public primary education served as my initial point of entry into the English-speaking world. I began my attendance at Lorena in  as a Spanish-speaking -year-old. There and then the stage was set for an academic career that was overshadowed by  years of confrontation/alienation between an active youth and a stagnant, racist public school system. The first lesson I learned involved the disadvantages associated with not being able to communicate one’s own feelings and opinions. The Anglo middle-class values, the culturally irrelevant testing materials, an environment where young people were directed toward lowered expectations and a preset curriculum that produced failure for nearly  percent of my peers had the cumulative effect of discouraging the majority of students from pursuing any meaningful relationship with higher education. I was among those students who felt alienated from public education. During my formative K-through-th-grade years of the late ’s and early ’s, “drop drills” were a frequent school ritual, one that left an indelible impression that all of our efforts at reading, writing and arithmetic could easily be erased by a puff of atomic smoke. My elementary school experience introduced me to a predominantly Anglo staff of teachers and administrators, and to their “foreign” ways, which contrasted sharply with those of the predominantly Chicano student body. We

56

Diego Gamboa, 1983. Diego Gamboa on day of enrollment in kindergarten at Lorena Street Elementary School in East L.A. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

Father & Son, 1992. Diego Gamboa (left) and Harry Gamboa Jr. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

were systematically tracked into “rapid,” “average” and “slow” groups, with each group essentially representing a different level of assimilation, rather than one of academic ability. We were taught that American society was a melting pot, but upon closer inspection many of us were scalded and permanently scarred. After two years of a coercive monolingual educational program at Lorena, I was nearly proficient as an English-speaking second-grader. I had been instructed on the importance of obedience, cooperation, good work habits, good attendance and promptness, and had also been drilled to recite the Pledge of Allegiance on command. Chicano-Mexican culture was delivered to students through a variety of books, lectures, films and attitudes that promoted a negative, stereotyped social mythology. The effectiveness of acculturation techniques at school was augmented by negative imagery that misrepresented Mexicans in the mass media through such popular television shows as The Real McCoys, Father Knows Best and The Jack Benny Show, and all one had to do to get more of the same disparaging messages was change the channel. During this time, no realistic images of the Chicano population were presented in the mass media. It became increasingly difficult to identify in a positive manner with my native culture, native language and values. When I graduated from the th grade, there was no way anyone could have extracted a Spanish phrase from my lips. My experience in elementary education left impressions that directed me to negate my cultural heritage and to see minimal personal relevance in academic achievement. I had become a statistical result that would follow a predetermined route to academic failure, going on to punitive Robert Louis Stevenson Junior High School, and finally receiving the educational death-blow diploma at James A. Garfield High School. At the time of my high school graduation, my GPA of . was viewed almost positively, since Garfield boasted the highest dropout rate in the nation, with  percent of the students failing to complete the curriculum. My personal experiences in the Los Angeles public school system were set against a backdrop of East L.A. schools that were overcrowded, segregated, institutionally racist and occasionally violent. In , I returned to Lorena Street School leading my bright and excited son, Diego, to his first day of kindergarten. Lorena was the obvious choice of convenience, as Diego was residing alternately in Boyle Heights and El Sereno while I was awaiting a final divorce decree that would ultimately grant joint legal and physical custody. Upon arriving on the Lorena school-grounds, I was hit with a sense of déjà vu. It was a different era and I was certainly hopeful that educational reforms had made an impact on the school’s operation. The physical structures of the school had hardly changed at all, the constant laughter of children seemed familiar, and the loud ringing of bells awakened in me the Pavlovian instinct to run off to class. Many of the kindergarten children did not respond to the bells and had to be told Reflections on One School

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Father & Son, 1983. Harry Gamboa Jr. (left) and Diego Gamboa. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

Diego Gamboa at Lorena Street School, 1983. Diego (left) carries his lunch box to kindergarten class in the company of classmates. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

by the teachers to stand obediently in line. I noticed that many of the children were speaking Spanish and that many of them were not carrying lunchbags. Diego appeared to be ready and willing to receive a quality education as he waited along with his fellow classmates outside of room . While Diego was in class, I took a walk through the neighborhood that has provided me with most of my early educational experiences. As I walked, I observed that the billboards on Lorena Street carried advertisements that featured Latin faces promoting the sales of cigarettes, liquor and pushing the value of military service. The cryptic images of spray-painted graffiti mixed easily with the plastic displays of commercialization on Whittier Boulevard. There were several school-age children playing on the streets who, under normal circumstances, would have been in class. Boyle Heights had now become more densely populated with Chicanos, undocumented workers and their children. Lorena’s year-round rotational attendance system was designed by the Los Angeles Unified School District as a band-aid emergency measure to cope with inadequate conditions caused by overcrowding. The fiscal/political constraints that were imposed on the schools had resulted in keeping a certain percentage of the children in our community out on the streets and away from school. Boyle Heights has also become a case study in determining the ill effects of government cutbacks in education, social services and employment opportunities. The allotted slice of American pie for the barrio was shrinking as it soured. I began to reflect on the progress of the positive self-awareness within the Chicano community and its developing repertoire of role models. However, the existing environment reaffirmed my understanding that the barrio was being cheated of its potential to solve its own problems. I arrived back at Lorena in time to see all the kindergarteners being led out of class by their teachers into the waiting arms of their proud parents. Diego was very happy with his first day of school, and I was beginning to feel that I must have been equally happy with my first day at Lorena. I was initially pleased with the quality of the changes that had occurred at Lorena and were reflected in its curriculum. It was making attempts to cope with Spanish-speaking pupils, and instituted a kindergarten teacher whose daily assignment of homework covered a variety of subjects suitable for ambitious -year-olds. Diego and I spent an hour each day playing word-identification games that greatly increased his language skills and comprehension. Within a couple of months he was qualified for placement in a first-grade reading session. Ironically, my son was now in the position of being one of the few Englishspeaking students in a predominantly Spanish-speaking class. He was also one of the few children who could afford to take a lunch to school, while a large percentage of the children without lunches did not qualify for the Free Lunch Program 62

Reflections on One School

due to their parents’ status as undocumented workers. (Those students were fed cookies donated to stave off their hunger.) Throughout Diego’s first year at Lorena he was successful in attacking his subject and in adjusting to school life. It was during this period that it was shown that the overall performance of Eastside schools still pointed toward mediocrity, low reading-test scores and continued high dropout rates. With the overcrowded conditions at Lorena, the school was ill prepared to offer the individual attention that is needed to promote excellence in its students. The Los Angeles Unified School System continues to produce an academic climate that is not suitable for establishing quality educational results. When children are allowed to go hungry, there can be realistic expectations that they will not be able to achieve meaningful learning. An indifferent, anti-cultural state government and an inefficient school board have the ultimate effect of propelling many children away from the type of learning that is necessary in order for them to successfully compete in a complex society. I was intent on giving my son an opportunity for a quality education, so as not to waste his mind in the milieu of a public school system that has continued to fail in its attempts to adequately serve the Chicano community. But at the end of his kindergarten year, Diego was removed from Lorena and placed into a nearby private school in an effort to provide him with a better chance for success than his father had had. My hopes for a sensitive and meaningful education had once again been drowned out by Lorena’s lament.

Reflections on One School

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Serpents in the City of Angels After Twenty Years of Political Activism, Has L.A. Chicano Art Been Defanged? (1989)

T

he urban decay of Los Angeles is not measured on the Richter scale nor on the scales of blind injustice. The city is a sprawling mass of concrete, asphalt, lawn chairs, palm trees, television antennas, and segregated neighborhoods that are defined by obvious streets of gold or graffiti/blood-stained sidewalks. Los Angeles is the breeder reactor of its own myth. Images of affluence and violent crime are imprinted into the collective consciousness with each night’s televised broadcast of the news and reruns of drive-by shootings, celebrity testimonials, or countless situation maladies. The foundation of this major metropolis is gift wrapped with ribbons of freeways, on-ramps, and off-ramps that lead to cultural isolation. The intensity of multi-culturalism is fragmentary and momentary, usually experienced on the fast lanes of the freeway when one can safely gaze at blurred faces from other cultures, where the interaction is mutually distancing in effect and fact. Los Angeles is a puzzle of influences where pieces are lost, stolen, altered, or forged with every measurable social quake. The Chicano community of Los Angeles is a major element of the social substance of the city. Chicanos have appeared in numerous pieces of the puzzle but have oftentimes been forced into obscure corners of the overall picture. The image has been erased, redrawn, smudged, officially distorted and repudiated. Chicanos have been defined by exterior sources that have generally drawn lines to exclude undesirable qualities or conversely to focus attention on the negative incidents and personalities of the culture. During the ’s and early ’s, Chicano political activism offered alternative theories and manifestations for presentation to the general population via the mass media and in academia’s dizzying circles. A byproduct of the breakdown of this mass movement was the development

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Artists, 1980. Group portrait. Left to right: Gronk, Jerry Dreva, Patssi Valdez, Carlos Almaraz, John Valadez, William F. Herrón III, Harry Gamboa Jr. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

John Valadez, 1983. John Valadez poses with his work Broadway Mural. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

of images and concepts based on the self-defined term, Chicano. Many of the original works of art to emanate from this era reflected a desire to create a sense of identification with pre-Columbian roots and the inherent Mexican traditions which continue to thrive in Los Angeles. The walls of East Los Angeles were initially splattered with the urgency of the moment and portrayed the idealism of the Chicano Movement in murals that dealt with social, political, economic, and religious issues. However, during the early ’s, there were numerous Chicano artists who were intent on creating works that would affect the development and direction of the cultural identity of Chicano culture in Los Angeles. Los Four, the artist collective, was comprised of Carlos Almaraz, Frank Romero, Beto de la Rocha, and Gilbert Luján. The university-trained artists had consciously portrayed the various elements of the contemporary Chicano culture that dealt with the obvious symbols of material identification, i.e., low-rider automobiles, tortillas, tattoos, traditional ceremonies, and modified graffiti. The impetus of their work was primarily intellectually inspired by, and designed to be pleasing to, the uninitiated eye. Asco, the artist group, included Willie Herrón, Patssi Valdez, Gronk, and Harry Gamboa Jr. This group had a street orientation and had primary experience with the existential quality of the barrio as well as with the social institutions which had cast disturbing shadows onto the community during the era of political upheaval. Their multi-media works were intended to galvanize a response from the community. By the end of the ’s, the urgency of the moment had been replaced by works that contributed to the bridging of cross-cultural influences. While Los Four dealt with the continuing saga of contemporary folklore, other artists had their sights set on the inclusion of images and concepts that would question the validity of popular cultural notions and attitudes. The urban realist painter John Valadez created a series of works which were disturbingly accurate in their portrayal of death amidst urban scenarios of racial tension. “I came from drawing dead Mexicans because I figured that’s how people wanted to see us, either ejected or dead. I rejected assimilation. My work reminds people of race,” states Valadez. Other artists dealt with the elements of popular culture. Patssi Valdez created a series of works that dealt with the underground activities of nightclub lifestyles. Her portrayal of individuals simulated the nihilistic attitude that she discovered on the dance floor. “I see most people as actors and actresses. Anyone can look good in black,” states Valdez. The accumulation of artistic activities by Chicano artists had received international attention by the onset of the ’s. The media focus on the arts in the Chicano community was a major perceptual shift from one that only perpetuated negative stereotypes. The community-based activities of the Chicano artists had been transformed to gallery- and museum-oriented activities. Many of the artists Serpents in the City of Angels

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Barbara Carrasco, 1981. Barbara Carrasco poses with her 16′ x 80′ mural L.A. History—A Mexican Perspective. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

The Undoings #1, 1994. Pictured: Diane Gamboa. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

who had been outspoken representatives of their communities were either removed from the field or had become more cautious about how their activities could affect their ability to participate in highly publicized exhibitions. Barbara Carrasco utilized a potentially negative situation to catapult herself into the arena of public awareness. Her ′ × ′ portable mural L.A. History: A Mexican Perspective was the center of controversy when the Community Redevelopment Agency of Los Angeles attempted to censor various images of the mural which they deemed to be inappropriate for public display. Her ability to interact with the media and her relationship with the Chicano community played a major role in thwarting the CRA’s action against the mural and the artist. After nearly twenty years of activity and growth by Chicano artists in Los Angeles, the tempo and tonality today have a decidedly different orientation. The Chicano artist was once viewed as a social anomaly who resisted ready-made stereotypes. Many Chicano artists are now seen as the creators of culture by their own community and are increasingly viewed as the providers of commodities that can cross over into multi-cultural markets. Many artists have had to deal with the personal contradiction of altering the intent of their work so that it will conform with the will of the buyer. The political content of the works has been affected by the introduction of Chicano artworks into the mainstream. At the end of the ’s many of the original participants remain actively engaged in the Chicano art scene. There are also many other individual artists involved in the circuit who deal with a wide variety of aesthetic and social issues. Daniel J. Martinez utilizes massive quantities of repetitive images and objects to create the oppressive sensation of anonymous participation in the city. Diane Gamboa creates paper fashion events that become incorporated into the lives of the people on the streets of Los Angeles, causing the activities of these individuals to alternate between objective and subjective reality. The Chicano artist has been often portrayed as an elaborate serpent in the City of Angels. The question for the ’s is whether Chicano artists shall retain their fangs and whether their venom will be potent or sweet.

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Serpents in the City of Angels

In the City of Angels, Chameleons, and Phantoms Asco, a Case Study of Chicano Art in Urban Tones (or, Asco Was a Four-Member Word) (1991)

I

n the s there was no oasis in the urban desert. The still lifes were painted among the still dead. No one cried over spilled paint. Children finger painted/pointed as their older brothers and sisters danced in the shadows of global atrocities. Napalm bombs were no match for the palms that lined the streets of L.A. Blank-faced mobs surfed on heat waves that crashed onto concrete shores. Police clubs kept the beat to a repressive rumba. Love beads got lost among the hate mail. Many could not float upstream on the dry bed of the L.A. River. In East L.A., the cryptic stylized graffiti made it difficult for insiders and outsiders to read the writing on the walls. The “Mexican American” population was undergoing a metamorphosis that would transform its psychological and political character from that of a stoic, oppressed minority to that of an active, self-affirming Chicano culture. Although negative stereotypes abounded in the minds and media of the dominant culture, the disproportionate number of Chicano youths in military body bags, unemployment lines, penal institutions, and on the streets suggested that other forces influenced their fate. The reality of fatalistic passivity was incompatible with the absurd demands of a rapidly changing society that threatened to erase those peoples who would not blend into oblivion in the mythic American melting pot. In , five Los Angeles public high schools (Roosevelt, Lincoln, Wilson, Belmont, and Garfield) were shut down for one week by the successful mass student demonstrations known as the East L.A. blowouts or walkouts. National media and law enforcement attention was focused on the events and the individuals who dared to challenge the status quo of inferior segregated educational institutions for economically disadvantaged Chicano youth.1 The walkouts served as a catalyst for organizing community-based political groups and for widening their activities to 71

address the social, political, and economic concerns of the Chicano community.2 As the major political and news events of the era were explosively unfolding, James A. Garfield High School functioned as a major breeder reactor for urban Chicano culture. Although Garfield High was noted for its excessively high dropout rate, the administration was inclined to deal with education as a punitive measure enforced by corporal punishment, locked security gates, high fences, a stern dress code, and harsh expulsion policies.3 With over three thousand predominantly Chicano students faced with unequal opportunities at home and probable overrepresentation in the fields of death in Vietnam, the high school gained mounting notoriety as the trendsetter of Chicano fashion, etiquette, violence, and slang. The competing adaptations of aesthetics standards, codes of loyalty, and levels of assimilation were popularized by the highly visible car clubs and gangs. However, the majority of students were unaffiliated youth. The jetters were an informal category of students who were interested primarily in countering the established norms with their sardonic attitudes, parties, and excessive concern for fashion.4 During the s through the early s members of the inspirational Thee Midniters, the acclaimed Los Lobos, and the infamous Asco attended Garfield High: David Hidalgo, César Rosas, Conrad Lozano, Francisco González, Patssi Valdez, Willie Herrón, Gronk, Diane Gamboa, and Harry Gamboa Jr. Two other artists, Mundo Meza and Cyclona, as well as the performer Humberto Sandoval also attended Garfield High during that period. The mutual awareness of the musicians and artists in the midst of social and political change allowed them to convey their shared experience through personal and group expressions of music or art. Although Los Lobos and Asco did not become formal groups until the s, the individuals and their artistic interests influenced the quality and direction of life on the high school campus. On August , , the largest antiwar protest demonstration to occur in East L.A. brought a highly publicized Chicano community together for a massive display of unity. The Chicano Moratorium, as it came to be known, was the target of a well-orchestrated plan for disruption by the Los Angeles Police Department, the Los Angeles County Sheriff ’s Department, and other police agencies.5 The demonstration ended violently when riot-equipped police attacked members of the community who had gathered to hear public speakers at Laguna Park near the boundary between the city and county of Los Angeles. The excessive police brutality sparked a major riot along Whittier Boulevard in East L.A. during which buildings, cars, and buses were burned and several individuals were killed, including the prominent Los Angeles Times journalist Rubén Salazar. Salazar’s death at the hands of L.A. County Sheriff Deputy Wilson served to publicize widely the seething conflict between the Chicano community and the police.6 As the police 72

In the City of Angels

Walking Mural, 1972. Left to right: Patssi Valdez,William F. Herrón III, Gronk. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

Spray Paint LACMA, 1972. All entrances to the Los Angeles County Museum of Art are spray-painted with the names of Herrón, Gamboa, and Gronkie, transforming the museum itself into the first work of Chicano art to be exhibited at LACMA. Pictured: Patssi Valdez. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

onslaught at the park intensified, Francisca Flores, publisher of Regeneración, a Chicano political and literary journal, encountered Harry Gamboa. As they ran from the clouds of tear gas and swinging clubs of the police, she handed him a copy of her journal and then disappeared into the havoc of the surging crowd. During the late s, Gamboa assisted Francisca Flores with her newsletter, Carta editorial, and worked on propagandistic newspapers such as Chicano Student News and La Raza. Regeneración covered a complex spectrum of interests that included creative writing, represented by Frank Sifuentes, and graphic artwork, by Ben Luna.7 Excited by the possibility of disseminating the work of writers and artists who closely reflected the urban Chicano experience of his generation, Gamboa became editor of volume , issues  through . Willie Herrón and Patssi Valdez had been working together on various art projects since high school. Gronk was rumored to be living in a tent or on the roof of the gymnasium of East Los Angeles College. Gronk’s work had appeared in an issue of Con Safos, a political-humorist magazine. Valdez had worked with Gronk, Meza, and Cyclona on various spontaneous public art actions in East L.A. that had dealt with issues of gender diffusion. Gronk, Meza, and Cyclona would oftentimes dress in long, flowing velvet robes layered with satin, silk, and lace clothing and promenade, arms interlocked, to a quick-paced goose step, shoving pedestrians out of their way along a crowded section of Whittier Boulevard. However, the mandatory draft law, moving with even more momentum than they, swooped down on Herrón and Gronk. After a protracted struggle, the two artists obtained legal alternatives to active combat duty. In , Gronk’s head was shaved by the U.S. Army after he had painted the interior mural Cyclona at the Equal Opportunity Program offices at Cal State, Los Angeles. The mural was whitewashed soon after its completion. In , Herrón shaved his eyebrows and painted the exterior mural The Wall That Cracked Open. Gamboa individually approached Valdez, Herrón, and Gronk and invited them to work on Regeneración. They all agreed to donate their talents and were soon at work on their first issue. The four artists worked long nocturnal hours, for weeks at a time, to create original pen-and-ink drawings for the publication. Herrón provided studio space in the garage behind his mother’s house (his popular mural, violent gang police activity, and Eva’s Liquor store were only a few yards away). They discovered that they shared many experiences, enjoyed a common sense of dark humor, and were intensely committed to personal expression. At times, the nights of work gave way to group discussions of their collective influences. Occasionally the conversations were highly focused, but mostly the dialogue flowed in and out of a hundred subjects: drop drills, Guadalupe tattoos, smeared lipstick, no privacy, off ramps, foreignness, disagreements, blind curves, comics, pinkeye, jump starts, Dick and Jane, no heat, stray bullets, Spam, alleys, In the City of Angels

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fake genuflections, riot squads, photo booths, cucarachas, bongos, dunce caps, low riders, Molotov cocktails, the twist, lard, dead ends, grinding without music, Che, pompadours, -hour daydreams, Daffy Duck, hostile crowbars, bumblebees, bubble asses, tunnel vision, Peter Lorre, bruising pinches, Alarma, cliques, spiked heels, racist TV, La Llorona, hit-and-run insults, flat puppies, pachuco fairy tales, English only, false eyelashes, last dimes, black spray paint, Mr. Machine, Beatle boots, ditching parties, zero chance, lizard faces, unholy water, no air conditioning, dancing curls, psycho-cholos, quicksand, outcast treatment, La Cruda, tacit extortion, doomed love affairs, mariachis, false invitations, blistering belts, hero assassinations, Heckle and Jeckle, white bread, laughing in public, melted crayons, official low expectations, transparent lamp shades, bitter pan dulce, search and seizure, cheap funerals, fire ants, suspicious stares, rude service, black widow hairdos, jalapeños, hiding in fear, brown skies, missing cuff links, lysergic acid diethylamide, Migra magots, shattered glass, Dolores del Rio, barbed wire, chorizo sin huevo, hip-hugger bell-bottoms, flaming monks, drunken wild teens, stained blades, cold burritos, baby trigger fingers, El Cucui, vinyl upholstery, barrio barriers, and rip-off artists. The drawings by Gronk were broodingly implicit with dream-sexual connotations. Herrón’s work was technically astute with disturbing hallucinatory illusions. Valdez created graphic images of pain and death. Gamboa drew distorted faces that glared deeply into their own psychological dilemmas. The artists dealt with the emotions of repulsion, elation, and rejection and with unconscious visual charges stemming from personal perspectives that allowed them to view the world at a distinctly different slant. After several intense months of drawing and eclectic conversation, they decided to manifest their ideas in the public arena of the streets. On December , , Herrón, Gronk, and Gamboa arrived unannounced on the corner of Eastern Avenue and Whittier Boulevard. Herrón was the representation of Christ/Death, dressed in a white robe that bore a brightly colored Sacred Heart, which he painted in acrylic. His face had been transformed by makeup into a stylized calavera. Gronk personified Pontius Pilate (aka Popcorn): he wore a green bowler hat, flaunted an excessively large beige fur purse, and carried a bag of unbuttered popcorn. Gamboa assumed the role of a zombie-altar boy and wore an animal skull headpiece to ward off unsolicited communion. The three had constructed a -foot-long crucifix out of corrugated cardboard boxes they had found and defaced with brown, orange, and gold spray-painted squiggles. They performed Stations of the Cross as an alternate ritual of resistance to belief systems that glorified useless deaths.8 Herrón bore the cross, and Gronk and Gamboa accompanied him in silent procession along Whittier Boulevard, which was packed with last-minute shoppers, cruisers, and police. The immediate reaction of the 76

In the City of Angels

audience was primarily confusion laced with verbal hostility. The various stations were located along a mile-long stretch of the boulevard. The final station was located at the U.S. Marine Recruiting Station at the Goodrich Boulevard intersection. They placed the cross at its entrance and observed a five-minute silent vigil that ended when Gronk blessed the site with handfuls of scattered popcorn. The remnants of the ritual were left in place as they quickly vanished from the scene. At the onset of , rumors of a bizarre religious sect in East L.A. began to surface. The community had been subjected to a barrage of misinformation and had witnessed the falsified reportage of events that had taken place in East L.A. during the years of political upheaval. Stations of the Cross had left a reverberating impression of spiritual doubt and doubtful spirituality. Regeneración was published in February and became immediately enmeshed in the controversy that surrounded this active group and its nontraditional forms of expression. The “politically correct” members of the Chicano Movement (including students, academicians, political organizers, and artists) were intolerant of the visual imagery presented in the publication. Their strongly traditionalist sentiment was expressed on numerous occasions by individuals who said that Herrón, Gronk, Valdez, and Gamboa had left them with the sensation of asco (nausea).9 Muralism began to flourish on the walls of East L.A. The majority of these murals incorporated pre-Columbian motifs, gang symbolism, abstract graphics, or politically didactic imagery. Most of the murals were amateurishly executed, but several were contextually and aesthetically effective. Herrón was one of the first to incorporate existing and new graffiti into the composition of his murals.10 Although the mural movement began to bring positive publicity to a community that until then had only been maligned or neglected by the mass media, the four young artists experimented with other forms that expanded the parameters of Chicano art. The lessons taught by the anti-Chicano propaganda of commercial television and mainstream journalism were not lost on the artists. The manipulation of imagery, the repetition of so-called facts, the saturation of negative images and opinions over time, the vacuum of objective information, and the distillation of lies had been a cumulative, socially damaging process through which the established educational and media systems affected the Chicano population. Although they lacked financial resources, the artists were intent on countering the negative stereotypes that had plagued the public image and private psyche of contemporary Chicanos. They were concerned about the efforts of traditionalists to replace old stereotypes with new ones. In November , Herrón, Gronk, and Gamboa exhibited mixed-media works at the Mechicano Art Center in East L.A. Even with minimal promotion, the exhibition drew a crowd of nearly two hundred. Herrón’s large mixed-media paintings, Gronk’s humorous drawings, and Gamboa’s somber assemblages In the City of Angels

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Asco, 1974. Left to right: Gronk, Harry Gamboa Jr., Patssi Valdez,William F. Herrón III. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

touched on a wide spectrum of socioaesthetic concerns including violence and street life. The expressive and surreal quality of the works jarred the sensibilities of the primarily traditionalist audience. Although some supported them, a few socially influential individuals insisted that the works were not Chicano. Others echoed the term asco. On December , , Valdez, Herrón, Gronk, and Gamboa returned to Whittier Boulevard, intent on transforming muralism from a static to a performance medium. Valdez was the Virgen de Guadalupe-in-Black, dressed in a black crepe gown, a black and silver cardboard aura, and an aluminum calavera on the back of her head. Gronk was an X-mas Tree, embellished with three inverted lime green chiffon dresses, many red glass bulbs, and a five-pointed star painted in acrylic on his face. Herrón was a multifaced mural that had become bored with its environment and left. Gamboa documented the event on black-and-white and color slides as well as on Super- film with the intent of using the imagery to reach a conceptually different audience from those who had experienced the performance directly.11 Walking Mural followed the same severely beaten path along the boulevard as Stations of the Cross a year earlier. Several individuals, converted in passing, joined their silent walk through the crowds. In the final week of , Gronk, Herrón, and Gamboa spray-painted their signatures onto all the entrances to the Los Angeles County Museum of Art (LACMA) in reaction to the negative response of a museum curator to their query about the possibility of including Chicano art in museum exhibitions. The artists momentarily transformed the museum itself into the first conceptual work of Chicano art to be exhibited at LACMA. Gamboa and Valdez returned to the site the following day and documented the work in photographs. The signatures were completely whitewashed later that night.12 In , the four artists adopted Asco as the name of their art-performance group. Herrón and Gronk collaborated on the portable mural Untitled (′ × ′), which contained an explosively energized set of nightmarish images that highlighted their deep levels of anger, depression, disillusionment, and irony. Valdez shaved her eyebrows and frontal scalp in order to match the self-portraits she painted in stark black, white, and red acrylic. Gamboa documented Asco’s activities, but also created and altered many situations, which were then documented on film. Asco began to experiment with the possibility of creating inventive public personas through photographic images. By the fall of , Asco had evolved into a tight group with a trail of rumors, innuendos, fans, enemies, plagiarists, journalists, researchers, and creditors in its wake. The group crashed the opening reception of the Los Four exhibition at LACMA. Each member of Asco was victimized by anonymous gossip, and each experienced at least one episode of police abuse. Gronk and Valdez tried to outdo In the City of Angels

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each other by wearing platform shoes that reached heights over one foot. Gronk was felled by an irate cholo who did not appreciate the turquoise and black platforms he wore in defiance of gravity. Herrón was hand-cuffed by Norwalk-based sheriff deputies for skipping in his hand-painted “monster” platform shoes. Gamboa outwore his multicolored platforms until they collapsed and disintegrated on Broadway in downtown L.A. Asco continued to operate as a nonnuclear family, creating drawings, murals, paintings, mixed-media sculptures, Super- films, and awkward public displays of no emotion. Humberto Sandoval had become an active participant in the performance and social aspects of Asco. On November ,  (el Día de los muertos), several hundred people gathered for a traditional mass commemorating the dead at Evergreen Cemetery in Boyle Heights. The event was sponsored by Self-Help Graphics under the direction of Catholic nuns. The members of Asco have all experienced close encounters with the death of culture, death of fashion, death of dreams, and death of innocence. The mass was interrupted by the unexpected arrival of a massive, special delivery envelope containing an absurdist message. Enclosed with postage due were Valdez as the Universe, dressed in a gold sequined formal gown, rainbow tissue paper halo, and an -foot span of clouds; Herrón as a Triplane, constructed of corrugated cardboard with wings that followed the winds of change and a pilot who was an extension of this flying weapon; Gamboa as the Archangel Blackcloud, wearing veiled threats and a bolt of intrusive lightning; Gronk as the Documenteur carrying the official, oversized cardboard Asco-brand camera; Sandoval as the Asco Tank, with an operable gun turret, transported on a pair of formidable kneehigh, leather platform boots.13 The mass dissolved as Death laughed hysterically. Two momias (painter Roberto Gil de Montes and performer Fernando Torres) waved good-bye as the contents of the envelope were torn and scattered across the cemetery like so many discarded lives. On December , , Asco appeared on the corner of Arizona Avenue and Whittier Boulevard, a location that had gained infamy several years earlier when rock-throwing protestors were shot by police with riot guns. Asco set a dinner table on a traffic island, along with a large nude doll, paintings of tortured corpses, mirrors, chairs, food, drink, and riotous guests. First Supper (After a Major Riot) was performed in the midst of rush-hour traffic. Instead of serving dessert, Gronk taped Valdez and Sandoval to the exterior wall of a liquor store. Instant Mural challenged the fragility of social controls. Several anonymous individuals, concerned about their welfare, offered to help Valdez and Sandoval escape from the confines of low-tack masking tape. After an hour of entrapment, Valdez and Sandoval simply walked away from the visually intimidating, yet physically weak, lengths of tape. These two performances were conceptualized and designed for the photo80

In the City of Angels

Instant Mural, 1974. Gronk tapes Patssi Valdez to a wall in East L.A. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

graphic genre that Asco coined the No Movie. The purpose of the No Movie was to create photographic pseudodocumentary evidence to corroborate the actuality of the individuals and events framed within the context of reality. The image was an implicit fragment of a continuous action, similar to that of an individual frame of a movie. However, no preceding nor succeeding “actions” accompanied the images contained within No Movie. The fluctuating propagandistic value of each No Movie depended on its venue of exhibition and/or publication as well as on the gullibility of its audience. The No Movie was fueled by concomitant text and dialogue that could change without prior notice. In the No Movie Decoy Gang War Victim (), a deceased young man (Gronk) is sprawled across the asphalt of a residential street in East L.A. The night sky is illuminated by numerous road flares that block off access to the area. This apparent victim of violent gang retribution quells the need for additional revenge. Peace is restored to the barrio courtesy of the decoy.14 Decoy Gang War Victim was disseminated to various publications and television stations. The No Movie image was presented in a  live broadcast of KHJ-TV News in Los Angeles and condemned as a prime example of rampant gang violence in the City of Angels. The cohesiveness of the art group as a collective was never fully realized by the individual members of Asco. Their individual and group appearances often shifted according to indefinable moods, family problems, love interests, instant boredom, availability of materials, lack of sleep, and desire to maintain their personal identities intact. Although the Asco members worked closely with each other, there was generally enough ego friction to maintain a sharp level of intragroup competitiveness. The connective tissue of the group had originally been the shared sense of otherness, past involvement with jetter or car club activities, an ongoing irrepressible creative drive, obscured Catholicism, near-lethal sarcasm, youth, ability to draw a straight line from psychosis to mundane reality, and a recurrent urge to connect the dots formed by politically motivated -gauge shotgun blasts. In , the first round of rumors hinted at the breakup of Asco. Sr. Tereshkova (), a Super- film written and directed by Humberto Sandoval and filmed by Gamboa, was Asco’s first narrative project.15 The silent black-and-white film depicts an old shopkeeper (Sandoval) being drawn into the ironic fantasy of seeking perpetual youth in the form of the mannequin (Herrón) displayed in his store window. After dusting various curios and the mannequin, the shopkeeper falls into a deeply troubled sleep and confronts a series of perplexing dream situations. In one dream, a bus carries four passengers: a thief (Sandoval), a mother (Valdez), her son-in-short-pants (Herrón), and her stepson-with-noeyebrows (Gronk). The family’s sole possession is a large camera. The thief has difficulty concealing a large gun. They all exit the bus at a stop near the pawn shop, and the thief mercilessly robs the family of the camera. In another dream, a crazed 82

In the City of Angels

Asco, 1975. Left to right: Harry Gamboa Jr., Patssi Valdez, Humberto Sandoval, Gronk,William F. Herrón III. Photograph copyright 1975 Humberto Sandoval.

Illegal Landscape, 1983.This image appeared on the announcement for the Illegal Landscape exhibition at California State University, Los Angeles. Pictured: William F. Herrón III (left) and Gronk. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

man (Sandoval) attacks a lonely woman (Valdez) in a dark alley. In the final dream, a young man (Herrón) is nearly stabbed by a man (Sandoval) wielding a broken bottle. The two men alternately chase each other across an urbanscape that encompasses the streets, buildings, and tunnels of downtown L.A. The chase culminates as both jump into the Hollenbeck Park Lake. The old shopkeeper is startled and wakes up trembling. He goes over to the mannequin and touches its face. In a frenzied moment of metamorphosis, the horrified shopkeeper is transfixed and solidified into a mannequin in the store window. The image of youth was given life only to slip away from the shopkeeper’s dreams forever; the mannequin leaves the shop and rides his bicycle into the credits.16 In , Asco underwent its own transformation from an unknown art group to one that claimed a certain notoriety with the mass media and among the cognoscenti of the Chicano art movement. Operating on a near-zero budget throughout the s did not prevent the group from attacking impossible tasks. During the hot summer of , the “Ascozilla” exhibition opening reception drew an audience of nearly one thousand persons from the local community to the Fine Arts Gallery at Cal State, Los Angeles. Tap water, the only available refreshment, was provided in large communal ceramic vats. Disposable cups were disposed and considered a viable expense. During the fall of that year, Asco and Los Four (including Carlos Almaraz, Beto de la Rocha, Gilbert Luján, Frank Romero, and John Valadez) jointly exhibited their work at the Point Gallery in Santa Monica. The Asco works did not sell. With the exception of Valadez, the members of Asco and Los Four perceived their intergroup rivalry to be at an all-time high. Their perceptions proved to be misleading. By the end of , Asco had stopped functioning as a mutually supportive core group of four or five artists. From  through early , Asco was subjected to subtle and overt changes in its composition, direction, ego tolerance, and commitment to uncensored expression. Individualism expanded its influence over the group until Asco’s collectivism died in . Before , the founding members of Asco occasionally reconfigured into groups of two or three to create specific works. Herrón and Gronk continued to work sporadically on the Black and White mural in the Estrada Courts Housing Projects (adding color in ). In , Gamboa created fictionalized interviews with Gronk. Valdez and Gronk exhibited their works in an unnamed gallery in Pasadena in . That same year, Herrón, Gronk, and Gamboa created and performed Pinguinos, which was videotaped before a minimally live audience. With the assistance of other individuals, Valdez, Gronk, Herrón, and Gamboa appeared as the Asco group for Mur Murs (), a film directed by Agnes Varda. During the s, the original members of Asco received varying degrees of recognition as individual artists. However, as a group, Asco flourished in its own In the City of Angels

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myth, linking the four artists in the minds of an increasingly interested audience. Illegal Landscape (), a mural installation exhibited by Herrón and Gronk, which Gamboa curated, brought muralism in from the cold. “El Lay,” a pop song written by Herrón and Gronk and performed by Los Illegals, created an alternative voice for the plight of the undocumented worker. In , staged live performances that incorporated fashions by Sean Carrillo, Patssi Valdez, and Diane Gamboa altered the fashion consciousness of audiences throughout California. Harry Gamboa’s video conceptual dramas brought together the majority of the individuals who were functioning partially under the auspices of Asco: Imperfecto () performed by Humberto Sandoval; Insultan () performed by Daniel Villarreal; Blanx () performed by Lorraine Ordaz and Gronk; Baby Kake () performed by Barbara Carrasco, Humberto Sandoval, and Gronk. In , the final Asco exhibition (including visual works by Valdez, Gronk, Diane Gamboa, Daniel J. Martínez, and Harry Gamboa) was presented at the Los Angeles Contemporary Exhibitions (LACE) in downtown Los Angeles.17 In , Gronk and Willie Herrón contributed individual installations to the Museum of Contemporary Art’s temporary contemporary museum exhibition space. Gronk painted images of identifiable icons onto the interior walls of the museum. Herrón painted repetitive images onto banners that were hung from the ceiling of the museum. Both artists performed. Gronk presented Morning Becomes Eclectic, performed by his personalized ensemble, and Herrón held a rock concert, performed by Los Illegals. Also in , Gamboa wrote Jetter’s Jinx, a conceptual drama focusing on the doomed party of a fatally ill, suicidal, middle-aged jetter, which Gronk (Jetter) and Humberto Sandoval (Nopal) performed at the Los Angeles Theatre Center. By , contact between the founding members of Asco and the numerous individuals who had participated as Asco members became infrequently effective and frequently uncooperative; the spontaneity of the early years was gone. The concept of group could no longer be actualized because the individuals were aesthetically desynchronized with one another and each was headed toward decidedly different paths. Asco ceased to exist as a functioning group during the misperformance of Ismania at LACE on March , .18 In the s there was no oasis in the urban desert. NOTES 1. U.S. Congress, Senate, Committee on the Judiciary, Subcommittee to Investigate the Administration of the Internal Security Act, Hearings on the Extent of Subversion in the “New Left.” Testimony of Robert J. Thoms, st Cong., d sess., January , , pt. ,  and centerfold list of “Individuals Officially Connected.”

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2. Elaine Woo, “ ’s ‘Blowouts,’” Los Angeles Times, March , , Metro Section, . 3. Harry Gamboa Jr.,“Reflections on One School in East L.A.,” L.A. Weekly, February –, , . 4. Harry Gamboa Jr., “Jetter’s Jinx,” Playbill for the Los Angeles Theatre Center, October –, , . 5. Rodolfo Acuña, Occupied America: A History of Chicanos, rd ed. (New York: Harper & Row Publishers, ), . 6. California, Advisory Committee to the U.S. Commission on Civil Rights, Report on Police-Community Relations in East Los Angeles, California (October ), –. 7. Regeneración : (): –. 8. The Museum of Contemporary Art, Los Angeles, Summer  (Los Angeles: The Museum of Contemporary Art, ), n.p. 9. Constanza Montana, “From Barrio to Big-Time,” Wall Street Journal, October , , . 10. Jerry Romotsky and Sally Romotsky, “Placas and Murals,” Arts in Society : (). 11. Dana Friis-Hansen, L.A. Hot and Cool (Cambridge: MIT List Visual Arts Center, ), . 12. Nancy Drew, “L.A.’s Space Age,” LACE:  Years Documented (Los Angeles: Los Angeles Contemporary Exhibitions, ), . 13. S. Zaneta Kosiba-Vargas, “Harry Gamboa and Asco: The Emergence and Development of a Chicano Art Group, -” (Ph.D. diss., University of Michigan, ), . 14. Kosiba-Vargas, “Harry Gamboa and Asco,” . 15. Museum of Contemporary Art, Los Angeles, Summer . 16. Sr. Tereshkova was transferred to videotape in  and cablecast by Falcon Cable Television on May , . 17. Linda Burnham, “Life: The Asco Version,” High Performance (May ), –. 18. Harry Gamboa Jr., memorandum to Barbara Carrasco, Diane Gamboa, Juan Garza, Daniel J. Martínez, Glugio Gronk Nicandro, Humberto Sandoval, John Valadez, March , .

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Past Imperfecto (1994)

30 April 1992 1:00 A . M . Los Angeles, California

“I hope the batteries in the car and in the micro-cassette recorder don’t lose power on this short trip. I’m driving onto the westbound on ramp of the Pomona freeway at Lorena Street. I can smell the burnt plastic, smoldering rubber, charred wood, and singed flesh already. The city is burning but I’ve got to get across town even if the sky is filled with smoke and random killer bullets. The traffic is jammed like any other night of urban joy riding. Getting up to speed and not a looter in sight. I’ve got to make it to the west side but it looks like the pillars in this society won’t hold up the shaky overpasses. Maybe I should turn back, make a U-turn on the fast lane. Slam on the brakes and hold my asphalt. Oh shit, I forgot to bring the camcorder. . . .” Recorded material suddenly ceases to register at this point on the audio tape. It is assumed that the recorder stopped functioning at the moment of the fatal thirty car pile-up at the Pomona-Santa Monica Freeways interchange. It is unclear where this unidentified individual lost control of his direction in life but according to the violent stretch of skid marks, it is perfectly feasible to imagine that there was no time to steer clear of rumors, innuendos, and sniper fire. II

In the smoggy months of , I was running down the highly congested sidewalk of Broadway, looking through the viewfinder of a Sony Trinitron camera that was hooked to a large Beta porta-pack that seemed to be getting heavier with each step as I approached the corner of th Street in downtown L.A. I was following Humberto Sandoval as he portrayed a schizophrenic street preacher in my first video, Imperfecto. 88

Imperfecto, 1983.Video performance by Humberto Sandoval (center) and Barbara Carrasco (right). Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

Insultan, 1983.Video performance by George Gamboa (left) and Daniel Villarreal. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

The video was to be an absurdist-conceptual drama about a philosophically inept altruist who is released from the insane asylum because the state has stopped payment for the care of transients and transcendentalists. “Imperfecto” seeks out the truth by literally shouting, “The truth! The truth?” He encounters an uncaring and vicious array of  individuals, in various vignettes, who are pleased or angered by the opportunity to dispense their own personalized truth. Imperfecto is slapped, strangled, ridiculed, insulted, laughed at, lied to, given the wrong directions, and finally buried beneath a few sheets of newspaper. Sandoval was completely in character as he pushed forward against the disaffected human flow of pedestrians. Imperfecto was shot in consecutive weekends and edited in two -hour editing sessions. Total budget amounted to $. for gas, coffee, and blank Beta and ¾″ cassettes. The video was initially screened in the crowded back room of an East L.A. art center before a live audience of  people who had followed the jagged trail of Asco. The video was then shown on the public access channel of Falcon Cable TV which was directly linked to , households throughout the demographically evolving San Gabriel Valley. The video was presented once a week on channel  for the following  weeks until numerous complaints were filed by concerned citizens from Alhambra, Monterey Park, Pasadena, as well as Rosemead and other small cities who were online. Although Imperfecto disappeared from the small screens across various racial and economic horizontal lines, public access was still accessible to create several new video works. Insultan was shot, edited, and cablecast in November . It was my second attempt to create a video work that portrayed an individual’s failure to confront and overcome an absurdly cruel society. Daniel Villarreal portrayed “Insultan” as a rude man who wakes up to experience the worst and last day of his life. “Insultan” doesn’t give a damn about truth and justice, he only wants to be left alone to eat his breakfast, read the newspaper, and take a leisurely stroll across the ugly urban/suburban-scape of the L.A. basin. However, he must share the environment with others and he hates the intrusion of people within his view. His negative attitude is compounded by the various characters he encounters who choose to fight with him or try to drag them down to their own level of misery. After receiving a well-deserved black eye, he purchases a beer and walks home late at night. Exhausted, he collapses onto his bed, where he should have remained throughout the day. He falls asleep immediately and does not see that a common burglar was already in his house. The burglar does not intend to leave any witnesses and places the barrel of a snub-nose . to “Insultan’s” forehead. The trigger is pulled as everything fades to black. There were many difficulties related to the production of the video works Past Imperfecto

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Editing Session, 1984. Harry Gamboa Jr. edits his video Vaporz. Photo credit: Juan Garza.

which were created for the public access channel in . The cameras, VCR’s, lights, cables, edit controllers, and necessary peripheral hardware were frequently malfunctioning or checked out to several of the many new public access producers. The equipment was eventually rendered useless as the entire system was allowed to fail due to breakdowns without repair. The few videos which I was able to produce during that year were each shot and edited within a  hour period that was often dictated by restrictive scheduling practices of the TV cable company. The conditions which affected production also included ongoing poverty, poetry, and painful impropriety. The absurd notions and images that were present on tape were oftentimes mirrored in the social activities of the cast and crew. The Asco group was fluctuating in its own myth of stardom and was preparing to crash in on itself like the doomed characters which were portrayed in the video works. Blanx, Vaporz, and Baby Kake were among the final works to be produced for public access. These productions focused on the theme of jaded love affairs. Each work reflects the alienation, dysfunction and hatred which can be found beneath the veneer of romantic/manic relationships. The inclusion of melodramatic situations similar to TV soap operas was altered by the extremely “abnormal” responses of the characters to their environment. The videos of  and  were exemplified by a raw stylistic technique of straight cut edits, poor lighting, and rough camera motion. All the video works which were produced for public access were each cablecast a minimum of ten times. At the end of , I had no access to video. III

FADE IN: During an unreasonable cold L.A. morning, a hot cup of coffee is accidentally spilled onto the author’s original manuscript for a feature-length film. He is sitting at his usual table on the upper level tier of Clifton’s cafeteria from where a panoramic view of  fellow diners can provide the semblance of company. He interprets the incident to be omen. He abandons the manuscript, leaves the cafeteria through a rear emergency exit, and is shot in the head as he is confronted by undercover cops who mistakenly identify his # pencil for an illegal assault weapon. CUT TO: IV

Sometimes it is impossible to give an accurate account of events that occur over any given length of time. It’s easy to lose one’s place in the intangible personal history that drags at one’s feet like a parasitic shadow that grows longer as the day wears out. Minutes can be misplaced but somehow years become lost in confusion, denial, or distraction. Past Imperfecto

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Forget what I just wrote. It is a lie. I remember everything! No time for alibis. I plead the th Amendment and take liberty with the st. STOP. REWIND. PLAY-RECORD Sometimes it is impossible to give an accurate account of my personal history since I have maintained extensive notes since  (along with support documents and photographs). STOP. REWIND. PLAY-RECORD Sometimes creativity is murdered by technology and vice versa. The invention co-opted by convention equals death. Slogans vs. Symbols. Everything can be lost and nothing can be replaced. STOP V

: Wrote Jetter’s Jinx, one-act conceptual drama presented at LATC. (Incorporated slides, text, and live ammo.) : Lost year. : Produced Antizona as a simulated downtown L.A. street corner (at U.C. Irvine). Video clips with separate docu-audio. Asco died. : Read , pages. : Photographed street garbage and shot video clips of angels with smoginduced melancholia (for oral story telling). : Wrote Vex Requiem, two-act play with music. Ends on sour note. VI In memory of Gerardo Velázquez, synthesized music composer

In the early ’s, I sat next to Gerardo Velázquez on a public bus as we both headed toward East L.A. He was explaining how he had been manipulating sounds and composing music. I had heard him perform radicalized poetry in a gallery setting. The information he discussed with me involved the aesthetics and physics of sound. I asked him if he would create several minutes worth of sounds that would match his interpretations of various moods and images. A few days later he provided me with a cassette which contained compelling noises, strange hypnotic audio passages, and humorously taunting buzzes, beeps, and mechanical whispers. I incorporated his audio in various videos (Blanx, Vaporz, Baby Kake, and No Supper), radio dramas (Orphans of Modernism and Hasta La Blah Blah), and live performance works (Jetter’s Jinx, Antizona, and Confess/Shun). He expressed 94

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No Supper, 1987.Video performance by, left to right, Humberto Sandoval, Diego Gamboa, and Barbara Carrasco Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

a sincere interest in wanting to attend the screening or staging of a work but each time a work was to be presented, he was busy performing his music in a different venue. His genius was evident in the way he was able to share his auditory sensibility in recorded moments of audio panic. VII Vis-A-Vid, 1991

I purchased a Sony CCD-V Hi camcorder in order to regenerate some sense of control over images that escape other media. There are other tech-toys that pile high on the kitchen table but it is still necessary to go out and shoot on target. The first work which is produced with this ’s technology and attitude is Vis-A-Vid. It is a magazine format work that consists of three vignettes: Cold Java (with Max Benavidez), a man’s psychological torment and doubt is quelled by the acidic response to the taste of cold java; Disconnected (with Barbara Carrasco), a woman is threatened by her lover and discovers that the dispassionate concrete of the city is no place to hide; and Fast Lane (with Diego Gamboa), a teen-age boy realizes that he must reject a life and society which have been pre-digested by those who had preceded him, “A burger is a burger, no matter who they have to murder.” VIII Post-Riot L.A.

Camcorders and videotape are being confiscated in the dismal wake of the riots. What you see is what they will get you for. Art is a crime that can be erased. Random shooting of video is punished. Video is suspect. “Shoot.” “Don’t shoot.” “Shoot!” “Fire!”

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Light at the End of Tunnel Vision (1994) In memory of Gerardo Velázquez and Ray Navarro1

PARTIAL ECLIPSE

During the s, when I was a young boy, I stared at the partial eclipse of the sun through several strips of negatives that had been folded over and layered so as to create a montage of reversed images of family events, local landmarks, and portraits of people who have vanished from memory. The silhouette of the sun appeared to be consumed by an eroding shadow as the photographic impressions were literally burned into my unconscious. The shadow receded as the sun regained its awesome brilliance but my vision of place, time, and self was permanently altered. The persistent “spots” that danced before my eyes during childhood and teen years corresponded/collided with my visual experiences of everyday life at home, school, or the streets of East Los Angeles; with television, the movies, and with an imagination that was focused on the possibilities of the present. ERASING THE SPECTRUM

By the fall of , I had witnessed the sequence and series of personal/ social events that caused me to self-identify as a Chicano in a country that actively held people of Mexican descent in low esteem. At that time, I believed that it was urgently necessary to photographically document the existence of Chicanos in the urban environment and to disseminate the images across the cultural borders within the United States. I purchased a Minolta  mm camera and fifty rolls of film with the intent to complete the documentary project within a couple of years. During the process of shooting countless images of faces, crowds, the streets, violence, spontaneous elegance, I became acutely aware of the power of previsualization and selective imaging. Within several months of looking 97

Military Occupation of L.A., 1992. Harry Gamboa Jr. documents postriot events in L.A. Photo credit: Barbara Carrasco. Photograph copyright Barbara Carrasco.

at life through-the-lens, I was convinced that the black and white of concrete reality was obscured by the absurdity of an infinite gray scale of perception. Incongruous visible patterns emerged from the cyclonic social and demographic changes that typified the ongoing destabilization of Los Angeles. It was necessary to illuminate the internal impressions that I had accumulated during my first twenty-one years and to confront a vast array of contradictory beliefs, ideas, and concepts. I realized that the documentary project would have to be extended indefinitely as well as complemented by an interpretive approach to creating photographic images that would reflect my understanding of the contemporary Chicano experience. FOCUS ON THE INVISIBLE

It is impossible to exist in a vacuum of awareness. Distortions flourish when there is only rumor and innuendo to fill in the chasm that is widened by ignorance. Confusion is in the eye of the beholder when one looks into the mirror and sees nothing. Millions of Chicanos are ignored, stereotyped, and denied by the mass media of television, cable TV, radio, Hollywood movies, popular magazines, educational curriculum textbooks, and a new generation of personal computer-based multimedia software. In the United States, Chicanos are viewed as a disposable phantom culture. In a country that is dominated by the whiteversus-black frame of reference, Chicano culture is systematically excluded and separated from the collective “American” experience. The individual Chicano who successfully traverses the subtle and complex maze of dominant media acceptance is an anomaly. It is possible to divert public opinion, common knowledge, laws of physics, rules of order, social norms, and cultural expectations. All one needs to oppose reality is a camera, film, and a concept. The manipulation of content and context is an expression of power over the perception of the viewer. If an event is created and designed for photographic documentation, it can provide persuasive “proof ” that the event actually occurred in time and place. However, all events, whether they are natural occurrences, political accidents, manufactured social productions, or the repetitive activities of faceless humanity, can be the source of greater factual understanding as well as the catalyst of mass disinformation. DROWNING IN THE MIRAGE

If the smog is not too severe when you stand atop nearly any rooftop in Los Angeles, you can see the Hollywood sign as it beckons to the world with its multibilliondollar myth. When you climb back down into your own backyard and walk along the streets, everything can be considered a facade, everyone can be acknowledged as an “extra,” and you can be the brightest-burning star. There are thousands of Light at the End of Tunnel Vision

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stars who spin out of orbit as they try to reach Hollywood. They drift away into a perpetual void of dysfunctionalism. Others lose their luster as they scratch away in vain at the locked entry door. The urban desert is filled with many venomous creatures and toxic plants. It is difficult to survive in such a harsh environment. When you set out to reach Hollywood, beware of the cracks in the sidewalk, avoid the emptiness of most promises, and deflect the accolades of strangers who may be clutching rusty switchblades. The illusion of Hollywood is harmful, but the delusion is fatal. I have stated in various public forums that the Hollywood sign is the ugliest example of graffiti in North America and that it should be whitewashed and replaced with a simple neon sign that points the way to Aztlan. Such heresy has been responded to with personal attacks by individuals who have invested their lives in perpetuating negative stereotypes as well as those who value the glittering falseness of playing a “bit part” in the nullification of the important history of Chicanos and Mexicans in Los Angeles. There have been many who have been invited to drink at the fountain of the oasis only to discover that they have quenched their thirst with the sands of a vast hypnotic wasteland. COLLAPSE OF MEMORY

Since , I have maintained a photographic diary that continues to capture the evolution of my expanding and collapsing universe. The diary includes an unexpected album of the dead; a collection of cherished moments in wide angle; the serialization of mundane events; portraits suitable for blackmail; frozen incidents of schizophrenic responses to multicultural stimuli; close-ups of poseurs-inwaiting for the next déjà vu; blurred snapshots of fractured asphalt, broken jaws, and shattered windows; blowups of minor emotional injuries; hundreds of Polaroid SX- instant photos that have recorded the uniqueness of what should have been immediately forgotten; dozens of mutilated composite color prints that fail to reconstruct the true meaning of a particularly significant gray day; many pictures that say the same thing to no one; and finally, the visual identification of selected individuals who emerge as survivors from a nocturnal urban abyss. However, the diary is incomplete. Many of the original negatives as well as numerous original one-of-a-kind prints have been lost, stolen, burned, buried, or in some way transformed into questionable confetti that has added to the postquake/postriot decor of the city. I can always count on a distorted journey whenever I go down photographic memory lane. The disappearance of images from my past provides ample opportunity for revision, speculation, and the blinking effect of temporary amnesia. If a picture is worth a thousand words, then sometimes no picture is worth its weight in gold. 100

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A VIOLATION OF REFRACTION

I am occasionally reminded that certain photographs continue to circulate in unwanted circles. Names and faces are attached (oftentimes intermixed), so as to create an indelible persistent fantasy of an alternative Chicano art group of the seventies and eighties. Guilt by association is compounded when relationships that have been dead for nearly a decade are suddenly brought to life before a mass audience. The viewer must beware that several zombies do not constitute a living or relevant art group. Even the most narcissistic of the dead will not make a pretty picture. There have been numerous published accounts of Asco (Spanish for nausea), including my essay for the Chicano Art: Resistance and Affirmation exhibition catalog,2 in which the Chicano art group is credited with creating works that challenged the stereotypic notions that are often attributed to contemporary Chicano culture by mainstream and alternative cultures of the United States. The incorporation of street performance, mural painting, drawing, costume design, and photography that was utilized by the group in creating a collective public image that would generate notoriety continues to inspire a certain amount of nostalgia for an East L.A. lifestyle that may or may not have been in existence during  through . Academicians, young artists (or would-be terrorists), students, and many of the hard-core devotees of an imagined social apocalypse have sifted through the rubble of the aftermath of the fatal implosion that destroyed Asco in the late s. The tangible evidence that remains of Asco is supported by hearsay and conflicting memories of plausible events. The works of Asco were often created in transitory or easily degradable materials that crumble at the slightest prodding and fade quickly upon exposure to any glimmer of hope. It is unlikely that the objects, historical accuracy, or spirit of Asco will ever be recovered. STICKS AND STONES AND SKIN AND BONES

On the day of the birth of my son, Diego, in , there was a tremendous windstorm that felled trees, scattered the urban refuse into the air, and tossed polluted dust into the faces of the innocent bystanders who littered the pavement of downtown L.A. I was elated when I held my son in my arms for the first time at : .. and was surprised to find myself, only a few hours later, on the streets shooting pedestrians who were in the early stages of pinkeye. As I walked along Broadway in the company of my Nikon F, it occurred to me that life is as precious as it is absurd. I took refuge from the harsh winds by entering a favorite landmark, Clifton’s Cafeteria. As I sat with a tray of pancakes and coffee at a table on an upper tier, I witnessed an enclosed society that offered membership into the circus of mankind or the snake pit of despair. As I ate the late breakfast, I saw: a Light at the End of Tunnel Vision

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plainclothes policeman choking a homeless man over a stolen crust of toast; a woman spoon-feeding red Jell-O squares to her surrogate daughter (which upon closer inspection was a discolored doll); ten street preachers, each presenting a separate boisterous sermon with different interpretations of the Last Supper; a young boy loading bullets into a polished revolver; and a distraught couple who were arguing violently in an unfamiliar language. I drank the last drop of bitter coffee and rushed toward the exit without taking a single photograph. Throughout the course of the following ten years, until , I rushed toward many exits during a thousand days of wandering the downtown streets with my son, my camera, and a shadow that inched closer with every step. I continued to photograph the anonymous population who posed and performed as though they were professional actors in an unnamed play gone berserk. Many of the antics and routines of the general public were worthy of a standing ovation, but before they could take their bows, they were often swept away by an overflow of shoppers, accosted by strangers, or they intuitively boarded the nearest bus. My primary focus was to continue the contemporary urban Chicano experience documentary photography project that I had begun many years earlier. However, other elements of the city that had been of peripheral concern were now at the forefront of visual awareness. The psychological and demographic time bomb of Los Angeles was ticking faster and faster toward disaster. I intended to rush toward the nearest exit, but there was seemingly no way out. BROWN IN BLACK AND WHITE

In , I exhibited  B&W photographs that I believed at that time best represented my interpretation of documentary and conceptual images of the Chicano urban experience during  through .3 Many of the images captured the essence of downtown L.A. and its people.4 I included many portraits of Chicano artists and several portraits of deranged street people. The conceptual works were designed to provoke the viewer to commit acts of perceptual sabotage. The opening reception of the solo exhibition was an experiment of mass hysteria that involved several thousand people who had decided to come without a proper invitation. The crowd was composed of the “Who’s Who of the Obscure.” Upon encountering family, friends, and foes during the reception, I entertained criticism from unknown traditionalists who complained that my work was not a true reflection of Chicano culture. I managed to escape their grasp and moved to a different end of the gallery. I was then cornered by several avant-garde types who accused me of being too Chicano because I had included some images of cholos, Anthony Quinn, and Rufino Tamayo. The demarcation between documentary and conceptual work was apparent in the way two separate lines had formed as people waited their turn to offer suggestions, threats, compliments, and insults. 102

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Anthony Quinn, 1981. Actor is swarmed by fans seeking his autograph during a visit to East L.A. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

Belted Consent, 1984. Pictured: Ray Navarro (top) and Diane Gamboa. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

The reception ended short of violence with a mysterious note having been slipped into my pocket, which I discovered before leaving the gallery; it read, “  !” SELF-PORTRAIT ON FIRE

Whenever I write about the s, I am always certain to use invisible ink. It was a protracted decade of disappearances. Many people, places, ideas, ideals, and images are gone forever. In , I decided to induce historical blindness by destroying all of the visual trivia that resembled pieces of a puzzle that were impossible to fit into a coherent picture. I led my way into the nineties by laying down a trail of scraps and ashes. CHICANO MALE UNBONDED

In , I was engaged in four-hour conversation with a man who could easily have passed as my double. I had never met him before nor have I seen him since our intense discussion. We talked about the politics of silence, the love of selfloathing, the aesthetics of blindness, the dynamics of punitive control, and the daily ephemeral experience of sinking quickly into the hot asphalt of L.A. As we spoke, I unconsciously bit my tongue whenever I mentioned “phantom culture,” “police state,” or “performance art.” However, I was conscious of the fact that we were both dressed exactly alike and that he wore a doomed expression on his face that reminded me of someone who had vanished long ago. We never exchanged names or shook hands, but we both laughed and cried as we walked away from one another without ever looking back. I recall walking aimlessly through darkened streets until I reached my parked car, which was located in a secluded deadend alley. As I drove toward the nearest on-ramp, I turned on the radio as a news announcer stated, “Be on the lookout for a Chicano male. He is probably armed and very dangerous to society.” The statement was followed by commercial announcements and synthesized Western music. I stepped on the accelerator and merged into the fast lane of the Hollywood Freeway. The freeway intersects with other freeways to form a concrete ribbon that binds the city into an explosive package. I drove across several freeways in an attempt to figure out how to untie a concrete knot. I exited at Oblivion Boulevard, not far from where I had begun. I had nearly gone full circle without arriving at a conclusion. I was concerned about the man with whom I had shared so much in so little time. I was worried that he or the many other Chicano men who had played a role in influencing my life, including my son, father, brothers, uncles, friends, and colleagues, were also in danger of being apprehended or assaulted by societal authority based on the radio alert, which played loudly in an atmosphere of ethnic intolerance and racial hatred. Light at the End of Tunnel Vision

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The following day, I was invited to participate in L.A. Iluminado, a group exhibition of Chicano photographers at Otis/Parsons Gallery.5 I was intent on exhibiting new work that would be created for the exhibition. I decided to counter the issue of negative stereotypes by introducing a B&W photographic documentary project that would be based on my interpersonal encounters with the Chicano men who have impact on my life. I composed an initial list of one hundred men who could possibly represent the various concentric and overlapping social circles that define my subjective experience. I was interested in photographing each man as an individual as he is confronted face-to-face in a dimly illuminated and isolated urban setting at night. I photographed the first twenty-five men on the list and placed the images on exhibit as the series Chicano Male Unbonded.6 Each work is titled with the name of the individual who appears in the photograph and his respective self-defined occupation—for example, Eloy Rodriquez, Ph.D., Phytochemist (UCI); Humberto Sandoval, Actor; Victor Gamboa, Intermediate School Teacher; and Max Benavidez, Artist/Writer.7 The remaining seventy-five names on the list have been adjusted and realigned over the past few years as the conceptualvisual linkage is clarified by realities that go beyond the borders of photography. A photographic update is required of certain individuals who have undergone definitive physical or personal changes that enhance the dramatic impact of the series. Chicano Male Unbonded is a series in progress that continues to establish the individuality of the members of a group. NO DETOUR

In , I have decided to eliminate more pieces of the puzzle in the hope that I can build a better memory. The earthquakes, riots, deaths, and denials have a way of removing the sheen from glossy photos. I have discovered permanent tattoos on the foreheads of urbanites that read, “Victim,” “Killer,” “Unemployed,” “Nobody,” “AIDS,” “Fate,” and “Temporary.” Many of the freeways sway and shake at the slightest rumble of social awareness. I read the Los Angeles Times and my vision becomes blurred by words that are written to neutralize or modify critical focus. The TV set supplies an endless array of mind-numbing narratives, vignettes, and artificial flashbacks. Homicidal and suicidal children are rewarded with movies, recordings, and video games that glorify the excesses of popular nihilism. There are multiple conspiracy theories that attribute all that is wrong in L.A. to its newly arrived immigrants. Anarchy is worn as a designer label that is stitched directly to the skin so that all who dare may try to rip it off. Police shoot rubber bullets for crowd control at Chicanos and Mexicans in downtown. Surreality begins to resemble the movies, except that the extras are bleeding on the sidewalk. 106

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Gronk, Artist, 1997. From the series Chicano Male Unbonded. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

Max Benavidez, Artist/Writer, 1994. From the series Chicano Male Unbonded. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

David Avalos, Artist, 1991. From the series Chicano Male Unbonded. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

Humberto Sandoval, Actor, 1991. From the series Chicano Male Unbonded. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

Robert Buitron, Photographer, 1994. From the series Chicano Male Unbonded. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

Oscar Garza, Arts Editor (L.A.Times), 1991. From the series Chicano Male Unbonded. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

Roberto Bedoya, Poet/Performer, 1994. From the series Chicano Male Unbonded. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

Eloy Rodriguez, Ph.D., Phytochemist (UCI), 1991. From the series Chicano Male Unbonded. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

Juan Garza, Film Director, 1996. From the series Chicano Male Unbonded. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

Ralph Cordova, Performance Artist, 1992. From the series Chicano Male Unbonded. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

Victor Gamboa, Intermediate School Teacher, 1991. From the series Chicano Male Unbonded. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

Daniel Villarreal, Actor, 1997. From the series Chicano Male Unbonded. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

TOTAL ECLIPSE

I am looking for a photograph that may not exist. I recall many details of an image but cannot piece them together so that the picture may come to mind. Sometimes events, pictures, and dreams are all integrated into a misdirected recollection. I have already looked through the family albums, newspapers, wanted posters, picture books, identification cards, museums, and the daily obituaries, without any clues to where I might find the photograph I am seeking. I am beginning to feel that the photograph was burned in any number of fires or that it has been placed into the hands of a vicious critic. Maybe the photograph is floating as a superimposed projected image onto the urbanscape, where it can be camouflaged and exert its subliminal influence without ever being discovered. I have been told by many experts on the subject that one needs light in order to make a photograph. I have also been informed by advertisers that a camera and film are very necessary. Curators have mentioned platinum and archival paper. I have wondered how long should a total eclipse last, because it is what has prevented the photographs from being seen. It is not necessary to stumble through the darkness before one can see the light. The sun will return and the images will not fade under intense exposure. Perpetual darkness is a hoax. LIGHT AT THE END OF TUNNEL VISION

I have been blinded by the positive and the negative. It has forced me to lose sight of  through . I am looking into a mirror and, although the reflection is unfamiliar, I must confess that I have seen that man before. I know that he exists because I carry his photographic image in my wallet. The process of self-awareness involves a series of reversals, refractions, and the elimination of impressions that would otherwise burn holes into the eyes of the person who gazes back through the mirror with a lapsed sense of recognition. I am in the early stages of seeing what has been invisible for so long. I will continue to photograph the phantoms even with the slightest ray of light. Out in the immeasurable distance, I can perceive that there is a source of incredible illumination. One day, I will reach the end of the tunnel, even if it is only so that I may look up and stare vacantly into the sun. NOTES 1. Gerardo Velázquez appears in the photograph Gerardo Velázquez, Synthesized Music Composer (–),  (from the series Chicano Male Unbonded). Ray Navarro appears in the photograph Belted Consent, . These two Los Angeles-based Chicano artists died of AIDS-related complications. 2. Harry Gamboa Jr., “In the City of Angels, Chameleons, and Phantoms: Asco, a Case Study of Chicano Art in Urban Tones (or, Asco Was a Four-Member Word),” Chicano Art:

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Resistance and Affirmation, –, ed. Richard Griswold del Castillo, Teresa McKenna, and Yvonne Yarbro-Bejarano (Los Angeles: Wight Art Gallery, University of California, ), –. 3. Shifra Goldman, “Brown in Black and White,” Artweek, June , . 4. María de Los Angeles Padron, “Cafe en blanco y negro, por Gamboa,” La Opinión, May , . 5. Kurt Hollander, “Report from Los Angeles: Community Access,” Art in America, June , –. 6. David Steinberg, “Images Capture Human Drama,” Albuquerque Journal, February , . 7. Phoenix Art Museum, Contemporary Identities:  Phoenix Triennial (Phoenix, Ariz.: Phoenix Art Museum, ), –.

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Refractions of Home (1994)

LOSING SIGHT IN ONE “I”

I recently walked into a small liquor store to buy some emergency junk food for a hundred-mile trip that would take me across several freeways in order to do a few daily errands in L.A. As I was about to pay for the chips, candy, Twinkies, and losing lottery tickets, it occurred to me that the several other customers who seemed to be hypnotized in front of the cashier were completely engrossed by the static shot of the rear of our heads that appeared on the small closed-circuit video monitor that was sitting on the shelf next to the sign that read, “You break it, you pay with your life.” I waited several minutes in anticipation of a horrible crime that would be captured on tape and screened at a mass funeral, but no one moved as the discolored video image continued to document a critical moment of perceptual decay. I tossed a ten-dollar bill on the counter and exited in the hope that my disappearing cameo role would not disturb their collective trance. As I was about to approach the on-ramp of the  Freeway, I instinctively turned into the drive-through lane of a recently abandoned McDonald’s, which had been transformed into a Natural Fry postmodern reconstituted soy burger joint. I wanted a Big Mac but was trapped in line between a customized ’ Impala lowrider in front of me and a brand-new Mercedes with gold-plated rims and trim to my rear. As I slowly approached the electronic menu board, I was surprised to see my license plate number superimposed on a still-frame close-up shot of my face on a full-color video monitor. The words “Coke” and “Big Fries” were typed across my eyes and mouth as I declined to place my order. I was troubled by the extent of the surveillance efforts of the business community and wondered if anonymity was a right or a privilege. As 121

L.A. Familia, 1993.Video performance by Humberto Sandoval. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

L.A. Familia, 1993.Video performance by Diego Gamboa (left) and Barbara Carrasco. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

I drove past the window, I accepted the fries and coke. I paid my bill in pennies and explained to the young part-time worker, “A burger is a burger, no matter who you have to murder.”1 The  freeway cuts across many freeways that point toward every corner of L.A. County. The selection as to which direction I might take was a logistical nightmare because the traffic was jammed to a crawl in all directions. I wanted to get to my destination via the emergency lane, but numerous stalled cars blocked my way. I was stuck in an underpass as several small tremors shook the fries out of the paper bag and caused them to dance across the molded plastic dashboard. I was uneasy about the concrete overpass above me and was uncertain if I was performing as a proper motorist who was within range of the traffic controller’s video cameras, which scanned the area from strategically subtle locations above and beside the freeway. I had a strange sensation that I should be “acting,” or at the very least, that I should have memorized a script before leaving home. The camera was pointed at me. It would have been much easier to endure if the director’s voice could have been broadcast through public speakers to tell us what to do in such a jam. HERITAGE IN HYSTERICS

During the month of December  I was commissioned to produce an interpretive/ documentary video on the personal and cultural experiences related to the preparation or consumption of chiles. The video was to be presented before the National Science Foundation in conjunction with a lecture by internationally acclaimed phytochemist and researcher Dr. Eloy Rodriguez, of the University of California, Irvine. The completed video is titled Fire Medicine. The video includes various vignettes of people eating chile: a mother attempting to force-feed her eleven-year-old son a raw jalapeño chile; my mother and her two best friends creating a batch of salsa using fifteen types of chiles with dangerously large knives; and several individuals who provided testimony of their relationships to chile. The following is a transcript of Roberto Bedoya’s videotaped testimony: [He is holding a green jalapeño in one hand and gesticulating with chopping motions with his other hand.] My friends were having a meal. I’m not much of a cook and they said, go ahead and chop this pepper up. So, I’m sitting there, standing there at this table, kind of chopping away and doing my part for this meal, and I rub my eyes because it starts to hurt. It starts to feel weird. My eyes feel stingy. But nevertheless, in that process, I kind of got a seed underneath my eyelid and it was the worst thing that ever happened to me, and I just started to yell and scream. And I couldn’t even articulate what was going on. I was crying, you know, and my friends rushed over and they 124

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kind of figured out what was going on, and they took me to the sink, put me underneath the faucet and flushed out my eyes. And the seed came out and I was just crying for a long period of time. And that’s my memory of peppers and, basically, I don’t really like them.2 DESERTED URBAN DESERT

The sustained automatic gunfire has kept the streets and alleys vacant for several hours. The heat continues to build as it approaches noon, when the temperature should reach ° F. Several of the mortally wounded victims are sprawled on the sidewalks and on the front lawns of the California-style bungalows. The dead on the street have guessed the riddle of the bullet. The survivors watch TV at home. The nameless people who will continue to live are the ones who have mastered the ability to become true chameleons, and there are a few who elect to fight back with crude handmade weapons or shiny imported firearms. It is a typical weekday, holiday, in which everyone has time to kill in the urban desert. ZERO DEFINITION

There is no videocassette inserted into the camera. The battery has been fully discharged. The camera is switched to the “off ” position. Everything that will not be recorded is not for the record. I carry the camera with me wherever I go for two weeks and point it toward everyone I encounter during that period. On several occasions I mount it on a tripod so that I can be in front of the camera as I engage in dialogue and transactions with unidentified strangers. Certain people are either intimidated or empowered by the presence of the camera. Some people quickly assume the role of a “star” while others immediately revert to “suspect” status. At the end of two weeks there is nothing to review or edit. Nothing is documented or memorized. There is only a blank cassette on the shelf and blurred static in my mind’s eye. TRIGGERING A NUCLEAR FAMILY IMPLOSION

The concept and reality of the average American family is extinct. Parents and children are diffused entities that have no model of “home” when there is no “house.” The living room is in a vacated alley, the kitchen is spread along an endless stretch of asphalt, and the master bedroom is any public space with concrete pillows. White picket fences are reinforced with razor wire. Opportunity never knocks when there isn’t a door to slam shut at the end of the day. The slice of the pie is rotting in the gutter. Every member of the family is lost in a picture-imperfect urbanscape of dead ends, skewed horizons, and artificial social turf. L.A. Familia is a conceptual documentary video that examines the meltdown Refractions of Home

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Nuclear Family, 1994. Left to right: Harry Gamboa Jr., Barbara Gamboa, Barbara Carrasco, Diego Gamboa. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

of a Chicano nuclear family amid the environment of an abandoned, visually distorted, and anonymously populated contemporary Los Angeles.3 Mom (portrayed by Barbara Carrasco) and Son (portrayed by Diego Gamboa) are struggling to cope with poverty, mutual hostility, displaced memories, misdirected logic, and fateful phrases that are echoed against graffiti-splattered walls. The video fades in from black with an elevated panoramic view of the city from a vantage point atop the Hollywood Hills as Mom and Son argue: : I’ve tried everything to keep you in line. Nothing seems to work. : Yes it does. : I’ve tried that tough love shit but that doesn’t work. Nothing works. : Money works. : Money spoils. Mom and Son continue their argument as it becomes clear that their ambivalent relationship is doomed to separation. Mom is frantic and bitter. Son is fourteen years old, jaded, and intent on surviving despite the overwhelming odds. Dad (portrayed by Humberto Sandoval) emerges from L.A. County Jail after an earthquake has rattled the computers into releasing him from imprisonment a year earlier than expected. He walks along the street in his boxer shorts and leather shoes. He limbers up to freedom by doing push-ups on the sidewalk. His initial monologue and behavior provide hints to an attitude that is self-destructive, absurdist, and confrontational. His first impulse is to locate Mom and Son. L.A. Familia chronicles the half-lives of the family members as they respectively experience isolation, alienation, arguments, aborted reunions, dysfunctional confessions, and an ongoing sense that everything is crashing inward. An extended period of time transpires on screen, reflecting the social and physical realities of the sporadic twenty-four-month shooting schedule. Dad undergoes various transformations as he appears as a hardened ex-convict, a schizophrenically confused street person, a repentant father, and an urban outcast. Mom is presented in a cyclical pattern of being strong-willed, emotionally paralyzed, reprimandingly moralistic, and existentially erased. Son literally grows up, but there is a sadness that is permanently attached to his acquired survival skills for life on ground zero. The nuclear family implosion is imminent when Dad, Mom, and Son finally meet for the first time on a pedestrian bridge that is enclosed with chain-link fencing and is suspended over the opposing eight lanes of a busy freeway: : Son. : You’re not my father. I don’t have a father. Refractions of Home

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: What are you doing here? : What’s in the bag? Who have you been fucking? The elemental structure of the family unit becomes unstable and collapses as innuendo quickly leads to harsh accusatory arguments, which then escalate to outright aggression as Dad produces a Heckler & Koch mm semiautomatic pistol and threatens to kill Mom and Son. They are terrified and run for their lives as Dad shoots off several live rounds. Dad catches up to Mom and Son as a collective compulsive/convulsive attack of religion/fear brings the family to an uncertain but conclusive fate. MY EYES UNSEEN

My vision is impaired by intrusive images: 1. Cops shooting rubber bullets at Mexicans/Chicanos for crowd control 2. Blind followers in large numbers 3. Children mimicking strangers on TV 4. Synthetic sympathy from any devil’s advocate 5. “English Only” signs 6. Blank faces in familiar places 7. Tattooed graffiti 8. Open sores that read like an open book 9. Flesh and bone on pavement 10. The unrecognizable phantom in the mirror NOTES 1. From the vignette “Fast Lane,” in the video Vis-A-Vid (,  minutes), which was awarded the Premio Mesquite for Best Experimental Video at the San Antonio CineFestival, . Vis-A-Vid, written and directed by Harry Gamboa Jr., is included in the MacArthur Foundation Library Video Project. 2. Fire Medicine (,  minutes); executive producer, Dr. Eloy Rodriguez; director, Harry Gamboa Jr. 3. L.A. Familia (,  minutes) was included in the exhibition Identity and Home (November , –January , ) at the Museum of Modern Art, New York. Performance/ text by Humberto Sandoval, Barbara Carrasco, and Diego Gamboa; direction, Harry Gamboa Jr.

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N O M OV I E S

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A La Mode (1977)

A La Mode, 1977. No Movie performance by, left to right, Gronk, Patssi Valdez, Harry Gamboa Jr. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

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No Phantoms (1980)

No Phantoms, 1980. No Movie performance by, left to right, William F. Herrón III, Harry Gamboa Jr., Gronk. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

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Young Boy in the 50s (1979)

Young Boy in the 50s, 1979. Mixed-media work by Harry Gamboa Jr., included in Schizophrenibeneficial exhibition at Mechicano Gallery, L.A. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

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The Gores (1974)

The Gores, 1974. No Movie performance by, left to right, Humberto Sandoval, William F. Herrón, Gronk, Patssi Valdez. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

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Waiting for Tickets (1978)

Waiting for Tickets, 1978. No Movie performance by Billy Estrada (top) and Patssi Valdez. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

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Stapled (1975)

Stapled, 1975

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Scissors (1976)

Scissors, 1976

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Autologüe Series

Fade In/Fade Out (1976) Autologüe 2 (1976) Autologüe 25, 75, & 100 (1976)

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Young Boy in the 50s Series

Angel’s Flight (1976)

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Bomba (1976) Artopsy (1977)

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Pistolwhippersnapper (1976)

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No Slapstick (1977)

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PERFORMANCE

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Cafe O’Lay (1975)

: Too much coffee. Not enough sleep. : That’s not why you called me. Why did you call me? : I’ve already told you. I can’t sleep. The caffeine’s driving me crazy. : No. You want me to ask you over. Well, I can’t. My daughter’s ill and besides she doesn’t like you. Isn’t there anyone else you can call? : You know there isn’t anyone. You know that I’m always thinking of you. Why can’t you let me spend the night with you? : Because I don’t want you to. : But why? : Because. : Because why? : Because there’s a man in bed with me who says that he’ll knock the hell out of you if you come over. : Don’t pull that on me! If he’s there, let me talk to him. : He doesn’t speak English. : Well, I speak Spanish. : He doesn’t speak Spanish. : Well, what does he speak? : He doesn’t speak anything. He’s mute. He uses sign language. 183

: Then put him on the phone. I’ll let him know that I’m coming so that he’ll have a chance to run out through the back door. : That’s the coffee talking. Go back to sleep. : I can’t sleep. Too much coffee. : Then go for a walk. : I’ll walk over to your house. : No! My friend will wipe the pavement with your face. : Put him on the phone! You can’t scare me with that mentira. No one’s there. : Yes he is. : No he isn’t. If he was you’d let me talk to him. : He doesn’t want to listen to you. : If he’s as bad as you say he is, why doesn’t he want to listen? : Because I won’t let him. Besides, he’s deaf. : If he’s deaf and mute, how do you know that he’ll knock the hell out of me if I go over? : Sign language: He’s making a fist. : I don’t believe you, Ramona. : Then don’t believe me; you’ll believe it when you see your teeth fly across the street. : C’mon, quit messing with my mind. : You’re out of your mind. Go to sleep! : I can’t. Too much coffee. : Well, I didn’t drink any and neither did my friend. So why don’t you let us go to sleep? : What friend? When someone is in bed with someone else, neither one calls the other their “friend.” : I do. : Well then, what’s his name? 184

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: I don’t know. I’ve never bothered to ask. : Ask him! : Hey friend, what’s your name? : Well, what is it? : He didn’t say. He’ll never say. That’s why I’ve never bothered. : It bothers me; wait a minute, the water’s boiling. : What water? : For my coffee. : But you won’t be able to sleep. : How am I supposed to sleep if the only woman whom I’ve ever truly loved is in bed with another man who won’t talk to either one of us, whose only sign of communication is a clenched fist? : You shouldn’t get yourself so worked up. : And why shouldn’t your daughter like me? Didn’t I take her to the zoo? : She says that you look like the gorilla that was in the coloring book that you gave her. : A gorilla! : Yes. She thought that you were personally related to all of the monkeys. : Now you’re lying. We didn’t see any monkeys when we went. : That’s what she told me. Look, I can’t talk anymore. My friend wants to go to sleep. He thinks that I’m talking too much. : Why should it bother him? He can’t hear you. : Yeah, but my lips are moving. : Then turn off the lights. : They are off. I think he overcompensates for his deaf-muteness by having better-than-average vision. : You’re crazy. : You’re the one who’s crazy. You should be asleep, not drinking more coffee. Cafe O’Lay

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: C’mon, let me go over. You know how much I love you. : Sure, only when you can’t sleep. Go to sleep! : I can’t! Too much coffee. : Go to sleep! Now see what you’ve done? You’ve made me wake up my daughter. : Tell her to go to sleep. : She can’t sleep. : Too much coffee. : My friend wants you to come over so he can yank your ears off. : Why? Is that what happened to him? : You don’t have to be so cruel. : He’s cruel. : Who’s cruel? : You’re cruel! Let me go visit you. I can’t stand it any longer. : I can. That’s why you’re not invited. : I told you that you’re cruel. You always have to act out your psychotorturer role. : Go to sleep now. Please. I want to lay down with my friend. : No you don’t. You want to pretend to lay down with him. You have to pretend because he’s not there. He doesn’t exist. : Shut up! : I told you. He’s not there. You’re there but he’s not. : Yeah, but neither are you. Why don’t you be a nice boy and go to sleep? : I can’t. Besides, I don’t look like a gorilla, your daughter thinks that I’m her father, the deaf-mute lives in your imagination, I love you, I’ve had too much coffee, and so why won’t you let me drop by? : Because I don’t want you to drop by. : Why? 186

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: Because I like to dream about living a peaceful life where my nights aren’t interrupted by lunatics who rant and rave when they’ve reached their fifteenth cup of coffee. Besides, I’m the one who thinks that you look like a gorilla. : No you don’t. You can’t. I don’t look anything like a gorilla. : Yes you do. : No I don’t. : You do. : Don’t. : Yes. : In any case, everyone’s entitled to wrong opinions. If you think that I look like a gorilla, then I should act like one too. And if I acted like a gorilla, I wouldn’t be on the telephone. I’d go over to your house and break the door, grab you and climb onto the roof where we’d make love before the planes would come. : Hopefully, before you’d come. : Then I’m going. : No you won’t because I’m going. : Where? : To wait for you on the roof. : Really? : Yes. : What about the deaf-mute and your daughter? : He’s already gotten dressed and left ten minutes ago. : I didn’t hear you say good bye. : No need to. I just waved. : And your daughter? : You know that I haven’t any children. : Then I can go over? : Only for tonight. Cafe O’Lay

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: The entire night? : Yes, until morning. : Alright then, I’ll be right over. : Wait. Can you get me something on your way over here? : Of course. What do you want? : Coffee.

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Pseudoturquoisers (1978) Produced,Written, Directed by Harry Gamboa Jr. Based on a Conversation with Gronk

First/final performance videotaped on ¾-inch color videocassette at the Airwaves and Stars Exhibition, Exploratorium Gallery, California State University at Los Angeles, November , , :–: .. Narration by Gronk Additional performances by Betty Salas and Harry Gamboa Jr. DOSSIER A

We let it wander. Traveling at amazing speeds, watching my life with tubelike fascination as it threatens to extinguish itself on the rocks of a distant shore. I find little relief in the fact gravity has loosened its grip. My thoughts flick channels like I’m accustomed to treating old television sets that rob me of my uninvited attention but mostly dream sadly about how life can be flushed away easily (the natural order of plumbing and the simple answers to massive hemorrhages of the vessels). My fear of breathing complicates everything. How would you like to find the head of a dog calling out quirks of time, making wise men fall to their knees in complicated agony over the loss of a tragic affair. Televise your problems. Read books of limited information and catalog the trials and errors of a subjective history. Why is L.A. the butcher’s block of swayback maniacs who with knife in hand slash their way into the household dialect of short-story format with a missing page for the ending? Ride home on the rear of the bus and find out why life is so cheap (and we’ll stop wandering). I’ll follow you throughout the ceremony and leave you face down with the blank memory of a crimson pellet placed somewhere menacingly behind the earlobe. We hear about the six desperate criminals who rule the world by remote control. 189

Six Criminals Who Understand the Aesthetics of Mayhem

Your Pink Eye, Is crying tears of disrespect. Off with your head. Off with your face. Your pink eye has gone beyond the normal limit of framing its subjects. We shall refrain from producing symptoms of ocular poisoning. We may just pluck that ugly pink eye from its socket and feed it to the worms or we may just close it permanently with the crazy glue in your pocket. Let the worms go hungry for a change! They eat so much as it is and what do you care as long as that eye can connect the light from the outside to the sludge on the inside. How many of us will have to be killed to keep from infecting others with our pink eyes and succulent worms? On the other hand, let’s not take this disease thing too seriously. We are the current plague upon the land of predetermined rage and the embarrassment of the highbrow, get-rich-quick in your pile of trash, or garage society. Let’s see how they’re going to gun down the millions who can’t afford to pay for the bullet that destroys the family unit (as we know it from cereal box tops). It will be a sad mathematical equation of insanity that will wipe away all traces of the humans that you love. If you’ve a strong stomach for the worms, watch them have the party we’ve all been waiting for. Invites only! The party is a hit of soil and timelessness. The host rots at the tip of your tongue, leaving the acid burns that will force you to choke on the first taste of beauty. Your tongue will be engorged with blood, forcing its way out of your mouth and into the crowded streets of town. The flies and bees will be amazed to find that it will suit their needs to feed upon. The flies bring the worms and the bees keep on stinging until the sweet nectar from the tastebuds is simply lies to live by. I’ll scratch your back if you stab my back. A friend in tweed is a friend of cancerous mothballs, the type that have to be tactfully removed by the root with twin-hinged pliers that beg to be spat upon by an anonymous hero (the type of person who’d hang from the gallows for little more than a pin on his chin or her cheek). We shall be dead or destroying the English language as we/they/you/all know it. We will begin by erasing the ugly letters from the alphabet and then replacing them with chunks of corroded metals. Our second step will carry us further along the plan of making speech impossible. The bees and flies will bore holes through your flabby arguments for power and the simple life. You will speak by way of sirens and bells accompanied by a chorus of percussionists. You’ll find speaking to be an uncomfortable capability. The tempo will be offbeat enough to let you feel the inherent persuasion of metabolic rates that keep us fat and boring. We shall blow off steam and smell like the country rose of mockery. 190

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Everyone that you’ve ever known throughout your life will not rest until you are punished for your secret deeds. We know as well as you of what they are and of what type of punishment will be most appropriate. You must be taught the lesson of self-destruction transposed to a pattern of self-denial. Take one, one million, one day you’ll take it all but the fear of having to pay for it will make your flammable night all the most memorable and miserable. Your final conscious effort will be to stay alive. You’ll fall asleep and the dream will conquer all hopes of finding the cure for hives. Bite your nails little one, Bite them hard as nails, Those nails will never make it, The rejection will do you good. We don’t want you or your kind, or your type, or your mother, or your premeditated sexual overtures toward the plain brown paper bags to be involved with our conception of what is as real as a broken window. You will be left to conduct the symphony of death (a fast-moving account of our version of a bad day in the city clusters of balding devils and lost angels). DOSSIER B

Tyranny makes its debut by pouring red wax into your ears. It’s a sunny day and the waxy layer between the spoken word and its effect begins to solidify. The mad impulse to vomit on holy icons of ill repute begins to melt. The cast is set and the stage is the platform for public executions. You are judged by the smell of your hair. Guilty! The conviction that you are worthless in relation to the population at large (the sacrifice is accepted with hardly any grace). Your bones will be fed to the lepers and monkeys. Why do you resist if not completely? They will procure the sweet tooth of defeat, which by definition is wrenched forcefully from the core, which is no small effort. A gray lizard of sorts will be mounted to a stone wall by placing a nail through its head. Above the lizard, a hand-painted sign will announce your demise. Imaginary audiences in the latest fashions will not take notice and instead will be your fruitless ovation. The volume of liars and big-legged beggars will astound you. There is nothing we can do to prevent the damage that will be exercised in the name of personal choice. There are no directions. Each route is false. A small child is slapped in the face by a stranger on a public street corner; the parents approve and pay taxes. Where is the comedy in desperation? We can laugh but who are you to think at all? We can laugh at our own death rattles, while you must attempt to make sense of melodies and maladies. Pseudoturquoisers

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A man and woman tied at the wrists dash through the crowd stabbing wildly with matching cooking knives, killing or injuring precisely fifty-one persons. At the end of their spree, they become untied and take separate taxis to a lively cafe where they will drink and dance with their spouses. We’ve encountered the forgotten sores that they had inflicted upon themselves. Their jaws are filled with pus. I can hear them barking. You can hear the rave reviews of an aborted spectacle. But we can feel nothing! The act of touching is experience through phantom fingers. The gesture is returned with a deformed innocence (which, if left to breed, will create new monsters to lose one’s sleep over and over again). The slaughter is agreed upon and copies are sent to aging fascists who in turn send out the order to their children. They toy with the idea of torture and lust. Necrophiles in their birthday cakes. Along the periphery of inner circles lay the plans of deceit. The reflections are cautious reminders of the universal misnomer, misnumber, dismember, and defectors. Spies, spies and assassins; they sell us products that reduce your molecular structure to a reasonably priced commodity that can be auctioned off to the highest bidder. Your fingerprints can be traced to the hand that is bound to secrecy. We will hold nothing from the light. At daybreak, a firing squad is lined up in spirited uniforms, their weapons and hard-won medallions shining admirably. They sneer at their prisoner as they ready their aim and fire. By noon, each member of the squad is mounted to a stone wall by placing a nail through his head. Above the member, a hand-painted sign will announce the demise of a gray lizard of sorts.           . The concept of treachery is coated with pancreatic juices, it is easily digested into the mainstream of popular notions. The future is dead, owing a great deal to the comet that will strike Los Angeles by night. The world will descend upon the southland with its journalists and scientists. Artists’ conceptions and yellowish photographs will determine who we were. In the interim period, the city will undergo great upheavals of social and geological unrest. Famed buildings and personalities will disappear during the tremors and almost everyone will suffer from aftershocks. New strains of labproduced viruses will ensure that selected people-types will be isolated in attics and debasements. In a recent interview with an unnamed source, a series of lies emerged to include celebrities as well as the common folk. It seems that jewels and other items of worth, along with sentimental objects, were being inserted into the unwilling orifices of the hired help and were being sealed shut with surgical stitching. The deposits were being placed in long-term accounts, with a significant interest 192

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penalty being made on early withdrawals. An overall sense of insecurity can be expected from the physically abused. Other lies revolved around the back-alley abscesses that pockmark the daily lives of sick symbols. The orphans of modernism line the streets in emaciated poses. They fall back onto slick pages of national magazines that create problems, predict their outcome, and have the photos and articles ready when the solution is brought to the newsstand. How will we know who to distrust with our lives? DOSSIER C

Illegal alienation begins with the impression that everything is set against you. It is! The lynch mob conducts a catered party of unknowns who’d love to see you hang by the neck. They don’t know you. A driver speeds down a city street and refuses to stop for the red light. He is hit by oncoming traffic and is thrown from his vehicle and lands in serious condition at your feet. You offer to help by crossing the street when the light turns green. You walk until he is no longer in sight then realize that your shoes have been stolen. They can never take you anywhere without some sort of embarrassment. There are many who’d love to see you hanging from the crosswires of high voltage. At the edge of your minor influence is a fatal mistake. It is all too real to comprehend without some revulsion. When it is all over, what will be left to say that you knew anything? Is it by fire or water that freezes you in your tracks? You’ve gone far enough to sense the bizarreness of an extended puberty (what will you brush your teeth with next!). The sinister character that tends to mimic your style is the heir to a shaky fortune. Visions of power wear away easily when the bomb goes off. An overdose of spontaneity can be recaptured and then be subsequently marketed under the title of the improvised rewrite. (FOR INSTANCE) I was at a local bar, listening to the devices of fantasy while enjoying my drugs and drones. At once, I started to describe in great detail how I had been apprehended by the armed authorities on the basis of a photograph in a bank. A queasy teller received the reward money while I spent cold nights on the concrete with toenail clippings flying my way. The bartender took an interest in my case and kept me supplied on tequila with a mescal chaser. I continued by giving a graphic account of how the courts had reconvened only to find me guilty on various charges related to coveted felonies. My image appeared in all of the local branches with a twenty-five-cent sticker Pseudoturquoisers

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proclaiming the superiority of capitalism and the bewildering effectiveness of the colonial enforcers. I had been caught, first on film, then in politics. My goose had been cooked at a high flame of intrigue. By now, the drunks were sobering to a finely spun tale of injustice and sheer misfortune. The alcohol content was by now infringing on my ability to speak. A final round contributed to a spontaneous loss of hearing. The story ended as it had begun. I was tossed out into the streets, where the buzzing in my head actually came from a machine in the sewer that is used to annoy the rats. The stars and moon had given up hope of their life everlasting and resigned their positions. Somewhere/someplace/sometime ago I had lost my shoes (or had they been stolen); I was walking with broken glass in my feet, with a swollen tongue, and the buzzing came from mechanical bees and flies. My actions were ritualized to the point of absolute necessity. I did not care to question why I had felt so ill. The worms had been partying all along! So please don’t get near me or you may become infected. Your sympathies can hardly be accepted, they are so sterile just by the distance of our relative experiences of time and space. The communal effect is one of strangeness with the self. Our mutual acquaintances have a time span, the fuse is lit and we try to blow it out. The effects are tremendous. Your behavior leaves me with asco. Deportable offenses rarely come to mind when one conditions others to believe that all is going well on the prepsychotic level of modern-day living. The fact that certain institutions and individuals are involved with a highly organized campaign to destroy the perceptual abilities of urbanized humans via the established modes of mass media should not detour us from our own understanding of what mental exits are about: You can leave when you want to say something important. Act as though you were truly aware of the motives for your behavior and then have an associate broadcast a series of false suicide notes that carry a reasonable facsimile of your signature. The seventies find us in horror over the torture and death that is employed to conduct global business transactions. When your face appears to be an exact replica of its own image then many questions pertaining to the laws of identifiability must be answered so as to quell the anxieties one experiences when the feeling that everyone is looking at “you” is really no different than bleeding. What will you do when everyone is looking at you? No staring/ now starring.                  : 194

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Stay tuned, Continued on next page, Coming attractions, Sign off, End.

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Pinguino (1980) Written in Collaboration with Gronk and Willie Herrón

Videotaped on ¾-inch color videocassette before Agnes Varda,  Performed by Gronk and Willie Herrón : Pinguinos on the warpath, Pinguinos on the warpath, Pinguinos, Pinguinos on the loose, Pinguinos on the warpath, Pinguinos on the warpath, Pinguinos, Pinguinos on the loose. Fade out voice. Pan to  sitting at table. Goes left to door. : It was just an average ice age. I noticed India crashing into California. Little did I know that the colonization of my glacier had just begun or that tomorrow would be an aurora borealis field day. The next few hours would change our lives forever. The continental drift wasn’t just another dance. Vibes. Blizzard sounds followed by several knocks on the door. Sax. : Walrus patrol! Where’s your ice cube? : Er, ah, it was here a minute ago. It must have melted. Wait, I’ll go make one. Vibes. Sax. : And you’re not wearing your tuxedo! : Did you see India crashing into California? Vibes. Sax. : Don’t try to change the subject. Where’s your tuxedo? : I’ll have it out by four. Vibes.  (-): Little did he know that each day was six months long. 196

Sax. : Ah, all you penguins are all alike. You come here to catch a little fish and then send it back to your iceberg. Why, that’s unanarctic! Can you prove you belong? Give me the raspada salute! Close-up of . Sax. : I pledge allegiance to the ice pick And to all of the punctured temples To which it stands One icetray indivisible With popsicles and snowcones For all. Vibes. Sax. : For a penguin, you speak walrus very well. : I watch a lot of hot ice. Vibes.  gives salute and exits left.  (-): It’s impossible to leave one’s home without the proper ice cube. I was beginning to have dreams of being sucked into a large whale’s hole. I couldn’t seem to get that stupid jingle out of my head. Pause.  (-): How did it go? : I’m so happy I got a Schwinn icicle, I’m so happy I got a Schwinn icicle.  (-): What did it mean? My mind wanders in its own isolation. I’m a hostage in my own home. Besides that, I couldn’t tell a sea anemone from a tapeworm and the United Snakes was only a lie. I was just a little pinguino when I had to go through my first drop drill. From then on I’d be frightened to fall asleep.  stands up. : Whenever the lights from the passing cars would flash onto my window I’d think it was the end of the world. Now, twenty years later it is the end of the world and there’s no more windows. Years and years of pinguinos trying to disguise themselves as walruses, trying to pass. They remind me of nicotine stains. How many pinguinos do you see with rotten beaks. I remember when a Butterfinger tasted like a Butterfinger. Now after the first bite that taste fades away. How those manufacturers have made candy the great giveaway of any holiday. Vibes.  (-): Narwhal! : Oh, I got mail. ’s twin horns protrude onto set with letter stuck on them. : Dear Ping, Pinguino victory! Twenty three walruses found floating in blubber tub. Pinguino

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Cache of tusks found in icy ravine. Pinguino on the loose, Pinguino on the warpath. Signed, Pong.  (-): Narwhal! : More mail?  enters and removes his Narwhal costume. : Pong. : You’ve changed. : You haven’t. : You look older. : You look younger. : How did you get here? : India crashing into California. : Yeah, the continental drift is not just another dance.  and  move into dance. 1940s swing-era music. : Do you have the proper ice cube? : No, it’s plastic. : How did you get it? : I bought it. : Mine melted. : Take mine. My freezer’s full of them. Loud knock on the door. : Walrus patrol! Pause.  looks at plastic ice cube. Gives  the ice cube.  goes to . : Where’s your ice cubes? , : Quick. Hide it. Flush it down the toilet. Put a lampshade on it.  enters. : Where’s your ice cubes? : Mine melted. : And yours? : Mine too. : Something fishy’s going on around here. What’s your name? : Ping. : And yours? : Pong. : Something fishy’s going on around here. Do you think that you can look at a walrus and not have a walrus know what you are thinking? : Mine’s melted. : Mine too. : I need to see some I.C. with your picture on it. 198

Pinguino

 holds up plastic cube over ’s face. : Will this do? : That’s you alright. : Will this do? : That’s you alright.  leaves. : Narwhal! : More mail? Mail. : Hold your seahorse. Stop. The tundra hit my permafrost. Stop. And frost bit the snowman. Stop. On his snowball. Stop. Stop. Stop. Don’t stop. What does it mean? : It means that the pelicans have armed themselves against the walrus patrol. : If they can do it so can we. : How? : Organize. : That’ll take too long. We’ll just kill them. : How? : The blubber tub. : Not the blubber tub. That’s too radical. : So is an ice pick. : So is a gas chamber. : So is napalm. : So is a crowbar. : So is a scarecrow. : So is T Bird. : That reminds me of a song. , : Organize pinguino Organize Organize pinguino Organize If the pelicans can do it So can we Walrus in a blubber tub Tusk in a ravine If the pelicans can kill them So can we Organize pinguino Organize Organize pinguino Organize No more ice pick in the temple Not for me Pinguino

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Organize pinguino Organize Let’s agree to kill the walrus Set ourselves free Oppression is a walrus device Organize Pinguino break the ice Organize Pinguino break the ice WHEW!!!! : Pong. : What? : Did I tell you of the dream I had? : No. : Well, let me tell you, I saw these two pinguinos up against the wall. Cut to visual of two pinguino cutouts, hand enters and stabs with ice pick, pinguinos bleed some type of fluid. : And then I saw my life spelled out before me. Cut to sheets with drawings of various pinguino items and words with hands tearing them out. : What did it mean? , : Organize pinguino Organize Let’s agree to kill the walrus Set ourselves free Oppression is a walrus device Organize Oppression is a walrus device Organize Pinguino break the ice Organize Pinguino break the ice  knocks on door. : Narwhal! : More mail? : Walrus patrol. You’re under arrest. : But why? Both  and  spin around. : Illegal ice cubes. : ¡Corrale!  runs out and leaves  behind. 200

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: But I’m a citizen. : That’s what they all say. You’ll be sent back to anti-arctica on the next ice floe. : But I have my papers, I was born here. I can give you the raspada salute. I’m an artist. : Okay, if you’re a citizen, what came first, the paw or the fin? : Er, ah, the paw. : Wrong. It was the fin, let’s go. : Wait. Ask me another question. : How many walruses were found floating in a blubber tub? : Okay, you got me, let’s go.  takes  into custody and scene cuts to ice floe drawing with  pulled by magnet. Then glass screen put in front of lens with hand scratching out message:       

Pinguino

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Shadow Solo Detour via Obsession (1982)

First performed at the Hispanic Urban Center, East Los Angeles, September 9, 1982 Performed by Sean Carrillo (Solo) and Daniel Villarreal (Shadow) Characters:   A large white sheet of paper is draped over an area of stage right. Light source is placed behind the paper so as to create the shadow effect of , who will be between the paper and light.  will have a variety of cardboard cutouts to create visual effects.  is dressed completely in black, wears dark sunglasses, and smokes cigarettes.  enters stage left and lights a cigarette. : Is it all that inappropriate to point in public? A simple walk down a city street is enough to cause a terrific alarm through anyone’s nervous system.  takes a deep puff from the cigarette.  enters. He is crawling on his hands and knees while moving in a circle. : I was taking a shortcut through Downtown L.A. the other night when I saw this man eating garbage from a trash can. I said to him, what’s the matter mister, never learned to use a fork? The stench! He had the etiquette of a tourniquet. I almost choked. I continued my fast-paced walk down Broadway or Spring when it occurred to me that something was missing.  exits. : The lights, buildings, and people were there but something more essential was missing. The busy city seemed more like a static-filled tomb. The buzz of indifference was deafening. What made it even worse was that I really didn’t care. [Pause] At least I made it appear 202

that I didn’t care. Actually, I was horrified at my own lack of emotional response to this or that.  takes another puff from the cigarette.  enters wearing a large triangular-shaped cutout over his head. : You make me sick! Shut up and stop smoking.  exits. : It was one of those warm nights that everyone takes for granted. The smog wasn’t too thick and my lips were thin with anticipation. I knew something was up. There were bagless bag-women complaining about the more important things in life, like the quality of trash, the inequality of who gets it, and the anticlimax that comes with having it. My mind was filled with thoughts of a better means of transportation. My feet were killing me!  enters and pulls his own hair. : Stop it. You’re driving me crazy! [Screams]  puts his hands over his face and exits. : I decided to take the bus, but since I didn’t have any money I continued to walk. There were two men kissing a corpse at the bus stop. My bus stop! It couldn’t have been dead for more than an hour. The bus was late and my shoelaces were untied. I recognized the dead one, an old flame, two tongues swirling around the fixed grin.  enters wearing cutout of facial profile. : Don’t you have to leave now? What time is it?  exits. : I ran to the curb and looked both ways before I crossed myself. I was about to take another step when a dark figure emerged from the alleyway to hand me a picture postcard of a coffee shop.  pulls postcard out of coat pocket. He looks at the card as he speaks. : There is a prayer printed on the back of the card and it reads like this: Our Lady Rumba Ramona, Sweet nothings from Pomona, Have mercy on us. Mother of clowns, small towns, Peeper of the grounds, Have pity on us. Holy art thou in attraction, Lights, camera, inaction, Have bad memories of us. Our Lady Rumba Ramona, ¡Como eres cabrona! Have nothing to do with us.  rips the postcard in half and tosses the pieces up in the air.  enters, tearing up newspapers. : Help me, you idiot!  exits. : I knew that I was being observed and absorbed by those around me. I quickened my tempo, shortened my life span, looked in a window and saw revolting mannequins revolting against the silence, posing for science, wearing Shadow Solo

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Shadow Solo, 1982. Live performance by Sean Carrillo (Solo) and Daniel Villarreal (Shadow) at the Hispanic Urban Center, Los Angeles. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

absurdities that pass for fashion, asses and fascists. Questionable pleasures for an oblique clique.  enters, strikes several poses, then gives fascist salute.  lights another cigarette. : You fool. Don’t you know what you’re not doing?  exits. : Everything seemed so serious. I needed fun with a capital F.  flicks away cigarette. : I approached an odd-looking man, he had a face made of plastic, a wax mustache, and fingers that were rigid like sardines. I asked him what it was like to be so imperfect. He stuck out his tongue and it plopped to the floor. I had heard many theories on overcompensation. He looked orally quizzical as I wiped my shoes on his taste buds. He licked my sole and I became frightened. I ran to the next corner and was cornered by cancerous castrators who were bent on destroying my primary means of identification.  enters wearing cutout that extends his body in odd shapes with various protrusions.  lights another cigarette. : You damned liar. You don’t have any I.D.  exits. : I cut through that momentary third degree like hot forceps on a buttered foreskin. I told them that emasculation was a bad habit punishable by ten years of being faced down in the public urinals of City Hall. The castrators become inept and silly when they are pissed off politically. I ran across the street and was immediately seized by an urge to vomit. I could feel the inside of my stomach twisting violently as though it were attempting to rip itself free from the abdominal cavity. I covered my mouth and looked around for a worthy recipient of the prize. I ran back across the street to spray the castrators, to give my blessings, to drown their horrors in quasi-digested glue. They loved it and became lifelong fans.  enters tossing multicolored balloons into the air. : When’s the last time you’ve blown anything?  exits.  takes a dollar from his pocket and pins it to his tie. : My fans donated a dollar towards the cause of self-destruction and told me to spend it all in one place. We gave one another farewell kisses and I moved on through ground zero, working my way across the shortcut, which had become increasingly unfamiliar as the lighting became erratic, as the people became erotic. I moved slowly, rubbing myself against the walls of buildings, against the filthy walkways. I was able to witness cops and criminals, victims and perpetrators, penetrators and masturbators, copulating and ejaculating with one another on the city streets, leaving the urbanites sprawled along the curbs, soaking wet, fetish of the hard-core set, with me cutting my forehead Shadow Solo

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against the don’t walk, do bleed sign. I wondered if Rumba Ramona could do the Limbo Rock.  flicks away cigarette and lights another cigarette. : A woman wearing sunglasses and high heels called out to me from the middle of the street, from the center of attention and demanded an erection. We had sex, her in dark specs, me biting her heels, giving her Frenched toes. We hypnotized each other.  enters wearing cutout of staircase design. : Violent weirdo. I hope you die. : Everyone took me so literally. I needed fun with a capital crime. : Weird violence. Don’t lie.  jumps off of a chair and remains crumpled. : I was genuflecting on the center divider, having my eyebrows pinched when a man landed head first onto the pavement next to us. He resembled dog food in a rumpled suit. He must have jumped from the thirteenth floor. He had dancing shoes with pointed tips.  stands up laughing. : I pushed him out the window. : He was a zero hero. I blame him for sabotaging the beautiful relationship which had blossomed in mid-traffic. : You spit venom on his coat.  exits. : I speak words only when my tongue is not in proper use. She disappeared into the narcotic night and left me with an elastic queasiness that got me up off my knees. I had the rabid desire to stutter in an anal repetitive manner, to reduce the meaning of the entire universe to a simple act of heinous behavior. I wanted to clip the ears of cretins, greet the fears of grace, and drink the tears of the race. I reached down and grabbed a fistful of dog food, putting the splattered flesh into my mouth and swallowed fast. I tasted nothing as it dissolved between smacking lips. It needed salt.  enters wearing hat. : It needed asphalt.  paces slowly back and forth across the screen with  following his movements. : There was a bitter flavor on the tip of my tongue as I jaywalked to the concrete comfort of the sidewalk. I was completely lost in the bleak patterns of melting streets and anonymous buildings. I approached a hyper-thyroided, thigh-rotted, sex-changed man/woman, and asked him/her for essential and sensual information, the kind of facts I needed in order to survive the disorder. He/she offered me poisoned candy to suck and stuck his/her fingers into my 206

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eyes. I was enlightened by momentary blindness to the meaninglessness that one might attribute to one’s own shadow.  is back in position stage left. : So you’re the one who ends the light. : I opened my eyes and saw that life has no transactional value and that death is the only currency of exchange in the realm of the senseless. : Death and life are on the same coin. Want to make a bet? : There is worthless change, changeless worth, and sex changes that change nothing. My eyes were swollen and blinking, he/she mistook it for winking. I asked him/her if he/she would kiss my ass and was immediately smeared with an ugly colored lipstick. : If you don’t want fucked-up answers, don’t ask fucked-up questions.  exits. : A pus-riddled child of the sewer was amputating his limbs with a rusted can opener, committing surgical blunders, tossing away phantom fingers and tarnished toes to the hungry rats. The man/woman got down on all fours, hoping to get a chance at eating the good parts. The diseased kid thrust the can opener into the neck of the man/woman, causing a great gushing forth of green foam, yellowish steam, and orange acid. The child burst into flames, leaving a brown stain on the curb. I lifted the skirt of the dead man/woman and saw the stillborn savior tangled in unhealed stitches, surrounded by crotchless panties, embraced by the halo of tattooed names of sailors, saints, and winos. The stillborn was wearing false eyelashes. Its lips were moving, uttering noises from the toilet, making treasonous proclamations, predicting the ending of its own universe. I became bored and left its blasphemous babbling to the rabid rodents.  enters eating an enormous ice cream cone. : Babies rabies talk! Can’t you see that I’m eating? : It was so self-defeating, the constant repeating of violence, the instant depleting of elegance. This L.A. trance was enough to make anyone dance.  does a quick dance and flashes forth a cutout of a large insect and a cutout of a large musical eighth note. : I’d rather crack your skull for a note.  exits. : The music of doom echoed against the faces of bystanders, erasing their eyebrows, slicing their noses, removing their teeth, and welding their lips shut, creating a symphony of apathy with major overtones. I ran down an undulating street and noticed that some of the city’s inanimate objects were breathing, moving, becoming obscene with many of the individuals who were either dissolving into creamy syrups or vaporizing into colorful clouds of discontent. I could feel my own body losing its form, becoming a shapeless impression of resistance. I had every intention of remaining intact, of controlling my own existence, to continue as a tangible and expendable item of the social shelf. Shadow Solo

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 enters and screams.  lights another cigarette. : I screamed for help and crawled along the fluid sidewalks. I wanted to pray but was preyed upon by ideas that played with concepts related to the universality of spontaneous extermination, mass hysteria, random rumors, and rundown tumors. It was almost impossible to think about surviving another moment of perceptual flux. : Conceptual junk! Survival of the witless! : There was an intense flash of light that made everything transparent, it was followed by silence and lag of conscience. I was in a dull sleep. I could feel my molecules being melted into a more modern mold, it was a tight fit, a fit of imagination with mental stitches and bullet holes.  paces back and forth in front of  with  mimicking ’s pace. : It was an antimeditated process that took only moments to complete. I hardened into the mold and solidified my belief in the non-after. : No laughter. You were better off the old way. : Is it all that inappropriate to point in public? : Only when you have a pistol in your hand.  hands  a pistol.  and  exchange places on stage. ’s back is to the audience when  takes careful aim at . : You make me do things I don’t want to do. I want to make you like me! : What made it worse was that I really didn’t care. At least it will appear that I didn’t care.  fires pistol and  tosses confetti into the air as though hit by bullets.

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Void and Vain (1983)

Performed at the Galería de la Raza, San Francisco, 1983 Performed by Humberto Sandoval (Void) and Harry Gamboa Jr. (Vain) Characters: , the antirealist painter , the outlawed writer The stage is an image of prison gray, with two chairs facing each other.  sits in the chair stage left and  sits in the chair stage right. Both  and  are strapped to the chairs with black masking tape. Two lamps are suspended from the ceiling by electrical cords, with a lamp hanging slightly above each of the characters. There is a pile of paint brushes under ’s chair and a pile of pencils under ’s chair. : I have committed my crimes with poisoned potato peelers, slicing away cheeks and tongues, scalped the intelligent types with rusted utensils, and desexualized anyone who rubbed me the wrong way. : The hip bone connected to the jaw bone. : I won’t talk under torture! There’s nothing anyone can do to make me give away my secrets. My violence has been public, my works have been published. Besides, I enjoy the pain, it gives me something to complain about. You’ll be whipped, burned, punctured then drained of whatever juices bullets can draw. : There is nothing worth repeating. There is nothing worth repeating. : Want some clues that will make it easier to execute that final act? Don’t smile; don’t skip a beat; implode your ideas; invert your vowels, betray your convictions; reflect on past genuflections; minor resurrections; let your x’s and y’s ooze slowly down a turned cheek.  and  begin to squirm in their chairs, making vague attempts at escaping. 209

: The gospel according to Saint Arousal: Let us not worry if they are underage, it’s okay, I’ve got a note from their parents. : I have learned much from the shortsighted mutes that had me spoon-fed on anger, murderers who neutered on cue, those who exploited my childhood with bombs and plunging bee lines. : Memory is anonymous, empathy is ridiculous, enemy is anyone of us. : The generic hysteric uses modifiers to modulate the madness, performs the Rosary with beads of sweat, illuminates dull personalities with rudeness that incites them to respond uncontrollably. : Jingles that jangle to the tune of apathy, lethargy, and trigger happy. : There is flab and blandness that trembles excitedly, it has high expectations of your indiscriminate desires. Your aversion to reality severs your pulse, desynchronizes your awareness of others, intensifies the travesty of your own personal inhibitions. : Now turn pink and stink. : Frantic eroticism crumbles like smashed lashes, masses as ashes, brittle dreams whisper undeciphered codes into my ear. My work is the suicidal surrogate, it is the anxious chorus, melodious and felonious, the backup vocals to the silenced class. : Can you follow the rule of thumb by amputating the hand that points the way? : Nothing flows through these veins; there is a gap in precision, flopped decisions, and skin rashes that gauge my shameless pubic complexion, plague my social projections. If there were only a way to kill you before they’d get whatever information they could extract from an untalented finger-painter. : Hemorrhaging hemorrhoids insisting on salvation, defaming reputations.  and  make further unsuccessful attempts at escaping. : Protracted politeness! Why not just get it over with? I’ve had my disproportionate share of grand mal handshakes, razor smiles, influential dancers who’d pick my pockets, inconsequential lovers who’d rake my wallet; my ideas have been stolen, abandoned, taken to the grave, taken too gravely. If I had a pencil in hand I’d be able to write lines that would erase your identity and have it replaced by the words before you, the concepts alone would make you an accomplice, you would join in the conspiracy of reading my work. : Do hyenas have halos? How many jackals in heaven? What bus do I take to get to Limbowood? Any purgatives in this story? : It’s within my purview to putrefy any existing social order, to justify any resisting disorder, to denounce martyrs on their deathdates, to flaunt my verbal fugues like overdone mascara. I am of the opinion that theory is the mascot of maniacs, practice is the masochist of theorists, and that the theology of morons is masked in moral mordancy. : Ever eat a wet pony, dry a wet painting, want a damp spanking? Requiem for prerequisites. 210

Void and Vain

Void and Vain, 1983. Live performance by Harry Gamboa Jr. (Vain) (left) and Humberto Sandoval (Void) at Galería de la Raza, San Francisco. Photo credit: Diane Gamboa.

: Your effectiveness as a creative influence can always be measured in how soon you are lined up for public execution. It’s very important, urgent, to be the insurgent, to remain in opposition, to develop alternative compositions that will confuse the predators. Vicious politics, malicious victories, delicious defeats. There is pus in this eye of the storm. : Paint me a platypus in peddle-pushers. Sketch me a scarface. Draw me a demented demon demonstrating dialectics. : You don’t look like an artist. You resemble a fly, ready and willing to be swatted into an apparently bleak future. If only there were ink in my pen. I’d write your eulogy or figure out the formula for escape velocity.  and  make even further attempts at escape.  is successful in freeing his left leg and  is successful in freeing his right leg. : You don’t write, you ejaculate credibility, emulating the current fad. : So you can read! : I can see that we have nothing to lose. : There are so many possibilities, and they’re all crammed inside so tightly, it’s so difficult to get a consensus, difficult to untangle. : Do the tango with a crowbar. : I am not going to wait for this injustice to transpire for this artist and writer to expire. Fight or flee, two valid choices nullified by our entrapment. : Strapped statements verified by these chains. : So you see them as chains also?  and  struggle to escape and each is able to free his remaining leg. : These are most definitely chains. We can fight back with our imagination.  and  tilt themselves forward and stand while attached to the chairs. : Time for the mad dash to freedom. : Wait. I can’t let my public see me like this. I’m a famous author. : We can imprison ourselves with our own imaginations. Well, I can get away dressed like this, I’m an artist. : I have the sensation that something has gone askew in my plot. We were political prisoners then we escape but why are we still here? : I had originally intended you to be painted into permanent torment. Lots of gray, no matter, but you would not sit still.  and  free both of their arms.  and  go down on their hands and knees.  picks up a pen with his mouth and  picks up a brush with his mouth. : These were not chains. : Then there is no reason to restrict what I want to paint. : And no restrictions on what I’ll write. 212

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There are sounds of screaming and cries for mercy, followed by gunshots and silence. : Was that your imagination or mine? : Someone else’s ammunition, never mind. There are sounds of screaming and cries for mercy, followed by gunshots and laughter. : The assassins really enjoy their work. I’m too young to die. : Just think how your paintings will escalate in value. : I can easily understand why they would want to eliminate you. Your ideas are unclear and unpleasant dangers; infectious rebellion minus direction. I can visualize you being slaughtered on behalf of order. I fail to comprehend why it is necessary to liquidate me. : It’s because you use ugly colors. Your images distribute disturbances. Besides, it’s a capital crime to defy authority, to deify autonomy, to defecate a speculative spectrum onto canvas. : My final wish: an obituary in crayon. : My final wish: that I can write it for you. : I will talk under torture. My information is strategically worthless. All of my words are lies. : But death is real. : Only for the living and only as a word.  and  crawl about in confused circles as they speak. : I’ve heard that it’s difficult to shoot a moving target. We’ve got to escape. There is no other choice.  gets back up into a sitting position with his chair. : I can pretend that this is not happening to me and fall asleep. I will refuse to believe in any of this.  closes his eyes and begins to snore. : You can’t sleep at a time like this! Wake up! : I am dreaming that I have no eyes and since I cannot see you I assume that my dream has come true. There are sounds of gunshots followed by a pained, slow moaning. : They’re getting closer.  unstraps himself from the chair and tosses the chair against the wall. : I am dreaming that I have no ears, never having to fear double negatives, slips of the tongue, commands. : We could have escaped all along. Wake up. Wake up. : Vanity will get you nowhere. Go put ink in your pen. : They’re almost here. : It’s only a dream. Void and Vain

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 attempts to wake . : I’ll write it in crayon.  escapes, leaving  in place. : There is nothing worth repeating. There is nothing worth repeating. There are sounds of gunshots as the lights fade to black.

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Orphans of Modernism A Radio Play (1984)

Broadcast in two parts on KPFK-FM, Los Angeles,  Performed by Marisela Norte (Auntie Mayhem), Humberto Sandoval (Idkink), Harry Gamboa Jr. (Confuzzi), Juan Garza (D.A. Lambasto), Kevin Gunn (Swatman), and Gronk (Gronken); additional voices performed by Eddie Ayala, Daniel Vargas, Diane Gamboa, and Harry Gamboa Jr. Synthesized music by Gerardo Velázquez Characters:  , claw hammer happy , former child star and current ice pick murderer , confidant gone astray .. , politico post-rococo , amnesiac scientist Act  Fade in introductory synthesized music. Fade out after one minute. : Welcome to Act  of the play Orphans of Modernism. Cut to burst of synthesized music for fifteen seconds. Urban street noise ambiance under voices.  : I wonder how many skulls I can crush in one day. I really want to put this new claw hammer into use. : Do you really like the birthday present I got you, Auntie Mayhem?  : It was exactly what I wanted. The ball-peen kept sliding off the bald heads, besides it was beginning to chip from the excessive use. Auntie has been very busy. : I know, I’ve seen the headlines: Top Official Found in Parking Lot, or how about, Mysterious Mallet Meets Heads of Corporation. There is quite a bit to be said about anonymous fame.  : You’ve also been getting your fair share of press, Idkink. 215

The top investigative reporters have attributed nearly two hundred ice pick murders to your efforts alone. : I just love to poke holes. Are your ears pierced?  : Oh, put that thing away. You know that the urban snitch mentality abounds in places like this. You can’t trust anyone nowadays. Secrets are like worms that eat their way out of your own personal filth into the collective conscience or lack thereof. : Okay, I don’t need a speech. I’ll put it away; besides, I never leave any witnesses.  : Slaughtered innocence screams loudest when it finds a home in repressed guilt. I can hardly wait to knock some sense into you. : But I have to reach my quota of five hundred by the end of this year. That leaves nearly three hundred to go. It is an obsession with me. I must complete what I have begun regardless of the consequences. It makes my life exciting.  : You are very sick. Sociopathic? Is that what they’d call you? It doesn’t matter. This coffee tastes terrible. : Yeah, it tastes like someone percolated a cigarette. Maybe I should go and teach the management a lesson in the execution of fast-food cuisine.  : Don’t let your madness go to waste. Make each of the victims you ice count. : You know Auntie Mayhem, I have been having such a difficult time trying to sleep. I close my eyes and know that the nightmares will begin. I see the different faces that I have attempted to erase. They attack me and I try to fight them back. I am tacked to the wall and they each take turns in poking holes, poking fun. I hate all of them.  : Well, don’t close your eyes here. You might cut yourself. The only thing that will cure your problem is cyanide therapy, preferably at the state’s expense. Better give up hope about ever being normal. There is no way to re-create a happy childhood. Be happy with your dangerous toy. Besides, it is my birthday and this is no party. Why don’t you eat your doughnut with the coffee? : I can’t even look at a doughnut without straying to thoughts about plugging it up. You eat it. And I can’t drink my coffee because I don’t smoke.  : I’m getting bored. I believe in only three things: revenge, lust, and fun. : What about love and romance?  : Hammers and ice picks. : Murderous picnics.  : I’m off to make headlines and a few dents. Let’s make it a date for lunch then, same place, tomorrow at noon. : It’s a date. I’ve got an appointment with my confessor, visiting hours should begin in an hour. We talk, and play connect the dots. Bye Auntie.  : Ciao! Burst of music. Cut to moaning sounds by . 216

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: I have come once again to confess my crimes and seek your answers to that everlasting question: Why is dirt so brown and abundant? You, Confuzzi, have all the answers. : My time is limited, my son. Soon they will inject me into that semiconscious world that antipsychotics can provide. Tell me, Idkink, are you still chipping away at humanity? : It is something that I must do. I will never be caught. The intensity of the hunt is great but my average looks allow me to blend into the masses. : But your eyes are cold. A dead giveaway. Take these dark glasses and wear them with pride. You are about to enter into a dark period of your life. You may not survive. However, the thrill may outweigh your instincts both natural and unnatural. : I am damaged during sleep. What shall I do? : Eat forty-five sugar cubes and drink pancake syrup. : I have killed more than two hundred people, neither friends nor enemies, bystanders who attracted my attention. : But you do not have their respect. My son, go out into the world and deny or defy reality. You may lose either way. A winner you’ll never be. Go now, I need my shot. Nurse! : Yes Confuzzi, I may lose but not until I have completed my task. I will visit next week. Burst of synthesized music. .. : Crime is way out of control. We need tougher laws, we need a completely heartless system of mass executions for all of these mass murderers, get about nine hundred mass murderers and spray them with sulfuric acid, or line up their heads on a very long railroad track, we’ll let the families of the victims of these murderers ride the train for free, we can encourage them to look out the windows as the train rolls over the assassins, they can take pictures of the heads as they roll away from the tracks. I’ve got lots of ideas about how we can control these creeps. We can give them jalapeño enemas then fit them with hair Pampers. I’m the D.A. and I’ve got to be tough, if no one is scared of me how am I going to get my job done? What’s that? Sure I’ve heard of the Bill of Rights, something to do with a lack of imagination doesn’t it? Roadblocks and detours, a bunch of legal mumbo jumbo that has nothing to do with me, the folks out there, my constituency elected me cause I’m a man of action, I have plans to make this city clean as a junkie’s arm, no more murderers if you can just kill them all. But I want to make these two killers examples of my justification for being reelected, I’ll find that hammer killer and nail him to the wall. I’ll get that ice pick murderer and deflate his homicidal ego. And then I’ll have them both kill each other on TV, that will be their sentence, they can execute each other. But first I’ve got to catch them, whoever they are. I’ll get them. Then the people can go out and vote and I can keep this stinking job. Politics is big bizz and it’s my beat. What do you mean you can’t talk anymore? I don’t Orphans of Modernism

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care if your husband’s pulling up the driveway. I can get him thirty to life just for the way he’s treated you. Don’t hang up. Hello. Hello.  : I can’t seem to get a handle on this thing. Let’s see, lift, then swing down hard onto the target. Yeah, it feels a bit different but I’m sure this claw hammer will do just fine. Good, here comes my next victim, but he’s so big, he looks like a giant soda jerk, an extinct species if I’ve ever seen one. He’d look better with a flat top. We hear footsteps, a hammering sound, then a thud.  : Read about you in the morning funnies. Sleep tight big boy. She gives him a kiss. Burst of synthesized music. : There’s something about making people look like Swiss cheese that gets me excited, give them an instant holier than thou attitude, guarantee them a quick exit from the urban fast lane. Only  to go. I definitely feel a sense of progress, too bad I can’t sleep though. This one looks like a likely recipient. I’ll make it quick. We hear footsteps. We hear someone scream, then silence. : What a mess, I hate it when they move like that, got to keep it neat or it doesn’t count. Next time don’t move. Burst of synthesized music. Serve drink.  : In the s I’ve done more to change the final outcome of more people’s lives than even they will ever be able to expect. I don’t have to brag, just read the statistics, I don’t understand some things that make it so easy for me to continue. First of all you can buy hammers over the counter and very few individuals walk about with shock absorbent craniums. : The ice pick man cometh.  : I had a terrible dream also Idkink. In my sleep I could sense this impending doom that didn’t allow for this free-swinging lifestyle that I’ve carved out for myself. Maybe this town isn’t big enough for the two of us, but then again if there were several others we’d be able to take it easy, you know, maybe if we had apprentices. : There isn’t much to learn in this trade. And you only need a few tools to dispose of. Better not make our field too competitive.  : Sometimes I wonder how I would operate if I could start all over again, to choose more appropriate weapons, something that would more swiftly satiate the ego. : I can hardly wait for someone to invent the atomic ice pick. I’m getting depressed, this dinner for two makes me feel lonely for the mob mentality that I’ve grown accustomed to. May I have more brandy Auntie, I’m getting a headache.  : Certainly my dear, but there are better ways to cure you of that pain. 218

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: Put away that hammer Auntie, the brandy is to kill the sour taste that I’ve given myself. Pour drink.  : Well, here’s to bigger headlines and flatter heads. Act  Fade up to synthesized music. : Welcome to Act  of the play Orphans of Modernism. Synthesized music.  : It’s all gone wrong, Idkink. I wasn’t supposed to get hurt. I had just finished cracking a few jokes, smashing a couple of heads, when I got a little greedy and missed my aim. I hit my thumb and now I’m socially paralyzed. I wonder where I can buy black and blue nail polish. : You wear the bruised look so well Auntie Mayhem, it’s a miracle that you didn’t crush the bone, the claw hammer must weigh seven pounds, add on a little for gravity and momentum, not to mention your finely tuned biceps, triceps, and forceps. The impact must have been great.  : It’s ruined my swing! Lift up, swing down hard onto my target and . . . : Auntie!  : This is no place for an anxiety attack. I wasn’t going to hit you, too hard. : Well I suffered a major setback also. I was lingering about the alleyway near the bank when I was accosted by this street preacher who offered to cleanse my feet with his tongue. He had foam about his mouth and recited mispronounced prayers, vacillating between the scum of mankind and the holy man who had arrived to praise my heel. I let him talk and pulled the cold ice pick from my pocket, I stabbed him several times in the eyes and in the back but he continued to talk, to insist on my salvation, I gave in and let him lick my toes. This saint stole my shoes then bled to death several blocks away. They were my favorite pair and now they are gone, forever.  : Careers are built on fame and misfortune. Don’t lose sight of your malperceived goals Idkink, remember, five hundred ice pick murders by the end of the year. : The saint was victim number three hundred and six. That’s also how many holes I left him with. This is a thankless world, Auntie. I wonder if my biography will fill up volumes or if it will simply take up a thirty-second cartoon.  : I prefer to have my life spelled out during a news bulletin as I mispronounce the names of my prey. I love to see my crimes falsely re-created, my motivations misinterpreted, my prefabricated psychological profile sold to an unsuspecting public, all in the interest of increasing newspaper circulation or television viewership. Between my claw hammer and your ice pick along Orphans of Modernism

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with our concerted violent efforts, we’ve brought about an economic boom to the industry of pop journalism. : So, always with the lectures Auntie, you are always at the ready to stand out like the proverbial, intellectual sore thumb. Oops, sorry Auntie.  : Drink your coffee Idkink, before the cream in it turns bad. Mine tastes like a six-year-old M&M. : Pardon me, but that’s my coffee. : Here’s a few pennies. Go and buy another cup.  : Don’t be so crude with the poor creature, he’s probably dying of some contagious disease and you put your lips to his cup. This is the golden era of epidemics. : My doctor’s given me only three weeks to live, something to do with maggots in the lungs or was it worms in the liver, anyway the prognosis was a fluke. I have nothing to live for anyway, I don’t believe in anything and all of my family died at a suicide picnic. : I lost all of my family during my first tantrum, with a crowbar.  : My mother killed my father, and my mother was deep fried at the federal penitentiary only moments after I was born. I was raised by the executioner who pulled the switch. : It’s a senseless planet, now which one was my cup? : It’s the one that’s filled with angel hair.  : I must get to work Idkink. There are some fine heads out there waiting to bump into someone like me. It was less than pleasurable. Shall we make it a lunch date for tomorrow then Idkink? : Of course Auntie, I’ll stay here and converse with our potential apprentice. Bye Auntie.  : Ciao! .. : Listen swatman, there’s just no telling how long this murder spree is going to last. I’ve got criminologists calling me every day just to get some hard-core facts on these useless thugs, what do I look like, the encyclopedia? Let those bookworms go out into the streets and get their own information. I’ve been in this business for over sixteen years, I’ve got a political machine behind me that just won’t quit, the black-and-white X-rated photos that I have of some of my biggest contributors are worth their weight in gold. : Reminds me of the situation we had a couple of months back. There was this judge who held his courtroom hostage, he threatened to blow up the jury box, which he claimed was wired to explosives, he had this long-standing sordid relationship with the defendant and an even sicker affair with the jury foreman, he became enraged when he discovered that the two had agreed to . . . .. : I hate long stories, get to the point! : Well, the judge said, court dismissed, then blew his own brains out with a sawed-off shotgun. .. : Well, what does that have to do with what I was talking about? : In his diary, he claimed that you had some of his photographs. 220

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.. : What! It was my judge, why that crook, I’ll murder him, he still owes me for last month’s payment. Oh well, maybe I can sell those photos to one of the gossip magazines, at the very least I might make a few coins out of postmortem respect, of course. : I’ll even buy an eight-by-ten glossy, will $. do? .. : Well, it could help my upcoming campaign, I’ll take it. Now that we’ve taken care of old business, what about these mass murderers running around town? They’ve been making knuckleheads out of our finest citizens, giving our public more than their fair share of orifices. I’m going to stop these bloodthirsty criminals and you’re going to help me kill these creeps. We’ve got to find anyone who looks like a mass murderer. I’ve got this suspicion that we might have a war on our hands. Us against them. Have you got your thinking cap on? : You’re my favorite D.A. boss. Think you’re ready to be uncuffed? .. : That’s right, work before pleasure. Get to work, get to work! : Now Gronken, there is a correct way and a wrong way of committing violence against another individual. The first thing you must do is not view them as an individual, think of them as rotting flesh waiting to be drained of the pus. : I can feel the worms moving inside me, what an appetite they’ve got. Everyone looks the same to me, all of them irritating, I can’t stand to hear anyone laugh, I can feel people staring at me, they know that I’m a condemned man, that I won’t last, that there is no light at the end of my tunnel vision. : Pay attention closely then, I couldn’t find another ice pick so we’ll use your cup instead. We’ll wait until we come across someone who looks like they’re having a good time, then you sneak around them like this. : Ugh . . . ugh . . . : Then force them to drink out of your cup like this . . . Gurgling sounds. : . . . Ahhh . . . : Contaminate them quickly, with a little bit of grime, your worms and maggots, and a pinch of Drano, your victims should last about thirty seconds, a little bit less than your own life span. Here comes somebody now, now don’t let this one slip by. The first one is always the hardest. We hear someone walking. : I hate the way this one smiles . . . We hear them struggling, then someone taking a sip, then gasping, the victim falls to the ground. : I can’t let this one go to waste, I’ve just got to give him a little jab. : That was really exciting, Idkink, but he drank it all up. That pig. : But what a fatal aftertaste. Let’s go, we’ve got lots of work ahead of us. : These worms are having a party, it’s getting harder to breathe. : Well as long as they’re not caterpillars you won’t get butterflies doing society’s dirty work. Orphans of Modernism

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 : I’ve often wondered what that final crunch would sound like from the inside. It really shouldn’t come as any surprise to them though. Especially since each one of them deserves it, it is fate, their terrible fate to serve as the urban anvil. I really don’t care to philosophize prior to my acts of random justice. : My victims often thank me for relieving them of their petty problems. For instance, during a recent encounter with this undercover agent, I left him gurgling a variety of tunes of thanks, I’m certain that if he could speak his peace now or forever hold his breath he would say, “Why thank you my dear Idkink, you have removed me from a sleazy life of reason and rhymes, overindulgent habits which led me to pursue unrestrained power,” yes I’m certain that he thanked me in type O. He was victim number . : There are so many variations of the same old story, each of us is free to distort the other’s interpretation, yet somehow we agree that all is not in vain, our persistent attacks have resulted in enhanced levels of awareness for the public, to let them know that we do not care, that we do not belong, and that they are all equals in our focus. I have become very attached to my parasites, they keep me company, they offer me compassion, a sense of completion, fulfillment with this foul universe.  : Is it true that worms have ten hearts? : And they grow another one with each new love. : There was this man, the mayor of a small metropolis or was it a large suburb? I ventilated him on the express elevator of the city hall, he managed to survive the quick ride between the sixth and twenty-first floor, I stole his key to the city and opened several doors of opportunistic pleasure, the man’s pockets were stuffed with toy money and puppet strings. I cast his final vote.  : This thumb is very infected now, it has this interesting throb which gives it a certain sense of autonomy. Idkink tells me that you have acquired great skills during your initial apprenticeship, Gronken. I even have a surprise for you my dear terminal psychopath, your first headline! I found it in the back pages of the Times, next to the ads for popular weaponry, obviously a college graduate was put to great test to write these lines: Slain Diplomat’s Cup Runneth Over, an Element of Germ Espionage. : He was a hard-drinking man, he didn’t miss a drop. Oh, these pains, these crazy worms have created a series of caverns in which they can roam freely in me. Oh, oh. : Auntie, your hospitality is always so reassuring. Your tacos de cesos [brain tacos] are excellent. They taste better with holes in them.  : There’s a never-ending supply of brain power out there. I’ve figured out the ultimate way of harnessing its flavor, add a little oregano and onion, and you’ve got a thoughtful meal for your pals. : By the way, who made the frontal lobe salad? : There will be no stopping us now that there are three of us working together. I’ll have another cup of that delicious coffee. 222

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Slurping sounds. : Hey, that was my cup.  : Here Idkink, have another taco, it might be your last meal. : You’re my favorite Auntie, Auntie Mayhem.  : Ah, no Idkink, I think you’ll have to stop kissing me on the cheek for a while, a little quarantine never hurt anybody. : Well, one for all, and all for malice.

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Jetter’s Jinx A Conceptual Drama (1985)

Originally created for and presented at the Los Angeles Theatre Center, October ,  Performed by Glugio Gronk Nicandro (Jetter) and Humberto Sandoval (Nopal) Characters:   Time: twilight of fashion Place: urban catacombs of the Southwest The houselights are dim. Five blue spotlights are positioned to illuminate five individual members of the audience. There are birthday party hats provided for each seat. Confetti and streamers are strewn throughout the performance space. The stage area and props are in reddish tones. There is a large banner that reads, “Happy Birthday Jetter.” A large birthday cake serves as the table centerpiece. The cake is decorated with skull designs on the frosting. The table is set with a vase, an empty champagne bottle, two champagne glasses, a pack of cigarettes, a cigarette lighter, and one party horn.  is sitting on one of two chairs. He is dressed in an elegant black tuxedo.  emerges from black and assumes a casual pose on top of the table. Throughout the performance,  spends much of his time on top of the table. Spotlight fades up on . He is sipping champagne with bored elegance. : In the kingdom of the anonymous only the worms will party, and art isn’t a party anymore, and the sweet parting of sorry-looking friends makes the pleasure all mine. He sips more champagne. 224

: Of course I’ll rephrase that. Your lips remind me of jealous crayons in distress. He sips more champagne. : Oh, never, ever, forever, could you bore me. It’s just that your thinking is so incomplete, extinct, extracted from some doomed logic and it could also be that your bland statements leave me emotionless. He gulps down the last of the champagne and attempts to pour out the remaining few drops from the bottle. : I can’t stand the rejection. I sent out all of the invitations, even included a map and directions. Maybe there was an accident on the freeway, they could have each collided into their own respective mental blind spots. He begins to pace back and forth across stage. : Oh, the whole thing could take hours, days to clear up. If only there were more champagne. He takes a cigarette from the pack and lights it. He puffs erratically. : And to top it off, the fucking TV was stolen. That leaves me with my dangerous companion. It’s not that I hate talking to myself, it’s just that all of this potent insight is wasted on someone who doesn’t give a damn. Takes another puff. : Yes, I would have one final request but as you can see I am already smoking it. Now carry out the sentence! What? I’m not to be hanged! The gas chamber, electric chair, and firing squad just won’t do? Not good enough for your bullets am I? It’s quite obvious that your entire judicial system is designed by and for indecisive assholes. That leaves me with no other choice, that is, if I can decide to make up my mind. Takes another puff. : Oh, where is everybody? There’s not even any of that disco music. He dances and sings accompanied by shrill whistling of a balloon. : I hate this silent treatment. I order my lovers a la carte. When I don’t hear that jungle beat I just take a chance, Let my shoes dance, And let the empty echoes, Scratch at my heart, scratch at my heart. He stops singing and dancing, releases balloon into the air, and sits down on top of the table. : If this were only a nightmare. The first of five blue spotlights fades up on a member of the audience. Houselights fade to black. Jetter’s Jinx

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Jetter’s Jinx, 1985. Live performance by Humberto Sandoval (Nopal) (left) and Gronk ( Jetter) at the Los Angeles Theatre Center. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

: I will let you in on this secret: We are in the age of contagions. One indiscreet drink from a tainted indispensable disposable cup could make the origins of the plague very vague. First spotlight fades to black. The second, third, and fourth blue spotlights quickly fade up onto three members of the audience.  lights another cigarette. : The three rules of urban survival . . . One: Anonymity. Blend into your environment, bend the rules, bleed the beast of prey with your concealed weapon, and, oh yes, dark glasses are a must. He puts on dark glasses. Second spotlight fades to black. : Two: Guilt. Assume the worst via dissociation. Punishment will not detour nor absolve random acts of sex and violence. Avoid prejudgments of innocence. An obvious deduction of seduction by suction. He blows one note with party horn. Third spotlight fades to black. : Three: Competition. Attention spans are dissected, labeled, and systematically attacked. Confidence is the common denominator. Betrayal is the sudden remunerator. The look of love is in the way one walks. The French kiss of death is in the way one crawls against one-way opinion. Fourth spotlight fades to black. : If this were only a party. The fifth blue spotlight fades up on , who is sitting among the audience in a front-row seat.  is dressed in an elegant black tuxedo. He is holding a bottle of champagne in one hand and a party favor in the other. : I would have RSVP’d but the phone’s been disconnected, the afghan choked on a toy bone, and there wasn’t a liquor store in town that would take my Rolex as collateral.  goes on stage. Fifth spotlight fades to black.  pours champagne, filling both glasses. : Happy birthday, Jetter. : What’s a bongo vivant like you doing in a place like this? Come to help me blow out the candles?  empties his glass in one gulp. : No thanks, I’m allergic to waxworks. I’ve come to help you blow out your brains.  produces a semiautomatic pistol and aims it at his chest. He hands the weapon to . : Don’t worry, it isn’t loaded, besides it’s the thought that counts.  makes himself at home and skims cake frosting with his finger. : What good is a gun if you can’t shoot somebody?  levels pistol at .  licks his fingers. Jetter’s Jinx

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: Tell me, Nopal, why are you the only guest to arrive if I sent out nearly one hundred invitations? : Why don’t we blame it on charisma and try to enjoy ourselves.  sips his champagne slowly. : It’s my party and I can die if I want to.  points the pistol at his own head. Red spotlight fades up on him. Stage lights fade to black. : Suddenly, my life flashed before me. Slides are projected onto rear wall. Slide  shows  wrapped in a blanket on the steps of the Los Angeles County General Hospital. : It was a humble beginning, bundled and abandoned, too talented to be an orphan, too tainted to be adopted. Society had no time for me. Slide  shows  committing a street crime. : I was a practical child and learned to extract the maximum benefits that life on the streets had to offer. Slide  shows  kneeling on the sidewalk as he prays to a fire hydrant. : A felonious street preacher who was mysteriously murdered in midsermon inadvertently influenced me with his quasi-religious compassion towards passionate juvenile delinquents. Slide  shows  spray-painting graffiti that reads, “Yanqui Deported, Europe Sinks.” : I aspired towards curbside recognition, expressing alternative social perceptions by altering formal structures. Slide  shows  reading a copy of Alarma with spotlight illumination. : I learned to read by the light of a police helicopter searchlight. Slide  shows  signing autographs. : I developed an avid following. Jettermania was a jittery fad accompanied by jet lag, wet legs, hip leeches, and writer’s cramp. Slide  shows  as the victim of a street crime. : I paid the price of fame with misfortune, emptied my eyes of enlightenment, tuned out my critics. Slide projection fades to black. : And listened to the cynical crickets chirping out their disordered versions of rhyme with no reason. The sound of an object being repeatedly bashed is heard. Stage lights fade up simultaneously as red spotlight fades to black.  is hitting a large piñata that is designed to resemble the head of a sad clown. He uses a riot baton to strike the piñata. : Why is it always so difficult to get to the concussion candy? 228

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 continues to hit the piñata. : It’s always black widows and candy or candy and killer bees. : Venomous confections. : Bittersweet infections.  hits the piñata and breaks it open, causing candy, dollar bills, confetti, and toy insects to fall out.  and  both jump to as they scramble to pick up the prizes. : All of these bugs are fake.  picks up a toy insect and tosses it away. : It’s the jelly beans that are poisoned.  picks up several jelly beans and eats them.  picks up several dollar bills and pins them to his lapels and sleeves. : It’s a little early for the dollar dance but I’ll lead if you can follow.  and  do an exaggerated tango.  strikes  in the jaw with brass knuckles, causing his nose and mouth to bleed. : Crime doesn’t pay if you don’t know who to bribe, beside, the cash is counterfeit.  rips the bills from ’s lapel and rips them to shreds, tossing the remains like so much confetti. : I’d rather do the tango with a crowbar.  assists  to his chair. : You certainly won’t bleed to death. This should keep you from ruining the carpet.  takes the flower vase and places it on ’s lap.  has his face in the flowers. Yellow spotlight fades up quickly onto  as stage lights fade to black. : I hate the smell of roses, the stink of pink, the odor of order. : Party crasher. : I’ve been thrown out of worse places before. : Why must you always focus in on the past?  is holding a flashlight and directs beam of light at . : You don’t see me complaining about my phantom-in-exile status. The fact that my guest list of family, friends, accomplices, companions, comrades, cohorts, escorts, rivals, those in essence who make up my past are not present, does not upset me, it erases me.  turns off the flashlight. : Better to be invisible than sorry. : Better to assault, then ask questions. Bitter slap-fights get the best results.  lights the candles on the birthday cake. Jetter’s Jinx

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: It’s an old custom, one flame for each insult and vice versa. : Don’t forget to make a wish, birthday boisterous. : I wish I had hysterical blindness.  blows out all of the candles. The yellow spotlight fades to black. All is black. : I wish I had minimalist memories of warm moist spaces and empty faces. : I wish you had more class.  gives long, drawn-out sneeze. Stage lights quickly fade up. The piñata is gone.  is standing on a stool ready to slip a hangman’s noose, which is suspended from above, around his neck. : Lately, I’ve been so good, or so the lack of rumors go. He continues to slip the noose around his neck. : It’s so unlike me to limit my options. He positions himself as though ready to jump off of a diving board. : Hanging’s too good for you. : It’s the ultimate act of self-determination. : I’d prefer to self-terminate in a meaningless tour of ecstatic revenge. : Tour de elastic savagery. : A requiem for massive explosions in an intimate setting. Any public place would do. Pop goes the culture. : Sounds like the Big Bang theory of social retribution. He readies himself for the big plunge. : See you in the afterbirth. He dives to the floor and the rope stretches out with him.  pulls on the rope and there seems to be a never-ending length to this leash. : Always going for the sympathy vote.  puts the vase back onto the table, produces a large hunting knife, and advances toward  in a threatening manner. : Actually, I’m opposed to suicide as a final alternative. However, false attempts can be a stimulating ritual in misdirected aggression.  lunges at  with the sharp knife and narrowly misses him. : I’m opposed to suicide on the basis that it precludes the opportunity for a fashionable murder.  eludes ’s blade. : There’s little therapeutic value in simulated violence.  is pinned to the floor.  waves the knife menacingly near ’s face. : The terms for contradiction are always negotiable.  takes hold of the noose and cuts  free. 230

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: Faker. You wouldn’t harm a fly unless it had something to say. : Oh, shut up bumblebee eyes.  rips off ’s dark glasses and stomps on them. : Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.  gets up and uses remains of noose to skip rope in place. : Crybaby, chicken shit, Can’t be a gentleman, Won’t give a compliment, Doesn’t want a peppermint. Crybaby, idiot, Can’t be a diplomat, Won’t give an alibi, Doesn’t want a licorice. Crybaby, mercenary, Can’t be an angel, Won’t give a flesh wound, Doesn’t want a bon bon.  grabs the rope and cuts it in half.  takes the remainder of the rope and ties ’s hands behind his back.  forces  to sit in his chair. : Jetter, sit down before you cut yourself with that razor tongue.  cuts two slices of cake with the knife. He takes a slice into his hand. : Now that’s a tasteless vignette with a cherry on top. You eat my cake and halve it in two, none for me and frosting for you.  takes a bite from one slice. : A slice by knife.  takes a bite from the other slice. : A slice of life. : Loose lips sink teeth. Better brush up on your molar superiority, you’re losing your bite.  cuts out another slice of cake. : So I’m the one who has to be restrained while you provide me with a half-baked philosophy of crumbs? Untie me this instant.  binds ’s feet together. : Are there any other appendages that I should know about? : Don’t worry, it won’t go anywhere. : I can pay back the party favors with a game of charades. : Is it a mineral, a general, or something more ephemeral? : Don’t make it your funeral. You’re getting warm. : Is it a concept, theory, or fact? Jetter’s Jinx

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: Beauty is in the eye of the storm. You’re getting warmer.  holds up his middle finger. Synthesized music fades in. : First word.  performs pantomimed interpretation of the word many. : Multiple warheads. Psychopolyphallic premenstrual murderess. Smaller? Mini. Many.  holds up second finger. : Second word.  performs pantomime interpretation of the word festivals. : Intimate inmate’s gang-rape monkey bites. Politicians devouring a tyrannosaurus rex. Carnivores. Carnivals. Festivals. Many festivals.  holds up third finger. : Third word.  performs pantomimed interpretation of the word destroy. : Nuclear libidos in communicable limbo. Character assassinations by proxy. Defame. Defang. Destroy. Many festivals destroy.  holds up fourth finger. : Fourth word.  performs pantomimed interpretation of the word tiny. : Minuet in fascist major. Cigarettes and racist manners. Unending innuendo. Belittling crescendo. Tiny. Many festivals destroy tiny.  holds up thumb. : Fifth word.  performs pantomimed interpretation of the word successes. 232

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: Surrogate apostles apologizing surreptitiously. Antidepressants in my dickey. Exclusive juices. Excuses and truces. Successes. Many festivals destroy tiny successes.  manipulates ’s mouth. : Many fest, destroy tiny successes. Many fest, Dest, Tiny suck excess. Mani, Fest, Des, Tiny, Suck excess. Manifest Destiny Sucks.  unties ’s hands and feet. Synthesized music fades out. : Won your freedom or lost your conscience? : Charades, shmarades, parades. Why not play a real game like musical chairs with faulty electrical cords.  picks up his chair and tosses it across stage. : I’d prefer to play pin-the-blame-on-the-alien. It’s a two-party tradition.  takes hold of the flower vase, pulls out the flowers and paints a large red image of a man onto the portable wall using the paint brush tips that are attached to the stems of the flowers. : The uninvited guest worker, and he didn’t even bring me a present.  continues to paint. : What’s he done this time? : Illegal possession of a gila monster while transporting tarantulas across a hostile border.  paints a gila monster and a tarantula. : All’s fair in love and recreational deportation.  paints a barbed-wire heart around the “alien.” : Never underestimate the underdog. He’s also been accused of impersonating a scorpion.  paints added scorpion features to the “alien.” : He knows that it takes three poisonous animals to survive the sting of prefabricated animosity.  picks up the knife.  ties a crepe-paper blindfold over ’s eyes and spins him counterclockwise. : If you hit him in the head he assimilates. If you hit him in the heart he retaliates. If you miss him altogether he deviates. : Give me a couple of extra revolutions for good luck.  spins  clockwise. Jetter’s Jinx

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: One for the gross.  spins  counterclockwise. : Two for the profit. Pennies fly out of ’s hands.  advances blade-first toward the “alien.” : It’s like the blind stabbing the blind. There’s no light at the end of this tunnel. The knife becomes stuck in the “alien’s” neck. : Zero points. You hit him in the voice box.  produces a can of black spray paint and paints the letter D across the “alien.”  unties the blindfold. : Don’t  sprays the letter O. : Organize.  sprays the letter A. : Anyone.  spray-paints a skull over the “alien’s” head. He places the spray can on the table.  produces a can of green spray paint and sprays the letter J going down in a vertical direction. : Justice.  sprays the letter O over ’s O. : Ominous.  sprays the letter B. : Balance.  places the spray can on the table. : That’s Latin for lame brains. : Killjoy. You’re ruining my party. : Oh, I almost forgot. An old friend, who wishes to remain autonomous, remembered it was your birthday and asked me to give these to you.  produces a large envelope and a gift-wrapped package. : Fan mail from some floundering relationship? : Junk mail sealed with a kiss.  opens the envelope and unfolds the enclosed large paper slip. He reads the note written on a removable porthole. : Dear Jetter, It’s so difficult to stay afloat when the torpedoes come in from all sides. Our love failed the seven “C’s.” 1. Crassness. 2. Constipation. 234

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3. Criminality. 4. Coyness. 5. Cynicism. 6. Convulsions. 7. Cunnilingus. You were the captain of our bruised cruise. Blow, blow, bloat your boat, Gently down my throat, Jeeringly, barrenly, narrowly, Life is all too mean. We were two pirates who made passes in the night. We were piranhas who devoured raw emotions. I spit your lies back into the ocean of tears. Let your ego do the dog paddle through the riptide. It was a love maiden voyage. Don’t drown on your birthday. No longer yours truly, A “C” enemy. P.S. Give your submarine a pinch to grow an inch and remember to manhandle the torpedoes. : Give an inch and she’ll take an eel.  shakes the gift-wrapped package. : Put that down. I’m not going to open it. It was all her fault. My formal request was for jellyfish, but she insisted on handing me her virgin urchin.  shakes the gift-wrapped package. : Leave it alone. It’s probably filled with skeletons.  places the package to his right ear. : I can hear tidal waves crashing on some distant sore spot.  shakes the package again and places it to his left ear. : Sounds like the death rattle of a cloistered sea snake. : Such a pretty package. It’s probably a time bomb waiting for a tender moment to blast away at my self-image. : Booby traps are all the rage. Let me defuse your explosive delusions.  unwraps the package and reveals one black box and one white box that resemble a pair of dice. : Now don’t they make a lovely couple.  holds up the dice admiringly. : That’s a typically arrogant assertion, especially when it comes to a carnal game of chance. : Bring two random quantities together and the loser may take all.  rolls the dice, closes his eyes, and crosses his fingers. : Yo-yo, snake eyes, X rays, boxcars, zombie. Jetter’s Jinx

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 opens his eyes and looks at the dice. : More like mumbo jumbo dumbo. : Never gamble, never win. I’d bet your life isn’t worth a loaded question. : That’s crap and you know it.  picks up the black die, opens its lid and pulls out several sheets of different-colored paper. : Well, according to these medical reports, overdue bills, divorce settlement, warrants for your arrest, falsified tax returns, revoked birth certificate, and other unfavorable printed matter, it appears that the only stone you might throw will have your name etched in eternal boldface. Don’t depend on a mouth-tomouth resurrection.  rips the papers to shreds and scatters them onto the floor. : Better destroy the evidence before the anarchists and archivists reedit these into popular manifestos of mystique, intrigue, and illicit idolization. : I’m being framed by hocus pocus tokenism.  picks up the white die, opens its lid, and extracts a doll that resembles . : Give me that doll. : There’s pink pins for little girls.  sticks a pink pin into the doll.  reacts to pain. : Voodoo. : And there’s blue pins for little boys.  sticks a blue pin into the doll.  reacts to pain. : De ja voodoo pinhead.  sticks another pin into the doll, causing  to writhe. : The perfect gift for the man who has everything in sexually transmitted diseases. : That’s a superstitious lie. : You can take the kinks out but leave the kinky in.  sticks another pin into the doll, causing  to scream. : I’ve never infected anyone who was allergic to penicillin.  rips off the doll’s right arm. : They loved you.  rips off the doll’s right leg. : You loved them not.  rips off the doll’s left arm. : They kissed you.  rips off the doll’s left leg. : You let them rot. 236

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 rips off the doll’s torso. : They bled you.  rips the doll’s head open, revealing a plastic bag that contains white powder. He extracts the bag. : You watched them clot. I’ve got this burning desire to force-feed you purgatives with a bayonet. : Relax. There must be an easier way for you to depersonalize fellatio.  opens the plastic bag, pinches off some powder, and tastes the sample. : Ah, the sweet taste of revenge is in having the great white hope turned to dust.  pours some powder onto his palm and blows it toward . : Gonorrhea with the wind. : More like the myth of syphilis. You’d rather have me pushing up against balls of hair, festering with some virulent virus, or undergoing futility rites with a lustful baboon. : I’d prefer to have you accept the fact that no one else is coming to your party.  lights a cigarette. : There’s plenty of time for my guests to arrive. Besides, the night is young and so am I.  looks at his watch. : Well, it appears that by now your standing alone room popularity is at an all-time high.  grabs  by the lapels and removes a sheet of paper from ’s inside pocket. : My guest list.  releases  and reviews the list. : Just as I suspected,  percent dead,  percent infected. He gave it to him, he gave it to her, she gave it to her, she gave it to him, and so on and so forth, et cetera, ad infinitum, all along this death roll call. : But that’s the “A” list. : That’s the past tense.  crumbles the sheet and throws it at the cake. : You should have been prepared for this impressive turnout. The vultures and gossip have been buzzing about the epidemic since your last birthday party.  looks skyward. : I thought those were doves of eternal peace. I’ve heard that those buzzards can discriminate between the living dead and a poorly cooked hamburger. Jetter’s Jinx

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 looks at . : My last birthday party was absolutely sensuous. Everyone was perfectly healthy. Let those social scavengers spread rumors. I don’t believe any of it. My guests should show up any minute.  cuts a slice of cake, pours champagne into his glass, lights a cigarette, and sits at the table. : My guests won’t disappoint me. Stage lights fade to black simultaneously as yellow spotlight fades up on . : Suddenly, Jetter’s life flashed before me. Many slides are presented in rapid succession, showing close-ups of  making a variety of facial expressions. The slides continue throughout ’s monologue. : In the beginning he was precocious, pretentious, and predisposed to tossing pipe bombs at predominant poets. His notoriety transformed itself into a cozy niche on the society pages. He augmented his popularity with a blasé smile that fooled most of his lovers most of the time. He spent his formative years in a concretized environment where misdirected aggression, anonymous sexual relations, emotional paralysis, and self-loathing served as the building blocks for his impeded social interactions. He became completely self-absorbed in superficial concerns: boredom, depression, angst, and insomnia. His habitual rudeness gained him the confidence of friends and the awe of strangers. Random acts of character assassination had Jetter’s pulse beating to a survivalist tempo of doom. Slide projection fades to black. : We were like two sticks of dynamite, bouncing dangerously off of each other’s misinterpretations.  produces a stick of dynamite and raps it against his palm. A similarly paced tap is heard in the darkness. : What did you say? Stage lights fade up as spotlight fades to black.  and , each holding a stick of dynamite, engage in a TNT sword fight. : I said that the threat of mutual annihilation is a fraudulent deterrent to escalated violence. : Mutual animosity is self-perpetuating. If either of us loses, who will be left for us to hate?  breaks open his stick of dynamite and scatters gold glitter filling. : For every inaction there is a reaction.  breaks open his stick of dynamite, exposing a red scarf, which he removes and waves back and forth. 238

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: It was hers, it was his, it was hers, it was his, he, she, they wanted you to have it.  hands the scarf to . : They can’t all be dead. : At present, there is no window of immunity, no deluxe elixir that will smear away the threat of terminal-seminal ejaculation.  pours champagne into his glass. : No emancipating antidote which eases the fluid promises of acute promiscuity?  shakes his head.  puts his hands in prayer. : I promise never to kiss and kill.  slurps his champagne. : The bubbles tickle my noseyness.  wipes his nose with the scarf. : By the way anti-cupid, weren’t you intimately involved at some point or another during the past year with at least half of the diseased and/or deceased? : I need another intimate relationship like I need another hole to my head and vice versa. : They were all parasitic affairs. You were all the elite leeches sucking each other’s crème de la crème. : Oh, what do you know about love? : I know that it comes in one ear and out the other.  looks at his watch. : The party’s over, Jetter. : It can’t be. I won’t let it. I’ve got everything going for me: looks, charm, fame, wealth, talent, youth. : You’ve got one fatal flaw: no future. : Oh, I thought it was a crooked erection. : It’s much more biologically debilitating than that and a little bit harder to take.  offers  a cigarette. : Where there’s smoke there’s a liar.  takes the cigarette and  lights it for him. : You’ve known all along that no one was going to come to your party. : That kind of optimism will never get you anywhere. I invited only the best. You were obviously a typographical error. : What about the truth of the terror in Jetter?  hands  a mirror.  looks into it and smokes nervously. Jetter’s Jinx

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: Well, lately I do get these headaches followed by a queasy sensation of fatigue. At times I’m motivated to crawl on my hands and knees, to bite the hand that teases me. : That’s symptomatically typical of the initial stages. : Sometimes I become rather melancholic as I recall inadequate experiences with inanimate objects. : That’s symptomatically perverse.  produces a small gift-wrapped package. : I hope you like surprises. It’s a curious curio for the incurable, the incorrigible, and the incompatible. : You shouldn’t have.  hands the gift to . : It’s offered on behalf of your guests who never arrived but who have departed.  unwraps the gift and reveals a pistol ammunition clip. : It’s the missing ingredient that you needed in order to play roulette solitaire. You have fifteen rounds in which to learn the game of no chance.  takes the ammunition clip and inserts it into the pistol. He cocks the pistol and hands it to . : My id is an idiot.  puts the pistol to his temple. : Why doesn’t my life flash before me? : I’ll eat this at home. I’ve got a weak stomach.  picks up the remaining birthday cake. : It was a great party, Jetter, but we’ll leave that for the worms to decide.  exits. Stage lights fade to black as green spotlight fades up on . Confetti rains lightly on . : Crybaby, loner, Can’t be a true love, Won’t give a swan song, Doesn’t want to live long. Pause. : If only this were a nightmare. Spotlight fades to black. Synthesized music fades in.

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Antizona A Conceptual Performance (1987)

Originally performed at Studio Theatre, University of California, Irvine, November ,  Performed by George Silva (Street Preacher) and Diego Gamboa (Waif) Video and audio performances by María G. Alamillo, Max Benavidez, Barbara Carrasco, María Elena Gaitán, Diego Gamboa, Daniel J. Martinez, Humberto Sandoval, and George Silva Time: eclipse of the clock Place: subterranean Los Angeles Pace: concurrency/convergency/divergency/emergency of audio/video/live stimuli Houselights dim. Several areas are illuminated by colored spotlights. The stage area is littered with refuse. Two -inch video projection screens are placed at left and right front stage. Slide-projection images from sources A and B are placed on elevated areas of the rear wall to the left and right. Slideprojection images from source C are placed on an elevated area of the backdrop. Slide-projection images from sources A and B are continuously projected via automatically timed projectors. Fade in synthesized music and maintain throughout performance. Fade in ambient street sounds and maintain throughout performance.   walks onstage carrying a large cross constructed of cardboard boxes. He is carrying several “holy” icons and a “Bible.” He sets up a sign that reads, “Messed are the bleak.” He relieves himself of his cross. He walks to his pulpit and reads from his “Bible.”  : Bless me father, for I have gone to the edges of the gutter and have seen the glory of unholy sputter and splattered mutter of hopelessly lost phrases, empty gazes, mazes of waning minds, declining angels drinking ghastly spirits from discarded cups and 241

Antizona, 1987. Live performance by Diego Gamboa (Waif ) (left) and George Silva (Street Preacher) at University of California, Irvine. Photo credit: Daniel J. Martinez.

disposable hearts. I have lost faith in the rats who self-destruct in their pompous rodent-ious expanding reductionisms and the fleas which suck their juices in order to spread the word of DEE-VEE-US, we are the souls who are redeemed by firing squad, we laud those systems of retribution with no name for absolution. He produces a bottle of whisky from his coat.  : Save us from salvation, purify our thoughtlessness, sanctify the indifference which offers sustenance to the collective anticonsciousness. We are blinded and gagged by imperfect dreams of justified slaughter. We are the false innocents who follow closely the shadows of fashion, we linger momentarily then leap into the pit of misery. We must avenge our pain, our dismay, our disappointments. We must draw strength from our own invisibility. He drinks the entire contents of bottle, closes his “Bible,” and walks away on his feet, then on his knees, then on all fours, and finally collapses onto the floor, where he remains motionless. Video screen D: comments by Daniel J. Martínez. Followed by video screen E: comments by Maria G. Alamillo.  enters, pulling a wagon filled with objects and refuse. He goes to   and buries him beneath the scattered materials from the wagon. He retrieves the “Bible.” He pulls his wagon to the pulpit, turns the wagon upside down, stands on the wagon, then reads from the “Bible.” : Mary had a little lame, Whose defeats were white as the nearest Snow-job And everywhere that Mary Would vent her anger The lame was the last To know.  puts the “Bible” down on the floor. He goes over to the cardboard cross and dismantles it to utilize the material for the construction of a temporary shelter. Video screen D: comments by Max Benavidez. Followed by video screen E: comments by Barbara Carrasco.   resurrects himself. He goes to the pulpit, picks up the “Bible,” and reads.  : I have met my maker, along with other movers and shakers, all fakers! Death is a simple act to follow, remain perfectly still for eternity and what remains, remains unmoved, like stagnant emotions of the unblinking eyes of strangers that refuse to see the twilight of their own reflection. If there is an afterlife, it is only an afterimage of an unfulfilled premonition, and after the transition from an embarrassed mortality into the undignified stature of ignorant inorganics, you will no longer exist in the dead memories and tender melodramatics which had petrified with your barely passing. You will be spared the need for trial by terror. I will deny our mutual desire to eliminate the other by shooting you first. I don’t get mad, I don’t get even, I get lost. Antizona

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He produces two large loaves of bread and breaks off crumbs, which he scatters into a spiraling trail as he moves around the stage. He hums a rhythmic tune that is reminiscent of prayer.  halts construction and goes over to slide projector C. : Children should be seen and not herded into humble masses.  turns on slide projector C, then turns on audiotape player G. He resumes construction of shelter. Slides  through  are projected sequentially via manually controlled operation.    ( -): Once upon a time, there was a mob mentality which posed as a civilized norm, there was also a city insidious with its asphalt, footsteps, backstabs, windows, jammed doors, jagged lines, hunger and dark corners where all eyes never turn. There were quick exits, and gray mocking pigeons, if you’d walk across the concrete cracks, you’d empty your guts and commit suicide on the sidewalk without noticing your graceless fall from the fortieth floor. It was the playground for the numb. There was a young boy who dredged up the unknown by rejecting the world as the world had infected him. He was of a different mind. He went left and found himself out on a limbless trunk, stuffed with mementos, pimentos, and dementos. He went right and sank through the soft sands of bad timing, he went west and found that he could not ingest whatever more he could chew, he went east which proved nothing in the least, he went up and threw up, he went downtown and built himself a castle where he would be king of his own destiny, a life which had been devoid of power, he was, after all, only a boy gone sour.   turns off slide projector C and turns off audiotape player G. He goes to pulpit and reads from the “Bible.”  : My last confession was ten years ago, I was walking along the curb when I was blessed with the idea that what was relative to some was definite to others and that amnesia was no more than a migraine without origin. I was walking past typical hurdles, broken glass, drunken bodies, when I encountered a glowing figure who spoke to me in her own forked tongues, in twisted whispers, she uttered divine secrets of universal appeal, her glamorous smile and superficial glaze had induced within me a sense of glory, she was imaginable for only a moment but her message was clear: repeat what you hear and hold it dear, you may soon believe your own lies as they fall but until that moment of untruth, cherish the alibi. I must now confess all that I don’t know. He rings bells.  : I don’t know why we must fade, I don’t know why permanent judgment is based on physical evidence, I don’t know why contradictions blossom with the faintest ray of enlightenment, I don’t know why tenacity must marry arrogance, I don’t know why vicious rumors spread like an incurable rash. He rings bells. 244

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 : Confession is good for the person who nails you to the wall. Confession is an obsession of possession. I once owned a dog or did it own me? We barked and talked all night, when it was all over we still had not discovered that someone had stolen our bone. He rings bells.  : I admit that it was all your fault. I admit that it was all in the name of vain. I admit that I feel nothing beyond the thin vulnerable membrane which we agree to skin alive. I admit that I must violate all that we cherish in the interest of change. I admit to changing sins, exchanging grins, with absolute strangers who dissolve into the abyss of a smoggy mist. My prayers are extinct upon their utterance, there is no Holy Echo which will follow, no thunderous boom which will cancel our self-righteous posturings, for I am a frightened lamb in the hand of something that will feed me to the pray-to-dictators. All men are created in disequilibrium. All men. In the name of the mother, the sister, and the fever blister.   covers his lip with his hand, sits on the floor, then covers his head with his coat. He remains sitting, but sways mournfully. Video screen D: comments by Humberto Sandoval. Followed by video screen E: comments by María Elena Gaitán. Stage lights dim. One bright spot on  .  carries blaster as he walks to the tune of a police helicopter. Helicopter sound stops. Spotlight off. Stage lights fade up.  hides inside his shelter. The   reemerges and stands.  : When I was a little boy, I played with time, I burned out the eyes of insects, I destroyed private property, I had no regard for my own life nor the lives of all who double-crossed my path, I couldn’t distinguish between the beautiful and the mundane, it was all a very boring and protracted experience until the day I discovered that the human race could hardly show its face, I realized that history had repeated itself not so much due to cyclical dynamics but due to a continuation of disorder, a randomness which precluded the need to obey the unnatural laws. I held the world in contempt and hated everything that seemed real. But my childhood was abruptly interrupted when I was handcuffed and brutally pistol-whipped in the backseat of an unmarked car, I was then dumped off at the creeping steps of my alter ego. It took many years for the wounds to heal, it was a difficult recovery. I was bled of my boyhood and emerged a social anemic. When I was a little boy, I played with my shadow and followed him wherever he’d go, each night we’d part, I would close my eyes and wonder if tomorrow would be another day of no-chances, I’d close my eyes and see the colorful patterns in my mind, I knew that they were my night-friends. They would do me no harm, that is, unless I’d go to sleep, which would always happen just as I was beginning to understand all that was said and done. When I was a little boy, I dreamed that I was invisible, it was a dream come true. Antizona

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  goes to ’s shelter and shakes it until  emerges.   takes ’s place inside the shelter.  picks up a paper bag and extracts a portion of sandwich, which he then eats. He picks up a juice container and drinks its contents. He goes to the pulpit and reads from the “Bible.” : I wish upon a starvation diet. When I was a little boy, I’d wish for enough pudding to drown the competition. When I was a little boy I’d wish for miracles, for promises, for an opportunity to play in the streets without fear that a stray bullet would shorten the game. When I was a little boy, I’d pretend that it all wasn’t so and so it wasn’t. I did not care that my fate was sealed with a bitter kiss. When I was a little boy, I saw it all too clearly.  puts the “Bible” down on the floor. He turns on slide projector C, then turns on audiotape player G.  puts on dark glasses and holds the “Bible” to his chest.    (  -): I began my mission, to convert the whole into its lesser parts, when I was only nine years old. I forgave not and wanted much. My needs were inconsequential in the scheme of the unclean. I devoted my psyche, physique, mystique to the elements of mistaken identity. I had no toys, only a dusty rag and a full bottle of gasoline to play with, it was a lonely journey. Boyhood passed onto manhood like one passes a counterfeit twenty. The streets were my Temple and Broadway. I would walk along the streets and enchant the misspent serpents, I would chant: We are here, we are one, We are one against many, We are here, we are two, We are one too many. There are the believers: They believe in hearsay today, you didn’t say tomorrows, They believe in printed matter, They believe in fashion, They believe in enforce-able flaws, They believe in target zero, They believe in expendable classes, They believe in mirrors. There are the nonbelievers: They don’t believe in organized action, They don’t believe in spontaneity, They don’t believe in accidents, They don’t believe in coexistence, They don’t believe in surrender, They don’t believe in ice pick murderers, They don’t believe in contamination. There are those who worship the tenderness of penetrable flesh. 246

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Antizona, 1987. Fotonovela performance by George Silva, which was included in the Antizona live performanc at UC Irvine. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

There are those who worship their own apparitions, ambitions. There are those who worship your submission. And then there is you: Who are your idols? What icons enlighten your path? Will your persona pale under scrutiny? Where will your blood spill? Why do you blend into crowds? May you go in peace as you sleep, May you go in terror as you run, May you go quietly under the gun. Or you may choose to follow fading shadows away from the sun. I will follow my instincts Take my perceptions and descend unto the curbside Where I shall plot my resurrection, Where I shall weep among the refuse, Where I shall dream of my own invisibility.   exits with hands held in prayer. ANTIZONA INDEX Video Sequence

VCR/monitor C: Daniel J. Martinez Max Benavidez Humberto Sandoval VCR/monitor D: María G. Alamillo María Elena Gaitán Barbara Carrasco [EDITOR’S NOTE: The questions below were posed to the named performers. Responses to each question were videotaped and presented to the audience during the performance.] VCR/Monitor C

 . : What’s the immediate sensation you feel when blood is extracted from you through a needle? What are the thoughts that go through your mind when you walk through the congested sidewalks of Downtown L.A. on a hot smoggy day? What was your immediate reaction to the recent . earthquake? Did you feel immortal? Did you feel special at that moment? Please describe in some detail about any of your nightmares. Do you attach any significance of this dream to your conscious life? What is your immediate 248

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visual impression when you see people sleeping in cardboard boxes, on the streets, in doorways? How do you feel when you’ve arrived at a new idea that you intend to actualize as a work of art? What’s reality? You’re driving on the Hollywood Freeway when suddenly someone points a gun at you from the next lane. You have a loaded Uzi on your lap. What do you do? What’s insanity? What makes an individual or a group of people subject to exploitation by another individual or a different group of people? Imagine that you are trapped in a plastic bag and are buried alive. You have an hour to live. What do you feel would have been the most important thing that you would have had communicated during your lifetime? What do you feel would have been some of the points which you would have left out? What’s beyond death? What’s beyond everyday perception? What’s your impression on how a disease infects the human body? Do you feel that there is a parallel in how social diseases affect the mind and behavior? What’s your diagnosis/prognosis of contemporary society? Is there a cure? Who are you? What kind of attitude does an individual need in order to survive Los Angeles?  : Upon waking from a deep sleep you immediately become aware that the smell of urban decay is in the air, you are barefooted, cold, dirty, dressed in rags, you are in a darkened alley among the rats and garbage cans, you cannot remember your name nor how you got to be in that situation. What are your sensations, anxieties, emotions at that moment? How is social invisibility perpetuated? How would you instruct a criminally insane child to behave if you knew that the child was carrying a loaded concealed weapon and if he/she was anonymous among a classroom of thirty pupils? In your opinion, what differentiates inorganic from organic matter, inhumane behavior from humane behavior, love from hate? What determines success in this society? Is it attainable? What causes fear in you? How would you cause someone else to fear? Is eroticism an outmoded dance of death? How do you prevent yourself from absorbing the identity of those around you? What is the critical determinant that separates dominance from submission in relationships between individuals? Is it necessary to have a ruling class? Is it necessary to have a class of the poor? If you could erase certain concepts and ideas from the minds of people, what would you eliminate and from whom? How is creativity processed in your mind? Who are you? What kind of attitude does an individual need in order to survive Los Angeles?  : You have been struck repeatedly by successively stronger blows with a crowbar to your forehead, you have only a moment to reflect on your life and its passing, what images would you like to have come to mind and what are those that you hope would not appear? It is : .., you are alone in a strange darkened building, you can hear your footsteps echo throughout the blackened-blinding space, you have a large sharpened dagger in one hand, your other hand is numb and possibly gone. You hear strange sounds, maybe footsteps of another human or an animal. How do you feel and how will you act? What makes men and women different? There is an infant dangling from a Antizona

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high ledge, it is obviously committing suicide. What would be its reasons to end life so young? As a child, what was your impression of purgatory? What is the difference between a dream, a hallucination, a vision, and a coma? Why is propaganda important? What is power and how is it attained? What is failure and how is it avoided? You are completely paralyzed, there are various large and small, colorful, winged insects threatening to crawl on your body. What are you feeling as you come to realize that they enter your body? How do you not feel what others are feeling? How do you prevent others from knowing what you think? You are lost in a crowd, everyone is anonymous, everyone else is also lost. How do you find yourself? A beautiful voice speaks to you within your mind. Who is it? Who are you? What kind of attitude does an individual need in order to survive Los Angeles? VCR/Monitor D

 . : You are walking along the emergency lane of the freeway, you are the sole survivor of a major multivehicle accident. It was your fault. What are you feeling and thinking about as unconcerned drivers abandon the scene at the speed limit? You are standing in a crowded bus and someone punches you in the back. What do you do when you can’t identify the assailant? Angels, birds, devils, and bats all have wings. What gives an individual the courage to soar above the rest? In your opinion, what is the experience of confusion? What is the importance of personal criticism? What controls do you feel are necessary to prevent people from acting like vicious dogs? What is competition? How has the notion of superiority and inferiority affected your view of people? A man and a woman are both crawling like caterpillars along the gutter. Is there any chance of either becoming a butterfly? What motivates you to forget what you just saw? Is resurrection possible? Do you ever doubt the existence of individuals within your field of vision? What kind of human behavior would you eliminate and what type of humans? You are told to sit and wait on a hard bench. You are ordered not to move nor to speak. You are threatened with severe reprisals. Why are you in this situation? Who are you? What kind of attitude does an individual need in order to survive Los Angeles?   : Your eyes burn from the severe smog, you blink and in that instant you see an image of a man who is crying bitterly. Why is he crying? What is isolation? You walk into a room filled with people, you immediately sense tension in the air. How do you cope with this situation? If matter is a form of energy and energy cannot be destroyed but can only be transformed, does that mean that matter and energy are eternal? How do you feel when you’re pressured by time constraints? What is personal transgression? How should a group of people respond to imminent attack? When should innuendo be employed? What is your immediate sensation when you’ve discovered that you are driving against traffic? Interpersonal cruelty is an aspect of love and war, is pain valued above indifference? What are your impressions of the thousands of anonymous faces which have crossed your path during the past month? 250

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What differentiates a significant moment in your life from the “other” times? A child is repeatedly slapped in the face with a small shoe. What is the perspective of the child, the shoe, and the perpetrator? Who are you? What kind of attitude does an individual need in order to survive Los Angeles?  : There is a small ant crawling up your arm, it appears to take on a disproportionately enormous form as it gets closer to your face. What do you feel about it seeing you eye to eye? What is loyalty? You are walking down a crowded street, suddenly a panic riot breaks out and you are caught in the middle. What’s causing the panic in you? What is the difference between women and men? If there is awareness at the moment of death, how is the awareness sustained beyond that moment? How do you perceive the passing of time? Revenge is a potent motivator, is vengeance an important element of life? What should every individual on earth ultimately understand? Is it possible for dreams to alter one’s perceptions of the waking state? Is personal integrity necessary? If you were to hear a secret voice, what would it say? Is it possible to eliminate the visual impressions of your environment? What is the sensation of loss? How is creativity generated, processed, executed, and actualized? Who are you? What kind of an attitude does an individual need in order to survive Los Angeles?

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Ismania A Conceptual Performance (1987)

Originally presented at Los Angeles Contemporary Exhibitions, March 28, 1987 Performed by Glugio Gronk Nicandro (Ismaniac) Slide A1: The words Abstract expression Slide B1: The word Ism Slides C1 and D1: Image/s related to this concept  sips soup from a bowl. : I hate bones. You never know when one might break or slip down your throat against your will. He extracts a large bone from the soup and tosses it away. : Ugh. I didn’t order any worms. He extracts a worm and tosses it away. He extracts a Barbie Doll and licks it, then tosses it away. : Blah. These artificial additives are enough to make you gag. This sure isn’t much of a melting pot. He slurps soup. : Oh, no. Tripe with polyps. He extracts some tripe and tosses it away. : You have to be some sort of masochist to want to know what goes into making this alphabet soup of ideas. I’m about to lose my appetite just thinking about it. Why can’t we ever be satisfied with a simplified broth that lacks any content at all? He extracts a wallet from the soup. : I’d resent having to work in a food processing plant. One false move near the meat grinder and you wind up as someone’s instant dinner. He removes items from the wallet. These items may be projected on slides. He puts money from the wallet into his own pocket. 252

: Just as I suspected, no union card. He sips soup. He tosses the wallet and its contents. : I guess it’s only a matter of time before I acquire a taste for canned cannibalism. He sips soup. : It is, after all, a dog-eat-art world and an artist’s bite is sometimes bigger than what he can chew. He puts his head into the bowl and extracts a bone from the soup by holding it between his teeth. : I think they’re overdoing it with the calcium supplements. He tosses the bone. He sips soup and wipes his mouth. : What? No dessert? What kind of place is this anyway? He looks around and looks lost. : Is this a place? Anyway? Anytime? Anywhere? He notices the words Abstract expression and Ism. : Abstract. Expression. Ism. That’s something like giving the first half of a statement in front of a moving steamroller followed by a dependent clause in asphalt-coated plasma. No. Maybe it’s a visual commentary for the aesthetically blind. Or maybe it’s something like this. He acts out “abstract expression-ism.” : I’m certain that it’s the Ism that’s causing all of these problems. The Ism makes it too definite, locking it into time and space. Annoyed. : That TV set doesn’t even have the slightest compassion for what I’m going through. Well, I was born alone and I’m going to die alone. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t enjoy an intelligent relationship. When I was a young boy, I was so close to my black-and-white tube, we were inseparable. There were many happy mindless moments. I don’t remember which of us shortcircuited first. It was a bitter on-again, off-again separation. Wipes tears away and blows his nose. : This isn’t like me, I never think about the past. Then again, I never think about the present or the future. I’ve always assumed that if history repeats itself it will eventually cross my path and I’m certain that I won’t trip over it. He trips and falls. Slide A2: The word Botul Slide B2: The word Ism Slides C2 and D2: Image/s related to this concept He has trouble breathing. : Once upon a time, there was a microorganism who lived among the peas, the onions, the belly buttons, he played hide-and-go-seek on the moldy Ismania

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Ismania, 1987. Live performance by Gronk at Los Angeles Contemporary Exhibitions. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

edge of the bowl, he played taps on the dirty tip of the spoon, for every lap he slapped a lip until he was sucked in with a sip. He has trouble seeing. : He was ingested, infested, he kicked a pair of tonsils on his way down and caused white blood cells to attack themselves. His host was a young gentleman of many talents and a flabby bladder. He caused the pancreas to panic, the stomach was awash in acids along with peptides that went into riptides. He goes into partial paralysis. : He was as cute as a bug in the dung. He staggers. : The host turned green with envy. The host turned purple with shame. The microorganism delivered a toxic blow below the belt and that was where the flow was felt. Next time the host will bring his soup to a boil. No reason for the bones to spoil. Slide A3: The word Conceptual Slide B3: The word Ism Slides C3 and D3: Image/s related to this concept He produces a “will.” : I, the conceptual artist, being of sound mind and lack of reason, hereby bequeath all of my personal charm and wit to the orphans of modernism. I leave my striped ties and checkered past to the cubist entrepreneurs who are direct descendants of spotted reptiles. Furthermore, I leave my entire fifties, sixties, seventies, and eighties memorabilia to the Department of Disposable History and Archival Research. He tosses the will. : We begin with the free market system in which art is the commodity that is subject to the forces of supply and demand, where dealers, brokers, speculators, consultants, critics, spectators, plagiarists, publishers, curators, historians, assorted experts, tricksters, shysters, and self-anointed publicists determine the buy/sell options for a particular work, the works of an individual artist, or a series of works within a certain style, era, nationality, medium, or school. Money is at the root of all eventualities. Under this system, the creative spirit is allowed to sink or swim in poisoned waters. Failure to develop works/ personalities that can skim the surface results in careers that are forced to drown in the apathetic undercurrent of the mainstream. He kicks at a pile of junk. : He/she who believes that nothing exists but the self are conscious of society only when the need arises to blame others. A particular man/woman is confident that the whole of existence has been created for his/her sole entertainment. He/she commits many crimes and is rewarded with wealth, success, respect, and a prominent place in society. Both infants and leaders are of this world. Ismania

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He goes back to the bowl of soup. He extracts another bone. : I’ve never been treated so rudely. Even this bone has gone rather blasé on me. Who do you have to eat to get some service around here? He tosses the bone and wipes his hand with a rag. Slide A4: The word Dogmat Slide B4: The word Ism Slides C4 and D4: Image/s related to this concept : I pledge allegiance, to this rag and disunited snakes, which are repugnant. He tosses the rag. He pulls snakes out of his pockets and tosses them. : Dogmatism. He looks down at his foot as though he has stepped on dog shit. He wipes his shoe on the floor as he speaks. : When they say jump, you jump. When they say laugh, you laugh. When they say kill, you kill. When they say die, you die. Then they laugh . . . He takes off his shoe. Slide A5: The word Egot Slide B5: The word Ism Slides C5 and D5: Image/s related to this concept : I’d like to tell you about myself. I began as an exceptionally brilliant child. In order to avoid sibling rivalry, I convinced my mother to abort the unborn and persuaded her to place the other children up for adoption. My father was deep fried in the bathtub by a misplaced hair dryer. By the time I hit puberty, I was the most popular kid in school. Girls carried my books and the guys did my homework. I’ve always been a very special person. I was always treated like a prince. So I gave myself the nickname “King.” It has a nice fourteen-carat ring to it. Most people curtsy in my royal presence anyway. You may rise. Everyone adores me. Oh, I’m so clever. Flattery will get you an eight-by-ten glossy with the following dedication: He autographs his photograph. : Dear fan, I have mass appeal but most importantly I have me and so do you. He kisses the photograph. : I never sign my name on these things because they’ll increase in value. The image is free but the signature is worth its weight in gold. Picasso is dead, long live the Artking. Slide A6: The word Fatal Slide B6: The word Ism Slides C6 and D6: Image/s related to this concept He is presented with the first sign of doom. : No. 256

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He runs and cowers in a corner. He is presented with the second sign of doom. : No. Not me. He runs to a different corner and cowers. He is presented with the third sign of doom. : No. Not me. Anything but that. He runs back to the original corner and cowers. He gets up and appears to accept his fate. : We are all doomed. Our entire universe is doomed. Doom, doom, doom, doom, doom, doom, doom. Some people prepare for the netherworld. Others seek an easy way out of this unavoidable trap. I accept my doom as an excuse to dance whenever I want. He dances. : Sometimes I think that every living moment is a diversion from having to face inevitable eternal oblivion. He dances again. : I prefer to twist and squirm with fate. He does the twist. Slide A7: The word Gender Slide B7: The word Ism Slides C7 and D7: Image/s related to this concept : Where men are men, women are women. Where men are women, women are men. That’s a fairly strict code. I don’t think that a unisex hairdo is all it takes to end sexual discrimination. He paints a third X and a skull. He pours himself a shot glass full of liquor. : A toast . . . There once was a woman who Worked hard all day, She was intelligent, efficient, And creative, Her job title was different than Her male counterpart’s, Even though the work was The same, They paid her fifty percent Less per hour, One day she decided to sue But she was out of luck The company was bankrupt. He gulps down his drink and quickly pours another. : Virility. Fertility. Sterility. Ismania

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Gulps down his drink and tosses the shot glass. Slide A8: The word Hedon Slide B8: The word Ism Slides C8 and D8: Image/s related to this concept : I’ll try anything once. If it feels good, I’ll do it over and over again until it becomes an obsession. He lights a cigarette. : Some people say that I have an addictive personality. I really have twenty-four personalities that are addicted to each other. He lights a second cigarette with the first and tosses the first away. : They say that too much of a good thing can kill you. It’s not getting enough of that thing that kills me. He lights a third cigarette with the second and tosses away the second. : I’m a very sensuous person. Excite me and I’m yours for the moment, that is, until I get bored and look for new kicks. He lights a fourth cigarette with the third and tosses away the third. : Let me enjoy the pleasure and we’ll see if you can endure the pain. He flicks away the fourth cigarette. Slide A9: The word Impression Slide B9: The word Ism Slides C9 and D9: Image/s related to this concept He performs his interpretation of “impression-ism.” Slide A10: The word Jetter Slide B10: The word Ism Slides C10 and D10: Image/s related to this concept Audio: Suggested tune, “96 Tears.” : During the late sixties and early seventies there emerged a styleconscious group of Chicano youth known throughout East L.A. as Jetters. Jetters loved to party. Their parties took place wherever they went: the streets, parked cars, backyards, houses, alleys, and parking lots. They partied as a means to deny/defy the harsh realities which confronted them. All you needed was a quick wit, a sharp tongue, a cool dance step, attitude, the latest clothes, and enough cologne so that you’d smell good from a block away. They thrived in their own social isolation. They were disliked by some for being too Mexican and disliked by others for not being Mexican enough. The Jetters assumed that they would die sooner than later and acted on impulse, driving their lives on erratically exploding emotions. Everyone and everything was always hot. They were all beautiful or at least appeared to themselves as beautiful. Then the dream started to shatter: broken hearts, cracked skulls, DOAs, killed in action, lifeless bodies, along with all of the economic letdowns which accompany academic failure. Some Jetters partied until they were yellow in the liver or white 258

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in the vein, others continued to party until their own children would wear their party shoes, and a few of us continue to art party and we’ve managed to do so with hardly a scratch. Audio: Record is scratched off. Slide A11: The word Klass Slide B11: The word Ism Slides C11 and D11: Image/s related to this concept He stands on a soap box. : The individual as an entity is invalid. The individual as an enemy is an imposter. The individual as the end product of heredity and environment is incomplete. Individualism is dead. The masses as a homogeneous mob are incoherent. The masses as a disposable horde are incapacitated. The masses as the by-product of socialization and collectivization is inaccurate. Collectivism is dead. Poverty is for the poor. Wealth is for the rich. Equality and justice are obscene mirages. Klassism is not dead. He jumps off the box. Slide A12: The word Legal Slide B12: The word Ism Slides C12 and D12: Image/s related to this concept : I have a birth certificate that says I’m legal. Did you know that some infants/children are illegal? I’m certain that children aren’t interested in all of the legalities but it is very difficult to play hopscotch when you’re handcuffed. There is the law of the land but laws were meant to be interpreted, challenged, and broken. If a law can be written, borders can be erased. What makes it all legal is the power of suggestion. He brings out a pocket watch and makes it swing. : You are getting sleepy, sleepy. You are under my power. Now repeat after me: what’s legal for you may be illegal for me. Who’s illegal to you may be legal for me. Laws are a matter of power. Control is matter of enforcement. Obedience is a matter of brainwash. He looks at the watch and snaps his fingers. : Lunch break. He goes back to the soup and sits. : I’m hungry for real food and all I’m left with are relics of pop symbolism. He extracts a can of Campbell’s soup. He tosses it away. : I’m getting dizzy watching all of these bones and letters floating around and around and around. Ismania

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He becomes dizzy and staggers. Slide A13: The word Magnet Slide B13: The word Ism Slides C13 and D13: Image/s related to this concept He becomes stuck to objects, the wall, the floor. : They say that opposites attract. Sometimes the pull is greater than the push. He pulls something large and is unable to push something small. : Notoriety and celebrity are social magnets: deformities, beauty, public executions, fires, murderers, artists, politicians, actors, sociopaths, automobile accidents, airplane crashes, incurable diseases, and ugly scars. He tosses small magnets at metal object. : When we become one and the same we inevitably repel each other. It’s only when we fall back to earth that we realize how repulsive our mutual attraction really is. He drops an object. Slide A14: The word Nihil Slide B14: The word Ism Slides C14 and D14: Image/s related to this concept He sings. : Fuck the world, Fuck you, fuck me, fuck fucking, It’s not worth it, Let ’em starve, they don’t deserve it, Show no pity, they don’t feel pain and if they do it’s okay, We can all hemorrhage for all I don’t care, Let me kick that smile off your meaningless face, It’s taking up too much space, Let’s blow it all away, Today. Your feelings don’t mean a thing to me, I killed your dog and cat, You’re an asshole in disguise, I’ll kill you too just like your pets, Nothing is my hero, Empty is my heart, We can all hemorrhage for all I don’t care, Let me bite that ear off your swollen head, Now don’t listen to what I say, Let’s blow it all away, Today. 260

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He breaks a bottle. Slide A15: The word Optim Slide B15: The word Ism Slides C15 and D15: Image/s related to this concept : I wonder if that bottle was half full? He cleans up and whistles. : This environment isn’t all that bad. In fact, I’m beginning to like this place. I’m certain that there’s a purpose for my being here and it’s obviously for the best possible reason. If I were elsewhere, I’d probably be in danger of contamination from the others, those persons and persons unknown. Yes, solitude is what I need. One has to look on the bright side of things. He looks at his dimmed environment. : Like I said, even the grass is greener on the other side. I should be content with all of the black eyes and violet bruises that life has handed me. I can’t think of a happier moment. Everything is so wonderful. I’m so happy, happy, happy. And it’s all going to get much better. Progress is forever. It’s all so clear to me now, I don’t understand why I never saw it before but it doesn’t matter because now I’m so very positive that nothing and no one will get me down. From now on everything will be great and fun. I love it. Slide A16: The word Postmodern Slide B16: The word Ism Slides C15 and D16: Image/s related to this concept He performs his interpretation of “postmodern-ism.” Slide A17: The word Quicksand Slide B17: The word Ism Slides C17 and D17: Image/s related to this concept : Ever get that slowly-but-surely sinking feeling? It can happen any time a good opportunity slips through your fingers or whenever you become engulfed in a bad situation. It can also result from having to carry a heavy load of guilt, responsibility, any physical degeneration, and in some instances can come from looking into a mirror. Some people sink so low that there is no hope of ever having them resurface in their original form. Others vanish without a trace. But there are a few individuals who are addicted to the sensation of being swallowed whole, only to discover themselves half dead on the mysterious shoreline of a new awareness. I sometimes have that feeling when I am sucked into the unconscious, when I dream of the impossible, when the absurdities are more meaningful to me than real life. I sometimes have that feeling in my sleep when I realize that I will have to open my eyes and see nothing but quicksand. Slide A18: The word Rac Slide B18: The word Ism Slides C18 and D18: Image/s related to this concept He pulls his white shirt up over his head and buttons the collar. Ismania

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: I hate anyone who has color: in their skin, in their eyes, in their hair, in their blood, or in their imagination. We must be pure and exterminate those others who are unlike ourselves. We must create a super race that will dominate the earth. We are the only true race who deserves to thrive. Join me in my campaign to eliminate the plague of these other peoples who have come to spoil our cities, states, nation, and planet. We will conduct this eradication process on a basis of conscious cruelty. We shall love ourselves evermore as we destroy our enemies. We are human. They are less than animals. Our strength lies in our hate. He pulls off his shirt. : I have been enslaved, raped, tortured, exploited, and exiled. I have been persecuted, mutilated, shot, lynched, and gassed. I have been imprisoned in concentration camps, reservations, relocation camps, and in the inner city. I have been victimized by institutionalized hate, ignorance, indifference, and fear. I have been denied my basic human rights, my civil rights, my rites of passage. I have been relieved of my right arm. I have been educated to praise, envy, and love those who intend to assassinate my culture. They have forced me to genuflect before genocide. I come in all colors. I have many different beliefs. My ancestors come from all over the globe. My strength lies in my shared humanity, it also lies in my numbers. He puts on a death’s-head. : Talk about a philosophically correct self-apology. Victimized. What about all of those drones who kept their mouths shut as we slit their throats, stabbed their backs, kicked their asses. At least they didn’t have one big chip on their shoulder. They used their intellect to die on their knees. They got exactly what they deserved. He tosses the death’s-head away. : I refuse to live my life as a victim. I will fight for my rights. I will neutralize their hatred with my love. I will eliminate their ignorance through enlightenment. I will overpower their weapons with my own arms. He exposes large numbers tattooed on his arms. Slide A19: The word Separat Slide B19: The word Ism Slides C19 and D19: Image/s related to this concept Desperate. : Don’t go. Oh, please don’t go. I’ll miss you. I won’t let you go. I can’t live without you. You can’t leave me. Stay. Don’t go. We can’t end it like this. You belong to me. Tell me you don’t want to go. I love you. Don’t go. Good-bye. I’ll always remember you. He sobs. : Who was I crying about? I don’t remember what that person must have looked like. I don’t have any photographs or letters to remind me anymore. It’s 262

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been so long and there have been so many I don’t feel anything now. Either I’m jaded or suffering from amnesia. I’m confused. I can’t imagine crying over the loss of someone who was probably close to me at some time. I don’t remember. It’s all a void. All I know is that whoever it was now lives a totally separate life from my own. I don’t think that I could recognize that person even from a close distance. Time has a way of warping fond memories. Who could it have been? I feel absolutely nothing. He picks up a toy. : When I was a child, my parents nearly murdered each other on a regular basis. It was a marriage made in limbo. I was their excuse to hang on, that is, until their indifference affected my health. My mother left horrible bruises on my body during fits of rage over my father’s infidelity. My father would slap my face every time he found my mother in a drunken stupor. The happiest day of my life was the day they got divorced. No more arguments. No more assaults. My parents were now separated but I still had them both, in two different sets of photographs: My mom and I, and my dad and I. Now I have my own divorces. If only I could remember what they looked like or even their names. Slide A20: The word Traumat Slide B20: The word Ism Slides C20 and D20: Image/s related to this concept He unveils a creature/object. : You don’t intimidate me. I’ve seen your kind come and go. You can’t make me do anything I don’t want to do. Don’t come any closer. He takes a bottle of pills offered by the creature/object. : What’s this? I don’t have a headache. Yes they are pretty little pills but that’s no reason to . . . He looks at the bottle. : Well, I do admit that I have considered it on several occasions, but never with pills. It’s just not my style. He holds his temples. : Now look what you’ve done. You’ve given me a headache. The headache crescendos. : Ohhh. If only there were some relief. These will have to do. He swallows a handful of pills. : They don’t seem to be having any effect. I must have miscalculated the dosage. He swallows another handful of pills. : Still nothing. He reacts as though drugged. : Still nothing. You’re an absolute fraud, a misfit, obsolete. Won’t you ever understand that you’ll never have any influence on my life whatsoever. Ismania

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He becomes spastic. : You’re utterly meaningless. You can’t come in here expecting me to alter my behavior on your account. He slurs his speech. : What right do you have to label me with an inappropriate diagnosis? He licks himself like a cat. : I don’t like you because you’re ugly and ugly is too common and common is too ugly. He becomes more withdrawn. : Grrrrrrrrrr . . . He becomes completely catatonic. Slide A21: The word Utilitarian Slide B21: The word Ism Slides C21 and D21: Image/s related to this concept : I might as well make myself useful. Let’s see now. What must be done? He picks up a hammer and gets to work. He nails objects together. : We can’t let this go to waste. He rips other objects apart and creates “parts.” : This should make wonderful confetti. He rips things apart. : Let’s get rid of this eyesore. He paints. He combines objects to construct a humanlike form. : It looks like this monster can destroy me. He destroys his creation with the hammer. Slide A22: The word Voyeur Slide B22: The word Ism Slides C22 and D22: Image/s related to this concept He puts on a large pair of shoes. : I prefer to remain anonymous when I’m riding on a crowded bus. I can sightsee, eavesdrop, spy, I become invisible and can touch the faces of people whom I’ve never met. I can sense their warmth, their despair, their passion. I saw this man the other night on the number eighteen bus, he was sitting quietly among the other passengers when suddenly, he began to scream out that he used to be a minister with a large flock of sheep which he had fleeced, he claimed to have been married to one of the rarefied beauties of the Caribbean, he had been accustomed to fortune, he had mesmerized thousands with his fiery sermons on salvation, in a word, his life had been perfect, that is, until the morning that he awoke and found that his feet had become grossly swollen and enlarged. He had contracted elephantiasis. His beautiful wife feared elephants and left him. His flock saw his feet as markings of the devil and deserted him. 264

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He dragged himself across his community and found that he was rejected by his family, friends, acquaintances. He blessed everyone on the bus with his prayers: One day you’ll go to heaven, One day you’ll go to hell, I wish you a joyful life, And may your feet remain petite. In the name of the Father, the Son, And the Holy Boot. And his feet were enormous. His shoes resembled two large shiny black suitcases with horseshoe taps. He continued to talk. I noticed that the bus was approaching my stop. I assume it was an accident but I stepped on his foot on my way out. I departed the bus and walked slowly along the curb. I was struck with an oppressive sensation. I could feel them watching me. They were following my every move. I felt like an aimless target. Their eyes and ears were everywhere. I knew that I was under surveillance. I was innocent but nonetheless, I was being tailed. I walked faster and bumped into informants who were snitching on me. They spread rumors and innuendos. Unfortunately, they did have pictures to prove every charge. I wanted to remain anonymous but my name continued to appear in discarded newspapers that blew along the streets with the rest of the daily trash. I attempted to hide in a darkened alley. It was quiet, no lights, no people, no action. I was alone. I looked at the graffiti on the wall and recognized the letters, words, and numbers that identify every aspect of my life. My dossier was being publicly denounced by hoodlums in white collars. I closed my eyes but it was no use, they had gotten too close, I could feel them breathing down my neck. I wanted to get away from their unfriendly gaze. I tried to run but my feet felt so heavy, so large, so conspicuous. I resented my situation. If there was only some way that they could have walked in my shoes then maybe they wouldn’t have looked at me as being so different from themselves. Slide A23: The word Welfar Slide B23: The word Ism Slides C23 and D23: Image/s related to this concept He flips a coin. : I received thirty-two dollars in direct financial aid. This amount is supposed to feed me, clothe me, shelter me. I am being supported by government funds which come from the pocket of the working force. With thirty-two dollars I am going to eat cardboard cutouts, walk around in rags, sleep on the sidewalk. I am the burden of society’s conscience. I received thirty-two million in direct financial aide. This amount is supposed to be utilized to develop biological weapons that will be able to turn human tissue into lifeless jelly. I am being supported by government funds which come from the pockets of the working force. With the thirty-two million dollars I am Ismania

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going to eat rare meat, drive around in bullet-proof limousines, and sleep with political whores. I am the burden of society’s conscience. I received a tax bill of thirty-two hundred dollars. I make an honest living working fifty hours per week. I have a family to feed, to clothe, to shelter. I also have alimony and child-support payments to make on a previous soured marriage. I’m up to my credit limit on several major credit cards. I consume as much as the next guy. I don’t understand why I should be penalized in order to perpetuate ineffectual social programs and inhumane welfare projects. I’d much rather use the money to buy books and guns for my children so that they can become efficient competitors in our complex society. He tosses money at the audience. Slide A24: The word Existential Slide B24: The word Ism Slides C24 and D24: Image/s related to this concept He sets off several alarm clocks. : Some say that existence is relative to perception. If something is not perceived, it does not exist. Ignorance denies the existence of everything that transcends its limited boundaries. I think, therefore I hesitate. Existence is relative to measurement: moments, days, years, eons, and it is all over in an instant. I exist, therefore I am anxious about the nonexistence that awaits me. I exist and it all seems so random. I wonder if existence is possible without awareness. He experiments. : I don’t exist, therefore I’ll ignore and get bored. I’ll simply wait for nothing. Wait. Take me a picture. He vomits. Slide A25: The word Yes-man Slide B25: The word Ism Slides C25 and D25: Image/s related to this concept He moves into various positions. : I can accommodate you from any position. I can pull the switch on the condemned, pull the trigger on the undesirables. I can pull the wool over the eyes of a myopic public, or I can pull the rug from under you when you least expect it. Just push me a little and I say yes. I follow orders to a T-E-R-R-O-R. It’s the “in” in integrity that keeps you out of favor with those who have the power. Self-respect is a nebulous concept until it flows warm and red when it says no and I say yes. He plays a yes-no game. : Yes, you’ll be hanged at dawn. Yes, sir, anything you say, sir. Yes, the ransom should be paid in unmarked twenties. Yes, keep the poison in the product. 266

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Yes, I don’t mind. Yes, it’s all your fault. Yes, it’s contagious. Yes, I don’t remember. Yes, you have no choice. Yes, you are my leader. Yes, it’s very hard. Yes, I will obey. Yes, master. Slide A26: The word Zombi Slide B26: The word Ism Slides C26 and D26: Image/s related to this concept Zombie attitude. : We are the quick-talking dead. But talk is cheap and life is cheaper still. Where’s the downfall after the resurrection? Who survives the aftermath before the storm troopers? He goes back to the soup. : This is really a fine soup we’re in. Childlike. : A, B, C, D, E, F, G, oh . . . a bone . . . H, I, J, K, L, M, N, O, P, and another . . . Q, R, S, T, U, V, W, needs salt . . . , X, Y, Z.

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Bravo Heights A Comedy for Television (unfinished) (1987)

Characters:                Sets: Int. living room Int. Cafe Zero Ext. Cafe Zero Act  Scene  Fade in: Int. living room—morning.  is typing furiously on his personal computer. He is surrounded by a pyramid of books, papers, and coffee cups.  enters, carrying a pot of coffee. She is wearing a white wedding gown and veil.  sings. : Here comes the bride, all dressed to kill.  looks up at , then looks back at the computer screen. : I don’t remember us getting divorced, Monica. Who’s the lucky man? 268

: Don’t get your hopes up, Victor Bravo. We’re still married. The Association of Happy Homes has elected me marriage counselor of the year.  continues to type. : It’s obviously voter fraud.  looks at the computer screen. : Writing another one of your high-tech, low-class novels? : It’s my masterpiece. It’s a story about an insanely ambitious woman who poisons her unemployed but very talented husband. : I wouldn’t blame her. If he was really talented, you’d be able to get a job. : But writing is a full-time job. : I’ll believe that when you can write out the checks. She pours coffee, filling three cups. : Here’s your breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Maybe you should write a book on nutrition. He sips coffee, gags, continues typing. : That’s right, the way to a man’s heartburn is through his stomach acid.  enters; she is holding a mm camera and carrying a tuxedo on a coat hanger. : Daddy, you’ve got to get dressed quickly. I could only afford to rent the floor sample for two hours. : The only time I’ve worn one of those was when it was prodded along by your grandfather’s shotgun. : Trina, what your father means is that . . . : Is that, I’ll put it on. But first, am I going to be buried or stuffed? I haven’t even died yet.  stops typing.  hands him the tuxedo.  hands him a copy of a newsletter. : You’re going to be photographed for the Association’s newsletter, dead or alive.  points the camera at her parents. : You’ll both be picture-perfect lovebirds. : Your mother will be the dodo in white. : And you’ll be the turkey in black tie. : So I’m going to be stuffed after all. I might as well get dressed for the occasion.  looks at her watch, then points to ’s legs. : I’d appreciate it if you’d get those drumsticks to step on it. Your time is my money. : What’s the rush? Walking down the aisle is a serious step towards alimony. Bravo Heights

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: Maybe I should have asked Rivera to pose in your place. He’s such a fine gentleman. : He’s also a con man whose photographic experiences consist of mug shots and wanted posters. : I wonder if Rivera would feel more comfortable if we put little numbers across the tuxedo? : He’s completely reformed now and he’s also made quite a success of himself.  dreamy-eyed. : And he’s so handsome.  jealous. : And he’s not going to pose with my wife. : Do you think it’s too late to give him a call?  unbuttoning his shirt. : Don’t bother. He’s probably wearing handcuffs and won’t be able to answer the telephone. : Well, he does owe me a favor. : Professional or otherwise? : Purely professional. I’ve helped him resolve several of his marital problems ever since he was paroled nearly two years ago.  shows his clenched fist to . : I’ve met all five of his ex-wives with their ten black eyes and bruises.  shocked. : I had no idea that he was a wife beater.  looking through her telephone book. : He’s not. They all got into a violent brawl, fighting over him during our last group therapy session.  removing his shoes. : He must have given them brass knuckles instead of wedding rings. : He gave them romance then he gave them the slip. He’s such a sweetheart. Ah, here’s his number.  dials.  removes his shirt. : It’s the hotline to a cold heart.  removes the tuxedo from the coat hanger. The tuxedo is a one-piece overall version, which is zipped from the back. He puts it on but has trouble with the zipper. : Hello Rivera, this is Monica Montez. Pause.  smiles. : After all these years of name dropping, you’d think she’d drop her maiden name. 270

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: No, I can’t go with you to Hawaii.  and  look disapprovingly at each other. : Yes, I’m still married but that’s just a technicality. : Why don’t you ever ask mom to go to Hawaii? : I would but money doesn’t grow on pineapples.  turns around.  awkwardly zips up his tuxedo, causing him to fall, knocking down the pyramid of books. : I should have pointed you towards the altar.  struggles to pick himself up. : You might have to carry me over the threshold after the ceremony, my husband just developed a weak back. Limping,  motions to choke . : If you keep on flirting, Monica, I’ll tie the marital knot around your award-winning neck.  keeps  away at arm’s distance. : It’s settled then. We’ll meet you at Cafe Zero in twenty minutes. Ciao.  hangs up. : So it’s going to be a double ceremony. One bride and two husbands. : One bright and one not so bright. : That’s bigamy with a dummy.  reacts. : Rivera has agreed to play the part of the priest for the photo session. : I wonder if this priest-hoodlum can perform miracles. : What kind of miracles? : The kind that can get you to say, I do, to all of the things that you don’t. : Better save your prayers for something more important, like returning this tuxedo on time. : Trina’s right, besides, the only miracle that’s taken place is that we’re still happily married.  smiles, holds her arms open to .  goes over to  and puts his arms around her waist. : She works in mysterious ways.  and  kiss passionately. : I’ll go start the car while you two reconcile your differences.  exits.  and  stop kissing. : Monica, why don’t we have a quickie honeymoon before the wedding? : Car honking. : Not now Victor, I have prenuptial headache. She pulls her veil down over her face.  and  exit. Cut to: Bravo Heights

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Act  Scene  Int. Cafe Zero—continuous  is directing  and  while they carry a large painting of a red heart as they attempt to place it on the wall. The lone customer waits impatiently at his table. : Okay, you guys, now when I say left, you move left. : That’s the problem, he’s got two lefts. : Well, when I say right, you move right. : I’ve got no rights.  frustrated. : You two have no sense of direction. : And I’ve got no eggs. I ordered them scrambled over twenty minutes ago. : Those were his eggs?  banging his fork and spoon on the table. : And what about my pancakes and bacon? : Those were his too? : It was a great-tasting breakfast. : Of course it was. I cook only the best even when it comes straight out of a box.  resumes his banging. : The customer’s always right. I’ll give him leftovers.  drops his end of the painting. He exits quickly through the kitchen door and enters again quickly through the same door carrying a plate with two whole cooked chickens. He serves the dish to the customer. : Breakfast is served. : These are not eggs. : So they matured a little.  and  enter.  is wearing dark glasses.  is dressed as a priest. : You look like a real priest, boss.  looks into a mirror as he straightens out his collar. : And you look like a lost soul, unless you’re told what to do.  goes over to  and .  and  are struggling with the painting.  is banging his utensils on the tabletop. : Good morning, Father. Please be seated over here. : Bless you, my son.  and  sit at their table. 272

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: He looks kind of old to be your kid. : He’s just big for his age. Now look at your menu and shut up.  holds his menu upside down.  sets it upright.  goes over to  and . : May I take your order? : Hey. What kind of service is this anyway? I was here first. : The Lord giveth but you cannot taketh. My altar boy will alter your face. : Yeah, I’m his armed guardian angel.  produces a pistol from his coat and points it at .  puts up his hands. : It’s not polite to point. We’re legit now. Understand?  puts his hand over the gun barrel.  puts the gun back into his coat.  sheepishly. : Excuse me, I think my eggs are getting cold.  backs off with hands up and sits back at his table.  calmly. : I’ll have the breakfast special.  nervous. He jots down the order. : That’s a thirty-eight special.  studies a menu. : I’ll have the usual.  jots down the order. : That’s one bread and water. Will this be on the same bill?  points to . : Yes. He’s paying.  goes over to  and .  is holding the painting at a slant by himself.  is on a stepladder hammering a nail into the wall. : You’ve got to get into the kitchen right away. It’s a matter of life or death.  strikes the hammer into the wall below the nail. The blow opens a large hole in the wall, causing  to lose his balance and to exit by crashing through the wall. : I’ve always known he’d wind up in some hole in the wall.  climbs up the stepladder and looks through the hole. : Oh, he’s all right. He landed on his pancakes. : Compliments of the chef.  tosses an order slip through the hole. : Better cook this order on the double, or Father will give us hell. Bravo Heights

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 climbs down the ladder. He and  cover the hole in the wall by hanging the painting on the nail at a slant.  enters. She is carrying a tripod and camera. She goes over to the painting. : I hope I didn’t put you boys through too much trouble. : No trouble too big to cover up. : All three of us really put our heart into this. : Three? : Our cook had to go into the kitchen to hammer out the details of his crash diet.  straightens the painting. : Now, who’s going to be the ring bearer? : That’s me.  hands the ring to . : I thought clowns worked with three rings. : Then you must be the flower girl.  hands the bouquet to . : Haven’t you heard? He’s wilted. : You’ll both look great. : You’re half right. I’ll look great. : And I’ll look straight. Let’s get into our costumes, Flora.  and  exit.  sets up the tripod and camera.  walks over to .  sneaks away and exits. : You look ravishing, my dear. Why, if I weren’t a man of the cloth I’d . . . He reaches out to embrace her and takes her camera. She pushes him away but is attracted. : . . . you’d keep your hands to yourself, Rivera. But a girl could be tempted. : Where is that beautiful mother of yours and that worm, I mean, bookworm of a man she intends to marry? : My parents are already married, which is why I don’t understand the strange way they’ve been behaving. : You’d better get used to it. Monica’s excited to see me. He sprays his mouth with breath freshener. : They’ve been acting weird. As I drove them over here, they sat in the backseat kissing and messing around like a couple of teenagers.  returns the camera to . She sets it on the tripod.  disappointed. : Oh, your father’s just going through his second puberty.  and  enter, hand in hand. : Rivera, I hardly recognize you. You look so celibate.  holds and kisses ’s free hand. 274

Bravo Heights

: Seeing is disbelieving, Monica.  tugs at  and offers  his free hand. They shake and now all hold hands. : And you’ve always been a believer in the double-cross. It’s good to see you again, Rivera.  unimpressed. : Charmed . . . : Like a snake.  breaks the chain of hands and pulls away from both men. : I think that we’d better have this marriage annulled. : Don’t be so negative. : That’s the point. No negative. I guess I forgot to put film into the camera.  opens the camera and shows its empty interior. : Well, that’s one way to avoid guilt by association. , , and  enter.  is dressed as ring bearer in a suit that is too short.  is dressed as a flower girl in a dress that is too big.  is wearing a chef ’s hat that is flattened. All three strike a pose and smile into the empty camera. , , and  (in unison): Cheese. : These rats sound like they’re hungry. : Yeah, for publicity. : Well, let them chew on this.  holds the missing roll of film. : Where did you?  folds his hands as if for prayer. : Let’s say it was Divine Intervention.  takes the film and hands it to . : The hand is quicker than the lie.  puts the film back into the camera. : Here Bravo, you can have your wallet back, minus a small finder’s fee.  retains a few dollar bills and hands a wallet back to .  inspects the wallet as he checks his pocket.  sets up a photographic lamp. : And to think I voted against the death penalty.  holding lamp in hand. : I hope I don’t blow a . . . She puts the plug into a socket. All goes black. : . . . fuse. Bravo Heights

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 squeals. : Victor. Keep your hands to yourself. : That’s not me, Monica. : Slap. : Ouch. : Rip and tear. : Oops. : Crunch. : Eeek. : Now, this is heaven. Lights go back to normal.  is sitting on the floor, rubbing his shinbones.  has a black eye.  has both sleeves missing.  is holding both sleeves in her hands.  has his hands in the cash register.  is at the fuse box.  and  are embracing and kissing passionately. : Talk about revolting revelations. : I’m giving up my vows. : Trina, stop kissing that gorgeous man. : Daddy, I’ve seen the light. : Trina, you’re out of sight . . .  flicks the fuse switch off. All goes black. : . . . and out of your mind. End of Act . Act  Scene  Fade in: Int. Cafe Zero—fifteen minutes later Wedding party is posed into position.  and  stand together,  is dressed as cupid,  is holding the ring,  is holding flowers,  is dressed as best man,  is holding a cookbook,  is behind the camera. : Wait. Don’t shoot. Don’t I get a cigarette, a blindfold or something? : Don’t pay any attention to your father, Trina. Fire at will. : Ready, everyone.  is crying. : Wait. My mascara’s running. : So is your pantyhose. : That’s one size that fits all that didn’t. : You don’t have to cry, this isn’t a real wedding. : Oh, it’s not that, this girdle is killing me. 276

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: I think it’s the girdle that’s dead, due to terminal stretch marks. : Why don’t we let the young lady take the picture so we can get on to bigger and better things. He winks at . : Let me remind you that she is a lady who is too young for you. Get the picture? : Daddy, I’m twenty years old. : He’s put that many years into solitary confinement. : All the more reason for me to seek a sincere and lasting relationship. : Aw, thanks boss. I thought we was just pals. : Gato, how many times do I have to tell you? Don’t bother to think. One of these days that small brain is going to get that big body in a lot of trouble. : That’s great advice, Rivera, if you’re giving it to a dinosaur. : Now boys, no arguing. This is a blessed event. : Ready, aim, smile.  snaps the photograph. The flash is very bright. All goes white. Cut to: Act  Scene  Ext. Cafe Zero—continuous A police car is parked in front of Cafe Zero.   is holding a photograph of .   is loading his pistol.  is sitting in the backseat of the patrol car.  pointing at photograph. : That’s him, officer. He’s the one who pointed a gun at me.  : That’s the notorious Gato, the henchman known for his quick temper and slow wit.   pointing his pistol at .  : You’re lucky to be alive. He used to shoot guys like you just to get rid of spare bullets. : Point that thing at the criminal, not me. I’m the victim. Remember?  : There’s something about you that reminds me of an easy target.  : If we lose the witness, we lose the case. Let’s go get him.  : I guess you’re right. I don’t have a bullet to spare anyway. : I’ll wait here. I need another hole in the head like I need another hole in the head.  slinks down into the backseat.   and   approach the entrance of Cafe Zero. Cut to:

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277

No Crossing (1988)

Originally performed at Centro Cultural de la Raza, San Diego, February ,  Performed by Harry Gamboa Jr. : I saw a man the other day who was screaming at his tormentors whom he had imagined to be living just below the surface of the asphalt, he was pleading with them from the curb to leave him alone, to disappear and to be quiet so that no one else could avail themselves to his secret world of phantom “others.” He fell to his knees and began to sob. His tears streamed down his soot-caked face, his eyes flickered with an inner decay of hopelessness, he clasped his hands together and mumbled a prayer in a low, muted voice. : I believe that we are Confused objects of flesh That stumble across the Crust of this stone. In the name of the flea, the fly, And the rat. Hail jail, Fail bail. I believe that we are Refused subjects of the Unblessed Who are humbled before The injustice of This bone disconnected from That bone. In the name of the scum, The scab, and the sweat. Hail jail, Fail bail. 278

: The man then propped himself on all fours and crawled away quickly, all the while yelling obscenities at his invisible enemies: : Fuckers, crackers, Organic no-matters . . . : The man then bit down hard on his tongue, causing it to rip and to dangle in its own passive verblessness. He left a slippery trail of blood and saliva which was immediately erased by the flow of indifferent footsteps of which my metaltipped boots were a part, as my heel-toe, heel-toe, heel-toe, skidded and skated deftly on the reddish path below. The man stumbled into a darkened doorway and immediately buried himself in distasteful thoughts of a sharper tongue. I could feel my heels sticking to the coagulating pavement. I had been walking aimlessly through the frenetic streets of Downtown L.A., something which I had been doing for several forgetful years. I followed the man into his corner and asked him many questions which I presumed he could not answer. Who in the hell do you think you are? No answer. : Why the phony tears? No answer. : Why not go all the way? The man stared into my eyes with a look of defiant hatred then bit down on his damaged tongue, whereupon he succeeded in severing the last remaining shreds of connective tissue. The dark purple mass fell onto the filthy pile of newspapers which littered the area with bold headlines of prefabricated news. The tip of his tongue managed to worm its way across the funny pages but before it reached a human interest story the man grabbed it roughly in his palm and answered his own prayers as well as my questions. Holds out hand. : I am the hand that points to prejudge, I pull the trigger, I strangle and mangle, I slap you in public, I pinch raw nerves, I slip you a protracted suicide note, I pick and choose who will lose, I grab at straws, I squeeze that final drop! : I was undeterred by the man’s survival instincts. I would not be misled by his misdealt hand. However, I allowed him to continue as a bare-fisted decoy. : My tears are real. I cry because of many things, if only I had enough fingers to count them all. : I was rapidly losing my patience. I decided to count to ten. : There’s no such place or thing as “all-the-way.” It’s unobtainable, not tangible, besides, what’s the use? : The hand was not quicker than the lie. The man then swallowed his tongue, closed his eyes, double-crossed himself and slid into an unconvincing coma. I kicked his temple gently with the worn-out corner of my black rubber heel. He remained motionless, impenetrable. I was about to kick him into a lucid state of submission when I heard a tender voice call out to me. : Don’t kick that man, don’t scuff those shoes, don’t be an asshole. : I turned around to see who was interfering with my quest for cheap No Crossing

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conquest. There was no one nearby. I walked towards the sidewalk and was stepped on by various unnamed, nonfaced, ill-fated pedestrians. I was once again in the midst of my fellow competitors. I found it difficult to believe that we all shared basic needs such as water, food, air, warfare. I reached into my pocket and extracted a crumpled paper cup. I began to ask for favors, I implored with the fading humanity to take heart, to help me survive the insurmountable, I was unaware that the cup had no bottom and that the few coins which were donated had fallen into oblivion. I finally looked into the cup and saw an open gash which revealed my lack of profit. I heard the same voice again, but this time it was coming from beyond the curb, it beckoned me to go beneath the asphalt, to be at one with the neglected gutter, to blend in with the urban landscape, to keep my mouth shut, to decompose, and to refrain from asserting my existence. I fell to my knees and clasped my hands tightly together. I wanted to pray but my lips would not move, my tongue was welded against my teeth, I tried to move but fell down on my face, I saw the people pass, walking against the lights, moving and failing to notice the warnings, I could feel someone kicking at my temple. I closed my eyes and heard the familiar voices calling to me, voices whose tone sent chills across my body. : He’s dead. : He’s drunk. : He’s a loser. : He’s lost. : He’s trouble. : He’s here. : He’s melting. : He’s lying. : I opened my eyes and the streets were empty, it was night, a light breeze sent dust and scraps scurrying in several awkward patterns. I got back onto my feet and walked away slowly, less certain of any future but more committed to my present condition of mindlessness. I slid my feet slowly against the no-living zone, my new shoes were torn, my pants were shredded, my shirt was slightly burned, I looked at the store windows and recognized nothing, I looked at the facades of the buildings around me and noticed that many of the windows were filled in with concrete, I had open sores in my mouth, I had large blisters forming over my face, my head, and my legs. I recognized nothing. I was not aware of any pain, nor pleasure, nor loneliness, nor happiness, nor any sense of desperation which had always been my friend on long walks through downtown. I came across many shapeless individuals who were obviously anonymous in their prime but who were now mere shadows and echoes of a time when time mattered and when violence was a sensuous exercise of will, power, and emptiness. I walked slowly, I felt that I was somehow chosen to deliver my message which would vanish in dull clouds. I was not confused, I was not without direction, I was on my way to meet a new world of painlessness, to welcome an era of constant fainting spells, to greet defused memories in the images and words 280

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which attach themselves to the trash which blows on the streets. I walked aimlessly for many hours, something which I had been doing for several forgetful years, I heard voices calling to me from the walls, from the skies, from the silence which had fallen onto my city like a warm pulsating blanket of shock. . . . I heard a voice speak to me. : Touch me, keep me amused, destroy me, keep me abused, shoot me, stab me, it’s all the same, just walk along quietly, don’t give me your name. : I closed my eyes and walked slowly. I knew that I would step out of line, I knew that I would cross the invisible borders, I knew that I would fall into the path of self-destruction but I wanted to dance, to dance to the beat of the beaten, to balance on the thin line of sanity, I knew that I had submitted to the destiny of my peoplelessness, I had a strange sensation that it was all so late, so late, too late for words, too late for action, too late for salvation. So I walked away into the darkness and there I stay until the day which may never come.

No Crossing

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There Was Eternal Disorder in the Silence Which Followed the Expulsion of the Species (1988)

Flyer to be performed by the audience for “L.A.” exhibition at Centro Cultural de la Raza, San Diego, February  Act   enters irradiated installation area.  breaks silence with . : There once was a pyramid which outlasted its creator. It remained as a testament to vanity, falsity, ambiguity. It served as a symbol of physical powerlessness against the transgressions of time. The walls speak for themselves. : When an individual has set himself/herself on the path of literal interpretation, it is difficult to trip and fall graciously. I have the capacity to crumble before your eyes, you have the propensity to dissolve within your own dreams. I recognize your innate desire to be absorbed by the elements and events which compose the endless chain reactions of chance. You create form when you lack content. You are content as an act of form. : There is no dialogue between life and death. It is a perpetual barking of rabid dogs up rootless hanging-trees. : You say many things against your own will. : I speak my mind and try not to utter the collective consciousness which blows like cyclones from an embittered hell. I must say, however, that talking to walls is nothing new. : Nothing is new. : The ground is unstable and my mood is critical. : Change awaits you.  goes over to adjoining wall. 282

Expulsion of the Species, 1988. Harry Gamboa Jr. reads his work at El Centro Cultural de la Raza, San Diego. Photograph copyright Barbara Carrasco.

Act   applauds the bloom of doom. : A rose is a pose is an overdose of prose. : I overheard your morbid conversation with that old pile of stones. I won’t talk about anything which has universal implications. I prefer to enjoy the instant of gratification. I particularly hate anyone or anything that denies me my pleasures. I grow fond of starlit nights which illuminate me in all my glory. : I don’t believe in your flippant attitude. You have thorns the same as everyone else. You remind me of an acute ’s nightmare. I have proof that delicate sensationalists are easily trampled underfoot. : Don’t worry, I won’t wilt. You seem to forget your own inability to escape completely undamaged. The invisible scars are never truly invisible. : I’m not here to talk with two-dimensional plants which will be whitewashed within a month’s time. I’ve come to view and not to be viewed. I’m the judge. You are the crime. Somehow this court has gotten out of control. : Art isn’t a static concept, so watch your step! : You aren’t realistically representative of anything other than your own demise. It’s a poor disguise. : I wouldn’t talk. The walls don’t have ears but you might have difficulty going to sleep this evening on your bed of roses.  goes over to adjoining wall. Act   salutes . : When I was a child I always had an itch on my forehead but I was afraid to scratch it because I was certain that I’d leave a permanent gouge. : You mean that you were likely to leave a bull’s-eye that I’d be able to aim at. I’m certain that I would have been able to strike you between the eyes from any distance. : Who are you? : I am the projectile which will not beg your forgiveness. I am the inversion of nature. I am the accumulated violence of self-awareness and its malignant blind spots. : You resemble a toy/ploy. : You resemble energy and matter which I could easily rearrange. : There’s something terribly hostile about this optical illusion. : It has more to do with passive grand disillusionment. : I need images that will reaffirm my commitment to the appearance of continuity and future. : Your wish is my command to fire. It must have been something in the visual language which caused us to lose faith in the translation.  exits irradiated installation area.

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There Was Eternal Disorder

Club Limbo (1989)

Performed at Studio Theatre, University of California, Irvine,  PRODUCTION NOTES STORY 1

Performers: Diego Gamboa and Ricardo Gonzalves Story Concept

A young boy (Diego Gamboa) loses himself in the city and accidentally discovers his “father” (Ricardo Gonzalves) as he is painfully experiencing the final moments of his life. Ricardo is mortally wounded but takes a moment to pass on an invaluable lesson to his “son.” He tells Diego that life is an absurd and vicious joke which can only be countered by stern measures. He tells Diego to go out into the world and make a man out of himself, at which time he tells Diego to pull several kilos of cocaine from his secret hiding place. Ricardo dies on the asphalt of an alley. Diego realizes that Ricardo’s ideas have nothing to do with his own life but he struggles with the issue of what he should do with the coke. He decides to make cookies and passes them out freely at a street corner from a silver platter. Diego is skeptical that the man was his father. He knows that the mean streets are his life. He decides to live anonymously among the blank-faced crowds. Method of Presentation

The images of Diego and Ricardo will appear on video. Wide shots of locations in the city will appear on slides. Frenetic synthesized sounds should create an eerie effect. 285

STORY 2

Performers: Anthony Sandoval, Alberto Ybarra, and Frances Salomé España Story Concept

A young man (Anthony Sandoval) eats fast food at a chain outlet as he is observed by a man (Alberto Ybarra). Anthony is unaware of the attention he gets from the spy. Anthony feeds french fries to the birds as he struggles to come to terms with the fact that he has inherited the memory of a woman who has been imprisoned in a house somewhere in the city. Alberto is also possessed by the same voice (Frances Salomé España). Frances has instructed Alberto to meet Anthony so that they can both carry out her plan to convert the random population to believe in her theories of social order. The two meet but are more interested in freeing themselves of her control. She overpowers their dissent and instructs them to start rumors in the city, to instigate trouble among the masses. Alberto and Anthony pass out flyers, make threatening phone calls, and spray walls with cryptic slogans. They eventually get bored with her “Movement” and go back to feeding the birds and forcing themselves to think about “nothing.” Method of Presentation

The images of Alberto and Anthony will appear in slide form. Close-up images of Anthony and Alberto will be utilized on the video when they first think for themselves. The images will go to slides when the voice-over by Frances directs their actions. The sounds of the city permeate the entire story. STORY 3

Performers: Barbara Carrasco and Apolina Vargas Story Concept

A young girl (Apolina Vargas) wants to drown herself in the ocean. She is upset by an incredible sense of isolation and intuitive understanding that her life will soon be over. Apolina walks along the beach and comes to terms with her hatred for life. A woman (Barbara Carrasco) is unnerved by years of constant emotional isolation. She wants to rest at the bottom of the ocean. She is walking along the beach in the opposite direction so that she is several hundred feet away from Apolina. The two walk and contemplate their destiny and approach each other on the beach. As they pass they glance at one another, but Barbara is submerged in her thoughts while Apolina glares at Barbara in her final effort to make human contact. Barbara continues to walk and ultimately convinces herself that life is worth living. The image of Apolina comes to her consciousness. She realizes that the young girl was 286

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dangerously depressed because she had reminded her so much of herself as a child. She runs back to the child to offer her friendship but the girl has already given herself to the sea. Method of Presentation

The two characters will appear in two separate slides with additional slides creating a sense of the coast. The synthesized sounds of waves crashing will underscore the dialogue of the characters. An occasional video image will accentuate the characters. Gamboa will interact with the stories as they are presented. Subliminal involvement like eating, walking, drinking to physically connect with the stories as they are realized. Audio effects will be created and documented to establish the desired ambiance. CLUB LIMBO: STORY 1

: I don’t remember being born. I don’t remember the moment that I was dropped onto the hot asphalt when the cord was cut with the sharp edges of a broken bottle. I was welcomed to consciousness with the echoes of running high heels, gunshots, screeching tires, and sirens. I either suckled on rats’ milk or winos’ sherry. For the first few months of childhood I thought that my parents were paralyzed with fear until I realized that the woman and man that I called Mommy and Daddy were cold twin mannequins that were cross-dressed in the window of Bridal City. I’ve had dreams of wearing nondisposable, nonremovable, nonregrettable body bags. I don’t believe that dreams come true. But for some reason or other I can’t stand the sight or smell of plastic. I feel sorry for the garbage that gets wrapped up then thrown away, sold, or given to unsuspecting loved ones. I don’t have any sympathy for anything or anyone that gets left behind. They say that the world spins faster when you’re asleep. If you take a nap, you risk the possibility of sliding into a different time zone, if you roll over in bed you could wind up in the middle of an ocean. I haven’t slept a wink since my third birthday or last week or last night, I forget. I look at all of these people and know that one day every individual who has ever double-crossed my path will be gone forever. I’m not really lost in this ugly maze. I’ve left my scent where angels wouldn’t dare. I saw a man chewing on bits of concrete this morning, he must have thought it was popcorn because he was begging on the street for butter. I saw a woman screaming at another woman’s shadow, she felt she was being betrayed. There are so many children on the streets nowadays but I’ll never talk to any of them, we’re not related. I don’t need cousins to share my meals out of the trash bins. I don’t want sibling rivalry when it comes to my inheritance. Club Limbo

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Club Limbo, 1989. Live performance by Max Benavidez (left) and Harry Gamboa Jr. at University of California, Irvine. Photo credit: Diego Gamboa.

I own the pollution, the rejection, the dissolution, the delusions, they’re all mine, just mine, not given to me but taken by my innate right to own what’s wrong. Sometimes I wish that everyone would evaporate, turn into a dull cloud, float away into the past. I don’t think that anyone has ever seen me. Maybe if I committed violent crimes there’d be compassion for the boy phantom. : Son, is that really you? I thought that I’d die without being able to say good-bye to you, my son with no name, because your mother and I didn’t believe in names, we didn’t want to give you a complex, because we knew that one day you’d understand that to have a name is to have a disease that will never leave you, not even when you’re dead, I mean, they’ll place you in a box, cover it with dirt, and place a large stone atop so that you won’t be encouraged to get up and leave, they’ll carve your name into that rock so that anybody can know that you’re no longer among the living. Why give someone you don’t know a good laugh? No, you’ll never have a name because that is what sets you apart from the rest of the herd. But I don’t know what to call you. You are my son, I can feel it, I don’t recognize you since you don’t look like anyone I’ve ever met before. The resemblance is in the blood but I can’t see into your veins. I can hardly see at all. Where are you? Son come to me, come to witness the final joke. : Are you talking to me? I have a name but I don’t have a father, except that I can’t seem to recall what my name is? It begins with a Z and ends with a Q and there’s a lot of X’s in between. I’m not sure that I could pronounce if it I were to remember it. You’re not DAD. : Don’t be so disrespectful! Haven’t you learned any manners? You’re not supposed to deny your father his final wish. Oh, I forgot to tell you that your mother has been in solitary confinement in her home-made prison since the day you were born. She cries all day then curses my soul all night. It’s a traditional relationship. I never cry, I don’t have the time. I’ve been too busy making money, making friends, gaining power, stepping on the many sheep that have gotten in the way. Your father is the contemporary model of success, but it’s too late to brag about all that now. I left my bulletproof vest in the trunk with some of my victims. How would I have expected to be stabbed by some cheap meaningless thug? The idiot didn’t even steal anything. That’s why I’m happy to see you now, because I’ve got a present for you. You must use it wisely. It’s not material wealth that will make you happy but it is the power that comes with being able to control your own destiny and the destiny of those that will lick your boots. Remember, if they get close enough to lick, kick their teeth out first so that they won’t bite. The worst kind of venom comes from the vermin that will stoop to anything. Funny how I don’t feel any pain. I know that the blade must have pierced my body over three hundred times, there’s only a little blood too, the metal inside of my flesh felt very cold. I looked into his eyes as he slashed and stabbed, I wanted to see God or the Devil in his face but he seemed to be an atheist or a pragmatist. Either way he got me out of the way. My competitors will be happy. But I’m happier now that I’ve found you, my son. Club Limbo

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: He’s delirious. Hey, Dad, lend me twenty dollars and I’ll believe anything you say. I haven’t tasted birthday cake in my whole life. I’d use the cash to buy a triple-layer German chocolate cake, that would make up for all of the years of neglect that you’ve caused. I can’t understand why Mom doesn’t break out of her trap, you didn’t put Crazy Glue on her knees did you? I’ve heard about the way some guys go to extremes to keep the wife at home. Oh, you really are bleeding, are you sure that’s blood? I thought you needed a heart to pump that stuff. : I don’t blame you for being angry. All of the bedtime stories that you’ve missed out on. But look at you, you’re a growing boy and soon you’ll be a man, you’ve got to carve out a niche for yourself, and I mean that literally. Okay, I’ll tell you, but just one, story. Once upon a time there was a young boy who lived alongside the gutter, one day he discovered that if he bottled the greenish fluids that flowed from parts unknown, he could sell it to the highest bidder as long as he said that it was the elixir of perpetual popularity. He managed to sell thousands of bottles of the slime and became very wealthy. One day, when he was feeling slightly depressed, he drank the entire contents from one of the bottles. To his surprise he didn’t expire on the spot. From that moment on, he was the life of the party, people gave him gifts, women from around the world cherished him, men were happy to be his slave. He became used to this new lifestyle, he became addicted to it. He acquired a taste for the filthy waters and the muddy, bloody aftertaste. He eventually drank all of the bottled goods and in desperation he went back to the source of his addiction, bowed down to lap the luxury of the semisweet sewage. He slipped as he sipped, hit his jaw on the concrete and blacked out. He awoke several years later face down in a pool of sludge near the curb along a busy city street. He was very exhausted and realized that much of his life had passed him by. He lifted his head and looked about. He knew then that the women/men who had offered themselves to him had vanished into a selfish dream. He put his head down and was washed away into the sewer by a putridly green stream. The end. There’s no moral or plot to this story. There never is. That’s why fiction is popular, like newspapers, history books, and suicide notes. So you see Son, bedtime stories won’t make you sleepy if they’re not accompanied by a sedative. : How many quaaludes can you stuff into your pillow? If you’re so powerful and rich why are you so willing to adopt a total stranger as your son? The wounds don’t look fatal. Mind if I sell your shoes? You spin a great tale, I think you’re choking on it. Let’s get back to that present you were going to give me. Of course, it’s gift wrapped, right? : It’s over there in the suitcase near the trash cans. It’s beautiful, son. Better than gold, superior to the false opportunities that await you in the mundane nine to five life of stability. Go ahead, open it. I have credit with the Cartel, unfortunately, they don’t have any sense of humor. So when I replaced their snow with Drano crystals, they didn’t laugh. They sent their best men after me but I snuffed each one out like a limp candle. They really had a con290

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tract on me until I sold their commodity for an exorbitant profit. I sent them their share plus interest. That was ten years ago. They decided to view it as an advance against sales. They sold the Drano to some kids in L.A., Miami, Chicago, and Washington. So now, I get a bonus with every billion dollars in sales. Son I want you to have it, it isn’t much, maybe a million or so on the street but it should be enough to get you started. If I were you I’d buy some new clothes, a semiautomatic mm, an AK-, head-to-toe armor, and don’t forget that birthday cake since there’s no reason for you to ever be deprived again. I can feel myself fading, Son. Promise me that you’ll carry on my no name. Just leave me here and the scavengers will pick me clean. Good luck son, profit from everything you do. Now go and do business.  moans and grasps for air. : Remember, life is worth living only when you’re at the top.  gags and dies. : He’s dead. He’s as cold as all this collateral. I’ve never wondered what it would be like to be the son of a philosopher/murderer/entrepreneur. I’d like to meet the boy he saw in me. I’d tell that boy that somehow it got lost in a prenineties resurrection. In the name of the nonfather, the nonson, and the white ghost. All I need now is some powder puff to smooth out the wrinkles in this town. I’m not so sure that I want to get involved in the free market. At this point, I’ve got nothing to lose as long as I don’t give any value to this product. I could manipulate the economy by flooding the distribution network with high-grade free samples. I’d control my product flow even if I were to lose hundreds of thousands of dollars in the process. Revolutions are lost and won in the streets. How else can one deconstruct capitalism without firing a single shot? There must be a recipe for success. At a gram per cookie, this ought to be the start of something big. Excuse me, I’m working my way through reform school, would you like to sample a free cookie? Pardon me, my grandmother loves to bake, it’s too bad that she’s been evicted, her feelings would be hurt if you missed out on her great-tasting cookies, don’t let these go to waste. Free the baker’s dozen. Cookies for crumbs, crumbs for cookies. Take one, it’s free. Talk about overexpansion! Let’s see, that was twenty pounds of sugar, forty pounds of walnuts, five gallons of imitation vanilla, a pinch of salt, and eighteen kilos of grade-A cocaine and a dash of brown heroine. I thought those cookies would last a month. I didn’t expect for it all to go in a matter of minutes. The consumer society with a vengeance! All I’m left with is an empty suitcase, an empty stomach, and my pride. The world was at my fingertips and I just pushed it away. Well, I’d better hurry, it’s getting late and as they say the early pigeon catches the worms, in my case, make that empty boxes. I’ll need a corrugated roof over my head if I ever expect to get any sleep around here. If only I could close my eyes and have someone tell me a bedtime story. Fade out. Club Limbo

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CLUB LIMBO: STORY 2

: Every time I look at the Pacific I see myself as a mermaid who wishes that she can remain on land but realizes that she must sink below the surface until the sunlight is dispersed by the blueness of the waters. I hope I don’t get sunburned! I try to count every grain of sand that gets in my way. There’s too many crabs, rocks, urchins, whales, lobsters, and barnacles on this coast. I want to swim with the sharks. I remember when my cousin Hi-Fi used to wear sharkskin suits with velvet lapels. The shirts had incredible high button-down collars and French cuffs that were clasped with topaz or ruby glass cuff links. He’d listen to the radio and dance while he was on the telephone talking to all of his girlfriends. I wonder if they were matching his footsteps at the other end of the line? Hi-Fi was the womanizer of the family, he believed all of the stories that our uncle Pito told him. He wanted to keep all of the women for himself. He was a sickening pervert. He had no right to shoot his mother’s boyfriend. Twelve times in the head. His mother just screamed as he emptied the gun then reloaded and repeated the crime all over again. Everyone says he would have made a great male exotic dancer but he never would have let the women leave the nightclub. He would have wanted to possess them all. Besides, he was a sissy. The first night in prison he hung himself rather than use the toilet in front of the other inmates. What an idiot. He made a mess of himself anyway when the knot tightened up. If I see any jellyfish today, I’m going to throw up. I wonder if the ocean is so salty because of the tears it has swallowed. Sometimes I think that the water will leave our planet during the full moon. I can imagine waves crashing or craters, the moon as the thief that was responsible for Mother Earth, the desert of the solar system. The moon will absorb our spirits and cause us to run mad in the streets. I love to run in the streets and break windows. The sound of shattering glass is the ultimate musical experience. I play music with bricks that crash through the windows of banks, television stations, schools, museums, and gift shops. My first brick was a little red one that I took from the corner of an old building near the edge of town. I hadn’t any idea that the entire structure would collapse just because I had removed a brick. Fortunately, there were only about thirty people inside with none of them surviving long enough to testify against me. I threw that brick at the building across the street. That building was an architectural disaster that hurt my eyes. The brick struck the large picture window and caused the glass to disintegrate into minute shards, the brick then bounced off an interior wall and flew back out the window, landing squarely on the head of a bystander who was killing time as he waited for his destiny. I left the brick on its own so that it could give the authorities something tangible to deal with. Anything that I might have been able to tell them would have been distorted or misunderstood. I’ve never met an authority figure who could figure out the conceptual density of a brick. The little red brick was tossed into the sea. I know that it’s out there somewhere. If only it could float. There’s sand in my shoes! Something fishy is going on around here. 292

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: The waves are making me dizzy, the breeze is making me dizzy, the sand is making me dizzy. I’ve never had a dizzy spell that I couldn’t handle. I’ve never understood why a young girl should subject herself to having to cope with anything that isn’t real. I’m not convinced that all of the ocean can’t fit into the palm of my hand. There must be some mathematical equation that can reduce the tides and waves so that the oceans, seas, and lakes can appear as clean sleek sheets of turquoise. I hate the taste of water but I love the salt. I seem to remember something about a dream where I was swimming in a pool filled with starfish. They had landed in the pool like misdirected meteorites. They were green, purple, orange, yellow, and red. They had five points that glided on the rocks and sand. Their hard shells resembled concrete but I knew that they had emotions. They were sensitive to any type of negative criticism. One of the starfish would blush every time it was paid a compliment by the others. Another would cry if it was ignored. I used to read my poetry to the starfish and they would gather to form unnamed constellations under the sea. In the dream I could breathe in the water, somehow I could transmit my thoughts and I could share in their feelings. I felt so close to them. We seemed to be vitally connected to the same thought waves. The waves crashed lightly on the shores of consciousness until I awoke clutching a razor blade that had no feelings at all. If there was only some way that I could pull the drain on all of this, but then again, if I could, where would it flush to anyway? It’s probably over the horizon, near Japan or China, a big plug the size of a continent. There’s not a hole big enough to accommodate the waste. : I remember when I was a little girl, I was not allowed to go to the beach, to go out into the sunlight, to swim with the crowd. Whenever I’d get the urge to take a dive, it seems that everyone would block my path, they’d strap my feet to the floor with barbed wire, nails, and screws. I never got my feet wet. I wasn’t even allowed to say the words: Pacific-Atlantic-Arctic-Red Sea-L.A. River. If only I would have had an inkling as to how repressive my situation really had been but there was nothing to compare my life against. I had no idea that eighteen years inside of a broom closet was abnormal. It wasn’t as if I was going to drown myself back then, but now is a different story. : How does one do the dog paddle against the tide of public opinion? I don’t care what anyone thinks or even if they can think. I think everyone stinks. No. Now that wasn’t a nice thought at all. I shouldn’t be so bitter. My life has been very privileged. It has always been very sweet. I’ve always been so quiet and polite. Especially when I think that they stink. The aroma of billions of fish isn’t exactly the perfume I had in mind. What’s the square root of a rotten tuna? Why do barracuda become presidents? If a squid is in doubt does it squirt its ink or does it sign on the dotted line of the equator? Little fish are thrown back and the big are eaten alive. Where’s the motive to continue to grow if the final act is between sets of grinding teeth? These waves are getting me so dizzy, so dizzy. : I ate turtle soup once, it gave me nightmares. It tasted like a wet rubber Club Limbo

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tire that had gone flat over a hundred years ago. I thought it was green pea soup but peas don’t have claws. That’s why I’ll never trust anyone. There are many shades of green, it’s just that some are more caustic than others. I knew a man who was color-blind to certain shades of green and certain shades of gray. He couldn’t distinguish the two colors. I played a trick on him and had his suit, shoes, shirts, socks, underwear, and ties imprinted with various obscene, selfincriminating, and unfashionable slogans. I requested that the printers and tailors use certain greens and grays. When I placed the altered articles back into his apartment, he was very appreciative of the fact that I had taken it upon myself to get his pants pressed and his shirts washed and his shoes shined. He was unable to perceive the clothes that would mark the man as a fool. He wore his Sunday best on every other day of the week and on Sundays he would crawl naked on all fours and howl at the walls of his apartment. He was a dog at heart. Everyone must have been as blind as he was because no one ever mentioned it to him. He was last seen digging for bones in an abandoned parking lot. It was there that he discovered a discarded soup bowl with the remnants of the turtle shell and the silver spoon that had cracked it. There must be a thousand turtles who wish that their greenness could make them invisible in an ocean that is so vast and gray. : Too bad the world isn’t flat. Anything that didn’t fit into society could be swept over the edge and that would be the end of it. Power would fall into the hands of those that held the broom handle. Even the slightest hint at the whisk of a broom would send populations to their knees. If it were flat, I’d love to sail over the horizon and look into the void. I’m certain that that’s where the dolphins would congregate so that their young would be brilliant astronomers. The flying fish would leap into space and the pelicans would scoop the stardust and scatter it across the land. Too bad the world is a globe. It is so round and it spins. It causes everything to return to its original point of origin. Even when you remain motionless you’re dragged along at absurd speeds, I don’t remember buying a ticket for this ride! I get so dizzy. Nothing remains the same even when it is left untouched, unnoticed, undecided, unprovoked, unemployed. I’ve seen what has happened to people who try to regain what has already been lost forever. They engage themselves in terrifying rituals where memorable moments are re-created, staged out of context, falsified by the erosion of time, corrupted by the desire to deaden the impact of mortality, by freezing the emotions. I’ve stared at the ocean and have attempted to stop the waves by wishing for peace and silence. The more I wish, the louder the crash. I met an ancient relative on the beach the other day. It was a sea creature that was in mid-evolution, it dared to penetrate the surface of the water and place its transforming fin onto the dry sand. I greeted it as it emerged and told it about freeway congestion, atomic bombs, genocide, and color TV. I hoped that it would turn back but my comments only hastened its development. That same day it got a job refrying burgers at the local McDarwin’s. How many hours would it take this sand to run through an hourglass? Where’s my sand castle? I left it here only three years 294

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Club Limbo, 1989. Fotonovela performance by Diego Gamboa (left) and Ricardo Gonzalves, which was includ ed in the live performance of Club Limbo at UC Irvine. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

ago! Nothing is permanent, nothing is pertinent. Maybe I should take the ultimate plunge. I’d love to play tag with an electric eel. There’s no tide like let-her-rip-tide. : I think that girl is walking in her sleep. Maybe I’m not awake. If only someone would pinch me. I didn’t even see her walking along the beach. Where did she come from? She’s not my daughter and she’s not my sister and she’s not my mother and she’s not my reflection. When fish look up to the surface of the water they see themselves in the mirror and don’t recognize that they’ll never miss a moment of their lives because they can’t blink. There are so many people who close their eyes to the dangerous currents, who wade into black waters and submerge themselves into infinity. I’ve seen schools of hammerhead sharks banging away at warheads of nuclear submarines that cruise the coastline. An itchy atomic-trigger finger needs to scratch-and-snuff out the beach parties. But the beach is no party anymore, it’s a stain that will never dry an eye for an eye. I should be digging for clams or plucking pearls from artificial oysters. I don’t have any business walking on this beach. There must be a reason that I decided to take a stroll. If only there was a pill that would eliminate these bouts of fatalism. An aspirin or two hundred would do. : I’ve seen that woman over a thousand times and she’s never once said hello nor even glanced in my direction. Maybe she’s walking in her sleep. I hear it’s dangerous to wake someone in that condition. You’re supposed to let them go back to where they came from so that they can wake up naturally. Some sleepwalkers wake up clinging to objects that they’ve acquired during their journey. I hope that she hasn’t seen me this time, I wouldn’t want to be snatched away from my decision. I know that the water will be cold as the reception that this life has given me. Sink or swim, win or lose, feast or famine, better or worse, enough “or’s” to row into the sunset. The dizziness is only an illusion of spinning faster and faster on a ball that is going only to where it all began. Oh, my head! I would have liked to have known her story but it may have sounded much like my own. I’ll prevent the redundancy and drown this echo. : I’ve seen this shell game before. There is no winner only losers who bet on their chance to tease those flounders who are even lower than they are. The tide is rising, the waves reach farther out to shore. Maybe I should stay here and wait for the ocean to claim me. If only I had the courage. I come every day to test my strength but I am weakest when wet. There’s no possibility of me ever jumping into that foamy blanket. The mere thought of sardines makes me ill. Drowning would be the worst way to go. No, maybe some other day. If only a giant octopus would reach out and grant me one final wish. Any sea anemone of yours is a friend of mine. : The descent is so smooth, getting darker, unfathomable. The dizziness is gone, it all seems so clear to me now, I feel so weightless as though I’m floating on streams of consciousness. The darkness is real and reality is a diluted delusion. So cold, so calm, so calm. : Everything suddenly seems so quiet. I can’t hear the breaking of the 296

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waves. I have this jagged sensation that time is stopping and going. It must be sunstroke or too much fresh air. That girl, she’s gone! If only she had been awake, we might have become friends. She left so quickly. I wanted to tell her about my dreams of the beauty of the ocean, to share my ideas about lost diamonds in the sand, to let her know that there are so many selfish in the sea. Fade out. CLUB LIMBO: STORY 3

: I wonder how long I’ve been doing this? But I’ve got to keep it up before she can sense that I’m thinking again. My thoughts are useless, noncreative, derivative of all the infections that have settled in for the duration, reflective of too much fried fat in these fries. Here birdy, birdy, bird-brainless. I hate eggs, they hatch if they’re not scrambled soon enough. Give me a feather sandwich with all the trimmings and I’ll fly south for the winter. It’s no use. No matter how hard I try not to think, I think of meaningless ways to bore myself to death. These birds are fortunate, all they have to worry about is pointing their beaks in the right direction. Up for altitude, down for food, and straight for home. These ugly ones don’t have to sing, they just loiter and are rewarded for it. Wow, I can’t help myself. I know that if I laid down on this spot and didn’t move for a million years, I’d be nothing more than a glob of tar. No one would be able to tell where I ended and where this parking lot began. Here bird, I’ll give you this french fry if you can make my mind go blank. I know that she’ll know that I know that I’m thinking. Maybe she’s gone forever. I can’t tell when she’s going to interrupt my life. This is no way to live. In fear of my thoughts! If everyone else can think, why can’t I? Now come on birds, don’t make a bigger mess out of this situation. Just eat the fries and get out of here. And don’t fight! There’s enough here to choke on. My mind is made up, I won’t think! I think. : I think this is the spot where I lost my sanity. It must have been a very traumatic moment for me. They tell me that I made quite a scene, took five cops to hold me down and two more to beat me to sleep. When I woke up I was back to normal again. It must have been a phase, my second psycho-hood. This is definitely the spot, there’s my keys. No wonder I haven’t set foot in my house for over four days. There’s so many keys. There aren’t that many doors in the house. What more would I want to open anyway? This key looks familiar. I’ll call it my skeleton key only because it reminds me of the bones I have lost over and over again. I’ve lost enough bones to make six or seven skeletons. It’s really odd how they keep growing back. I don’t think that many people can do that but then again I’m not that nosey. It’s not right to ask about other people’s bones unless you’re a cannibal, a doctor, or a prostitute. And this key looks like it must be very important. Maybe I have a safe deposit box somewhere. And these others look like they might belong to some of my neighbors. I don’t think that I’ve ever met any of them but I’m certain that they’d trust me in their Club Limbo

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homes no matter what time of day or night. Neighbors are that way, aren’t they? Now all I have to figure out is which ones are “In” keys. It’s so confusing but once I know which key is which I’ll never be shut away ever again. I can unlock the mystery of the ages with these things. When I was a little boy I overheard my aunts describe how they wore their keys near to their bellies when they were pregnant because it would save the fetus from the evil effects of the full moon and any sudden eclipse. Monkey, donkey, flunkey. I’d better get rid of these quick! : Boys will be boys if you don’t let them know any better but this isn’t utopia, this is war. Hey, snap out of it. I know what you’re up to but there’s no way you’re going to get away. Just give in to me. Temptation is everywhere but it wouldn’t do you any good because I’m inside of your mind now. It doesn’t hurt. Why do you act so silly? Just behave in a normal way and nobody will get hurt. First, drop this birdy-birdy bit. It makes me sick to see someone treating animals nicer than they do those people around them. Why don’t you feed fries to strangers? They won’t bite the hand that threatens them. You don’t think that those birds would give it a second thought if they were to fly into your face and pluck out your eyes, do you? Birds are as bad as any snake in the grass. They build nests high above and spy on you. They know all about you, where you’ve been, what you do when you think that no one is looking. A little bird told me is what they say, isn’t it. We cannot tolerate spies. They pretend to be nice when all the time they want to destroy you and everything that you’ve ever worked for. That’s what happened to me. I was walking down the street in front of the Pollo Coco when a man dressed in a chicken-yellow costume hit me on the head and dragged me into the parked van in the vacant parking lot. It was several days before I realized that I was his prisoner. I’ve been in this basement for nineteen years, a coincidence or fate, but I was shut in on the day you were born and I’ve had the birds watching over you. That’s how I always know where to find you. They are the worst snitches around. Better be careful about who gets into your nest I always say. Of course you realize that I have big plans for you, big boy. : You’re always putting worms into my brain. They eat their way into my secret thoughts. You can’t do this to me. I’ve never done anything to you. I must be crazy. There’s no one here but me and these flighty scavengers. I must not think. Okay, if you are who you say you are, who are you? I can’t be held responsible for your imprisonment. I was an innocent infant, the same as everyone. You don’t know what it’s like to have so much intelligence wasted on conversations with you. Wait, this isn’t right. How can I convince you that I’m not the guy that you’re after. You don’t need spies to keep an eye on me, I’m very predictable. I wake up, I turn the TV on, I turn the radio on, I turn the air conditioner on, and if all else fails, I go back to bed. If I manage to crawl out of the front door, I hang out at specific corners for a definite length of time, then I leave and go elsewhere, wherever I’m not wanted. I hang out on my own and by myself. I bother no one and everyone bothers me. My shoes have holes in 298

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them and my tattoos are only skin deep. You don’t have to look very hard to find me doing things that the average guy wouldn’t do unless he had been driven to the brink of self-destruction. It’s all your fault. I’d rather be going to college or robbing supermarkets on welfare check day. Ambitious is my middle name, so what’s yours? I’ll bet you that no one has ever called you Mama. What are you planning to do to me anyway? : We’re on a mission. Just do as I say and we will be able to conquer the world. But first, we’ll need a vast army of followers who will obey my commands through your voice. You have been chosen to lead the people. I have already made contact with the man who will be your top general. He is not very far away. He doesn’t know that he’s a born leader but you do. You’ve seen the way people act. They are all lost. When they are in groups they lose their identity. When they stand alone they are crushed by the stampeding sheep, they never even know what so many a dear lamb can do when it’s part of an angry mob. Those who obey will be rewarded by your guidance. Those who refuse your orders shall be hunted down and butchered before the television cameras so that justice shall prevail in every home across the globe. You have what it takes to change the course of history. Those who are fit to live will do so only by their committed loyalty to you and our cause. The unfit will be eliminated. There is no time to think. There is only time to act. : I’m getting low on fries, besides, they’re cold and hard. I don’t believe what I’m hearing or saying or seeing or thinking. I know that you can’t be serious about all of this. I don’t want to lead people anywhere. I don’t even like to be the first person at a party. I wouldn’t accept someone’s loyalty unless it was carved into their forehead. People do change their minds quite often. Only a permanent scar can prove anything. I don’t know how it is that you speak to me but I can’t take it anymore. Hey, who is this general guy anyway? You say he’s nearby, where? Let me talk to him. : I hate it when I get any sort of ringing in my ear. It usually means that someone is talking about me. If the ringing continues then they are saying something bad but if it lasts only a short while I must thank them for the compliments. Great, it’s stopped. Dear Gossiper, I appreciate your concern for my well-being but the being hasn’t been all that well received. As a matter of fact, I don’t think that I’ve had the pleasure of making your acquaintance. Sincerely, yours truly, et cetera, et cetera. No, that’s no way to thank someone for saying good things about you. The best way is to send money. These pennies ought to do the trick. I’ll just leave a trail and the person who was talking about me should be picking them up pretty soon. When that person gets to the last penny I’ll be hanging onto it so at the very least we’ll be able to shake hands and be through with the formality. I’m an informal kind of fun-person at heart. But I do have respect for the social standards of etiquette. If a man insults me I’ll shoot him on the spot. If a woman even looks at me I’ll close my eyes until she’s disappeared from memory. If I hear children laughing then I’ll laugh all day and worry about them all night long. That’s socialized neurosis. Something Club Limbo

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smells pretty good. Hey, somebody’s wasting all of their french fries. But it’s not for me to judge. I’d rather waste the burgers, root beers, and all of those corporations that make it so tasty. I’m so hungry I could eat my words. : I don’t like the way that man is looking at me. I’ve never seen him before yet he almost seems to recognize me. I hope he doesn’t start any trouble. I have enough problems as it is trying to cope with this invasion of my mind. I don’t even believe in politics yet this voice keeps telling me that I should be king or something. I know that all throughout history, the leaders of great movements have always been inspired by some sort of dynamic genius, why is it that I have to be haunted by someone who doesn’t even know how to unlock the door to her basement. That man, maybe he’s the guy who’s supposed to be my general. Maybe he’s just another spy. Why is he sitting so close to me? I don’t know this man. I wish that he’d go away. : Don’t be so insolent young man. I know how to get out of this trap but I simply do not have the means to escape. I forgot to mention that I do not have the use of my limbs, my tongue, my ears, or my lungs. The air in here was depleted by . I don’t breathe and I don’t eat. If only I could sleep. You must be more sensitive to the unknown. I don’t know why but you should. Your general is awaiting your command. He is unaware of his potential. Simply tap him and he will march, shoot, lie, torture, and give up his own life for you. He is the perfect soldier. : Now where was I? I started to say something to myself but I’ve forgotten what it is. It isn’t even on the tip of my tongue. It’s a simple case of amnesia. Whenever I forget something that is very important it suddenly becomes unimportant to me. That immediately proves to me that only a few things in life are actually important. Fortunately for me, I don’t know what those things are or I might feel underprivileged. I grew up on the wrong side of the freeway. There were never enough tortillas to go around so I used to stuff styrofoam cups with beans and eat space burritos for breakfast. I never thought that I’d acquire a taste for caviar, gold chains, fine wine, and psychotropic drugs but beggars can’t be choosy. It’s not my fault that everyone likes me and that they want to be my friends. I’ve got so many friends that I don’t know what to do. They buy me clothes, cars, liquor, sex, and videotapes of used-car advertisements. Mostly, they give me cash in fifties and hundreds. I tell them that they should donate it all to worthy causes. They laugh a lot when I tell them that. They say that they know that if they don’t treat me with respect that I might crawl through their bedroom window at night and make them disappear. I couldn’t do that unless I had a reason, any reason. I don’t know where I left all of my gifts. I wish I had seventy-five cents so that I could buy a coke. Getting rid of all of my pennies has gotten me thirsty. Hey, that kid has a soda and he didn’t even offer me any. What does he take me for, a maniac? He’d better give me something to drink or else he’ll regret it. I know that he’s playing dumb. He’d be better off if he’d be stupid to get on my nerves. I don’t like the way he keeps looking at me. 300

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: I don’t think he’s a good soldier. He doesn’t salute and he doesn’t stand at attention. It can’t be him. I don’t understand what’s happening to me. First I hear a voice, then a man appears out of nowhere. There must be a secret ingredient in these fries. Maybe I should tell him to go to hell. He doesn’t scare me. He’s frightened all of the birds away, now they won’t eat their dinner. What a creep. Maybe I’ll toss my burger into his face and he’ll be frightened of me. I’ve got to stop thinking. Hey, it works. The voice is gone. I’m cured. No more symptoms and no more outbreaks of nonsense. I feel great again. Nothing can happen to me now. : That kid is going to learn a hard lesson and I’m going to be the teacher. Now where’s that grenade? I had it here somewhere. : Boys will be boys and snitches will be snitches. Fade out. CLUB LIMBO: STORY 4

: I was invited to stay over at a friend’s house when I was ten years old. I told him that I probably wouldn’t be able to visit if the rumors about his house were true. The neighbors had claimed that anyone who spent an entire night at that two-bedroom stucco bungalow would be devoured by cucarachas that were as big as the stray dogs that chased me home from school every day. He told me that the neighbors were jealous because the large avocado tree in their backyard was the only one in the area that ever bore delicious fruit. I accepted his invitation and crawled out of my own bedroom window later that night so that I could stay at his place. I hadn’t realized that I had waited so long into the night to head out towards the house, which was several blocks away. The darkened figures which moved in the alleys and in the obscured driveways frightened me but I kept on moving. I looked up at the moon and couldn’t understand why it had never slammed into the earth. I had no idea as to why my stomach felt as though a chunk of dry ice was floating in it. I was running alongside a curb when I saw a man crawling about like a snake. He was jaywalking without the use of his limbs. I asked him if he was poisonous but he only stuck out his tongue and hissed. It was getting late and everything appeared to be so distorted. I found it difficult to recognize even the most familiar objects and locations. I thought that I had taken a wrong turn somewhere but that would have been impossible because I had walked in a perfectly straight line towards my friend’s house. He lived near the freeway yet not very far from the cemetery but almost next to the projects. I had never walked that far. It was getting cold and the fog was flowing in so quickly that the few street lamps were diffused color that hovered like cold dead stars. As I walked I could hear someone’s troubled breathing very near behind me. I walked faster into the white blanket that blinded me from anything that was further than the next step but the breathing became louder, harsher, closer. It nearly touched me but passed away into the fog. I was alone on the streets and hadn’t been aware that my shoes had been removed Club Limbo

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from my feet while I had walked towards my destination. My feet were nearly frozen but the numbness was a familiar sensation that had often occupied me during my first decade. I followed the cracks in the sidewalk and eventually arrived at my friend’s house. All of the lights were out in the house and it seemed as though no one had lived in that house for many years. I looked in through the window and saw darkened shadowy figures moving cautiously through the house. I was about to call out his name when it occurred to me that I couldn’t remember any names. Not his name, nor my own name, nor the name of anyone or anything that might have a name. I pounded on the window but the darkened figures continued to move about as though they had not heard any noise. For a split second I thought I had been able to discern the shape of the figures but they moved so quickly that I was very confused. I walked around towards the back of the house and noticed that the back door had been left slightly opened. I walked into the back room and heard strange metalliclike sounds scratching against the hardwood floor. As I took another step towards the living room, a large shadowy figure greeted me from the far corner of the hallway. It spoke to me in a low menacing voice. “No one invited you to our party. Now do yourself a favor and disappear before we grind you into the dip.” I had never heard a voice like that before but I did recognize the troubled breathing. It must have been the voice of my friend’s father. I called out to the darkened figure, “But I was invited. Your son told me that I could spend the night. It’s so cold and foggy outside. I don’t think that I can find my way back home before morning.” The breathing became even more erratic and deep. “I said get the hell out of my house before something horrible happens to you,” said the voice as the figure scurried towards me whipping my face with its long antennae. I ran out through the back door and climbed up the avocado tree. I was near the highest branches at least thirty feet above the ground. The fog clung to the tree and I nestled myself into a cluster of blackened avocados. I closed my eyes and dreamt of stray dogs chasing me into oblivion. I was very frightened but could not scream. My arms felt nearly wooden and my skin became hardened and taut. The fog enveloped me and sealed my fate without a kiss. I awoke the next morning when my fingers let go of the branch. I fell through the leaves, branches, and landed squarely on my head, onto the pavement, next to fallen avocados. I jumped to my feet when I realized that I would be late for school. I ran through the alleys, took a shortcut across the cemetery, and ran diagonally across street corners until I finally arrived in the classroom with one minute to spare. My head was throbbing with anticipation of being bludgeoned by inane comments and fatal doses of disinformation. I noticed that my friend was absent from class. It didn’t occur to me that my shoes were gone nor that I was still wearing my pajamas. When the teacher arrived she spoke in a language which had the faint tone of a rabid chain saw. She was asking questions of all of the other children but she didn’t even look at me. I raised my hands several times so that she could clarify her statements. She eventually looked in my direction and slammed my hand with a twenty-four-inch metal 302

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ruler. She was disgusted with my presence and muttered something about insolence, lack of intelligence, and silence. The other children pretended to understand her, they knew all about the maintenance of artificial attitudes and pleasant smiles. My face felt like it was on fire as I saw the teacher drawing the basic images of squares, triangles, and circles. She had everyone repeat after her that the images belonged to other people. That we had no right to demand an image of our own. That we would be what she would draw for us. I ran up to the chalkboard and took the eraser into my hand and wiped away all of her theories with a single stroke. She became enraged and beat me with the ruler until my entire body felt as though it had swollen beyond the dimensions of the room. The students laughed and applauded, thinking that they would receive a better grade if they chose the teacher’s side. I ran out of class with everyone chasing me out into the street, where the stray dogs took over and followed me through the alleys, streets, and across unfamiliar backyards. I had unconsciously retraced my steps and saw the avocado tree in the distance. I ran towards it as the dogs bit into my legs and arms. I reached the tree and climbed up its thick trunk. I struggled to get back to the branch which I had clung to during the night but managed to reach it when I thought that the dogs might follow me up the tree. The avocados had rotted in the morning sun and had the stench of decaying flesh. I looked down onto my friend’s house and saw enormous roaches making themselves at home. I wondered if my friend had been eaten or whether he had run away. I pulled the avocados off of the branches and threw them at the dogs below. Several dogs were crushed while others were dazed by the surprise bombardment. The dogs became despondent and left for friendly trees. I was relieved when I saw that the vicious animals were far into the distance. I looked out over the rooftops of the many houses in the neighborhood. I could see the school several blocks away. The traffic on the freeway was moving quickly and roared like a billion wounded bees. The cemetery was the only patch of green. The horizon was blurred by the layer of brown smog. The air was stagnant and the rays of the sun felt like a rain of molten nails. I felt dizzy and didn’t want to fall out of the tree again so I climbed down slowly, very carefully. When I reached the ground the familiar troubled breathing and low voice greeted me from the bedroom window, “You’re never going to learn when you’re not wanted. Come here, I’ve got something to show you.” Just then, the curtains spread open and a strange man with cellophanelike skin of an insect stuck his head out of the window. “You don’t know what’s best for you, you idiot. Come here!” The man nearly climbed out of the window when I understood that he would come after me. I ran out to the street and headed towards home. But somehow, I never ever found home again. I just kept on running into situations that had no beginning and no ending. It was an entire life out of context with unquantifiable content. I never thought about how I’d get through the daze. I had always assumed that something or someone would assault my senses during the night. I never dreamed that dreams wouldn’t come true. That was my downfall. I had barely survived childhood, puberty, adulthood, I had Club Limbo

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managed to sleep with my eyes open for most of those years, my guard was up at all times. One night when I was especially tired, a strange noise approached me from across the bed. All was black. There was troubled breathing against my face when the voice spoke to me. “You never learned. I’ve never been more then a few steps away. Now close your eyes because it’s over. I’ve brought your favorite avocados. Don’t worry, it’ll be painless. It shouldn’t take too much effort to blend your entrails, head, torso, feet, and limbs into the guacamole. I’m an expert at dealing with dips like you. Besides, I’m very hungry.” I closed my eyes and never felt the transition from life unto death. No remorse, no feelings, no names, no time, no afterimage. Next stop: Limbo. Fade out.

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Ignore the Dents (1990)

Text written for Ignore the Dents: A Micro Urban Opera, directed by Daniel J. Martínez and performed at Million Dollar Theater as part of the Los Angeles Festival, September  and ,  Scene A A row of boxes are placed along the stage floor like a corrugated freight train.   approaches the boxes on his hands and knees. He appears to be seeking shelter as he peeks into each of the boxes but refuses to enter, then moves on to the next one, until he has run out of boxes and crawls away.   approaches the boxes on her hands and knees. She appears to be seeking shelter. She enters the second box after having refused the first box. Her dirty high heels are the only visible signs of her existence. Several gunshots are fired.   returns on his hands and knees but is bloodied and gasping for air. He attempts to enter the box that contains  . He is kicked repeatedly by the high heels and barely manages to lodge his head into a different box, where he dies in a contorted position on the floor.   drags along a homeless-style cart that holds a large video monitor.   plugs a cord into the box in which   has expired.   switches the video monitor on and lies on the floor with his hand propping up his head, in the manner of a child watching TV at home. Slide images are projected that show various secret hiding places of the homeless. An extreme close-up of   appears on the video monitor.  : You never know what a true cockroach is until you have them crawling up your ass by the millions. Flies go to sleep at twilight 305

but them other bugs stay busy all night long. I never sleep, never have slept because I know that I’m going to die and I’d hate to be unaware of that instant when I won’t care what kind of creatures are picking at my bones. Maybe I’m already dead but you don’t care because I don’t care. No, you don’t care because you’ve never pissed blood in an alley.   gets restless and is apparently bored as he yawns and leaves.  : I’ve eaten so much garbage, tasted spoiled vegetables, swallowed stale sewer water but I’ve never complained because that’s not my place nor my style. I don’t complain because it isn’t important for me to waste my breath. I’m invisible and my voice doesn’t carry very far. My shadows are so faint that I can hardly see them myself. It’s been years since I’ve been able to cast a recognizable reflection. So don’t think that you’re going blind. I’m here but there’s nothing for you to focus on. I blend into the filthy streets, so gray, so monotonous.   drags herself out from the box and stands before the video monitor.  : There’s been times when I’ve melted into the asphalt. It’s so frightening to be submerged beneath the crowded streets. The screeching tires and pounding of worn shoes hurts my head.   switches the video monitor off.  : I hate reruns. If you’re dead, stay dead. Don’t cheat by putting us through hell by having to look and listen to you on tape. That’s not fair. Besides, I’ve had enough of your aimless shit, so shut up.   kicks   to see if he really is dead. When she is satisfied that he is dead she removes his shoes and places them into her big faded purse. She then grabs hold of his legs and drags him offstage. Several gunshots are fired.   enters carrying a sawed-off shotgun as he struggles to walk in the same high heels that had been worn by  .  : There’s no reason to join a gang when you can murder and commit suicide all alone. I hate anyone who’s a follower or a loser. I get them out of my way so that I won’t have to be reminded of how ugly it can be for someone like me if I were to let myself go to the dogs.   trips and falls. He hurts his legs and crawls away on his hands and knees. He moans and cries like a baby over his injuries.   enters stumbling because she is unused to walking without high heels. Her chest and shoulder are bloodied.  : Goddamned kids. Don’t have enough respect to kill a person outright. And those were my going-out shoes. How am I supposed to show my face on the streets without my heels? I’ll get pneumonia walking around like this. Gangrene sets in and it won’t matter if I don’t shave my legs.   appears to shiver and get very cold. She crawls into a box. 306

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A  enters carrying several eight-by-ten black-and-white glossies of a woman. He stares at the pictures lovingly and longingly. He talks to his invisible companion. : She’s absolutely gorgeous. Oh, we’ve never met but the moment I saw her, I knew that we’d be perfect together. I found these photos in the trash can near Seventh Street, that was two years ago but I haven’t lost hope. I know that one day we’ll meet, get married, have babies, maybe twins and we’ll live in a big house and she’ll be a great cook. I love pancakes, and they’re so simple to make but she’ll make the best pancakes in the whole world.   crawls out of the box carrying a dinner tray with a large stack of pancakes.  : You’re not a man, you’re a worm who needs love and affection. Love and affection isn’t on the menu but we do have pancakes. No syrup. No butter. No utensils, napkins, chairs or tables. : I love you. Marry me.  : A worm can’t have an erection so get serious. Eat.   takes the photographs away from  and hands him the dinner tray. She tears the photographs to shreds and kisses . : I always knew that I’d find you. It’s fate.  : There’s no such thing as fate. I’ve left thousands of photographs all over the city. They were taken the first year I got into L.A. The policeman wasn’t very good at taking mug shots so he let me keep the negatives. I had never seen a photograph of myself and it’s the only one that’s ever been taken of me in my whole life. The disappointment was so overwhelming. I hated the fact that I looked like everyone else. I lost hope in the human race and gave up. It’s as simple as that. : But you’re so beautiful and these pancakes are delicious. She says it was simple.  looks around and tries to spot his invisible companion.  : Your friend is gone. You won’t need him anymore now that you’ve found me. : He’s my best friend. We’ve been very close ever since I was a teenager. He can’t just go away without saying good-bye.  : Schizophrenia isn’t something you wave good-bye to. One minute it’s here and the next it is gone. Let him go, you’ll be better off without him. : If only there were some maple syrup. Something to sweeten these things.  : I’ll take a look but it’s only going to make matters worse if I find it.   crawls back into the box.  eats a few pieces of the pancakes. He tires easily of waiting for her and turns the video monitor on.  appears on the screen. ( is “live” as opposed to the earlier “taped” images.) Ignore the Dents

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: Where did you go? I missed you. : Never mind that. Is that woman your wife, girlfriend or maybe she’s your casual lover? : I don’t remember getting married but I’m not certain if we haven’t made love. I know that she’s cooked for me but maybe she’s a waitress. I can’t tell. : That’s a TV dinner, you idiot. She doesn’t love you. : Don’t ruin my fantasy. : Fantasy, shit. You’re a very sick man. I’d say you were delirious. : Well, I haven’t understood a word that you’ve said, so there. She loves me and I love her. : A perfect couple, right? If everything’s going so great, why is she sleeping while you’re eating? Lovers have sex no matter how sick they are. : Maybe she’s just tired. She probably had a rough day. Can you imagine the stress of trying to maintain the dignity of a cardboard box? Almost anything could crush one of those things. How would you like to sleep in public? You wouldn’t like it if there were only one way in and one way out of your situation, would you? She’s like a wonderful gift in a cheap box. : You’re so blind. : You’re wrong. I see everything all too clearly now. You’re trying to ruin my happiness. She’s not sleeping at all. She’s looking for some syrup so that I can enjoy my breakfast. She’s very caring and nurturing. : She also has fleas. : Downtown fleas are the worst but they can be found on even the best people. : Even the most ignorant flea is discriminating. It bites only those who deserve to get bitten. Stay away from her. : You’re just jealous because I’ve found the girl of my dreams. You know that once I am hers you’ll disappear forever. She doesn’t have fleas, that’s a terrible rumor you’ve started so that I won’t get near her. : Her blood is poisoned. : Her blood is red and pure. It’s you who has been poisoned. : She’ll only hurt you in the end. : Our love is forever.  switches video monitor off.  goes over to the box that contains   and tugs at her feet.   screams loudly from within the box.  : Don’t touch me, don’t abuse me, you son of a bitch. : Dear, come out, it’s time we had a heart-to-heart talk.  : Go away. : But my pancakes. What about our relationship?   emerges from the box holding a sharp knife. She lunges at him and stabs him in the chest.  dies silently as he falls gracelessly to the floor. She removes his shoes and places them onto her own feet. 308

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 : All of you tough guys are the same. You don’t want a real woman, you want someone to mother you, to smother you. I have a better alternative, I’ll just get rid of you.   drags  offstage. Several gunshots are fired.   drags dead   onstage and sets her alongside a box. He goes offstage and returns dragging dead  onstage and sets him alongside the next box. He goes offstage and returns dragging dead   onstage and sets him alongside the next box. All of the bodies are lined up like a display of urban trophies.   removes various garments from the dead and wears these objects as if they were perfectly natural to his way of life.   lies down behind the last victim so that all four are in a neat row. Night has fallen and is accompanied by darkness, sirens, screams, traffic sounds, and whispers. Slide images of the starkness of urban streets at night.   (-): Now I lay me down to sleep, pray the rats don’t weep. And if I die before I wake, let others suffer in my wake. Oh, what the hell, I can’t sleep. I’d hate to dream tonight. Too much noise and I can’t get comfortable with my head in the gutter. At least it’s not too cold, but then again the bodies are beginning to stink. If only I could see the light at the end of the Second Street tunnel. I’ll close my eyes for only a minute. I won’t sleep. I can’t sleep. Slide images of   sleeping on the streets of Downtown L.A. An audible snoring sound is mixed with the flowing sounds of traffic. Fade to black. Scene B  : Where’s that dollar that you promised to give to a worthy cause?  : There hasn’t been a worthy cause since they invented the penny.  : That’s a cruel statement. That’ll cost you thirty dollars.  : You’re charging me a fine for cruelty?  : The fine is twenty dollars and the tax is ten dollars.  : Now fines and taxes are very logical. I can understand punitive measures. But charity, give me a break. If anyone truly deserved to be helped they would obviously help themselves.  : They can’t help themselves. They need your donation and I need your compliance.  : All right, here’s the money, but isn’t there a better way? I’d prefer to go to prison and keep my money in the bank. I’d collect interest on my balance while I’d be saving on expenditures for food, clothing, entertainment, sex, and cable TV. Ignore the Dents

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 : You can’t be imprisoned. First you’d have to survive the boring court sessions, a deputy would then have to search your body cavities, the fingerprint ink is toxic, and the mug shots are usually unflattering. It’s easier to pay up.  : Fuck you. I don’t need any counseling. You can’t tell me what to do. I’ve always hated being told what to do even when I haven’t had the slightest idea of what I wanted to do. I can’t stand people like you.  : That’s another forty dollars.  : Make that a hundred dollars or I’ll be insulted.  : The sum is one hundred and forty dollars.  : Here, take it all. There must be at least two thousand in fifties and twenties.  : I’ll take it as a bribe and drop all of the charges.  : I’ve got a few outstanding parking tickets.  : All is forgiven.  : You don’t have to count it and none of the bills are counterfeit.  : It’s just a formality and you wouldn’t want to receive full official credit for this transaction. I’ll keep the numbers in my head instead of the computer.  : There’s only one problem.  : I don’t have any money left. Now I can’t get my car out of the parking garage. Can you spare ten dollars?  : That’s impossible.  : I thought it would be. What do you suggest that I do?  : I don’t believe in giving away free advice.  : Well could you lend me one dollar so that I can take the bus?  : The bus costs $. and the transfers cost a quarter but a transfer won’t do any good because they’re usually invalid by the time you get off of the first bus. It will take you nearly $. to go round trip from anywhere in this city but it will also take most of your day to get there. A dollar won’t help you in this day and age. Here take this one. See what you can make of yourself. It’s a free country.  : Nothing’s free.  : That’s what makes it free. Those who disagree are usually so poor they can’t do anything about it anyway. Take my case for instance, if I don’t like the way things are being governed, or the way people look at me, or even if I don’t like the way you stink, there’s nothing that I personally can do about it unless I have the cash to back up my demands. If I can’t afford to hire a hit man, then I’ve got to be able to scrape up enough change to buy a cheap Saturday night special with at least two bullets in it.  : No one uses .-caliber guns anymore. A polyester shirt is as good as a bulletproof vest against those things. For one dollar, I can sell you a used switchblade knife that was only used at parties by a guy named Twinkie.  : Are the blood stains still on it?  : I could remove the stains but then you’d have to pay a cleaning fee.  : How do I know that it still has a sharp edge? 310

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 : You don’t. You must have faith.  : Oh, what the hell, it’s only a dollar. Here.  : Here’s your weapon. Don’t slit your wrists over anything too trivial.  : I wouldn’t think of it. There’s been so many people who’ve stabbed me in the back that most of my days will be spent in trying to track those scum.  : Stab one cheek then turn the other cheek.  : Hey, you’ve cheated me. The tip’s made out of rubber.  : Plastic. Rubber is out of vogue.  : This knife wouldn’t be able to cut through butter.  : You can’t afford butter.  : I’m getting hungry now that you mentioned that. I’d do anything for a piece of bread.  : I’ll give you a loaf of bread if you cut off your right hand.  : What?  : All right, I’ll toss in a couple of slices of roast beef and a bag of chips. Now cut off your right hand.  : That’s a high price.  : You said that you’d do anything for a piece of bread. All I’m asking for is a hand. Do it.  : I hate pain but I’m starving to death. You’ve got the advantage over me. Here goes. Owwwwww!  : Just because you’re desperate doesn’t mean that your knife will work. You’ve got too much faith.  : Too much blubber.  : I’m not really that hungry. I’ll settle for a crumb or two.  : Give me your hat and I’ll give you some crumbs.  : But I don’t have a hat. This person does. Excuse me, may I have that hat so that I might have something to eat?  : Touch my hat and I’ll kill you.  : I’ve lost my appetite.  : You’ve lost your nerve.  : That’s the ugliest hat I’ve ever seen. Why would anyone murder over a hat like that?  : Because it’s my hat.  : It must be one of those cultural things.  : Which culture? I’ve never heard of killing someone over a hat.  : It happens all the time all over the world. There’s more hats than heads. You must have a hat somewhere. Maybe it’s nearby. If you had your own hat then you could eat and you wouldn’t have to risk your life over supper.  : Crumbs do not a supper make.  : Do you speak English?  : It’s either English-only or it’s only English. The rules aren’t very clear. It is forbidden to speak about it anyway. For instance, if you mispronounce a word then you could be punished. Intonation means nothing. Yelling or whispering Ignore the Dents

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make no difference in what is actually being said. Language doesn’t mean a thing if it is ignored.  : I don’t need a damn sermon. Just spit it out.  : What’s the it in spit?  : Listen asshole, eject yourself from this conversation or I’ll cram that hat down your throat.  : Touch my hat and I’ll kill you.  : Never threaten anyone. You could die from giving your opponent the fair warning. I could take your hat if I wanted to simply by calling the cops and saying that you’ve stolen it from me. They’d believe me. They’d beat you over the head with their batons and I’d wind up with whatever’s left of that cheap hat. You don’t wear the right hat that could protect you from that kind of a situation.  : What gives you the right to act like our superior? I thought that you were an official of some sort but now I’m beginning to think that you’re just a con artist.  : A con artist never places bets. I’m not a gambler. I only deal in things that I’m familiar with. I know that people like you are alive only because people like me need you. We are completely different. I know how to control my environment. The two of you drown in your own piss each night. I could save you if I wanted to. I could have you disappeared or tortured.  : You’re not in any position to do anything for me.  : Don’t challenge me.  : Watch it, the gun’s loaded.  : That’s not a real gun. It’s a toy. Ohhhhh.  : The gun is a toy and the bullet wound is real.  : Here’s the hat. Now can I have something to eat?  : Ever try human flesh? It’s absolutely delicious, or so I hear.  : I don’t even kiss, let alone eat. Too many germs, too much salt, too much of a bother.  : Okay, here’s your crumbs. Enjoy it while you can.  : Thank you. Mmmmm. They’re so tasty. They’re so filling. I don’t think that I could have another bite.  : That’s obvious. There’s no more food.  : I was doing great until you mentioned food. Now I’m hungry all over again.  : Here’s a handful of nuts and bolts. I’ve heard of people who have consumed all of their worldly possessions without the embarrassment of malodorous gas. If you can eat these then you can eat anything and then you’ll never ever go hungry again.  : Mmmmm. Some taste like copper and others taste like aluminum.  : They’re all stainless steel. You wouldn’t know one nut from another. Here, try these wood chips and see if they taste differently to you.  : Tastes like metal. 312

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 : You have one last chance. Broken glass.  : I’d rather take a bite out of this one.  : Be my guest.  : It’s no use. This one had bad blood, very rotten.  : Your lips look very sensuous when they’re red.  : I’m not attracted to you so don’t come on to me. I can’t even tell what sex you are.  : It doesn’t matter, I’m not attracted to you either. I just thought that a compliment was in order. The redder the better as they say.  : They say no such thing.  : If you pay them the right amount, they will say anything. You couldn’t pay them anything so they wouldn’t even say a thing to you.  : I’d talk to you.  : Still alive?  : It’s the nerves in the throat. Sometimes the body continues to converse with itself during the entire decomposition process.  : I’d never talk.  : Don’t be so smug. One of these days you’ll have something to say but by then, it will be too late. Well, I’ll leave the two of you alone now since you have so much to talk about. I’ve got to get back to the office. Before I go, I’ve got to inform you that I’ve changed my mind. I’ll have to report the bribe to the proper authorities. It’s no use. You can’t hide. They’ll get you.  : In that case, I’d like to have my money back.  : I’ll have to hang on to it as evidence. Don’t worry, the judicial system is impartial and fair. If it is yours, it’ll be used up on attorney’s fees.  : But I’m innocent.  : Always interrupting! And they say that money talks.  : I hate it when I’m broke. I better get moving, it’ll take them a long time to catch up with me. It’ll take even longer if I switch IDs with this one.  : Listen to me.  : Listen to you? You cost me more money than what you’re worth. Shut up and turn to dust. I’ve got better things to do. I’m alive. I’m alive. I’ll thrive.  : Take me with you. It’s so cold. Don’t leave me. Fade to black. Scene C Atlas Aria This song is to be sung in a manner that suggests a sense of impending disequilibrium. We are spinning in a deadly spiral Empty clouds rage dust on frozen oceans The collective waves of universal denial The darkened side of the earth Ignore the Dents

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Continents swirl into forgotten deserts Cities dissolve in the blur of time The globe revolves on broken axis The world evolves on broken backs We are traveling in a doomed orbit In opposition to one moon The year is distorted as we lose the sun Many days are duplicated Infinity is a voyage to nowhere beyond an echo Where the cries of the nameless Where the eyes of the faceless Are crushed beyond a whispered dream The third planet in order of importance Nations in rotation Populations under hypnosis Our reflections scattering skyward Our image dissipates in space Identities disappear in the shadow Of a limitless horizon A perceptual scar of our species The equator is in disequilibrium It flutters like the broken wings Of irate buzzards in descent Time zones fluctuate to discordant beats Memories converge at the poles The individual bears responsibility Assumes the burden of inevitable cycles Absorbs the gravity of history We are spinning in a lethal spiral Fault lines defy stability Bones support the pillars of prestige Houses are rattled and destroyed Brown venomous skies embrace us Caustic winds erase the beaten path And fan the flames that burn the bridges We gaze transfixed on the beauty of the blaze We are traveling in an exterminating orbit Each passing moment reveals the loss Remnants of failures float upon the seas Survivors crawl to shores as ugly spiders They claim their superiority and success 314

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But the webs have been spun too well All the flies have been captured Imbalance perpetrates this wild course into the vacuum The third planet in disorder of importance The soil is replenished by spilled blood Throats are slashed so that seeds may germinate Roots rip through the concrete Deceitful flowers exude perfumes that mystify Fragrance of ignorance and instinct The globe revolves on broken axis The world evolves on broken backs This phrase should appear on the video screens that will confront each individual member of the audience upon entry to the theater:                 Asphalt Aria : This section is written in English to be translated into Spanish and performed in Spanish. This song is for the lead singer and should be incorporated into its place as primary role in Scene C. There’s asphalt up your ass As far as the eye can see As far as you or I will go It isn’t really asphalt It doesn’t stink Like concrete ideas Like egotistical jealousy Like the tip of your tongue There’s asphalt up your ass I know that you don’t care But think of all the freeways That will go unpaved Of all the dirt roads That we’ll have to travel In order to get lost In order to confuse those Who persecute us Who violate our fractured path Ignore the Dents

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There’s asphalt up your ass And your constipation Has us all misdirected We are headed up a blind alley But I’ll drive faster Because the danger excites me The possibility of collision The possibility of fatality The possibility of acceleration Into a wall of asphalt excites me There’s asphalt up your ass I want you to guess Who put it there? What is it doing there? Is it melting? I’d be the first to admit That it’s an absurd situation That it should not occur Even to an asshole But there are always exceptions To the rules that govern Reality and perception Duality and deception Insertion and extraction Secretion and insurrection There’s asphalt up your ass But I wouldn’t be alarmed It’s probably a tumor Of prehistoric origin Maybe it’s a rumor In the form of solid evidence Either way it’s blocking my view It’s blocking my ray of hope And casting shadows with many shapes There are faces that are unfamiliar There are buildings that would collapse The shadowy forms Fill the void The asphalt shadows Empty your soul Of all that is ancient Relieves you of history Erases your memory 316

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There’s asphalt up your ass And you may never get it out Do you think you will survive? You just might succeed in your quest To continue on as normal To pretend that you are happy To walk a straight line To forget that your ass is plugged You just might succeed in your desire To retain the wastes of your existence To personally own it all To never having lost control There’s asphalt up your ass And I think that you deserve it Because pain is a pleasure That shouldn’t be denied When it’s self-inflicted And I think you implanted it Only to get the attention Of those who hate you Of those who you wish were dead Of those who will kill you Of those who will cherish you And I think you’re faking it Because no one would knowingly Jam asphalt up their own ass Unless it was an act of god Or a fit of passion An accident isn’t a perversion And vice versa So when that asphalt is pressured From both ends Don’t be surprised if it implodes With enough force To blow your ass Off the crust of this earth There’s asphalt up your ass So don’t be surprised When everyone falls in love with you It will be their response To fear and loathing I know that isn’t logical But confusion of the senses Ignore the Dents

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Is the failure of our time Critical thinking is something that is smeared And forgotten and smeared and forgotten If it were up to me I’d look the other way But the asphalt is a magnet And it has a hold on me There’s asphalt up your ass I’m glad it isn’t me (but if it was) I wouldn’t maintain the facade I’d scream in everyone’s face Until someone would help me to remove it And return it to where it belongs Up yours, up yours, up yours Up yours, up yours, up yours This concludes lead singer’s song. Scene D This scene is performed by a solo performer, male or female or someone of a unisexual or antisexual motif. A chair is at center stage. The  walks calmly across the stage and sits. The  begins to cry quietly then sobs bitterly until the bitterness is transformed into a self-absorbed frenzy, which then trails off into a strange giggle that builds to a crescendo of hysterical laughter. The  becomes withdrawn and quiet. The  stares distrustingly out into the void. The  may speak live or may be on audiotape or may be a combination of both formats. : I woke up one day and all of my energy was gone. I couldn’t move my limbs, my head was as heavy as a stone, my fingers were numb and my eyes were dehydrated. I had been in a coma for three days. My lover had been dead for nearly twenty-four hours. I wasn’t certain whether I was dying or whether I was dreaming but the flies kept crawling on my face and I didn’t have the strength to wave my arms so that they’d buzz off. I had a strange bitter aftertaste in my mouth and realized that my lover’s finger was still in my throat. The  should remain on the chair throughout this scene but may try to escape from the chair’s confinement even if it proves impossible to do so. : I can’t seem to make up my mind. I want to leave but at the same time I’m so goddamned scared that I can’t make that final decision to move, to act according to my will. Action isn’t a verb it’s a curse. Sometimes for no reason whatsoever, I cut myself with a sharp pencil. Do you know that it’s nearly 318

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impossible to write a love letter on your legs with a pencil? If you have hairy legs it’s very dangerous to try to erase your mistakes. It’s not right to erase. I have a friend who sucked off another friend’s tattoo. They’re not friends anymore. In fact, we’re all mutual enemies. It’s not that we don’t like one another, it’s that we love each other so much that we behave like idiots when we get together. I don’t know how to say no to them and that’s very dangerous for me and for anyone who looks like a victim. I guess that’s how it all started, it was a game. I dared them to shoot the first ten people that they saw in the parking lot. They shot twenty. Then they dared me to shoot thirty people in a restaurant but I tricked them. I caught one man eating too many desserts so I cut him into forty distinct slices. You must have read about it, it was in the Times for one edition. We were the life of the lifeless party line. None of us wanted power, we wanted to have fun. It was so much fun that very few people survived it. Actually, I’m the sole survivor, that is, for the moment. The  topples over with the chair. The  sets the chair in an upside-down position. The  sits down. : I woke up one day and all of my energy was gone. I had lost too many white blood cells, damaged so many brain cells, I had sores in my throat where the finger had plunged its dirty nail past my threshold of desire. There was no cure for this sore throat so there wasn’t any point in brushing, bruising, or gargling. I didn’t give a shit about virgin tonsils. My breath was putrid and offended me whenever I’d speak about my worsening situation of isolation amidst degradation or was it radiation in a gas station or could it have been imitation in a hallucination? Needless to say, I was sick of it all but I was such a coward. I hadn’t the nerve to slit my wrists so I did the next best thing, I slit other people’s wrists. I’d walk down residential streets and wait until I’d come across someone who was carrying something like a grocery bag or anything that exposed the hands, I’d walk casually then grab hold of their wrists and slice deeply across the veins and arteries. None of those people died, I didn’t intend to kill them anyway, I just wanted to make a personal statement, to show them how angry I was that I’d have only a few more days of physical decay. Maybe I wasn’t totally upset because I managed to make a few friends in those new neighborhoods. I’d cut and run then somewhere along the way I’d meet someone, they were never that perfect someone but they were usually the kind of people who’d love to have me. I’d love to have me but I’m no longer available. The  attempts to destroy the chair. : I can’t seem to make up my mind. I never know who’s out to get me, to stab me in the back, who’s out to rob and abuse me. I wish that I knew these people because we could be friends or I could take their pulse with a jackknife. There isn’t much to steal from me, I don’t own anything and all of my ideas are derived from nightmares. I don’t even own a decent pair of shoes. The only thing of value might be that I know the true meaning of pain but I couldn’t even give that knowledge away even if it were laced with the appropriate venom. Ignore the Dents

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It’s terrifying to know that death is only a few steps away. I’ll never travel further than one or two paces at a time. I know that I’ll never get very far, but then again I won’t have much work to do in case I ever have to cover up my tracks. I’m so paralyzed and it seems to me that I can never feel any emotions beyond my own skin. I hate skin, it’s too confining but I couldn’t live without it. I especially like it when it’s hot and sweaty and within reach. I’d rather be skinned alive than to endure this entrapment much longer. I feel sorry for those people who have skin. The human race would be better off if all of its members were flayed to the bone. The bones would be better off if all of the flesh were removed to relieve it of its burden. Bones deserve a nice long rest. Peace is the eternal lie. The  breaks a leg off of the chair. : I woke up one day and all of my energy was gone. I don’t say this with any sadness or bitterness. Actually, I’m very happy to be relieved of the unbearable responsibility. I look forward to a billion years of inertia. I don’t have anyplace to go and I certainly don’t have people to meet. I look forward to having the flies do their magic on me. I can hardly wait to return to dust. I’m eager to arrive at my ultimate goal, a place where I can avoid the obvious and be oblivious to the void. The  breaks off another leg from the chair. : I can’t seem to make up my mind. I never arrive at firm conclusions, I never keep a promise that I intend to break, I never believe in luck unless it’s accidental misfortune. I never say forever. My friends are gone now. I hated and loved them so but they were always ready for a party. I don’t see much confetti nowadays but I know that if I had some paper to cut that I’d be able to fashion some litter to toss into the air. But I’m not in a mood to party because there isn’t the right music, the lights are all wrong and because my legs would rather kick someone senseless than to keep in rhythm with the fading beat of the clock. The  stares distrustingly out into the void. The  becomes withdrawn and quiet. The  laughs hysterically and trails off into a strange giggle that melts into self-absorbed frenzy, which merges into bitter sobbing, the sobbing fades into a whimper. The  walks calmly across the stage to exit. The damaged chair is at center stage. Fade to black. Scene E A  is waving a white flag. A  walks up to the  and splashes the flag with red paint. : I give up. No more clichés, please. I beg of you. : That’s not a very original comment. What are you, a man? I can’t stand to see anyone surrender. 320

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: You don’t have any right to demand anything of me. I’m free to hand myself over to the enemy whenever I want. : A real man would fight to the end, even if it meant that he should die for the cause. : What cause? The human race has been sabotaged by its leaders. : Leaders are bleeders too. They have to worry about the incompetency of the followers. The leaders make the decisions but it takes many idiots to carry out their plans. : Oh, I wish that they’d just come and haul me away. They can do anything that they want to me. I don’t want to be held responsible for my own existence. I’d hate to have to explain this mess. : Don’t worry about that, it’ll all come out in the wash. : Clichés kill me. Why does everyone have to mimic one another? We’re no better than our ancestors, the ape. : My family skipped a generation and a few species. There isn’t a drop of baboon blood in these veins. You’re the one who’s acting in typical monkey-see monkey-do fashion. Losers have been waving white flags over their heads since the beginning of time. You are the personification of a cliché. : And what are you, a woman? Talk about losers.  waves the flag furiously.  opens her small purse and applies lipstick to her lips. She produces a white scarf from the purse and applies a smudged impression of her lips onto the scarf. She mocks the  by waving it in like fashion over her head. : I give up too. : Stop that. You look ridiculous. You’re pissing me off. : Anger is better than submission, you baby. Why get upset because a total stranger openly mocks you in public? You should consider yourself to be very lucky because if I had a stone I’d toss it at that soft head of yours. If I had any bullets left, I’d shoot you. : Go away. When they come for me, I’m going to tell them that I’ve never seen you before. I’d hate to have you on my conscience. Leave now. I’m the one that can’t take it anymore. You seem to have more than enough energy to endure this unending everyday bullshit. Put that thing down.  slaps the  across his face. He cries bitterly and tosses himself to the floor as he throws a tantrum. She slaps him while he’s down, then pins the scarf onto the ’s bottom like a diaper. She takes the white flag from his hands and folds it neatly. She places it under his head like a pillow. She calms him down by stroking his hair. : There, there. I know that it’s difficult to survive when you’ve never been taught how to behave with dignity. : You can’t treat me like this. I’m a man. : Shhh. Of course you’re a man but there’s no law that says a man can’t be treated according to the way he conducts his life. You’re a real man with real Ignore the Dents

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needs. Unfortunately, you live in a real world where you’ll be slaughtered at the slightest hint of weakness. You can’t expect sympathy or compassion when you’re down. : But you’re so nice and mean to me at the same time. I love you. : And you repulse me, so I guess I love you too.  kisses  on the forehead.  curls into fetal position and goes to sleep. Lights dim as spotlight follows  as she changes her appearance to resemble a different woman.  picks up a microphone. : A funny thing happened on my way to the sexual revolution, I lost sight of anyone who gave a fuck about anything besides their own skins. No, really folks, I’m only kidding, there just isn’t anyone that I’d like to share intimate foreign objects with anymore. So I’m a bit jaded but that’s to be expected of someone who’s been through relationships like so much flimsy toilet paper. All of my lovers have been a gross disappointment. After a few brief moments of ecstasy, I have this ugly sensation that I’m polluted. From now on, I’ll remain celibate until they patch up my Mister Doll. I can hardly wait to inflate his ego. Spotlight moves away from the  and illuminates .  changes back to her original appearance.  gets up and wraps himself in the white flag as he removes the “diaper.” Spotlight remains on . He takes the microphone into his hand. : It’s getting to be so uncomfortable to be gender conscious in no-man’s land. There’s no such thing as penis envy or immature ejaculation in a world where the slightest form of sexuality is the premise for persecution or mass infection. I prefer to disengage myself from my basic animal urges. I’m willing to sacrifice myself for the good of the state. I’m more than happy to be biologically dead if it relieves tension. I will no longer be required to satisfy anyone. I used to wake up every morning with a pus-filled erection, now I won’t have to masturbate on behalf of any false fantasy. I accept this fate of celibacy. Lights fade up quickly.  is crawling about on her hands and knees. She is searching for several bullets that are strewn across the floor. She picks them up one at a time and places each bullet into her pistol. : Damn pervert. There are more important things in life than your impotent ideals. If everyone thought and acted like you, we’d be a race of . . . : It’s not a question of race . . . : It’s a matter of losing face in a faceless society. We’d all disappear into a mass grave where the others would quickly learn that silence is a generic facade. : Always with the politics. Why can’t you just shut up for once in your life? You can’t possibly do a thing about anything. What’s the point of voting when it’s more effective to place plastic explosives in the laps of your opponents? Why should I campaign for an issue when a well-publicized assassination is better than a million bumper stickers? Why should I give a damn about the 322

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oppressed when it’s their own fault? I don’t believe in justice or in survival of the fittest. : You’re a sick man, all men are sick therefore you’re average. Everything about you is boring. : What are you planning to do with that gun, shoot me? : You belong to the state and you can’t get a hard-on and you won’t stand up for your beliefs. I should shoot you but I’d be shooting a blank of a human being. I’d rather let time pass. You’ll be forgotten and I will have made better use of my time and of these few ounces of lead that will leave memorable impressions.  gets on her feet.  picks up the flag and resumes his futile attempt at waving it in order to surrender.  takes a few steps toward exit. : Wait. Where are you going? You can’t leave me now that we’ve gotten to know one another. Remember? You said that you loved me. : I never remember anything. I anticipate and never turn back on my intuition. : It’s useless. You won’t change anything. : You’re useless and you’ll never change. : Better to shoot yourself than to pass your genetic traits on to phantom children. : Traitor. : Fanatic. : Brother. : Sister. : Lunatic. : Savior. : Save your breath. I’m leaving you forever.  exits.  waves flag with less enthusiasm. : I give up. I give up. I give up.  drops the flag to the floor. : I give up.  drops to his knees. He crawls on his knees to exit. : I give up. I give up. I give up.  exits. Waltz music is played.  and  enter dancing but they are drenched in blood. The dance is stiff and unemotional, yet they utilize the entire floor to dance. The dance slows down until time is frozen. Fade to black.

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Double Negativity A Play in Desperate Acts (1990)

Performance script later adapted for inclusion in Ignore the Dents: A Micro Urban Opera,  Characters:  , an instant photographer , a serial printer , anti-performance painter . , urban street surgeon , actor   and  are looking at numerous photographs, which are neatly stacked into three piles on the tabletop.  rips several photographs to shreds.  : You’re not the judge of fine art, you’re the fucking executioner. Those were my best images. : Emotional attachments aren’t in your best interest. Look Fin Fin, if you’re going to panic every time I make a decision then I’m going to charge you extra for all the stress you dump on me. We’ve managed to go through the first pile with only a few fatalities.  : I always expect my genius to receive a proper burial but the way you’re handling this affair, everything’s being treated like meaningless shit. Every photograph is an expression of my artistic vision. : Your ego is enough to make me vomit. You take pictures just like everyone else. You use a self-focusing automated-flash instant camera. Your vision is blindsided by unwarranted success. It’s your mistakes that have made you famous. Even your pretty pictures don’t make a pretty picture.  : Listen, Unpardo. I’m going through trauma without having to endure your vicious observations. I’m in big trouble and you’ve agreed to help. Let’s get this editing session over and done with. : You should have burned all of the negatives long ago. The compliance officers aren’t going to be impressed. 324

 : Those repressed assholes wouldn’t be convinced if I smashed my camera in their face.  holds up several large prints and shoves them into  ’s face. : You call this art? The President kissing a dead baby; the Pope tossing bricks at the head of his blank-faced flock; a young boy stabbing an immigration agent. This isn’t art, it’s cultural sabotage. You ought to be shot between the eyes with an old Brownie.  rips the three photographs and tosses the litter into the air.  : You’re destroying all of my favorite images. Pictures tell the story, reality creates the lie and people will always believe anything that matches their own preconceived notions of miracles, insanity, perversity, and human nature. : Your theories are unfocused and your attitude is obnoxious. You’re definitely an artist but I’d say that you’re also a promising sociopath.  : Flattery will get you a black-and-white eight-by-ten glossy of your preferred sexual organ.   hands  a print.  kisses the print then rips it in half. : I think that we’d all be better off if you got a job microwaving frozen burgers. I’ve known you for all your professional life, so I think that I can speak frankly on the subject of your career. Quit now while your case is in the preliminary stages. I’ll help you write the affidavit that will simply state that you will never take another photograph. All you have to do is sign it in permanent ink.  : You’ve been a wonderful friend all of these years despite your lack of backbone. Don’t you understand that I have the right to create and disseminate any image regardless of its content or form? : You never refer to quality, beauty nor to social responsibility. Besides, the laws have changed. You no longer have public or private support.  enters, sits at the table with   and . : Is it trash day already? Fin Fin, when are you ever going to grow up? Photography is dead. : Twinka, please shut that hole with the teeth in it. Fin Fin is under considerable pressure. If we don’t manage the Senate investigation properly, our esteemed photo-phony will be facing the new century behind federal prison walls.  : I won’t go to jail. They can’t be serious about denying my freedom of expression. So I’ve taken a few photographs that didn’t meet the National Visibility and Concepts Act. We can’t all be that patriotic. : You’d go crazy behind bars. They don’t serve cappuccino.  : Laws are meant to be subverted. They can’t prevent me from exploiting my vision. : They have cops who’ll pop your eyes out for overtime pay. Don’t delude Double Negativity

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yourself into thinking that you are special. If you fit the right profile, they’ll frame you and then you’ll be immortalized in shit so deep that . . .  : Don’t worry, I won’t sink. I know how to dog paddle. : Hey, I’ve seen this picture before, it’s been in all of the newspapers. The only difference is that the genitals and orifices have been blocked out with black strips that say, “U.S. .”  : Say it loud and clear so all may hear, dick, pussy, balls, tits, ass, and fuck. Those are simply words to live by, and I am an astute supplier of the visual component to that oral tradition. : Shut your mouth. The wrong people might hear you and anything you say can be used against you in a court of law or on a darkened street when there won’t be any justice. : Loose lips don’t blow so hard for too long.  : I can still whistle to the tune of paranoia.   puts his forefinger to his lips and produces a whistle that is a synthesis of police sirens, trombones, howling monkeys, and tortured souls.  and  remain unfazed by the outburst. : Abstract behaviorism is out of vogue, Fin Fin. You’ve got to get ahold of yourself. : It’s getting late and we’ve still got these two other piles to examine. Twinka, can you do us a favor and have the section of your mural with Fin Fin’s face in it whitewashed before it can be classified as evidence?  : You really captured me in that beautiful work of yours but there’s no reason to suffer from guilt by association. I’ve already destroyed every photograph that contains your image. .  enters carrying a bloodied plain brown paper bag and sits at a nearby table. : Don’t look now but your supplier has arrived at the next table. You’d better hide.  : There’s nothing to worry about. I’ll just cancel my order, and he’ll go away with a minimal bribe.   goes over to sit with . . : That’s Dr. Loss, street surgeon of the rusty blade. The doctor has provided Fin Fin with pounds of hearts, endless miles of intestines, livers in every shade of yellow and limbs of every shape or color. The doctor operates on the homeless, free of charge, then sells the organs to intermedia artists, photographers, and other cannibals. : I always have trouble painting hands, maybe the doctor could locate a permanent model for me. .  hands   the paper bag.  : Dr. Loss, it’s always a pleasure to see you looking so well. 326

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. : Quit the bullshit, Fin Fin. Give me the money and then we can talk about anything under the sun.   produces several twenty-dollar bills and hands the money to . .  : There’s no need to count it. I can’t complete our usual transaction. I’m facing felony charges so it might be some time before we can do business again. I really have appreciated your expertise and dedicated service.   reaches out to shake . ’s hand. .  quickly grabs hold of  ’s hand and severs the thumb and forefinger with a large switchblade knife. .  places the fingers and money into the paper bag. . : No one rips me off and gets away with it. You’re lucky that you’re wearing pants. Bring me some more money and I’ll sew your fingers back on. Ciao. .  exits as   screams loudly.  and  rush to  ’s aid. : This is horrible. Fin Fin, are you okay? : Of course he’s okay, he’s a survivor. It’s only a minor setback. Look on the bright side, the officials may take pity on you and might give you their sympathy votes for a lighter sentence.  : You’re always right, Unpardo. Besides, those weren’t my favorite digits anyway.  wraps  ’s hand with the tablecloth. All three return to their original table. : There seems to be a major conflict between your rights as a photographer and the power of the state. From the perspective of the state, you’re just a bothersome fly who’s trying to ruin their picnic. They’ll SWAT you down the minute you get too close to the pie.  : The state is powerless against my imagination. : You’re dreaming again. Give it up, Fin Fin. You’re not martyr material.  enters and sits at the group’s table. : I knew that I’d find you here, Fin Fin. Your bad habits never change.  : It’s always great to see you too, Bingoli. Is there something I can do for you? : For starters, you can give me every negative, proof, print and transparency that contains my image. I’ve got a great acting career going with all of the military recruitment films and evangelist cable television shows. You’re the only thing standing between me and a full security clearance.  : I’m glad to hear that you’re a success in your field but unfortunately, I can’t help you. All of the materials that you want were hauled away with nearly a third of my original works and supplies. Copies of those materials are circulating throughout legislative, executive, and judicial offices across the country.  slaps   across the mouth. Double Negativity

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: I’ll get you for this, you sonofabitch. You won’t live long enough to get to court.  kicks the table over, scattering the material onto the floor.  kicks   in the head, then exits. : I can see that we’re not going to get very far tonight. Call my machine tomorrow evening and I’ll get back to your machine near midnight. I’ll work on a rough draft of the affidavit.  : Thanks for everything, Unpardo. Twinka, would you like to go home with me? : I think I’ll pass on that. I’m into safe art.  and  take a few photographs into their hands as they get up from their chairs. They rip the photographs and leave a trail of litter as they exit.   goes down on his knees and awkwardly picks up the photographs off the floor.  : Maybe I should renounce my citizenship, or I could commit suicide, then again, I could confront the entire situation by exhibiting all of my work and to hell with the consequences. This is certainly a mess. There’s no easy way to make a clean getaway. Fade to black.

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Double Negativity

Vex Requiem A Play with Music in Two Acts (1990)

Commissioned by the Los Angeles Theatre Center Latino Theatre Lab through a grant from the Ford Foundation,  Never performed Characters: , a finger-pointing finger-painter , a stateless orphan , a recurrent dream-girl , a defaced beauty , a blind street preacher , the landlady Time: Day of the Dead Place: downtown Act  Scene  Night The third floor of an old office building has been converted into a sparsely furnished artist’s loft. Large windows face the street.  is on his hands and knees smearing paint with his fingers onto sheets of old newspapers. : This is so motherfucking beautiful. I can’t believe my own eyes. Those critics can go fuck themselves. I’m the artist. I’m the genius. I’m the one who knows exactly where I want these colors to go. Look at that. That’s precisely what I wanted to happen. Just smear a little more paint here and the masterpiece is nearly complete. I’ve accomplished more in the past five minutes than what most people could never approach in five years. It’s not a miracle. It’s pure creative talent that no one can ever take away from me. Never. I’m the artist. I know what the fuck art is. They’ll never know what it is until they see for themselves 329

that I am the chosen one. I make every other artist look like they’re wallowing in their own worthless shit.  enters carrying a large stack of newspapers. He walks up to  and drops the load on top of ’s newest creation.  is speechless. : There, that’s every last one of them that I could find. When do I get paid? It’s hard work breaking into all those news racks. Minimo, I’ve never seen anyone get so mad over a stupid art review. I mean, it’s not like you’re going to die or anything.  stands to face . : We’ve all got to die sometime. I imagine that you’ll be murdered for being an asshole, Norfun.  slaps  mercilessly until  drops to his knees. : What did I do? What did I say? No . . . : Nothing. You’re innocent like all idiots and animals. You completely ruin an original Minimo and you stare at me like I don’t have the right to kick your ass across the room for as long and as hard as I want for the rest of your life? Don’t you know anything? And yet, you ask me to pay you. For an orphan who would still be eating out of garbage cans if it hadn’t been for me, you’ve got one hell of a nerve.  slaps  across the face, sending him to the floor. : I’m sorry, Minimo, if I’ve offended you. : Now you’re talking. Get up and get out of my face. Can’t you see that I’m in one of my creative moods? One more minute of that ugly stupidity of yours will be enough to drive me mad. Get out. Don’t come back until I’ve called for you. : But I can’t leave now. It’s curfew and I might get shot if I even stick my nose out the door. : I’ll shoot you myself if you don’t get the fuck out of here this instant.  produces a pistol from his waistband and places it against ’s temple. : Don’t shoot. You’ve been like a father to me. : And you’re a whimpering stray dog to me. : I’m sorry if I’ve been a disappointment to you. : You’re in luck, I’ve never had any expectations of you. Now crawl out of here and dig up a bone or something. I’ve got work to do.  places the pistol back into his waistband. He picks up a copy of the newspaper and opens it to the center page. He reads aloud. : Here it is, “Minimo’s Finger Painting an Obscene Gesture,” by Oscar von Weiner. This clown couldn’t write if his welfare check depended on it. Hmmm . . . the colors are devoid of impact . . . his feeble attempts at kindergarten rip-off 330

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imagery . . . this naive art is a premeditated hack-job. . . . What’s the point of reading any further? The only thing that makes any difference now is to get even. Every one of those paintings were sold within hours after the doors opened at my reception. My public knows what they want and they’re willing and able to pay for it. Intellectual masturbation doesn’t pay my bills.  lifts the stack of newspapers off of his painting. He discovers that the bottom sheet has been smeared with paint. He places that newspaper next to the original work and applies paint with his fingers to both sheets. There are several bursts of automatic gunfire. : Why can’t the police use silencers like everyone else? How do they expect me to concentrate? , , , and  enter screaming. ’s upper torso is bloodied. Blood streams down ’s face.  wears a yellow-stained blindfold. : Shut the door. They’re trying to kill us. : Don’t, I’ll get claustrophobic. Does anyone have any aspirins or morphine? : Help me, I think I’ve been hit. : Get down everyone. Keep your heads down. : I can’t breathe. : I think I’m going to vomit. : Shut the door. Shut it tight. : Shut your mouth. This is my studio, not a shelter for moving targets. Everyone, vacate the premises at once or I’ll be forced to waste some perfectly good bullets on a useless bunch of hysterical lowlifes. : You wouldn’t dare. We know our rights. You can’t shoot us because we crashed your party. : Yeah, it’s not polite to point. : One more word out of any of you and he’ll get it. : Oh, don’t be such a sissy. : That does it.  pistol-whips .  falls to the floor. : You coward. Can’t you see that he’s blind?  grabs  by the hair and yanks her toward him. : And can’t you see that I’m an artist? : Hey, leave her alone. : Only a few minutes ago, you were the pussy. Now you’re going to be man enough to stand up to Daddy? No way.  places the pistol under ’s chin. : I’m choking. Eek!  gasps for air and faints. : Just don’t hurt her. Okay? Vex Requiem

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: No one tells me what to do, you virgin fuck.  pulls the trigger several times as  screams. The pistol does not fire.  clutches at her heart and falls, unconscious, to the floor. : You’ve killed her. : This is no time to suckle piglet. I need peace and quiet around here. Won’t you help me?  kicks  across the jaw.  blacks out. : Hey, I like the sound of that. Nothing. Not even a whisper.  places a loaded clip into the pistol and fires several rounds outside before slamming the door shut. : Curfew my ass.  spreads out several other newspapers and resumes work with the finger paintings. : They’ve got to understand that it’s either my vision or no vision at all. Blackout. Scene  Night A colored spotlight illuminates a narrow field in the blackness as  walks into the light. : I’ve had the same dream ever since I was a little girl. I am on my knees praying to God when it suddenly occurs to me that I don’t believe in anything that I cannot experience through the senses. In this dream, I get off of my knees and realize that I don’t feel a thing. I am physically, emotionally, and spiritually numb. I am in a world of darkness with no beginning and no memory. All of my dolls and idols have been murdered. I forget what tears are for and can only laugh at the unknown. In this dream there are no white picket fences, no wonderful lovers, no dozen roses and no other dreams to cling to. I can never recall the dream in its entirety because the darkness compels me to disappear. Blackout. Scene  Night—several hours later  has produced numerous finger paintings, which cover the floor and his numerous unconscious guests: , , , and . : This is goddamned incredible. I’m really great. What an outpouring of inspired artistry. This work ought to have those critics shoving their reviews up each other’s asses. And my public, they’ll be fighting each other in the streets just to get a chance to buy these beauties. I can see it now, a riot in the gallery and the winner is the fool that can pay the most in cash. It’s only natural that 332

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all of my fans will want to be personally fucked by the artist. Well, they’ll get it royally when they pay retail. : Ohhh. : The dead are rising. This guy smells like piss and shit. I don’t see why the government can’t do something about these lazy bums. There should be a law that if they don’t bathe, they don’t live. I pay my taxes and look at the crap that it’s brought into my house. : Ohhh. : Ohhh, what? You silly motherfucker, you don’t make much sense. Wake up and talk to me. I need a good laugh after a long night of working so hard.  slaps  across the face several times.  wakes up with a bloodied lip. : Owww. : Your vocabulary is improving. Wake up, or I’ll hit you so hard that you’ll sleep for eternity. : No, don’t hit me again. I’ll talk. : So you’ll talk, eh? You must have lots on your mind, right? Let me guess. You’re blind because you masturbated so often that your eyeballs were sucked out and spit out through your puny syphilitic cock. You should never touch yourself unless you’re paid to do it. No? That’s not what you want to talk about? Well, if you’re such an eager beaver-eater, then say something. : Jesus loves you. Repent and you shall be saved. : If I wanted to hear that garbage, I’d go out and kidnap a nun. Say something that’s going to inspire me not to kill you. And you’d better make it good because I don’t think that you’ll get to heaven when you stink like the devil’s asshole itself. : I love you and all of God’s creatures. Your rage is making you ill. You must pray so that all of your evil thoughts and deeds will be put to a stop. : Enough with the sermon, padre. You are in no position to preach. You are in my house now and it’s impolite to discuss religion or politics when you have bad breath. As long as you’re here, I’m the savior because I’m the one with the gun and the talent and the guts to use them both. : You blaspheme our Lord. Repent, sinner. : I’d rather see you turn both cheeks blue.  strangles  to death. : The Lord giveth and Minimo taketh away.  drags  to the window and tosses the body out to the street below. He is left holding one of ’s worn shoes.  places the shoe to the nostrils of , , and . They all awaken simultaneously. : Rise and shine you scum-sucking shit-heads. The siesta is over forever. No more cat naps for you rats. It’s party time. : Hmm, did someone say party? : I think my jaw is broken. Vex Requiem

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: Well there’ll be no more whistling or blowing or chewing gum for you, Norfun. : And to think that I used to look up to you. : You ungrateful creep. Get off your ass and pour us all a cocktail or two. You’ve handled the bar before. You know what to do. : I had this dream. I was a little girl and I . . .  tosses the shoe and strikes  with it. : Don’t get psychological on us sweetheart. Only crazy people dream and crazy people get lobotomized with my trusty-rusty dagger. You’re not crazy about that, are you? : And I’m not crazy about this nightmare either. : What the hell are you waiting for? The ladies here will have martinis and I’ll have Jack on ice. You can have generic beer for all I care. Do it.  rushes over to the bar and pours the drinks. : I hate beer because it reminds me of when I was so piss-poor that I couldn’t afford to buy any. I don’t hear any objections from any of you, do I? Good, that’s real good. We wouldn’t want to ruin the rest of the night with any jackass remarks. : The Jack is on its way, Minimo. : Don’t you fucking dare interrupt me when I’m having an intelligent conversation. : Sorry. : Sorry is never good enough. Sorry is enough to make me puke. What’s taking you so long, anyway? Ladies, do you think I made the right choice in refusing to adopt this piece of dog shit as my own flesh and blood? I just don’t have the heart to flush him down the toilet. Besides, he makes a great martini. : Minimo, sir, do you think that they’d still be shooting at us if we were to go outside? : And what did I ever do to insult you? I don’t even know who you are yet you rush in here uninvited, then when I invite you to my party, you talk about leaving. Get it out of your head, you’re not going anywhere until I say that you can leave because you’d never make it out the door alive. : I’m Meti. I live underneath the freeway overpass. : That’s refreshing, I thought you were going to tell me that you were a vagrant suburban housewife who was bent on doing a little slumming. And you, dream-girl, what’s your name? : My name is Lupina.  places the drinks onto a tray and serves the Jack on ice to .  quickly gulps his drink down to the last drop. : Can’t you see that Lupina is talking? Didn’t your mother ever teach you any fucking manners? : I never had a mother. 334

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: Face it. You crawled out of a hole and that’s all that matters, crybaby. Now get me another Jack. Well, what are you waiting for, a kiss?  blows a kiss to .  hands martinis to  and to . He goes back to the bar. : Now, Lupina, what makes you think that you have the right to rush into my house in order to avoid a few police bullets? : It’s called survival of the fittest. : I’m the one who decides who’s fit to survive around here. : I kind of figured that. By the way, aren’t we missing the blind man who rushed in here with us? : You must mean Rey, the street preacher. He decided to fall from grace. He went out to throw the first stone and it must have backfired.  examines her martini. : What’s this little green thing? : That, my dear, is an olive, which I presume is about the size and color of your clitoris. : You pig, you have no right to speak to her like that. : You have something against sexual organs? That’s your hang-up. You call me a pig and that’s something different, dangerous even. From now on, every time you fuck up, Meti will have to pay. A pig wouldn’t do this, would he?  takes the dagger from his pocket and slices an X across ’s face.  screams in anguish. : That’s the most viciously sexist, most inhumane thing that I’ve ever seen. : Better shut your mouth quick while she still has a tongue. I’ll cut it off and make him eat it. : No, Minimo, not tongue sandwich again. : And when in the hell did you become a gourmet? As long as you’re living under my roof, you eat whatever is on my menu.  comforts  and wipes the wounds with her scarf. : We’re supposed to be partying. Norfun, what’s it going to be, my Jack on the rocks or your jacking-off? We need music. Come on, Lupina, you be the DJ. Meti and I want to tango. : It’s been ages since I’ve cha-cha-ed.  serves  his drink. : Better do as he says.  separates  from .  selects a vinyl album and plays it on the record player.  drinks slowly with his eyes closed. : Norfun knows what he’s talking about. He challenged my artistic authority once and it cost him a nut. : You’re not serious. Vex Requiem

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: I cut off his left testicle and fed it to the rats. Go ahead and dance. He can only do the half-step anyway.  and  dance. : Do you think that it will leave a scar? Am I still beautiful? I wouldn’t break any cameras looking this way, would I? Oh, Lupina, you made him do this, you bitch. He should have sliced you across the face. You aren’t a beauty. No one would give you a second glance the way your face is glued together. My face hurts so much. I just know that it will heal. : Don’t be such an optimist. I must have cut across a few nerves. Have you had a tetanus shot lately?  takes  into his arms, they dance closely and slowly. : Actually, he did me a big favor. I was extremely oversexed and all of my wet dreams resulted in terrible floods. Nowadays, I hardly even think about girls or boys. : He’s not exactly fixed and he’s not exactly broken. In other words, he’s like a vibrating dildo that’s low on juice. : Sex isn’t everything. : Anything that isn’t worth fucking isn’t worth fucking anything. If you want to be a philosopher, then go to some mountain and jump off. This is a party. I expect you to dance to my tune, or else I’ll have to give Meti a third set of lips. : Just go along with everything he says. If he gets his way, he won’t maim or kill anyone. : Why should we let him be so barbaric? He should be stopped. What makes him so special? : Better to dance and not ask so many questions. : What kind of shit are you two lovebirds stirring up? I hate it when anyone talks behind my back. If you’ve got a complaint, I’m all ears. : I was just telling Norfun that his martinis are marvelous. : She was telling me that you’re a great dancer. : You’re both liars. I heard the two of you conspiring to stab me in the back the second you get a chance. Well, guess what? You won’t get that opportunity because I’ll give Meti a bullet between the eyes and I’ll cut off your other ball, Norfun, and eat it myself. As for you, Lupina, you’re doing the twist when you should be doing the rumba. Don’t worry, neither he nor I or any of the other stray dogs that might cross your path will get hard over your flabby ass, so stick with the beat, or I’ll have to amputate those petite feet. : You’re stepping on my toes. : I lead, you follow. Don’t stick your toes where they don’t belong. : He’s a psychopath. : He’s an artist. : He’s a man. : I’m the greatest fuck that’s ever lived. 336

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: I’ll bet he’s impotent. : Ssshhh. If he hears you say that he’ll rape us all. He’s infested with at least six sexually transmitted diseases and he never uses a rubber. God, I hate it when he acts this way.  and  drift toward the several paintings that are strewn across the floor. : I’m warning the two of you, better not step on any of my great paintings. Each piece is worth more than all of your lives combined. So steer clear or she gets it. : Oh, isn’t he wonderful. He’s a real man. : There’s nothing real about you, you dumb shit. : If it weren’t for my weak heart, I’d kill him. He’s the worst human being that I’ve ever encountered. : You’re risking our lives talking like that. Why don’t you try to look at his bright side. He’s a visionary. His fingers can transform globs of paint into expressive strokes of color that evoke the universal condition of the human psyche. : Where’d you learn to talk like that? : I memorized that line from a video on Picasso. : Well, I knew that you couldn’t be talking about these fakes. They all look like they were smeared by a sociopathic child. They’re just plain ugly. : It doesn’t matter. His gallery sells them the minute they are hung on the walls. He has many wealthy fans.  and  kiss as they dance.  accidentally steps on several of the paintings. : Now you’ve done it. He’ll hurt her bad. : He hasn’t noticed a thing. These don’t look different even when they’ve been defaced. Besides, I think they’ve fallen in love. : I wouldn’t be so sure about that.  kisses  very aggressively, then bites her viciously like a mad dog.  screams. : Mad dog! Mad dog!  takes several paintings and rolls them into a club.  is in a panic.  strikes  repeatedly.  freezes. : Lupina, kill yourself while you can. : Do you realize that you’re not normal? You don’t give a damn about anyone, least of all Meti. : Minimo, no. I love you. : And I love you . . .  stabs  in the chest and leaves the dagger in place. : . . . because you’re dead. Quick, one last kiss.  collapses onto the floor. Vex Requiem

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: Murderer. : Shut the fuck up or this sonofabitch gets it next. What’s the matter with you? You want to be responsible for the deaths of everybody in sight? : Please, Lupina, give in to his charms. Do anything that he demands. He’ll kill me if you don’t.  gets down on his knees and kisses the dead . : That’s sick. He doesn’t have any respect for the living or the dead. : She smells so good. : I’ve never seen anyone rot so quickly. : The worms are already crawling up her throat. : The least you could do is to give her a decent burial. : The least you could do is kiss my ass. Norfun’s life is in your hands. Now, the two of you, dance. : Come on, Lupina, the song’s not over with.  and  dance.  kisses  on the neck. : The stench, it’s getting worse. : You’ll get used to it in no time. : I don’t understand why we can’t overpower him. We could . . . : Don’t say it. There’s nothing that we can do that can change things for the better. You’ve got to concentrate on surviving the night. Keep on dancing before he gets pissed off all over again. : My heart hurts. I don’t know how long I can keep silent. : I shower you with all this affection and you just lie there. You’re all the same, never satisfied until you’ve had more orgasms than I care to count. Wipe that smirk off your face. : He’s such a romantic, isn’t he? Sadistic bastard. : He isn’t always like this. He’s had a rough week: bad press, urethritis, cold sores, and he discovered a few gray hairs. : I think we should kill him. : He won’t let us. He’s too ruthless to be caught off guard. : I know that you’re hot for me, you feel colder but I can tell that I’m getting warmer. Don’t freeze up on me you slut. : He’s the whore. He’s the one with no self-respect. He’ll fuck everything up just to get his way. I hate him. : You’re going to get us murdered. Keep dancing or else he’s going to notice that we’re talking. Phew, that Meti stinks like a month-old corpse. : Well, you can’t blame her. Can you imagine all that garbage she ate during the past few years? She lived on the streets and must have eaten anything that she could sink her teeth into. : We’ve got to get her body out of here before she becomes bloated. I’ve seen some bodies fill up with so much gas that they expand until there’s no more room for the living to go on living. 338

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: Don’t be such a liar. I think the odor is coming from Minimo. Does he bathe? : I should know, I give him a sponge bath ten times a week. : What kind of man are you, anyway? : I’m a survivor. Manhood has nothing to do with all this. : If you’re the one who’s going to get hard, then you be the one with the dick. Damn rigor mortis!  pulls his pants down to reveal leather briefs. He lies atop . Just then, the music stops. : Norfun, you know what to do, so do it!  flips the album over to play the other side.  gets up and kicks off his pants. He takes  into his arms as they dance.  goes to the bar and pours himself a drink. : Now don’t give me any phony smiley face or I’ll yank out your teeth and implant them into his bony head. : Why are you such a mean prick, anyway? : Norfun, get the shotgun.  gulps the drink quickly. He rummages through the closet. : I mean, why are you such a violent weirdo? You’re not an artist, you’re a criminal, a killer. : Norfun, when you find it, make sure that both barrels are loaded. : Let me rephrase that. Every time anyone says or does something that you don’t agree with, you abuse their right to exist. You injure and kill people. Don’t you understand that it isn’t right to be a hostile asshole?  cocks the shotgun then hands it to . : I’ve done everything that you’ve said, so please don’t shoot me. : You’ve done everything? Now do this, lie on top of Meti and keep her warm for me until the dance is over.  lies atop .  points the shotgun at  and pulls the trigger. The shotgun fails to fire.  beats  repeatedly with the butt of the shotgun.  rolls onto his back in a pool of blood. : You’ve done everything that I asked for but obedience isn’t everything. Now stay there and think that over while Lupina and I do the twist.  closes his eyes and does a wild extended twist. : Am I dead yet? : I don’t feel very well. : I know that I’m dead. : I’m going to vomit. : All of my bones are broken and I’ve lost so much blood. I’m dead.  helps  get to his feet. Although they are both exhausted, they dance. Vex Requiem

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: We’re both dead. : No, I can hear you breathing and my heart’s still beating. : What a beating. I’ve never been hit so hard in my entire life. And I’ve been beaten since the day I could walk. : He’s got to die, tonight! : Forget it. He can’t die, he’s famous. : He’s not that famous, I’ve never even heard of him until tonight. : You see, that’s the kind of talk that’s deadly. His paintings are very popular. : I’m not convinced. I think he’s the least talented man I’ve ever met. He’s obviously had his fun with you. Can’t you understand that you’ve been brainwashed? : Don’t talk so loud, I have a headache. There must be blood in my ears. : Well, just look around you. This place doesn’t look like the studio of an artist who’s famous or popular. This is a hellhole.  opens his eyes and stops dancing. : Motherfucker, you should be dead by now. Lupina, I’ll cut off your hands if you touch him.  violently pinches  on his crotch.  screams in agony.  hangs on. : Oh, he’s a real dancer alright. Sometimes we dance like this until sunrise. He’ll dance to any kind of music. He can do the samba or the mambo but he loves to do the jitterbug. Isn’t he light on his feet? I could dance all night but I’ve got more important things to do, sissy.  lets go.  is crippled. : Norfun, why don’t you ever fight back? Does he scare you so much that you won’t even defend yourself? : He doesn’t need to defend himself. He’s shit and he’s of no value to anyone, especially himself. : Lupina, you just don’t understand how it is between us. : Yeah, the two of you enjoy doing the pervert’s waltz. What’s to understand? : Quit feeling sorry for yourself. I hate self-pity.  kicks  in the groin. : If I were a man, I’d beat the crap out of you. : If you were a man, I’d cut off your balls in no time. The music ends.  removes the album and replaces it with another album. The music is very different from the previous recording.  takes  into his arms. They dance. : You’re such a complaining bitch. If I hadn’t allowed you to come inside, you’d have been sliced and diced by those trigger-happy cops outside. They never bother me here because I believe in the law of the land: bribe first, so they don’t shoot you later. 340

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: You know some pretty fancy steps. : You don’t know what I know. I don’t need your stupid approval. I don’t care if you like or dislike anything. Your opinion doesn’t rate higher than a barf-licking, pus-sucking cockroach. : I don’t lick and I never suck. You’re so busy being negative and destructive that you never even notice how much pain and suffering you’ve caused. Norfun is in deep trouble. He’ll die if you continue to assault him. I’m not afraid of you because I know that you only kill those people who let you murder them. : There’s no such thing as victim or perpetrator. If I kill, it’s because I feel like it. If they, he, you dies it’s because I made it happen. No one lets me do anything. I simply do whatever I want to do. : Well, you won’t kill me. : Lupina, stop teasing him. : Who made you God, fuck-face?  removes his belt and slips it into a noose over ’s neck. : Down on all fours!  gets on his hands and knees.  yanks at the belt. : Norfun, don’t let him control you. Fight him. : Yeah, show her how much fight you’ve got in you. Spread those legs and raise that ass.  complies with the order. : If you want to save his ass, you got to kick it harder than you’ve ever kicked before. : I’m not very physical. : Save me. Kick me.  kicks  extremely hard, causing him to fly across the stage. : I think you’ve ruptured my colon. : Hallelujah! You’re saved. : I must have broken my leg.  limps and leans on . : What’s this sudden display of affection?  breaks ’s arm. She screams. : Now it’s your turn to save her. By the way, your ass is bleeding. : Lupina, you didn’t have to kick me so hard. : Suddenly, I’m in a great mood. I’ll give her life if you break her other leg. : You can break every bone in my body but you won’t break my spirit. : That’s so cliché. You’ve just got to stop watching television. : I can’t move. My large intestine feels like it’s been kicked out of place. My tapeworm probably has a black eye. : Break her leg or I’ll waste her. : You won’t kill me. Vex Requiem

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: There’s plenty of time before sunrise. Thought you’d like to know because you’ll never see it.  breaks ’s leg. She screams. : Don’t cry, Lupina. You’re saved too. : You didn’t break her leg, idiot. I did. She isn’t saved, she’s trashed.  takes her by the hands and drags her across the floor on her knees as he dances. : You’re inhuman. : My appendix is going to burst. : Your shoes, quick! This is an emergency.  drops  onto the floor and removes her shoes. He places his hands into the shoes and uses them to kick  in his lower-right abdomen.  moans in ecstasy/pain. : Norfun! : May I have this dance, lard-ass?  kicks  to death. : You’re killing him. Have mercy. : Mercy? I put the sorry sonofabitch out of our misery. That’s mercy. : You can’t get away with this. : You’re the one who’s not getting away of getting your way. I know that you want me but you can’t have me.  breaks ’s other arm. She screams. : Oh, all right, you can have me but first you’ve got to catch me. : You’ve broken me like a doll but I’ll never play your game. : I don’t remember pulling the string to make you talk. Hey, what is it with you, anyway? Maybe I should smash a few ribs so that you’ll show the proper respect.  punches her in the ribs. : Never! He punches her again. : What the hell, you won’t be needing your spleen anymore. He punches her repeatedly. Blackout. Scene  Night A colored spotlight illuminates a narrow field in the blackness as  and  dance into the light. : I’m always fearful in my dreams. It’s a perpetual sensation of drowning in the blackness of the unknown. I am never in control of my fate as people, 342

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objects, and events overwhelm me. Sometimes, I dream that I am permanently attached to a man with a glue that seals our mutual hatred. In other dreams, I am an animal who is unable to sniff its own trail. I retrace my missteps and miscalculate the tempo of the terror of our times. In this dream, I dance to the random winds of desire, like moths, tripping awkwardly into flames of empty passion. I dance on broken legs that defy gravity and pain. I dream that I am free of the burden of compassion, love, and beauty. I swirl as if drowning in my own filth. Blackout. Scene  Night—several minutes later  lies atop . He is attempting to direct her legs and arms into a graceful embrace. She is unconscious. : How can you sleep through this? This is the best you’ll ever know.  slaps ’s face. She awakens. : Hey! What the hell are you trying to do to me? Get off. : Anyone ever tell you that you’re a terrible lay? : How would you know? You can’t even get it up. : Maybe I don’t want to get it up. Anyone that doesn’t give me an erection doesn’t deserve to get fucked by me. : I don’t think that you’re capable of achieving an erection. You’re a classic sick bastard and a ridiculous coward.  gets up angrily. : You don’t know what the fuck you’re saying. I told you that I don’t want to fuck you. I saw the way you’ve been staring at me all night. You can’t look at me that way and expect me to put anything inside of you. : You’re not a man. You’re not an artist. : And you’re not a woman. At least, not the kind of woman that is desirable, admirable or durable. You weren’t meant to last.  takes  by the feet and drags her to center of the loft. : Owww. You’ve broken every bone in my body. : You’re mistaken. I’ve saved some of the best bones for the last dance.  takes an album and places it on the record player. He goes to the bar and drinks liquor straight from the bottle. : You know, you remind me of my father. Lucky for me, my mother poisoned him.  spits out the liquor and puts the bottle down. : I’ve known that you hated men since the minute you pushed your tits into my face. Vex Requiem

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: No matter how hard you try to stir up these sick fantasies of yours, you won’t get an erection. Why strain yourself, little boy? : Bitch. : You hate women, men, and anything that lives but mostly you hate yourself. And by the looks of things, you hate art. : I hate your mouth.  wraps her mouth with tape. He lifts her and dances with her as she struggles to speak. : This is my favorite song. It reminds me of the days when I used to wake up in the morning and I was already as hard as a rock. I didn’t have to deal with bitches like you back then. Everything was great. I’d paint everything and fuck everyone all day long. Then one day, I caught a few viruses. It didn’t bother me but it killed most of my friends and lovers. That left me with a bunch of ugly immune misfits, like you and your dead gang, to choose from. You call that living? Well, I don’t. You really piss me off because you think that you have the right to speak out, to be assertive, to contradict me. You don’t have any rights. And you can’t dance worth a damn on broken legs.  throws  to the floor. He drags her around and bashes her into the furniture, into the walls and against the floor. He carries on as though he were performing a violent ritualistic dance. He ends when the music stops. : It’s been wonderful but I’ve got to get back to work. I’ve got clients who’d pay dearly to be in your place. They worship me in every way. I’m a genius, you know. What’s that? Are you mouthing off again?  is dead. He removes the tape from her mouth. : If you can’t say anything, shut up.  checks her pulse. : I knew you wouldn’t make it. It doesn’t make any difference because I’m the only one who’s making it. He places more papers onto the floor and resumes finger-painting. Blackout. Scene  Day Paintings are strewn throughout the loft.  is asleep among three mannequins that appear to be the dead , , and . There is a light tapping at the door, followed by persistent knocking, which grows into an aggressive pounding.  stirs but remains asleep. The door opens.  enters. She drags in dead . She discards the body next to .  exits and shuts the door. 344

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The alarms sound off on the clock radio. Music plays.  stirs and awakens. He switches the alarm off but leaves the radio on. : Fuck you, clock.  takes off his shirt, reverses it, then puts it back on. He cleans his teeth with his shirttail then combs his hair with his fingers. He scratches his body and stretches. He looks down at his bare feet. : Sonofabitch. He gets on his hands and knees. He locates one shoe beneath  and finds the other on ’s foot. He takes his shoes and puts them on. The telephone rings. : Goddamn it. He answers the telephone. : Go ahead, ruin my day. Pause. : That’s your job. I paint them, you frame and sell them. Don’t give me any bullshit details. Pause. : Pick them up in a few hours. Bring the van. I’m going to the dump. He hangs up. : Shit. He goes over to . : Hey, are you trying to make an ass out of me? You land on your head after a three-story drop and you come back to visit? Maybe you bounced back through the window. You’re dead, you’re back, so hurray. Some stiff coffee and it’ll come to me. He programs the automatic coffeemaker and turns on the TV. A series of close-up images of faces appears on the screen.  : . . . And numerous arrests were made throughout the night. Mass executions were performed at dawn. Extreme curfew violations are up  percent over last month. Bodies can be claimed at the county’s downtown storage facility . . . : Storage facility! Look at these losers. Who’d want to store all that garbage?  : . . . The Regime Council has announced new guidelines for informants and general citizenry. Failure to comply is punishable by mandatory imprisonment . . . He turns the TV volume off. Images proceed. : Failure isn’t in my vocabulary. I didn’t order propaganda for breakfast. The creeps crawl out at night so they shouldn’t complain if they’re squashed by morning. Vex Requiem

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The telephone rings. : Double shit. He answers the telephone. : Don’t call me, I’ll fuck you. Pause. : Oh, it’s you. You know I can’t conduct business on an empty stomach or a full bladder. Pause. : Listen, you’re the one with shit for brains. If the deal stinks, hold your breath. Pause. : Alright. Okay. Pause. : Yen, deutsche marks, and gold. Bring it in a bag. Ciao. He hangs up. He pours a cup of coffee and sips the brew as he reviews his paintings. : These are absolutely gorgeous. That fucking critic is blind. I’ll pluck out his eyes and nail them to the gallery walls. An eye for an eyesore. He’ll see my point of view even if it’s through empty sockets. He nudges ’s head with his shoe. : You think the work is great, don’t ya? If Jesus loves you so much, why in the hell did he send you back to me? Go ahead, preacher, bring God to me and I’ll kick his ass. There is a light tapping at the door. : I need more visitors like you need a hole in the head. He opens the door.  enters. He shuts door. : You’ve been littering again, Minimo. Now you know the rules, these studios are in great demand. Every one of my tenants, including art stars and detectives and politicians and spoiled rich kids must respect the environment. You drop friends onto the pavement then you’ve got to pick them up. : Hey, Sima, I pay more than my share for this lease. I know when I’m being screwed. This is supposed to be a security building. Every night it’s the same thing. The minute curfew hits, I’m invaded by losers of every shape, color, and sex. How am I supposed to get any work done? I’m usually so busy that I can’t even masturbate. If you don’t lock the doors then I’m going to start charging you for pest extermination. : Well, I’ll see what I can do about it but I won’t make any promises. There’s no such thing as a decent locksmith anymore. How do you intend to dispose of this trash? You know that I don’t allow rotten flesh in my dumpster. : Don’t worry. I won’t violate your landlord’s rights. 346

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: Too bad the incinerator has been out of commission since your last barbecue. You don’t burn children or members of government, even when you know that it’s the expedient thing to do. : Anyone can make a mistake. She didn’t look like a judge and he wasn’t acting underaged. : Either way, it cost me my burn permit. : I want to get rid of this shit and I’ve already made arrangements for its transport. You see, Sima, I’m cool even when I don’t have to be. : Don’t get carried away with yourself. I’m a fan, remember? : My memory lasts as long as a hard-on. How’s your memory, like an elephant on the rag? : I haven’t had my period since the day all my sons and daughters were executed gang-bang style. So don’t worry about my memory. : And whoever said that a mother’s work is never done? : Well, life goes on . . . : . . . until I’m interrupted. : You artists are a bit weird. Why can’t you ever just simply show them the door? I’m sure that they’d rather take their chances with random sniper fire than all the tricks up your sleeve. I mean, it isn’t necessary to kill everyone who disrupts the creative process, is it? : Oh, of course not. I’d have to shoot more senators than I can stuff a fake ballot at, if that were true. When I paint, nothing fucks with my vision. I know what a painting is going to look like before I make a single stroke. I’m so damn brilliant that I know what the next thousand paintings are going to look like. So when I see shit-faced vagrants hanging around, I get pissed then I get even. Because I’m Minimo and they’re untalented nobodies in life and even less talented in death. They make me sick. : Everyone’s sick in their own special way. You’re one of the fortunate few who can apply a cure any way you see fit. : That’s right. I’m an artist and I can do anything and it’s still considered art. My collectors have clout. They don’t want to tarnish the golden eggs that I lay in their laps. I’ve got perpetual immunity. That’s the least they can do for me. I’ll make sure they reinstate your burn permit. Cremations, Sima, make the world go round. : What goes around, comes around. : What did you say? : I said, I’ll see you around. I’ve got to check on Detective Lib-Lub on the seventh floor. He’s jammed the garbage disposal unit again, with thick bone fragments. Seems like that man’s always interrogating someone. Such a workaholic. : Keep that asshole away from me. He doesn’t appreciate art. : Oh, I wouldn’t say that. He has your picture hanging in plain view in his living room. : Is it one of my paintings from my Tempera-Tantrum exhibition? Those Vex Requiem

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were the only works that were sold in the range of his dick’s salary, even if he is on the take. : Not exactly. It’s a rather revealing photograph of you having intercourse with a cadaver. : Was it male or female? : There’s no telling. It was horribly disfigured. : Damn. I knew that I shouldn’t have trusted that fucking mortician. He was so cross-eyed and drunk. I never expected him to be able to focus and shoot. I even took the film out of the camera. How could he? Rumors are great but photos are evidence. : Well, I’m sure he’s using the pictures for decoration purposes only. : Pictures? : Why, yes. I think that you have Mr. Lib-Lub all wrong. He’s quite an art historian. And he’s taken a keen interest in your career. He has pictures of you that go all the way back to the days you were so poor that you slept in a cardboard box near Main Street. : You’re lying. : Come to think of it, every picture in his loft is of you. : That cocksucker can’t do that. I own the rights to any and all images of myself. He’s got to pay royalty fees. This is America, goddamnit. : There’s a large full-color blowup of you inserting a hypodermic needle into a baby’s forehead. It’s in a gray metal frame and does wonders for the atmosphere of the master bedroom. : That was shot in black and white. Only a hardened cop would think of colorizing it. : Well, I don’t know very much about art but I usually like what I don’t see. : He can’t get away with this. I’ll have his badge, then I’ll show him how to shove a shotgun up his ass. : Judging by the way he clogs the plumbing with scalps, limbs, and entrails, I don’t believe a shotgun would be in your best interest. He’s got assault automatic weapons lying all over his loft. : And I’ve got friends in high places with bigger guns. He’ll be doing riot patrol in no time. : Please, don’t get so excited. He’s obviously one of your most avid admirers. You can forgive him the pictures. : I never forgive anyone. : He idolizes you. : Now, how in hell would you know? : Every time I see him, whether it’s in the hallway, the stairway, or the driveway, he always asks me how you are doing, where you are doing it and how long you been at it. He’s never once asked about me, instead, all I ever get out of him are shouts and complaints about the pipes. : Really? And what do you say to him about me? : I tell him that I never snitch, as a rule, but . . . 348

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: But what, Sima? : I apologize, really I do. I let it slip out that your toilet has never failed to flush properly since the day you moved in. : Now he knows everything. : There’s one more thing. : Fuck, I can’t stand it. You break up your information only to have me ask for more and more. Why don’t you give it all in one shot? : I don’t know how to say this . . . : Spit it out now or I’ll fart so loud that I’ll wake the dead. : He has a crush on you. I overheard him, through the door. He was talking to someone on the telephone. He said that he can hardly wait to fuck you, to fuck you over. : What else did he say? : I wasn’t being nosey or anything but I did hear him say that he’d love to see your ass, your ass behind bars. : He wants me that bad? Let him come in his pants, he’ll never lay a finger on me. : Would you like me to give him that message for you?  heads toward the door, then stops. : No. I want him evicted, today, or I’ll kill everyone in the building. : All of my tenants are from privileged ethnic stripes. Now, if they were from the dot categories, that would be different, but you simply cannot kill everyone, it’s not allowed. The custodial staff is dispensable, of course, but I guess that wouldn’t make the statement you’d like to make. : I’m an artist, that’s statement enough. : That’s too abstract, Minimo, even for these modern times. : Don’t be a bitch. : Don’t be a dick-head. : And what if I were to kill you if you don’t kick that Lib-Blub out of here? : You’d lose your studio and your security deposit. : That would be a tragedy. : I suggest that you pay him a personal visit. After all, it could be puppy love. : It could be rabies. I’ve never liked the way that mongrel foams at the mouth. No, Sima, it’s more intense than a fleeting attraction. He’s out to destroy me. I can sense his killer instinct and it’s putrid. : Aren’t you being overly paranoid? Why would such a handsome devil like Inspector Lib-Lub want to ruin such a successful and popular artist like you? It’s not like you’ve done anything illegal. And it’s not like the FBI or CIA or Pentagon didn’t have something better for him to do. You’re just looking on the dark side of things. I mean, you haven’t committed any crimes I should know about, a landlady’s got a right to know, you know? : You’ve never mentioned that he’s handsome. You think that in-bred pit bull is good looking? I always knew you were dumb. But blind? Vex Requiem

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She scans the dead on the floor. : Are there any crimes, Minimo? : No. None. Never. Absolutely not. : Then, stop worrying. Even if your hands were dirty, you have friends that will wash them for you. Right? : I’m perfectly capable of washing my own hands but I can’t deny that money and power have a way of removing even the most difficult stains. See?  flashes open palms. : I see red. : What? : I always see red. It’s the only color I can see. You see, when I was a little girl, I was hit on the head with a riot baton during a piñata party. The blow readjusted my brain, in other words, I blew a fuse like an old TV set. But don’t be concerned, I manage, except when I’m driving or bleeding. : You fool, they are red. : What? : Damn those opportunistic infections. Looks like blisters, feels like a million flea bites. During the last outbreak, the skin peeled off all the way to the elbows and left me with exposed nerves. I wasn’t able to paint for three weeks. : They don’t look that red. I mean, some reds are redder than others. Red isn’t something you can sneeze at. : Don’t be an idiot. I know how red they are. Owww. They feel like they’re on fire. By tomorrow, the skin will have already broken through. It’s always so painful.  takes his hands in hers. : Except for these bumps, a rash really, I’d say they’re perfectly normal. A little hot to the touch but that’s always preferable to clammy hands. : Fever? : That’s bad, isn’t it? That’s known as a complication. There’s lots of dangerous stuff out there. Vaccinations, condoms, pills, nothing seems to work anymore. All these diseases are getting out of hand. She drops his hands from hers. : You’re making me sick. I was feeling great until you walked in with this picture, picture, picture bullshit. I want you to leave now. And tell Lib-Blub to fight crime in the streets. Tell that dick-tective to shred the photographs and to forget about me. : He doesn’t take orders from anybody. He was a former police chief and a Secret Service assassin. He was awarded the Presidential Medal of Credibility. He’s been in private practice for over three years. : You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. : He’s brought down ten out of the ten most wanted list during the past ten months. 350

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: So he’s a one-man SWAT team. Am I supposed to be impressed? : Just thought I’d warn you. He seems to be obsessed over you. I assumed it was sexual but seeing how you’ve become so jittery, I’m beginning to think it’s business as usual. I’m inclined to let his plumbing go to hell until you two tough guys work everything out in typical macho fashion. If I were you, I’d toss a Molotov cocktail through his window but as your landlady, I must advise you that you are financially responsible for any damage to the building. : You are the indisputable nag of all time. Go to the toilet and wipe that shitty smile off your face. I’m not afraid of anyone. There is a loud pounding at the door. : He’s here. : That’s absurd. He opens the door quickly. : It’s obviously your imagination playing tricks on me. There’s no one here. : Well, the termites are active this time of year. He slams the door shut. : Maybe it’s your crabs that are overactive. : You won’t derive satisfaction by insulting me. Men are little boys most of the time. They want every woman to be their mama or their slut. I’m not very submissive when pushed into a corner. I’ve always fought back in more ways than one. I always cover my back and I’ve always got my eyes open on the lookout for trouble. If you want Detective Lib-Lub out of here, you are going to have to do it on your own. I treat all of my tenants the way I’d like to be treated, with respect. : Old maids are always touchy, it comes from not being touched. You don’t want respect, you want to bitch me to death. Listen, if that Lib-Blub ever mentions my name to you again, tell him that I’m in a perpetual state of artistic ejaculation. Tell him that my existence perpetuates the evolution of culture. Tell him that he should pump bullets into every living creature before he ever comes to my door to seek an audience with Minimo. Tell him that crime is relative and that art is absolute. : He always gets his man. : And I always get my way because that’s the way things are supposed to be. I believe in fate and worship multiple fatalities. As long as I live, everyone else can die for all I give a fuck. For instance, you, you stand in my way and I will erase you from the big picture. The same goes for that fetishistic Lib-Blub, he shows his face around here and I’ll hack off the tip of his penis and sew it onto the tip of his nose so that he’ll realize what a lie his life has been. : Well, masculinity is measured in inches. I’ve never been drawn to men with pug noses. And that’s no lie. There is a loud pounding at the door. : If he really wants to get in, he’ll kick the door off its hinges. Vex Requiem

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: He doesn’t knock that way, he’s much more authoritative. : Quiet. Get away from the door. : It’s not him, I tell you. : You’re probably his spy for all I know. You’ve set me up for the kill, right? Well, at least I’ll have the pleasure of taking you out before he gets me. : I’m telling you that everything is all right. I’m not an informant, I have integrity. There’s no need to get violent with me, Minimo. : That rude fucker is going to break the door. The pounding stops abruptly. : Mr. Lib-Lub would have used plastic explosives. Maybe you should have opened the door, it could have been urgent. : Leave the door closed. I don’t want any more visitors and I don’t need further interruptions. All I want is to drink my coffee and to use the restroom. : That’s the other reason I came to see you this morning, the water has been shut off indefinitely. : That’s outrageous. Didn’t you pay the bill? I was expecting a few drops for that wet effect when I step into the shower. You know I won’t drink it. So why? : It’s severely contaminated. The county has been dumping the unclaimed bodies in the reservoir. Some were contagious. : Hmmm. That’s never occurred to me. The reservoir is much closer than the dump. I wonder if all this scum would float to the top. : Forget it. Ever since the news broke, it’s been quarantined and blockaded. You’re just going to have to haul them away on your own like a good citizen. : Oh, I’m extremely patriotic. I’ll salute any flag or diaper that will let me get rid of its undesirables. Shit. What do you take me for, the garbage man? : You know the rules, bodies must be disposed of as quickly and discreetly as possible. You’ve got to wrap them up in plastic if you don’t happen to have any body bags. And make sure that none of their bodily fluids drip onto the carpet in the hallway. Someone spilled a bucket of urine on the floor near the elevator on the fifth floor. : That brings us back to current events, I have to piss, and seeing that this cup is nearly full, I might as well run up to the fifth floor. : Alright, I’m leaving. I can’t stand to hear you relieve yourself. Most of the tenants have filed complaints. All that screaming. With your money, you’d think that you’d see a doctor about those kidney stones and gonorrhea. : Maybe I should have you unclog my pipe with a little Sima-suction. : I’d rather drink two gallons of Drano. I’m respectable and I always carry my mm automatic with armored piercing bullets. So don’t get any ideas about forceful entry.  reveals her pistol.  steps back. : Ah, don’t freak out, I’m allergic to that color lipstick, besides, those razorlike fangs of yours are anti-penis. 352

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: You’re wrong. Every one of my ex-husbands told me that I have baby teeth. : You mean, late ex-husbands. How’d you marry and bury so many men? You certainly didn’t gum them to death. I’ll bet there’s enough venom in that orifice to kill a hundred men. : Minimo, get hold of yourself. You don’t have to prove your manhood to me just because I reject you sexually. I never have relations with my tenants. Besides, every one of my husbands committed suicide. I like men who are on the edge. : It’s the thrill of giving them a little push, I know the feeling. : And I know the mess you leave behind unless I keep you in line. I think I have a few yards of plastic sheeting in my office. You’ll have to work fast to clear all of this. They seem to be decaying faster than usual and the stench is a bit much. Don’t you agree? : I don’t smell anything. Hey, get away from the fucking door. That sonofabitch might be out there. I don’t want him to slip in unannounced. : I still think you are letting fear get the best of you. A man like Lieutenant Lib-Lub could love a man like you. You both have so much in common, like impotence and sadism. : He’s not my type and neither are you. : I enjoy my celibate widowhood, it keeps me from having to depend on any man’s approval. I can afford to ignore your rude comments. : You can’t afford the cost of batteries for your portable vibrator. : Always the low blows. I don’t believe that you’ll avoid Officer Lib-Lub indefinitely. You’ve got to leave your loft to buy groceries, to do the laundry, to purchase your art supplies, to visit your galleries and museums. You’re not going to let yourself become a prisoner in your own home. : You can’t imagine what the fuck I’m going to do, so don’t try. I can leave and I can stay whenever I want. I could easily fuck you as kill you as kiss you as kick you as decapitate you. So don’t ever intrude on my intuition, actions, or artistry. If I desire to avoid Lib-Blimp, then we’ll never meet again. If I want him, I’ll have him, not the other way around. : It’s up to you but you’re not getting any younger and no woman or man in their right mind would ever want to have anything serious to do with you. Your life will be filled with sick pleasures but one day you’ll want a meaningful and loving relationship. : And when that day comes, I’ll wear a ski mask and stab people at random on the streets of downtown. Anything is better than sentimentality. With me, it’s either sex and pain, pain and pain, or the pain of no sex. I’m as young as a fresh idea. : I don’t have any idea of what you’re talking about. She glances at her watch. : It’s nearly lunchtime. I must attend to the needs of my other tenants. Oh, what’s a landlady to do? : You could help me carry these rotting fruits out of my loft. Vex Requiem

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: You must know the rules so well because you insist on breaking every one of them. It’s your responsibility to remove your unwanted property. Better wrap them before their skin unravels. None of their guts spilling out where it doesn’t belong. Okay, Minimo? Get these bodies out of here. They clash with your paintings. I’ll get those bags while you get them ready.  opens the door. : There’s no one out here, so stop your worrying. Gunshot rings out.  is struck fatally and falls to the floor.  shuts the door quickly. He takes ’s gun into his hand. : One minute you’re so full of your boring life, the next minute you’re full of holes. I told you not to open the door. He kicks her. : Don’t look so glum. You should be proud to die in the line of landlady duty. It could have been much, much worse. You could have died of a broken heart.  cocks the pistol. : Emotional genocide is very painful and I’d wish it on my enemies but never on you. He leans over and kisses her on the lips. Just then, the telephone rings. : Don’t answer that. Let it ring. It might be him. He goes to the telephone. : Then again, it could be my broker, my agent, my attorney, my publicist, it’s a private line, so there’s no reason not to answer. He answers the telephone. : Say hello to me sweetheart. Pause. : Who the fuck are you? I can’t make out a word you’re saying. Pause. : It’s no use, we don’t speak the same language. Yeah, yeah, hasta la blah blah. He hangs up and is about to move away when it rings again. He answers quickly. : Quit this shit, asshole. Pause. : Hello? He pulls the receiver from his ear and strikes the telephone with it. : It’s dead. Why am I telling you? You’re dead. That Lip-Blip has something to do with this. I won’t be intimidated by his police terror tactics. I’m not guilty and I won’t be framed. That fucker doesn’t know who he’s dealing with. 354

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There is loud pounding at the door.  fires several shots at the door. An anguished scream is heard. : Everybody shut up. No screaming. Who’s screaming? He waves and points the pistol at the bodies on the floor. : That’s much better. I don’t want to hear another outburst like that again. No screaming, dead shits. He puts his ear to the door. : There’s no breathing, no moaning, nothing. He walks away from the door. : Goddamn it stinks in here. If only there were some way to get these corpses out of here. I wish that they would all get up and walk out of my life, they’re draining my creativity. Norfun, Meti, Rey, Sima, Lupina, you’ve all fucked yourselves but that’s no reason to interfere with my daily routine. I’ve seen enough zombie movies to know that you can continue at near normal levels of goals and accomplishments. Go ahead, don’t be shy, you can haunt the streets, anything’s better than being cooped up in this old place. Get the fuck out-a-here. The door swings open. A dead man carrying an armload of body bags falls into the loft.  slams the door shut. He searches the dead man’s pockets and retrieves a wallet, which he examines. : Never send a man to do a boy’s job. He unzips the body bags, which contain large amounts of currency. The money is scattered like confetti onto the floor. : Your employer should have told you never to pound on my door. We’ve been making exchanges for over nine years. I specifically requested yen, deutsche marks, or gold. What the fuck am I supposed to do with these useless dollars? Twenties, fifties, hundreds, they’re as worthless as your dreams of success. He’s never once tried to rip me off before. My paintings have always increased in value from the original sale price. Even with hard currency he’s always managed to rape a good profit. He places the body bags alongside the dead. : Just one negative review in my entire career. It’s not fair, a few printed lines in the city’s one and only newspaper, written by one idiot to be read and believed by a million other idiots. My work is for the elite who don’t give a shit for ignorant opinions. These dollars look so cheap in faded green. I couldn’t buy sex in the lowest neighborhoods with these bills. He picks up the telephone and dials. : Operator. Operator. Fuck off. I’ve been cut off. He hangs up. A fake Molotov cocktail, consisting of a rag and a bottle, crashes through the window onto the floor. Vex Requiem

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: Sima, is this your defused idea of an impractical joke? He picks up the “bomb” and removes the rag, which reveals a handwritten note on its surface. : You must find better ways to express yourself. He unfurls the rag and reads. : Dear art-whore, I love the way you smear colorless lives onto the black canvas. I’ve admired your violent splatter style from afar and can’t hold my dick in my pants another minute. Finger-paint me a picture and I’ll revoke the warrant for your arrest. I’d love to fuck you to death. With all my love and affliction, Inspector Lieutenant Lib-Lub. He drapes the rag over ’s face. : That Fib-Fub must be shot. Sima, you put him into this penis-power mood of his and I won’t stand for it. The sonofabitch can’t force me to do shit. I’ll blow his face out his ass with your gun. His hands are increasingly red and painful. His paranoia is rising. He fires several shots at ’s head until all the bullets are expended. He throws the gun out through the window. : They’ll have a difficult time identifying you, you back-stabbing cunt. The only way Bib-Bub could have known anything about anything that I do, or anything about nothing I haven’t done is through you. You told me that he has a crush on me, that he adores my photographic image. Liar. Your gossip had all the trappings of a noxious soap opera. But he’s got a warrant for my arrest and that’s only possible if my immunity has been compromised. He holds his hands up to his face. : Blisters. Pus. Shit. Too much stress, I’ve got to calm down. He places an album on the record player. Music mixes with that on the radio. He dances slowly with his eyes shut. , , and  enter quietly through the door. They are all well armed with automatic rifles, knives, riot batons, and pistols. They attack  quickly and beat him mercilessly with the butts of the weapons. He falls to the floor but remains conscious. : God I hope he’s dead. : Hit him harder, his eyes are open. : He always said he was a legend that would never die.  attempts to crawl away. They beat him again.  is nearly unconscious. : Let’s get this over with quick. As long as he’s alive, we’re all in mortal danger. : He’s powerless against us. Look, he’s artistically dead. : Eat me, fucker. I’m not dead. : He lives. 356

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: Who resurrected you fucks? Just means I’m going to have to kill you all over again.  kicks him. : Don’t get your hopes up for life after death. Your dagger definitely hit a soft spot but it wasn’t a mortal wound. It knocked the wind out of me but I managed to pull it out myself. When I came to, I found Lupina and Norfun lying on the floor. : Goddamned slut, I stabbed her in the heart. You’re dead. : What would you know about hearts? : It felt like you had broken every bone in my body. I felt like I was dead but then Meti placed her lips over mine and blew me back to life. : He was blue in the face but his body was very warm. : I ripped your asshole apart with my favorite boots. I shined those boots with your piss, shit, and blood. You’re dead. : You’re repeating yourself. He kicks ’s ass several times. : No pussyfooting around, asshole. He kicks ’s head. : That was for art’s sake.  hits  with the rifle butt. : And that’s for every woman who’s ever had their last dance with someone like you. : I’ll always lead. You’ll always follow, tripping over your own two feet on your way to hell. I’m certain that you’re dead. I remember hearing your neck snap against the coffee table. : Your mind snapped. I went into shock. Meti’s soft hands rescued me. : I slapped her out of it. : I’m not going to be fucked over by deadbeats.  attempts to get up but is too weak. : We’re the survivors in this game, Minimo. You’re overconfident in everything that you do and say and say that you do. Your arrogance is what brought you down.  produces a “zip gun” from his shorts and fires.  clutches his neck, mortally wounded. He falls to the floor. : Norfun. : Talk about arrogance, he didn’t even say good-bye.  handcuffs .  searches for more weapons and disarms him. : That’s your last murder, you bastard. : You don’t know what murder is. Norfun was a nothing. He was the fly Vex Requiem

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that gets squashed between shit and a shoe. I wouldn’t call it murder, I’d say it was justifiable insecticide. : His lips are blue but this time his body is very cold. Murderer. : It’s kill or be killed, that’s art. They lift  onto a chair. : Poor Norfun, now he’ll never see you suffer the consequences. : You’ve watched too much TV. Nobody who’s anybody ever suffers. The only consequences I’m interested in is in how you’re going to explain to the police how you’ve come into possession of such regulated hardware. : There won’t be any problem. The nice policeman who lives upstairs said we could keep our new toys if we did him a favor. : A small favor. : You both fucked Slib-Slub? Slime-balling does have its merits. : No sexual favors. He provided the decoys, the weapons and the keys to your loft. You’d be amazed to see how he’s succeeded in destroying your career. He’s had your gallery bombed and everyone who’s ever bought any of your works has been jailed or executed. They’ve eliminated quite a number of curators, agents, lawyers, models, art historians, and collectors. : He’s got a lot of nasty pictures of you. You’re sick, huh? : Don’t be stupid. Let me go. He’s going to kill all of us. I’ll help you idiots escape. I’m your only hope. He’s a madman. : So the great Minimo is scared. : Fear is the great provider. I go with my instincts. So let’s get going. : I think he’s peeing in his pants. : Piss off.  produces a Polaroid instant camera from her bag. She shoots as she speaks.  collects the paintings and places them in a neat pile. : Lieutenant Lib-Lub promised to upgrade our status from dot to stripe if we erase that malicious grin off your big head. Do you know what that means? No more discrimination, no more eating out of garbage cans, we won’t even have to stay indoors during curfew. : They’ll never let turds like you two float on the surface of the mainstream. You’ll both plop down hard into the dark pit of the melting pot. : Say cheese. : Hey, Meti, get your goddamned claws off my paintings. And you, I haven’t given you my permission to take my photo. : I don’t understand why Lib-Lub wants these things. They are all like mud painted on more mud. : They’re worth a fortune. I haven’t lost my immunity. The motherfucker wants to corner the market. Don’t you get it? If I die, my work increases in value. I knew he was corrupt. He’ll kill you the minute you eliminate me. Can’t you see that guys like him always have patsies to do the dirty work? Stop taking pictures. No pictures. 358

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: How did you ever convince anyone to believe that you’re an artist? And this one is the ugliest smear of them all, it must be your self-portrait. : You were better off dead. : Hold that pose. Got it. : I hate amateurs. Whatever your job is, you’re not getting it done. Professionals would have put a bullet into the back of my head then taken my paintings and all of this cash and made a run for it. No, better yet, they would have killed Lab-Lob on their way out. You two are a disgrace to your sex. : Sex, is that all that’s on your mind? You only fuck the dead. : He’s a rapist. : And what do you call what you are doing to me? Aren’t you raping me of my right to freedom of expression? You are the rapists and stupid ones at that. You’ll commit heinous crimes in exchange for a change of social status. I could understand if you were doing this out of revenge or for lots of untraceable money. I predict that you’ll be dead before you two are able to walk out of this building. Liz-Luz can’t trust you fools to keep quiet about this situation. He’ll enjoy cutting you into flushable pieces. : Lieutenant Lib-Lub wouldn’t do that. He’s given us his word of honor. You’re just trying to talk your way out of this. : Kill him. : You two would be better off dealing with me because I can be trusted. I promise to kill you if you let me go due to your incompetence. For instance, if you shoot me, you could miss. Or, say that I escape, I’ll strangle the two of you like I’ve always done to stray cats. : Lupina, don’t listen to him. : He isn’t saying anything important, Meti. : If you were to shoot Meti and if she were to die right in front of me, I’d be happy to show you where I’ve hidden my most expensive masterpieces. Of course, they would all belong to you because right after you kill her you can kill me. : He’s trying to trick you, Lupina. : It’s no trick. Kill her and you’ll be very rich. : And what would I say to Lieutenant Lib-Lub? : Tell him to go and fuck himself then put a bullet between his eyes. : You’ll never get away with it. Lib-Lub isn’t an easy target. : But you are. : Minimo, if you’re lying to me . . . : Look out, his hands are free.  fires at  but  is hit in the head. She falls dead.  stands, holding the opened cuffs in his hand. : Now that was a smart move for such a terrible shot. : It was intended for you. I couldn’t have missed. : But you did miss, Meti. Face it, you’re a fuck-up. Vex Requiem

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: You were turning Lupina against me. I know that she would never have shot me. She loved me very much. : Not much love on your end though. Where’s the tears? Where’s the outrage? No, you didn’t love her. I know your kind because we are one and the same. We love only those who share our sense of adventure, our lust for life and death. : We don’t share anything in common. I loved Lupina but something happened at that final moment when the bullet struck her. She changed into someone I didn’t know. I just don’t know who she is anymore. : That’s very profound for someone with the IQ of a skunk. Anyway I’m glad because I can’t stand to see a grown woman cry. : There’s nothing that you could ever do to make me cry again. You’ve caused so much pain and suffering. You’ve created so much ugliness. : Is that the only word you know? Ugly this and ugly that. If you really do believe that it’s all so ugly, you should end it all, here and now. Suicide, that’s what you need. : Don’t try to get me confused. I know that it’s always been very ugly for me but someone like you makes it so pointless. I mean, you insult everything to the point that there’s no value to pain and suffering. : It’s very easy, you just put the gun to your temple and pull the trigger with that itchy-snitch finger of yours. : I could never kill myself after all that I’ve been through during my lifetime and especially after what’s happened here since last night. I’m going to survive. : What for? : To live. : Why bother? : Because there are so many things to do in this world. : I’ve already told you, you’re dead. When Lig-Lug sees that you’ve completed your mission, even if you carry it out precisely to the last detail, he’ll put you through that meat grinder of his and make a couple of burgers out of your ass. No Meti, there are not many things left for you to do in this world. : Don’t come any closer or I’ll kill you. : But that’s what you’re supposed to do. The sooner you complete your task the sooner the man upstairs will deliver his eternal reward unto you. : You make everything sound so simple. : And it’s getting easier all the time. If I were you, I wouldn’t even think about it and simply act on impulse. Don’t think, you goddamned idiotic bitch. : You can’t abuse me. You’re not in any position to get me mad. : Get mad. Get so fucking angry that you can kill. You make me laugh. He laughs hysterically, mockingly. : It won’t work, Minimo. Stop laughing. : Make me. : I’ll do it. 360

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She places the gun against his temple. : Do it. After a tense moment, she withdraws the gun. : You won’t get your way with me. The game’s over. We both lose. They’ll never find me on the streets but you, there’s nowhere that you can hide. Lieutenant Lib-Lub has the hots for you. I’m willing to risk everything but it’s too late for you. : Bullshit. : You’re afraid of everything. You’re the one who needs suicide but you’re such a coward. If only you really were an artist then a tragic ending would suit you. You’re the ultimate fraud and I’m beginning to believe that maybe the world deserves you. She spits on a painting. : Whore. She pistol-whips him furiously. He stumbles to his knees. She pushes him onto his back with her foot then forcefully stomps on his genitals. She opens the door to exit but she is stabbed in the eye with a dagger and she retraces her steps to fall dead near .  is dazed but slams the door shut. He gets to his feet. : Your mascara’s smearing. He places the paintings and cash into a body bag. He takes the clothing from the dead/mannequins and puts them on in disguise. He arms himself with the guns. : Maybe you were right, Meti. It is ugly. But only when you have to look at it. By comparison my paintings are so beautiful and my wit is so charming. If it weren’t for assholes like all of you, I wouldn’t derive the ecstasy that thrills me by clouding your collective vision. He urinates in the sink then takes a bite from a large doughnut. He stuffs the doughnut into his shirt. : I’ll let Lib-Lub dispose of this waste. He climbs out through the window onto the fire escape. : Maybe you were wrong, Meti. I’m the one who is willing to risk everything but it’s too late for you, and you, and you, and you, and you. He laughs sarcastically as he descends from view. Pause. There is a desperately loud pounding on the door. Black out.

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FICTION

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Cruel Profit (1974)

 A/-  -:  ft.  / -  mm :  -X   -- :    /  :  / :   / :   (jar of ) ’:     /  :  or more  / ,  ,  ,  ,  :   / :  -- .. /  -- .. “. . . and you wonder why I’m upset with you. It’s because you don’t know what you’re doing and don’t even care. You’re too abstract. Come down to earth, hombre. Can’t you understand that you’re not where the people are at? You could show those pictures to anyone in the barrio, your neighbor, people in the store, the kids in school; man, no one will understand what you mean by this, only the few whose minds are all confused, and who can perceive what you mean by this madness, will be able to appreciate it, otherwise it is just a direct insult to the people. No one wants to see pictures of someone burning a baby! You should be making movies and taking pictures of people working and suffering, something they can relate to, like showing young Chicanas standing in line waiting for their food stamps or people crowding the unemployment office on Indiana Street, not some doll wrapped in barbed wire. I think that your abstraction is what is going to cause us to break apart as friends, I’m speaking to you like a brother, but I think that you better give what I’m saying heavy consideration 365

because it seems like you might become or already are part of the problem, counterrevolutionary; things are too abstract already, the world doesn’t need any more confusion, obstacles that confuse people while they try to cope with reality. People need concrete answers, not dreams! Te estoy diciendo la verdad, carnal. Don’t stay the way you are because if you do you’re going to find that the movement has left you behind and that you’ve only grown old as a burden and something to be rid of. Keep in mind what I say because I don’t think you’ve really been able to see where your mind’s been at, you spend your entire life in a fantasy, making up stories, always laughing when there’s nothing to laugh at: You shouldn’t! Man, this coffee tastes fucked. Let’s get out of here; just remember what I said, alright?” An old man crying for some pain he never knew. She felt it, but she’s been dead for years. “I remember having a chicken foot in my back pocket when I was a little boy. I would take it out in school during lunch and pull the nerve or whatever it was to make the toes contract into a grasp and then release it so that the foot would open up again. At night, when it was dark, I would wake up my younger brother and we would both go into the closet and shut the door so that it would be pitch black. We’d sit across from each other and take turns scratching each other’s face lightly with the chicken foot. When I grew older it turned into a dream and now I’ve turned it into a movie.” “How were you able to film in total darkness?” “I avoided that technical difficulty by changing the setting and by choosing an alternate portion of the chicken.” “Our time’s almost out but would you care to elaborate on your film?” “At the moment it’s still unedited but it should come out as follows: We open up with a wide shot of a Chicano who does not resemble Anthony Quinn. He is asleep, alone, on his bed. The camera cuts to his face as he snores and slowly moves down his body until we see his foot exposed, bare, as it sticks out from under the blanket. A wrinkled old hand holding a feather comes onto the screen and begins to tickle his foot with the tip of the feather. He wakes and gets up quickly as he looks around his room. There’s nobody there but himself: he scratches his head and begins to get dressed. There’s a close shot of his foot, the shoe is filled with white feathers; the shoe drops to the floor. He goes into the kitchen, gets a few eggs and makes an omelet. As he spoons his breakfast onto his plate the eggs have mysteriously transformed themselves into more white feathers! There’s a look on his face that expresses the feeling that one must feel when you’re 366

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at the top floor of a skyscraper in an elevator and the cord snaps half a second before you’re able to walk out of the door. He walks around the kitchen for a few seconds trying to act calm, grabs his coat and goes out the back door in his socks. He walks through an alley and gets to a bus stop on Whittier Boulevard, where he sits on a bench to wait for the  line. He takes out a cigarette, and as it is lit, it begins to rain white feathers. He panics and runs back along the route that brought him there. There’s a shot of the feathers following him as they blow against the ground. He continues to run then sees an old shack where he decides to hide. He runs inside and closes the door. An old wrinkled hand comes onto the screen and puts a padlock onto the door. As he looks inside the shack, it is filled with thousands of plucked chickens that are scrambling about wildly; he begins to pull his hair, he looks outside the shack and sees an old Mexican woman killing chickens as she swings them violently by the neck. There are piles of dead chickens all over the yard. He turns around and tries to escape but the door is locked. He presses his face against the chicken wire and screams. The camera cuts to the old woman’s kitchen as she is making omelets for twenty children who are sitting at a long table (all are wearing sunglasses). The old woman goes over to the children and begins to serve their plates. She scoops out some omelet onto a few, then on one little girl’s plate the man’s shoe falls, sticky and covered with egg; the camera moves slowly upward from the shoe on the plate and focuses on the wall, where there are many eight-by-ten photos of many different men. Half of the photos have been crossed out. As the camera zooms in on the picture of the man in this story, the old woman’s hand comes onto the screen and puts an X over it. The camera widens a bit and we see the photo of another man next to it that hasn’t been marked. The camera cuts to a close shot of a bare foot sticking out from under a blanket. An old wrinkled hand holding a white feather comes onto the screen and tickles the foot with the tip of the feather. We see a tight shot of the man’s face (from the next photo) as he wakes.” Cut to: Fade in: SYLVIA Don’t you love me? ECHO Yes, I love you but I can’t see you anymore. SYLVIA I can’t see you anymore. Cruel Profit

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Cruel Profit, 1973. Super-8 film performance by William F. Herrón III (directed by Harry Gamboa Jr.), which was screened at the Chicanismo en el Arte exhibition at LACMA in 1975. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

’                  . ’         .      . ’  -     . ’         ,       ..    ,  ’ , . Headlines: Patssi:

Foto: Freeway:

Yanquis Deported on One Big Boat Europe Sinks Tacos de gato Tamales de seja I’m sure! Self-portraits () Last Puffs before Earthquake I & II VW van; Long Beach to Pomona on-ramp Tumbling as it explodes

“. . . capitalism is what we have to fight. The oppressor of the working class, not just Chicanos, but the entire race of man; we must all join hands in solidarity against our imperialist enemy the murderer of life as it could and should be. Don’t be such a fool. Don’t fall for all of that dangerous bourgeois bullshit!” My love throbs in an empty backseat waiting for your smile and agile lips I see only blank space and wasted time You weren’t home so I did it alone. “Mijo, your mother sighs, lifeless and rusted she smiles a request. Adorned with hooded shallowness you pierce her loneliness. Tears and painless colors embrace; and for the moment the bite of death is in your ear. Your face screams into the perfumed crust. The weather won’t let you stay: go home.” “And if the clouds were only shadows of repetitious visions, and if I were only light, sound, and matter, would I be able to stay, Abuelito?” “No, you wouldn’t want to, it’s too late to stay. We’ve already left. Abre tus ojos, m’ijo. It’s already gone.” “Milagros by the dozen, eh? I prefer to sleep.” “Learn to kiss life full in the mouth and you’ll never nap again.” “Then, why are we here?” “¿Quién sabe?” Cruel Profit

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“. . .  , ;    .   , .      ,           . . .” Adios, I leave tattoos on this typical disaster and besides I still fear you more than the midnight dark in which I’ll disappear, besides, you’re not alone. In fact, you’re the third this week.

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Día de los muertos (1977)

D

o you remember making love when your mother would go to sleep soon after I’d pretend to leave through the front door? I’d count to a hundred then meet you at the back door where you would step outside with me into the warm summer night; near the garage, chasing the cats away so that we could take their place? You never wore underwear, only lipstick that would glisten on your lips as the thin ray of moonlight would fall on your face. I remember letting your dress slip in the shadows. Your mother always slept well. We’d kiss and laugh, covering each other’s mouths so that she wouldn’t hear. You were always wet, soft; we were always hot, hidden in the darkness; love. We’d talk in the morning, through the fence when you were in school. I’d stick my tongue through the chain link; wetting your gold cross earrings, telling you that I could hardly wait for the night. I can’t remember when it happened, but one day, night didn’t come. I saw you on television the other day; speaking on various issues, telling us all who you are, why you are. You told us what you want. Your lips still shine but they didn’t stick. I had great difficulty understanding you, at first. I thought you wanted to attack; animated movements, your voice digging out the eyes of the audience; but then it seemed like you were the victim, casting your persecuted smile onto the screen. I changed the channel when I felt myself giving in. Fifteen minutes; slow; I decided to watch you again. You were still on; mute presentation. I put the volume on as far as it would go and tried to listen to you. Your nervous hair filtered your image; I wasn’t able to hear you for a long while; your electric look told me how selfish I’ve always been. Typical talk-show format; tempera paint environment on wheels, cushioned seats that absorb the light, only enough cake makeup for the host: You were in my living room asking why I would never compromise. 371

Hands never connect to arms on television; they were reviewing your new book, they loved each page; I liked the cover. When I was beginning to hear your clear words; there was a commercial: VIDEO

1. OPENING NETWORK DISCLAIMER: “A political announcement.” 2. Fade up on rapidly moving sequence of rioting, Latin mob motivating to crowds, taunting to police authorities. 3. Flaming police patrol car dissolving to crowded lines at unemployment office. 4. Perplexed faces of prominent Americans. 5. Cut to montage of angry people moving through battered streets ordered by destroyed shops and homes. The mood is despair. 6. Eloquent faces of Americans who have lived through such experiences, climaxed by single shot of charred pieces of an unemployment check stub. In center of picture are smudged red letters of the word void. Fade out. 7. Fade up title: “This time vote like your jobs depended on it.” 8. Dissolve to title word, Migra. Zoom to cu. Hold fade-out. 9. CLOSING NETWORK DISCLAIMER: “The preceding prerecorded political broadcast was paid for by the Quota Campaign Committee.”

AUDIO

Music up and under.

H.K./A.H.

It is time for some honest talk about the problem of employment in the United States. H.K./A.H. Citizenship is a necessary ingredient for work. But in a system of government that provides for naturalization— there is no cause that justifies the use of violence. There is no cause that justifies rule by mob instead of by government.

Music up and under.

I fell asleep with the television on; it was loud but I had been up for twenty hours; I had been typing my article; the investigation, all of that cloak-and-dagger 372

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melodrama with its few payoffs, typing; hitting the keys, drinking the coffee, winding up the last pages along with my nerves. You were talking to me as I slept, you must have been because I began to dream the same dream that you always told me not to worry about, you know, the one where the moon begins to crumble, sending large lunar mountains around the earth; large chunks that would fall into the ocean; causing earthquakes. There was a huge convex piece that landed in Europe, covering all of Spain and part of France. We were both at the zoo counting the snakes that we would attract. I think you were drinking a soda when we noticed a great rock that covered most of the sky; it was so close and so intricate; we were both excited by how gray it was. We both shared the soda and waved as it passed in slow motion because we knew that it could see us holding hands in the snake pit. I’m sure you remember it. You always told me not to worry. FIRST DRAFT

The muffled screams of tear-swept horror run down the streets in confused waves, faded bricks fan the smoggy sky; collectively crashing, smashing; windows shattered, mannequins playing dead inside the burning Kress, cash registers pleading for mercy; liquor looted, half pints, fifths, gallons, eighty-nine proof yanqui go home, six-packs aimed carefully at the toothless smiling billboards; clenched fists pounding on paint-chipped walls; proper scenario against the smoke-filled buildings that won’t sustain the flames. A march against police terrorismo; simple, peaceful, a few posters, buttons, people speaking; smells of resistant blood; the hot weather supports the bare youth as they press their even warmer bodies against ironclad weapons. Twelve automobiles, one following the other, each with its five helmeted, deadly cargo; two inches apart, seventy miles an hour; they look like an angry black and white train as the flashing red lights speed down the side streets looking for women and children first; men later. They turn right at the corner, following one another with synchronized precision, as though placed upon a transparent track, they move faster; other trains are crisscrossing at every intersection; the caboose on one train miscalculates and barely misses running over a dazed viejita who wanders aimlessly in their teargassed route. Families, friends, people who’ve always known of each other’s existence are all crammed into onebedroom houses; all choking, mostly shocked into silence, except for the few red-faced babies who cry against the chemical clouds that flow in freely through the cracked walls. Fire trucks rush to save the foreign investments, news reporters waste their film on a clumsy cop who slips and hurts his hand; frontpage stuff. Día de los muertos

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Día de los muertos, 1974. Asco at Evergreen Cemetery, East L.A. Left to right: Humberto Sandoval, Patssi Valdez, Harry Gamboa Jr., Gronk,William F. Herrón III. Photo credit: Diane Gamboa.

SECOND DRAFT

twelve-gauge riot guns, clutched menacingly by a row of breathing flack suits, casually smoking cigarettes, facing north; dead shots. The sparse crowd, isolated, running south, taking pictures, recording noises, throwing stones and pieces of cement; face to shield, modern-day lopsided duel; this town ain’t big enough . . . Sadistic, depersonalized squints that hide behind regulation dark glasses, offer no hint of the prearranged massacre that follows shortly. Ready, aim, firing into the crowd; sadden bodies litter the street; helicopter views allow a better angle on those who try to escape; Chicanos dying from whirlybird snipers. THIRD DRAFT

couches, chairs, burning in the street; empty furniture stores. All the parking meters have been violated. Pawnshops closed for the event; cameras, radios, old coins are for sale; a hungry woman reaches in through the broken window, taking back her wedding rings. The red lights are meaningless; everybody’s going. Her frightened gestures reflect against air-conditioned helmets with huge insect eyes; as the six-foot mob descends upon her with clubs and shoes, dragging her senseless; the old, modest ring is crushed from her worn fingers; they toss her into a well-packed bus, handcuffed, bloodily beaten, into the mobile prison where they kick her again, yanking her around by the breasts; Chicana booked for fascist pleasure. P.S. Mijitos, they made mommy disappear. My usual allotment of colored nightmares carried me well beyond our familiar dream. I was the deity of lightning and thunder; my eyes, made of darkened clouds, my halo of death, the bolt protruding ominously from my waist; moving slowly, parading for the voyeurs behind tinted lenses; I was in celebration of mourning, melting into the crumbled tombstones, in concert with a mad cast. Even the walking envelope was taking pictures; a huge camera which he focused on the universe with all of her transformed energies, her tail of life light; golden rain washing away the sins from her rainbow, leaving the purities to shine like suns unto themselves. There was a two-legged triplane; its horrified teeth, pink gums, a silver star on its tail; with a sleepy-eyed pilot, dancing to his decorated fate; flying high within the universe, crashing solidly into the screaming tredded tank of anguish; all of us on display, offerings for the dead. It was el día de los muertos and we were on Brooklyn Avenue, eating pan dulce with two mummies who did Betty Boop imitations; we were all laughing as we walked along the traffic, fading away with a grainy effect until my swollen eyes opened and saw the weatherman screaming at me, telling me what the night’s low was going to be. I unplugged the set immediately; pulling the cord, making sparks shoot from the Día de los muertos

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socket. It was night; motionless, dark, and silent. My hands searching for the telephone, awkwardly grasping at the floor, finding the shoe that I had kicked off; finally taking hold of the receiver; the blind man counting the holes so that he can dial; slipping my fingers in gently, roughly turning them clockwise, until I connect the right combination. She gives me the time in her disaffected style, giving me the exact moments as I continue to listen; ten-second intervals; I tell her that the dream seemed so real; that it must have been true. She’d never been on Brooklyn Avenue since it was eight o’clock: Exactly. My pupils contracted dryly to the yellowish light as I flicked on the switch. Your book was on my desk; bold, sans serif type, along the edge of your shaved forehead; that indiscreet line of fame with its day-old stubbles. It was your dedication that made me flinch, “no puedo andar porque la vida loca me hace correr.” After washing my face; brushing each tooth, combing my hair, and putting on the shoe that had been kicked under the table, I put you in my back pocket; upside down with no bookmark; and left that cold house for my evening breakfast. Lost in Los, hoping I can order huevos rancheros at a drive-thru; settling for secret sauce and too much sugar in my coffee. Eating in the parking lot, punching the radio: music, news, music; a new rock hit based on a cornflake jingle; catchy. It looks like a used-car lot with overly impatient sales personnel; everyone munching and crunching away at their health, drinking malts made of thinner. I pull you out; as long as he doesn’t have to answer to anyone, the plastic puppet lets me reread you in a reddish orange. You’re no better than the first time but I continue to read on until the last page; hoping that it is your last book. I vaguely remember, though, that you had been talking about a sequel, that would primarily be composed of photographs; your visual impressions. Maybe my criticism is too harsh, but I just woke up and my ability to be subtle sleeps longer hours than I do. I’m not going to finish my fries, my typewriter is lonely in its case; and I really must get on to my work. FINAL DRAFT

thousands are trapped in the parks; stampeded into the wall; dead, end, rows of empty school buses lined up bumper to bumper. Brown panic at war with the huge macelike batons; striking the old man’s wrinkled neck, hammering his head into the trash can, using it to erase the parks and recreation stencil. Well-armed predators, exterminating those who do not serve the monied well; repressing those who are visible; stuffing steel-tipped boots into a child’s back, wiping his father’s face with sidewalk. Civil disturbance gear put to the test; maximum results videotaped; prerecorded brutality, instant replay at all the right places; private screenings for paid actors and their agents. Circular currents, as the masses zigzag across the park, raising the calm from the dust with their hooves; the fanged packs pick 376

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out the slowest and the weakest, surrounding them, attacking their prey at will; devouring their catch with a ferocious appetite; kicking and clubbing until the entire family is rendered unconscious; eyes closed, blackened; eardrums ruptured on the curb; remote control tear gas, storm trooping the one-bedroom houses, torturing all those who had been shocked into silence by violence; dropping cannisters into the cribs. The smoke rises thick, blowing east with the wind, gray, covering most of the sky, burning black well into the night, when the delicate constellations are hidden by the occupied tears of grief and pain. I could never accept you; your mind enjoyed pleasing itself; inconsistently switching from extremes to mediocre tastes that I’d try to season. I preferred you in the shadows of our youth, together, kissing; touching teeth to flesh, entering our bodies in a hypnotic dance of eroticism by the garage. My dreams were always safe because you’d tell me not to worry; gray matter flying from my head in a strange distorted orbit. I saw myself in each of your pages, and I’m sorry for the reflection that they’ve kept; I’m sending you a mirror along with these words, if you look at it long enough, you’ll see who I’ve been all these years. A kiss to your wet lips, as the chromium-plated projectile shoots through the air; a woman screaming outside the curtains; words for you, none left: gray matter covering the sky, smeared on all the looted liquor in this bar, as I wave to it, knowing that it can see me as I fall to the floor in defeated convulsions; you wore no underwear; you told me not to worry.

Día de los muertos

377

Phobia Friend (1977)

DOWNTOWN L.A. (7th and Broadway)

A man who wears his hands backwards is selling newspapers. No one buys but I take a closer look at the explicit cover of a sensationalist Mexican magazine that gives weekly pictorial accounts of homicides, suicides, mutations, mutilations, and a column for the who’s who in vital statistics. “You buying?” “No, just looking.” There it was lying naked, severed neatly between two railroad tracks; someone else’s ass. It was a frightening three-quarter-page photograph. In Guadalajara, Jalisco, someone had crossed the path of a speeding night train only to land butt first into a position of prestige: the front page. “If you’re not buying, why’re you looking so hard?” “I was wondering whose ass that might be.” “It’ll be yours if you don’t get the hell away from my stand.” The newspaper vendor waves good-bye, maybe he’s calling me back. The street is filled with commuters whose overtime has come. I dance a mangled tango with the shadows in the doorway that want me to “come see” and laugh at the old gray men that blend in with the dull fat pigeons. The windows on the street carry goods that carry no guarantee. Later that night: I start my car and roll out slowly onto the nearest freeway on-ramp and into the lane that will get me to Hollywood. I’m fascinated by the images that become discernible for only a moment as I speed by. A mattress in the emergency lane. A dog with a serious stare. Someone spitting. Goldfish painted onto the side of a truck. 378

Pipes, leaving me exhausted. I make a daring exit and decide never to use the freeways again. I park the car in a darkened alley that is cramped with neglect and crickets. I stand at the corner, confused by what I had just heard. “Hey you in the back. Turn off that cigarette. I said, turn it off!” “The bus driver is talking to you man.” I hadn’t realized that I’d been smoking. “Oh yes, of course. Sorry.” I flick the filter tip out of the window in the form of a tracer bullet that lands at my feet as I see myself pass by in the bus. I’m here on the corner still somewhat confused. I’ve always enjoyed that abstract impersonality of the city’s buses. It’s the subtotal of fragmented interpersonal relationships that leads me into a fit of depression and into the pit of daydreams. Tonight I’ll walk. It was nights like this that I’d swallow my saxophone to an offbeat bolero. October . November . January . A young couple struts along with the boy’s name tattooed onto the girl’s neck. “He was a puto.” “But he wasn’t even looking at me.” “I saw him. I really should have cut up that punk.” “Yeah, but when you got through with him, he couldn’t even walk!” “And I did that for you ’cause you’re my baby.” Fluorescent adolescence. They fade from view, leaving the indelible image of the girl’s neck stapled securely onto the one-color poster announcing a long-forgotten wrestling match. My shoes have been lost for quite some time and the cold concrete attracts little concern. EAST L.A. (Indiana and Whittier)

I begin my trek eastward. Walking against the cracks, doing sidesteps along the beer cans that manage to show, my momentum maintains a steady flow into the night. The Jewel Theater is to my left and the matinee premieres no longer flash onto the tiny screen. The theater is boarded off from public viewing but serves as a giant matchbox for an empty arsonist. Somewhere there must be an afterimage of me as a child standing in the line with my father and my brothers to see The Fly or The Blob. And the theater itself demands some respect, otherwise why would it come to mind at all? Yes, it was to my left, as I move along . . . The street lamps emit a calmative hum. The street is dimly lit. A wake is being held at the newly painted mortuary on the next corner and the crowd at the entrance is weaving itself into a subdued frenzy. The somber Phobia Friend

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picture is eclipsed slightly by the ruffle of her khaki skirt when Catalina, my expartner in crimes against nature, walks out, doing her popular performance of the “grand exit.” I was doing my own grand exit the last time I’d seen her; she’d been helping me climb out through the bathroom window as her husband pulled up to his oil-stained driveway. We’d discontinued communications one week later when for some inexplicable reason her spouse feloniously attacked a man, who some say held an uncanny resemblance to myself in my whiskerless state. Their divorce followed shortly. So did my beard. It is cool now and the thin breeze fans the old flame. It’s been nearly a year since we’ve spoken with one another. Our last comments were somewhat bitter. Maybe a sweet hello. “Cata.” She ruffles her skirt right past me. “Cata. Don’t you recognize me?” “How long have you been hiding behind that beard?” “It grows then shaves itself off.” “What are you doing here?” “Playing hide-and-seek with reality.” Cata’s hair used to be much longer. She’d always be brushing it in thirtysecond intervals, never giving the angles a firm grip until we’d scratch like cats in the birdbath. Even then she’d take breaks to comb away some of the erotic moments, but then there were too many and the tangles would come just the same, leaving her hair matted in disjointed situations that spanned across every cheap motel that we could find in and out of the city. We’d always be surprised by the fantastic television reception that those motels could get. Sometimes we’d go just to get a clear image of what we’d really have in mind. It was always the same: How long will you be staying? / How many will be staying? / Please leave the key on top of the bed. And I’d always leave the key in the following motel. And we’d always leave for a poorer reception at home. Her hair is so much shorter now, it doesn’t seem to get brushed at all nowadays. I’ll volunteer my comb. “Do you have any cigarettes?” “I’ve got some inside. Come and take a look at my aunt, it’s horrible.” What astounds me is the golden glint that radiates from the woman’s half smile. She’d been a single-needle operator for three decades when one day the factory fell on her face, four more years of boredom in bed, losing her breath, and taking her last breath at well under seventy pounds. “No, that’s alright. I don’t like menthols.” SILVERLAKE (Westerly Terrace and Sunset)

We’d managed to cross over the L.A. River, a paved ditch that separates the society of frogs from the mainstream. A series of bars decorates the terrain. We hit places 380

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that carry jukeboxed mariachi to gay/cholo disco. Places where the backwards of the film industry mix with the cultural mass murders of denial. Cata has designed me to be out of focus. “I can’t see why you won’t drink a beer.” “Beer reminds me of piss.” “So? I don’t like the ocean. I’m afraid to jump into the water. I know that I’ll put my face into a wave that’ll be carrying a jellyfish. I don’t want to die with the face of a jellyfish.” “I don’t like spiders. I’m afraid of one making its webbed nest in my throat.” She’s saying things that I’ve heard before, somewhere. We stumble from our stools and into the backseat, where we unzip our secrets and let them meet in the cold distance of our drunken stupor. “I don’t like backseats.” “Don’t talk.” “I don’t like backseats, damn you.” “Who’s driving?” “Get me out of here!” “I can’t drive.” “How did we get here?” “Don’t talk.” “Hmmmm.” “Don’t.” The business of moving in concentric circles around L.A. has gotten us nowhere. We choke in the backseat fearing nothing except whatever it was itself. Her shoes have been lost for quite some time also. Outside of a bar a man gets kicked in the back by a monstrous bouncer. He crawls to our car and pounds on the windows. He has a large bump on his chin and warns us of impending doom. His bump is more like a ball of hair and teeth covered with skin. He says that we’re dying from radiation poisoning. We need lead. Lead will protect us. I feel like putting that bump into a small container and letting it dry up. I want to count its teeth. BOYLE HEIGHTS (Lorena and Brooklyn)

I rest my forehead on the telephone pole. I rest for hours. I’ve forgotten about the ride home. Cata is gone. I don’t recall where we separated. I refuse to understand. It had been a year since I’d seen her last. At that time our conversation had gone somewhat berserk. Last year: “I hate dogs. When I was a kid, I ran into the side of a large German shepherd. It barked insanely into my face. It frightened me so much that I hated it for Phobia Friend

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making me undergo such a terrible experience. Since then, I’ve managed to repay the shepherd on many occasions. “Like the time you threw up on the dead dog in the gutter.” “The barrio dog has no recourse but to die.” “Some dogs bite.” “Few profit from the practice.” And back: Homeboy goes home. In the s, the recurring chisme was that chola had died because a black widow had bitten her on the scalp and had made its home within the cranial cavity, living off of her thoughts and actions. She had committed suicide in her home after having systematically murdered three of her boyfriends. It was said that if girls wore teased hair, the same fate would be awaiting them within a short period of time. Those were the days when I could not sleep. I was a young boy who bit his hand in the garage. “Orale! Where’re you from?” “I can’t think.” “I said, where are you from?” “Where am I?” All I recall is the cold bar sending me away into the street, where my thinking process was slowed to a syrupy ordeal. I was sleeping in the middle of the street with a dent in my skull. The pavement was sticky, like being caught in a flypaper caper. I had started the day as a well-dressed photographer shooting damsels in distress. Now there was no silver on the screen. Maybe I am dying of radiation poisoning. I can hear the children now as they scream in amazement at seeing me glow in the dark. They throw pennies onto my back and watch the copper cent pieces light up to a bright red as I attempt to get up. It’s the final clash between mind and matter; public executions are the rage. Chicano phlebotomy is practiced throughout the colony. I dodge the slow bolts of lightning as an archway of clouds forms across me. The bolts are attracted to the manhole covers, which have been whispering doubts into my flattened ear. “You were so immature that all along you were sucking on falsies, never suspecting that you had been deceived.” I don’t believe the covers. GUADALAJARA (R&R)

My forth coming; I transfer my genes onto the tracks. We are the random alternatives of our brothers and sisters; symbols are not duplicated passively. The communication is exchanged in our immortality. Self-destruction is a social act. Somehow the collective “senselessness” is sustained through the lure of gore decor. The applause has no power to subvert the established desire. 382

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“Welcome to Mexico, señor.” “This is L.A.” “Maybe you need directions?” “I need tequila.” “You’ve had too much already.” The stars have fallen from the sky onto the sidewalk, smashing me even further onto the nameplates. “This is L.A. and I’m on Hollywood Boulevard.” “Oh, no. That’ll never exist for us here, señor.” In the distance, I can hear the engines approach with excitable speed. The tracks vibrate with erotic expectations. I can see the train speeding closer through the moonless night, it is cramped with neglect and modern fugitives. The warm wheels send me away into the headlines. Before I land there is a sharp whistle and in the darkness I know that Cata waves good-bye from the caboose. Maybe she’s calling me back.

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LINE 436 PASADENA/HOLLYWOOD BUS RUN 8 DEPARTURE: 4:32 A . M . Passenger 3

“Exact change! Is that all you goddamned bus drivers know how to say? Think this is going be a joyride to some nightmarish hell? You’re on a rerun run on sentence or one of those one-way trips to that token pleasure where idiots like you go when they die. I don’t have any change! Think I’d pay good money to get a ride from the likes of you? I’ve driven with better whores. This is my stop, where I got on. Open the door or I’ll scream!” Passenger 12

“So I say to myself that they are all a bunch of Zeroids. I know that they’re out to get me so I buy a butcher knife at Jonsons Market and tape it to my chest under my shirt. I wait around for two days and nothing happens. Oh, the tape begins to peel a little but that doesn’t worry me. On the third morning I wake up to find that the knife is sticking through my cat’s neck with the tape covering its eyes. The Zeroids were warning me not to resist. They could have killed me but they let me slide. Now I do whatever they ask and you better too unless you want to risk your own safety.” Passenger 19

“I had sex with you before. It was your seventeenth birthday and I couldn’t afford a present. You were a sick kid. Why do you waste your time doing this kind of work? Let me ride with you to the end of the line and I’ll let you suck me off for a treat. No. You’re not him at all.” 384

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“I work as a security guard at Diego de Los Angeles Hospital down the street. I’m almost like a real cop. I patrol the hallways to make certain that there aren’t any dopers stealing the drugs. I caught one patient stealing a jar of Valiums the other night. I thought he was going to swallow one of the pills so I grabbed him by the throat and made him choke a bit. He still swallowed it. I left a small bruise. He was real sick. He shouldn’t have gotten out of bed.” Passenger 36

“Tell me when we get to Hollywood. I want to piss on Ronnie’s star.” Passenger 38

“I can’t deal with that snitch mentality. You know, those crybabies who never handle situations like full-fledged adults. The minute the pressure is on, they’re pointing their fingers in everyone else’s direction. I know this person, could be a woman or a man, who goes about walking the edge of deadlines, always saved though by his or her coworkers who get the blame. This snitch has been called upon as an expert on many matters of great importance. By the time a decision has been formulated or an action taken there’s been many who have been trampled on in its path. That person should grow up. I was snitched on. I lost my job. I’m still working on a suitable revenge. Mind if I smoke?” Passenger 40

“You ever wonder why there is no truth to lasting happiness? If people were really happy then nothing would get done. I’ve worked my whole life, met lots of people in my time, and I can’t honestly say I’ve ever seen anyone happy to see me.” Passenger 44

“My husband doesn’t go to work until noon. I go home after he’s already gone. You should drop by after you’re through with your run. Some of the other drivers do. We have all kinds of fun. I’ll wear black panties and I’ll make you wear some red ones. We’ll dance then jump into the pool. I’ve got some great albums. All imports. There’s always hash in the pipe and wine in the fridge. Top it all off with a crazy fuck and then you can go home.” Passenger 49

“In my country boys and girls are taught how to obey orders. Each failure to comply with the law is dealt with immediately by punishments that are truly deterrents to bad behavior. There was the famous case of Los Cuates Ignorantes which Vacant Tour

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shocked most of the Western world in . Lawlessness in our land had become pandemic. We at the government were forced to take a stern approach towards resolving the waves of antisocial elements that were sweeping both our elite and the masses. I was willing to meet the challenge personally. As chief prosecutor for the junta, I had a great degree of responsibility and latitude of options. I had heard that the students most active in disruptive activities had joined with revolutionary types, guerrillas, I labeled them as gangsters. In any case, the lot were in hiding or at least protected by sophisticated weaponry that could be purchased as easily and as openly as one buys a chicken. Something had to be done and someone had to pay the price. I stumbled across an old newspaper article that referred to a pair of geniuses who had received full scholarships to the National Academy of Science and Letters. They were twins by decree. I conducted further research and discovered that they had jokingly referred to our then present form of government as being somewhat inadequate. I summoned several trucks of armed troops, ordering them to storm the dormitories in search of Los Cuates. They were captured within minutes as they studied in the library, which was subsequently burned down. Their books on advanced physics, chemistry, and psychology were seized as evidence that a plot was brewing. They were photographed handcuffed to each other’s wrists as they were being led into the military vans. Of course they were tortured, with each losing a testicle as testimony to the seriousness of the charges. They agreed to a complete confession of all charges. They were forced to plead for mercy on national television and begged the gangsters to throw down their arms and surrender. Los Cuates were executed before the whirring cameras of the international press. The first twin was given an overdose of aspirin, causing his capillaries to burst in a most unnatural fashion. The second twin was forced to eat the first twin over a six-day period. He was shot as any cannibal deserves to be exterminated. The plan backfired and soon even nuns were heard to be involved in armed combat. Our forces were overcome and I was fortunate to escape with my life. I see the children of this country and only wish that I could control them.” Passenger 55

“Someone’s bleeding from his ass all over the back of the bus. Looks like he might be contagious. Better give me a transfer.” Passenger 56

“Someone’s dying back there. You better call an ambulance.” Passenger 59

“Those three boys just dumped that old man into the street! I think he hit his head on the asphalt. His pants were soaked with blood. Let me off at Las Palmas.” 386

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Passenger 68

“Whatever happened to the glamour of Hollywood? I remember when it was safe to walk down these streets. It was a big deal to be seen near Hollywood and Vine. You’re lucky now to walk one block without seeing some type of social monster. And I don’t mean the kind that want to look weird. I’m talking about those mass killers that think every blond, blue-eyed pretty boy is his mother and the only way to cure that is by shooting the boys at point-blank range with a high-caliber weapon. Except that it happens over and over again with each time being less satisfying than the last until you’ve got a whole group of boys pushing up daisies from Malibu to Pico Rivera. The maniac’s got to feel important so he hangs around here in Hollywood trying to be discovered while all of the newspapers and television reporters keep making him into a cult hero. The antihuman as a star. They always say that they catch up with them once a pattern is developed but that only happens after he’s left a whole string of questionably innocent victims. They probably all asked for it.” Passenger 71

“You passed my stop, motherfucker! Turn back or I’ll kick your chump ass!” Passenger 75

“I had a dream the other night that I owned my own car. I’m blind as you can surely see. I get into this car and am soon on the freeway, where the sound of the other cars blends into one harmonious blur. I’m driving fast but can feel worms eating their way through my nose. The strong wind forces them back into the nostrils. I continue to drive at full speed since there isn’t any pain involved, only a strange sensation of injury is sustained. I don’t have any destination that I’m heading towards. There is only a confused desire to drive as fast as I can to keep the breeze blowing strong.” Passenger 82

“I want you to be my daddy. You can buy me toys with toy money. You can take me to the shopping mall and buy me a fire truck. I want you to be my daddy and buy me toys. I don’t like to play with the other boys and girls. They bother me. I like to play by myself. I don’t need them to like me. Please be my daddy.” LAYOVER LA BREA & HOLLYWOOD BLVD. ARRIVAL: 6:29 A . M . Driver

“I’ll have a taco, a root beer, fries, hot sauce, chips, and a coffee. Better make that two tacos. Sure you don’t sell pancakes?” Vacant Tour

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LINE 436 HOLLYWOOD/PASADENA BUS RUN 8 DEPARTURE: 7:15 A . M . Passenger 87

“You remind me of my husband. He looked very much like you just before he disappeared into thin air. He used to come home, kick his shoes off and beat me over the head with his lunch box whenever he’d catch me with dinner unprepared. I used to dread those long years. Every night was the same thing. He’d eat, burp, fart, drink beer, walk around in his shorts with only one sock on, pick his toenails with toothpicks, change the channel every fifteen seconds, scratch the furniture with his belt buckle as he’d swing it around wildly trying to break our son’s head. He even combed his hair the way you do. I remember the time he threw his full plate of spaghetti through the dining room window just because there weren’t enough mushrooms in the sauce. He was a real terror but I loved him. I have the scars to prove it. I don’t know why I put up with all of the abuse. Maybe it was his smile, and there were plenty of those whenever he’d want something from me, but then again it could have been those deep eyes of his that would hypnotize me like a cobra causing a bird to forget it can fly. I could never tell him no, no matter what he’d do or say. I’d always try to make him happy but he was an unhappy man. Something was wrong with him deep inside. Something must have caused him to suffer so badly. I was the obvious choice for him to lash out his bitterness. If only he’d have felt better about himself then maybe we all could have gotten along better. One day, it must have gotten to be too much for him. Everything started off the same as it always did: I was in the shower and he was in the bedroom getting our son dressed. By the time my makeup and hair was set he was already gone. He didn’t leave a note, just kissed our son and walked out the door. He didn’t take the car so I assume he just kept on walking. It’s been six years since that day. The day I do see him is going to be his last. See what I’ve got here in my purse? It’s a .caliber snub-nosed special, the kind of pistol that his favorite cops used on television. I bought it last year after I got an answer from my prayers to the Virgen de Guadalupe. She appeared to me in a dream saying that my husband’s lust for life exceeded his right to exist. She gave me her blessings and suggested that I shoot first before his smile could win me back. I awoke firmly convinced that he would never return and bought this gun at K-Mart. I was surprised to find that the bullets were so small yet heavy and shiny. I had a friend from church help me file in the crosses at the tips of the bullets and we rubbed garlic on the lead because I read somewhere that it causes them to become poisonous. Just looking at you makes me angry. You look so much like him. My son would probably mistake you to be his father. My poor fatherless son. I’ve heard that every person on earth has 388

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a double but this is the first time that I’ve come to believe in the idea. I wonder if the original could be hurt by injuring the duplicate? You can let me off here at Western.” Passenger 98

“I always pay in pennies. If you want to know if there’s enough then count them!” Passenger 104

“Driver, the man by the emergency exit is exposing his big black cock to all of the people on the bus. You’re supposed to tell people what to do. Make him put it away or I’ll chop it off.” Passenger 107

“I thought this bus went down to Arlington. Your sign outside says this bus goes to South L.A. Man, this is weird. I want to go one way and you’re taking me another. How am I going to get back without any money? Better give me some change or something. I don’t like it out here.” Passenger 110

“That girl just cut that man!” Passenger 118

“I hear you guys make fifteen dollars an hour straight time. With overtime and holidays, you guys must be grossing a mint! All you do is drive the same old route every day and get richer by the mile. What a lucky break for you things aren’t like before. Years ago you wouldn’t see Mexicans driving anything. Shit, it was a miracle if they could afford to ride anything besides their shoes. In those days you’d probably be picking beets or wasting your time getting drunk. Everything changes. I can’t say the changes are for the best. I’ll bet your folks know just what I mean. I used to drive Pacific Electric Railway’s old red cars down Sunset Boulevard during the fifties. There weren’t so many Mexicans then but there were enough of them to let you know that they were here to stay. Well, at least you’re not on welfare.” Passenger 124

“Ever wonder what L.A.’s going to look like after the atom bomb hits? It won’t be pretty. I’ve been ready for it since the Beatles played Dodger Stadium. I have all my supplies stored in my garage, which is really my secret shelter. I’ve reinforced it with lead lining on the walls and by putting in concrete slabs to cover the two small windows. I’ve prepared myself to easily survive the first month of postblast fallout. I have fifteen gallons of bottled water, some Mercurochrome, bandages, Vacant Tour

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a radiation suit I made out of yellow raincoats fitted with rubber work boots and surgical gloves, there’s also the many bags of dehydrated fruits, crackers, cashews, I also have a large jar of vitamins, a flashlight, two dozen batteries, my John Lennon poster, a radio, ten tabs of orange sunshine, ten pencils, a ream of notebook paper, toilet paper, a pair of very dark sunglasses, and a small arsenal of firearms that I’ve been collecting. I’ve been reading the newspaper lately and figure that the time of nuclear conflict is getting closer. I was thinking of putting in a television but wasn’t sure if radiation will affect the color. I figure that only a handful of people will survive the blast. I’m certain that those of us who live will be able to adapt to the new environment. Humans have been able to survive all kinds of treacherous experiences from the saber-toothed tiger to smog. This will be no different.” Passenger 130

“I hate palm trees. If I were mayor I’d have them all buzz-sawed. You can’t go anywhere in this godforsaken city without seeing one of those hideous plants. I like flowers but those palms have got to go.” Passenger 135

“I know this artist who makes sculptures out of human teeth. He buys these teeth from dentists who don’t mind making an extra profit. Sometimes people approach him with bags of teeth. He never asks where the teeth are from but most seem to come in complete sets. He has a strict policy of paying on a tooth-by-tooth basis. He gives twenty cents per molar, ten cents for incisors, and a nickel for canines. He won’t buy any teeth that have had any fillings or root canals. He had this exhibition recently, where he made this ten-foot-long tube of toothpaste by pasting together thousands of teeth. The piece was purchased by a private collector for nearly twenty thousand dollars. I knew this artist when he was painting nudes and still lifes. I was the one who gave him the idea of using teeth! I told him his work needed teeth and he took me literally. I should sue the asshole but a true artist like myself would never stoop so low as to bicker with a rip-off artist. I’ve been thinking of challenging him to a slap fight. The winner can take a bite. Don’t forget, I’m getting off at Vermont and Los Feliz.” Passenger 143

“Are you married? You’d make somebody a beautiful wife.” Passenger 149

“You look like a man who knows what he’s doing. See if you can tell me where I went wrong. I was walking down the street, I forget if it was Brand or Broadway in Glendale, when I suddenly got this urge to catch a bus. That was four days ago. 390

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I have my bus pass so I pinned it to my lapel. I’ve been riding these buses nonstop only to get off whenever I’ve needed to eat or go to the toilet. Most of the time I order my food to go and eat my meals on the bus. My problem now is that I’m running out of money and I doubt if my job is still waiting for me since I didn’t give any notice as to why I wasn’t going to show up for work. Even if I did give notice, I don’t think that riding the buses would have been a satisfactory excuse. My dog’s probably starved to death along with the canaries. I’ve been all over Southern California and according to this guide I haven’t even come close to riding all the buses that connect with this line. In case you see me sleeping when we get to the end of this trip don’t bother to wake me up. I plan to sleep for a few hours. This pass is the cheapest rent anywhere. Sometimes I dream that I’m traveling across Europe first class. This has been the happiest four days of my entire life. I don’t know why I never thought of it before. See if you can think up some way for me to live like this for the rest of my life. I’d appreciate it. Good night.” Passenger 158

“You probably have hemorrhoids from sitting all day. I have corns from standing on my feet all day. I cut hair. Been doing it for nearly seventeen years now. Everyone wants their hair styled but I’m a specialist. I only cut. I had my face lifted last year by this plastic surgeon who’s been my customer since he was in medical school. I’m thinking of having my ears shortened to give a more sleek impression. I feel my new looks have increased business by at least one hundred percent. You should try a warm bath in salts when you get home. You’ll feel the difference.” LAYOVER LAKE & COLORADO BLVD. ARRIVAL: 9:17 A . M . Driver

“I’ll have a chili dog with everything on it, onion rings, fries, a chocolate shake, and an apple turnover. Let me have the key to your restroom. You can add a cup of coffee to that order.” LINE 436 PASADENA/HOLLYWOOD BUS RUN 8 DEPARTURE: 9:33 A . M . Passenger 164

“There is going to be an earthquake this evening. I have been correct on each of my predictions since . I can also foretell jet plane catastrophes. You had better take cover because my word is as good as gold. I am also great at picking the daily Vacant Tour

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double at Santa Anita, Hollywood Park, and at Del Mar. This earthquake has me more worried than usual. It seems that a new fault will develop out of this one causing a deep slice that will cut Los Angeles in half along a north to south corridor of urban ruins. The last time I predicted an earthquake, three hundred Peruvians were killed. Do not be overly alarmed. Neither you nor I will lose our lives over this natural disaster. We are survivors. You obviously would not be in this line of work if you were not a fighter. I, on the other hand, simply place my bets on games of choice whenever the cash flow comes to an unexpected halt due to my fast living. The earthquake will register as an eight pointer on the Richter. I have just gotten back from talking with my colleagues at Caltech and they are now taking immediate steps to focus their equipment to the locations I have drawn on this map. I ran out of graph paper so I improvised on this brown lunch bag. This stain represents the Los Angeles Civic Center, with the folds and creases showing where the heaviest damage will be distributed. This crayon marking indicates where the Red Cross should dispatch the urgently needed help. I am presently on my way to Los Angeles International Airport to confer with the officials who would like to prevent many of the accidents that I am predicting for the next three weeks of operations. Do not forget to get under a table or doorway when the tremor hits.” Passenger 171

“Did you hear about the little girl who was murdered inside the Pasadena Mall? They found most of her body at the Glendale Dump. Some parts showed up at the gift-wrap department. The newspapers say that the killer could have caught a bus to make his escape.” Passenger 178

“I get all wet just looking at you. Too bad I’m not twenty years younger.” Passenger 184

“They call that bridge Suicide Bridge. It is very famous throughout these parts. My father jumped off of there the day I was born. My mother followed his downward path by jumping from the same spot on my fifth birthday. I’ve never enjoyed being an orphan. I want to be dropped off at the nearest bus stop to the bridge. Have a nice day!” Passenger 189

“Can you tell that man to stop snoring? Kick the bum off! I am a citizen and demand that the crumb be ejected.” 392

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Passenger 193

“Aren’t you hot in that polyester uniform? That shirt looks very uncomfortable. Here, let me unbutton your shirt while you drive. I love a man who knows how to sweat.” Passenger 199

“They’re so disgusting. Perverts and thieves, that’s all. I hope every one of them goes to prison. The more freedom they get the more crimes they commit. Can’t even trust your own friends. Back stabbers! What’s this world coming to?” Passenger 206

“Don’t you remember me? We were in high school together. I probably look different. You look a little older but not much. This is a pretty good job you’ve got yourself here. It can’t be all that hard to drive one of these things. My cousin used to drive for this company. He says it was like putting a steering wheel on the coffee table in the living room and driving his house down the block. You look pretty good. I’ve put on a few pounds like you too. I started gaining weight two days after I got married. I used to be in top shape when I was in Nam during the pacification tours. I still see some of the old homeboys. They’ll be surprised to hear that you’re driving a bus. I was working for a while but got laid off earlier this year. I’m still collecting unemployment so I’m not in a rush to start slaving right away. I won’t be working at the same place either because the plant was completely shut down last month. Here’s a picture of my daughters. They are all beautiful but it costs a fortune to feed and clothe them. The oldest sings like an angel. The other two can’t carry a note. You probably noticed that I cut out part of the photograph. That’s where my wife was at. I clipped her out of the picture. Right after I lost my job she said that she was going to New York to find herself. She’s been lost ever since. I moved back into my mom’s house with the kids. Some friends say that they’ve seen my wife partying in Hollywood. I’ll find her. I’ll make her come back home. I wasn’t a Marine for nothing.” Passenger 217

“Order that woman to stop breast-feeding her child. It’s unsanitary. Besides, all of these pigs are frothing at the mouth. Tell the woman that it’s against company rules to secrete milk while on the bus. Whatever happened to civilization?” Passenger 224

“Excuse me, driver. The old man who got off at the last stop left his false teeth on the seat. I thought you’d like to know.” Vacant Tour

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Passenger 229

“I hate to talk about doing sex and doing art. Those are things that should be done spontaneously. For instance, I knew this couple who always talked about how creative their sexual relationship was. They always explained in great detail what it was like to have anal intercourse with common table vegetables. I always refused to eat their salads. They were also very proud of the fact that their relationship was open to include other partners. I was coming home from work late one evening when I saw the paramedics rushing from their truck into the home of my friends. My friends were pronounced dead at the scene. They had invited a transient to insert the carrots. They did not realize that the transient was mentally ill. He inserted the parrots. I hear the transient is a big hit at the asylum.” Passenger 238

“Can you imagine that I was deported the other day! I was stepping out of my car when suddenly there were three guys jamming me into a green van. I said I was a Chicano born in L.A. but they told me that my identification papers were out of order. I’d like to see them do that to people in Beverly Hills. The whole department would probably be abolished. These goons abducted me along with a dozen or so people that they swept off the street. I’m going to sue those idiots! My car was stolen or towed away during the time I was detained. I’m still trying to figure that part out. I spoke English to the Migra and they told me that I’d be let go. I didn’t know that I’d be released in Mexicali. You wouldn’t believe how insulting the whole process of deportation really is. I spoke Spanish with many of the indocumentados and found that it is common to be deported over and over again. I also found out that there are occasions when individuals who look too Mexican get deported regardless of what their papers say. I’m on my way to see my lawyer in Century City. These clowns will have to realize that storm-trooping techniques will work against themselves. I’m getting off here at Vermont and Hollywood.” Passenger 244

“How would you like to win an all-expenses-paid vacation to the Bahamas? Just guess what radio station I’m with and you’ll be one of the finalists for the grand prize.” Passenger 251

“Is it true that you can see movie stars strolling along the boulevard at all hours of the day? I’m not certain if I’d be able to tell them apart from the prostitutes that clutter the view.” 394

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Passenger 258

“There is a dead man on the bus. He has a bus pass on his lapel. He was snoring comfortably but then his breathing stopped altogether. I think he is dead.” Passenger 264

“You must be the god of perpetual erection. There aren’t many saints worth carrying around one’s neck but I can make an exception. Let me off at the Chinese Theater.” Passenger 269

“Mind if I sniff the seats?” Passenger 273

“Give me your money and your watch or I’ll shoot!” Passenger 276

“Ever been approached by the followers of Infinite Joy and Everlasting Heaven? You cannot say no because I am one of those followers. If you come with me right this instant to our temple in the Hollywood Hills, joy and happiness will greet you with open arms. If you reject this offer then you will be condemned to a sad life of confusion and despair. If you can’t go right now we do accept appointments but that entails a ten-dollar nonrefundable deposit. Think about it.” Passenger 282

“That man over there is dead. He has spiders crawling out of his mouth.” Passenger 283

“That man won’t be needing his bus pass any longer. I’m sure he would have wanted me to have it. These are hard times.” LAYOVER LA BREA & HOLLYWOOD BLVD. ARRIVAL: 11:34 A . M . Driver

“No comment.”

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A Rival Departure (1982)

A

Siamese cat was defying the flow of traffic as it purred across the dimly lit corner of Esperanza and Garnet Streets. The grayish-blue eyes of the cat seemed to be focused onto infinity as Javier swerved his pickup truck into a maddened right turn with his foot pressed down hard on the accelerator. Javier knew he was being chased by at least two armed men in a black Monte Carlo and was certain that he would resemble the cat that he had just run over if they managed to catch up to him. He had grown up in this part of Boyle Heights and was positive that he could lose them by following a pattern of shortcuts at near impossible speeds. As he approached Olympic Boulevard, Javier noticed in his rearview mirror that a second car had joined in the pursuit. He could feel the centrifugal force pushing against his nervous cheeks as he made a two-wheeled left turn toward Indiana Street. The warm frenzied winter night was typical for a drought-driven year. The abandoned sidewalks and listless buildings were a pointless blur to the three vehicles that raced on at beyond eighty miles per hour. The second car increased its velocity and pulled up alongside the Monte Carlo, discharging six rapidly successive blasts from a semiautomatic weapon. The shots sounded crisp and lethal as the windshield of the Monte Carlo collapsed onto the lifeless driver and passenger. The second car slammed on its brakes and made a quick turn into a darkened barrio side street. The black car continued to roll and decelerate in a straight path. The urgency of the chase had been transformed into an indifferent cruise of chance. The car came to a complete halt at the intersection of Olympic and Indiana. Javier slowed down momentarily to absorb the visual impact of the aborted game of urban tag. He regained speed with his fur-lined tires and executed an anticlimactic getaway at the Downey Road on-ramp of the Santa Ana Freeway. 396

Javier lit an ultramentholated cigarette, rolled down the windows, and turned on the radio to full volume as he changed lanes onto the one that would lead him into downtown L.A. The wind was cold against his dampened face. He moved the rearview mirror so that he could catch the sight of a terrified man who was only now feeling the withdrawal of symptoms of adrenaline as it diminished from his veins. He hadn’t had time to think during the past thirty minutes and didn’t want to analyze the nightmare he had just experienced or its implications. He could see his eyes emerge from darkness as he approached each blue-tinted mercury vapor lamp that lined the freeway. The overpasses seemed inadequately balanced on concrete pillars as he neared downtown. The Alameda Street off-ramp was just a quick smelly ride on the freeway over the L.A. River. He stopped at the flashing red light at Alameda as a single train moved involuntarily along the center of the street, making the exaggerated noises that come from large masses of angry metal. Javier was annoyed at its presence and turned northward to escape its shadowy intrusion. Javier had no desire to reflect on the moment. He wanted his life to pass this night like a movie that is divided into distinct frames of sensory fragments that only give the sense of continuity. He noticed that the time given on the large exterior clock at Union Station was only a few minutes past midnight. The streets became busier as he traveled toward Chinatown. It seemed strange to him to see a young woman walking alone, dressed in chains and a dog collar on her neck, topped with a head of green, closely cropped hair. She looked like a nocturnal insect but mostly appeared to be a militaristic agent for a nonexistent army. She crossed the street, going through the superficially Chinese stylized archway that borders the tourist attraction from reality. He had heard that a few New Wave nightclubs had opened up in converted Chinese restaurants. The violently spastic tremors of music could be heard from the street. Javier parked his truck in a nearby alleyway and followed the abused sound waves as they bounced off the walls and fractured windows. He wanted to enter the realm of subcultured insects who seemed to live on the periphery of sanity. At the entrance of the Hong Kong Cafe, Javier lit another ultramentholated cigarette, combed his hair back, tightened the belt on his Cool Arrow jeans, dug out four dollars from his wallet, and took a self-conscious look over his paranoiac shoulder. The group onstage was billed as the Fetal Failures and consisted of four convulsive musicians who electrocuted their audience with a set of songs that sounded like a series of hurricanes and earthquakes. Javier ordered a Coke from the bartender, who was dressed in a dusty tuxedo, but was given a bottle of beer. He sat down at a table toward the back of the room and away from the twenty young men who were involved in a ritualized riot at the base of the stage. Javier scanned the room and was mystified by the many Chicano faces that seemed to A Rival Departure

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barely tolerate the assault of megawatted amplifiers that act like auditory can openers on the ear drum. There were many other couples dressed in dull trench coats who projected a psychotic image of twilighted termites. Javier half expected them to chew on the checkerboard tablecloths. The nihilistic messages that exploded from the stage seemed to vaporize the crowd’s will to leave or stay. They were being agitated into a shrill state of motiveless anger. The lead guitarist was repeatedly smashed in the face with the lead singer’s microphone. Their set ended abruptly as the guitarist blacked out in a meaningless expression of bloodletting. There was little applause from the audience and someone near the bar screamed out that he wanted music and not art. Javier wanted another beer. He ordered the beer and finally got his Coke. He lit another mentholated cigarette, inhaled, exhaled, thick puffs. Javier could feel the thin dotted line that separated him from his afterimage being erased by the carbonated bubbles in his Coke. He was in the colony of desperately animated drones and wondered how much venom they could actually produce. He followed the musicians backstage to a room normally reserved for serving meandering mandarin duck or from-the-can, two knees of duck. Javier sat down at one of the tables and poured what was left of his Coke into a teacup. The semiconscious guitarist wanted to do an encore but the succeeding group was already plugging in its sonic artillery. Javier extinguished his cigarette in the cup, letting the ultramentholated filter sail to the outer rim of the universe. “Last, lost, lust.” Javier looked up from his cupped voyage to find the green-haired, dogcollared woman sitting across the table from him, fully involved in a dysfunctional conversation with herself. He was repelled by her intensely alienated qualities but decided against moving to another table. A young man with a brightly violet flap top, dressed in black leather and padlocks, sat down next to the girl and spoke. “Mist, most, must.” Javier knew that there was nothing lost in the translation. He felt uncomfortable being so close to social vacuums, thinking that he might get sucked in. As Javier got up from the table to leave, the young violet-head reached over and snatched the cup, swallowing the Coke and filter in one gulp. Javier could feel the blood rushing in constricted currents through his brain. He closed his eyes for a second and found images of horror entombed in his subconscious. He opened his eyes as the lights went off and the band went on. He moved cautiously into the main room and leaned against a vacant space on the wall near the stage. All of the members of the band appeared to be Chicano and were dressed in an exotic blend of bizarro attire and artificial tattoos. They were introduced to the audience as Oblivia, an East L.A. New Wave band named after their lead singer, Oblivia del Gato. Her vocal presence transcended the decaying 398

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environment of the hive. She was equal to the popular idols of fissionable culture. Javier’s eyes were focused on her lavender lips. He was entranced by her teardrop tattoo. She could not see him as she performed the rites of what’s left. He was compelled to make his existence known and their mutual sensuality inevitable. Her first song, “Next Time Use a .,” was dedicated to would-be assassins. Oblivia was a powerfully creative force of sound that pierced the collective echoless conscience. The two guitarists, bass player, and drummer attacked their instruments with aggressive strokes and beats, releasing a wave of frenetic energy that bordered on violence. Javier’s entire being seemed to be engulfed in the spasmodic pulses that came from the lips of Oblivia. She was singing “Rhapsody in Glue” when he realized that he was no longer sitting but now dancing in a schizoid two-step. The crowd surrounding him began to push, punch, spin, propelling themselves into one another, bumping colorful heads against convention. Javier became dizzy within the purgatorial rainbow and decided to withdraw from the marathon. He walked back to his place on the wall but it had been reoccupied by a seventeen-year-old gargoyle who was wearing the white-lettered message  on a black T-shirt. Javier felt illegally alienated by the condensed absurdity of a rabid crowd. He went over to the bar and ordered a beer. The bartender looked at Javier as though he had just seen a three-headed man. “You twenty-one?” “I’m thirty-one. Give me a beer.” “You got ID?” “I burned it.” “No ID, no beer.” “Then let me have a Coke.” “No more Coke.” “Well, what do you have?” “Beer.” Javier was getting dizzier as the verbal fugue continued. The bartender appeared to be an imposter in a dusty tuxedo. Javier could feel his heart beating to a hysterical tempo. He closed his eyes and imagined himself to be a fortune cookie-shaped cadaver that would be cracked in half by Oblivia. She would read his fortune aloud, “The reign insane falls mainly on the pain.” He opened his eyes and sat at a nearby table from where he lip-read Oblivia’s lyrics to “Vanity Claws.” You broke your painted nails On his yellow zipper. Your stubs look like tumors In the mirror. A Rival Departure

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How’s it going to look Walking with those hooks In his erect reject? You wore those phony nails Like false weapons in Los. You tore up his skin He never shaves that close! You’re the cause He’s got it wrapped in gauze Victim of vanity claws. After a few more songs, Oblivia stopped playing. The disordered audience screamed for one more song, but the band abandoned their instruments on stage and went back into the rear room. Javier followed the band with the intent of introducing himself to Oblivia. When he entered the room she was sitting at a table arguing with the lead guitarist and a blue-haired man who resembled a mole. Javier the voyeur sat at a nearby table and eavesdropped. The blue-haired mole was waving a five-dollar bill at Oblivia, saying that fame did not equal fortune— as manager of the band he would maintain that imbalance. The lead guitarist was waving a fist at Oblivia, saying that she sabotaged their performance by upstaging the rest of the musicians. He was also threatening to have her expelled from the band. Oblivia chain-smoked ultramentholated cigarette after ultramentholated cigarette, assimilating the smoke and abuse, blowing rings through random arguments. Javier was amused by the two men who had failed to intimidate Oblivia as she calmly removed the deceptive teardrop with a smooth wipe from the cuff of her black cotton blouse. The mole threw the five-dollar bill onto the table and the guitarist picked it up. Oblivia deliberately flicked her lit ultramentholated cigarette at the mole, deflecting orange sparks from his blue hair. The guitarist laughed and suggested that they all get something to eat at the Atomic Cafe. Oblivia turned her head toward Javier, focusing her dark brown eyes onto the small tattoo of a green scorpion on the side of his neck. Javier felt like he was being X-rayed. Her clinically detached gaze became diffused as she lit another ultramentholated cigarette. The guitarist took Oblivia by the hand and placed a toy cap pistol into her palm. She took careful aim at the scorpion and fired a single shot. Javier closed his eyes as though he could feel the intended bullet enter his skin, releasing a mixture of blood and venomous green ink. He opened his eyes as the oblivious trio were laughing and exiting through a rear door. Oblivia had left the plastic weapon on top of the table. Javier went over to the table and picked up the gun, placing it in the inside coat pocket of his black Madagascarian designer jacket. He noticed that a small note had been left along with the gun. He picked up the paper and read the scrawled 400

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message, “deaR faN, nexT timE i’lL usE a .!” Javier followed Oblivia’s path through the rear door and down an unlit flight of perilous stairs that led him out into the alley where he had parked his truck. The alley was silent and unoccupied. Javier walked across the alley and got into his truck. He readjusted the rearview mirror so that he could see the length of the alley that stretched behind him. He turned on the radio, selecting the AM all-news radio station, KSIK. Javier noticed that a large brown rat was running in jagged circles near the doorway that he had just passed. The rodent’s behavior was the visual complement to the news that was coming from the radio. Javier increased the volume after a series of commercials. “KSIK time at the electronic tone will be two thirty. Beep. Thirty-two Klansmen were accidentally burned to death last night during a cross-burning ceremony in Fontana. The freak chain reaction occurred when the white hoods of the thirtytwo burst into flames as a result of spontaneous combustion. Fire officials arrived on the scene only minutes after the miniholocaust, stating that the place looked like a giant birthday cake in which they were invited to blow out the candles. KSIK time at the electronic tone will be two thirty-two. Beep. Police are attributing tonight’s series of drive-by shootings in East Los Angeles to gang-related violence. In two separate shooting incidents at Garfield and Roosevelt High Schools, a total of four teenage boys and four teenage girls were wounded while distributing leaflets that denounce U.S. intervention in El Salvador to night students. The third shooting incident, at Olympic Boulevard and Indiana Street, resulted in the deaths of two men implicated in last week’s murder of Iranian student leader Farzi Awazi. Police emphasized that the shootings were gang related and not politically motivated. This is eighty-one on your AM dial, KSIK, Los Angeles.” Javier turned off the radio and started his truck, backing it out slowly into the street. He headed south on Broadway. He opened a new pack of ultramentholated cigarettes, pulling one out and slipping it carelessly between his lips. He was amazed by the quality of loneliness that tinted the deserted streets as he drove toward downtown. As Javier turned left onto First Street it became apparent to him that the exterior neon-lit clock on the L.A. Times Building was giving off deadly beams of misinformation. Javier passed the imposing relics of imperialism as he entered Little Tokyo, where Japanese culture blossoms in its difficult concrete niche. Javier slowed down as he neared the Atomic Cafe on the corner of First and Alameda Streets. He lit his ultramentholated cigarette that had been dangling at the tip of his tongue since Chinatown. He took a deep frozen puff of smoke into his lungs and let it escape through his nostrils as he stopped in front of the glass doors of the restaurant. Javier immediately recognized Oblivia as she sat with the blue-haired mole at the table that was surrounded by Japanese tourists and Beverly Hills sociopaths. He turned right on Alameda Street and entered the parking lot at the rear of the building. Javier looked into the rearview mirror as he combed A Rival Departure

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his hair back into a neat black ornament. He buttoned his shirt up to the collar, putting the scorpion to sleep early. He opened up the glove compartment and pulled out a small plain brown paper bag, placing it inside the calf of his armadillohide boots. He got out of his truck and walked up Alameda alongside the old brick building. As he neared the corner, a black-and-white police patrol car made a wild U-turn at the intersection, directing a spotlight onto Javier’s face as they pulled up to the curb next to him. He couldn’t see the police as they spoke to him. “Where’s the fashion show?” “I’m not going to any fashion show.” “You could have fooled us. Where’re you headed?” “To the Atomic Cafe to get some coffee.” “I thought we’d get rid of you guys once we got our hostages back.” “I don’t understand what you mean.” “Aren’t you Iranian?” “No. I’m Chicano.” “Shit man, that’s just as bad. Get off the streets!” The police made a cyclonically inspired U-turn and followed it with a right turn onto First Street. Javier resurrected himself from temporary civil death, quickening his pace until he entered the cafe. Oblivia and the mole were gone. The jukebox was playing “Plutonium Plague” by the Gila Monsters. The Japanese tourists were dressed in blue suits and the Beverly Hills sociopaths were dressed in magenta-dyed army fatigues. Javier scanned the room, looking at each booth and table. Oblivia and the mole had left during the short time it took for him to park, to be interrogated, and then walk a few yards to the door. Javier sat at the counter on a stool that seemed inadequately balanced on a chrome pillar. Javier looked at the menu and was intrigued by item number six: seaweed ice cream. He lifted his head from the menu and was face-to-face with a vision of ultimately terrorized beauty. The Japanese waitress was wearing theatrical makeup and teased black hair that had pink lightning bolts sprayed across it. She was dressed in a tightfitting black jumpsuit and resembled the goddess of coagulation. “What you going to want?” “I’ll have two scoops of seaweed ice cream and a cup of coffee.” “You want cream?” “Yeah.” The waitress brought him his cup of coffee and poured in a few drops of condensed milk straight from the can. The two green scoops of ice cream looked like a severe case of tonsilitis. Javier got up and searched for coins in his pockets. He went over to the jukebox and deposited a quarter. He looked at the limited choices the machine offered him, ranging from instrumental hits of the forties to self-annihilating vocals of the eighties. He selected “Reign Insane” by Oblivia and 402

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the flip side of the record, which was “Vanity Claws.” He pressed buttons B and B. When Javier turned around to go to his seat he noticed that a man dressed in a light brown suit was sitting at the counter next to his melting green scoops. Javier sat down at his stool and dipped his spoon into the melting seaweed. He was about to taste the ice cream as the man next to him tapped him on the shoulder. “Aren’t you Javier Zaragosa?” “No, it’s Juarez Zapata.” “I remember you man, you used to be into all of that political stuff during the sixties when we went to Garfield together. Don’t you remember me? I’m Enrique Zepeda. We were in the same homeroom. Remember Mr. Dent, our homeroom teacher?” “I remember you but no Dent. What did you do last decade?” “Got married, divorced, married, rich, bankrupt, divorced, worked on CETA, and now I’m on unemployment. Sometimes I paint murals part-time. What have you done?” “Everything but transmit communicable diseases to my friends.” “You’re still funny, man. I remember when you chained yourself to the flagpole in front of Garfield during the walkouts of ’.” Javier looked at his spoon dancing on the counter. He could feel the Atomic Cafe shaking to a slowly increasing powerful force. Javier reached into his boot and brought out the brown bag. He produced two dollars from his wallet and threw them onto the ice cream. He got up and left the former schoolmate in midmemory. Javier walked outside and saw the angry train engine hauling two boxcars as it moved slowly northward up the middle of Alameda Street. Javier opened up the paper bag and brought out a roll of black-and-white film that he had been carrying with him for a week like a false weapon in Los. He walked into the street and up to the tracks, placing the roll of film onto the rail. The metal wheels crushed the thirty-six exposures of visual evidence, leaving a flattened harmless disk in their wake. Javier started his truck and stepped down hard on the accelerator, heading northward toward the freeway, where obscurity is the fastest way home.

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No Gray Matter (1982)

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t began as one of those days you’d like to forget. The bedroom window was shattered from the bottle that had been thrown through it the night before. The sounds of birds in the early morning were drowned out by the faded cowboys who were chasing each other on channel five at full volume. A cool breeze was being sliced as it passed over the glass slivers onto my swollen face. The headache I was trying to overcome seemed more like a deepening disease that was setting in like hardening lead. The sun was barely at the horizon but everything seemed so bright. It was a major task just trying to orient myself to another day of living. The bathroom seemed like a bizarre place to be headed when all I could feel was my brain giving up. When I got up it seemed as though all of the fluids in my body were going in confused waves as they tried to adjust to standing upright. I was certain that I could feel the planet spinning on its axis. Every noise seemed to be amplified beyond reason. Even the cockroaches that were scurrying about sounded like an invading troop intent on waging war on my senses. It was obviously one of the worst hangovers I’d ever had, and I knew that it was well deserved. Even with that acceptance of personal liability I wasn’t ready for the surprise that was waiting for me in the bathroom. The bathroom is a seven-by-seven-foot dimly lit cubicle with a small stained sink, a fogged mirror covering the medicine cabinet, curled fragile tiles on the floor, a chipped toilet that is permanently discolored by years of abuse, a deformed bathtub that rests uneasily on three legs and an elaborate arrangement of two bricks with a piece of plywood in between them for cushioning, a combination of various layers of paint and wallpaper from the last world war on up to the present, no electrical outlets, no windows, no door, one toothbrush, a small blade of soap, a bottle of aspirin, store-brand toilet paper, nothing to shave with, nothing to smell

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good with, the mildew along the edges of the wall nearest the tub and surrounding the visible pipes under the sink, one hole in the ceiling, a black comb on the floor, and my collection of assorted magazines stacked against the one hole in the wall. I stumbled awkwardly into the room and didn’t notice the large shadowed figure that was crouching in the tub. I began to brush my teeth in the routinely involuntary manner that most of my personal hygienic activities involve. I would have been more meticulous about brushing if I had used toothpaste rather than the cold chalky water that flowed from the faucet. I looked into the mirror and could see that my eyes reflected their image and recaptured them in an instant. They were reddened by the capillaries that wove a tight net around large brown irises that further encircled spastic pupils. I really didn’t want to look at myself, but then I heard the strange low moaning coming from behind me and really didn’t want to turn around either. I could hear the sounds of air being pumped in and out in rapid succession, with metallic noises coming from something that must have scraped against the tub. I now knew that some living thing was behind me. It didn’t sound human. I could feel the rush of adrenaline as it flowed to fill my system with fear. For a moment I remained totally motionless. I could hear whatever it was beginning to stir behind me. I looked into the mirror and could see a darkened image moving slowly where normally only the blurred reflection of flowered wallpaper would show. The only thoughts that were occurring to me at that point were my options of escape. If I had run I am certain that I could have made it out of there in one piece, but I stayed there frozen with the immense sensation of absolute doom. I didn’t want to face it. After a few minutes it finally tapped me on the shoulder. “Turn around slowly and don’t make any sudden moves!” said the low voice that accompanied the tap. For a second I was relieved that what had been behind me was neither an animal nor some inorganic beast. The next moment was followed by an impulse to laugh, which then transformed into feelings of uncertainty. I turned around slowly and was face-to-face with a man who was in his early thirties. He was wearing a dull gray suit with an unattractive gray shirt, gray tie—as I focused in on his presence, it appeared to me that he was completely dressed in gray. When I looked into his face it became apparent that his eyes were also gray. “I said don’t make any sudden moves!” he said as he produced a small pistol, which he held more like a toy than a weapon. “I’m not moving anywhere. What do you want with me? It can’t be money or anything like that,” I said as I tried to keep from losing my balance. “I’m here to ask you some questions and you are here to give me some answers. Your name is Luis Javier Perez, known mostly to your acquaintances as Lou Jay, correct?” No Gray Matter

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“That’s right. But who are you?” “I’m the guy with the gun. I ask, you answer.” “Only my friends call me Lou Jay.” “You’re thirty years old, burned out on life, wasting your time. I remember when you had quite a few ideas and ideals. You had planned to battle it out to the end, not bottle it out. When did you decide to give up?” “I didn’t decide to give up. I haven’t changed that much. Hey, I don’t ever remember seeing you around. How do you know who or what I am?” “And you’re getting pretty dense too! Don’t ask me anything or I might blow away your tongue. It doesn’t seem to be much use to you nowadays anyway. At least not for anything intelligent. What were you planning on doing today?” he said as he looked around for a place to sit down. He finally sat against the tub and motioned with his pistol for me to take a seat on the sink. I could feel myself becoming nauseated from the thought of being held against my will at gunpoint. “I’m supposed to go to court this morning. Just a minor traffic violation.” “You mean a drunk driving charge. You shouldn’t lie to me Luis. I find it disgusting to just look at you. When are you going to see yourself like everyone else does? People who commit suicide look better than you do. If I were the judge, I’d order you spanked in public just like a spoiled brat.” “All they’ll make me do is pay a fine.” “The fine will pay for the judge’s lunch. It won’t do much good for you in terms of changing your behavior. Do you remember the time that you punched your ex-wife so hard in the face that she spit out her front teeth on the living room carpet?” “I never punched her! I pushed her a little and she fell onto the coffee table.” “She was your wife, man. A human being. You were the one who claimed to be nonviolent during Vietnam. You’d get drunk and blame her for all of your own failures. The abuse you laid on her ranged from beatings to outright robbery. She was the one that worked and you spent it on whatever made you forget what a dog you’d become. She’d thank me for shooting you.” “Are you her boyfriend or what?” “Listen idiot, don’t ask me anything! I don’t understand why you don’t recognize me.” “I’ve never seen you before.” “Even your memory is failing you. I seem to know everything about you. The fact that your blood has more alcohol than most fine wines shouldn’t prevent you from figuring out what this confrontation is all about. You’re ruining your life. Each day you get closer to the edge from where most never return. One of these days you’re going to cough up your liver and I’ll be there to step on it.” 406

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“Hey look, I’ll give you the few dollars I have in my wallet and you can take my TV too. Just leave me alone! What can I do to make you disappear?” “All I’ve got to do to make you disappear is pull this trigger, but that would make it too easy for you. You’d be relieved of having to straighten out your life. When you were young, you were told that you had the potential of being a benefit to yourself and your community. You could have completed college and gone on to be a lawyer, businessman, teacher, dentist, or you could have become an actor, novelist, a musician. Instead, you chose to become a cheap urban clown whose only claim to fame is that he doesn’t smoke angel dust. You always compare yourself to the worst in life and never attempt to set your goals a little higher than the gutter. You really are quite embarrassing.” I was extremely uncomfortable sitting on the sink and jumped off to stretch out a bit. My legs felt like they were weakening under the weight of my body. He was getting me upset. Mostly because the things he said about me were true but also he was talking to me in a way no one else ever had. He had this rude quality, which he exercised with penetrating accuracy. I wanted to kick him, hurt him, do something that would make him stay quiet. My headache had become an acute attack that felt as if I had cancerous termites tunneling their way from my neck out thru my eyes and ears. “I said no sudden moves or I’ll shoot! You’re going to miss the opportunity of a lifetime. The chance to be constructive and progressive. There’s a lot you can teach to the youth who are in a worse position than you were at their age. You’re so selfish. You refuse to help yourself and you deny everyone the potential contributions that you could offer. You’ve lost your sense of social responsibility. Your decaying attitude has caused your very being to rot. It would be better if you did die. At least you wouldn’t infect the others.” I looked into his gray eyes and saw that they viewed me with contempt. I jumped at him, ready to choke his last gray breaths out of my life. I grabbed hold of the lapels on his coat and we both fell into the tub. I bumped my head on the faucet and immediately blacked out. I don’t remember dreaming during those many hours in the tub. I woke up at noon after hearing myself moaning in my sleep. The dehumanized noises I was making as I crouched in the bathtub frightened me. I was clinging to my gray sweatshirt when I opened my eyes. I sat up in the bathtub and looked around the room and out through the doorway into the bedroom. I was alone. Even the cockroaches had gone off to their favorite hiding spot. I could hear the laugh tracks relaughing the same laughs that have been broadcast for decades. The television set was the only animated thing in the house. I knew that it would be difficult getting started again, but I was willing to try. I’d take each day one at a time. As for today, I’d have to go to court, with the hope that the judge doesn’t have gray eyes. No Gray Matter

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INS and Outs (1983)

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should have noticed the official-looking unmarked car that had been following me closely for nearly half a block. I can usually sense when someone is staring at me regardless of whether or not I am the focus of friendly or frenzied attention. It was my lunch break and I was on my way on foot to keep my date with Linda at the CobrAHorseE for a hot dog and fries. The dull green car pulled up to the curb as I approached the corner of First and Central Streets. Two tall men dressed in bland beige suits emerged from the car quickly and walked directly in front of me so as to block my path. The man to my left was completely bald, while the other had such excessive hair growth that he had to shave his neck in order to separate his beard from his chest. “Your identification papers,” said the bald man. “You must present us with proof,” he continued in an authoritatively monotoned demand. “All I have is a library card. Who are you anyway, the police?” I asked as I fumbled through my relatively empty pockets. I reached what seemed to be the card and pulled out the photograph of Iris Chacon that I had clipped out of that morning’s La Opinión. “I must have left the card at work,” I said as the clean-shaven-neck man quickly moved behind me to prevent my escape. “You’ll have to present us with some kind of evidence that will show you have a legal right to be here. We will have to confine you to this space until you have complied with the official requirement,” said the bald man, who was reflecting much light. I looked down the street and noticed that there were other green cars cruising up and down the area. Many pedestrians as well as those motorists who had been ordered to stop were also being detained. A few individuals were even being led into dull green vans that were guarded with bars across the windows. “You must have some kind of ID,” the man behind me insisted.

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“You guys will have to excuse me. I haven’t done anything wrong and I have someone waiting for me whose dog is probably getting cold,” I said as I attempted to walk around the man who had remained motionless in front of me. The furcoated man responded immediately by twisting my arms behind me, handcuffing my left wrist, then dragging me over to an adjacent doorway, where he passed the cuffs through a door handle before securing my right wrist. I was bound to the glass door in a matter of seconds. “Can you prove you have the legal right to work?” asked the man as he loosened his grip. “If you are arresting me, then I demand to know the charge and I won’t say anything until I’ve talked with my lawyer,” I said as I tried to wrest my wrists free. “You are not under arrest. You are handcuffed to the door and will remain like that until you satisfy our demands with the proper responses. You are being restrained from continuing your activities on the basis that you do not appear to be a legitimate element of our society. We are conducting expulsion raids in this area because known nonmembers have been reported to frequent such neighborhoods,” said the bald man, who was developing a slight twitch in his left eye. “If you would have had the appropriate documents this incident could have been avoided,” he continued as he blinked uncontrollably. “What does it take to be an illegitimate member of your society? Money, a birth certificate, deadly weapons, a false face?” I asked as the handcuffs began to carve their way into my wrists. “How about all that and more. You seem to forget where and when you are,” said the bald man, who had produced a Polaroid camera from his pocket. He pointed the camera at close range, attempting to focus clearly. The twitch in his eye had become a full-fledged spasm and was now interfering with his fulfilling his role as photographer. He rubbed his eye strenuously as though he were polishing his boots. His partner suggested that he focus with the other eye. The camera was raised once again and two shots in immediate sequence were taken of my face. Brown hair, brown eyes, male, Latin, all these traits developing in sixty seconds. The reflecting photographer kept one photograph for himself while the other man attached his to a metal clipboard. “This is Los Angeles, ,” I blurted out in momentary self-doubt. “Correct. Now you can tell me your name, place of birth, address, and any tattoos in plain sight,” said the man, who was now rubbing his eye with great care. “My name is Emilio Tirado. I was born here in L.A. I live at  East Indiana Street. I have webbed armpits.” “Are you certain that the place of birth is Los Angeles?” the man asked suspiciously. I looked across the street and saw that six vans were nearly filled to capacity INS and Outs

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with people who had been abducted from their automobiles, the various shops, restaurants, and the sidewalk as I had been similarly accosted. With the exception of the abandoned private automobiles and the official green vehicles, the street was vacant. Many of the merchants locked their doors to escape questioning, while others who complied were now sitting inside the vans obediently awaiting further action. I could hear the loud buzz of a low-flying helicopter that was circling overhead. I would definitely be late for my lunch date. It was already time that I be returning to work! I was feeling somewhat confused as I looked at the skyscrapers in the distance. The buildings were recognizable to me but somehow the events that were taking place before them seemed so unfamiliar. The scenario appeared to be a bizarre reenactment of the forties, when the Japanese Americans were plucked from this area like fleas from a rabid dog. “What do you plan to do with me? Where are you going to take all those people? What agency are you with? Immigration, FBI, the Army?” I asked as the man with the troubled eye took out his wallet and flashed a large stainless steel badge that had neither a name nor a number imprinted on it. “You are staying and they are leaving. None of you belong here but you’re the only one we cannot eject. We are not at liberty to say which agency we are connected with or even whether or not we are in fact connected to any agency,” said the man whose eye was now emitting a steady stream of tears. He wrote down a few notes on the back of the instant photograph. “Who are you to decide which of us will stay? Where did you get the authority to handcuff me like this?” I said in an attempt to assert my rights. “The decision of who will stay is a matter of policy. We enforce whatever policy prevails. As for being handcuffed, you allowed it. You waited for us to surround and overpower you. You’ve been fairly polite. That’s your downfall! It’s possible that policy will soon require us to impose further restrictions on your kind. When that time comes you’ll be more inconvenienced than what mere handcuffs can supply. I must warn you that should any report of this event be made available to the press or other parties, you will be endangering the personal safety of yourself and whatever individuals we may connect you with. We will file our report with the key monitor and he will dispatch someone to release you. It may take hours. Many key monitors are hired for their inherent laziness. It is not uncommon for them to throw away our reports. There have been many instances where many of our detainees have remained unattended. You are certain that you are a native of this city?” The bald man then motioned to his partner that they leave. “Will you release me if I say I was born somewhere else?” “It’s much too late for that. Your classification has already been recorded,” he commented with a tone of finalization. The two men got back into their auto410

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mobile and drove across the street to join the line that had been formed by the other vehicles along the double yellow line that divides the street unequally. The six vans started their engines and their doors were shut tight by the attending personnel, who were additionally securing them with padlocks. The dull green procession of vans and cars began to move slowly down First Street past the New Otani Hotel, City Hall, and beyond reason. The street was void of any compassion as it began to fill with the normal flow of traffic. I’d have to wait for the key monitor to send someone over to unshackle me. Hopefully, he’d be prompt in having his subordinates retrieve an obviously expensive pair of handcuffs. I could see that there were others who had been fastened to inanimate urban objects. Some were strapped to parking meters, lampposts, car doors, guardrails, and a few individuals were tagged onto a single telephone booth. I could only hope that Linda was among those who had evaded the unidentified agents. I’d have a lot of explaining to do once I’d get back to work. It would be difficult to make anyone believe the enormity of oppression that had been unleashed in the nameless desire to expel nonmembers from an enforceable society. I was becoming impatient and saw that there was little hope for any immediate release from this situation. I called out to a few individuals who were now walking about freely. The unassuming pedestrians who had not been here to witness the roundup were not interested in assisting those of us who were reluctantly on public display. I managed to get a man’s attention for a moment as he drove past me; he slowed down but continued on, totally uninvolved and absolved. I could see a young woman walking up the street reading a newspaper. She walked slowly as she read. She walked close to me and looked up from behind the front page. “You stood me up.” It was Linda. “I have an excellent reason for my delay,” I said, feeling a bit warmer just looking at her. “I know. I saw how they were arresting everyone. It’s the new law. They can do that now. Whenever they want. They don’t have to give any warning either! I never thought that we’d lose so much control. Something is going to have to be done,” she said as the newspaper unfolded before her intense gaze. “I have to wait until they send someone over with a key,” I said as I leaned over, revealing the handcuffs. “I overheard what they told someone who was tied to the restaurant. It sounded like it’ll take a while, that’s why I brought you your lunch. I hope you like mustard and relish. Onions would have been a bit much.” Linda pulled out my meal from her purse and was kind enough to read the entire article relating to the new law as I ate from her hand. It took nearly two hours before a man dressed in drab green overalls arrived in a discolored panel truck. He walked over with his set of keys and released me with the functional expertise that only practice could bring. INS and Outs

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“That’ll be five dollars,” he said as he reached out his hand for payment. “You can view it as a fine or as the rental fee but I must get paid,” he continued, as he must have noticed how upset I had become. I reached into my pocket and pulled what seemed to be some cash. It was the photograph of Iris Chacon again. He accepted the photograph as full payment. Linda and I made a maddened run toward the anonymous crowds of Downtown, where our chances for survival increased with each faceless person who separated us from the authorities. We ran down Broadway past the million people, past the Million Dollar Theater, we slipped past the reaches of people’s consciousness. We wanted to warn them but they’d know soon enough. It was really too late. Next time we would fight or run. This time we’d run just for the practice. We ran to the edge of despair, looking behind our shoulders, making certain the authorities didn’t push us over the social cliff.

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Alibi No (1984)

FELONY BY PROXY

It started off as a white lie in some obscure alleyway, the inflamed connection between an indecent game of chance and the sore spot of my dreams, I kissed her moist purple lips as they slightly parted, scraped her teeth with my carnivorous advances, she blew a kiss through my skull, erasing my memories, causing the flesh to peel off enraged bone like metallic flakes that dissolve dispassionately into the warm fluid night. A doglike man was retching away his humanity onto his stately bed of rusted nails, broken glass, and cardboard boxes, she and I continued to kiss, licking each other’s faces, biting, scratching, bruising, tearing away at the terror of convention, eliminating civilized conduct with the flick of a tongue, defying gravity with flying shoes, and there were misdirected fingers that were severed by our vicious attacks, the immature fits of rage found their way into our eloquent fugues of verbal abuse. The doglike man was howling, disturbing our erotic saturation, he barked and groveled at our feet like some aborted snail, he dripped smooth foam onto her remaining boot, the black shiny heel reacted quickly, kicking his ears, making them flabby with wounded cartilage, wiping away his hearing with horseshoe taps. We roared with ecstasy! The doglike man began to mumble in a deliberately articulate mode, obviously the deposed philosopher who would not be able to hear his own version of reality, yet he continued to bark-speak.  : I am your only hope of salvation/salivation, the horrific boredom that clings to your breast is seeping of poison, be true unto thyself, destroy this weeping angel, do not be afraid, death at your hands is the miracle of choice, bring me to everlasting peace, may my pain bring you untold pleasure. 413

I crawled on my hands and knees, searching in the darkness, finding his damaged ear and pulled it gently from the dog-man’s head, I held it to her lips, she recognized the scuff marks, we laughed and I slipped the ear into my pocket. We began to kiss again, this time with a more aberrant abandon, we pulled hard on each other’s hair, she bit my forehead and drew blood, each red drop warming her cheeks, leaving me less alarmed. The doglike man had gone to sleep, snoring in silence, the innocent at a loss for words. We exhausted our intensity yet the desire to continue was momentarily postponed/indefinitely rescheduled, our agreement was to meet again in a different alleyway, she walked away with the indifferent strokes of her tangled pantyhose. Once she was out of view, I proceeded with my crime, the doglike man was dreaming of passion, clutching at his own throat but failing to squeeze. I added the necessary pressure and his life melted away like discolored wax. I was cloaked in boredom and regretted my own deception. I was beginning to miss her lustful fragrance, her hair in my face, and felt a diminishing sense of coherence as her absence progressed. I decided to call from the nearest telephone booth. The doglike man was in mid-decay, with red ants and yellow worms playing discreetly in the gaping hole that marred his soured body, I took his wallet and kicked him one final time, just to have the ants and worms scurry in mixed angry groups. I walked agitatedly against the shadows, skipping among the debris, squashing phantom rodents, the wallet was a transient’s portfolio filled with the clippings of unsolved murders, strands of hair, photos of unclaimed children and unloved parents, there were several pages of cryptic notes and a portion of poetry from a torn page of a book, it reads: Scandalous spurs, Spurilous scars, When will your difficult monster Be set afire Born again in flames and torture Ripped to shreds By the blunt scrutiny Of infamy? If only your love Could calm my nerves, I could easily pry my fingers Remove them from the trigger, You would have time to run Before I could reload, If only your love Could blind my eyes, 414

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Blur my mascara, Stitch my lashes, You would have time to disappear, But I can see and hear you, And my aim is fatal. There were other elements of evidence, a blood-stained razor blade, three fortunes from false cookies. First fortune: You are happy, gregarious, intelligent, influential, and beautiful but somehow fate will lead you into a life of vice and verse. Beware of innocent bystanders. Second fortune: You are argumentative, withdrawn, skeptical, and unkempt. Worldly riches are yours. Third fortune: Smile with a vengeance, slander your lovers, imitate talent. You are the unfortunate bitch. I littered the street with my victim’s biography, sprinkled his papered remains like unimportant confetti, lost his rabid image in my fading past. There was a public telephone with the stench of fermented urine, there were my lips, which carried the faint distaste of her lipstick, I thrust the dull coins into the machine and dialed with random memory, several buzzes, clickings, rings, she answers: : I love you but fuck you. I don’t want to share you. I hang up and redial, she answers: : Give me all your possessions, pay all my bills, but don’t mess up my hair. I hang up and redial, she answers: : All of you men are slime, relationships are based on the intensity of your erection, on the gullibility of naive emotions. She hangs up. I talk to the indifferent dial tone: : Shall I mix vomit with tears? I want to pinch you into infinity, something about your soft flesh trapped between my agile claws, there is also a certain chaotic damage in the magnetic quality of our love, this sick romance beneath our pants, we exchange vows, you will kill me and I will fail to resume erect/resurrect, the justice lies in our mutual loneliness. I hang up. There is a slow black cockroach that haunts my communion with her echo, the insect is speechless, I pull the moist ear from my pocket and offer it to the shiny creature, it is pleased and drags it quickly into the shadows, whispering Alibi No

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secrets, it threatens to lay a sullen egg upon its lobe. A warm brown spider approaches requesting an eye, demanding respect, I spit repeatedly and it drowns in disgrace. EULOGY IN EIGHT LEGS

There was a hard cruel shell (There was a crucial hardness); An inherent taste for flies, (Resentful and wasteful lies); Arachnid ascending into heaven, (Blessed be thy bite); Predatory engineer, (Meditative veneer); Clinging onto solitude, (A preference for the peripheral niche); Impulsive symbolic tattoo, (Hypnotic attraction); Suicidal male/widowed female, (Sex vs. cannibalism). I dig deep into my pocket to retrieve other coins. My fingers brush against unidentified smooth fur, the tactile experience of something warmly unknown, I pull the object out gently, extracting the severed ear of a dog, black spots on white damp hair, I can feel its pulse beating erratically, the dog ear is in an emotional panic, languishing in its inability to communicate its own desire to destroy itself. I attempt to teach it patience by letting it graft itself onto my own left ear, assuming a partial identity, rejecting its past, I listen closely as it offers an alternative range of sounds, bringing me closer to the opera of sirens which race down foreign corridors of aging skyscrapers to some oblique accident, a fire perhaps, burning wildly beyond my comprehension. There is a voice in flames: : Tell me I’m your baby, tell me I’m your daddy, tell me that you want to fuck me, tell me that you love me, that you need me, that you want me, that I’m hot, that I’m wet. The voice flickers, camouflaged in smoke: : Cream-eat me/cremate me. 416

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The telephone rings, and rings, and rings, and I answer (swearing that I’ll remain silent). : Your son is dead. It was an accident. I was drinking, having a party by myself, highballs and straight shots. He drowned in the sink turning violet with wine. He was such a beautiful boy, so much like his father. She hangs up. Silence is shattered. The odor of burning flesh envelops me, the foul perfume is too great to avoid. The sound of automatic gunfire is ominous and approaching quickly. I notice a man and woman who are running, bleeding profusely from fresh bullet wounds to the head and torso, they run toward me, smiling in an obvious attempt to distract me from their troubles, their limbs drag wearily, they crumble lifelessly like spoiled dough on the pavement, their facade fails as her moist lips are scratched on the curb and his cheeks fail to blush at the incident. The telephone rings and I answer: : Don’t be such a jerk. He has money in his pockets. Don’t be such an ass. She has a pistol in her purse. Don’t be such an idiot. She hangs up. The cockroach reappears, it is whispering some ultimate madness about how its genetic design has been successfully applied since before the dawn of mankind, I lean over to get a clearer message of species-specific superiority, the cockroach continues in its diatribe against warm-blooded creatures and completes its proclamation of discontent by laying a cellophane-coated egg into the inner canal of my newly grafted dog-ear. The cockroach laughs hysterically and scurries away into the catacombs of refuse that surround me. The egg contains a hostile embryo, it rattles menacingly, radically impatient with its own gestation, it shakes itself deeper into the canal and begins to whisper prenatal threats:  : I am cold and deserving of your flesh. You are the insipid host upon whom I shall feed. I am your adopted contradiction, believe in my words and the mystery of eternal life will be revealed to you. I shake my head violently, pound at my ears, toss myself onto the sidewalk and roll against the curb, coming face-to-face with the smiling, partially decayed couple, I place my ear to the dead man’s mouth, ramming my head against his teeth, disturbing my temple, breaking his nose, causing the egg to be expelled onto the man’s dehydrated tongue, I reach quickly into the man’s pockets and retrieve a substantial sum of soiled dollars. The egg hatches prematurely and a soft white cockroach emerges, poised defiantly on the corpse’s bloodied lower lip, the pale insect continues to speak with the accent on coagulation:  : Why have you abandoned me? Am I not in your image? Alibi No

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I slide my hand gently into the woman’s purse, my fingers glide deftly over loose bullets and secure themselves firmly onto the handle of the heated pistol. The cockroach persists:  : You are my child and I shall forever protect you from all evil. The gun follows my lead and focuses its attention on the fanatically pallid mutant, I squeeze gently on the trigger, causing the powerful slug to strike the dead man’s chin, allowing the cockroach to escape into the abyss of rotting esophagus. The dead couple share their final words:  : Now we can part.  : Now we can party. The dollars have turned into bloodied photographs and the weapon is slippery, dangerously wet, and falls back painlessly into her purse. The telephone rings and I answer: : You have never meant all that much to me, your selfishness is disgusting, your anxieties bore me, but I forgive you and want you inside of me now. This instant! Meet me in the alley. She hangs up. I notice that some of my skin is being replaced by spotted fur, I retrace my miscalculated steps, this time walking less cautiously on all four appendages, sniffing blindly at lost aromas, I stumble onto a disquieted doorway that has a decapitated body of a well-dressed man blocking its entrance, it wants to dance, the body is moving slowly, unsure of how it should behave, unbuttoning and rebuttoning its vest, unzipping and zipping its pants, it pulls a pack of cigarettes from its coat pocket and offers me a smoke, I take it out of courtesy for the maimed, it lights my cigarette and places the lit match back into its pocket, there is a muffled ignition and the suit bursts into flames, the body dances about wildly and runs off into the darkness, leaving a trail of putrid fumes, I recognize the applause coming from the laminated mannequins with surrogate breasts. I enter the alley with insincere expectations, letting the foam drip freely from my mouth, down my legs, feeling the inescapable attraction for her ice-cold grin, that intimidating jaw, I see her standing against the chain-link fence, she is smiling with a perspired glare of vacant convenience, I crawl to her and lick her ankles, I push against her thighs, letting my fingers and tongue climb until my tongue is in her mouth, she bites down hard, not letting me go, her nails dig deeply into my face, she kicks my legs with her boots until my knees rupture, I offer no resistance, I hang uselessly from her firm bite but the foam disgusts her and I am spit onto the asphalt, I can hear myself barking, hissing, howling, her boots continue to kick my dog-ear, smashing it onto the fur which had integrated its spots into the general 418

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complexion of my own disbelief, she was happy, finally displaying emotions that relieved her of my contempt, it was our final tango, a luscious affair of incompatibility, an interlocking disgrace that allowed us to imitate an intimate tragedy, our guilt was by dissociation, she weakened her kick and fell on top of me, both of us empty of aggression, neither of us interested in the experience, we both fell asleep, losing our dreams, letting the spotted fur grow and blend at random, gelling us together into an indistinguishable form, letting our love evaporate slowly in the vacant alleyway, having our heartbeats die unnoticed in the shadows. POSTDEDICATION

To the erosion of memory, its accomplices, and the unnatural order of things to come.

Alibi No

419

Off Lines (1988)

T

he city bus raced menacingly close to the curb as it struck street signs, scraped trees, and scratched foreheads with its rusted rearview mirrors. It sped past the prearranged stops, slowed down occasionally to release a few captive souls, headed south or north against the one-way traffic and the no-way clock. The passengers were accustomed to the hostile threats of centrifugal force and faulty brakes. The driver wore a thin mask of sanity as he bore blindly toward meaningless red stoplights. “Seventh Street. Fourth Street. Better not ring that bell or I’ll make you jump. Second Street. Anybody want off?” the driver yelled out between clenched teeth. In a midrow seat, an old man spoke in raspy undertones. He sat next to the cracked window that was decorated with the violet graffiti of “Mr. Uzi.” He looked like a withered child who had lost his way at the wrong turn of the century. His unruly white hair was brittle and dirty. His eyes had the despondent cloudiness of a man who had seen it all dissolve. He whispered into the ear of his transparent companion. “I never sit in the back of the bus, it’s where the residue of danger accumulates, where the rerouted soot asphyxiates. Besides, I become claustrophobic when absolute strangers press their warmly indifferent bodies against me. I’m so happy that you’ll never leave me.” The man turned his gaze away from the empty seat and looked out the window to see the concrete buildings burst into forgotten flames. He was embittered to see his own reflection of failure in the tainted glass. He frowned silently then spoke loudly, so that the young couple who sat behind him were able to hear all too clearly. “All men were created in disequilibrium. Dizzy people like you made me lose my faith in god. Nobody could be that stupid. I’m certain you’re the result of illegitimate desires. Your mother was desperation,

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your father was pain, and you’re the orphan who defamed them both.” The old man stopped suddenly and shut his eyes tightly. The young couple were disappointed. The reckless ride was fun but the aimless monologue had been intriguing. The young man wore a dark gray woolen suit that had been hidden in a bomb shelter during the fifties. He also wore a black button-down shirt, black steel-toed boots, and a plastic red rosary around his neck. The young woman wore baggy black pants, an oversized black trench coat, and patent-leather steel-toed boots. He read poetry to her from a tattered black notebook. She possessed an interminably bored expression as she poked holes into the vinyl seat with her disposable ballpoint pen. “I can’t stand it,” she said. “You’re not a beauty, I’m not a genius, and we don’t have enough for a round trip. It must be love,” she mumbled as she jabbed slowly. “There’s more to love than meets the frying pan,” he said. He flipped through several pages, found a poem, and read: “Nerves In this tangle of strangled hopes, I can only count My blessings backwards, Like a diminishing echo In the shadows of an unrecognizable alley, I count on being able to kick The vermin, The shakes, The lights, The urge, To dance on puddles That are not of my blood, To exit gracelessly As I entered you, You slap me in public, I bite your cheek, You assault my emotions, I salivate on command, You pull the trigger, I pinch raw nerves.” “That’s a bedtime story that’s been heard before,” she said. “I think that we just ran over a few people,” she said as she glanced at the old man’s hair. Off Lines

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The young man located a different poem and read calmly despite the ongoing uproar among the other passengers. “No Crossing You can’t cross here, They’ve killed hundreds for less, Don’t be crazy, They enjoy the damage personally, You can’t cross here. Can’t you read? Can’t you crawl? There’s a law That says you’re ignorant Until proven guilty, There’s a law That says you’re guilty Until you’re executed, You can’t cross here, It’s a border A dotted line where They’ll cut you down. Can’t you walk any faster? I want you to Move Away from me Or else They’ll think I’m your friend, But I don’t want to Share your bullet, It’s bad enough As it is Seeing that I’ll never Make it to the other side, But maybe you can Cross But cross yourself first And I’ll double-cross you later.” “Any more and I’ll swoon into a coma. I think that man has fleas or ticks. He should wear a collar. This driver’s got a collective death wish,” she said with a yawn. 422

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The young man kissed his red plastic cross. He turned to the middle of his notebook and selected a poem that he felt would bring his girlfriend to life. He read: “Blanket of Shock I heard you talking in your Sleep last night, You mentioned many lovers, You whispered many secrets, You uttered several lies, I heard you talking To the dead But what bothered me Most was their Answers, They treated you rudely, For once, You were nice But they didn’t care, They trampled on you as you slept, I slipped under the blanket And felt your warmth, I touched you Only to find that I Had become frozen In my own panic, I was paralyzed By visions of a happy ending, Any ending, I couldn’t see beyond, It all seemed to stop, You were warm But it occurred to me In an instant That the ultimate Coldness could be Beneath that soft skin, I was afraid to touch you, To wake you, You called out Their names, Off Lines

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Names I had never heard Before, You were so clever in your Dreams, Your voice was like a mysterious animal, Howling, Barking, Hissing, I wondered if the Pillow would quiet you down But I didn’t have The loving heart To pull your plug, I heard you talking In your sleep last night Your unconscious Is vicious, Your dreams Are empty vapors, Your memories Hurt, I was jealous of Your sleep, I wanted to take Part, I wanted to take It apart And keep it from you, That’s why I asked you many Questions, and Attempted to subvert Your deepest thoughts, I talked to you in your Sleep last night, I made you confess, I gave no absolution, I became sleepy Myself and Paid for it with 424

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A nightmare, If only you could have been There, It was cold Under that blanket of shock.” “That’s poetry for the numb. We’d better hurry if we’re going to make our stop,” she said as she pulled the cord to ring the bell. The driver became enraged. “I told you idiots that I’d kick you off the bus if you rang that bell,” he said as he brought the bus to a screeching halt. “Now everyone, get off my bus. This is the end of the line for you sick clowns,” he yelled as he produced a . revolver from a brown paper bag. He pulled the trigger several times and sent bullets flying toward the rear of the bus. The bus was immediately emptied of its passengers as people scrambled out through emergency exits and the rear doors. The bus sped away quickly and left a dull cloud of exhaust in its wake. The old man remained in his seat as his lifeless body stared out the window as the driver stepped on the accelerator and continued on his psychotic route. The young couple ran to a nearby coffee shop, where they were able to receive two cups of coffee in exchange for a poem and a four-penny tip. They both drank their coffee quickly and left silently through the kitchen door. The poem that was left behind was written hastily with ballpoint on a pink paper place mat. The waitress read the poem on her way home later that evening as she rode the bus. Transitory I hate to drive, I hate to walk I hate to talk, I’d rather ride the bus With all of the anonymous victims, At least you won’t blame me If we rub out your pooch, Flat puppy In the middle of the road Flat puppy The one you won’t have to walk I hate to walk It’s better to run, Off Lines

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Get out of range, The deranged shoot straight, I hate to talk When you won’t listen, Look into my eyes And catch the image of Your own happiness leaving We’re only here for Now We’re gone And here we are Away from where we’ve been And not Where we ought to be, But I hate to drive, I’d rather crash Your party, I’d rather clash With your ideals, It makes me feel More alive To see you crawl.

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Off Lines

No Beans in My Tortilla (1991)

I

won’t bother you with any of the sordid details that lead up to one of the worst days of my life, but I will explain that I was very likely at fault when I decided to get up at 6 .. that morning to get an early start on preparing for my new job as an employment counselor at the East Los Angeles Jobs Now, an agency that decided to hire me based on a falsified résumé but most likely because I had worn a gray Armani suit with a subtle but impressively designed Thierry Mugler tie. The man who hired me was in his late forties and was interested in upgrading his fashion statement now that his divorce had been finalized without the court or his ex-wife ever discovering that he had stashed nearly twenty thousand dollars in several plastic containers that he had buried in his mother’s backyard. As he explained it to me after only a thirty-minute interview, his wife was confident that she had taken his last dime in exchange for her signed consent to a fairly liberal child-custody agreement. He seemed to take a liking to me and was impressed by my dual master’s degrees in psychology and business management. He explained how he would have liked to have attended both USC and UCLA as I had, but continued to describe every facet of his dysfunctional marriage and the complications that resulted from the demands he faced from two sets of identical twins, who had been born within three years after what he said had been the most perfect wedding. He was a fast talker with a well-trained sense of persuasive inflection and the kind of body language that most likely caused other people to shake their heads in agreement simply because he would shake his head. I had seen his type before and knew immediately that I would soon be one of the major players in his agency. At the end of the hour, we shook hands and he told me that he’d expect me at work the first thing Monday morning. I have three suits, three shirts, six ties, and two pairs of shoes, all of 427

Italian or French design. These clothes are usually kept in protective boxes and covered hangers, hidden away in a small closet at the rear of the one-car garage that has been my home for nearly a decade. The garage is obstructed from view of the house in front as well as from both the street and alley by an overgrowth of several peach, avocado, and lemon trees, enveloped by an intricate web of generations of morning glory vines that camouflage the wood-and-tin structure in such a way that it isn’t ever noticed by anyone, including meter readers, the children of the neighborhood, or even the landlady who picks up her monthly check from Señora Perez, who has kindly allowed me to live in the garage for free all these years because I had prevented her husband’s attempted suicide by hanging onto his leg as he jumped off the Spring Street overpass of the Hollywood Freeway. The rescue was the only thing that prevented me from jumping off that overpass that day. He had beat me to the punch and ruined my prearranged plan that had until that moment seemed like the only logical option. I had looked over that overpass onto the busy freeway below many times before and had finally concluded that it would have been for the best. Señora Perez explained to the police that I had saved her husband and not pushed him over the edge as some of the veteran officers had alleged. Her husband was sedated at the scene by paramedics and I went off to think over my life-and-death plans over a ten-cent cup of coffee at Philippe’s on Alameda, which wasn’t very far away from the cardboard box that had been my bed for more than ten months. I don’t know if she followed me or if she simply sensed that I’d be where she imagined I might go, but before the coffee had become completely cold, she walked into the delicatessen and sat down directly across from me. I stared into the cup of coffee hoping that she would go away, but she was determined to express her appreciation. I wasn’t feeling very well and she was obviously keenly perceptive of my mood. She spoke softly and told me that she didn’t have much to offer in way of thanks but that I would be welcome to live in the garage behind her house in Boyle Heights within a block of Whittier Boulevard. She wrote down her address on a white napkin, which she used to wrap a fivedollar bill, placing it into my hand as she walked away from the table. I spent several more weeks on the streets before I decided to accept her offer. The move from Downtown to the Eastside might improve my luck is what I repeated to myself as I slept among the rats and fleas. But that was so many years ago and somehow feels like it was part of a TV show I might have watched during the fifties or sixties. I have three suits; the gray one has been alluded to and the other two are black. I prefer the double-breasted black suit because I’ve never worn it in public. I’m saving it for a special day. The other black suit has a 1940s style that would have been perfect for a leading man in a film noir movie. That was the suit that I’d wear to work. It’s the same suit that I always wear to the first day of any job. The garage was cold and damp that morning and the water that trickled into the 428

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slightly corroded bathtub contained rust particles that settled on the bottom, giving the water an orange tinge. The sixty-watt bulb that hung from a cord on a hook above the tub provided sufficient illumination to get the process of bathing, brushing, ironing, and combing accomplished without my having to really get a look at myself. I could tie the knot on my tie blindfolded if I had to. Besides, the job was in the bag and all I had to do was show up and perform the simple task of securing unsubsidized employment for people who have no special skills, who have dropped out of school, who have been paroled from prison, who have been released from mental institutions, who have major behavioral disabilities, and also those people who have no desire to work but who have been ordered by a court to seek employment as a substitution for a jail sentence. These are the model employees that can be easily exploited, is what I’d tell prospective employers. That would greatly enhance their chances of getting that job they needed. I have two pairs of shoes. That is, only two pairs of real shoes, handcrafted by true artisans in Milan. These shoes are worn only from the point that I arrive at my destination. I usually wear resoled surplus army boots, but there’s no reason to explain my general living conditions because it might give clues as to why I’ve lived under such nontraditional circumstances. I buffed the black leather of the shoes and placed them in the aluminum Haliburton briefcase. I placed three drops of Halston cologne at the base of my neck and felt confident that I could beat the world at any of its vicious games. I disconnected the extension cord that supplied all of the power to the few appliances, such as the Sony XRB big screen TV and the KitchenAid food processor. I locked the door behind me, securing it with the deadbolt and the additional Master lock. The sky was overcast and the buildup of smog preceded the first rays of dawn. I must mention that I carry several hundred-dollar bills in my wallet and only spend ten of them at a time once I’ve saved a total of fifteen. The money isn’t very important to me, and I occasionally put a hundred-dollar bill on the seat next to me on the bus or place one hundred one-dollar bills in a small brown paper bag, which I leave in plain view on the hood of a parked car. I’ve rarely seen the money fall into the wrong hands; that is, it’s never been picked up by someone who didn’t appear to need the money. I’ve attempted to give Señora Perez cash on various occasions but it is always returned, wrapped neatly in a white napkin accompanied by an additional five-dollar bill. I’ve never once been bothered by the kind of people who would maim or kill for the pleasure of reducing a human being to a bloody mass of immobile flesh. They’re very fortunate that they’ve never tried to attack me because they don’t know who they’re dealing with. I have a gun with bullets that go bang and fly in a straight line, they always hit their target, but then that isn’t something that I ever discuss with anyone. I’m a very peaceful person as long as I am left alone to deal with my own problems. No Beans in My Tortilla

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We’ve all got problems but each person must act according to his or her own conscience. The second I get nervous or anxious or upset or disorganized, I’m forced to arrive at a solution that will set it all right again. I like to simplify when things get complicated. Fuck the complications, when it’s gray make it black or white. Fortunately, very few things are complicated nowadays. Whenever I need money, I get a job. Sometimes, I’ll even stay at a job for more than a month but sometimes I don’t last for more than a few hours. It depends on my mood and it depends on other environmental factors. I’m not afraid of work and I’m not afraid of anyone who says that I’m afraid to work. Give me a job and I promise that it will be carried out regardless of what it will take to get it accomplished. I’m not afraid of hard work and I’m not afraid of making life a bit harder to endure. It really isn’t fear that gets on my nerves. I arrived at the East Los Angeles Jobs Now headquarters on Olympic Boulevard near Atlantic Avenue. The doors were shut, but I could see my new boss talking on the telephone. The windows to his office were dirty and the reflective foil that must have been set into place with adhesive was peeled back, creating a million uneven cracks. I took the shoes out of the briefcase and removed the boots. I put the shoes on and personally felt elevated by the completion of the ensemble. I hid the boots behind a bush that flourished beneath the display sign that read “East Los Angeles Jobs No.” Someone had stolen the w. It was almost 7:30 .. and I was positively certain that he had seen me standing outside of his window for over twenty minutes. He continued to ignore me as he talked and talked and talked. I wasn’t about to knock on the door or to tap the window because I knew that he had seen me the minute that I arrived. I stood quietly outside on the sidewalk for an additional thirty minutes and at exactly 8:00 .. He opened the door and allowed me to go in. He was talking rather quickly and overconfidently, referring to me on more of a personal basis than that of a boss to employee relationship. He was giggling like an uncontrollable adolescent. He told me, “You’ll never make it as the big burrito around here.” I wasn’t clear on the concept and asked him to repeat himself. Now he was laughing out loud as he spoke, “I saw you standing out there for more than an hour, all the while I was pretending to talk on the telephone. You don’t knock hard enough, you won’t get in, that’s what I mean by saying that you’ll never be the big burrito around here. You ain’t got no beans in your tortilla,” and with that he poked his index finger into my temple. I emptied the nine rounds into his chest without even thinking. Some reflexes are never extinguished, no matter how far away the jungles might be in distance or personal history. I wiped my fingerprints clean from the door as I stepped outside. I removed my shoes and placed them back into the briefcase. I put the boots on and decided to walk home so that I could reflect on my unemployed status. I never saw Señora Perez again, but I’m certain that she received my note 430

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requesting that she keep all of the items I had purchased during my extended residence. The garage was never home, it was a place to store some things that most people in the barrio only see in magazines. I shredded all of my clothes, with the exception of the double-breasted black suit. I decided to wear the white shirt and target-patterned black tie by Valentino as well as the high-top shoes that were originally designed for one of the foreign bishops on a trip to Rome. I wrapped seven hundred-dollar bills in a white silk handkerchief and slipped it into the hand-painted turquoise-colored mailbox, where she always looked early each morning, knowing that I’d clip out some of the images and articles from the numerous newspapers and magazines that arrived in the mail under numerous subscribed unfamiliar names. I walked away dressed like the way I’d always like to dress in the best of circumstances. I’ve worn the suit ever since that terrible day, but I’m thankful that it has held up its appearance despite two years of living on the streets, sleeping on cardboard, using the asphalt as my pillow. Life is less complicated now that I know I’m looking good.

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Writer’s Blockade (1991)

T

he telephone rang for the first time in twenty weeks. No one ever returned his calls. He was beginning to wonder if his voice was ever transmitted across the telephone lines, but obviously the person at the other end of the line heard some noise because they usually said things like, “Yes, Mister Fever Blister, we have received your manuscript and it is being reviewed by our editor,” or there were occasions when a sweet feminine voice would respond with, “We don’t need writers with imagination we need someone to plug our toilets with so much pulp” and then there was the time that a publisher actually spoke in a very authoritative baritone and stated, “We’ve already exceeded our commitment to excellence, I think it’s time we focus on failure. Let’s say I schedule you in for the third Wednesday after Doomsday.” The telephone rang several times before Javier could believe his ears. He snatched the receiver and was filled with the frenetic energy of caffeine, lack of sleep, anxiety, and the nagging impression that he had lost his mind after spilling neurotic ideas over numerous reams of rejected paper. He listened closely and heard nothing. “Hello, is anyone there?” he said in an acrid tone that wasn’t exactly attuned to his current mood but nonetheless must have sounded extremely rude and arrogant. There was a strangely mechanical humming sound in the background and Javier was convinced that he could hear someone breathing. “Who is it? Talk to me.” He thought for a moment that he could hear several voices whispering among themselves. “If you don’t speak I’ll be forced to hang up.” He was desperate for a response but didn’t want to reveal any weakness. He waited on the line for almost five minutes as the humming continued and the whispering voices sometimes uttered nearly recognizable phrases. Just as he was about to put down the receiver he heard a voice call out to him, “Javier, Javier, is that you?” He put the receiver back to his ear hoping to get a clear con-

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nection with some sort of clarity of inner vision, some sense of communion with another fellow human being. “Yes, this is Javier. Who is this? Rather, what is this shit all about?” The unfamiliar voice reminded Javier of a buzz saw or a jar full of angry bees as the words that were spoken seemed to be disconnected in more ways than he would have preferred to experience. “Javier, I’ve been looking all over town for you. I’m the director of the Multicultural Theater Lab at the Culture Multi Theater Complex in downtown. I’ve had my scouts sifting through all the files and saw the work of what is most likely the best piece of dramatic literature to balance out our commissioned playwrights program. We’ve been getting lots of criticism for not using the alternative voice of our alternative cultures so I’ve decided that you fit the profile of the rebel without a sanity clause. Listen, our grant is for nearly half a million dollars for the development of our alter-culture playwrights. We’re willing to give you four thousand dollars to write a two-act play, but you’ll have to agree to burn the original manuscript as well as all copies upon receipt of the final payment. As you can well understand, we are providing you with the opportunity to write a play but there is no commitment on our part to produce or even to read your written work. All I need is a signed affidavit verifying the fact that you have written the play for our theater. I will need that important document in ninety days. Do you agree to my terms, Javier? Come on, it doesn’t take a genius like you three months to write and destroy a play, does it? I’m sure you could do it in half the time. Of course once the smoke has cleared and the ashes have been cast across all the selfishness in the sea of obscurity, you’ll be able to write whatever you want without having to compromise your personal code of ethics, not that anyone will notice or care. Say yes and you can come to my office to pick up a check for two thousand now and the rest when you’ve completed the requirements of the commissioned project.” “Four thousand dollars?” were the only words that managed to crawl out of Javier’s mouth. The mechanical humming noises increased in volume as Javier agreed to the terms of the project. He told the director that he’d drop by in less than an hour and was informed by the director that talent and brains are difficult to achieve when there are so many more profitable options to pursue. Javier imagined his pockets bursting with dollar bills and then he remembered that he didn’t have enough money to catch the bus and that his car was dead in the driveway. He didn’t have a friend he could call upon for a favor. He could walk and get there by  .., but then he would have to walk back home in the dark streets, because it would surely be night by the time he got halfway home. He was certain to be robbed or killed in his neighborhood walking around with a check for two thousand dollars in his pocket. He believed that this was the kind of opportunity that comes only once in a lifetime and decided that the situation required that he take some form of radical action, like stealing a car or hijacking a taxi, but he wasn’t inclined Writer’s Blockade

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to spend a minute in jail. He spent several hours attempting to figure out a way to get to the theater before its administrative offices closed for the day. It was now : .. and he was beginning to panic because he began to feel that he had never talked to anyone on the telephone. He was reluctant to call the theater but decided to dial directly to the director’s office when he noticed that it was five minutes to four. The phone was answered immediately, “Talk to me sweetheart.” It was the director sounding more impersonal than ever. “This is Javier, I’m afraid there’s a problem. I won’t be able to . . .” The director cut into Javier’s excuse, “That’s okay, Javier, you drive a hard bargain, I understand everything. You want every dime now, today. That’s no problem. You got a pencil or a pen? Sure you do. I’ll bet you have a whole stack of white typing paper sitting in front of you. Right? Listen, just write the word invoice at the top of the page, put your name, address, and social security number and place your legal signature at the bottom of the page. I’ll have someone from my office pick it up right now. Give him that paper and he’ll give you the check for four thousand dollars and no cents whatsoever. There’s no reason to be a starving artist when you can get your hands on some fat, besides you’re a wonderful writer, a credit to your subculture. Hey, it’s been great doing business, creative business with you. I’ll connect you to my assistant and he’ll handle the details. Ciao.” Javier spoke with the assistant for a few seconds, enough time to give his address and directions to one of the lesser-known alleys of East L.A. The assistant was knocking at his door within the hour and the exchange of the invoice for the four-thousand-dollar check took less than a few seconds to complete. The assistant held the invoice in his hand and ran out to his car without saying good-bye. Javier placed the check on his kitchen table and stared at it until he couldn’t keep his eyes open, about midnight. Javier fell asleep with the thought that he’d have a great breakfast, lunch, and dinner the following day. Javier cashed the check at the branch that held the theater’s account, so that he could receive the entire amount in cash. Javier’s own checking account had been canceled due to his constant abuse of bounced checks and recurring delinquency in repaying the bank on his overdrafts. The hundreds, fifties, and twenties in his pocket gave him a powerful sense of self-determination as he walked into the Bistro Lala, the fanciest restaurant that he could find nearest to the bank. He had already walked four miles in the morning smog and was ready to order the most expensive meal on the menu just to actualize his good fortune. The waiter was convinced that Javier would pay for the meal after Javier flashed a thousand dollars in his face. Javier felt like a millionaire in poor-man’s clothing and decided to leave a hundred-dollar tip after finishing his breakfast of prime rib, pesto lasagna, baked Alaska and several glasses of champagne. Javier walked out of the restaurant as the lunch crowd started to swell. He stepped out onto the busy streets of 434

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downtown L.A. and tried not to think about the scam he had been recruited into as an active participant. He felt that he had been used but that he had been paid a good price for his services as a playwright. The idea that he had four thousand dollars out of a half-million-dollar grant didn’t bother him as much as the mystery of where the rest of the money was being spent. He had seen the director in the newspaper many times, and it always appeared that he was generating lots of grant money but very little critical success. Javier assumed that his own name would fill the line item on a final report, fulfilling the culture-specific requirement, and that would be the end of it. Cash would flow from some foundation’s generosity and a few talented puppets like himself would be ready to jump at the slightest tug of invisible strings. Javier ran down Spring Street, holding his hand to his mouth, hoping that he could restrain the heaving in his stomach, to hold down his breakfast at least until he was within sight of the theater complex. But he only managed to get as far as the nearest parking lot and made a disgusting spectacle of himself before an audience of a thousand strangers. Javier wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his favorite old coat. He removed the coat and tossed it to the pavement, where it was immediately claimed by a man who resembled a mutated donkey. Javier would have felt healthier had he been violently kicked by that donkey as he ran off into the crowd, hoping to lose himself in the waves of unexpectedly dissimilar faces. Javier ran as far as he could, tripping several times as he tried to kick himself in the ass. By the time he stumbled into his house in the alley, he had come to several conclusions, that he would never write again, that he never had an original way of putting an idea on paper. He might have considered to write one final suicide note but the sick feeling in his stomach was beginning to wane. Besides, there was still all that money to spend and maybe being a puppet wasn’t as terrible as confronting a blank sheet of paper and having to deal with it on its own terms. He would have to grow used to becoming a whore, but he convinced himself that the least amount of resistance resulted in the least amount of pain. He was now a marketable commodity, ready to be sold to the lowest bidder. Javier laughed to himself as he felt his mind and creativity go completely blank.

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Head’s Turn (1991)

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W

e don’t celebrate the birth of Jesus, we celebrate the return of the shrunken head,” was all that Listo managed to say before his mother slapped his mouth so hard that his black synthetic wig flew halfway across the living room and got stuck to an aluminum branch of the artificial Christmas tree that had remained in place since , the year his father died when six fully armed policemen emptied their weapons into his face after he ran over Licluk, the famous attack dog that was used in several famous Hollywood movies. The dog had been trained to perform so many tricks on command that some actors refused to work with Licluk because they were fearful of being upstaged by an animal that was superior in intelligence, talent, and connections. The dog had the complete support of enforcement organizations and was also represented by powerful attorneys who had each passed an independent sniff test by the massive German shepherd. Listo’s father was involved in a high-speed chase that included four police patrol cars from three municipalities traveling at nearly one hundred miles per hour, all had failed to stop the powder-blue Impala that had been previously stolen then sold to the man who felt that the used car was the ideal Christmas gift for his wife of fifteen years. Listo’s father had been physically beaten by police when he was much younger and wasn’t about to give them the opportunity to abuse their position now that he was a family man, especially it being so close to Christmas. He believed that he could outpace any patrol car because he had seen the TV commercials that promoted the Impala as a creature that was capable of eluding predators in the wild. The patrol cars were closing in on the Impala but the Alvarado off-ramp on the northbound Hollywood Freeway was the best way to ditch those cops that were within a few feet from his rear chrome bumper. As he exited the freeway, he made a sharp left turn at

the end of the off-ramp and headed down Alvarado Street, speeding past red lights, sideswiping several cars near the intersection at Temple Street and reaching a top speed of  miles per hour as he went downhill in his final approach toward MacArthur Park. “Well, we don’t celebrate the birth of Jesus, Mother. You and that stupid fucking shrunken head. That’s not religion, that’s sick.” Listo whispered under his breath but loud enough for his mother to hear his disrespect for the family custom. She took off her high-heeled gold boots and swung them down onto his head. The tip of a heel punctured his scalp and Listo ran out of the house into the street before she could hit him as hard as she felt he deserved to be beaten. Listo felt ridiculous without his black wig. He was truly obsessed by Japanese culture and had purchased the wig the day after he saw several samurai movies at the Little Tokyo cinema. Listo was always attaching great importance to movies, music, and television as a way of distancing himself from the sense of inferiority he felt every time he looked at his reflection or whenever he thought about nearly everything that had anything to do with his personal life. He was always searching for tangible and symbolic ways out of a perceptual trap that imprisoned him for life in his own mind. He had been through nearly four decades of self-deception and finally realized that he was born into the wrong culture, stuck in the wrong country, and spoke a dying language. The wig was only the first step in the long process that he believed lay ahead of him if he were to succeed in his quest to be like the people he felt were superior in every way he could imagine. Listo didn’t want to go back inside the house, but he knew that his mother might destroy the wig by fire or by flushing it down the toilet. As he walked up the stairs to the front door, he could hear his mother crying. He hated to hear his mother cry because it always set the stage for three to four days of violent outbursts. The last time she cried, she broke every glass object in the house, including the windows, with a large claw hammer. Listo loved his mother very much but she didn’t have any respect for him ever since the day she heard him deny that he was Mexican when the priest delivered his father’s eulogy so many years ago. The priest spoke fluent Spanish and Listo hated every word that was spoken on behalf of the man who was killed in a manner more suitable for a rabid stray dog. Listo’s father had moved near MacArthur Park in , after he had been evicted from the old Victorian mansion that had been subdivided into twenty separate apartments. The mansion sat atop Bunker Hill and his apartment was located at the rear, which provided a wonderful panoramic view of downtown Los Angeles. His father must not have known that he would never return to his new home on Sixth Street. He probably felt that the police would give up their chase when they saw how fast an Impala could evade even the fiercest of beasts. Head’s Turn

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The bright lights on Alvarado Street illuminated the entire area of the park and its beautifully calm man-made lake. The lights were much brighter than any lights Listo’s father had ever seen in his life. He drove head-on into those lights like a moth enters a flame. He must have seen the well-groomed shepherd as it was about to attack its costar in the scene that was to establish the dog as the ultimate hero of the movie. According to the producer’s and the cinematographer’s testimony at the coroner’s inquest, the Impala hit Licluk with such force that the dog exploded on impact, leaving only a partial paw print in the muddied asphalt. The Impala skidded out of control and raced onward into the lake, creating a tremendous splash. Everyone on the set at that moment was convinced and hopeful that the driver had been killed on impact. But Listo’s father emerged unhurt and was very angry that his wife’s Christmas gift was completely destroyed. He crawled onto the crushed hood of the car and verbally threatened to kill everyone who had ruined his holiday. Several actors claimed to have seen a gun in his hand, which they said was pointed at the assistant cameraman and a group of extras. The six officers ran up to Listo’s father, all of them holding pistols or shotguns, and opened fire without any warning. The first bullet struck him in the heart. He fell dead onto the hood of the car. A makeup artist screamed as the director ordered the police to continue firing. The weapons were all pointed at the face of the dead man. The brutal assault eliminated every definable trace of the face that had smiled so broadly the day his son, Listo, was born. Listo wanted his wig more than he wanted anything else. It was the only thing that made sense to him in an environment that he knew would eventually kill him and then immediately forget all about him. He walked up to the front door and heard his mother sob, as deeply hurt as she always was whenever he made negative remarks about the shrunken head. The head was the perfectly preserved remnant of a man who had never escaped his hostile environment of the Amazon forest. Listo’s father had won the head during a poker game in the basement of the mansion on Bunker Hill. According to his father, the head was that of a man who had betrayed his village when he refused to bear the traditional tattooed designs that had been etched since the beginning of man. The shrunken head was the only object that survived his father’s death. His mother had placed the head in a small straw cradle and placed it in the miniature manger at the base of the silver aluminum Christmas tree that was prominently displayed in the living room for all to see. But there were never any visitors, and only a few lost memories filled the room with diminished illumination. Listo walked in through the door and saw that his mother had ripped every strand of hair from the foundation of the wig and spread the black strands evenly across the hardwood floor at the base of the tree. She had stopped crying and was now smiling broadly 438

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as she looked at him quite lovingly, “Listo, you really are the best son a mother could ever wish for, because you look so much like your father.” Listo turned away from his mother and stared out toward the street, pretending to himself that he was leaving the land of darkness and entering a world of the rising sun. “We don’t celebrate the birth of Jesus, we prey upon the shrunken heads.”

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Kiko’s Kut (1991)

I

The earthquake struck at exactly  .., ten minutes after Kiko had finally fallen into a deep unconscious abyss of dreamless sleep. A sharp jolt violently initiated the destructive few seconds of . havoc that ripped across the Los Angeles basin when an uncharted fault line was suddenly activated by a mysterious geological trigger several miles beneath Kiko’s stuccoed two-bedroom California bungalow. Kiko had placed his tired bald head on the stained pillow that still retained the perfumed scent of his ex-wife, Tila, unaware that his bed was dangerously perched on the epicenter that would change his life forever. The inch-thick plaster ceiling rained down in a suffocating storm of white chunks and dust. A large section of the wall that separated his bedroom from the backyard collapsed onto the bed and nearly covered Kiko up to his neck. The jagged shaking motion was severely erratic. The glass windows shattered as the house slipped off its foundation. All of the furnishings and appliances were ejected to form an interior decor of natural disaster. Several beams and posts were cracked, snapped, or twisted as the force of the tremor caused the house to bounce a few yards toward the street. Kiko was awakened by the loud rolling subterranean thunder but was immediately knocked unconscious when he was struck in the back of the head by the thirteen-inch portable color TV set, which had been tossed across the room as the house shifted into an unexpectedly different trajectory. Kiko was oblivious to the uncontrollable shaking that totally destroyed his house. The earthquake ended abruptly and a sustained unsettled silence was the only semblance of an echo in its wake. 440

II

14 February 91 Dear Tila, I know that I promised never to contact you ever again even if it were to apologize on my knees like the dog that you’ve always thought that I’ve been but I’m not writing to apologize, I’m writing to let you know that the house that you loved so much when we were married doesn’t exist anymore. As you know (or at least I suspect that you know), L.A. had one of its worst earthquakes ever. You still read the newspapers, I’m sure, even if they’re of poor quality in that small town of yours which I can never pronounce and always have trouble spelling. The other reason that I’m getting in touch is to tell you that I’ve been asleep for the past  days. Literally. It took the cops  days to finally look for me. They have panicked! They were too busy peeling people from underneath a few freeway overpasses (and I mean, some of them went over!) and they were overworked when they had to shoot all of those people who rioted in the streets when the water stopped flowing and the electricity stopped. The only reason they looked into my (not your) house was because some of the neighbors said that they saw the image of the Virgen de Guadalupe appear on the walls. Those neighbors wouldn’t recognize a saint if it bit them on the ass. Anyway, some of the other neighbors thought that they had heard weird noises coming from my bedroom during the night (maybe I was snoring louder than you used to, I’m sorry, probably still do). The cops thought that the house was being used by those drug punks but instead they found me halfway buried alive but completely knocked out. Owww. I didn’t wake up until a few days ago and I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw the military police and nurses sticking needles into my arms, legs, and hands. You know how I never dream, well that’s all over with. The minute I close my eyes I start dreaming. I got hit on the head and the doctors say that I must have knocked on wood pretty hard to change something like that. Well, the real reason that I’m writing is to tell you that I had a dream about you but it wasn’t very good and it got me nervous. I dreamed that you were the one who was buried alive and that you didn’t want to be exhumed. I saw you crushed under tons of dirt, concrete, glass, abandoned cars, there were animals who had been buried along with you, like in the old days when people made sacrifices for each other. In the dream, I got on my hands and knees but only to dig you out. There weren’t going to be any strings attached to that rescue. When I finally reached you, I could smell that you had been dead for a long time. There was no way to bring you back to life. You were a stone-cold corpse and that was that. I wanted to bring you back but somehow I knew that you wouldn’t come back even if you could. I walked away from your grave and thought that I had heard you breathing. When I turned around you had been Kiko’s Kut

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buried again. I woke up right after that dream. I don’t know if it lasted a few seconds or several days. What I do know is that it is totally over between you and me. Really. I just wanted to let you know that anything and everything that ever could have reminded me of you has been either swallowed by the earth or crushed into unidentifiable fragments. It’s all bullshit, I know, but I had a first-class stamp and a no-class message. So take care and hasta la blah blah. Your formerly loving Ex-XXX Kiko P.S. Pissing my life away on the edge of this urban volcano. III

“Nothing makes any sense anymore when it’s okay to kill innocent people who just happen to be in the way of progress. Why not kill progress? I could run for president and nobody would give a fuck.” Kiko was losing his patience as the old blind man delivered his public opinions in a rabid baritone from the back of the bus. The windows were sealed shut and the cumulative effect of incompatible human odors compounded by the unrelenting heat that had been pent up during the fifteen-mile ride across town was enough to cause Kiko to lose his cool. “Hey, old fool. The reason nobody gives a fuck is because you’re still alive. Better shut up or my knife will vote you out of office.” The old man burst into unrestrained giggles as he got up and produced a mm semiautomatic pistol, which he waved about from side to side, trying to determine the direction from where he had heard Kiko’s voice. Only a few people were aware of the psychotic drama that was being played out as the bus rolled into downtown Los Angeles. “Here’s the democratic solution: One man, one gun, equals blind justice.” The bus driver caught a glimpse of the activity through the rearview mirror and slammed on the brakes. The blind man fired two shots as he fell to the floor. A young man was struck once in the leg and the other bullet crashed through the windshield. Kiko stomped on the old man’s hand and removed the pistol from his grasp. He placed the weapon into one of two plastic shopping bags that contained the sum total of his postquake estate and escaped from an increasingly hostile mass transit environment. Kiko kicked the emergency door open and jumped out onto the street as several Catholic schoolgirls screamed in high-pitched terror. “Damn idiot bus driver almost killed everybody. I’m better off on foot now that I have a new toy to protect myself.” Kiko felt that he would melt into the asphalt if he continued to remain outside in the unrelenting heat and smog. He ran from the bus and was nearly hit by a speeding turquoise ’ Cadillac as he attempted to cross the busy intersection of 442

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Alameda and Macy Streets. He was very familiar with the location but was surprised to see that the area had suffered so much structural damage. The Union Station train depot had been leveled into a haphazard mound of adobe, mortar, and metal scraps by the main quake and its numerous major aftershocks. The two domes that sat atop the Terminal Annex post office building had crumbled and appeared to be abandoned architectural cracked eggs. The entire three-block area of historic Olvera Street and Pueblo Park reflected the total devastation that had hit various communities throughout Southern California as the frequency in seismic activity took its toll without warning or prejudice. The surrounding streets had been flooded with homeless people since the early eighties, but the newest wave of displaced faceless masses had arrived from nearby neighborhoods and from the suburbs of the San Gabriel and San Fernando Valleys. Many people had lost their families, homes, jobs, and sanity within a few random minutes that it took to reconfigure the earth’s crust. Mountain ranges, municipalities, freeways, and beaches had all been elevated, lowered, or moved in opposing directions by a few inches as a result of the newly active fault, which had recently been dubbed by the media the East Los Angeles Fault. Kiko was enveloped by the swirling clouds of dust that were generated by the continuous flow of vehicles that moved onward as though no disaster had ever occurred. “Hey man, give me a penny or a ten-dollar bill. I need to feed the baby, my old lady’s in jail, and I’m stuck with the kid. Have a heart.” Kiko continued to walk at a hurried pace without turning back. The breath that accompanied the deep voice was toxic. He wanted to avoid contact with anyone who needed anything from him. He was now completely on his own, without any ties to any of the angels or demons that overpopulated the anti-oasis of L.A. The staggered breathing was at his neck as he approached Spring Street. “The baby ain’t moving, man. You starved it. Mama’s going to be mad at you. Better make it twenty dollars.” Kiko almost vomited as he inhaled the most putrid stench that he had ever encountered in his entire life. He reached into the plastic bag and took the gun into his hand. He stopped, turned, and was about to aim into the face of his tormentor when he saw the distended form of a newborn infant in the arms of a man who was camouflaged by thick layers of soot, rust-colored ash, oil stains, smeared dried human and animal feces, clumps of loose hair, and strips of torn paper that had been affixed to create a deformed crown on the filthy man’s head. The child was obviously dead; the small arms and legs swayed limply as the man confronted Kiko. “Money makes the world go crazy. Baby gets hungry, baby needs shoes, baby lost his mama in the trash can so that makes me Dad. Man, can’t you spare a nickle or a blank check?” Kiko’s Kut

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Kiko placed the high-tech German-designed muzzle between the man’s eyes. “That’s not your baby, fuck-face. Put him down gently.” At that moment the earth moved against Kiko’s wishes. The ground quivered for a microsecond, followed by a brief collective rattle of geological unrest and finally exploding into a megaquake that easily surpassed the Richter scale. Every physical object was involved in the radical zigzagging motion that was accentuated by a whiplashing effect that introduced each additional seismic jolt. Kiko struggled to maintain his balance as the concrete sidewalk and asphalt-covered streets were ripped apart by large undulating fissures that devoured vehicles, buildings, and people. The man was clearly frightened as he lifted the dead infant over his head in an attempt to block the bricks and glass that were falling from an old building that was collapsing. The pavement cracked loudly as a deep gaping hole was instantly formed between Kiko and the man. The man gazed into the unfathomable depths and jumped in, taking the small corpse with him. Kiko barely avoided the same fate by clinging to a telephone pole that had become wedged between several wrecked automobiles. The earthquake lasted for several minutes and ended when several bolts of lightning were expelled into the sky through a fissure that had developed in the parking lot of the partially ruined La Placita Catholic Church on Main Street, within a few hundred yards of where Kiko had survived what would be the most destructive quake to date. As soon as the shaking stopped, the traffic surged forward, establishing detours around unexpected roadblocks and deceptive unpaved pits. The people who managed to escape injury were on their feet and moving about as though they were anxious to reestablish order in their lives. Kiko realized that the pistol and both of the plastic bags had fallen into the fissure, which had clamped shut with the final thrust of the volatile crust. Kiko sincerely believed that he was lucky to be alive but was still angry over the loss of the irreplaceable contents of the two bags. IV

The following message was spray-painted onto the exterior walls of the Federal Detention Center on Alameda Street in downtown Los Angeles. The FBI field report indicates that the walls were defaced between midnight and  .. on the night of the . quake, which was responsible for , deaths, , injured, , missing, and an estimated $. billion in losses due to private/public property damage. The graffiti read as follows:   ,                .            ,             ,      444

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-          ,            .   ,    ,    ,             . ’    .        .         .    .        .    ,  ,     .       .      .                       . The wall was completely whitewashed by  .. on the same day as the disaster that threatened to level the city to dust. V

“Kiko! Kiko, is that really you? I’m so glad to see you after all these years. You’ve stopped shaving your head but it’s not much of an improvement.” Kiko knew that he would eventually meet someone whom he would have preferred to forget. He could see her reflection in the tinted safety glass of the large window of the accelerating light-rail train, which was somewhere beneath the San Bernardino Freeway. The concrete walls of the seemingly endless tunnel were smooth, gray, and bore no visible scars of the earthquake activity that had caused other tunnels of the Metro Rail system to disintegrate into disjointed death traps. Kiko turned to face his ex-wife, Tila. “And now you’re a redhead, maybe you should try shaving every once in a while. I’m glad to see you too.” Kiko was unsure of whether he had just spoken. It had been more than a month since the last time he had spoken to anyone other than to himself. He had been living on the streets since the day he was discharged from the hospital. The head injury had caused him to reconsider his options regarding his lifestyle and his attitudes toward basic survival. “Kiko, let’s be civilized with one another, even if it’s only for the next few stops. I knew that I’d see you one day. A lot of your old friends and family have given you up for dead. Your cousin Pinguino claims that he found your body in one of the mass graves near the La Brea Tar Pits but everyone knows that he’s such a damn-poor liar. I told everyone that you must have gone out somewhere to find yourself by losing yourself. No one knows you better than I do. I got your rude letter and had it mounted and framed. It’s hanging in my office next to the Kiko’s Kut

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photograph of my new baby. His name is Reyno. I told you that I’d have a baby, with you or without you.” Kiko focused his gaze on her painted lips. He was unable to visually synchronize the movement of her mouth with the words that flowed so effortlessly. “Tila, I’m sure you make a great mother but I’ve always heard your type always devours its mate after the essential ritual. You always chewed me out whenever it was convenient but there wasn’t much of me that you could swallow.” “I said, let’s be polite. There’s nothing to fight about anymore. After you disappeared for reasons unknown, I was able to win a positive judgment over the property on the hill. You forgot to file certain documents. Lucky for me. By looking at you, I’d say that you’ve formally acquired the status of an absolute bum. There’s nothing wrong with that since I’m sure nobody depends on you for anything. You’ve lost some weight but you appear healthier for it. You don’t stink any worse than you used to so I’d have to come to the conclusion that you still have some pride in yourself. You’re not lost but I don’t believe that you’ve completely found yourself. My stop is coming up.” Tila appeared to be several months pregnant. Kiko wondered if she still talked in her sleep. There had been moments during the early years of their marriage when she would dominate a conversation with her eyes closed. “I’m almost ready to return to the real world of bills, jobs, and all sorts of superficial worries but I need more time. By the way, whatever happened to my collection of silk vintage ties?” “I gave them to Pinguino. He sold most of them but I’ve seen him wear the pink hand-painted one at a few funerals, but the less you know, the better. Right?” “You’re always right.” “If you want to get in touch, call me at my mother’s number. If you want to eat the best enchiladas in the world, just visit her. She’ll feed a stray even in this day and her age. Ciao.” The rail car glided to a stop at the Covina station. She smiled as she headed toward the exit. Kiko was overcome with a bitter sense of defeat and melancholy. He forced a smile as the automatic doors closed and she turned to wave from the platform. The train pulled out and shot through the tunnel at a fearless speed. Kiko would have liked to walk Tila home, to meet her new husband, to see the new baby and to eat a dozen enchiladas. But that fantasy was as absurd as the fact that he would remain on the Purple Line route until it reached its end at Palm Springs. Dead ends had become the way of life for him. There was no light at the end of Kiko’s tunnel vision. He looked out through the window and saw the streaks of grayish tones and hoped in vain for cracks in the concrete. He wanted to be among the many who had been buried alive. The earthquakes had obliterated his need to be shaken into submission. Kiko was the only passenger left in the rail car. 446

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He shut his eyes and imagined that he was a worm within the belly of a snake. He would go only wherever the snake would transport him. He slid rapidly into a deeply unconscious state of defenseless sleep. The dreams that filled his sleep had now also vanished. Kiko was lost somewhere below the surface, never to emerge from the darkest of chasms.

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Hate Male (1991)

T

here was an unexpectedly violent pounding on the front door, the only door, to Rodolfo’s cramped studio apartment. He had just fallen asleep and was about to resume his nightly torment of dreams and images of a past gone unbelievably sour. He hadn’t bothered to undress himself before going to bed. His polyester blue bus driver uniform was extremely uncomfortable, but exhaustion and the anxiety that someone might surprise him in his sleep prevented him from sleeping in the nude as was his custom during happier nights. The pounding nearly shattered the cheaply constructed plywood door, and the brass-plated hinges almost snapped off the frame. Rodolfo didn’t move as he tried to envision who might be on the other side of the door. There were plenty of candidates to choose from, three ex-wives, ten ex-brothers-in-law, five former partners from a failed business, numerous creditors, and possibly a marshal delivering another summons. He felt safe enough to assume that a criminally oriented person wouldn’t bother to knock, so gang-bangers and other assorted thugs were out of the question. The pounding continued in an increasingly threatening pattern then suddenly stopped, without any sounds of receding footsteps or other noises that might supply a hint as to who had rudely interrupted his uneasy descent into his personal unconscious abyss. There was a distended moment of silence followed by a slight yawn. Rodolfo closed his eyes and instantly fell into the deepest mental black hole that he could find. That night there were no nightmares or perilous flashes of memory. His awareness was dissolved by the void and the night was an experience of absolute erasure of existence. There was a surprisingly gentle persistent tapping at the door. Its desynchronized beat created an agonizing echo that distorted Rodolfo’s involuntary biorhythms. He opened his eyes to the glaring beam of intense

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sunlight which poked through the gash in the old pink blanket that had been draped over the window, the only window, of his apartment. He covered his eyes as he walked to the door and unlocked the double dead-bolt lock, which was the only solid deterent to unwanted visitors. He opened the door and saw who he had expected to see, because he recognized that nervous meek tapping as that of his cousin Tardo. His only surprise was due to a misunderstanding—he had heard that his cousin was in town, but was certain that he’d be in jail by now, because Tardo was never more than a few weeks between some form of incarceration. Tardo was a walking gallery of tattoos that documented an extensive career of petty and violent crimes. The misunderstanding was on the part of Tardo, who hadn’t realized that Rodolfo had told him never to contact him for any reason whatsoever. Tardo walked in through the door and headed straight for the refrigerator, where he found two bottles of beer. “Cousin, I know what you’re thinking, that it’s not right to let beer go to waste, especially when you want to get wasted. Don’t mind if I do and you don’t.” Tardo then gulped down the contents of both bottles in less than a minute. Rodolfo wasn’t pleased to see him, but an idea was stirring in the back of his mind and it seemed that Tardo might have the qualifications that were needed to execute the simple plan. “If you don’t mind me saying that you look stupid, I’ll tell you that you look stupid. Now you know it’s stupid to go to sleep in your work clothes, you’re not that stupid.” Tardo burped loudly then sat down on the inexpensive sofa, smiling broadly as though he had been warmly welcomed into the bosom of his long-lost cousin. Rodolfo wanted to tell Tardo to get lost, but words meant nothing to Tardo. “Tardo, you look different. Hey, I know, you don’t have those things in front of your face, you know, steel bars. A jailbird just doesn’t look right if he’s not in his cage. Hey, I’m only kidding, don’t get pissed off. You don’t have to tell the story, you’re out on bail, out of money, and you need a ride out of town before sundown.” Rodolfo knew the limits of his cousin’s patience and loved getting as close to the edge as he could before his cousin would do something crazy like pull a knife or toss a chair. The two had spent their childhood on the streets, playing and fighting but never completely trusting one another. There were a few instances when Tardo had actually cut Rodolfo with a blade, but each time it was a minor wound that was easily concealed by a long shirt or a wool navy-blue beanie that he’d pull down over the deep gash across his forehead. Tardo was crazy but he was also the kind of person you’d like to have on your side when the going got dangerous. Tardo was beginning to feel tense, “Listen motherfucker, if you don’t want me around, just say so. I’ve got pride and it doesn’t matter if I need a ride. By the way, you got any smoke? Hey, where’s your old lady, anyway?” Rodolfo knew that the limit was approaching quickly, “Listen man, you’re familia, I’m always happy to see you even when you are out of your natural environment. Funny you should Hate Male

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mention the old lady, I haven’t heard or seen her since a week after the last time I saw you, about six years ago. I thought, maybe, that she might have taken off with you but then I heard you were up in Folsom, or Chino, or Disneyland. But I heard she’s got a big house in Newport Beach, I know, because that’s where the checks for the kids go each month. They weren’t your kids, right? They were mine, I hope. Man, wouldn’t that be something, me paying your bills. Hey, I’m only kidding. You’re like a brother to me, cousin. Hey, if you’re short on cash, I can give you some but first I’ve got to ask you, what in the world ever possessed you to wear a shirt like that, man, no one wears shirts like that anymore. Here, cousin, I’ll give you a shirt.” Rodolfo handed Tardo a paisley-patterned long-sleeve shirt that was several sizes too large. Tardo removed his own blue denim shirt and revealed several new tattoos as well as a freshly healed bullet wound on his shoulder. Tardo buttoned up and looked at himself in the large mirror. “You’re cool, Rodolfo, but sometimes being cool isn’t enough. Like me, I’m cool but I’m also marked with bad luck. You’re the one who always got the girls, you had them all and every time I’d try to get one they’d call the cops and say that I was some kind of maniac. I ain’t no maniac. I just don’t like to ask nobody’s permission to touch what I can see. You know, monkey see, monkey gotta do.” Rodolfo was beginning to have second thoughts about involving Tardo in his newly hatched plan. Rodolfo and Tardo talked for an hour while both men tried to regain some sense of connectedness to each other. Rodolfo supplied Tardo with several more beers and even gave him a gray corduroy sports jacket as well as a pair of dark glasses. Rodolfo was so involved in thinking about how Tardo had arrived at the right moment that he failed to notice the loud pounding at the door. The door received such a violent blow that it actually cracked and was split into two vertical halves. Tardo produced a . caliber snub-nosed revolver and was about to shoot at the door. “Put that goddamned thing down, man. It’s no problem, it’ll go away. Believe me, it’s alright.” Rodolfo and Tardo remained seated. Tardo thought he could see someone staring at him through the crack in the door. “What the fuck’s going on around here? Want me to poke a hole through that asshole out there?” Tardo headed toward the door but Rodolfo grabbed hold of his arm and said, “That’s my son out there, I know it has to be one of them. They never get past the door. They get mad, blow off a little steam and then they run off to Mama, one of those Mamas. Listen man, I need you to do me a big favor. You’re the only one who can do it. You see, I’m tired of being hunted down like a dog by everyone who’s ever crossed my path. I’m very tired. You don’t know what it’s like. You’re the lucky one. Do me the favor and slit my throat or shoot me in the head. That’s the only way I can get out of this trap. I’m tired of this shit. Besides, I know that’s what you’ve been wanting to do since we were both ten years old. Go ahead man, kill me. You can take whatever you want from here, there’s a few more dollars in 450

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the drawer and you can keep all the clothes in the closet, but please, do me the favor of putting me out of this nightmare.” Rodolfo lifted the gun in Tardo’s hand and put the barrel to his temple. Tardo’s trigger finger twitched uncontrollably and his eyes had a wild look of surprise, “Fuck you. Don’t fuck with me, I just might pull the trigger you sonofabitch.” He pulled himself away as Rodolfo laughed hysterically. Rodolfo had gone beyond Tardo’s narrow limit of tolerance. Tardo picked up the TV set and threw it across the room, causing it to crash down on top of the glass-top coffee table. Rodolfo laughed even harder. Tardo took hold of Rodolfo by the neck and slammed his head into the crack in the door. “Man, you’re not cool fucker, you can’t treat me like this. No wonder your kids want to kick your ass.” Tardo kicked Rodolfo in the lower back with all his might, then kicked down the remaining fragments of the shattered door. “You really piss me off, asshole.” Tardo yelled as he gave Rodolfo one final kick to the head. Tardo walked away in a hurry, as though he was the one who was escaping punishment. Rodolfo remained, curled up in a fetal position on the floor. His head was bleeding but he didn’t feel any pain. He had gone completely numb as he thought about how much he had always hated his cousin and he smiled when he thought about how he had forced Tardo to go away with only a shirt, a coat, and a few drops of blood. Tardo would not return and would soon be imprisoned. Rodolfo felt it was worth the small sacrifice to avoid any further complications. If only the other problems in his life could be resolved so easily, he thought, as the numbness seemed to spread out as far as he could remember, as far as he could foresee.

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Whichever Way the Lead Blows (1992)

I

Emilio hated victims. He believed that everyone was responsible for the way his own life had been destroyed by sickness, violence, and poverty. He blamed God and science for his constant awareness that he would eventually die of insanity or starvation. He knew that he did not belong inside the large corrugated cardboard box. He felt that it would be of no use to complain aloud because his voice would vanish within the brown warped walls. Several black cockroaches crawled along the edges of the small window Emilio had cut into the box. He could see the faintly illuminated alleyway, which was always empty and silent. No dogs, police, or gang-bangers ever invaded this obscure stretch of asphalt. Emilio claimed the area as his personal turf three summers ago, when he had given up on life in the congested fast lane. He had lived his entire life believing that there were only two basic alternatives to a normal life: suicide or homicide. But one hot and extremely smoggy day he literally slammed on the brakes on the Pomona Freeway and ran out of his car, abandoning normal reality as he scaled a chain-link fence. He landed head first on the asphalt and discovered the unnamed alley, which was compressed between the concrete base of the freeway and the rear wall of a condemned warehouse. He immediately slid into the shadows. He submerged himself in thoughts of peace and escape. Somehow, three years passed without his active participation. During that time, he ate garbage and breathed constantly polluted air. Sometimes he dreamed but mostly he drained his mind of images and memories. Despite all of his efforts to attain urban nirvana, a furious bitterness swelled uncontrollably beneath his conscious desire to disappear from the disfigured face of the earth. He stared at the roaches as they crawled silently, waving their mechanical antennae, he was outraged that they had not received his carefully composed telepathic message of friendship and oneness. 452

“Motherfucking cockroach sucking bugs, so smug like a bug, don’t bug me fuckers.” Emilio was startled by the hostile arrangements of his words. He had wanted to say something that would be more universally appealing, or issue some prophetic phrase that would generate deep thought among the insects. He believed that he had regained his thoughts and knew that the cockroaches would come to understand his pain. “Goddamned phonies, liars, bug out or eat shit.” The roaches walked slowly with precise jagged movements that caused them to shuffle lightly as they exited through the window. The warm stagnant humid air was thick with the stench of excrement and acrid urine. Emilio looked out to the darkened alley and the dim street lamp. He was confident that the cockroaches had been able to extract the true meaning of his passion for life. He felt that he would regain control of his words and that he would eventually achieve a beautiful form of communication with all creatures. He was comforted by the exhaustion that was overcoming his emaciated body. He closed his eyes slowly and was losing consciousness when he heard the strange muffled noises of footsteps and voices. “There he is. I’m sure that’s him.” Emilio wondered if the roaches were taunting him. Had they really adopted English so quickly? He opened his eyes and was momentarily blinded by an intensely harsh white light. “Better take a good, fast look. I think he’s dying.” The bright light glistened in his tears of confused happiness. “I always knew that we’d find him. Emilio. Dad. It’s all over now. You’re coming home.” Emilio did not recognize the voices. He shut his eyes tightly and followed the trail of random spiraling afterimages that danced smoothly and soothingly as he lapsed into unfamiliar levels of unconsciousness. His breathing slowed down as he entered an abyss of ultimate peace. He experienced a timeless sensation of sinking beneath the final layers of human instinct. The darkness of thoughts was enveloped by the loss of life. II

The list of names in the inexpensive guest book should have read like the extensive credits of melodramatic soap operas, with a gross overrepresentation of who’s who in the Chicano art scene and hundreds of signatures that would point to momentary encounters in the bars, campuses, motels, and streets of Los Angeles. Emilio was dead but nearly everyone who had shared their lives with him had already given up hope of ever seeing him alive. The book had been signed by Emilio’s mother, his two sisters and three brothers, and by his son, Emiliano. The funeral Whichever Way the Lead Blows

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activities were to be kept to a minimum, as was requested by the handwritten suicide note Emilio had signed three years earlier, on the day he had vanished. Emilio died during a typical week of violence: shootings, earthquakes, executions, explosions, and elections. He died at  .. on Saturday. At : .. on Thursday he would be cremated and forgotten by most of the universe. His body was a fragile shell that had been stuffed with low-grade cotton. He was dressed in a rented tuxedo that was reserved for “Burn-Furn” clients. The thin red bow tie was attached to the collar with a straight pin that appeared to pierce the rigid powdered skin of Emilio’s neck. “My dad wouldn’t have been caught dead in that outfit. I spent three years of my life hunting him down and then he dies in a box only to be put into another box. He’s better off dead than the way I found him. The autopsy revealed that he ate cockroaches, paper, dirt, and several coins. I never understood him. He was brilliant but always managed to explore anything that would result in self-destruction. He was basically a sixties kind of guy. My mother left him when I was five years old and I only saw him about ten times. Of course, I’ve read all the magazine and newspaper clippings. I even have a few VHS copies of his old Super- films. That’s about all that survived his vanishing act. When my grandmother called about his disappearance in , my mother jumped on the first flight out of El Paso. She didn’t have any legal or moral authority to do what she did. Mom ordered a locksmith to open the doors to his studio apartment in Silver Lake and to the selfstorage unit in East L.A. She spent several days sorting through all of his papers, photographs, and anything that painted the portrait of his life as a genius. All of his original manuscripts were stored in plastic containers next to boxes that contained the only copies of the works. The photographs captured images of nearly every stage of his life. What a joke! There were pictures of his erotic episodes. My mother drove to the nearest corner and hired five day laborers to load every item into the rented moving van. She drove the van herself. She intended to burn it all in the desert. She drove out to Vasquez Rocks, where she and my dad had first met during a film shoot in . But before she reached her destination, a tire blew out on the highway and she skidded over an embankment. The van exploded into flames and my mother was thrown clear of the wreckage. She landed safely on a patch of wild brush. She dusted herself off and then hitchhiked all the way to LAX. I’m sure that she would have come to see my dad but I haven’t been able to reach her for the last few days. She was on her way to Mexico and I know that Guadalajara was on her ‘must see’ list. She’s not on the run but she is a survivor. Mom. I’m sure she’ll call me soon but by that time dad will be dust.” Emiliano continued to talk to his friend, Blinks, who had already fallen asleep. Blinks had joined Emiliano on the final excursion to the anonymous alley where they found the absurd dying man. He was not prepared for the sights and 454

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sounds of L.A. He was ready to go back to Texas by bus, train, plane, or boots. He had never seen so many people crawling on the streets. He thought that something was wrong with a town that did not wash the blood stains off the sidewalks. Blinks was prone to snoring loudly. He produced a frightening array of buzzes, whistles, gurgles, and gasps as he slept. Emiliano needed to tell the story of his life, even if it would not be heard or appreciated by anyone. “Pardon me, but could you please shut the fuck up? The rosary has been going on for fifteen minutes and you haven’t given that dead man, Mary, or Jesus a break. Shit. And what the hell’s wrong with this dude? Wake up, asshole.” Emiliano reached into his coat pocket and rubbed his thumb across the chilled stainless steel handle of his Italian-designed and German-modified mm semiautomatic pistol. “Hey, don’t be an idiot. I’ve got a sawed-off twelve-gauge pointed to the back of your ugly head. Hey, don’t panic. There’s enough death to go around for everyone. Now take your hand out of that pocket.” Emiliano complied. Blinks was in deep REM sleep. Numerous sporadic bursts of automatic gunfire sprayed the casket. Two masked men dressed in military-style uniforms continued to shoot at the shredded body of Emilio. The elderly priest was struck in the palm by a stray bullet. The few family members and the two friends of the family who were present all screamed in terror. The two men had a severely ritualistic style of walking, talking, and shooting. If it were not for the fact that they were using real bullets, Emiliano would have thought that it was all a bizarre performance. “America wake up. Don’t glorify false prophets. America for Americans.” The two gunmen repeated the phrase in unison several times and punctuated the slogan with several point-blank shots to the ruptured face of the deceased. They then turned the smoking barrels of the weapons toward their captive audience. A third masked individual entered the mortuary through a side door. The sexual ambiguity of this individual heightened the effect of impersonality as he or she spoke with a raspy melodic voice. “Emilio represents the worst element of society. He created art that died years before he lost his mind. He was weak willed and an embarrassment to his culture. Emilio spread his sick theories and artistic disease to those who were swayed by his charms. America has no place for him or those who would follow his kind. Emilio is dead. Long live the puto.” The three intruders produced handfuls of colorful confetti and tossed it into the air as they backed out quickly through the side door with their guns drawn menacingly. They were gone as quickly as they had appeared without warning. “Hey, I told you, don’t be stupid. Give me the gun. Slowly. And don’t turn back, you sorry fuck.” Whichever Way the Lead Blows

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Emiliano handed over his most cherished possession. He felt that he would never see his favorite tech-toy again. As soon as the pistol was in the mysterious man’s grip, it was fired and emptied into Emilio’s damaged remains. The weapon was dropped to the floor as the man ran effortlessly out the front door. Emiliano hadn’t noticed the impassioned screams and strained moans from everyone who had just been terrorized by the attack squad. Blinks was snoring softly. All of the relatives were in a state of collective horrified shock. Emiliano picked up the pistol and walked up to the bullet-riddled corpse. “Dad, the more I think about it, I guess you would have wanted it this way. Still having everyone pissed off even when your work and body are unidentifiable. You exist in memory and concept. They can’t kill that. Maybe you won the game after all, even if you were a major lifelong loser.” Emiliano never looked back to the disaster in the funeral parlor as he walked out quickly through the side exit. He loaded the “Nite-Nite” mm bullets into the clip as he stepped briskly into the dead of night. III

Emilio was cremated at exactly : .. the next morning. The police filed a field report and listed the disturbance as a gang-related incident. There was no reason to delay the ignition of a perfectly clean burn. Emiliano sat on a concrete ledge across the street from the small crematorium on Whittier Boulevard. The thick black clouds of smoke rose steadily from the tilted brick chimney. He was sipping cold coffee from a chipped styrofoam cup. The sun and smog were once again forming a toxic alliance that would make this day another living hell for millions of people who thought of themselves as angels. Emiliano was exhausted after a long night of revenge. He did not want to read the newspaper but knew that it would not contain most of the graphic details until the afternoon edition. There had been so many rude and ruthless people who had driven his father to selfannihilation. The painters, poets, critics, academics, and art dealers who had once been so close to Emilio were now permanently out of the picture. The black smoke lightened to gray then briefly turned white. The fire and the man were extinguished. Emiliano drank the remaining ounces of cold coffee and walked casually up the boulevard. He would take the day off from classes at UCLA. It was only the second week into the quarter and it would probably take a day to get back to Westwood from East L.A. via public transportation. Emiliano did not experience any emotional sense of loss. He had searched for his father as a personal effort that would test his capacity for struggle and survival. It seemed to him that he would constantly have to embrace difficult tasks if he was going to achieve success in the real world, even if it stretched the limits of unreal behavior. He stood patiently at the bus stop. He reached into his back pocket and produced the neatly folded 456

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duplicate copy of Emilio’s suicide note. He would read it again for the fiftieth time on the bus as he headed toward downtown. The bus pulled dangerously close to the curb and jerked to an abrupt stop. Emiliano reluctantly boarded the bus when he realized that he would probably never return to East L.A. for any reason under the sun or smog. IV

Emilio’s suicide note was frantically sketched out in longhand with a faulty ballpoint pen. May Day or May Night or Mother May I, Night and Day,  Dear Diary or to whom it may concern, I am sick but you are the one who causes this illness in me. I cannot go on in this fluctuating condition of relative mental clarity. I see too much of everything that shouldn’t be true. All is not well. The friends have become zombies. Art is spelled F-A-R-T. I look into the mirror and see the refraction of man, not a reflection of feelings that shatter at the mere sight of their own shadow. I want to poison myself but the environment has done its job too well. I want to slit my wrists and throat but the sharpened daggers are all stuck in my back and I fail to reach for want of a better razor. I want to shoot a silver bullet into my brain but one never knows how to pull the proper trigger so I must go whichever way the lead blows. I have no excuses and no alibis that will suffice. It is over. Failure is measured in man’s inhumanity to his sex organs. Death is the easy way out and I’ve opened that trap door. Is it really a better trap? Sometimes I’d prefer to disappear. No. Prefiero la muerte. My love and affection to the son I’ve never known. Emiliano, you inherit the perceptiveness of your father and the tenacious strength of your mother. What will you do with such a killer combination? Please, keep the riff-raff out during the simplest of services. Love yourself. Dad, a/k/a Emilio. Emiliano read the note for the final time as the bus moved swiftly across the unstable Sixth Street bridge, high above the dry concrete scar of the Los Angeles River. He fashioned a crude paper airplane and launched it into the air through the open window. It flew anxiously over the edge and was swept away by blasts of diesel exhaust. He reached into his pocket and was comforted by the coolness of the gun. It was the only way to remain cool in a town that was ready to burn itself to the ground at the slightest provocation. Emiliano closed his eyes and imagined the flames dying down, until the slightest warmth dissipated into the dimmest recollections of a man who was never more than a phantom in life.

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457

No Alibi (1992)

S

“

ometimes, spontaneous intuitive creative behavior is in society’s best interest,” was all that I managed to say as the police officer nearly ripped my hand off, searching in vain for an alleged can of spray paint. He had seen me spraying an impromptu mural on the exterior wall of the Brew  building, which faced the thousands of motorists on the Hollywood Freeway near downtown Los Angeles. The wall was the crash site of numerous accidents due to a sharp, perilous turn built into the freeway to bypass the old building, which had been in place prior to the existence of any road system that would generate fatal jams, rush hours, or mile-long skid marks. I had nearly driven head-on into the wall several times and was amazed that no one had ever utilized it as an urban canvas for cryptic graffiti, mainstream advertising, or for one of the many murals that were painted during the early eighties as part of the Olympics arts activities. The police officer was tightening the handcuffs on my wrists as he demanded to know what had happened to the can of spray paint. Several squad cars arrived in quick succession, accompanied by a helicopter, which had been dispatched to shine a bright light onto the scene. The wall bore freshly painted skulls at opposite ends, which grinned ironically in the darkness, appearing briefly as the headlights of speeding cars illuminated them and the slogan that spanned the entire length of the wall. The police officer demanded a full explanation and an immediate confession. The slogan was painted to resemble the bold headlines of a newspaper:     The police officer removed his automatic weapon from its holster and threatened to shoot if my answers didn’t fill his perceptual gaps. I wasn’t sure if conceptual art was protected by the Constitution, but smiled when I felt confident that he would be able to maintain a level of nonlethal

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restraint. I told him I had been commissioned to paint a mural that would reflect the sentiments of the increasingly multicultural environment of contemporary Los Angeles. I was about to present him with the political history, aesthetic theories, and personal observations that had led to the creation of the work, but was rudely interrupted by the amplified voices that blurted forth from bullhorns on the helicopter and several squad cars: “Make him eat his words”; “Scum”; “Deport his ass.” I was pushed against the wall so the paint smeared against my back and then onto my face. A superior officer arrived on the scene and took photographs of me in incriminating poses next to the wet paint. There were several officers who were intent on dumping my body into the dry concrete bed of the L.A. River, but an emergency call requesting all units at the scene of a nearby multiple murder put a quick end to their entertainment. “I hope you don’t have much trouble getting the paint out of your hair,” were the last words I heard as the cuffs were removed. The helicopter disappeared into the smoggy night sky and the squad cars’ tires screeched on the warm asphalt as they sped off to their respective crime scenes along bloodied streets of fear and hate. I felt fortunate to have survived the encounter but understood that my luck was being stretched beyond reasonable limits. I crawled into the nearby bushes and retrieved several cans of spray paint. There would be other nights for other walls. I heard gunfire in the distance and wondered if another artist had been exposed to curbside criticism. I walked to my car, which was parked in the lot next to the building. A parking violation ticket had been placed on the soot-covered windshield. The price of creativity was small when I compared it to the square footage of wall space and the potential audience who would view the work for years to come. I drove my car onto the freeway so I could share the experience of the other motorists. I drove fast as I approached the skulls, turning just in time to avoid crashing into the wall. As I drove toward East L.A., the afterimage of the slogan appeared to hover before me in the fast lane. It would fade quickly, though, like so many memories of absurdly dangerous situations that made life in Los Angeles so inspiringly surreal. Flashing red lights and luminous pink emergency road flares appeared suddenly as I rounded the blind curve where the transition to the eastbound Pomona Freeway abruptly places the motorist into a perilous merging of lanes, causing automobiles, trucks, and buses to compete for the diminishing space. The problem is complicated by the occasional driver who inadvertently sets off on his or her own disastrous trajectory. As I slowed to a halt behind the roadblock of flares and numerous highway patrol cars, I looked into the rearview mirror and saw the cars behind me forming a congested row of unwilling participants in a dead parade that could last for hours. I cut the engine, set the brake, and turned off the headlights. A police officer approached on his motorcycle and directed the beam of his No Alibi

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flashlight into my eyes. “You have the right idea, sport. We’ve got a sniper on our hands, no telling how long you’ll have to stay out here. You’re lucky you weren’t passing through here just a few minutes ago, it might have been your final lane change. Get my drift, sport?” He drove off to inform the other motorists. I wasn’t especially interested in being at the head of the line when I noticed that several windows of the patrol cars had already been shattered by unfriendly fire. I attempted to start my ’ VW bug, but the familiar mechanical clicking of the malfunctioning starter signified that a bad night had just gotten worse. The random bursts of staccato gunfire sounded more like the sound track of a made-for-TV movie than that of real-life urban combat. I had the ridiculous sensation that a camera and an Uzi were pointed in my direction. I believed that both weapons could kill or maim me on the spot. I decided to abandon my car; it would be towed away by the police. The three dollars I had in my pocket would barely make a dent in the seventy-dollar towing fee if I decided to stay and personally request a tow to the nearest off-ramp. I got down on my hands and knees and crawled awkwardly against the stalled traffic, eventually reaching a guardrail that was installed to prevent anyone from spilling over a steep, hundred-foot, ivy-covered slope that leveled off onto the concrete and asphalt of Soto Street. As I jumped over the guardrail, the beating of my heart was accompanied by the pulsating rhythm of a rap song blasting from a boom box somewhere behind the bushes and beneath the overpass. Whoever was living in the total darkness under the freeway didn’t appreciate the intrusion as I stumbled down the slope. “Don’t know which way is up or down, do you, asshole? Come over here and I’ll give you driving lessons.” I didn’t look back as I raced downhill. I fell several times but regained my footing and ran as far as I could go. I was exhausted, frightened, and angry. As I walked, I peered over my shoulder; the shadows formed threatening shapes in one of the darkest nights of my life. I finally reached the intersection of Whittier Boulevard after a forty-minute trek against all odds. The bus-stop shelter glowed in the darkness, the fluorescent lights revealed oversized full-color Spanish-language advertisements that promoted cigarettes, beer, and military enlistment. The bus shelter was a trap that would make anyone inside an easy target for a drive-by shooting. I waited nearly an hour in the darkened doorway of the Teatro Blanquita, which provided the appropriate shelter until the number  bus arrived. I boarded the bus and paid two dollars for a one-dollar-and-ten-cent fare. The bus was occupied by an elderly nurse in uniform, a middle-aged man who was fast asleep and snoring loudly, a young couple with their three infants, and, sitting in the back of the bus, a vaguely recognizable man whose head was freshly shaved and whose eyes were hidden behind opaque dark glasses. “Hey dude, sit back here with your homeboy. The back of the bus isn’t so 460

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bad as you might think if you’re still thinking about it. Give me a cigarette.” I had never seen my cousin Zombino so thin or so bald. I heard that he had been sick but I wasn’t exactly sure what illness afflicted him. I sat next to him and knew that I had made another mistake. “I’ve been reading about you, dude. You’re still doing that art stuff. I just got out of the joint, dude, thirty days instead of ninety. Bet you didn’t even miss me. Hey where’s that cigarette?” I handed him my last dollar and told him to buy his own pack. “What you doing out so late and on the bus, dude? I read you going big time in the barrio. You don’t make sense. An artist is supposed to make paintings, not get that stuff all over your hair.” After a few minutes he rang the bell to get off at Lorena Street. “Hey, dude, make it to my funeral, man. You know I love you and your family even if you don’t come to visit. Keep up the art routine so I can see you in the funny papers even when it’s not so funny.” He walked unsteadily as he got off the bus. I looked out the window and saw my cousin fade into the night. As the bus continued eastward, I caught a glimpse of my reflection and lost sight of the artist.

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Rush Hour (1992)

A

man rushed up to me the other day and swore that he had seen me in his dreams of untimely disaster, that the dream had been in black and white, that I looked more like myself in his dream than what I had appeared to be in the black-and-white photograph he held to my face. I looked at the faded grayish image and noticed a resemblance to the refracted composition of any number of discarded people. He pushed the picture closer until it came into contact with my left eye, at which time I stabbed his forearm with one of the many rusted nails I always carry in my back pocket. He immediately fell onto the concrete sidewalk and spoke to his shadow in a sorrowful voice that sounded more like the scraping of rotted teeth against brittle bones. He had lost all interest in me so I let him talk as I watched his blood trickle down onto his hands and into the cracks of sidewalk. His conversation was barely audible in its intimacy with the disfigured shapes of darkness. I wasn’t aware of the crowd that had encircled us, nor did I sense the hostility of those who pushed their way to get closest to me. A man with a pus-riddled face kicked me in the forehead with the metal tips of his stylish boots. I fell backward in a wave of sudden fluid pain. I closed my eyes for a moment and experienced an infinite darkness and an overwhelming sensation that my entire life had vanished into the void, when I reopened my eyes I saw the heel of the boot crashing down on my face. The blackness engulfed me but somewhere in the distance I could hear the sorrowful antimelodic voice as it revealed its truths in a series of whispered echoes. A man rushed up to me the other day and swore that he would kill me if I ever dreamed of him again. I told him that I never dream and that even if I did, he wouldn’t be the kind of person that I’d dream about. His eyes were filled with hatred and confusion. He screamed at me and ordered me to get on my knees to pray to God that the devil should never

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catch me dreaming. The man produced a small piss-stained book, which he opened to the first page. He began to read, “Man is his own destroyer. Man is nothing unless he is shed of his skin of lies. Man is what is the mobility and nobility of putrid shit.” An unexpected burst of wind fluttered the pages and he lost his place. He was completely lost and had nothing further to say. He bit his hand so hard that the thumb was severed. The thumb fell to the sidewalk and I kicked it into the middle of the busy street. The man ran away and disappeared into the nearest alley. I closed my eyes for a moment and forgot in an instant everything that had happened to me during that entire day. A man rushed up to me the other day and told me that I was on fire. I could smell the smoke and felt the heat but somehow I couldn’t bring myself to believe him that I had set myself ablaze. I could see the orange and yellow glow growing in intensity but I attempted to conduct myself in as normal a fashion as I had ever behaved in public. I wondered how that man had come to the conclusion that I was the one who was on fire. How did he know that I had a bag of matches and a bottle of gasoline in my briefcase? I wasn’t there to burn myself but to burn everything about myself. Hadn’t he noticed the pile of papers and all of the original negatives, photographs, transparencies, and other documents? That was what was to be burned. But the smoke was so thick that it blinded all of my intentions. The flames devoured the man before I could tell him that it was he who had caught on fire, that it was he who would be reduced to ash, that it was he who had left nothing behind, no evidence to retrace his false steps. I don’t have an alibi. I don’t have an alibi that will do either of us any good. I was walking along the streets of L.A., I didn’t commit any crime that would harm anyone other than myself. I stumbled on the rigid hand of the dead man, slipped and fell to my knees, soaking my hands and pants on the purplish blood. I got up quickly and continued to walk but I wasn’t even near the end of the block before someone cried out, “Hey, you sonofabitch, get back here!” I pretended not to hear or see anything and maintained the same quick pace that I’ve always kept when walking through unfamiliar neighborhoods. I heard the quickly approaching police sirens behind me and decided to make a run for it. I jumped over a chain-link fence that bordered the freeway. I ran down the ivy-covered slope and made a mad dash across the eastbound lanes, jumped over the center divider and ran across all four westbound lanes. I felt the speeding cars skid past me. I thought that the police might have been shooting at me or maybe it was a passing motorist who didn’t like the way I cut into the fast lane so quickly. I ran as fast as I could and soon found myself in a desperate mood to survive at all costs. I ran alongside the freeway and exited at the nearest off-ramp. The streets were devoid of people, night had shrouded the community with a continuous sustaining dread of dawn. I felt the blood and perspiration blend into a sticky substance that spread across Rush Hour

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my chest, face, and back. Invisible dogs were barking ferociously from their secret hiding places, ready to ambush me with their massive jaws and razor sharp fangs. I walked slowly and discovered that I had been followed closely, too closely, by the dead man. I turned in horror to find him rushing up to me. He told me that he’ll dream about me in the hereafter. He held up a photograph of me as a child and told me to burn it in his honor. The photograph burst into flames as I burst into laughter, burst into tears. I don’t have an alibi. I don’t have an alibi. I don’t have an alibi.

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Rush Hour

Low and Slow (1992)

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ezlo had a ridiculous grin that would flash across his face whenever he’d spot someone he felt was easy prey. He was always ready to take advantage of any situation that might avail itself to his numerous talents as an accomplished thief, con man, and sexual predator. The young woman had been drinking rather heavily as she drank Chivas Regal scotch straight from the bottle. The party was especially boring because the DJ had blown all of the fuses in the old-style stucco California bungalow when he overloaded the system with a frightening array of cables, AC adapters, and various plugs, forming a dangerous electrical octopus in the corner of the small living room. She was oblivious to his unrestrained glances and she wasn’t aware that he had shifted slowly from one point in the room to another every time she took a drink. The bottle appeared to float like a mysterious bubble in the candle-lit room, the liquor inside the bottle would swish in smooth golden waves. Pezlo felt that he knew all that he wanted to know about her just by the way her lips sucked onto the bottle. After smoking several cigarettes he believed that she was sufficiently drunk to go anywhere with a total stranger. He walked up to her and told her that he had a fifth of scotch and coke in his convertible, which he had parked down the street. He took her hand and helped her walk out of the darkness of the party and toward the car, which he said was like a second home. He didn’t bother to ask her what her name was and had no intention of giving her any hint as to his identity. As they walked down the street he unsnapped the small gold bracelet from her wrist and removed the small engagement ring from her finger. She was barely able to maintain her balance as they walked slowly toward the red, new-model Mustang. He leaned her up against the car as he opened the door, her head tilted forward and leaned against his shoulder when she suddenly vomited the entire contents from her stomach, including a bowl of Lucky 465

Charms, two pork burritos, and a snack-size portion of buttered popcorn. The vomit splattered onto Pezlo’s neck and all over his pin-striped blue suit. He pushed her away and she fell into the passenger seat, where she continued to vomit onto the lambskin seat covers, finally spraying the custom CD and stereo system with a translucent yellowish fluid. He grabbed her by the lacquer-coated tuft of bleached hair and dragged her away from his car. She fell motionless onto the sidewalk, passed out from the alcohol and from the excessive retching of her body. Pezlo felt like killing her in a brief moment of uncontrollable hatred but the intense stench overwhelmed his desire to murder and caused him to feel nauseous and slightly faint instead. The situation had slipped out of his control and the sight of the young woman on the sidewalk quickly reminded him that he was in a precarious position should the police or any of her friends come forward to defend her honor. He slammed the car door shut and ran around the car to get into the driver’s seat, but when he reached for the handle he heard someone say, “That’s no way to treat my sister, you fucking asshole.” Pezlo didn’t hear the blast of the gunshots as the three bullets entered his back. There was a moment of heat and dull pain as he dropped to the pavement. He could hear himself breathing erratically as her brother shattered all of the windows of his car as well as his bones with the family crowbar. Pezlo had a ridiculous grin permanently etched across his expired face when several old women encountered him on their way to early Mass the next morning. One woman went off to call the police, but none offered a prayer.

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Low and Slow

Chavalo Was Lost at “Sí” (1992)

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n the eve of his grandfather’s death in , Chavalo sat at the edge of the backseat of his uncle Rico’s ’ Pontiac sedan as it sped wildly at over eighty miles per hour, heading against the oncoming traffic of the westbound Santa Ana Freeway. Rico was asleep at the wheel and had wedged his shoulder against the door so that the car continued to travel in a perfectly straight path. The bright headlights of the other cars illuminated the interior of the sedan with quick flashes of white light that were immediately swallowed by the blackness of the perilous night. The various horns that honked as the cars whizzed by were absurdly orchestrated by chance, to present a brief metallic requiem that echoed to the ultimate faintness of sound that followed the horrific multivehicle collision, which resulted in several fatalities, numerous injuries, with twisted chromium tearing off Rico’s left hand, and the massive centrifugal force that sent Chavalo flying off into the night, propelling him over and beyond the four eastbound lanes to land headfirst in the thick brush above the ivy slope. The ten-yearold boy was suspended above the ground on the thousands of intertwining branches and vines that had absorbed the impact of his aborted flight. He was unconscious from the moment his fragile forehead came into contact with the windshield, but felt no pain as he was ejected from the realm of the truly innocent. The diminishing echo of the horns lulled him into the deepest emptiness of awareness that a living child could possibly experience without slipping undetected into death. The shattered fragments of glass that were imbedded in his scalp and scattered like glitter on his hair resembled the bloody crown of thorns that his mother had always told him he would be forced to wear if he ever lied, cheated, stole, or exhibited any form of disrespect to his elders. The blood coagulated during the night and developed into a thick distorted crust with bold clumps of straight black hair that were thrust into exaggerated angles, causing Chavalo to resemble 467

the slaughtered saints who he often felt were at his side whenever he struggled to breathe during his frequent nocturnal asthma attacks. Chavalo was breathing silently in the warm and humid night air, which was polluted by the cumulative concentration of exhaust fumes of the hundreds of passing automobiles, buses, and heavily leaded diesel trucks. The traffic had resumed to normal levels of congestion as the hours passed beyond the removal of the pile of wrecked cars, unidentified bodies, body parts, and auto parts from the scene of the major destruction that had been caused by Rico’s drunken driving spree, which had never resulted in anything more serious than a dented fender or an occasional flattened puppy on the road to nowhere. But this time, his notorious lead foot met its match with the blind curve near the Indiana Street overpass as his sedan confronted reality on its unsympathetic terms. The only remnants of the accident that remained on the freeway were a few abstract images on the pavement that were smeared in unmatching blood types and the sprinkled confetti that was composed of shattered glass and plastic of taillights, headlights, windows, and rearview mirrors. “Hey, little boy, you dead? Maybe you are a bird in the tree? Little boy, I think maybe you are going to die if I leave you hanging on those branches. The ants and worms will eat you if you do not move. You do not deserve to die in the bushes. I better put you where the dogs and cucarachas will not think to find you. You will live and tell everyone that your guardian angel rescued you from the shadow of death. Little boy, you will grow old like me to save many more boys who hang by threads in the dark.” Chavalo was gently lowered to the ground by Señor Turcoz, who had never encountered anyone during his predawn nature hikes along the twomile stretch of uninterrupted vegetation that provided him with a brief sense of solitude as well as a shortcut to the Angelus Cemetery, where he worked as a grave digger, ash collector, and flower arranger. Chavalo was unconscious and moaned softly when Señor Turcoz carried him in his arms to the nearest tear in the unending high wall of chain-link fence. Someone had cut the fence to create a four-foot vertical slit. The chain-link had been folded back on itself and provided a narrow opening that easily accommodated the old man, who hadn’t carried a child in his arms in over forty years. They both emerged from the foliage covered with brittle leaves held in place by silky layers of spider webs. Señor Turcoz walked quickly toward the small wood frame house that had been his home since . Deteriorating beyond repair for twenty years, the house was devoid of exterior paint, there were numerous holes in the slanted roof, the sidewalk leading up to the front door was severely cracked, and many windows were fragmented frames for shattered panes of yellowish glass. A red flat rubber doormat was imprinted with the image of a whiskey bottle carrying the words   on its label. “Wipe your feet, so the dirt never follows you home. Do not worry, you will be safe now.” Señor Turcoz opened the door with a slight kick to its base. He placed Chavalo on the small green 468

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sofa. With the exception of rapid eye movements beneath closed eyelids, Chavalo was nearly motionless. The rotary dial of the large black telephone generated enough noise at each turn that the number being dialed could easily be ascertained simply by counting the crisply audible mechanical clicks. Zero, zero, zero meant operator, police, and probably more trouble than the time he shot and killed a neighbor’s German shepherd, which had suddenly gone mad and tried to chew through the thin plywood back door. “Hello, operator. There is a boy with a glass halo in my house. He is an angel and only God knows where to find him. I will make it easy for your police friends to help him. He is wrapped in a blanket and sleeping on the hood of an old car on Opal Street near Esperanza. He’s hurt, so hurry.” The old man took the beige wool blanket from his bed and covered Chavalo so that only his head was visible. He carried him outside and placed him atop the hood of a partially rusted ’ Ford truck that was parked halfway down the block. “Little boy, remember, miracles happen but never expect them to happen.” Chavalo opened his eyes and saw the dimly lit, discolored ceiling of the large intensive care room in the pediatrics section of the Los Angeles County Hospital. He felt completely relieved that his recurring dreams of strange animals and headless human beings had dissipated into the blank fog of his injured memory. He lay very still under a thin thermal blanket and recalled that he had crashed through the windshield. He couldn’t remember how he had gotten into the car with his uncle nor why they were in such a hurry to get home. Chavalo was alert but imagined that he saw faces and strange shapes in the shadows that were cast against the walls in mysterious elongated patterns. He was about to attempt to lift himself out of bed when a nurse entered the room with a hypodermic syringe and walked up to Chavalo’s bed. “I’m glad to see you up and awake but it’s very late and time to go to sleep.” She injected his thigh with the needle that penetrated his consciousness. He wanted to disappear as he stared into her eyes but the narcotic effect of the drug caused her face to blur into the other faceless forms that occupied his distorted field of vision. He closed his eyes and slept. Dreamless, he experienced fleeting moments of intense physical pain that were centered deep within his brain. Pain was replaced by the sense of virtual nothingness. Chavalo slept undisturbed for several weeks. His medical condition improved. When the medical staff felt that he was well enough to go home, the drug-induced sleep was officially discontinued and he was immediately discharged. Emilio Mariano de la Tirza died within a few hours after hearing that his favorite grandson, Chavalo, had died in a terrible accident that had been caused by his son, whom he believed should have been drowned at birth. Chavalo’s bright eyes and lively playfulness were the only source of inspiration that the patriarch was able to cling to in his desperate battle against lethal diseases, depression, boredom, and repudiation of faith in anything resembling peace beyond the grave. He Chavalo Was Lost at “Sí”

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had raised his grandson to be a man who would be most like himself in ways that transcended their generational differences. He had told Chavalo endless stories of how his life had meaning in Mexico but meant nothing in the United States. He had insisted that Chavalo speak Spanish only. He wanted to take Chavalo back to his favorite city, Guadalajara, so that his grandson could avoid the polluting effects of Los Angeles that his own children had absorbed during the thirties and forties. The fifties would be the final decade of opportunity for survival of anyone who was of Mexican descent. He believed that Chavalo was going to die of cultural assimilation if he allowed the young boy to stay in the urban desert. When the police reported that Chavalo was dead, a sharp frozen current of disbelief and grief sent the elderly man into a comatose state that rapidly eroded within only a few hours after hearing the bad news, which eventually proved to be false. By the time the authorities were able to accurately identify Chavalo and his whereabouts, Emilio Mariano de la Tirza was buried according to his wishes in a plain coffin at Angelus Cemetery without the services of a Catholic priest. Rico delivered a few words in honor of his father and declared publicly to all of his family and acquaintances who had attended the funeral that he would willingly sever his right hand if it could bring his father back among the living. Upon his release from the hospital, Chavalo remained at home for two weeks in order to ensure his full recovery. He spent those lonely days sitting in front of the small screen of the black-and-white TV console watching Heckle and Jeckle, The Buster Keaton Show, and Chucko the Clown, as well as hundreds of commercials for every promotable consumer item, including cigarettes, candies, liquor, detergents, toothpastes, chocolate-flavored drinks, and automobiles. Chavalo never would have been allowed to watch TV if his grandfather were still alive because everything was broadcast in English. The memory of his grandfather did not affect Chavalo’s desire to watch TV because the images and sounds that emanated from TV were immediate and real. Memory was like an echo or shadow, something that should be avoided or discarded. After several weeks, Chavalo could not recall the actual sequence of events that led up to the accident, nor did he remember the pain he underwent in order to survive the ordeal of physical and psychological trauma. He watched TV until he felt that he was completely cured. He believed that he had learned many new and important lessons from the concentrated education he had received from the picture tube. The stitched head wounds had healed to form a recognizable pink spiral of sore flesh. The closely cropped hair changed Chavalo’s appearance by allowing all of his classmates to see his eyes, which were often hidden beneath thick, smooth bangs. Miss Flintz was never late but rarely early. She demanded that her students be at their desks before she walked into the classroom. Chavalo had missed many assignments since the beginning of the semester because she was not about to 470

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slow down for anyone who could not maintain the pace of her teaching methods. The fourth grade was an important academic step in a ladder for success that she believed was automatically a few rungs short for most of the children in her class. Chavalo had been exceptionally slow in grasping an understanding of the need to think, listen, and speak in English. He had been born in Los Angeles but, as far as she was concerned, he was no closer to being an American than as far as she could throw him across the border. Chavalo enjoyed the company of his friends and especially liked to play extreme games of “dare” before and after school, when all of the rules about survival were broken in simple acts of absurdity. Sometimes the children would wait until a speeding car was approaching and then they would all jump into its path. At other times they would set fire to objects they disliked, such as the wooden posts of stop signs, parked cars, mailboxes, and trash cans. Chavalo had more fun on the streets than in class. He knew that Miss Flintz disliked him, but the feeling was often reciprocated in his own fashion. He refused to speak English in class even though his fluency was nearly up to fourth-grade level. He wasn’t concerned about the ugly scars on his head as he walked into the classroom because he knew that they would be hidden from view for most of the day. Chavalo placed the form that certified his reentry into Lorena Street School on top of her desk next to the attendance sheet, which recorded his excessive absences and repeated tardiness. “You’re late, Chavalo, another five minutes added to two weeks off plus nine weeks of nonparticipation in class, that’s quite an impressive list for a ten-year-old.” Chavalo smiled and looked toward the chair that was already in place in front of the chalkboard. “Now, Chavalo, what is it going to be, American or Mexican?” His smile broadened as her face turned crimson and stern. “Will you speak in plain English?” Chavalo paused for a moment and politely replied, “Sí.” Chavalo was very familiar with the routine and immediately sat on the chair that was waiting for him. He faced the class and looked into the faces of all his classmates. Most of them were quiet but a few giggled at the unobstructed view of the strange swirl on his head that made him look like a spinning top. Miss Flintz walked to the supply closet and quickly returned with the dunce cap she had ordered Chavalo to construct on the first day of class. The cap was nearly three feet high and made of purple construction paper. The hand-painted capital letters were spelled out in green, red, and white tempera: ------. She placed the cap atop his head and then turned her back on him. As the rest of the class participated in delivering the pledge of allegiance to the flag, Chavalo tried to remember the times he had spent talking with his grandfather, but the only images that came into his mind were of the cartoons, commercials, and comedians that had kept him company during his recovery. He looked at the children with their hands to their hearts and laughed to himself as he whispered, “No, no, no.”

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Where They Found Javier (1992)

I

“Javier was the kind of man who could find the strangest elements of his environment and accept them as an integral aspect of his personal life. With all of his innate talents and intellectual superiority he was still the most basic type of asshole that you’d bump into anywhere in any given city on this planet. He was lucky no one ever slit his throat. I would have liked to have bashed his head in with a blunt instrument but he was my best friend and I owed him in a very big way. He saved my life on more than three occasions. In , I was blue and unconscious due to an overdose of bad acid that had been spiked with a derivative of angel dust. He slapped me so hard that blue turned to pink. His nontraditional form of CPR brought me back to life at a time when I wasn’t really up to the challenge. I thanked him and hated him for being my savior. Then in , I was literally stabbed in the back by my ex-wife. She used her favorite pair of scissors in the sneak attack. I couldn’t blame her really but she punctured a lung and would have gone for the heart had Javier not walked into the kitchen in time to intercept the coup de grâce. It wasn’t as bad as it seemed and it had a secondary beneficial factor attached to the event in that it caused me to give up smoking forever. Finally, in , I was driving in the fast lane of the southbound Pasadena Freeway when I fell asleep at the wheel. I must have been traveling at over eighty miles per hour when my car slammed into the center divider. I don’t know any of the details but I found out much later that I was pronounced dead at the scene by several policemen who took my bloodied tattered flesh as dead meat. I can only say that some sort of miracle must have taken place at that moment because I distinctly remember Javier lifting me into his arms and carrying me all the way to the hospital. When I opened my eyes in 472

the intensive care ward at the General Hospital, the first person I saw was Javier. He spoke to me and gave me the courage and will to live. I closed my eyes again and kept them shut for six more months. My mother tells me that I was in a coma from the moment of the crash. Everyone else has told me that Javier was not even in Los Angeles on the day of my accident. I don’t know what to think now that Javier is dead. I just can’t believe any of the rumors. But it is difficult to deny the circumstances surrounding his murder. It was murder. I don’t care what the police say. It was cold-blooded murder.” II

 January  To whom it may concern, Your image, likeness and/or voice has been captured on film and/or videotape and possibly audiotape with or without your permission and is currently on display at the Asphalt Gallery as part of my solo exhibition,  . You are invited to attend the opening reception for and by the artist. Please come as you are and as yourself. A brief lecture with slides will be presented by Dr. Luzno Miras at  .. followed by a public outcry performance work by the artist. A door prize will be presented to the th person who utters the word “genius.” Please enter through the rear of the gallery (the front entrance will be guarded by rabid critics). The most important date of your life to remember and to be on site: Saturday, th of January. Sincerely (and I really mean it), Javier P.S. All major credit cards and hard currency accepted. III

The following text is an excerpt from one of the numerous handwritten journals currently being researched by several postgraduate students under the direction of Dr. Luzmo Miras, with the generous financial support of the Lorena Foundation: . . . I can never believe my eyes and ears. I don’t trust my memory and I don’t think that I’d recognize genuine emotion if it hit me between a fake genuflection. I’ve been sitting at my favorite table for over three hours and can’t seem to think of anything worth saying to myself since I’m all alone with no one around that I’d care to speak to. The coffee has been cold for two hours. The butter on the pancakes has cooled and hardened into a yellowish shape that resembles the piss stains on the pants of the old man who asks everyone about the grief of Jesus every time he goes to refill his cup with hot water. That tea bag of his must be bleached by now. No wonder he’s so pissed. I’ve been sitting at my table without any desire to eat. Where They Found Javier

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I ordered a great breakfast, enough for two or three people to eat, bacon, sausage, eggs, orange and tomato juice, biscuits, oatmeal, steak, strawberries, waffles, french toast, milk, cinnamon rolls, and coffee. It looked good to me as I took my tray down the length of the cafeteria. I was so hungry then that I felt like I’d die if I didn’t get a well-rounded breakfast. I had no intention of wasting all this food but that’s exactly what’s happening. I took one bite of the bacon and felt like I would vomit for the rest of the day. I should have stayed in bed but my dreams are getting the best of me. Better to pretend to sleep than to dream. This cafeteria hasn’t changed since I was an infant. I come here because it is the only thing that hasn’t been destroyed . . . At this point the text becomes illegible due to smeared ink and coffee stains. IV

“You’re sure the tape recorder is on? Don’t let me hear this because I hate my own voice. I know you’ve been asking everyone about Javier but I’m not so sure why you should be so interested. I never liked his work. Actually, he was an absolute phony. He wasn’t an artist. Everyone called him an artist. I’d read his name in all the newspapers and magazines and see that they’d call him an artist. But he wasn’t an artist. You’re recording now? Testing. Testing. My name? My name is Rodolfo Tirado Zapata. Everyone calls me Rudy. I don’t think I’m going to tell you what you want to hear. Okay. Well, I first met Javier when we were both in our late teens. We had been in love with the same girl for several years and she went and got married to some Marine when she went to visit her cousin in Arizona. She got married on the day that I was going to shoot Javier to get him out of the way. It was a big joke on me. I laughed so hard I almost spit blood. But the best reward was telling Javier about it. He had a gun like mine and told me that he had engraved my name on all of the bullets. We both felt like a couple of idiots. Anyway, we got drunk that night at the Kobra Klub near Soto Street. This is a long time ago. I was wearing platform shoes and bell-bottom pants and he was wearing glitter and rhinestones. Anyway, we were drinking and talking when these guys come in and shoot the bartender. The gang-bangers run out and everyone else runs out in a panic, except Javier, he goes over to the cash register and takes all the money and even steals the bartender’s wallet. All I could think of was to keep a good bottle of whiskey for myself. We took off in different directions and I didn’t see him again for at least ten years. I knew he was doing good for himself because I’d read about him in the papers. He was a damn art celebrity just because he said he was one and everyone believed him. All he had to do was put his signature on anything and they’d call it art. I’m not sure if he was a painter, a writer, an actor, a photographer, a sculptor but I’m sure he wasn’t an artist. He didn’t deserve to be that 474

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famous. He was just like me and I’m not better than anybody. He always acted like he was hot shit. Well, I guess we all know where that got him. Life’s a joke but death is an even bigger joke.” V

The following interview appeared in the L.A. underground newspaper ¡MEXIT!, Volume , Summer : : I’ve followed your career for the past decade and have been fascinated by your starkly comic use of Los Angeles as the conceptual context for your work. Why L.A.? : So you’re the one who’s been tripping over my heels! I’d better quicken the pace or we’ll both nod off. I was born in the emergency lane of the Hollywood Freeway. I rejected public education when I attended school in East L.A. during the fifties and sixties until I was finally bribed with a . GPA and kicked off the property. I drank my first cup of coffee at age four. Peter Lorre, Buster Keaton, and Bette Davis are the Holy Trinity. I’ve been present at over a thousand funerals. My favorite foods are jalapeño chile, serrano chile, habanero chile, and all forms of dark chocolate. Who’s conducting this interview anyway? : In the City of Angels, are you a demon or just another tortured soul? : I prefer to consider myself a citizen of limbo. L.A. functions as a lost world that’s overpopulated by a barely invisible phantom culture. It’s so difficult to pinpoint anyone’s allegiance unless they belong to a gang or an enforcement agency. I salute them all with my middle finger. By the way, you can’t have soul unless it’s tortured. : Tell me about your recent performance at Parking Lot Theatre. : The facilities are the absolute worst in the Western world but the ambiance is great in that barren place. It started out two years ago when I lost a bet with a friend that I could land a white-collar job at one of the local defense or oil companies just to be close to their panic buttons or computer systems. After several attempts to pose as a highly paid executive, I was accosted by armed guards and nearly arrested. I slipped out of custody and into my favorite flannel pajamas. I always write my performance works in boxer shorts but somehow this piece would be different. I started to write at midnight and continued to work until noon. I fell asleep and woke up at midnight. I made a few corrections and changed the title several times but by that time I was so weak from lack of food and I really had to go to the toilet. I finally put the finished manuscript in a cardboard box and hid it beneath my bed. It remained there untouched for twenty-two months. One night Where They Found Javier

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I was trying to kill a cockroach when I threw my switchblade at it. The knife skidded on the concrete floor. When I reached under the bed to retrieve it, I found it had stabbed the box. I discovered the lost manuscript, changed the title, and immediately set the work into production. -  -  is a conceptual drama with music for two performers and an indeterminate number of flies. I consider it to be one of my most important works. : But there was only one performance. Will you present it at other venues? : I’d love to talk with you all day but I’m guest lecturing at UCLA and I’m sure to be tied up in traffic for more than an hour. Let’s see, I have my keys, my wallet, and my constant companion. : Looks like an Uzi. : And shoots like one too. This interview was continued in three parts in succeeding issues of ¡MEXIT! However, the remainder will not be reprinted here. VI

“He was a very funny, arrogant, occasionally sociopathic kind of guy. I don’t know why I loved him but I always managed to keep his ego in check, at least whenever he was around me. I used to tell him that he had useless semen because I never got pregnant by that fool. I’m not sure that I completely understood him but I caught a glimpse of him when he faced insanity head on. That’s when I decided to drop him like a poisoned potato. Too bad. That was just before he hit the jackpot. And now I’ve got two sets of twins and a wonderful husband. I’ll miss him but not the crazy instability. I’ve got to go, the babies are crying.” VII

According to currently available research regarding Javier’s creative work from  to early , it is estimated that he produced an extensive amount of work, which included  oil and/or acrylic paintings on canvas;  public murals;  literary works, e.g., plays, poetry, fiction, essays, manifestos, and  feature-length screenplays; , frames of B&W negative film; , color transparencies;  hours of unedited video footage;  hours of unedited mm color reversal film; , hours of unedited audio recordings; as well as numerous intangible and conceptual works. The following is a transcription from an audio recording by Javier: “. . . Forget what I just said. This damn machine drains the batteries and doesn’t warn you when the cassette is out of tape. I don’t know the exact date but it’s a 476

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Friday during November of . It’s about as cold as it can get in L.A. but all of this walking is keeping me warm despite the holes in my shoes. I’ve been shooting strangers all day. My loyal sidekick, the Nikon F with its most trusted companion, the mm lens, and fifteen rolls of Tri-X film have proven to be more important than my own eyes. I’ve seen ridiculous images today. A man was being beaten unconscious by two cops. They left him lying on the sidewalk when several gunshots were fired from a passing car. Right now, I’m walking past City Hall and the lawn is beautifully trimmed, with more cops planted here and there, they’re trying to look like street people, not doing a good job of going undercover. Maybe the mayor’s been threatened or maybe I’m just seeing things. I remember this building as the tallest thing on the old Superman TV show. I’ve seen people walking, eating, talking, shitting, reading, and going crazy on the streets all day. I have about another hour of daylight left but I think I’ll hang around until  .. I was supposed to meet a few people today but I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone. I should send them this tape. I’ve seen too many sad faces. The buses are full of them. I guess if you’re on the path to a slow suicide, you catch the bus on Alvarado Street and head in any direction for the nearest dead-end job. I’ve been on the streets away from my phone because a few voices from my past have a way of intruding into the ongoing conversations that I have with myself. No, that’s not true but I should let the phone bill go unpaid. I feel so disconnected as it is. So why stop now? Photographed a petrified living mummy who was wearing a shirt with the words Varrio Loco emblazoned across the front. The shirt was brand new but the mummy was either sixty, six hundred, or six thousand years old. Everything contradicts everything else in this place of nonbeing. I’ve shot so many faces, yet none are familiar or recognizable. I’ve lived here forever but I can’t seem to remember the last time I actually shared a moment with anyone. I’ve given up painting. Colors hurt my eyes and if I only had faith, I’d pray to go blind. It’s only a mood, a mood without reason. I’m going across the freeway overpass on Spring Street. I should toss my camera, my wallet, this tape recorder over the railing. I wonder where the junk would land? Into the laps of commuters or onto the heads of the innocents as they worry about how fucked-up their lives could be if only they had the nerve to swerve into oncoming traffic. Everybody believing in the one-way sign. I’m feeling ill again. Looking at all these cars, trucks, buses, motorcycles . . . I want to jump and follow all of the junk that I should have thrown but I don’t want my face to be erased by a speeding windshield, random chrome bumper, or even the black asphalt. I don’t know anyone. Losing my balance as I walk on the railing above the thickening jam of anonymous vehicles. But there, I’ve made it! Live another minute to hate another day. I can almost hear the telephone ringing. I wouldn’t answer that if I were you . . .” Where They Found Javier

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The recording stops abruptly at this point. However, analysis of the voice-to-ambient sound ratio reveals that the recording was conducted in an interior setting. It is unclear whether Javier was preparing a monologue for a performance or if he was attempting to re-create a specific experience from his daily activities. There are numerous audio recordings that provide a similar technique of generating a sense of perceptual ambiguity. Additional research is recommended in regard to this aspect of Javier’s collected materials. VIII

“Javier wasn’t a team player. Anytime he found himself even remotely linked to a group, or even another individual, he would do everything to sabotage the basis of the relationship. I’ve heard a few people claim to have been his friend but as far as I can tell, he didn’t have friends. Sure, he had fans, he had collectors, he had the academicians and critics following his every move, he had sex, I’m sure he fucked anyone and everyone who was dumb enough to fall for his, how should I put it, his psychosexual allure. He was more of a hypnotist than a sex god. Well, no denying it, I was under his spell more times than I’d care to count. He made me feel stupid but it wasn’t until the end of our encounters that I began to feel dirty, diseased, doomed. I tried everything that I could think of to escape but somehow, well, I just couldn’t do it. It started in  and ended in . There’s no way to give an adequate explanation but I do have a few weak excuses for not avoiding him. He was my mentor as well as my mental illness. Sometimes I think that he needed me more than I needed him. He first spoke to me when I was working at the Don’t Do-Nut shop on Whittier Boulevard in East L.A. He ordered  dozen doughnuts, all glazed. At first, I thought he was crazy, but then he handed me enough cash to buy another fifty dozen. He told me to keep the change as long as I’d help him pass the fifty boxes to the people who were waiting at the four bus stops at each corner of the intersection at Soto Street. I knew then that he was insane but he seemed to enjoy the expressions of joy, distrust, and confusion that crossed the faces of everyone who received a box. I was fired on the spot. Javier kept one dozen for himself and we both went to his studio, which was more of an abandoned union hall. He said that he inherited it from someone who had taught him politics during the sixties. I didn’t believe him even though it turned out to be true. Lots of his lies were true and vice versa. We ate all of the doughnuts, drank coffee, exchanged stories about our favorite TV shows and nightmares. I stayed in bed with him for the next few days. Then, one afternoon, he put on his pants and said he was going out for some more doughnuts. He was gone for more than a month. I found out later that he had gone to San Antonio, Albuquerque, and Guadalajara to attend his own solo exhibitions in each city. I had no idea that he was such a famous artist. I didn’t know anything about art at that time. He made 478

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a few phone calls to me during that month and told me that I could stay in his studio while he was away but that I would have to leave when he returned. I decided to stay there because it was better than going back to that sonofabitch husband of mine. Besides, Javier sent money and he had the best collection of jazz and Mexican music. On the night of his return, he had a box of a dozen glazed doughnuts under one arm and a dozen roses under the other. He was slime but at least he wasn’t boring. Well, I know you only came here to pick up the photograph of him. There must be a better picture. Here, take this one. He always took his own portraits. I don’t think anyone ever got him to pose for them, that is, except for me. I guess that’s why you want to use it. That picture can explain itself in less than a thousand words. Just make sure you give me credit.” IX

Javier’s body was discovered in the brush near the Los Feliz off-ramp of Interstate Highway . He was last seen alive at the Asphalt Gallery on the night of the reception for  . According to the official police report, his body was mutilated beyond recognition. Several factors have been listed as the causes of death and disfigurement. The final sequence of events leading to his final state was described by a veteran TV reporter, who has requested that his name be kept off the record. “I’ve seen dead men but this stiff was a beauty. He had several hundred starshaped entry wounds throughout the upper torso. The face had been sliced off in a surgical manner and placed into a plastic bag at the scene. All of the skin had been peeled away, leaving a rough shredded texture. The police claim that he must have been hit by a truck, then mauled by wild animals, such as raccoons and crows, then someone, possibly one of the homeless people who live alongside the freeway, decided to preserve the identity of the victim by placing the face into a bag. It seems far-fetched, but shit, anything this close to the Hollywood sign is possible. Anyway, you know that an artist hasn’t really paid his dues until he’s dead. Alive, they’re a dime a dozen. I’ll leave it up to you bookworms to figure his worth. What a waste.”

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Oscar’s Middle Finger (unfinished) (1992)

I

The sky was a mixture of brown nebulous clouds that staggered the imagination with its noxious fumes and distorted wavelengths of sunlight that cast a yellow orange tinge to the City Cuts Salon window display of wigs, hair tonics, combs of various shapes, brushes with metal handles, aluminum rollers, fogged mirrors that could fit deceptively into the palms of the older women who would frequent the salon, a mysterious establishment for all of the young boys who would stare at the limbless nude female mannequin that donned the latest hair fashion in the form of an inexpensive synthetic wig. The discoloration of the display was enhanced by the large sheet of pink cellophane that nearly covered the window and was haphazardly secured with strips of duct tape along its edges. The boys were constantly interested in the fate of the several hundred flies that had managed to wedge themselves between the glass and the transparent pink shroud. Oscar was always the first to locate the new flies and he seemed to be in love with the mannequin, especially when it was wearing bangs or long, dangling curls. He had been thrown out of the salon on five separate occasions for fondling or kissing the artificially exaggerated breasts. Oscar never knew how to stay out of trouble and he always looked suspicious, particularly when he was innocent. There was something in his eyes that caused everyone to distrust him. Sometimes he would find himself thinking that he had the face of a mad dog. He could see why he was unpopular by looking at his own reflection in the window of the City Cuts Salon. “Get away from my window you little dumb-shit or I’ll clip off your ears!” Oscar hadn’t noticed Olga’s massive reflection in the window but suddenly his face was pushed up against the glass, the hair at his neck was 480

yanked roughly, causing his forehead to strike the window hard enough to tear open the two-day-old gash he had received during a belt-buckle fight outside the principal’s office at Stevenson Junior High School, where the highest grade he was expecting to get for any of his seventh-grade classes was a D. The bloody cut was shaped like a ruthless lightning bolt that carved a path across his face from the corner of his lip, up alongside the bridge of his nose, continuing in a ragged swath across his left eyebrow and finally settling its deepest incision just beyond the hairline, near the mole that had grown to resemble a mutated walnut but that he had every intention of hiding forever beneath his rolled-down navy-blue beanie. “How many times do I have to kick your fucking puny ass before you’ll understand that you’re not wanted around here? Damn pervert, they should put you in the crazy house.” Olga was mean and quick. During the fourteen years that she owned and managed the City Cuts Salon, there had been eleven armed robbery attempts; nine resulted in the fatal stabbing of the perpetrators with her infamous twelve-inch stainless steel scissors, the other two incidents were carried out by a nameless repeat offender who lost a testicle during the first incident and who suffered a punctured lung during a brief struggle when he entered the salon a few years later. “And don’t think I won’t cut you where it hurts.” Oscar could see one of the flies struggling to escape but knew that it would soon be stiff and unidentifiable among the other fallen insects. His hair was pulled so viciously that he was nearly faint and didn’t seem to realize that he was being led at a rapid pace toward the parking lot behind the salon. The three violent blows to the back of his head felt strangely brutal, as though the brown clouds from above had crashed in on him without reason. All he heard was the buzzing of flies as awareness slipped into the unfathomable blackness he had experienced only once before, when he had overdosed on the sweet fumes from a pint of generic brand oil-based enamel turquoise paint, which he had stolen from his third-period wood shop class during the first week of school. The hot asphalt of the parking lot was already spotted with drops of his blood as he dropped face down, oblivious to the flies that were dipping their wings into the oddly shaped red puddles that formed in the crevices of his bruised ears. No one noticed the awkwardly positioned rigid body as it accumulated particles of dust and soot. The discarded litter from the passing motorists on Lorena Street was blown along an unrelenting current of swirling hot Santa Ana winds into the alley that stretched the length of the block, parallel to Whittier Boulevard, piling candy wrappers, cigarette butts, greasy crumpled sheets of wax paper with bits of partially hardened processed cheese, crushed plastic juice containers, the yellow confetti of a shredded parking ticket, torn photographs that were tossed into the air each morning by Señora Luz, the photographer’s wife who felt it her duty to scatter the visual remains of those who didn’t pay their bills on time, Oscar’s Middle Finger

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images of brides, infants, nuns, young men in uniform who never returned to claim their negatives, brittle leaves and lifeless twigs bounced sporadically, the harsh dry gusts blasted the refuse, causing the various forgotten items to pile in disordered heaps against the chain-link fence that bordered the parking lots of the City Cuts Salon and the El Rey for Today beer bar. The parking lots were graveyards for old sofas, imitation French provincial to genuine vinyl-covered art decostyled pieces that were so poorly designed and constructed that the support springs had popped through the black or red polyester fabrics but held back by the thick plastic enclosure that insured the buyer that the sofa would look like new despite a generation of neglect and abuse, perfect for any overextended family on a limited income as long as the payments were personally delivered in cash or postal money order by the first day of each month to Deardums Furniture, a family-owned store that offered credit to anyone who was willing to pay six times the suggested retail price as long as the terms were maintained at affordable rates by prolonging the payment period up to ten years. There were four abandoned automobiles in the lot behind the bar, a ’ Cadillac had been crushed by a cement truck in one of the many collisions that have given pedestrians on the corner of Lorena and Whittier the sense that they have cheated death by successfully crossing the street, a ’ Thunderbird that had been firebombed in an attempt to kill the bar’s owner, Rey, had been driven only thirty miles from the dealership in the San Fernando Valley to Boyle Heights, where it was greeted with a gasoline-filled bottle that was tossed by an irate customer who was later identified as one of the dead robbers of the City Cuts Salon, a ’ Pontiac and a ’ Chevy were stripped bare and hauled into the lot within two weeks of each other during the previous warm winter. The lot behind the salon had a sparse collection of rusted metal drums that had been used to mix many of Olga’s popular concoctions that were guaranteed to straighten or curl unruly hair, there were also five shattered television picture tubes that resembled the glass meteorites that had appeared in Oscar’s favorite movie, Worlds No More, a low-budget space fantasy adventure that had been aired for seven consecutive nights during the past week on channel , the broken glass was spread out across the lot, glittering like useless jewels on a doomed planet. The ferocious fire ants that Oscar was fond of capturing in mayonnaise jars were now feasting on his decaying flesh, crawling inside his nostrils, plunging their jaws into his dehydrated tongue, completely devouring the mole that had shriveled down to the size of a raisin, the ants were marching instinctively into the cavernous silent abyss of his breathless throat. Nearly one thousand flies paid tribute to his unblinking gaze by laying eggs in his eyes. Oscar’s body remained undisturbed for nearly thirty-six hours until Olga returned to the scene of the crime. She had been handed a printed leaflet that announced Oscar’s disappearance. The photograph of Oscar that was circulated was to have appeared in the Stevenson 482

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 yearbook, The Treasure Chest, and the printing was executed by the seventhgrade printing shop class under the direction of Mr. Frankzis. The six hundred leaflets were distributed by the boys in Oscar’s gym class and by the girls in the advanced home economics class. Olga had never meant to kill Oscar but was determined to teach him a lesson that he would never forget. Olga reached into the pocket of her white cotton apron and produced her prized scissors. “Boys like you go straight to hell, dead or alive.” She took hold of the middle finger on his right hand and swiftly severed it between the sharp metallic blades, the finger was slightly deformed, its partially chewed dirty fingernail scraped against the asphalt as Olga picked it up and walked back to the salon with Oscar’s middle finger held firmly in her clenched fist. Oscar’s body became less of a presence with every burst of hot desert wind, the fire ants had ravaged the internal organs, the maggots consumed the flesh beneath the skin, voracious, maverick stray yellow jackets reduced his face to a scar-riddled expressionless pulp, the bony form of a boy was slowly turned to dust, nearly fading into the grayness of soot and asphalt. II

Olga had worn her favorite pendant on a flawed gold-plated chain around her neck for fifteen months, she smiled to herself every time she recalled how she had acquired it and how she had decorated it by hand-painting it with glittery gold lacquer, incrusting it with red, green, blue, and yellow rhinestones. Mounting the pendant had been fairly difficult until she read a short chapter from the book Taxidermy in America. The book described the technique of making a lucky rabbit’s foot. She took particular pride in the elaborate efforts she took in extending the fingernail by cementing a molded strip of nylon and brushing on thirty layers of morning glory lavender lacquer polish. She had transformed Oscar’s useless crooked finger into an object of abject beauty. The finger retained the bones and was crudely stuffed with dyed wads of cotton. There were several instances during Holy Week when Olga sensed that the finger was struggling to free itself, but she felt certain that the bending and twitching of the finger was only imaginary. She believed that she knew everything there was to know about that particular finger. Her own fingers were perfect strangers in comparison to the time and care that she lavished on her favorite piece of jewelry. There were several regular customers who offered to buy the pendant from Olga, but she would always extinguish their interest in an instant. “Don’t point, I just might need a pair of earrings in a hurry.” Then she’d flash her scissors across the knuckles of the prospective buyers. The clientele of City Cuts Salon was extremely loyal and consisted of a core group of forty women from the neighborhood that straddled the nearby boundary of two legendary gangs, White Fence and Varrio Nuevo Estrada. Olga swore that she would decapitate anyone, regardless of gang affiliation, if she caught them defacing her Oscar’s Middle Finger

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establishment with the spray-painted cryptic graffiti that had proliferated beyond her visual tolerance. The stylized gang logos WF and VNE were a familiar sight throughout the area, saturated the walls and sidewalks between Chum’s Liquor and the Rexit Drug Store. Her clients must have spread the word of her threat to place the head of a graffiti artist onto the torso of the mannequin in the salon’s window display. The salon’s facade was marred only once, when early one Monday morning, Olga discovered a barely legible    scrawled onto the window. She estimated that the letters were written with the use of a bloodied finger. She was convinced that it was the blood of one of the local gang members, she wasn’t superstitious but she spontaneously bit into the tip of her forefinger and smeared a large X, with her own blood, over the epithet. III

Señora Luz had warned her husband not to photograph Oscar when she realized that he was the son of Mercedes, a woman whom she would often see walking about the neighborhood at all hours, from before sunrise, when the fog was thick with unspoken danger, on through to the bright sunlit days, when the heat would cause the bubble gum stains on the sidewalk to pulsate, and on to the late hours of the evening, when the echoes of gunfire would cascade into the darkness. Mercedes always wore the same inexpensive brown-and-yellow checkered overcoat, with her hair hidden beneath an orange paisley-patterned scarf and an oversized L.A. Dodgers baseball cap. She usually carried a large brown burlap sack, which she generally filled with discarded objects of nominal value, empty bottles, torn clothing, many vacuum tubes from the several irreparable radios and television sets that were laid to rest each night in the driveway of Furuku Electronics and Repair, across the street from City Cuts Salon. She never spoke to anyone, bearing a tragic expression of perpetual sadness, smiling briefly and weakly whenever she would catch sight of small children. Señora Luz despised Mercedes because she had heard several versions of the rumor that she had spit at the brass statuette of the Virgen de Guadalupe in the sanctuary of Resurrection Church during the funeral mass of her two daughters and husband, who had all died in a freak automobile accident on the Santa Ana Freeway when their ’ Volkswagen burst into terrifying flames in the fast lane. She was left to care for her two young sons, Oscar and Kiko, both of whom had brought her nothing but pain since birth. Señora Luz purposely destroyed anything that was to be discarded that could possibly be salvaged by Mercedes. The crudely rendered image of an old-fashioned box camera and barely visible slanted bold letters had been painted onto the exterior wall of the converted stucco one-car garage in the early forties, contiguous to the entrance to the alley at Lorena Street, it was an illusive public indication that Luz Studio existed. 484

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The three adolescent girls in green plaid Catholic school uniforms walked into the studio and giggled loudly when they saw the two framed photographs on the wall next to the large nickle-plated cash register. The photograph on the left presented a young man with disastrous facial pock marks, a tattooed teardrop, and extremely crossed eyes. A yellow index card with the typed text And how do you want to be remembered? was tacked to the wall above the frame. The photograph on the right was a masterful example of visual alterations, erasures, tinting, and false illumination. The same man had been transformed into a nearly handsome youth with smooth skin, whose eyes looked out in straight alignment, appearing larger in their new shade of powder blue rather than the original inherited sepia tone of the subject, no hint of a tattoo and only a slight expression of tricks-of-the-tradeinduced confidence. Tacked to the wall above the frame were two small white cards that had been taped together, containing a message that had been constructed from letters clipped from magazines and then hastily pasted into place. The girls were uncertain about the words, Beauty is the beast. A sudden loud metallic noise followed by intense unsteady heavy breathing erupted from behind the black curtain that enclosed the darkroom. The startled girls all screamed in unison and bumped into each other as they ran out of the studio in a teenage panic. Señora Luz pulled the curtain back and noticed several loose chocolate chip cookies on the floor, which had spilled out of one of the boxes of cookies the girls had been assigned to sell in order to raise funds for the poor. She returned to the privacy of the darkroom, where she had finally located Oscar’s unmounted portrait underneath a stack of magazines, newspapers, and sheets of cardboard. She had been searching for the photograph since early that morning, when her husband recalled that it had never been picked up after two years. He had been reminded of the photograph when he overheard Mercedes crying and mumbling to herself about her lost son, Oscar, when he had gone out to throw out the trash. She was rummaging through the trash bins and he asked her to leave, feeling that Señora Luz would call the police if she knew that the unfortunate woman had trespassed on her property. Mercedes left with the dollar that he gave her. He had kept one of the leaflets announcing Oscar’s disappearance in the cardboard box where other notes of community interest were archived, behind the counter, next to the . calibre snub-nosed pistol. He retrieved the leaflet and showed it to Señora Luz as they were having breakfast. She almost choked on the chorizo con huevo when she realized that such a scandal had escaped her attention for two entire years. The undated invoice, registering only a partial deposit against the order, was still attached to the photograph by a rusted paper clip. She became enraged when she saw that her husband had eliminated the ugly mole and had lightened the color of the left eye. She ripped the large photograph into a thousand pieces, then carried the scraps to the front door, kicking the can of fixer that she had dropped and crushing Oscar’s Middle Finger

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the cookies. She stepped outside, where a blistering hot breeze blew the torn photographic paper from her grasp. The particles fluttered wildly toward the alley. She grinned, “Sometimes the Virgen spits back.” IV

Oscar’s remains and memory disintegrated during the two years that it had taken his younger brother Kiko to grow into his old clothes, baggy shirts, oversized khaki trousers, dozens of white tube socks, a black trench coat, and a pair of black patent-leather wing-tip shoes. Mercedes had saved the clothes in a cardboard box, which she sealed with masking tape on the first anniversary of her son’s disappearance. She kept the box in the living room, where she stored over three hundred similarly sealed boxes of various dimensions. Kiko never cared to wonder about what the contents of the boxes might be since he knew that his mother spent her days and nights collecting useless junk. He assumed that she was completely insane and felt she was happy in her own tortured style. He had neither empathy nor sympathy toward her but held his rude comments toward her to a minimum. He had stopped calling her Mom the day his father and sisters died, and from that date only referred to her as Loca Lady. Kiko was a quick-witted boy who created alternate names for people and devised new words whenever they would suit his purposes. He was easily thrilled at the thought of fire and achieved an ill-defined sense of ecstasy at the sight of an open flame. He would often toss lit matches at dogs and once burned a Siamese cat to death by dousing the feline with rubbing alcohol, lighter fluid, and kerosene, which he ignited with the red flame of an emergency road flare. Kiko’s vague recollection of Oscar was dismissed by the thought that his brother had been a pointless idiot who only would have gotten in his way. He was glad to be the sole survivor and was always making plans to create a new life for himself. He believed that his mother wasn’t too concerned about his life, which is why he was very surprised to find the box filled with Oscar’s old clothes next to his bed when he woke up one morning. He got up and conducted a superficial search of the clothing. He recognized the beanie and felt insulted by his mother because she should have known that he would never want anything to do with a boy that had looked like a hungry wolf. Besides, the one image of Oscar that would recur to him from time to time was of the incident when his large mole had bled profusely after they had been in a fight with each other. Oscar had kicked Kiko in the stomach in order to get him off of his bicycle. Kiko plunged a straight pin into the mole, a violent act that he never regretted, even when he realized that it probably caused permanent discoloration and the uncontrollable growth of the mole. But the mole was missing now and almost everything else was forgotten. Kiko took the box of clothing into the middle of Estrada Street and set it aflame. He watched the blaze through his bedroom window as he dressed himself for school. 486

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Kiko never went anywhere without first stuffing his pockets with wooden matches. School was a place where he learned and burned. He took great pride in the fact the school officials at Stevenson Junior High had falsely accused several members of the peewee faction of the VNE gang and had charged them with setting fire to the entire  edition of the Encyclopedia Brittanica in the principal’s office. They were also suspected of the numerous blazes that had recently flared up in the students’ lockers. Mister Radnoz, the feared boys’ vice principal, was a tall and imposing figure of a man who had the unnerving presence of a jaded homicide detective. His lengthy career as an extremely effective and harsh disciplinarian was based on a need to maintain order and control at all costs, even if it resulted in the unsubstantiated rumors of bodily harm to several hundred adolescents over a period of twenty-three years as a public school administrator. His gray woolen suits added credence to his theory of an intergang arsonists’ conspiracy. He was willing to exceed his authority if it would implicate the White Fence gang and break the chain of small to moderate fires that had plagued the school during the fall of . He deputized the eight members of the senior debate team and the fourteen active recruits from ROTC. The twenty boys were issued small triangular bronze badges and the two girls received chrome-plated oval badges. All of the badges bore the dreaded BVP insignia, which Mister Radnoz personally designed during his first year as boys’ vice principal. The twenty-two deputies were posted in half-day shifts at the entrances to the three main buildings, including the cafeteria delivery area, the custodian’s storage room, and the teachers’ lounge restroom. Kiko knew that he had nothing to worry about because he was acutely aware that his nondescript appearance and his lack of involvement in sports, music, gangs, drama, or any of the usual extracurricular activities allowed him to vanish into the sea of two thousand students. The school’s enrollment reflected the surrounding East Los Angeles barrios, resulting in a  percent Chicano population, where the remaining Japanese, Russian, Black, and Anglo students drifted toward the assimilation of Chicano culture. Kiko was amused by the futility of the BVP corps, which he dubbed “Blind Virgen Putos.”

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In the Realm of the Senseless (1994)

I

was dodging rubber bullets in L.A. the other day when a child tugged at my arm and asked, “What’s okay with perceptual decay?” I did not have an immediate answer because my throat was filled with noxious tear gas. Somehow, I had wandered into the center of a major riot when my only intention was to take a leisurely stroll through the minefield of mindlessness. I walked slowly against a steady rain of broken concrete, shattered glass, and bitter tears. The collective energy of hundreds of wildly swinging riot batons created a soothing breeze that cooled the rioters into submission. The restoration of order could easily be measured by the blood that poured freely along the gutter. I walked carefully, as though I was taking my final steps on a suspended tightrope. The sirens, cries, and blasts eventually leveled off into absolute silence. I took refuge at last in a coffee shop. I sat at the counter with my back to a picture window, which allowed for the mutual distortion of customers and pedestrians. I looked through the menu and discovered that I could not read. I wanted to order pancakes and coffee but I was under the impression that it would be an extended period of time before I could eat or drink anything at all. I sat perfectly still for several hours without ever being approached by the waitress. I wondered if it was all a dream, or if I simply had been transformed into one of the millions of anonymous phantoms that populate the city. I looked into the faces of the numerous customers who sat near me as they ate their meals. I failed to recognize anyone, nor could I remember them the moment they left my field of vision. I had an overwhelming urge to yell but was unable to utter a sound. I got up and began to walk toward the door when I realized that the building was ablaze. The door handle was too hot to touch. The flames were surrounding me as I crashed through the window. I landed on the sidewalk and was struck by the sudden normalcy of the environment.

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“You, get off the street. Disperse at once!” I looked around but could not see who was issuing the order. I got up, dusted myself, and straightened my tie. I walked quickly to avoid detention or arrest. “This is a secured area. Vacate the premises immediately.” I turned to run but was blocked by many walls that seemed to emerge without warning. I ran faster as the walls formed a dizzying labyrinth. I attempted to maintain my composure but the emotional distress of trying to follow an elusive path was eroding my self-confidence. “You must provide proof of identity in order to occupy this space.” I had lost my wallet, which contained photographs of my parents, my wife and my children, and my own image on plastic cards. The photographs would have convinced any authority that I had a right to remain wherever I might be. However, memory of the images in the photographs escaped me altogether. I needed them in order to survive the confusion of the present. I was unable to run because the walls had moved extremely close to form a narrow passageway. I moved slowly but with a firm determination to regain my sense of self and purpose. As I struggled to move against the walls, which now pressed against me, the thought that I would not be able to provide proof of anything, or that everything in my subjective experience was subject to erasure, censorship, denial or burial, caused me to consider alternative approaches to escape and confrontation. “Put your hands up. Freeze!” I could not move. The walls pinned me firmly into displacement. Darkness settled in as minor tremors shook the walls. I never heard the gunfire nor did I feel the several bullets that entered my flesh. I sensed that life was draining from me slowly. In the distance, over the high walls, I could hear many voices discussing important issues, other voices speaking of personal concerns, a few voices choked with emotion as they tried to explain their situations to anyone who would listen. I wanted everyone to hear my voice but what could I possibly have to say about a reality that has been structured to silence the words of reason and to blind those who can see. I bit my tongue, closed my eyes and waited patiently with my forehead to the wall.

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The Chosen Fugue (1996)

HYPER-SNIPER

“Xenophobic zombies zigzagging in their zebra-striped zoot suits as they pull down their zippers in the zero zone,” and with that fateful phrase, Rufino pulled the trigger as a thousand bullets rained down on the gridlocked commuters. The muffled screams, shattered windshields, pierced hoods, and flattened tires went unnoticed in the cacophony of horns and sirens that filled the air with the aria of the dying. Rufino was laughing as he reloaded his weapon with little pink bullets, which started to take on the appearance of unchewed balls of bubble gum. He placed a bullet into his mouth and began to chew. He looked down onto the commuters from his vantage point atop the Hill Street overpass bridge. He masticated with all his might until the bullet was soft and tasteless. He had never blown a bubble before and to his amazement he was blowing a perfectly formed rose-colored humanoid. The bubble was the personification of his guardian angel. Rufino had a quizzically peaceful smile on his face as he followed the angel over the edge of the bridge, falling silently onto the pavement below. He was crushed beyond recognition by an unknown number of speeding commuters as they raced along the fast lane of the Hollywood Freeway. ESCHEW THE ANONYMOUS

 : I agree with your inherent right to autodestruct. : There’s no paradox between a sour note and a rotten apple. Just try whistling the next time you bite into a slice of Americana. : Suck me. : Recite the litany of a maniac and you’ve got the recipe for excess. 490

: You’re the fucking naysayer via poisoned breath. : The necessary condition of nothingness is your presence. Suck harder.  : I like your perm, love your dye job, and can’t get over the tattooed eyeliner. Vague and vogue are synonymous. : We’re on a head-on collision with hedonism. : My eyes are green and jaded. PARKED IN NEUTRAL

(The following is being recorded into a small spiral notebook as I sit in my car waiting for the next major aftershock.) The house doesn’t exist anymore. The neighbors aren’t friendly because they don’t have a place to deface anymore. That was a big tremor. The city is on fire again. Natural disasters are birth and death. Everything else is filler. Maybe it’s not a good idea to park so close to this brick building. All of the windows are cracked and it appears that the roof has caved in slightly. I’m hungry and thirsty but all I’ve got is three tabs of acid, a pint of Jack Daniels, and a dozen glazed doughnuts. That’s a snack! Where’s breakfast? It’s a smoggy day, a humid day, a dusty day, a hot day, a perfect day for an  pointer. I ran out of gas  miles ago but each tremor allows me the mobility I need to get nowhere I’d rather be. Oh, oh. The ground is shaking. Now is not the time to renege on a vow. There, it’s over. Lucky that was a minor quake. I’d prefer to walk but everyone looks so desperate and nervous. No telling how many fingers are on the multiple triggers out there. Don’t want to stumble into someone’s frame of reference. If only I could be more eloquent in saying that I hate to live in fear. It is such a primal problem. I want to be a conceptual stoic and never blink. Wait. This is it! ASSIMILATE THE CONTRARY

Case Study 1:

A young woman is confronted by a rabid homeless man who is wielding a rusty blade in one hand and an open container of a toxic substance in the other. She has never prepared herself for such an encounter. She believes that he intends to harm her and her options to flee are rather limited due to her condition of being in the third trimester of her second pregnancy. The fetus is comfortable and moving its limbs smoothly within her belly. The man motions menacingly as he regurgitates a yellowish foam. She begins to pray to the Virgen de Guadalupe and crosses herself with shaky determination. The man howls like a mad dog. She closes her eyes and awaits her brutal fate. She is motionless and silent for a perceived eternity. When she opens her The Chosen Fugue

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eyes she is astonished to find the man’s decapitated head floating as it dissolves in the container that he had held so threateningly. There is no sign of the body. She walks away slowly as the man’s eyes follow her miraculous escape.

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Case Study 2:

A man looks into the mirror and suddenly realizes that he is no longer young and virile. He masturbates but is unable to ejaculate. He retrieves a photograph of himself as a man in his early thirties. He folds it neatly into a square, which fits tightly in his opened mouth. He places the muzzle of a mm semiautomatic pistol against the folded photograph and squeezes the trigger.

Case Study 3:

Several people are crawling on bloodied hands and knees. They have traveled across the urbanscape of Los Angeles in their quest to find integrity. They have been kicked, stabbed, spat upon, terrorized by strangers, and have been infected by a mutant virus that enters the body via contact with skin or mucous membrane. The people have survived the torturous ordeal on behalf of an ideal. They are oftentimes arrested, killed, or misdirected. Those who forge ahead as well as the stragglers are the likely targets of rampant violence. Cockroaches, fleas, ants, wasps, and crickets latch onto their tattered clothing and live greedily off their suffering hosts. The people are nameless, leaving only a trace of their true identities in the smeared stains of blood and partial imprints of their hands on the opaque asphalt.

Case Study 4:

An extended family that includes several generations of grandparents, uncles, aunts, brothers, sisters, nephews, nieces, mothers, and fathers all agree to douse themselves with a flammable liquid. A cousin lights the match, causing the family name to vanish in terrifying flames. Everyone agrees that it must have been the instinctual manifestation of a lethal gene. The ashes were scattered over a wide area by the nullifying effects of the tempestuous Santa Ana winds.

Case Study 5:

A middle-aged married couple are eating their din-din of a single refried pinto bean. They have sliced the delicious particle of food into thirty paper-thin wafers as a symbol of their undying love and eternal poverty. They remain calm and humble as they give thanks for the feast they are about to enjoy. Each slice tastes like the ultimate reward for a life of suffering.

The Chosen Fugue

ERODE ON A WHITE HORSE

“I’m telling you that I cannot breathe. It’s not a case of claustrophobia nor is it due to any disease. It’s more of a desire to stop breathing. I’ve tried everything from inhalants, stimulants in pill form, depressants in my tea, sweating in the hot sun, sitting in a warm tub of fragrant oils. Nothing works. It usually starts whenever I think about my past. All of the people who have vanished due to death, dissolution, confusion, accidents, and unintentional acts of fate. I realize that I am a murderer of the psyche and my victims are too numerous to dance on the head of a pin. I forget to inhale and refuse to exhale. I was asthmatic as a child. All of my relatives were heavy smokers and a thick haze swirled throughout the house during the day and was my blanket of desperation each night. I always dreamed that I was being strangled by my own rotting umbilical cord. There were several instances when I was discovered hanging by the neck in my sleep. I’ve always been lucky. My parents, uncles, or aunts would remove the sheets from my neck and then tuck me in. Like I said, I hate to remember those who have departed in a box or on a bus. Whew. Let me catch my breath and I’ll tell you more. Ahh. Every time I breathe I tend to smell something distinct. It’s usually something very stinky. However, on rare occasions, I’ll smell an aroma or odor that is immediately associated with lust, which leads to mistrust, anxiety, panic, and the inability to breathe. I hold my breath whenever I’m in a crowd because it is too easy to fall in love with the random emissions of strangers. I’ve considered biting my nose off in spite. I’ve literally been blue more times than I’d care to explain but one time I turned so blue that I was declared dead by impassive bystanders. They stole my shoes, wallet, switchblade, ring, and religious medallions of unnamed saints. Involuntarily, I took in a deep breath and came back to life. It wasn’t your typical glorious resurrection. I wandered about the neighborhood pretending to be an insomniac or an amnesiac. It was a failed attempt to avoid complete embarrassment. It feels like there isn’t any air in here. My lungs feel like they’re filled with chalk dust or feathers. It’s very humid and smoggy today. I just don’t want to breathe anymore.” INVERSE FLUX

Anesthesia is always preferable to _________. Bleary-eyed, the man was having an_________. Contortionists are not sexual_________. Delouse your friend before you delouse _________. Eavesdrop whenever you get a _________. Fusion bombs make wonderful _________. Gluttony is closest to _________. Harpoon the damned _________. Inept people always complain about_________. Joyrides are the only way to _________. Kiss of death needs no _________. Lumpen luxuries are_________. Misdeal again and I’ll _________. Neocolonialism has lost its _________. Osmosis for the masses can be _________. Pessimism is a The Chosen Fugue

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nasty _________. Quicksand is my favorite _________. Recoil from the ugly _________. Schizoids are elected to _________. Terrorism has its _________. Ugh, I love _________. Visionaries can’t see the_________. Wealth is the easiest thing to _________. X rays proved she was _________. Yeah, that’s not the way it _________. Zilch for me and a zillion for _________. SIESTA IN PURGATORY

: I admit that I slept throughout all of their admissions of guilt. It doesn’t matter because I videotape and audio-record everything. I use a different tape player to issue the penance. A simple push of the button and I won’t lose any sleep. : I count my blessings on amputated fingers. : Limbo is a state of mindless rage. : The minute they start to pray, I’m out. Heaven help me if I ever snore. Espresso has no effect at all. I’ve got great footage of a fetishist who disrobes and inserts thorns into his flesh. : Who’s the king of the double-cross? : I believe in a whomever, a whatever, a whenever, and a not ever. : I was excommunicated several years ago but my list of clients is growing faster than I can genuflect. I’ve been living in this cardboard box since I was ceremonially kicked out of His house. It doesn’t matter. I hear confessions every hour of every day. : Bless me Father for I have not sinned. : Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. PSEUDO-DOMINO EFFECT

Dear Son, It must be difficult to inherit the blood of both parents particularly since it is such an incompatible mixture. I am attempting to examine my role in your development as a young man. I realize that many mistakes were made by me during your formative years. I should not have exposed you to all of the lowlifes which were my best friends at that time. They were all losers as I was also a loser. You should not have been introduced to any of them. I know that the mental abuse which was the primary basis of the relationship between your mother and I was not the best example of what a home environment should be like. I love you very much and feel that you must stop deceiving yourself. You are not alone in this world. You have a large extended family that loves you. Do not destroy your chances of survival. Each move you make moves you closer to success or disaster. You’ve got to prepare yourself for whatever may come your way. It’s taken me a lifetime to set myself straight. I’ve wasted so much time. It would be a shame if you did not 494

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learn from your father’s failures. This is not much of a note. You’ve got to love yourself. Don’t absorb the guilt, shame, and pain which belongs exclusively to me. I miss you. Come home. Love, Dad (An edition of , flyers was mass-produced at a local copy shop. This letter has been disseminated throughout the barrios and suburbs of Los Angeles. The original source of the text remains unidentified.) TACITURN OFF

The accident did not wait very long to happen. Amparo was about to switch lanes at eighty-five mph in a posted thirty-five mph freeway turn-off. The left front tire disintegrated as it hit an unseen pothole. She was in a hurry. The automobile performed an unwitnessed midair quadruple pirouette before it disappeared through a large window of an abandoned warehouse that was adjacent to the connector ramp. Within a few moments, other cars moved safely past the potentially dangerous curve. Normal traffic continued to flow until several months later, when work crews created a detour with fluorescent orange cones and filled in the pothole with low-grade asphalt. Amparo’s answering machine offered no clue as to her whereabouts: “You win some, you lose most others. What can I say? I tried to tell you but you wouldn’t listen. She’s younger than you and nothing like you. Viva la puberty. So sue me. My two ex-wives got every penny anyway. Better yet, sue them.” Beep . . . “Hey Amparo, this is your neighbor Lulu. Your dog’s been howling nonstop for a few days. If he keeps it up for another night, I swear to God, I’m going to shoot him. Some of us have got to get up in the morning.” Beep . . . “Amparo, are you screening your calls again? This isn’t the bill collector. This is your brother which is just as bad because I need to borrow some money. You can pay your bills next month. I need it in cash, nine hundred dollars, give or take a few cents. It’s urgent. Don’t let me down.” Beep . . . “You bitch. He tells me you don’t know how to fuck. He’s mine now. I’m making him hard just talking to you this way. Gotta go.” Beep . . . “Amparo, where are you? You were supposed to meet me for lunch today. Maybe you’ve lost your calendar. You are usually so prompt and dependable that I ordered lunch for you but when you didn’t show I had no alternative but to eat The Chosen Fugue

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your ham sandwich. And you know how much I hate pork. Dessert was divine. The triple-layer fudge cake and peach melba were a wonderful combination. To be truthful, I’m on a diet but I’ll make up for it tomorrow. As you know, mañana always comes too late.” Beep . . . “Best to make it an even thousand dollars, or my ass is had. Call me.” Beep . . . NO COMEUPPANCE ALLOWED

“One million victims can’t all be wrong. Revenge is the best revenge,” said Mr. Social Scientist. “If you multiply that idea by the number of tattooed teardrops in East L.A., you’d discover how idiotic some intellectuals can be,” said Ms. Mainstream Journalist. “The empirical data speaks for itself. Liquidate the bad guys and the problem is solved. There’s no need for complex equations,” argued Mr. District Attorney. “Nine-millimeter bullets divided by a six-pack of beer equals a minimassacre on the local school yard. That’s the new math. No wonder the parents can’t help,” interjected Ms. Community Activist. “Random selection, summary execution, eye-for-an-eye elimination, individualized eradication, and prioritized assassination would be cost-effective in the long run with possible benefits realized within ten working days. I believe that inaction puts my candidacy on thin ice,” said Mr. City Councilman. “This is still a country of optional opportunity. Pick out a few from the field. It could be anyone. Using all the powers that be, turn them into monstrous examples of what’s out there. Then with the heaviest sword that justice has, bring it down hard on their necks for all to see. Do it until the people understand what being civilized is all about,” stated Ms. Political Analyst. “Love your enemies even if it kills you. Let’s just get out a map and we’ll draw circles of the hot spots. Our fleet of specialized military helicopters can spray deadly toxins with great accuracy. We’ve got to neutralize the breeding grounds of crime,” huffed Mr. Governor of the State. “According to my research, deprivation, undereducation, discrimination, deportation, and stagnation are by-products of the lenient policies of previous administrations,” commented Ms. Corporate Lobbyist. “We can’t be throwing rocks every time we encounter a window into our future. If we clean the streets in blood, they’ll stay clean. Agreed?” suggested Mr. Security Consultant. “Yea,” they all agreed as they nodded their heads in accord. 496

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(Little did they know that among their ranks was an emissary of the people in the form of a timed plastic-explosive device that was set for detonation in less than five minutes. The meeting would be adjourned due to artificial anarchy.) ANTI-VIGIL

Lorena Street @ Whittier Blvd.: Rodolfo had been having difficulty seeing since he burned out his retinas looking at the most recent partial solar eclipse. He believed that the sun beat like a ruptured heart and that competing gravitational forces were causing erratic pulses of radiation that would eventually wipe out everything he had ever seen. He managed to get to the bus stop a few minutes early. The opaque black dark glasses, which couldn’t prevent a concentrated dose of gamma and X rays from penetrating his consciousness, still looked fashionable with an inherent threatening flair. Suddenly, an invisible car pulls up to the curb. A young man’s voice asks, “What in the fuck are you looking at?” Rodolfo laughs, abandoning fear as he reveals shattered teeth and rotten gums, “I’m looking at the ugly piece of shit your mother laid a few years back, ese.” Rodolfo was instantly engulfed by a brilliant flash of light, which was quickly followed by an eternal black shroud of pain. He could hear the sun’s heartbeat exploding in anguish. th St. @ Broadway: It was obviously a well-orchestrated demonstration in which nearly a hundred women were carrying aborted fetuses in used mayonnaise jars. Other women in the group passed out flyers to passing motorists and pedestrians that read: My child isn’t an “A” student. You can’t blame my kid for your troubles. I hate baby pictures. Why raise them if they’re only going to be gang-bangers? Not another mouth to feed. I’m free. I’m happy. Many bystanders believed that many of the fetuses looked more like their fathers than their mothers. It was apparent to many that several fetuses were nonetheless aware of their fate. Evergreen St. @ Cesar Chavez Blvd.: The young group of artists wanted to make a name for themselves. They decided to paint a mural utilizing their collective body fluids, secretions, and excretions. The image was intended to be a historically and politically correct panorama of the events that encompassed the  Chicano Moratorium. What they ultimately created was an abstract mess that was quickly condemned as a health hazard. The community objected to the way the artists had conducted themselves as they smeared the biohazardous medium on the wall. The artists were arrested and charged with violating current “tagger” laws. Their bail and fines were paid by a prestigious gallery as an advance against future sales. The artists are now recognized in art circles across various continents. The Chosen Fugue

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Rowena St. @ Hyperion Ave.: The woman was walking slowly as she carried her infant daughter in her arms. A transient who had been trailing them since they had walked out of the grocery store picked up a brick and threw it with great strength. Fortunately, the baby took evasive action and the brick barely missed the woman’s head. They managed to get home safely. Her husband became alarmed when he heard of the attempted assault and grabbed the largest kitchen knife and a formidable claw hammer. He was gone for less than thirty minutes. He returned with a plain brown paper bag that contained an infected tongue, two dirty hands, one filthy foot, a ravaged ear, five square inches of scalp, and a set of tenderized genitals. The family was united and would never be defeated. Echo Park Blvd. @ Sunset Blvd.: Zocorro was whipping her three fully grown adult children with a metal rod and a thick electrical extension cord. Her violent blows produced instantaneous results. She had not whipped her children with such force since they had been in elementary school. A large crowd of strangers encircled the impromptu family reunion. Zocorro was stern but just. She had always warned her children to be respectful. The concussions, bruises, gaping wounds, cuts, scrapes, and punctures were delivered with astonishing speed. The children cried for mercy but Zocorro would not yield. Finally, after several hours of public abuse, the children agreed to revert to a conformity that was a tightly held secret from their dreaded past. Each child became rigidly obedient as they chanted a formerly familiar nursery rhyme, which had always accompanied Zocorro’s previous episodes of bitter affection: We are evil, sickly, retarded children Unworthy of your smile; We disgrace the honor of your name; Hopelessly disfigured and stupid We are nothing compared to you; Unworthy of your gaze We disturb your peace of mind; Happily we succumb to your superiority, We willingly acquiesce to your power; Our life is and always will be in your hands, We will die for you. The roar of laughter and jeers was shattered when the enormous gathering of onlookers ignored the repeated warnings of riot-helmeted police who issued demands to disperse. Rubber bullets, tear gas, mace, pepper spray, tasers, police dogs, and riot batons disrupted the partylike atmosphere. Within moments, the area regained its unassuming normalcy. The children had been silenced. 498

The Chosen Fugue

PERSISTENCE OF DIVISION

: I have this idea for a series of TV dramas under the banner of Aztlan Noir. It’s a series of mysteries set in the barrio. It’s a genre that will kick off the new millennium with a blast. Its gimmick is that it portrays nihilism as the American way. In the initial episode, I’ll create a character who has no charisma. However, what he does have is enough weapons-grade plutonium to destroy the city. He actually blows up a homemade bomb in another gang’s turf but the fission chain reaction is more devastating than he could have expected. Of course, he survives but the mutants that are created by the fallout are known as “Hisputniks.” They are out to get him. His life isn’t worth the paper I’ve written it on. : It’s a cheap shot. No commercial value. The clock’s ticking. : So maybe you want comedy. I’ve got this movie of the week, Border Buddies. A coyote and a border patrol agent are up to their usual antics when they discover that they are long-lost twins. They switch places in San Ysidro, then the fun begins. : Don’t make me puke. Time’s almost out. : How about the epic animated docudrama blockbuster? It’s called Pepe and the Loco Slot Machine. Five one-hour segments that follow several generations of an aspiring and successful immigrant Mexican family that starts with their humble beginnings as peons in the Sonora Desert and follows them through their triumphs in the U.S. as they become famous drug lords, CEOs of major corporations, TV talk-show hosts, brain surgeons, senators, and Lotto winners. : I don’t want artistic merit. I need something I can bank on. Make it simple, not too ethnic, and lots of action. Talent is cheap, just look at the way you’re wasting it. Don’t call me, I’ll call you. Time’s up. Now get out. IN ORDER OF DISAPPEARANCE

(Dedicated to the memory of Teddy Sandoval, Jack Vargas, Gerardo Velazquez, and Mundo Meza.) “The lengthening shadow is omnipotent. It obscures the lightness of fanciful daydreams and the abyss of desire. Imagine the world without you! Continuity of absurdity is a function of existence but there can be no reply to the call of doom. You were swallowed by the vacuum of fate. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust,” the young poet was inspired and drunk as he bowed slowly to the minimal applause from a meager audience. He sat down at the nearest table, where several men were talking and laughing. He had never seen them before and was impressed by their quick wit, The Chosen Fugue

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Teddy Sandoval, Patssi Valdez, and Mundo Meza, 1978. Left to right: Teddy Sandoval, Patssi Valdez, Mundo Meza. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

Gerardo Velázquez, Synthesized Music Composer (1958–1992), 1991. From the series Chicano Male Unbonded. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

Jack Vargas, Librarian, 1994. From the series Chicano Male Unbonded. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

their eclectic knowledge of fashion, art, music, sexual intrigue, literature, and their ability to deliver devastating criticism of movie stars, politicians, local artists, and each other. The men were having fun by being themselves and they drank a round of mixed drinks to each new story, which encapsulated life experiences that were at once poignant and ridiculous. The young poet was adopted by the group and was offered drinks and an opportunity to learn an alternative way of perceiving reality. The young poet became very relaxed and sleepy. He closed his eyes and visualized how the world might be without him. He slept and dreamt of vast bodies of blackened waters with unfathomable depths. Oceans, lakes, rivers, puddles, and raindrops were all composed of waters devoid of life. He was awakened by a faceless man who motioned for him to leave. The young poet realized that he was the last to leave and stumbled toward the door. He had no place to go and knew that he would be spending the rest of the night on a concrete pillow. He preferred to sleep without dreaming. As he looked for a suitable doorway in which to retire, he thought to himself that he would have liked to have spent more time with the group of men, who were uniquely inspirational. He reached an arched doorway and easily slipped into unconsciousness between sheets of refracted lights and shadows. DITTO THE SNAFU

Dear Dad, You taught me not to cry over spilled motherless milk. You weren’t there. You’re not here. Mutual rejection is better than a lukewarm embrace, a kiss with wax lips, or a man-to-man talk about the man you could’ve, should’ve, would’ve been. I’ve seen you on the streets and considered killing you on the spot but there’s no use in doing you a favor. You’ll never recognize me because my face has changed. I don’t have the look of innocence, hopefulness, timidity, vulnerability, or confusion anymore. My face has been replaced by a shield of ambiguous nothingness. It allows me to pass as an ordinary citizen. Yes, I can read, write, fight, and work. What I won’t do is dream, love, laugh, or remember. I am a man who has the will to be anything unlike you. There is blood on both our hands. Mine is hot and yours is insincerely cold. You beg forgiveness from an imaginary child who will never return. The man of the house without a home isn’t the master or the slave, he’s simply an ugly ornament on the sidewalk looking for the back door to nowhere. You’ll never find your way out of yourself. It’s my life and I’ll cry if I want to. XXX, Son (This text appeared in the personals ads of La Opinión, L.A. Times, and L.A. Weekly. Payment for the ads was made with postal money orders. The original source of the text remains unidentified.) The Chosen Fugue

503

RING AROUND THE MELANCHOLY

504

Monday:

The world is a cake that won’t bake and will fall flat in seven days. Three hundred fifty thousand frames of B&W mm negative film was cut into three million pieces of silver-coated confetti. Should all surveillance be forgotten. Ninety-five hours of original video- and audiotapes have been erased in a tedious session with handheld magnets. Eight hundred sixty-seven family snapshots have been buried in a suburban parking lot. My checking balance is $. and my savings account has been closed due to insufficient funds. My entire body has been closely shaved from head to my remaining nine toes. All is well and wonderful for a zero Monday.

Tuesday:

There are so many things to undo that it may be impossible to erase hate, hurt, and hysteria from all the faces in my coloring book. I’ve eaten most of the crayons but can’t stand the taste of violet, burnt sienna, sea green, and white. I’ve been pissing pink lemonade since yesterday morning. I’m waiting for the cantaloupe to kick in. I’m not the first to flush the rainbow down the toilet. I miss my pot of gold. A penny for my own thoughts perpetuates the ugliness of  percent of cognition. Undo all moments.

Wednesday:

I get the impression that all of my friends are nothing more than sacks of water suspended on stilts made of bone and plastic. I’ve played with toys that were wet and cold. I’m not playing games anymore because I don’t believe in rules that differentiate between winners and losers. The people who are moist and leak from all the wrong places are the winners. Dry-mouthed apologists are the losers. Poison darts, anyone? A lifetime of solitaire at the bottom of the quicksand pit means that cheating is anything that floats to the surface.

Thursday:

I haven’t eaten in days. The food is spoiled. The gas, electricity, telephone, and water have been disconnected. The daily newspaper and mail isn’t delivered anymore. This is the antiparty I’ve been waiting for. Waiting is an altruistic strategy that benefits the prey. I’m not a spider that can fast for years at a time on a flawless web of spiritual silk. I am hungry for the venom of lies, deceit, envy, vanity, and the unconditional love of human parasites. I’ll swallow my tongue for lunch.

The Chosen Fugue

Friday:

I woke up with a pus-filled erection and now it won’t get up. There’s nothing less erotic than open sores. All of the windows, mirrors, plates, cups, and the TV screen have been shattered and scattered as though it mattered. Everything is losing one of three dimensions. Depth is elusive. I’ve punched eighty-eight holes into the walls and floor. I can squeeze my way through most of them. Some are exit holes and they forbid me to enter even when I threaten to do so forcibly. Other holes only lead to limbo. I’ve guessed the riddle of the labyrinth.

Saturday:

I’m no longer hungry or thirsty. I must have had a hardy meal in my sleep. I chewed so hard that my teeth are neatly arranged in a semicircle on the welcome mat, which is placed on the floor in the center of the living room. I feel no pain in my mouth and I wonder how they could have all fit into my head at one time. I’m not bitter, angry, solemn, or jealous. I am surrounded by clouds of insects and noise. I’ve lost my appetite completely.

Sunday:

All of my weapons are lethal. I shall annihilate the first six thousand people who do not look at me. The sun, moon, and stars have been banished. The earth is brittle, fragile, and filled with dry little worms that speak too highly of themselves. The cycle of life is a tornado, a wheel, a chain, and an echo that I must destroy. I see the ants creating havoc. The flies are in a panic. People forget that they don’t belong. I will remind them by my sacrifice.

The Chosen Fugue

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P O E T RY

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I Don’t Buy My Tacos from Trucks Parked Too Close to Sex Change Clinics

Someone thought it clever to Peddle tacos from a million trucks No consistency to the product That warms your hand Every one hardly resembles The other Filled with brains of other species Altruism A profitable method to dispose of evidence It’s a problem of taste You salivate, it satisfies Drive across the city Another truck Onions/cilantro/salsa Unguarded flesh The worm prefers a vibrant host So many of the Missing Into the unknown of your bite Not serious about the Clitoris and foreskin special Are they? Tacos were a sin on the school yard When I ate mayonnaise on day-old white-bread sandwiches But then again that was the s And everyone’s imagination was in Black and white 509

But now the taco is microwave ready So sanitized you can eat it with White gloves and hood Chic corporate tortillas Neatly folded/weighed/wrapped It’s a problem of distastefulness Tamper-proof meatlike filling. So it’s time to drive To the nearest corner A stranger takes your order A stranger cooks for you It’s stranger that you paid For what others paid dearly To remove For personal reasons of Aesthetics or preference You drive to the limit gnawing at Your own ignorance Feeling blessed That you won’t go away Hungry  July 

510

Hiss-Panic and Other Poems, 1988 –93

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Ruby without Redress

She lost her heel before The final dance at the Ko-Ko-Kobra Klub The partners had been Snubbed/dubbed Beauty and the Obeast Except that he wasn’t a beauty Except by comparison She limped to lame tunes White bra straps above her Strapless red dress His thick necktie could have strangled Horses Large teeth reflected colored lights They had the floor to themselves While everyone else ran outside Witnessing the shootings Beneath the neon viper Hissed Flicked its high-voltage tongue Six men lay dead in a pool of venom as Ruby Kicked off the other shoe  August 

513

Celebrity without a Cause

He never heard the rude laughter No one ever bothered to inform him That he was artistically  His cocktails exploded the myth He moved in vacant circles And spoke highly of his own  His creations had lost their Wit/charm/identity They were propped up on Fad/cash/hype He never heard the criticism  His bold strokes were enough To overkill A fly  His daring made great gossip

514

Based on B-movies No one dared to inform him That they loathed the sameness of his  That they loved the Return on the dollar (like loving the collar instead of the dog) His fans say he was framed Everyone knew that he was blind To the spectrum against which He would be judged His popularity was fit for a king Unaware that shifting winds Would topple his reign That heads would roll in wonderment At why they had applauded a  

515

No Atonement

Side A

Painted nails chip away at my number At all odd hours There’s no escaping the demeaning Messages You whisper bittersweet nothings into a Mechanical ear Infection/inflection Arouse rigid resistance You get incensed that I never answer You’ll never hear my voice again I died when you said that You deserved A better life because You were better Why redial the past? You limit your options Whenever you open your mouth Innuendo/threats/proxy-sexual noise I’d unlist my number but The TV’s broken, the radio’s stolen The clock’s snapped, the rat’s trapped Hostility is deafening at  .. Don’t you know that I don’t Wait for calls? Creditors, investigators, cranks Ex-lovers, ex-partners, experts All operators You tell me that You love me with such hate

516

Side B

Uninspired harassment Gang-bangers threaten to shoot They want to force-feed the Answering machine Down my anonymous throat What the fuck am I doing with Mr. Uzi’s old number? Unsolicited verbal assaults Ethno-economic slurs purred by Telemarketers High school chum who’s been Imprisoned ever since The day I got away and He didn’t Needs cash and a ride No one touches me I never answer Stupid/rude/insincere questions They hear inappropriate , Farts/burps/screams Does the telephone ring When there’s no one to listen? (It’s not the hot line yet!) You say: That you’ll kill yourself That you’ll jump to contradictions That you’ll call forever Disconnect your desire to Be taken seriously There’s nothing you can say that Won’t echo A word from your Indeterminate sentence Falls flat on repentance There’s no need For you to know that there are No answers  August  517

Azure Seizure (in Idahopeless)

So many blue eyes Liquid dyes Staring They intimated skepticism as My words countered their expectations They winced every time My definitions added weight Tilted their lopsided scales Stereotypes drowned in the soup Preconceived notions were tossed out With the salad Even the blackfish on white china Eyed me with suspicion My black tie on black shirt Clashed with local custom Formal dinner/impromptu inquisition Their interrogative style smeared Sticky question marks on the linen napkins

518

They’d never expected a Chicano to Redraw conceptual borders It was bad enough that I used the Correct fork to correct the Forked tongues They wanted to know how I had been Validated The professors had difficulty Chewing my credentials Most refused to swallow and gagged on My comments They all abandoned the table in Time for dessert Deserted I bit into a slice of Americana It could have been sweeter 

519

Authority Figureless

Hyena lost his halo yesterday Two detectives dented his skull Playing blackjack in the alley Fallen angelino In the blackness of infinity Hyena slept peacefully among the roaches On a cloud of sewage behind The Million Dollar Theatre Disturbed by the predawn sermon Disfigured street preacher Stole his shoes and empty wallet He stirred Nearly conscious A formal anointment in saliva Preacher hobbled back to his Doorway altar Hyena howled inwardly Opened his bloodied eyes Recognized the dumpster All men are reborn in disequilibrium He slid along the brick wall Clung to parked cars Pushed his way through Dizziness/crowds/pain Retreated to his niche Corrugated cardboard box Concrete enclave underneath the Hollywood Freeway overpass Embraced by shady palms Exiled where self-hatred singes Accepts random vendettas from 520

Savage benefactors Reclusive numb star of The streets Trembles as he touches Lines Erased by official blunt objects Hyena is spotted and taunted The detectives Toss burning matches at the wounds Sparks bounce off tender orchids Their malicious delight obscures Their bums’ rush to judgment Never see the double-barrel sawed-off Shotgun He blasts molten confetti Into both badges Tormentors collapse The Times and Daily report the incident  !!! Illiterate scavenger comprehends Publicity shots He wears the confiscated wing tips Boldly Hyena in hysterics His silhouette chases the horizon Laughs at the ugliness Disappears with a traceless Leap Over the edge  October  521

Roll of the Dyed Ice

The fluorescent pink dice Dangled misfortune from the Rearview mirror Black dot constellations in A desperate spin of sevens The white Mustang cleared the ultimate Hurdle With heavy wings of metal guardrail Pegasus Flew off the th Street overpass Jaime and Jose had never heard of Icarus They might have chosen a different Route of escapism Instead of shooting their Automatic weapons at rivals and at Recent arrivals They sprayed death across a School yard/minimall/sidewalk Children stampeded amidst the hail

522

Jaime steered into the Pedestrians Jose pulled the trigger Both were intoxicated by the Power to ruin The aimless lives They raced against the oddness  mph on the surface streets Wilshire/Alvarado/th The front tires burst as they hit the Curb Jose was ejected through the windshield Jaime must have felt elated By the aerial view of the Harbor Freeway with his Partner leading the way Down  feet Into the fast lane  October 

523

Liar’s Nix

The rampaging poisoned puppets Trampled the ventriloquist Broke his withered neck With their clumsy Knotted feet They splintered across the stage Detached puzzles Angry and tangled in strings Which had been pulled Too taut to twang Failed words mumbled through Tainted lips Fainted phrases Refused to go back into the Box Where the answer is Suffer-cation The curtain rose slowly Overdosed The puppets strayed and fell Speechless Into the petrified laps of Wooden children  March 

524

Deleted to Meet You

The final note dissipated Stole the implosion Like a symphony scrawled in the Disappearing ink of the blind Muted your intelligence When My cold/partially clad Artificially decayed/intimately forgotten Carrion luggage was Discovered/discarded alongside Five forged passports Rubber-stamped to death I had been Everyone/everywhere disguised as Nothing Rumors surfaced in Guadalajara/Berlin/Montebello Credited me With The bombing of suicide bridges The discoverer of latent lovers The assassination of a border guard They said that I had Danced on blood Rumba on the remains of snitches Twist on top of former presidents Limbo on faded beauties A woman at the bottom of the Pacific 525

Regrets I shattered her transparent pearl A man in the penthouse Denies I stole his breath It must be comforting to count The worms crawling out My brittle face An opaque landscape of anonymity Distorted by the certainty of Infinity The dissolution of identity Is what you’ll write On the blank postcard That was my Life  July 

526

Gila’s Alibi

She shouldn’t have shed her skin in His image People talk and delude themselves Believe Afterimages/miracles/mirages Rays of glory in reptilian shroud Her brazen instincts Rubbing the tip of her fearsome jaw Against the cactus spine Against hellish winds Reshaping the destiny of The young woman Who sifts the sands of Dunes The young man Who flashes the disturbed Dagger Pierces hot flesh Entices the lizard’s tail Delicate inverted skin Blown Across deserted violet oasis Gila shed a cold tear The inflated translucent form Hovered on heat waves Their Savior Bringing them to their knees In faithful pursuit across Timeless sands Like Gila In her venomous quest for Flies  August  527

Furious Descent of Crows

They fly down swiftly Land hard on Foreheads Cracked skulls/shattered bones They fly down wildly Brutal crows Swoop in disconnecting assaults Blows, blows, blows, blows Blows Snatch the soul Scratch the surface Erasing thoughts Nameless . . . Faceless . . . Traceless . . . The flock beats its Prey Prayers flutter/eyes splatter Feathers on the brow Aimless retribution Painless execution Dreamless concussion Insignificant Crushed hush They fly down silently Perched on echoes of cryptic slogans Deadly weapon Vanishes Into doomed logic  July  528

Urban Decay Buffet

They were all beautiful In their own terror Of merging into the melted Asphalt The busiest freeways in the World Too busy to notice The lone sniper Thousands of random shots Tied the fatal knot On the concrete ribbons Carnage and wreckage Jammed the arteries Drivers crawled out through Windshields Shielding themselves With the bodies of other Drivers/passengers/hitchhikers Bullets directed traffic I drove toward the off-ramp Accelerating quickly over victims Rush-hour panic Speeding beyond range I exit at suburbia and Kiss the blandness of Artificially flavored martinis The family is gone I pretended not to notice Them 529

Spread out on several hoods like Ornamental cold cuts I have survived the commute Only because I drove against the One way  September 

530

Relativity

I have no sense of time or place Because I don’t care That I don’t belong Here nor there I’m not going anywhere Because Rejection is followed by Ejection is followed by Dejection So stop following me Because I’ll steal your watch Smash it between My head and the wall Then we’ll both miss Our scheduled appointments Whenever and wherever So stay away Unless you prefer to be Early Late Lost  September 

531

No Jalapeño Hot Enough

Human spontaneous combustion That’s what blew tio Rico away The black carbonized stain Ash-tinted windows Charred work boots Offer acute testimony It’s where he exploded Near the kitchen sink Away from open flames Or sparks He wasn’t angry Or ill The linoleum melted Termites sizzled underfoot Smoke filled the room Got into my eyes Blinded Flash burns He had spilled the beans The warmth in his heart Wasn’t love It was the emotional detonator He vanished in a blaze As he was bitten by the raw Green chile pepper  September 

532

Phantoms Speak My Languish

Muzzled That’s what the riot baton Told my jaw In a word Nothing was said That could have explained Why I was attacked So viciously My teeth shattered Chatter no more The metal-tipped boot Entered my mouth I was about to say You can’t do this My tongue was severed The rubber heel Kicked sense into the present Tense Five bullets struck Left eye Larynx Forehead Temple Penis Nothing was said  September 

533

Opposing Fast Lanes

These are borders we never cross Barriers stretch beyond the horizon Our individual trajectory is separated We are segregated Behind the safety glass We stare at the inequality That approaches at lethal speeds Someone from the other side Dares Breaches the wall Slams head-on Disintegrates Beneath relentlessly spinning wheels Crushed beyond recognition No better for the wear and tear Life moves on at  mph I glance out to the unknown Faces

534

That whiz by They On their fast lane Going backwards to continue Their story The brief encounters with each face Highlight the dangers of Cultural collision I fail to merge into obscurity Eye contact! My reflection blinds me I spin wildly out of control Skidding violently against the wall At that moment I’m conscious that Those faces Don’t give a damn  October 

535

Nothing’s Wrong

Everything’s great I wouldn’t have it any other way The sun is out Birds are singing Music is in the air So don’t be surprised That I’m smiling Laughing No Nothing’s wrong No Really I point the gun at my head Pull the trigger So that we’ll all be Happy  October 

536

Two Tongues

There’s a tongue at the bottom of My cup She said In my cup too He said The waiter couldn’t understand Told them to shut up Ordered them to drink up One tongue swam in orange juice The other in root beer She held back the vomit He took a sip The tongue touched his Raspy He said Salty She said The waiter wouldn’t accept tips For the drinks were on the house Both tongues Extended Curled Arched Lapped at the rims She screamed He yelled The waiter ran off Losing his patience and apron Tongue tied The customers awaited A suitable translation  October  537

Man under the Influenza

I’m so cold, I’m hot Perspiring Shivering Teeth chattered as he sneezed My stomach is aborting itself Delirious Sleepy Skin pallid as he farted There’s a nail in my brain Aching Vertigo Eyes swollen as he cried The virus is everywhere Mutated into triple strains All three assault Their victim Simultaneously

538

I’m dying Diarrhea Fever Testicles yanked by gravity It’s only the first hour of the Germs The cockroach ate the last aspirin Wet socks Plugged sinuses Multiple acute symptoms For at least another thirty days I’m so hot, I’m cold Shaking Stinking The heart beats against desire  October 

539

The Little Prints

The artist’s hand graced Three thousand blank sheets Anxiously coaxed by Middleman Pencil dragged and pushed Scraped across an acid-free opaque White surface A celebrated career of Talent matched by greed Surpassed only by Middleman Due art, though He’d say as he motioned paper Beneath the weakening grasp of The master Brilliant strokes canceled by fate

540

Degeneration of immunity Tinged his pallor Shades of eternal gray Middleman Sealed the deal with death Of the artist Created limited editions Mechanically reproduced Long after ashes were scattered Across the Pacific Middleman Sells originals with impunity Due art, though  February 

541

Rebuilding

Let us each take a brick into our hands Rebuild the walls That obscure the view of the horror Place that brick next to mine Rebuild the buildings That were burned because so many mismatches Were struck simultaneously Ignited a massive reaction Rebuild your idea That someone is smashing your skull Reducing your ability to interpret The cumulative damage to your senses Rebuild the pedestal On which you can place the discolored TV Change the channel and see that L.A. Is a location shot minus the Mexicans Let us take our bricks And aim them toward the screen Smashing the false image of the Coolness of Melrose and Beverly Hills Where racial hatred is a truth of omission Let us each take a brick into our hands

542

Rebuild the bridges That we burned in disgust We will need them to get our message across The brick is warm to the grasp And gets warmer as we reach our target The producers of popular culture Will drown under the rain of bricks As we rebuild our city Into a sturdy multicultural facade That will survive the abrupt jagged Movements of the asphalt and the people Rebuild the walls That will collapse at the slightest touch My bricks will fly Carried by the fiery winds That blow against the conventional wisdom My bricks will rebuild The fear of the random hit So move quickly before your umbrella disintegrates In a meaningless rain of rage  July 

543

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Tiptoe through the Aftermath, 1997. Left to right: Juan Garza, Diane Gamboa, Humberto Sandoval, Karla Gutierrez, Linda Gamboa, Gronk. Photograph copyright Harry Gamboa Jr.

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Publication Information

The following works in this volume were previously published. “Interview: Gronk and Gamboa,” Chismearte  (fall ); reprinted in Jump Cut  (June ). “Gronk and Herrón: Muralists,” Neworld . (spring ). “Gronk: No Movie Maker,” Neworld . (July/August ). “Urban Exile,” La Opinión, August , ; and Artweek, October , ; excerpted in High Performance . (). “Reflections on One School in East L.A.,” L.A. Weekly, February –, . “Serpents in the City of Angels: After Twenty Years of Political Activism, Has L.A. Chicano Art Been Defanged?” Artweek, November , . “In the City of Angels, Chameleons, and Phantoms: Asco, a Case Study of Chicano Art in Urban Tones (or, Asco Was a Four-Member Word),” in Richard Griswold del Castillo, Teresa McKenna, and Yvonne Yarbro-Bejarano, eds., Chicano Art: Resistance and Affirmation, – (Los Angeles: UCLA Wight Art Gallery, ). Copyright UCLA Wight Art Gallery, . “Past Imperfecto,” Jump Cut  (June ). Autologüe Series “Autologüe , , & ,” RAMC . (September , ). Young Boy in the s Series “Angel’s Flight,” Chismearte  (fall ). “Angel’s Flight” and “Bomba” reprinted in La semana de bellas artes (Mexico), September , . “Artopsy,” Tin Tan  (fall ). “Pistolwhippersnapper,” R.A.M. Collective . (June , ). “Pseudoturquoiser,” De Colores .– (). “Shadow Solo: Detour Via Obsession,” Chismearte  (). “Jetter’s Jinx,” excerpted in High Performance . (). “Double Negativity,” Framework .– (). “Cruel Profit,” Grito del Sol (); and R.A.M. Collective . (June , ). “Día de los muertos,” FOCO  (October , ). “Phobia Friend,” Tin Tan  (fall ).

Publication Information

547

“A Rival Departure,”  (January ). “No Gray Matter,” Corazón de Aztlán . (January/February ). “INS and Outs,” Corazón de Aztlán . (March/April ). “Writer’s Blockage,” Oversight  (spring ). “No Alibi,” New Art Examiner . (November ). “Rush Hour” and “Low and Slow,” in Catherine Gudis, ed., Helter Skelter: L.A. Art in the s (Los Angeles: Museum of Contemporary Art, ). “Chavalo Was Lost at ‘Sí,’” Framework . (). “In the Realm of the Senseless,” Artweek, August , . “I Don’t Buy My Tacos from Trucks Parked Too Close to Sex-Change Clinics,” in Invocation L.A.: Urban Multicultural Poetry, ed. Sesshu Foster (Albuquerque: West End Press, ).

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Harry Gamboa Jr. is a multimedia artist and cofounder of the avant-garde Chicano art group Asco (–). His work has been exhibited at the Robert Flaherty Seminar, the  Whitney Biennial, the New York Museum of Modern Art, and the Smithsonian Institution. He lives in Los Angeles. Chon A. Noriega is associate professor in the UCLA Department of Film and Television. In addition to curating numerous art exhibitions, he produced and wrote the documentary Revelations: Hispanic Art of Evanescence. His book Shot in America: A History of Chicano Cinema will be published by the University of Minnesota Press.