Lefty Limbo

When I saw the top flapping in the morning breeze, I pulled over immediately, thinking it was a banner draped over the switchbox (or whatever you call that thing). Disappointment met me with gooey fingers when I discovered it was a freshly wheat-pasted poster.

Anyways, folks. Another shining example of our Constitution’s First Amendment right. The poster was completely torn off by mid-day.

Ain’t it great how politics and politicians bring out the best and worst in people?

On our latest trip to Disneyland we were able to witness the annual phenomena named Bats Day At The Fun Park. This was unintentional, yet one of the many perks of having an annual pass (which I believe is the best investment ever for any SoCal family with young ones).

I knew something was up when I saw more than a handful of…well, what can I call them without generalizing…goths/rivetheads/cybergoths/gravers…anyways, they were dressed to the nines in the latest strapped, chained, buckled and chunky platform-shoed glory…some even sporting the cyber post-apocalyptic dreads of rebellion, others boasting full tilt androgyny, “Is that a dood?” “Yes, it’s a dood.” “Dood!”

The best part about this phenomena is it gives out-of-towners and tourists a real treat. Not only are these urban specimens morbidly mesmerizing, but they also give the foreigners a smack-in-the-face validation to the almighty stereotype that yes, L.A. people are fucking freaks for sure; something they can tell their loved ones when they pick them up at the airport. “It’s true! I saw them with my own eyes!” The looks on their faces as these angels of darkness fluttered by—from shock to surprise to utter disappointment—were priceless, ironic treasures which one would never expect from the Happiest Place On Earth.

Yet another plus—my What Would ZOD Do? shirt, which I coincidentally wore that day, conjured equally curious looks from some younger dark dozens (“Is there someone more evil than I? Hmmm…”) …and won critical acclaim from their older counterparts, who reveled in the evil ephemeral entity with approving nods, smiles and words, with one derby-clad lad even enlightening his friends to Zod’s existence and quoting him in true cold, Kryptonian Zod fashion: “Why do you say these things to me when you know I will kill you for it!” Excellent.

But by far, the greatest thing, and perhaps the most challenging—was trying to explain to one of our friends, straight from the tropical, sun-kissed and salsa-laden shores of Colombia, what this was all about. This was her first trip to Disneyland, and probably her first large-scale exposure to So Cal society. At first glance, her jaw hung open in disbelief. “Ay, Greg….¿por qué ellos van a vestirse así…estan locos, no?” (Oh Greg…why would they dress like that? They’re crazy, right?…)

After explaining to her that it was actually a fashion and culture, she looked even more puzzled. This especially after seeing a pasty-faced madame walking by in a full mourning dress with velvet gloves, hat and a parasol.

How could I best describe it? “Es un imagen de melancolia…tristeza y de obscuridad,” (It’s an image of melancholy, sadness and darkness) I explained. But even that was a very broad statement and not always true. How could I explain that despite the bleak and depressing image, goths and their cousins were actually amongst the happiest and most fun-loving bunch I’d ever known? The irony just wouldn’t translate. But I tried. “Pero eso es solo un imagen. Ellos son alegres” (But that is just an image. They’re happy people).

Then I remembered the everclear image of a goth circle of friends rushing to show me the slash marked scars on their wrists, like gleeful, giddy little children showing butterflies on their arms. All this commotion the result of me responding in concern when one of them said “I’ve tried to kill myself” (with a smile, of course).

Yeah, good luck trying to translate that.

So I simply said, “Bienvenidos a Los Angeles.”

There’s a new restaurant opening by our house, replacing the former Campos Tacos on Washington. When I first saw this sign, I was like, “Dang, that’s scanless!” …but now I wonder, is pinches that bad of a word? Is this the same as naming a restaurant Fuckin’ Burgers? Either way, hope their pinches tacos esten buenos.

Update: No need for alarm. After some consultation with some amigos mexicanos, it seems that pinche is just one of those words that can be used lightly; something along the lines of damn (although on their website they do quote it as “f******* tacos”). I’ve also discovered that this restaurant is part of a chain. Still, I hope they’re good.

Update May 28, 2010: Turns out the word pinche has an even more interesting connotation/meaning that isn’t even discussed on their own website. But you’ll have to visit them to find that out.

We finally ate there, by the way. Not bad. Fresh ingredients, succulent meat, and zesty salsa. A little on the pricey side. This place definitely has a larger wave of gringos crossing the border than paisas. I give them 3 out of 5 stars.

We made our way over the bridge to the 710 North; a bridge which she always tells me to slow down on. We’d just received our first major rainfall of the year, the beginning of what was to be a week-long drench. Was that possible? I wondered if this was a blessing, or yet another symptom of global warming.

I thought of the possibilities and wandered in the grey area, as grey as the sky around us. Then suddenly, up ahead, a bright rainbow sliced the sky.

I smiled and remembered Maui, where we saw a similar sight. But we were here in L.A…specifically on the line between Bell and Bell Gardens, two places whose names I used to interchange without thought when I first met her. Then one day a friend made it clear…

“So where’s she from?”
“I dunno…Bell? Bell Gardens? Whatever.”
“Whatever? No…it’s either Bell, or Bell Gardens. Big difference.”
“Really? I thought they were the same thing.”
“What??! Oh hayell no man…there’s a huge difference between Bell and Bell Garbage dood!”

But there we were, in the midst of a beauty band whose pot of gold was right smack in the middle of the so-called garbage heap. Indeed, one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.

Ever since discovering Cerritos in the mid-90s for a college venture (which was well worth it), my wife and I have made the city a constant visit, especially now with a kid who’s up and running and needs good, clean, nurturing space to run around in—something which Cerritos parks do have a lot of.

Cerritos’ Heritage Park has always been a favorite, with its ducks and “Play Island,” literally an island modeled after 1700′s Boston, with everything from slides and jungle gym climb-o-ramas to cannons (which really “fire” into the surrounding moat with the touch of a button) and a galleon moored to the dock. I tell you now, I would’ve begged my parents to bring me out there every weekend if I was a kid.

When we first discovered Heritage Park long, long ago (I’d say a decade), the island and ducks were there, yet the island wasn’t as done up as it is now. But there was still a nice, homely and simple presence to it all, as there were hardly any people there and we basically spent many great afternoons at the park feeding the ducks and walking around. My wife and I love to find hidden treasures like this park was back in the day.

But these days, Heritage Park has become totally populated with park-goers, and it is no longer the gleaming, hidden attraction it used to be. Sure, we still bring the kid there, but my wife and I both take turns sighing, reminiscing of a time when nobody knew about the place. And speaking of hidden treasures, finding a used condom on the ground next to our car was an even greater reason to reflect on the park’s sparkling past. I suppose the current park-going populace is at least taking measures not to increase the park population in the future. Yay.

Nevertheless, the condom (double-bagged, if you look closely, lol) was indeed an indelible image, so it has made it here, amongst the ranks of randomness here at Lefty Limbo.

There was a lady sitting in the car next to ours at the Acapulco’s in Torrance. While I took my kid out of his car seat, I glanced over at the lady and noticed she was wearing what appeared to be a niqāb, or veil worn by muslim women which covers the entire head and face, leaving only the eyes open. (I may be wrong in the definition and/or name of the item, but nonetheless it is worn by muslim women…feel free to help me out if you know what it is).

She sat there in the hazy afternoon, just waiting in the lot. It reminded me of other instances where I’d seen muslim women waiting in their cars. I didn’t stare, of course, but as I carried my son to the restaurant, I wondered how she felt. Was she happy? I have nothing against muslims, nor anything against any religious faiths in that matter. I believe everyone should worship as they please. But when I see someone set in strict accordance with clothing or dress, I wonder if they ever want a “free dress” day, like they do in Catholic schools—a day to let loose from the uniform and dress however you want. I had a “free dress” day once in 2nd grade (I went to Notre Dame) and totally forgot about it when the day arrived, so I was the only kid in class in uniform that day. Laughing stock.

Nevertheless, seeing this lady reminded me of another muslim lady I saw at Magic Mountain years ago. Except this one was covered entirely in a burqa, from head to toe. It was summer, and it was hot. Once again, she was waiting alone, by the exit of the Batman rollercoaster. Of course, given the full draping of black cloth in the heat of Valencia, she surely turned the heads of every patron who walked by. Suddenly, a kid ran up to her excitedly and turned to his mom in the distance. “Aw, cool!!! Look mom! A ninja! Can you take a picture? Please??” He posed by her with the biggest smile as the muslim lady looked down at him, confused. But his mom didn’t pay much attention, so in a few minutes he walked away, disappointed.
I wondered what went through her head at that moment, to be treated like a park mascot because of her clothing. Did she ever reconsider what she’d wear to amusement parks? Or did she not have a choice anyway? There’s your thought for Valentine’s Day.

We were coming home from the park about an hour ago and my wife remarked with a chuckle, “Oh, I saw a mom bug carrying her baby on her back over there.” Of course, the bug geek in me would not let such news go unchecked, so I went back to look for the pair.

I’m not so sure that it’s a mom bug with her kid; I’m more convinced that this is a mating pair. But who would know better than What’s That Bug?, the awesome database of insects and creatures that people all over the world submit their photos and inquiries to (the most infamous inquiry of course being the Potato Bug (or Jerusalem Cricket)). So I sent my findings and I’m waiting to hear back.

In the meantime, my wife and I were laughing at the theory that it was a mom with her kid. I shook my head and said, “Man, what a way to see the town.” I mean, having to hold your mom’s hand in public is one thing. But having to stick your butts together and have her drag you around backwards while she goes shopping? Dang.