Saturday, March 11, 2006

The Big Move

Santiago....Chile...1988... So this is the part about me moving to Canada. I actually don't remember much about why we moved. It wasn't to do with politics and shit like that even though my parents were very political. I was sort of scared for a bit actually because me and my brother and sister were always hiding from something. My mom would just look out the window and yell:

"Ok guys, time to pretend Mommy is not here"

But around this time, everything was coming around. Pinochet was losing power, people stopped caring too much about what happened with Allende, and it was more caring about how poor we were. Because of my dad's education we had a pretty good salery for a family. But it was not great, and we needed to get away from my mom's family who kept popping around to tell us to go to hell. And all of the hiding part was kind of irritating I guess. So my dad's uncle and sister was living in Edmonton because of a job he took in Chile, and then transferred. It was all complicated and way too involved to get into. Look, all you need to know is that we moved.
That's all I needed to know to.

This was me in the plane:
"This is the life"
(little did I know, I was going from +30 degree weather to -20 degree weather)

Edmonton...Canada...1988..February, 29, 1988 to be precise...Now this is funny, everything before this date was from hear say. Tales that were passed on from my dad and my mom and uncles and aunts. But as soon as I stepped to Canada, I remember lots. So the Canada part and the Europe part is all me. But the back story is all someone else. Funny how that is. I even remember what happened when we stepped out of the airport. We were greeted with a big Chilean flag, and then my uncle took me to the convinience store to buy Coke.

We had sort of a party. And then it snowed. I was thrilled.

Saturday, March 04, 2006

Two Words

Edmonton....Canada....1993...I remember years of school by two words. Occasionally changing, but always on my mind. Melissa Cramer is how I remember 1993. Melissa was my second crush I ever had. I think the only reason why I had a crush on her was because she was blond. I had my blond fascination the year before with Kristy Mohr. She was my first ever crush. She was only my crush by association, she was the prettiest girl in school. Everyone wanted to kiss her, so naturally I had to be one of them. Did I kiss her? Hehehe. I am proud to say that if I my grade 5 class were to read this, they would've been extremely jealous. It was a dumb kiss though, little tiny peck to see how it was like. I smiled, she smiled, she ran off never to speak of it again. It was an achievement, and I have NO IDEA how I didn't tell anyone. I guess by that age I already knew the value of kiss and tell. Or it's what I like to think.

Melissa was different. I never got to kiss her. She ignored me. This weird girl had a crush on me, who I didn't like a whole lot. But to prelude what is going to happen to me later on in life, she started hitting on me when we both went to junior high and I stopped paying attention to her.
In Grade 6 I was all like:

"So Melissa, do you partner up with for this Math thingy?"

"Why should I?" and then this cold stare.

Then when I get to Grade 7, and I move on to Sonja Kyle she's all like:
"Can you pass me that brush?" with a longing smile. "Oh don't worry I'll just get it myself" gets up slowly and looks at me while she gets the brush. I wasn't paying much attention because I was more concered as to how I can get Sonja to be my partner in this Social thingy.

Why does that happen? Well I KNOW why that happens. It's just shitty that's all. But I learned from that experience. Maybe I just answered my own question. The year of Cramer I learned my girl lesson. We'll leave as that. This is important because without Melissa I would've made the same mistake years later.

Tuesday, February 28, 2006

This is about family...

Santiago....chile....1977: My pops came from a long long line of copper workers. You see there's a big copper factory in Chile. And ever since that factory's been open, we have provided some of its workers. We actually lost a lot of people in that factory but since our family was always led with men of such sperm and vigor that we had plenty to go around (haha, that was horrible of me). My dad was the second oldest of his family, and because of that I had some pretty cool aunts and uncles. Second oldest is where it's at man. Yes you still get hand me downs, and it might suck if it was just you and your brother/sister, but if it's a family of 6 (which it was) then it's groovy. Your younger brothers and sisters can still look up to you, but you don't have the responsibility of being the responsible one, the heir to the throne. If you didn't give a shit about that, it was relax time. And if you had a cool older brother or sister, you can always go ask him/her for advice. For example, you go out looking like a tool in your brand new ridiculous looking shirt, and older brother and sister is there to say "no, dude, it's not gonna go". Or what if you really wanted to listen to the new Beatles album, fucking steal it from him/her room.

Not only do you get to relax of the "family responsibility" if you had like 4 younger brothers and sisters they can become your army. You are thier pratical joker while the oldest keeps a stiff upper lip. You beat bullies up and sometimes beat them up too much. Oldest if he was male, would HAVE to work in the copper factory, second oldest, fuck he can do whatever he has the money to do. And then pass on this advice to your brothers and sisters.

This equally rocks if you are the son of said second oldest. Why? Well you have uncles and aunts that are not ancient, that can actually give you good presents for christmas, that can appreciate your affection for loud guitars. Maybe if you're totally lucky (which I was), you get an uncle or aunt that's like 10 years older than you, or like your age. That's a fucking trip.

Saying all of this of course, you know what basically happened throughout my dad's childhood. He was the protector of the family, of course uncle Christian was the rock of the family, but my dad was it's national guard. Anytime one of his brothers got hit in school, he was the first to be like: "I'm gonna fucking KILL HIM!" (he mellowed out later on). Well this made my grand dad crazy even though he was always on my dad's side. There's a famous story one day when my dad was in secondary school and my auntie came home crying. This boy broke her heart and cheated on her. My dad went APE SHIT. Walked over to his house and beat him up soundly. Well the kid's dad dragged out my dad back to his house, and my grand dad thanked the guy and asked him to step outside with him, took one punch to knock him out and yelled "YOUR SON DESERVED IT YOU ASSHOLE!" This is all before assault charges and shit became popular of course. It's the way of our family. And it's the way I hope my family becomes.

Monday, February 27, 2006

Wait...

My name? Well my name is not important, but I will tell you how I got my name. My great great great grand dad was in one of the wars, I don't know which one. Maybe it was the independence war, maybe it was some little skirmish, I dunno. Anyways, he saw a lot of deaths around him except for one person. He refused to fight but was in the army. His parent's made him. But on this fight, a normal little shitty battle, my grand dad was wounded and this guy risked his life to save him. He thought it was brave and ironic, and they ran away together from the army. Became life long friends, but the guy died because the army finally got him and killed him for abandonment. So my grand grand grand pop named his first born after him to remind the family of friends and futility of war, without it this family would be nothing. The name carried on to me, so there's like 5 of us. I'm the 5th. Darkly ironic since every one of us became some sort of army person or police guy. Except me that is. My parents thought it would be super funny to stick it to my grandparents by naming me this name. Since my mom was the black sheep of the family. She knew the story and told me the story every chance she got. Just to remind me to keep the original purity of the name, not to basterdize it like my ancestors.

So we're back to 1980's. I haven't even gotten to when I was born and little. I was a cute little motherfucker. Everyone would pinch my cheeks and give me chocolate. And I was the oldest, my sister was 2 years away, my brother 4 years away. I had some time in the limelight and I enjoyed it....you're believing this aren't you? Hahaha. I mean who remembers when they were 2 and stuff? Except from the things you see in pictures you problaby don't remember until maybe 5 or 7. I remember my panache on all things cars, and I remember riding around in my bike, but that's it. I don't fucking remember when I was bloody 2. My parents say I was super cute, which always is followed by a "and now look at you. What happened?" which they always find super hilirious and laugh out loud. I saw pictures and I'm pretty sure I was cute. I guess I was a chick magnet. But aren't all babies are.

Well ok let's get to when I can remember, or to when it gets interesting. My parents who took up the lower class lifestyle so my mom could run away from the policia (my grandpop), so we were poor for a bit. Not like sleeping on cardboard poor, but we were run down. We lived in this tiny, tiny apartment with barely anything to eat. And since it was three, it was hard. Imagine what happened to when my sister was born.

Anyways, I got shitty little things for Christmas, and I had to survive off the church christmas toy. That was the one good toy I got for the year. I could play with a stick though. A child's imagination is it's only toy. Especially when it's like 30 degrees outside and it's way too hot to stay inside and play "videogames" and stuff. Make a ball out of old rags, and have a game. With my buds, I don't even remember them now. I never complained in Christmas, well I might've complained, but never to the point where I made my pops feel guilty. Well that I remember anyways.

I knew my parents didn't have much, and I knew that kids in school laughed at me because my shoes were falling apart, and that when my parents picked me up it was in a shitty Peugeut. But I was never short on friends. That's the good thing (if there is a good thing) of being poor in Chile, there was a lot more poor people just like you. So if those rich assholes picked on you, there was always a bunch of poor but fit people waiting to kick some ass. It was different in Canada, but we're not there yet. Also when you were that age, you just accepted things. I never got good Christmas presents, so what. I lived in a shitty house, so what. I only realized how shitty the situation was when I was much older and we were much better. It was all luck really that us three would survive and live a full life.

What's that you're saying? How did my parents get together? Well that has to do with luck too. So RELAX will ya.

Anyways...

My mom and dad actually met in "peace" protest. Do you realize when people hold "peace" protest they somehow turn violent? Just a little aside. Anyways, that's my mom throwing the rocks yelling "putos!" at the cops and that's my dad getting high (got high, in some sort of state of high)in the background. Having this really mellow look in his face, with his long hair, tight jeans, and matching jacket, and this shirt that exposed whatever hair he had on his chest. My mom of course was/is really pretty, and when she's screaming and yelling crap she's even prettier. My dad, the mellow one, took notice and started a politico conversation.

"Hey"

"...FUCK YOU AND YOUR CAPITAL PIGS!!! Hey....would you mind picking up that stone and giving it to me?"

"This one?"

"Yep"

"Why do you need to do that?" (Does this sound familiar? I got it from me fadder)

"FUCKING ASSHOLES! Do what?"

"Throw stones, they just get more pissed off. Listen I know we're fighting the movement and stuff, but there's gotta be a better way."

"You fucking communist! Like what? Write a petition? PFFT!"

"No, no, like fuck with thier bank accounts and stuff. Yeah, like that. Or like fuck thier kids who want to be fucked. You know when you say Fuck the Rich?"

"Yeah"

"Literally fuck the rich. There's a lot of sons and daughters who are like begging to be assrammed by a 'rebel'"

"like me?"

"Why? Are you a daughter of a rich man?"

"My dad is the police chief's bodyguard. So that does mean that I need to be assrammed by a 'rebel'?"

"Hahahahaha....oh man, that explains EVERYTHING!"

"WHAT?!"

"White, beautiful, not a dirty face on you. You don't know poor."

"Poor doesn't mean you have no money"

"Hahahaha....unless you live like those people (points to a bunch of homeless bums begging for bread) you don't know poor. See if anything goes wrong, you're just a phone call away from setting it right" (like that song Common People by Pulp)

"Whatever, I know that sense of desperation, anger, closed in feeling. I'm poor in soul"

"So throwing rocks at police makes it better?"

"A little yeah. Makes me feel better"

"At least you're honest about that. See ya later gringa"

See this is how they met, not how they fell in love. I know what you're thinking very cliched. Or "I liked this better when it was called West Side Story". But for real this is what happened. So what if it's cliched, so what if you heard this before. Everyone wants to meet like this, everyone wants a story like this to tell thier kids and grandkids when they ask "how did you guys meet?" That's why chicks still get reeled in for the romantic comedy, and guys still love the action no matter how ridiculous it is. Like what if I told you that my parents met in some shitty ass dance and they danced and fell in love, got married, have a son and that's that. BORING. See add in a time machine and a son travelling back in time, then you have something (you also have Back To The Future).

Just shut up and read on alright.

Sunday, February 26, 2006

Actually...

This is not me. Nope. This is anti-me. Actually not really anti-me but the man I wish I was. There's not much to change that now, but who says that you can't make a life of your own. Right now, I'm in this place where I can start at a clean slate. So let's fucking do it. I'm not the man I was, I am the man I am now. This is how I got there. It's not how the real me got there, but it's how I wish I got there. If fucking Machiavelli can kill himself but not really, why can't I? What does he have that I don't have? Well fine then, lets start from the beginning. By the way, when you read this, I suggest you listen to Blur's Swamp Song, cause it kinda goes along with the whole thing. Or not, whatever.

Ok, I liked the way I started out. There is parts of it that's switch around, and there's parts that are not true at all, but only a certain amount of people know that. You, loyal reader, will not. That is the beauty of this.

Santiago...Chile....1980 --- My parents were both a bunch of hippies. Radical, left wing bunch of hippies. Not the tree hugging type mind you, but the ones who would like throw stones at police trucks and shit like that. They were part of the whole movement to get Allende out, then when they realized how wrong they were, they were in the movement to get Pinochet out. They were just rebels to the system. Not really of any cause mind you, but just rebels. Maybe they liked to throw stones, I don't know. But this is stories I would get to hear when I was a kid.

"...so alright, we were out of the University one day and we were going to go to one of these demonstrations for the right of the mothers in right wing, blah blah blah...and I had to bring you along (me the baby by the way) and I had no one to give you to. Your father was in school studying and shit and I couldn't tell him to take you because I wanted him to get good grades and stuff. So me and you screaming and shouting and waving flags and stuff and then the cops come"

"You ran didn't you"

"Let me finish! So we saw them and started screaming 'Get the fuck out of here, this is a peaceful demonstration' you know the general stuff you yell when cops come. So I put some lemon on a cloth and shoved it in your mouth because that helps with the tear gas, and started throwing stones..."

"Not the fucking stones AGAIN!"

"Shut up and let me finish!"

"Couldn't you throw anything else? Or maybe not throw anything at all, maybe that wouldn't have gotten you in so much trouble. And what the fuck are you doing in some demonstration with me? I was a baby! I could have tear gas poisoning for all I know"

"You're fine. Anyways, the cops came with the billy clubs and shit (by the way, do you know now why i talk like this?) and I started running with you. I ran halfway to Cerro Santa Lucia when a cop stopped me and I'm like 'I have to protect my baby from the rioters' HAHAHAHA...and he fucking BOUGHT IT!"

"Thanks"

"You know I wouldn't put you in direct danger"

"But you DID!"

"You're fine"

That's my mom by the way. And yeah I am fine. She's one of the reasons I am fine. My dad too. They're all fine, they all have a great life. They love each other, they love us (me, my sister, and my brother). She seems like a person who doesn't respect me, but that's South American mothers for you. Show thier love with food, and smothering. My dad was different but the same of my mom, came up with the same kind of lower class background, but strived to get a good education for me and my family. My dad represented art class (you know I got my music from him, and my style, and my taste), my mom was social studies (what to do when cops are throwing rocks at you).

And I know what you're thinking, what part is true what part is not. STOP DOING THAT! Like I said, there's only a handful of people who know what's true and what's not. Robert Evans in his book said and I quote "There's three sides to every story: yours, mine, and the truth". That will be the motto of this. Whatever THIS is.

Saturday, February 25, 2006

This is a Story....

I have been reading a lot this year, and thus I have visited many bookstores. One book I came across was My Story by Giancomo Casanova, and this bitch is supposed to be a classic. Why is it a classic, because his story is like one of those gossip columns. Can't put it down, you want to be Casanova, you want to be banging a lot of girls, you want to be in the high life of everything. And not only that, you want to tell your story, or have the medium to tell your story. I guess you can't be a high rolling player without being a good storyteller. I still can't imagine a good writer being one of those reclusive types. The ones that can't talk to anyone because it's against thier type or whatever. Fuck that shit. A good writer should be a good talker, should be a charming person, because when you write you're supposed to be talking. This makes no sense to you does it? Oh well.

Anyways back to Casanova. He had 12 volumes of his life, TWELVE! And he wasn't even finished when he died. That's a lot of stories. That's a lot of chicks. But he's a writer too. The goal of this though, is to tell my story. I'm not Casanova, I'm not Robert Evans (Another good autobiography), I'm just joe shmo. No, no, no, no I'm not. I'm me. I'm not you, I'm not him, nor her. I'm not Joe Shmo, my life is intersting. Actually everyone's life is intersting, that's why this whole blog thing works. We all lead intersting lives because we all make different desicions. And we all make mistakes, we all have our highs and lows. And I guarntee you if your life was left to a good writer it could be a Casanova.

But this is just me. You'll learn a lot about me. I don't like to talk too much about me. But when I do, I hope you'll listen.