Adriana H: I do remember you, because I always remember that day we were on the parking-garage shuttle bus together. You pointed out the window at a woman walking down the sidewalk and said something like “I like that woman’s bag.”

She immediately stumbled over nothing and almost fell.

You gasped and said, “Oh, no! I always give people the ojo!”

I thought that was so funny and sad at the same time, because it was obvious that you had given her the ojo.

But, at the same time, I knew you were a nice person and therefore would never use your power for evil, if you could help it.

I’m glad you commented, so I could tell you that.

real quick – Robert S

Robert S: I didn’t get to talk to you long after the lunch thing on Thursday. But I wanted to tell you that I listened to your story and thought you were very brave to tell it – braver than I ever get.

Today I did one of those things that Houston park’n’ride bus riders sometimes do: I hitched a ride with a strangers so we could take the HOV lane. Hurray!

(Don’t worry. There’s a complex social structure in place. I follow the structure and refrain from getting killed.)

I like to do the Spontaneous Stranger Carpool because I have the most interesting conversations that way. Today, it turned out that none of the three of us strangers had our degrees. And, I’m not saying this because I want to encourage you youngsters not to get your degrees, but…

…but, um, why the hell am I worried about encouraging kids to get their degrees? That’s what we talked about today. Why are kids, lately, made to feel like getting a degree is the only was on Earth they’ll ever get jobs? It’s just not true.

I feel almost hypocritical for saying this, because many people have heard me say in real life that inner city schools sucked for not exposing poor students to the idea of college.

I do still believe that all school counselors should talk to all students about college. But I don’t believe that’s the only thing they should talk about.

The facts are that not everyone is cut out to go to college, not everyone wants a white collar job, and even if everyone did, there wouldn’t be enough white collar jobs to go around. There are gazillions of jobs that don’t require degrees, but you wouldn’t know that to hear the way Generation Y (or whatever they’re called) is getting indoctrinated.

One of my fellow ‘poolers said she thinks that not only are kids brainwashed into college at any cost these days, but they’re also made to believe that if they don’t get promoted every two years, they should quit their jobs. She cited the college-or-loser mentality as the reason behind increases in high turnover and low morale in Corporate America.

I don’t know if I’d go that far, but it was interesting to hear her opinion.

I have to say that it took a while before each of us in the car admitted that we didn’t have degrees. But once one of us did, the others quickly followed suit. It was funny that we didn’t feel comfortable saying it — that we were all obviously used to keeping that fact on the down low.

And yet we each had good, long-time careers in profitable industries.

We talked about the Air Force and the Navy. We talked about vocational and trade schools and how you just don’t hear as much about them anymore.

And… that’s all. That’s all I wanted to tell y’all about that. That, and I like talking to strangers in the HOV lane — connecting with them without learning their names. It’s fun.

Workplace Magazine Centerfold

I hate it when you work at a big company and other people who work there think they’re celebrities because they work on a certain floor or in a certain department.

Like, the other day, Jane Doe’s assistant called me and told me to come pick up something Jane Doe had for me. I said, “Okay. Where do you sit?”

She made an audible throat emission of scorn and said, “In front of Jane Doe’s office.”

And I had to laugh, and I said, “Okay. Would you mind telling me where Jane Doe sits?”

And she acted like I had just fallen off a turnip truck full of lobotomized people or something. Because I didn’t know where Jane Doe’s office was. Because…. Why? I don’t know. Who the hell is Jane Doe? Do you know where she sits? No, why would you? Why would anyone? I’m sure Jane’s a really nice person, but she’s not famous, as far as I know. Or else, as I said later to a coworker, “Is there some celebrity magazine about the celebrities who work here that I forgot to subscribe to?”

I think, if you get all your life’s importance from the belief that you sit in front of an office that everyone in your company should know the location of, then maybe you should look at a globe or something and remind yourself how big the effing world is.

Same day, some person got angry to the point of rudeness because I didn’t know she was the boss of some other person. And she made reference to her department’s org chart and the copy of it she was certain I must have (but that I didn’t). And I thought, “That org chart must be in every issue of the magazine that I’m not getting that is specially designed for people who have nothing in their lives other than this job and their perceived positions on the hierarchies that exist in the lower echelons here from 8 to 5.” Because, otherwise, I can’t imagine why I would have another department’s org chart, or why anyone would expect me to know her place on it, unless she was really insecure and solipsistic. (Or just stupid.) (Or all three.)

If I found out there was such a magazine about my workplace, I’d read a few issues, but only in my dentist’s office, for free, and only to laugh at it.

Except that it probably wouldn’t even be funny.

Part of me wants to pity these people. But most of me hates them because they’re rude. I hate rudeness. It’s hard for me to care about people who don’t have manners. Especially when they’re also miserable people who spend their time trying to make others miserable, too. You know?

But it won’t work on me, because I don’t want to be miserable. And my happiness isn’t based on who I’m allowed to boss around from 8 to 5.

Thank God for that.

(Some day a real rain will come, and I won’t have to work a day job anymore.)

flotsam

1. It’s hard to feel it in Houston — you have to wake up early in the morning to feel it, or else you have to pay attention to the refraction of the sun’s rays — but fall is in the air.

I’m happy just for that, because fall (“Autumn”) is my absolute favorite season.

2. I had the flu on Monday and Tuesday. I might still have it now, but only Monday and Tuesday were bad enough to stay home. And they were pretty bad. I only get sick once a year, and it’s always the flu. And I always get very, very sick for two days, and then I’m good enough to go back to work after that.

I like to do things quickly like that. I like to get sick quick and get well quick. Get drunk quick and get sober quick. Get emotional quick and get over it quick. I like that kind of efficiency. That’s what fits into my schedule best.

3. I had to rent a marimba today. This weekend, I have to shell out a gazillion dollars for percussion instruments and percussion instrument accessories for one of my brats. I hope he enjoys learning percussion and that he sticks with it for life. He might. It’s worth the cost, that possibility.

4. My brother-in-law and I pledged to start a cover band. (He’s actually my future brother-in-law, but it’s easier just to say it like it’s already happening. It may as well be, for all intents and purposes.) (Not the dentist brother-in-law — the other one. Let’s call the other one… the wise-ass, drunken-ass, half-breed-ass, cold-blooded-ass, funny one. No…. Let’s just call him the other one.)

So, okay, we were drinking when we made our plan. But we were also singing karaoke (my in-laws are Asian, so they have a karaoke system in every room of all their houses), so that makes it much more serious.

And…. What was I talking about? Oh, yeah — we share an appreciation of Everclear in which my fiance does not indulge. That right there is practically an obligation to start a band, as far as I’m concerned.

5. I keep telling people I’ll give them copies of my kids’ book, or sell them copies, or sign their copies, but then I never get around to it. Okay, you know how we can fix that, people? If everyone comes to my Official Book Party for Growing Up with Tamales, in October, at MECA, which is in Houston’s neartown west-end inner loop whatever-o region. More details on that when I look them up in my gmail and then post them in that section at the top of this page.

Oh, and also, I’ll be at Houston’s Latino Book Fair in September, of course. On Sunday, not Saturday. September 21, I think. So there you go.

6. I’m not very good at promoting my art.

7. That’s all. I hope y’all are doing well. I miss y’all and wish I had more time to post more meaningful, insightful, whateverful things. Maybe some day soon, when the real rain comes, if you wish real hard and light those candles.

Thanks, if you do. Thanks if you’re reading. Thanks, especially, if you’re buying my books. Hate to be crass, but I have to say that sometimes. Otherwise, this site can’t be a write-off. I think y’all understand that. I mean, I don’t want you to feel guilty if you read this site for free and never buy any of my books… but, then again, I’m actually okay with you feeling guilty under those circumstances.

It’s always cold on the bus. For that reason, I kind of hate riding it in the mornings, especially when I’m wearing a skirt without hose or tights or leg warmers, as is sometimes mandated by fashion in the summer time. But everyone has their crosses to bear, right?

This morning I got on the bus without hose or tights or legwarmers, and it was very cold. I put my iPod (my Sony Walkman iPod) into my ears and hugged myself into as compact a shape as possible.

The bus starts filling up, and this guy gets on. He’s a small guy, ethnic origin somewhere on the Eastern Hemisphere. He sits by me, and I take care not to sigh or jut out my elbow or even look at him, because I hate it when I’m forced to sit by someone else on the bus, and that someone else makes it clear that they’re annoyed and that they’d been wishing that their $3 fare would have somehow paid for two seats. I mean, I get annoyed when strangers sit next to me, too, and I wish my $3 bought me a force shield from strangers, too. But that’s not the way Metro works, is it?

So I’m sitting there, trying to be polite and only feeling a little bit sorry for myself, when I realize that the guy sitting next to me is hot. Not attractive-hot, but temperature hot. He’s radiating heat like a furnace. I peeked at him as much as manners would allow, but he didn’t seem to be feverish or on fire. He was just radiating heat, somehow. Like, from the inside.

I decided, then, that he must have been a demon. Either that or an elemental, but most likely a demon, because I don’t imagine elementals looking like people or wanting to ride the bus. I glanced again and saw that he was reading a text full of arcane-sounding words. (Cold fusion? HP 3200?) That seemed to confirm his supernatural nature.

I turned my face away from the demon man and, for a split second, felt uncomfortable. Then, I felt good. I felt warm. I’d been cold before, but this demon dude was literally generating enough heat to make up for the fact that I had no pantyhose on under my sandals and knee-length skirt. It felt nice, like a cozy fire.

I wondered, then, what it meant to take comfort from a demon. Was it safe? Was I unintentionally giving away my soul?

Really, there was nothing to fear. In every story I’ve ever heard on the subject, demons can’t possess your soul unless you give them verbal permission. And you have to invite them onto your premises, in the first place. Right? I’d invited this demon nowhere, as we were sitting in a public place. I hadn’t said anything to him at all. As long as I kept my Sony Walkman iPod in my ears and minded my own business, I could warm myself with the demon fire and keep my soul and its first serial rights. He wasn’t even a big demon, anyway. I didn’t think he could carry me if he wanted to.

The warmth made me sleepy and I drifted through dreams as pawn shops and Adult Video Stores sped by. “Is this,” I wondered, “how it starts? Can people get possessed in their sleep? Is demon heat a roofie?”

But we made it downtown okay. Someone rang the bell and, like zombies awoken, several of the passengers stood up and stumbled out into the sunlight as filtered by skyscrapers. The demon got up to let me pass and didn’t even spare me a glance.

I didn’t realize why until now, after typing all this. I’ve already been marked by someone else. My soul is the property of Corporate America.

intro to bus stories 2, 3, and 4

So I recently bought myself an MP3 player as a reward for a job well done. (What job is that, you ask? The job that is being myself.) And, now that I have one, I see that there’s a secret world I’ve been missing out on but am now a part of.

Before I had an MP3 player, I didn’t want to know anything about them, because I hate window shopping. You know? I don’t want to hear about stuff I can’t afford, in general. But then they got cheap, so I decided to get one, so I did my research and picked the one with the most battery life.

(Also, I waited to get one because I just had no use for one before. But now that I have a job where we’re allowed to listen to them (and where our laptops have no soundcards), and now that I ride the bus instead of driving my van and listening to my own CDs…)

Before I had an MP3 player, I ignored people who had them. I purposely spaced out when people talked about them. But not anymore.

Now, when I ride the bus, I notice who’s listening to music and who’s not. And I notice that other people notice it, too.

bus story 2

The other day, I was on the bus and I busted out my [Sony Walkman] iPod (which I will call an ipod from now on, because screw Corporate America and their branding. kleenexes! xeroxing!! orange and lemon cokes!!!).

I turned on my music and went to the place where I go to when my music’s on. It’s a place in my mind, and it’s a combination night club, costume party, trip abroad, and Houston’s Galleria mall.

So I was there, and I don’t know if it showed on my face or what, but the guy sitting across from me smiled at me.

Not in a creepy way, but in a sort of empathetic yet wistful way. Like he could tell that I was happy, and he was glad for me, and yet he maybe wished he had an ipod, too.

He seemed like a nice guy, actually. But I didn’t smile back. I just blinked at him and then looked away.

I don’t smile at strange men. Especially not on the bus.

bus story 3

Right after that, the angry-looking man next to the nice-looking man gave us both a glare. Really, he just gave a long, long glare that encompassed us, all the other passengers, and everything else on earth.

Then, the angry-looking man looked at my ear buds. Then, he took some earbuds out of his pocket and attached them to his phone.

I don’t know if y’all know this, but a lot of newer phones are also ipods now. Seriously. They are.

The angry-looking guy turned on his phone ipod, and then he closed his eyes and pretended to sleep. I hoped that his music made him feel better. I wondered what song he was listening to, but there was no way I could ask.

bus story 4

Today I rode the bus home and I listened to my ipod. Of course. Across from me, an older woman sat there with white ear buds in her own ears. And she kept glancing at me.

“What is this woman looking at?” I thought. But that question didn’t make me as angry as it used to, because I had my ipod on and it’s hard to get angry when I’m in my music place.

The woman glanced and glanced, and then, when I had to adjust my volume, I pulled my ipod out of my bra, out of the neck of my shirt, and did so. And then the woman kept looking, but her look became very thoughtful. I thought that maybe she was noting my clever idea of going hands-free with the use of my bra. She was maybe thinking, “Wow. It fits in there so well. I wouldn’t have even guessed she had an ipod in her bra.”

Then, the woman lifted her own ipod from her lap. It was a real iPod, and it had a leather case with an apple on it and everything. When she lifted it and opened the case, she glanced at me again.

I couldn’t help but suspect that she wanted me to notice her. I suspected that she’d just gotten that new ipod, maybe for a gift or maybe she went right into the apple store and bought it for herself, for a job well done.

She flicked at the buttons and I wondered how many songs she had. I wondered which ones were her favorites.

She glanced at me again. I smiled at her and then I closed my eyes.

moral of the story

If we were in Japan, our ipods would send out signals to each other, and we’d know when we were near another person who likes the same songs that we do.

But we’re not in Japan. So all we can do is imagine, and then empathize.

Right?