Friends,
There are things in this world that are not things in this world, things that we do not miss, things that are not there. For example--the Mona Lisa's eyebrows. You would think that Leo DaVinci would have put them in, him being some kind of a so-called genius, but he did not put them in, and we never knew what how. It is still considered a masterpiece even though there essential parts of the face are missing. And, even though they probably should have been, our excpections were not disappointed. And there are other things we don't miss too: good ideas in the sermons of evangelical preachers is another good example. Somehow Christians and churches get along just fine without them. Where have they gone? Were they even ever there? Who knows. "Let's have a marketing campaign instead!" What else, what else? Oh yes. Jeans. For me, I never ever wore jeans. You probably haven't noticed. In the time you have known me, I have not worn jeans. It doesn't run through your mind to ask, "Why doesn't Carlos wear jeans? He should really look into buying a pair of Lee's." Now, my jeanlessness was not intentional. I never set out against wearing them. But I did not wear jeans, ever, for the past, oh, ten years or more years. And I do not know why. I can think of no good reason. But there was my wardrobe in all its jeanless glory. Now, though, I do. I wear them. In fact, I wear two pairs now. They were purchased for me by my mother at a garage sale, so they are even used jeans, cool looking rock n roll star call me Robert Plant I'm so damn hip in these Levi 501 blue jeans. It is a major step in my life, or at least it feels that way. I put them on when I received them in the mail (thanks, Mom), and I pranced around my apartment in them. Alli was at work when they arrived, so I had to ask Ray how they looked. He jumped up several times and then he went outside and peed. Not knowing how to discern this response, I hopped on a bus and went to the university to check my mailbox and walk around in my new hip jeans. I was very nervous getting on the bus. Would they notice? Would they stare at me? After all, these jeans do look kind of silly to me. I am not used to my body having anything to do with relaxed-fit anythings. I am used to old-man slacks, gray. I sat down in the bus and nobody said anything to me--I did not receive any compliment, or criticism. They took me as one of their own, which I thought was a good sign. Then, I ran into a friend named Josh. We walked along together and he did not say anything about my jeans either. Good news, I suspect. I began to wonder if jeans could be a part of my new Pittsburgh Persona. I can make like I've worn jeans my whole life. By the time I rode the bus back home, I had even forgotten about my jeans. But I will tell you an episode on the bus that knocked my socks off.
When you get on the bus, it's like everybody is having a bad day. No one says anything to you. It's even against the law to have a conversation with the driver. It smells like many humans, all their ten thousand smells combined into one, nasty, something-in-between-Ray's-pee-and-coffee-and-peppermint-candy kind of smell. This bus, by the way, was full. All of our smells mixed into one. I took a seat, one of the few remaining, next to a bald (shaved-bald, hip-hop-bald, Michael-Jordon-bald) man. I felt awkward because those seats are very close together. It's like peeing at the adjacent urinal, being that close to another individual. I reserve that space for people I want to cuddle with, not for people I want to hold my breath next to. Anyway, like I said, everyone was having a bad day. That's how buses are. Faces look straight ahead; people do not talk; everybody looks hungry, and late for something. It went on like this for twenty minutes. The young lady across the aisle, next to me, had her iPod in her ears. In this story, her name will be Hannah. The woman in front of Hannah (let's call her Stacy), was in green pants and running shoes. The man next to me, Duncan, was not saying anything. The bus rode along, stopping at certain pre-determined points, letting some people off and allowing some people to get on. Mostly, though, the bus kept filling up. I noticed that Stacy's face was full of frustration, and she was, by her body language, silently letting people know about her frustration. She put her hand to her mouth, cynically, and kept leaning into the space that filled the aisle. Then I noticed that Hannah was laughing. Then Duncan made a gesture, which made me look at the young man sitting next to Stacy, Gerald. Gerald had fallen asleep. This was sad, because sitting up while falling asleep, unless you are next to a loved-one, is a kind of tyrrany. It rules you and exploits you and objectifies you in ways contrary to human nature. Gerald had fallen asleep, and kept tipping over, onto Stacy. Stacy, in response, leaned away from him, like I said, into the space in the aisle. And Hannah and Duncan and I began to laugh, belly-laugh, at the situation. Eventually, the entire bus picked up on our little drama, and everybody's bad day had turned into a good day. Every time the bus stopped, or turned, we all holding our breath would watch, full of suspense, to see whether Gerald would fall onto Stacy. Stacy exclaimed, "This is the first time I've taken the bus, and I hate it!" And we all laughed. Gerald was unmoved by this, off in his world of dreams and fantasy, wavering between the window on his left and Stacy's shoulder on his right. Finally, someone offered Stacy another seat--people scootched together to make room for her, and she accepted. And now no one was sitting next to Gerald, poor guy. That seat had been abandoned, and for good reason. But then, at the next stop, some new folks got on the bus, and we all with great anticipation, in the way of a classroom making fun of a substitute teacher, watched to see who would sit next to Gerald. And then, a little girl, Teresa, took that seat. We all erupted in great laughter. But, composing ourselves, understanding that such innocence as Teresa's should not be exploited, she doesn't deserve the weight of all our attention and laughter (much less Gerald's entire body) upon her. We made sure she found the safety of another seat, explaining to her the drama she had so far missed. But the story is not over! No! Then at the next stop, a man, Fred, stepped on the bus. He was bigger, and he had hair not like Elvis Presley, but hair like the people who could say they knew him before he was famous, their hair these days. A helmet. He had a mustache. He had good posture, and a terrific belt buckle. And he took the seat next to Gerald. I don't know why we did this (we had just saved the little girl from certain Gerald-imposed doom), but not so with Fred: we all watched gaily while Gerald, still fast asleep, swayed back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, while Fred tried to understand the murmurs of laughter all around him. He was thinking, "Why all the laughter? Is there a booger in my nose? Is my back hair showing? Did I forget to polish my belt buckle?" He took out his comb and fixed his hair. But we kept laughing. His shuffled his feet. We kept laughing. He looked around. And we kept at it. This poor man was completely in the dark. No one ever told him. Then it hit me very hard: we are together now. This world is wonderful. The human race, acting together, laughing together, this is brilliance, this is a kind of love. All we need to get along are two people who don't understand what is going on (Bush and Blair?)--all we just need are two people to point at, and laugh at (yes, Bush and Blair. Definitely.). That's as close to world peace as we're gonna get.
As bus rides go, this was magnificence.
(Alli says that the political statement above is inappropriate, and I agree. The truth is, I have no idea about politics or our invasion of Vietnam or whereever we are right now. Pardon me, Republicans. I apologize to you, and to my Republican wife.)
Speaking of Republicans, Hope Moreland, that is my mother-in-law, sent Alli a birthday present. Alli's birthday is on 29 September. She turns a whopping 24 this time around. Included in the box of gifts (which Alli has not yet opened) was a present for Ray. Ray got a sweater. Now, as the manly half of this family, I thoroughly objected to his wearing some girly sweater. He's a dog. He has instincts in him to hunt, to kill. Not to wear frills and drink hot cocoa. He's a ferocious beast, not a GAP pansy. But then he put it on. He walked around a little. He looked really really cute. The sweater is, honest to God, to die for. I love our dog and his sweater. It's a little bit like a turtleneck and a little bit like a bonnet. I'm going to buy a matching set for Alli and me. We'll be the family walking together in the park all wearing green sweaters. The Delgado Family is an Each Other Family.
But we are not self-sufficient, something we are beginning to understand. Here is a truth: I really miss home. I mean, I really miss it these days. And so does Alli. We really miss where we came from. Ray doesn't give a shit because he is a dog. A small story: we were out last week. We went to a blue's bar where they have bands play everyday. The band when we were there was all old white guys who played the wanker blues. Beer is only a buck, and I had my fill. It made me miss home, though, very much. This was the first live band (with the exception of a couple of guys in Colby, Kansas, on our trip out here) I'd seen in a long time. It was loud and beautiful and I really missed home. I missed screaming at a good drum fill, or clapping when no one else does just because you know that the guitar solo was as badass as they come. "A beer in each hand and a smile in between," I missed my friends. I especially missed Gary and Mike and Bearden and Dave and Danny and Bob that night, my let's-go-out-and-watch-them-rock friends. I missed my home, my Fullerton. I missed my long conversations with many good people. Alli and I are making it, and loving each other, and we are here--fully here--in our new place, but we miss the faces of the people we love. We want to see you and talk to you and buy you a beer and watch you talk about any old thing that you want. We want to see your little mannerisms and the stupid jokes and the way we feel cared about around you, really really cared for.
Last thing: Buying a house is not dating a person. Although in some ways it is analogous, escrow is not the engagement. If you were to break up, there is no need to spend time alone, recovering, eating chocolates and calling your friends. So we didn't. We instead went straight for the rebound relationship. The first escrow fell through, because our shady sellers "found out" about a judgement against the house, one which made them owe a lot of money to some company, and they could not sell the house until it was paid. These are the same cheap-o's that were trying to pretend not to know what we were talking about when we told them about the leak in the plumbing. Jerks. But the day after it fell through, we found another house, a better house, a house closer to school and one with a basement and all hardwood floors and backyard and all the things, like kitchens and toilets and ceilings, that come with a house. We are in Escrow #2 now, and we think we just might get this one.
Thanks for putting up with all my rantings. It's good to feel like we're connecting with the people we love.
Carlos
There are things in this world that are not things in this world, things that we do not miss, things that are not there. For example--the Mona Lisa's eyebrows. You would think that Leo DaVinci would have put them in, him being some kind of a so-called genius, but he did not put them in, and we never knew what how. It is still considered a masterpiece even though there essential parts of the face are missing. And, even though they probably should have been, our excpections were not disappointed. And there are other things we don't miss too: good ideas in the sermons of evangelical preachers is another good example. Somehow Christians and churches get along just fine without them. Where have they gone? Were they even ever there? Who knows. "Let's have a marketing campaign instead!" What else, what else? Oh yes. Jeans. For me, I never ever wore jeans. You probably haven't noticed. In the time you have known me, I have not worn jeans. It doesn't run through your mind to ask, "Why doesn't Carlos wear jeans? He should really look into buying a pair of Lee's." Now, my jeanlessness was not intentional. I never set out against wearing them. But I did not wear jeans, ever, for the past, oh, ten years or more years. And I do not know why. I can think of no good reason. But there was my wardrobe in all its jeanless glory. Now, though, I do. I wear them. In fact, I wear two pairs now. They were purchased for me by my mother at a garage sale, so they are even used jeans, cool looking rock n roll star call me Robert Plant I'm so damn hip in these Levi 501 blue jeans. It is a major step in my life, or at least it feels that way. I put them on when I received them in the mail (thanks, Mom), and I pranced around my apartment in them. Alli was at work when they arrived, so I had to ask Ray how they looked. He jumped up several times and then he went outside and peed. Not knowing how to discern this response, I hopped on a bus and went to the university to check my mailbox and walk around in my new hip jeans. I was very nervous getting on the bus. Would they notice? Would they stare at me? After all, these jeans do look kind of silly to me. I am not used to my body having anything to do with relaxed-fit anythings. I am used to old-man slacks, gray. I sat down in the bus and nobody said anything to me--I did not receive any compliment, or criticism. They took me as one of their own, which I thought was a good sign. Then, I ran into a friend named Josh. We walked along together and he did not say anything about my jeans either. Good news, I suspect. I began to wonder if jeans could be a part of my new Pittsburgh Persona. I can make like I've worn jeans my whole life. By the time I rode the bus back home, I had even forgotten about my jeans. But I will tell you an episode on the bus that knocked my socks off.
When you get on the bus, it's like everybody is having a bad day. No one says anything to you. It's even against the law to have a conversation with the driver. It smells like many humans, all their ten thousand smells combined into one, nasty, something-in-between-Ray's-pee-and-coffee-and-peppermint-candy kind of smell. This bus, by the way, was full. All of our smells mixed into one. I took a seat, one of the few remaining, next to a bald (shaved-bald, hip-hop-bald, Michael-Jordon-bald) man. I felt awkward because those seats are very close together. It's like peeing at the adjacent urinal, being that close to another individual. I reserve that space for people I want to cuddle with, not for people I want to hold my breath next to. Anyway, like I said, everyone was having a bad day. That's how buses are. Faces look straight ahead; people do not talk; everybody looks hungry, and late for something. It went on like this for twenty minutes. The young lady across the aisle, next to me, had her iPod in her ears. In this story, her name will be Hannah. The woman in front of Hannah (let's call her Stacy), was in green pants and running shoes. The man next to me, Duncan, was not saying anything. The bus rode along, stopping at certain pre-determined points, letting some people off and allowing some people to get on. Mostly, though, the bus kept filling up. I noticed that Stacy's face was full of frustration, and she was, by her body language, silently letting people know about her frustration. She put her hand to her mouth, cynically, and kept leaning into the space that filled the aisle. Then I noticed that Hannah was laughing. Then Duncan made a gesture, which made me look at the young man sitting next to Stacy, Gerald. Gerald had fallen asleep. This was sad, because sitting up while falling asleep, unless you are next to a loved-one, is a kind of tyrrany. It rules you and exploits you and objectifies you in ways contrary to human nature. Gerald had fallen asleep, and kept tipping over, onto Stacy. Stacy, in response, leaned away from him, like I said, into the space in the aisle. And Hannah and Duncan and I began to laugh, belly-laugh, at the situation. Eventually, the entire bus picked up on our little drama, and everybody's bad day had turned into a good day. Every time the bus stopped, or turned, we all holding our breath would watch, full of suspense, to see whether Gerald would fall onto Stacy. Stacy exclaimed, "This is the first time I've taken the bus, and I hate it!" And we all laughed. Gerald was unmoved by this, off in his world of dreams and fantasy, wavering between the window on his left and Stacy's shoulder on his right. Finally, someone offered Stacy another seat--people scootched together to make room for her, and she accepted. And now no one was sitting next to Gerald, poor guy. That seat had been abandoned, and for good reason. But then, at the next stop, some new folks got on the bus, and we all with great anticipation, in the way of a classroom making fun of a substitute teacher, watched to see who would sit next to Gerald. And then, a little girl, Teresa, took that seat. We all erupted in great laughter. But, composing ourselves, understanding that such innocence as Teresa's should not be exploited, she doesn't deserve the weight of all our attention and laughter (much less Gerald's entire body) upon her. We made sure she found the safety of another seat, explaining to her the drama she had so far missed. But the story is not over! No! Then at the next stop, a man, Fred, stepped on the bus. He was bigger, and he had hair not like Elvis Presley, but hair like the people who could say they knew him before he was famous, their hair these days. A helmet. He had a mustache. He had good posture, and a terrific belt buckle. And he took the seat next to Gerald. I don't know why we did this (we had just saved the little girl from certain Gerald-imposed doom), but not so with Fred: we all watched gaily while Gerald, still fast asleep, swayed back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, while Fred tried to understand the murmurs of laughter all around him. He was thinking, "Why all the laughter? Is there a booger in my nose? Is my back hair showing? Did I forget to polish my belt buckle?" He took out his comb and fixed his hair. But we kept laughing. His shuffled his feet. We kept laughing. He looked around. And we kept at it. This poor man was completely in the dark. No one ever told him. Then it hit me very hard: we are together now. This world is wonderful. The human race, acting together, laughing together, this is brilliance, this is a kind of love. All we need to get along are two people who don't understand what is going on (Bush and Blair?)--all we just need are two people to point at, and laugh at (yes, Bush and Blair. Definitely.). That's as close to world peace as we're gonna get.
As bus rides go, this was magnificence.
(Alli says that the political statement above is inappropriate, and I agree. The truth is, I have no idea about politics or our invasion of Vietnam or whereever we are right now. Pardon me, Republicans. I apologize to you, and to my Republican wife.)
Speaking of Republicans, Hope Moreland, that is my mother-in-law, sent Alli a birthday present. Alli's birthday is on 29 September. She turns a whopping 24 this time around. Included in the box of gifts (which Alli has not yet opened) was a present for Ray. Ray got a sweater. Now, as the manly half of this family, I thoroughly objected to his wearing some girly sweater. He's a dog. He has instincts in him to hunt, to kill. Not to wear frills and drink hot cocoa. He's a ferocious beast, not a GAP pansy. But then he put it on. He walked around a little. He looked really really cute. The sweater is, honest to God, to die for. I love our dog and his sweater. It's a little bit like a turtleneck and a little bit like a bonnet. I'm going to buy a matching set for Alli and me. We'll be the family walking together in the park all wearing green sweaters. The Delgado Family is an Each Other Family.
But we are not self-sufficient, something we are beginning to understand. Here is a truth: I really miss home. I mean, I really miss it these days. And so does Alli. We really miss where we came from. Ray doesn't give a shit because he is a dog. A small story: we were out last week. We went to a blue's bar where they have bands play everyday. The band when we were there was all old white guys who played the wanker blues. Beer is only a buck, and I had my fill. It made me miss home, though, very much. This was the first live band (with the exception of a couple of guys in Colby, Kansas, on our trip out here) I'd seen in a long time. It was loud and beautiful and I really missed home. I missed screaming at a good drum fill, or clapping when no one else does just because you know that the guitar solo was as badass as they come. "A beer in each hand and a smile in between," I missed my friends. I especially missed Gary and Mike and Bearden and Dave and Danny and Bob that night, my let's-go-out-and-watch-them-rock friends. I missed my home, my Fullerton. I missed my long conversations with many good people. Alli and I are making it, and loving each other, and we are here--fully here--in our new place, but we miss the faces of the people we love. We want to see you and talk to you and buy you a beer and watch you talk about any old thing that you want. We want to see your little mannerisms and the stupid jokes and the way we feel cared about around you, really really cared for.
Last thing: Buying a house is not dating a person. Although in some ways it is analogous, escrow is not the engagement. If you were to break up, there is no need to spend time alone, recovering, eating chocolates and calling your friends. So we didn't. We instead went straight for the rebound relationship. The first escrow fell through, because our shady sellers "found out" about a judgement against the house, one which made them owe a lot of money to some company, and they could not sell the house until it was paid. These are the same cheap-o's that were trying to pretend not to know what we were talking about when we told them about the leak in the plumbing. Jerks. But the day after it fell through, we found another house, a better house, a house closer to school and one with a basement and all hardwood floors and backyard and all the things, like kitchens and toilets and ceilings, that come with a house. We are in Escrow #2 now, and we think we just might get this one.
Thanks for putting up with all my rantings. It's good to feel like we're connecting with the people we love.
Carlos
posted by Carlos Antonio Delgado at 8:15 PM
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