the blog of carlos

2006-11-22T12:21:00.000-08:00

Friends,

Alli and I are almost halfway done with our time in Pittsburgh. The third of six semesters is soon coming to a close, and all that’s left after that is to finish my novel, then somehow become famous enough to hang out with people like Mark Twain and Dante and Homer in all required high school textbooks, and rich enough to buy ice cream for all of Norwalk and Downey, because it can get pretty hot out there.

All of our friends who are not in Pittsburgh, it seems, are parents. By the end of this month alone, there will have been three more births: Babies Ellison, Hartenburg, and Vasquez, in that order. We recently found out, too, that there is one more on the way, coming sometime in July—Baby Brady—which, since this baby is not only friend but family, makes us especially happy to think about. This means that baby fever is spreading, and Alli and I are not sure how immune to it we are. Lately we have been talking about names, even though there is no embryonic analogue. We have names enough now for our first fourteen or fifteen children, give or take, be they boys or girls or a little bit of both. This means we are very nerdy, as this conversation has recently taken up quite a lot of our time; soon we’ll start researching Car & Driver’s top five minivan picks. We have an interview next week at White & Privileged Preschool, hoping that our future child will qualify as "white enough" for their tastes.

Thanksgiving is tomorrow, and we are going to spend it with the Morrises, who live around the corner. The two Morris children—Jillian Rose and Hillary Jane—are two very beautiful parts of our lives out here, proof that being around children is a gift, and reminders that we are missing out by not being in California. Alli and I are grateful to have spent time around them, to have their love and trust, to be people they like to have around. But then we think of the children now being raised in our family, the children of our brothers and sisters, of the time we are not spending in California, and we feel sad to be away, because our nephews and nieces bring our family together in unimaginable ways; they are a natural source of happiness, and to be loved by them makes you a very lucky person. So now then: even though (or perhaps because) we’re far away, Alli and I would like to express our loving thanks this year for family, for in their absence we forget how trying they can be, and only remember the good stuff—which, like we said, we’re thankful for. The rest you can keep.

Here is a confession: Alli and I have a favorite wrestler. His name, by God, is Joey Quervo—they call him "The Drunken Luchador"—and he is one of the stars of the Keystone State Wrestling Alliance. According to his profile, he hails from Tijuana, Mexico. Apparently, though, Joey recently entered 12-step recovery, which was a tough transition for Señor Quervo, first because they can no longer really call him The Drunken Luchador—and a loss of identity is hard for anyone; but, more importantly, he hasn’t won a match since he got sober—because now he actually feels the pain of being thrown around a wrestling ring. In his last bout he didn’t last more than two minutes before he was pinned, disgracefully, by someone he outweighed by more than fifty pounds. Before, when he was still drinking the tequila, he could get a chair smashed over his head, drive into a tree, fall from a balcony three stories up, and walk away laughing, saying, Man, èse, whattabahmmer, thattagohna hhurrt mañana. We expect him to relapse any day now, if only to regain his wrestling abilities, and with them his KSWA honor.

Yes, by the way, what you are thinking is true: Alli and I have actually gone to watch these wrestlers wrestle.

And, yes—we love it.

We saw "Zero," and "Ali Kaida," and "Biker Al," and "’Mister Devastation’ Lou Martin," and many others. There was beer and screaming and dollar hot dogs and they raffled off a gift certificate to WalMart. You heard me: WalMart. (Please understand that while I do know that that is funny, I mean it’s really really funny, and that it should not appear in a true email but in a Saturday Night Live skit—it is still true. Someone actually, and gratefully, won a small shopping spree at the WalMart. I, too, have a difficult time believing it.)

The events are monthly, and they take place over the hill from us in a small banquet room called The Moose. Yes, the Moose. They set up a ring in the middle of this room—the kind of place you’d hold an Over-Forty Single’s Dance for women named Wilma and men named Burt, or have a wedding reception in (if your budget is around thirty bucks), and when you walk in, you walk straight back into 1979, into a Bad News Bears sequel: the women have feathered hair, feathered blonde hair with dark roots, and their husbands are already cross-eyed by the booze, and they’re smoking a cigarette in one hand and holding a baby in the other. Young men with an "Is that a mustache or dirt on your lip?" and the "I’ve never shaved these nine hairs on my chin that curl over one another, and yeah—what’s your problem?—I call this a goatee" take their dates here, sit in the front row and drink ten beers and barely resist the temptation to fight each other, and yes, their dates are excited to finally get out, to be taken to a show. The winner of the 50-50 raffle—we’ll call her Dora—who brought her son and three of his friends all at ten bucks a pop (and who had been recognized by the announcer of the raffle as one of KSWA’s old time regulars, one of the loyal, the proud), told us afterwards that she had been laid off seven months prior, and was grateful for having won the money. She seemed nice, but she did not seem like she’d use that money to do anything other than buy more raffle tickets next month.

Take a look through the website; visit the Profiles section, the Title History, the Picture Gallery. Notice that the hometown of Ali Kaida is "Saudi Arabia" but you know he was born and raised in the heart of Pittsburgh, that "Justin Sane"’s hometown is the "Pittsburgh Mental Hospital" and that "Zero" (the only wrestler who actually took off his shirt—and who just should not have bothered, with his tiny nipples and his snow-white skin) looks like he should instead be driving a really bitchin’ mini-pickup truck, showing up for Prom drinking orange juice spiked with the only liquor in his house—Coors Light. There’s a guy called the "Blood Beast," and when he came out to wrestle, the group of guys behind us yelled out, "Hey, Satan! Your haircut could be much more evil!" This is a very small room for a wrestling match, and the Blood Beast heard them, and was embarrassed, and I think he was insecure about his mid-to-late-thirties balding up on top, which really isn’t very evil, when you think about it.

My main questions are these: What do you tell your new girlfriend when she asks why you won’t take her out on Saturday nights? –No, sorry, honey, it’s just that I, I, I…am a semi-professional wrestler. Or worse: –No, sorry, honey, it’s just that I, I, I…am a semi-professional wrestling referee. How do you go about auditioning to become a semi-pro wrestler? When in God’s name did the idea enter their minds? Were they playing video games one day, just barely beating Hulk Hogan on level sixteen, and suddenly they thought, Yeah, dude, yeah, like, I could do that for real! These guys don’t look like they work out much—actually, they look like they hang out in places called Sonny’s Tavern most hours of most days…and I mean, it’s really a bunch of George Castanzas out there, hoping we don’t notice their pitiful shortcomings, hoping instead that we notice that really cool pile driver. They have hair in very weird places, and they don’t bother to shave—or wax—those very weird places. For the life of me, I cannot imagine their minds, cannot sympathize with their aspirations to become Pittsburgh’s "World" Heavy Weight Wrestling Champion.

At one point during the night, Alli excused herself to the restroom, and when she came back she told me the sad story of a little girl in there with what seemed to be her mother, and the little girl was weeping, was inconsolable, tears were everywhere, and mommy was rubbing her back saying, No, sweetie, it’s okay…Daddy is only pretending. –Now I wonder which wrestler’s daughter that was. Was it the Latin Assassin’s daughter? "The King" Del Douglas’s daughter? I know it wasn’t Kris Kash’s daughter, who couldn’t be more than sixteen years old—and who, incidentally, weighing in at only 120 pounds, somehow pinned Baracus, who weighs 215.

In some of the pictures on the website, you’ll notice the panels of the ceiling, as though The Moose had been originally intended to be filled with office cubicles, something which really ruins the fantasy of the whole thing—because their presence means that the wrestlers cannot fly across the ring from the top rope. They must instead jump down—and not out and up—as though they were children at a swimming pool, learning to dive. Many a suplex was interrupted by an accidentally kicked ceiling panel, and this was just plain sad.

But, in the end, it was fantastic. During the title bout, Anthony "Double A" Alexander took the fight out into the street, leaving the arena area, and, coming back in, was still punching away and bruising up the champion, "The Enforcer" Shawn Blanchard. They had taken the fight from the ring and into the crowd, jumping off the bar and into each other—chairs were thrown, beer was spilled, and everybody went wild. At one point I stopped laughing and began to cheer, screaming with everyone else, Dou-ble-A! Dou-ble-A! Dou-ble-A! The lady in front of me, old and with her granddaughters, smiled at me with all six of her teeth, and we shared a moment I will never forget. Here we were, together, all of us, our voices lifted like drunken angels, uniting over Double A’s possible assent to the championship, and would he? Could he? Could he muster up the strength, the stamina, the courage—could he?—to beat that big jerk Shawn Blanchard? We looked at each other, Six-Tooth and I, and I smiled back at her, my arms raised to the sky, hoping, believing—Yes! I think he’s going to do it! I think he might, I think that he just might be able to…!

We’re going back next month for the rematch.

It was a night I hope to remember for a very long time.

Happy Thanksgiving. We love and miss you very much.

Carlos

2006-08-08T12:45:00.000-07:00

Friends,

By our clock, as of this afternoon at around 2PM, we will have been residents of Pittsburgh for an entire year. This, for us, is strange to think about.

In the past year, to begin sadly, we have missed: four births, Jack, Emerson, Jackson and Samuel, and the beginnings of several other pregnancies, of the children of our close friends; the first birthdays of two others; my sister’s entire pregnancy; the growing up of our nephews and niece, and so on. We are of the age when our generation makes a new one, and we’re stuck all the way out here in Pittsburgh while it’s happening to the ones we love. And this makes us sad. We have missed weddings, engagements, nights with beer and chips and Jager. And, aside from events, we’ve missed our friends, who still breathe life into us, very very much. (Happy birthday, Jim and Bob and James.)

One year ago today, we drove through the Ft. Pitt Tunnel and saw Pittsburgh in all its Midwestern-East Coast -Hybrid glory. And then, passing by all the cool-looking, charming, old brick buildings, we drove into the ghetto, to our new apartment (for which we’d already paid in advance and could not change our minds about) in a little neighborhood called Wilkinsburg (nicknamed, we came to find, with the local pronunciation of the plural ‘yinz’ which means ‘you all,’ We’llkillyinzburg). We cried for a little while. Then we had to go out and buy shower curtains and paper towels and toilet paper and an air mattress really quickly because, due to crime, everything in We’llkillyinzburg closes around sundown.

It was a hard first day.

Within a few months, though, we were homeowners, and far away from We’llkillyinzburg, and we’d made friends with the Morrises, who live around the corner from us and who are a family we love very much.

We became Steelers fans, and watched them underdog their way through the playoffs, and now we say things like "Big Ben" and "The Bus" and "One for the thumb!" (and if we don’t actually say them, we know what they mean, and that’s almost as bad), which makes us alien to you, but local to us. We do not, however—not yet, anyway—wear black and yellow on Fridays.

We experienced winter. We hope that winter does not come but once every few years, like El Niño.

I have made some great friends of several very good writers, Brendan, Adam, Ian, Colin, Michael, Cathy, and so on, who help me to become better at this writing thing. Also, I met Tobias Wolff, who has a terrific mustache.

Once, when we missed our exit on the highway, we ended up in Ohio. That was weird.

I have quit smoking. I have not smoked in over seven months.

We bought a dog named Kenny, a Pennsylvania native, who brings all kinds of laughter into our lives, because, even though we tell him things like, "True love waits," he humps pretty much anything. That little slut.

Our neighbors are our friends. Helen and Dan, on either side of us, say hello every day. Luci down the street brings over her dog, Elsie (who pees everywhere, and I mean everywhere), and we always ‘chat’ for a little while. Ken, married to Barb, are a few houses down and Ken, being a Vet, gave us an American flag to wave on Memorial Day. Richard and Dave across the street sell homemade jewelry and are always gardening and bickering at each other. Down a few blocks are the Smiths, a kind couple from our church, with whom we made fast friends. And, as always, the Morrises are around the corner, and we thank God for them. In this way we have come to feel at home on our block, and in our neighborhood. It is familiar now, and lovely to be in and around.

We barbeque. And, thanks to a writer-friend Derek, I now make a mean burger.

Alli’s friend, Catherine, the girlfriend of my friend, Ian, has helped make Pittsburgh a place like home for her. They talk sometimes like sisters, and laugh like you’ve never heard. They talk for hours over wine and become alternately serious and silly, over and over, and it is beautiful to know that this happens.

I play basketball with some kids from the MFA program every Thursday. I am taller than most of them—because people who study English are usually pale and small and have funny hair on their thighs—so I, ahem, dominate the floor. You never saw an Ecuadorian who was good at basketball, until now (but only when I play against the sickly MFA kids). If I’m playing against real players, I repeat to myself the advice Dave gave me one day, a few years ago: "Carlos, just repeat this to yourself…’I am not an impact player.’" Thanks, Dave. You are always in my heart.

We have a church. We love our church.

School starts up again in a few weeks, and I am the ‘New Student Mentor’ for our program which means I help kids who need help finding stuff, like office buildings and bars and bus stops; this means that there are people here newer than I. I am a kind of older brother now. I helped a new student move into her apartment yesterday, and she was the nervous one. Also, I will begin teaching undergrad composition, showing my kids that there is life beyond the five-paragraph essay.

All this is to say that, one year later, we have made something of a home for ourselves, and, while there is sadness in our having left California—and plenty of that, sure—you should not pity us. We are alive and well in Pittsburgh. Life has taken shape around us, and we have become part of the ‘ecosystem’ here. The only thing we can’t stand is the poison ivy.

We love and miss you very much.

Carlos & Alli

2006-05-01T11:41:00.000-07:00

Friends,

When we moved into the house, we met our very old neighbors, Dave and Richard across the street, Helen on the left, and Dan on the right. Dan is the old man who cannot hear very well at all and who did not object when I asked him if it was all right with him whether I practiced drumming (...living near old people has its perks). He has nine sons—YES, NINE SONS—the youngest of whom is in his upper fifties. This makes Dan very very old, or very horny when he was very young, or both. He and his wife, whom I have never seen (--she deserves a good long rest, having popped out and raised nine boys), live in the house to the right of us. Dan and his sons are always out in their front yard, which shares a patch of grass with our front yard. They are in the driveway, looking at cars, or talking about springs and nuts and bolts. It is very King of the Hill meets Golden Girls. Even his sons get their social security checks. Weird.

Anyway, when we moved in, we didn't have the proper supplies to keep everything in our yard looking sharp. We hadn't bought a rake, or a lawnmower, or a hose, or any of that stuff because, when we were in California and renting, other people did that kind of thing for us. And, having just spent every dime we had on a house, we weren't about to buy any of that froo froo stuff. We had enough for food. Sometimes.

Which made life for Dan very hard. Mind you, we bought the house in October, just when autumn really gets going, and we didn't have a rake. So, every now and then, I would see Dan out there (Dan who is in his mid-nineties), wearing a cap and gloves, and, because we share a lawn, he'd be raking, bending over, standing up, carrying leaves, MY LEAVES, to the trash can. Remember, he is in his mid-nineties. When he was born, there had only been one president named Roosevelt. When he was born, women couldn't vote. When he was born, no one had ever said World War, or heard of T.S. Eliot. And he was raking MY lawn. I couldn't bear to watch, nor could I really offer to help--I didn’t want to point out the obvious, to tell him how old he is, to tell him that if you can remember Bob Hope's entire career, or thinking that rock n roll is the devil's music, you shouldn't be raking my leaves. So I hid in the closet until it was over.

Then, on alternating Saturdays, there he was, a man who was middle-aged in the 1950s, who retired in the 1970s--THAT'S THIRTY YEARS AGO!--mowing my lawn.

Sometimes, though, his sons would do it instead, which didn't make me feel much better, because they, too, are old and saggy.

I began to wonder if maybe I was Satan.

Then, finally, when winter came, it stopped (thankfully...I couldn't bear to watch any longer)—because you don't have to mow your lawn when there's snow, plus, there are no more leaves to rake—and I vowed, come spring, never to let it happen again. So, a couple of weeks ago, feeling the weight of Original Sin upon me and the desire to make things right, Alli and I bought several things to take care of our house with: a mower, a hose, a rake, some brooms, and several shovels.

Now, I have mowed my lawn twice (and Dan's lawn, too), and scared the sh*t out of several bushes in our yard. And let me tell you, there is nothing like a hard Saturday out there, pushing, sweating, wiping my forehead; and there is nothing quite like the smell of just-cut grass. But, as I was reminded this morning, we also have dogs. So, I also learned that there is nothing—AND I MEAN NOTHING—quite like the smell of dogsh*t in your just-cut grass, in your mower blades, all over the wheels of the mower, on your T-shirt after you try cleaning it up, cursing all morning and almost puking, puking, puking at that oh-so-unique smell. God, when punishing Adam for eating that fruit, "Cursed is the ground because of you; through painful toil you will eat of it all the days of your life," well, He really knew that He was in for a good laugh. It's a joke, I'm sure, that never gets old. That Yahweh is freaking hilarious. Generations go by, and there's always somebody with dogsh*t in their mower, gagging at the smell. If I had an ant farm, I'd try to rig it so they had lawns to mow, and dogs to sh*t on them, just so I could watch it happen, and laugh and laugh and laugh.

Good one, God.

So: School is over for the year. Alli and I are about to settle into our "summer break," which, in this case, is four months long. That feels pretty good to think about. Right now, I am in a coffee shop, being pretentious and writer-y. I am writing this email with a white chocolate mocha next to me. I disgust myself. I am supposed to be starting this novel. Do you know how embarrassing that is to say out loud? "Yes, well," he said, and suddenly, he had a British accent, "ACTUALLY, I have begun work on a NOVEL." And I’m in a coffee shop, "working" on it. Am I totally gross or what?

Alli and I have been hard at work on our yard, in the front of our house. A few weeks ago, we hung a porch swing which, on the first try, I really effed up. We’ll be hiring a handy man soon, to fix the stuff that fell from our porch overhang, after our porch swing fell from it first. I quickly, and the hard way, learned the meaning of the word "stud finder." And Alli has been planting flowers, and I removed a couple of bushes, and we planted a tree, and really we are very agrarian now, in harmony with nature, singing songs of ourselves with Walt Whitman. We have been pulling weeds and planting green things. Nothing has died yet. The dogs keep lifting their legs everywhere in the new garden, which makes us think that they like it, because, in dog culture, when you pee on something it means you want to keep it. We are pros. However, Alli did break out with poison ivy last night. This shows that we are still from California, and we do not know sh*t about sh*t. Apparently, she was pulling it with her bare hands, wiping the sweat from her forehead…then, later, after her shower, she was covered in bumps.

Last week, though, when we began really to get into our yard, I had a lot of deadlines, papers and things that had to be turned in. Last week was a very difficult week, so I couldn’t help as much with the yard. But, every now and then, while I took short breaks away from the computer, I looked out my second-story window, down on the front yard where Alli was working, or playing with the dogs, or watering the plants, or talking to Richard or Helen or Dan, and Alli did not know I was watching. And I will tell you, she is probably the most beautiful of God’s creation, the most lovely, the most perfect. I watch my wife in secret, from my high window looking down, and she is as lovely as the morning, dirt in her hands while she kisses the dog, and she places the flowers just so in their space, and she loves them with water, and she stands over them and she looks proud. This is my wife, this is the woman I married, the one who would have me and love me back, and follow me to Pittsburgh, the one who left an entire world behind in California, the one who loves plants and sunshine and water and watching the dogs wrestle, this woman in our front yard in the sun who is laughing.

We love and miss you very much,

Carlos

2006-03-13T21:14:00.000-08:00

Friends,

Here in Pittsburgh, we have something called "spring." Apparently, it is a time when things stop being so cold and ugly and gray and slushy, like a song by Radiohead; instead, things turn cheery and upbeat and colorful, like a song by Menudo. Plus, I hear this "spring" is coming soon, so we have that going for us. Which is nice.

(A sidenote: Alli and I just got done watching that Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. Man, is that not, like, the best show in the whole eff'n world? I mean--we're sitting there, in the dark of our bedroom, and families are getting houses and hard wood floors and quilts with pictures of passed-on relatives, and I'm cryinig my eyes out, Alli and I are holding on to each other, our faces are wet and we're shivering, in awe, saying, "Oh God! Oh God, thank you! Thank you for giving us this pause, for this time to reflect on charity!" and I'm pleased with the world as it is, in full understanding of what life is about; I am humbled, and vulnerable, and I feel my chest fill with all kinds of mystery, and I am full of the love and virtue that decades of churching should have nurtured. I feel now like I'm the dang Good Samaritan, like I'm some kind of hospital or homeless shelter. And then I realize that I'm watching TV. Isn't that weird? Isn't that a strange sensation? I mean, it's been about twenty minutes since the show has ended, and I still feel like I need to finish a good cry. Pretty much, the point of this paragraph is to say this: Living in America in this age of Reality TV makes my soul very very confused. I don't know if I should feel guilty about my emoitions over this TV show. I feel like I have saved three babies in a well, and like I need a shower.)

So, spring is upon us. And by "us," I mean "not you out in California," but "all of us out here where there are real seasons." And we are going to take full advantage: we're becoming gardeners. There are some planter thing-a-ma-bobs in the front of our house, and there is some dirt in em, and leaves, and some stuff that grows up out of the dirt too. They are called plants, but the plants that are in there now are ugly looking, so we're gonna tackle em, take em out, and put new ones in there, to make it look pretty and colorful and splendid. We're gonna buy gloves and little shovels and watering cans, and we're gonna subscribe to Gardening Today and we're gonna make friends with Dave and Richard, the couple across the street who are in their front yard every dang Saturday, doing their gardening thing. They rake, they dig, they mow their lawn and pull weeds out of the dirt; and, my goodness, their yard is beautiful. And you should see them bicker at each other. Like a couple of bitches.

There are already some tulips growing up out of the grass in the front, which Alli loves to see. She is in love with tulips. I love that she love tulips so much. We're gonna try to grow up some more tulips so Alli will be in a good mood every time she sees them.

Upon exploring Pittsburgh, we have found a park called Highland Park here in the city; it is on a hill (making sense out of that name, Highland Park), and the view from up there is spectacular: you can see one of the rivers to the north, and all kinds of trees are sprinkled down the hill on that side; you can see all the squirrels running around, and there is nice architecture here and there to marvel at, stairs, statues, monuments to Pittsburgh history, and so on. On a sunny day, there is nothing like a trip to Highland Park. Plus, it is the home of the city's reservoir. Now, Alli and I have come to like taking walks around this reservoir, which is pretty enough in itself. It is no Pacific Ocean, mind you, but it is water, and there aren't many things around here like that. But, even though we find that we like it up there, walking up the hill and then around the revervoir and then down the hill to the coffee shop for a sit down and a crossed-leg talk about how we're doing, we notice this about ourselves: we go to the _reservoir_. It's something we do; it's something we _actually_ do. One of us, on a Saturday morning, will say, "Hey, hon, you wanna go take a walk up at the reservoir?" And, when we think about it, it repulses us. We've never had to say that word before. Reservoir. Reservoir. Reservoir. In all honesty, I don't even know how to pronounce it right. Is it "Rezz-v-wire" or "Rezz-v-wore" or "Rezzer-v-wire" or what? It's starting to feel little white-trashy, to keep getting excited about a trip around the reservoir, because taking a walk around the reservoir is something like shopping at the JC Penny Discount Outlet. It's just not quite, you know...it's not the IT thing. So, we're trying to think up new names for it, like "Hey, you wanna head out to the beach?" or "Hey, hon, how about a walk around the lake?" just so we don't feel so ashamed of it, but we're pretty sure that it's useless. It's almost as if, pretty soon, if we keep it up, we might as well buy a wading pool and call it the hot tub; or start referring to our dogs as "the kids." --But, anyway, for now, if you wonder what we like to do on Saturdays in the mid-to-late mornings, we like to take the boat out for a spin around the harbor.

As for our lives, for real: Alli and I are doing pretty well. I have never felt so much hope about actually trying out this "becoming a writer" thing that I've had in my mind for so many years; and Alli seems to be thriving, at work, and among the people here whom we've grown to care about. There are things about Pittsburgh that we really love, and other things that we know we just have to wait out. We still miss home very much. The other day, I rode the bus with someone who had spent a weekend once in Manhattan Beach, and I found myself practically slobbering all over him, trying to tell him how I grew up there, how I grew up surfing in California, how I loved to be on the beach in California, and then I remembered: I live in Pennsylvania. I have Pennsylvania license plates. My zip code starts with a 1. Eww. And I felt strange, and far away. Alli and I feel like this very often, but we're making the best of it out here. Sometimes it hits us that we're the young couple making memories, that in a few years we'll picture our first house in Pittsburgh, or we'll think about Pittsburgh fondly, and we'll probably be far far away from here when we do. We consider that, once we leave this city, we'll probably never return, and when we imagine that, we get a feeling like "missing" Pittsburgh already, which makes us understand that we really do like it here--pretty much.

We want to say that we miss you, and that we love you.

Carlos

2006-01-22T19:37:00.000-08:00

Friends,

Now the Delgados are Four. Yesterday (that is, the day before the Pittsburgh Steelers took the AFC Championship away from those lousy Denver Broncos, for the first time in history becoming the sixth seed to go to the Super Bowl), Alli and I bought a new dog. He is very cute. He has dark black eyes, and a golden coat (the colors of the AFC Champions, the Pittsburgh Steelers). There is only one problem--we haven't agreed on a name. Last night, his name was Kenny; then for about five minutes, it was Bruce. This morning his name was Sean. Two hours ago it was Walter. A few minutes ago we were battling between Fernando and Todd. And now, my favorites are Paco, Diego, Hector, and Onofre. All this time, though, I've secretly been rooting for the underdog name: Mom. But, we'll probably end up naming him Ben Roethlisberger, since he's carried the Pittsburgh Steelers, this year's AFC Championship team, to the Super Bowl.

Ray Kevin Delgado, our first and oldest dog, hasn't taken very well to being an older brother yet. He has so far eaten Kenny Sean Todd Mom Fernando's puppy food, and stolen his toys, and ignored the poor little newcomer's advancements at friendship; and all of a sudden I feel like I have an insight into dog psychology. I never imagined dogs having ulterior motives or deep-seeded insecurities--just hunger and sex drives. But Ray is really changed. He left his journal open this morning, and I snuck a peek. He's calling the new dog names like Abel, and Jacob. He wrote some poetry in there. It went like this: "I am Cain, he is Abel./That little pooch is in big big trouble." (Ray's not very good at rhyming, but he's very insightful--for a dog.) However, we hope that, in time, the two will grow close. In fact, this new-dog purchase was partly motivated by the fact that Ray gets so lonely when Alli and I leave this house, to go to work or class or out with friends, and we thought that having a friend would brighten his spirits. (Could we possibly personify these animals any more?) Little Diego Bruce Onofre Hector likes Ray a lot, but so far Ray has been sulking. It's all expected though, I suppose, I mean, even though as parents we should be saying that we love them both the same amount, that we love them differently but not unevenly--if we're going to be honest, we've been calling Ray "The Ugly One," and I think that even though he doesn't understand our words, he understands our body language. We are also convinced that that's how real parents talk about their real kids--so now we also hate our parents and blame them for everything.

So, if you didn't hear, the Pittsburgh Steelers won today's game, making them this year's AFC Champions. In Pittsburgh, there is screaming and dancing all through the streets. Everybody is hugging everybody else. It's one big Black & Gold celebration; there are smiles and laughter in all places. Pretty much, tonight, it's like the entire city has lost its virginity.

Now I make a confession: in case you haven't noticed, I have somehow been dragged into this whole Steelers nonsense. It's almost impossible to avoid, really. I tried, but I was not strong enough. YOU try living in a city where even the newscasters wear black & gold, where last week Jerome "The Bus" Bettis's now-famous fumble resulted in a man going into cardiac arrest (that is a true story, by the way), where the dress codes for FANCY nightclubs are "NO TENNIS SHOES OR STREET CLOTHES. STEELERS' JERSEYS OKAY" (also a true story). Like Turkish Delight, it's impossible to resist. Last week, and again today, I actually set aside time to watch--as they call it--"The Game." With the exception of some of the Super Bowls (games I set aside time to watch, really, because of the snacks), I have never done this. I hate sports. I hate them. In high school, I took ballroom dancing lessons (voluntarily)--I was not a jock. Now, though, something inside of me has been touched, and I believe--oh yes, I believe--in the Steel Curtain. (There are moments when I see what I've become, and I can only ask myself, "What happened?")

Forgive me, Lord. I know not what I do.

Alli and I send all our love. We miss you very much.

Carlos

2006-01-15T09:38:00.000-08:00

Friends,

We are doing well, adjusting back to Pittsburgh. For the most part, we are fully adjusted. We had a conversation tonight with a wonderful man named Nimo, a friend we have made recently. He owns two greyhounds, whom he loves very much. He is a social worker who gets immigrants settled into America. He has a very big heart. He goes to our church, and he is very nice. In our conversation, he mentioned that he used to live in California, and that compared to Pittsburgh, the weather in California is tedious and boring. He said that no one really appreciates a sunny day in California, because they get them all the time. Then, as if to let us in on a secret, he leaned forward to us, and he said, "But, yesterday, do you remember yesterday?--now that was a glorious day. The sun was absolutely glorious." Coming out of his mouth, that word 'glorious' means something. It is something special. He is from Sri Lanka, you understand, and his accent makes the word roll up to his lips and then trip out of his mouth like some kind of spontaneous laughter. It was beautiful the way he said it. Glorious. Glorious. Yesterday was glorious. Sun and cold air and, yes, Nimo, yes it was--it was just like you said it was--it was glorious.

But then I got to thinking. I was thinking, "But today in Pittsburgh it snowed. This morning when I went to get the paper, my snot froze inside my nose. It snowed today, and it was cloudy, and the sky was gray and yucky, and when you go outside the wind hits your face like you're a - ed stepchild, and in California it doesn't snow. In Los Angeles it is sunny and perfect. In Los Angeles things are sunny, and, pardon me, Nimo but you are full of poop. I have to shovel my g.d. driveway, and, and, and g.d.,Nimo, g.d.--for six months a year I have to wear socks to bed! I appreciate sun, yes, Nimo, of course I do! And when it comes, it is glorious. Sure. But go without food for a week, Nimo, just go without food and you'll appreciate that turkey sandwich, you bet you will; but heck if I'm gonna starve myslef every g.d. day, just to appreciate it a little more. How stupid. You stupid stupid man, Nimo."

That Nimo is some idiot. What a jerk.

Anyway, we're having a great time out here, and we send you all out there in California both our love and--the middle finger. But also our love, don't forget the love. We miss you and love you (and are very jealous of you).

Love,
Carlos

2005-12-05T14:12:00.000-08:00

Friends,

Now I have a beard. My face is, officially, beardy. When I eat, say, chips and salsa, and lick my lips, the salsa is hairy.

Several weeks ago Hope Moreland (that's my mother-in-law) and Ashley Brady (that's my sister-in-law) came to visit. Their excuse was our new house; they were to come and womanize it, or, decorate. For four days they stayed with us, and for four days in my house, when all three were here, there was a sound not dissimilar to that of an ambulance's siren. I don't know how a man can raise only daughters, being outnumbered like that. My ears hurt very soon after they arrived, though I loved that they came. Every now and then they looked at me and they knew it. They said, "Oh we're driving Carlos crazy. Poor guy has to put up with three women decorating. How do you do it?" Actually, it was very easy. I love these three women, and having them in town was great. Now in our house are many kinds of knick knacks: a wreath, all kinds of candles, baskets set in special places, pine cones with certain wonderful scents, a wall-clock. And, after much discussion and debating about what should go where (the painting--from Marshalls--was returned [thank God!]) everything is in the perfect spot. I live in a home that feels warm, safe, and the feeling of love is evident everywhere. Thank you, Hope and Ashley. Having you out was one hell of a time. --Then, the day after the women were gone, my dad flew out and stayed with us, and we manned it up around here, put some chest hair on the walls. Many wonderful things happened. He took my friends and me out to the bar. I am told it was very fun, and that my friends really liked him. The next day, we walked around Pittsburgh a bit, and after a while he bought us a TV, with a DVD player in it (somewhat to our arrogant/academic snob mentality's dismay)--so now we can watch movies on our way to bed without getting out the laptop and putting it away again (which, now that we are NetFlix customers--and very happy ones at that--is perfect). I am sure there must be an analogy in there somewhere, something I can't find the words for: women came and bought candles; then the men buy drinks and a TV. Something about that feels very very appropriate, no?

A homework assignment: The problem with Blockbuster is walking into the store and forgetting the names of all the movies ever made. It's like stage fright. You forget everything you came to do. Alli and I will be "in the mood for a movie" and we will drive to Blockbuster, then wander the aisles for a couple of days repeating "Does anything look good to you?" "What do you want to rent?" "Have you made up your mind?" Usually, we end up in a fight somehow, and walk out empty-handed, ed off at Hollywood and each other, kicking ourselves for forgetting to make a list of movies beforehand. So, please, help us out. Send us some must-see movie titles. We can store them up in our "Q" on NetFlix. (Sidenote: Most of the time I am sure that the Internet and pretty much any post-Industrial-Revolution technology is of the devil, but then, after centuries of trying, man breaks through: something like NetFlix comes along, and I'm positive that it's all been worth it. Forget the bloody wars and politics and greed and CEOs and high gas prices and the coalmining and exploitation of "under-developed" countries and ...forget all of that. I have NetFlix now. I can conveniently watch my movie. It's all so easy now, plus my marriage is better. So, thank you to the man who started it all by thinking up the steam engine. Yes, thank you Mr. Steam Engine Guy.) To summarize your assignment, in case you missed it, send us the titles of movies you think are good and are worth the watch.

Another homework assignment: This question came up while Alli and I were painting the walls a few weeks ago--Of the songs you know and love, if you could ask the songwriter "What does it mean?" what are your top five? A couple of rules: No fair naming obscure songs to show off how "indie cool" you are. And no symphonies. Think popular culture (or, something you could buy at Borders or Amazon.com or some such place) from the last fifty years or so. For me, "Stairway to Heaven" is one. Get it?

Thanksgiving: We drove to Maryland. There are friends there, the Duncans. They are a family, by way of the Moreland clan, that I have come to love. It total, there were eleven of us at dinner, and nine of us a couple of days later when we played touch football in the backyard. Alli made two amazing catches for touchdowns, and I made one. We were on opposite teams, something I apparently forgot, because I kept slapping her ass. All of us were sore the next day, hardly able to walk, and, over a week later, I am still sore. I heard a statistic once that sixty percent of all men believe that they are in the top ten percent of all athletes. As of last week, I am no longer in that sixty percent.

Last week, my hair was too long again. So I got a haircut. Only, this time, and for the first time, Alli cut it for me. I look, according to my friend Ian, "like a Russian"--I have no idea what he means by this. I like it. I don't know how she did it--we took out a pair of scissors (old scissors, yucky scissors, scissors that more pulled than cut), and she went to work, no comb or anything. Amazing. Alli is very proud. Whenever we're out now, she makes sure to comment on how good I look, then "naturally" segues into the fact that she cut it--"Did you know," she'll say to whomever is around (friend, acquaintance, homeless guy at the bus stop), "that I cut it? It was my first! Doesn't it look so good? I mean, don't those layers just blend?"

Last night, we had some friends over. One of the MFAs, Adam, who is writing a book about the WWF--a novel, actually--recently purchased a VHS that showed all the highlights from ALL the WRESTLEMANIAs. Of course, we thought, this is a perfect reason to have the kids over. We invited about ten or so people to our place, and we ordered pizza, and now we all know the history of the WWF (now WWE, I believe). We watched while wrestlers, trying to comment on the success of "professional sports entertainment", use words like transcend. It was gross. Sean Michaels said it three times. The Undertaker bragged about having kicked a lot of butt. Hulk Hogan wasn't available for interview, but he was so tough in the ring. So much passion; so much will. He never gave up. He was six-foot-seven, inches from heaven; his arms were the twenty-four-inch pythons; and he was--and in many ways, still is--my hero. I found myself standing up and rooting for the Hulk as if this were still 1986. Man, I feel like a loser, but an awesome one. I am a Little Hulkamaniac, to the death.

It snows in Pittsburgh. It is cold here, and snowy, and white everywhere. It is very pretty. This afternoon, while taking Ray on a walk, Alli looked up to see two deer keeping warm by snuggling their heads on the other's neck. She was stunned. She picked Ray up, so he wouldn't scare them away, then she got the temptation to approach them, walking very slowly and quietly, hoping she could suddenly walk like a Ninja. But they hopped away, "and then," she said, "five more deer--I counted them--came out of nowhere, and hopped away with them. I think deer are the most beautiful animal." I am happy that she got to see this, as we are still city folk (Pittsburgh is a city, sure, but it's also a forest); before we moved out here, we had doubts that deer even existed. Now they live down the street. And the snow. The snow. It is white and and cold and pretty. Our car is covered in white. Our porch, our roof, our street. All white. We will get tired of it soon, maybe, but now it is a cold kind of heaven to look at.

We love and miss you very much,
Carlos & Alli

2005-12-05T14:10:00.000-08:00

Friends,

We are in our new house. It is ours. Everything is ours (except the mineral rights, for some reason, so I guess I won't be drilling for oil or mining for coal anytime soon). It is our land. I feel like a Christopher Columbus, or the pilgrims, except Alli and I did not kill or or lie to get our land--we inherited our ability to get land from those who killed and d and lied before us (they called it Manifest Destiny, didn't they?). Our hands are clean. And now, without the guilt of genocide on our shoulders, we own stairs and hallways and cement and ivy and electric bills and now, suddenly, a leaky faucet. I am going to have to learn how to fix a leaky faucet. I expect that I will have to buy the TimeLife series on how to keep up your house. All of a sudden I feel like Jack Arnold, Kevin's dad from that show The Wonder Years. He was a man's man. The only difference is that he could fix everything and I can't fix anything yet, except for grammatical errors. But soon, I will be the quiet tough guy who takes a ladder and cleans out his rain gutters on Saturdays; who slides under the car and stays there till the work is finished; who has more than a couple of spare nails in his tool box (I'm such a wuss). When Wifey asks me "How was work, Honey?" I will loosen my tie and say, "Work's work," then she'll poor me my glass of bourbon. It's all in the American Dream. We are living it out. My muscles are getting hard and strong, and my belly filling with beer, just thinking about it.

On move-in day, without any hesitation or planning--and within, I'd say, eighteen minutes of having felt somewhat situated--Alli went to Home Depot and came back with what she figured would work, and started painting. Maybe she's the real man around here. I admit that I did not help. And she didn't want me to. I had a friend over and we discussed our new literary movement that--in contrast to the real-smart-sounding movements like "Harlem Renaissance" or "Bloomsbury Group" or "Twelve Southerners"--we've named "Reggie." While Ian and I discussed our stories over a glass of wine and helped each other see the flaws of our narrating techniques, Alli was hard at work in the kitchen, unable to stop painting. She's some kind of war horse. She's the decorating equivalent to a binge drinker. Or maybe she's OCD. Within a couple of hours our kitchen was the color Desert Caravan which, to me, looks like yellow. Next is the living room and after that, the hallways and bedrooms. She is all about color. Feel. Ambiance. I am all about Reggie. But I guess I'll give up my vain attempts at becoming a literary giant in order to paint and fix the leaky faucet and give Alli the home she deserves. You should see her face when something in the house pleases her--it's magic.

I want--after having been here in Pittsburgh long enough to understand the culture--to talk about Pittsburgh. They are weird and wonderful. There are many Pittsburgh things that are not at all California things. First of all, at nearly every intersection, there is a No Turn On Red sign. Strange. Why not, Pittsburgh? Why no turn on red? Why not just have a sign at every red light that says "Turn Ignition Off While You Wait"? I mean, who ever heard of No Turn On Right eighty percent of the time? Jeez. And there is something called "The Pittsburgh Left," which is a left turn completed by the effing moron who is supposed to be yielding to oncoming traffic. As soon as the light turns green, this dingleberry who doesn't have the arrow, complete with Steelers jersey and Steelers hat and Steelers license plate holder and Steelers Religion--thinks that he has the right to cut off two entire lanes of oncoming traffic and make a quick left in front of you. I know it's coming everytime. I see it in their eyes. I want so bad, so so bad, to hurt them, to take 'em out, to make 'em enter a world of pain--but it does no good. The is halfway through his turn by the time I can even hit the gas. Sometimes, if you listen close, you can hear his Devil's cackle as you flip him the bird.

It is getting cold. It is regularly in the 30s and 40s out here in Pittsburgh, which, for those of you not so familiar with Fahrenheit, is pretty dang cold. It's not so bad, you know, not really. It's not Siberia. That's what I keep telling myself. It's not Siberia. But then, inevitably, I have to sit down, on unlucky mornings, on the toilet. Eventually, it's my cheeks versus the porcelain--there isn't any escape, unless, like Ray the Dog, I decide to pretty much go anywhere--and the horror; the horror. I'm just glad that it's only tongues on cold metal that stick. And I tell myself at these times, It's not Siberia, but it's close.

Over some drinks a couple of weeks ago, two friends and I decided to grow beards. I thought we were joking. It was my idea in the first place--and I KNOW I was joking. But all of a sudden these guys show up in class and they haven't shaved. So I tell them--I get personal--I plead. I reveal that I was what they call a late bloomer and ever since, hair on me doesn't seem to want to grow. Plus, even if my body were ready to grow a full beard ( which I doubt it ever will be), I don't exactly have good genes. I remember a couple of years when I was around ten when my dad tried to grow a mustache. By the time I was twelve, I think I started to see some real sprouting. Honestly, the hair on my face looks like that kid in sixth grade who doesn't yet know that The Change of Life is upon him. I look like that kid, only I'm twenty-seven. But now I hear there's a fifty-dollar bail-out fee on the beard-growing thing--these guys are killing me. Of course, this fee was not my idea. I am stuck--a victim. They say that we can shave at Christmas. I have been "growing" this "beard" now for almost two weeks. So far, this is what it looks like: the unshaved legs of a woman in winter. This is not a beard. This is humiliation.

As soon as we are painted and everything is in place, Alli and I want to have a housewarming party. You are all invited. But you can't stay the night in our house. There would be too many of you. For the party part, though, you could come over and give us a house plant or a framed print of Starry Night. But, the theme of the party is Bob Dylan. You have to come dressed up as something from a Bob Dylan song--it's an idea I stole years ago from the liner notes on one of his albums. You can show up as Einstein disguised as Robin Hood; Tangled up in Blue; you can "walk into the room like a camel and then you frown"; Napoleon in rags; a diplomat who carries on his shoulder a Siamese cat; all kinds of things. We'll have a great night together trying to guess each other's characters, and we'll have beer and wine and hot dogs and juice and for a few hours, a few hours anyway, Alli and I will be among the people we love, laughing above the music, Dylan's "Shelter from the Storm," about all kinds of things we know and love about each other, and we'll tell you stories you wouldn't believe, and we'll ask about your job or weekend or new baby on the way or how you have been feeling lately, and we'll touch each other's shoulders or faces saying "It's been so long, so so long--we've missed you very much," and I'll fill your glass with beer or wine or juice and Alli and I will show you around the house, then we'll step out on the porch and I'll show you the trees and hills and the lights from across the way; I'll point out our view and tell you how it feels to sit on my porch, then we'll sit on it together and you'll feel what I feel, out here in Pittsburgh, and we'll lean back and laugh at many memories and look at each without mentioning that soon you'll have to leave, soon you'll be off, back to California where you will be far away from us again; no, we won't mention that; instead we'll take in the moments, these rich and lighted moments, you on my porch holding your glass and me finishing my hot dog and juice, then us rushing back in from the cold (it is cold here in Pittsburgh, it can be very very cold at times) and then all of us together in the living room, first one--then anonther--and then all of us--standing up on tables and chairs and furniture and holding up our glasses to sing along, in voices better than Dylan's, not the song "You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go" but the song "To Make You Feel My Love" and we will all feel, at the same time, in the same way, the warmth of the light all around us.

We miss you and love you very much.

Carlos

2005-10-07T20:29:00.000-07:00

Friends,

I have come to understand the reason why no one believes in God anymore. It is an ancient reason, going way back to the days when nature was anthropomorphized, when nature was human and acting out of emotion. The reason no one in L.A. believes in God is because in L.A. nature is not powerful--it is weak. Nature, by God, is a sissy. Can all God do is come up with easy-going sunshine? And all year long? I mean, come on, Lord. Show us your chest hair. Give 'em something, anything. Stop making it seventy-two and partly cloudy. Throw 'em something to tremble at. As for out here in Pennsylvania--God is buff. He is humungous clouds and sky, angry thunder, pretty flowers and forests. Alli and I have been to the woods. For her birthday we stayed in a castle built many years ago (not feudalism-long ago, because there wasn't any feudalism here, except in the South, among the ancestors of trashy whites) by a man named Joseph Sibley. A friend of mine, Eddie's uncle Rich (perfect name, eh, for one who owns a castle) let us stay with him for a night in his castle. It is in beautiful and big woods where trees are trees and men are men and God is God. And God can really get things going out there, you know, he can show us his stuff. There is a tremendous feeling of force when the morning is cold, just-colder-than-your-sweatshirt-can-handle cold, and you have to put on your shoes and socks and hope for the best. That is prayer. That is veneration. We who love God out here in the East understand God as a generous God, a loving God; not safe, but good (as C.S. Lewis would have said). We see the proof of his power in the mornings and in the change of the seasons, and in the cold shivers of night time darkness. God is bigger than I am. God's big arm moves through my afternoons in wind and dark clouds and then, in an instant, here are sun and birds and the feeling of forgiveness. God is bigger than all I can see, and he proves it. Not like for you wussies out on the West Coast. Your god is puny. Your god, if you can even call him a god, is no greater than Dallas Raines. "But," you respond, "Carlos, your argument is full of holes. There are people out in the East who do not believe in God. You can't go around saying that the East is full of theists just waiting, at the first sign of rain or sound of thunder, to drop to their knees in worship." And, you're right. I can't say that. There are atheists out here, too. I have met many of them. "So, why," you may ask, "are they atheistic?" Here is your answer: the problem of evil. How can you believe in a good God when it gets so damn cold? God in winter is a tyrant. I hear that during the winters, our loving God--loving shmoving--is about as nice as Hitler when he's hungry. And we're in for it. I mean, I am afraid, very very afraid. I want to make sacrifices to him. I want to give him some things in order to get my California winter back. Too bad I don't know any virgins.

As I said, Alli and I went to a castle for her birthday. It was a nice trip up through Franklin, PA, a place where there is only one street and a river. It was pretty everywhere, rich and thorough. Some of the leaves were already changing, and while we were driving John Lennon's "Imagine" came on the radio and I felt like crying at all the beauty surrounding me. Then, to get to the castle, we had to drive into the woods for a couple of miles down a dirt road. There was a small creak next to the road and many things to look at. We pointed out for each other the birds and plants and things all over and around us. Then it happened: thumpthump! Alli looked in the rearview and hit the brakes. "Oh no! No! No! No!" she screamed. Then I turned around to look out the back window. I saw a poofy tail flailing back and forth, back and forth, getting slower and slower. Alli had run right over a squirrel's head. When I walked back to see what all had happened, I noticed that it was already dead, so I rolled it with my foot to the side of the road.

This was very sad, because I knew this was Alli's worst nightmare, to kill an animal. I walked slowly from the car to the squirrel, and took my time walking back from the squirrel to the car, because I knew she was crying in the car, and I wanted to give her some time. It is against her nature to take the life of an animal, and I knew she felt very guilty, but that she needed some time, just a little time. By the time I got back to the car her face was wet and she was very quiet. I was sad too, and we drove the rest of the way without talking, only holding hands and me rubbing her neck and back. This was a very sad and special moment.

Then we went hunting.

Actually, we had a great, easy time up in the woods, after, of course, the squirrel incident. This is a rare kind of experience for someone from California. Big Bear is all I know of the forest, and there there are all kinds of trees that you or make you sticky. Here, though, the trees and things were something else, tall and light green and friendly and peaceful. They wave with the breeze. They are almost as kind as Shel Silverstein's Giving Tree.

Here is some good news: Alli and I have finally met a friend, a real friend, someone we will talk about from now on in our phone conversations with you, and whom you may one day meet for yourself. He is kind. His name is Ian. He is a good listener and talker, and we have some classes together. He is good at drinking beers with me; he keeps up and then we get loud about our writing and we say to each other (in Ernest Hemingway's way, not in hip-hop's way) how "tight" we feel, and we buy each other a pitcher, and then only good things seem to happen. Also, to say something about his compassion, he gave Alli a birthday gift, a how-to book for decorating, for our new house. This is what I mean by kind. I was the only one out here who would be able to spend the day with her, and he gave her a present, to make her feel a little more at home. He also drove me around the night before Alli's birthday, to make sure all the plans and gifts were set up right. He was sick, but he agreed to do it, because he understands a man's need to seem like a good husband. This makes him double-good, for me and for Alli.

I hope you're all well out there. We both love you very much.

Carlos

2005-10-03T20:15:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-03T20:09:00.000-07:00

Friends,

This alone deserves much attention: I received a letter yesterday cordially inviting Alli and me to the 14th annual Students of Color Dinner Series. Apparently, I am colored. And the Afro American Music Institute will be there to play jazz. Apparently, as a colored person, I like jazz. Our theme this year will be "The Graduate School Journey: Intersections and Boundaries." We will talk about our coloredness and how it feels to be colored. According to the year's calendar, in February I will find out who is "the real me": leader, scholar, or community member. Truly, this was a shock. I never thought of myself as colored, or not colored. And 'colored,' that's such a weird word, isn't it? Colored. I feel like I'm in a Mark Twain short story, or Buckwheat's little brother. Colored. Isn't that, like, an old word that doesn't get used anymore, one you'd have to explain to Gramma--after she makes a loud remark about "that colored boy down the block,"--that she's being way inappropriate? I mean, that word. That word, I hate that word. It makes me feel weird. I hate that word. And I don't want to go to the dinner, but maybe I do. I'd go because I was invited, and would like to see what this is about, and making judgements is not nice, but I wouldn't go because I hate that our culture even does this sort of thing, plus I grew up white, mostly. I'm as white as they come. I surf. I say 'totally.' My students in Lynwood called me 'Gringo.' They couldn't believe that my best friend's name was Chad. "Chad?" they said, laughing every time I said his name. They had never even met a 'Chad' before. "He WHITE, Mr. Delgado! YOU WHITE, Mr. Delgado!" Plus, my wife is of English descent. She's got green eyes and white skin. Would I be considered, I'd wonder, walking around the party, like, a some kind of Ecuadorean Tio Tom? Have I betrayed my heritage? My head sweats when I think about it--all of a sudden I feel the race question building up inside of me, something I don't think about ever, and am I treating it so poorly? Are these things things to think about for real? But, then again, this is a graduate school event, and somehow I'm not too sold on what's going on. Here is my issue: we are all in graduate school (I say "we" right now, assuming I am a part of this group). How can we go about reciting Langston Hughes, talking about what happens to a dream deferred, not inviting whitey to our dinner because he isn't colored like we are? We're in effing grad school! Two more years and we'll be in tweed coats smoking pipes and crossing our legs in front of the fire place discussing some big shot smart guy stuff with a group of students hanging on our every word. We'll have brick houses in a suburb. Dream deferred my black ass!

(If I just lost friends with that last paragraph, please forgive me. I am only joking around, even though the invitation is real, and my questions surrounding it are real...my jokes are jokes, only that.)

Alli drove Ray and me to Starbucks this morning. He loves the car, finally. He leans his head out the window and feels the cold air blow on his ears and face. His paws stick out the window. He is very cute to watch. He likes to sit in the driver's seat, I don't understand why. It was a pleasure this morning, watching Ray sit in Alli's lap while she drove, it's my family, these two are my family, Ray with his face out the window and Alli singing along to Wilson Phillips on the radio. Wait--what? Did I say? Yes. I did. I said Wilson Phillips. Plus, she knew the words. She was going crazy. She closed her eyes on the high notes. I don't know this woman anymore, I thought to myself. Who is she. Who is this woman.

My first couple of weeks of classes are over, as you might expect. I am in a kind of heaven out here, taking these classes. We read stuff and we talk about it, and somehow I am earning a degree for my time. I have three classes, two of which are really great. One, however--and I can't get around this in my head--is very scary. The professor speaks seven or nine languages fluently. One of them is Arabic. One is French. One is Spanish. He mouths off in Portuguese and berates us in German. We are studying power and power structures, ideology, or something, I have a hard time keeping up, because he reads to us a thirty-page lecture every week, properly pronouncing words from different languages, like Al-Quaida (is that how we spell it?). When he says it there is a pop in his tongue or in the bottom of his throat or maybe saying that word properly includes cracking your knuckles. I don't know. I don't understand him sixty to ninety percent of the time. The rest of the time (like during roll call and the fifteen-minute breaks), though, I'm having a good time.

Alli, Ray and I are making friends, here and there, which means soon we won't even feel like updating you on anything. We'll be too busy with our Pittsburgh friends doing Pittsburgh stuff, stuff you wouldn't get because we're in the 'Burgh. We hung out with a family on Labor Day, the Morrises, Greg & Laura and their kids Jillian & Hillary and the dog Sidney. We had very good corn, some of the best corn I've ever eaten. We had Turkey burgers. I talked to Jillian about her new dictionary and Alli took a lot of pictures of Hillary, who is only fourteen months old and very beautiful. And, Ray spent the better part of the six hours we were there trying to hump Sidney. It was an awkward afternoon, trying to talk around the birds & the bees question in front of a six-year-old, but she kept saying, "Eww, what's that red thing? Why is Ray smelling Sidney there? Is Ray trying to get a piggy back ride?" Alli and I had fun, and I KNOW Ray did, but I think we left Greg and Laura behind with a six-year-old with a ton of questions, so it was really good to get out of there when we did.

A few days ago Alli took Ray out for his morning poop. When she came back she said, "Guess what I found?" and I said, "What?" and she said that she thought she found a sandwich bag of marijuana in the parking lot, all tied up in twistie ties. Of course she and I could only guess as to what it was, only having heard about this maryjewanna in the past. We guessed because, after all, we do live in the ghetto, a place where these sorts of things get passed around and sold and ditched when the cops are on the move-in. Of course, we hadn't any real experience with the stuff before, so she brought it up to the apartment. We decided it probably wasn't weed, though, because no one would lose that much weed, would they? We thought not. We probably weren't holding weed. It was probably not weed. I mean, surely it wasn't. We looked at each other. We held it in our hands, and there was no way we were going to know by holding it. So we decided to smoke it, just to make sure. Just to make sure it wasn't weed. We wanted to be absolutely positive.

The above paragraph is a lie. Mostly. Alli did find the weed in a bag while walking Ray for his morning poop. That part is true. She did come up and tell me she found it. But come on, we're two responsible people We aren't going to go smoke weed--no. We're not kids anymore. We're grownups. We cooked it in brownies instead.

That was a lie too. It's just fun to talk about marijuana, isn't it? And that's all we did--talk about the marijuana. We figured it belonged to the stoners on the first floor whose windows are always given to what Jimi called purple haze. We didn't put it into our bodies. We wouldn't do that. So we put it in Ray's, and watched him laugh for three hours. It was awesome.

By the way, things look shaky with the house purchase at this point. We are hung up on the furnace issue. I have never before been a part of a furnace issue, but here I am, partaking in a furnace issue. I guess the furnace is broken--something our home inspector found--and they won't replace it because they don't have the money to, which I think is a crock of sh, so they had a 'furnace repairman' say that, yes, indeed, the furnace is cracked, but will be good for another couple of years. Of course, something I just learned this morning is that cracked furnaces leak carbon monoxide, something I don't want to live next to, because I would die. I'd rather not send a canary or parakeet or whatever ahead of me into my garage everytime I want to go out there.

By the way, if you're interested in a really great author to read, look up Charles Baxter's The Feast of Love. Effing amazing, my friends. It's a great book. He's got other books too, but that's the only one I've read of his that I can vouch for.

I hope you're all well. We still miss you very much.

Carlos

2005-08-31T14:24:00.000-07:00

Friends,

I feel, right now, after three weeks of holding my breath, the ability to breathe. All day I have made that ffff sound through my lips, sucking in instead of out. I feel great. We have been here for almost three weeks, gone for almost four, and we finally have the time for a breather--something I'm grateful for. I have been thinking about this list of people whom I miss very much, you people who have held us up, and I'm glad finally to communicate with you.

I'll tell everything backwards, see, because that's how my memory will tell it best.

First of all, and this is so recent that it's tomorrow: Alli and I celebrate one full year of marriage tomorrow. We keep saying it out loud to each other. "One year. One year." (Every now and then we also add in a "Holy shit.") We know, it must sound to some folks like we're bragging about starting kindergarten, but it's a pretty big deal in my book. I can hardly picture what marriage looks like and I'm already married--it still has that "someday I'll be married" quality to it--so it's hard for me to swallow that I've been doing it for an entire year. Sometimes, though, I also think of marriage the way I thought of swimming laps back in high school--"One lap down, fifty or so to go...let's just make it through, man. You'll be hitting the showers soon enough." But that's mostly when I'm tired and cranky and nasty.

And now, for the biggest news: Yesterday, Alli and I made an offer on a condo--a cutesy blue thing with two bedrooms and stairs and grass in the front for Ray. It has a garage, something to put the drums in. It has a washer and a dryer. You know, it is a condo. The people who currently own the condo have accepted our offer. We, as of tonight, will have officially begun that whole escrowthingamabob. We are very excited about that, too, escpecially Alli, who while she sleeps has begun screaming the names of different shades of paint and various kinds of curtains.

Interlude: When I was in seventh grade I got braces, and I found out that there was this whole sub-culture of people with braces. At lunch time, people with braces would talk about how they had braces and how their moms wouldn't pack soda anymore in their lunches, and how they chew gum even though the orthodontist said not to, yeah, well, I try to styay away from the popcorn, but I just love Hubba-Bubba, things like that. And I found that their was a world of conversations to have, commonalities, things to laugh about, last week I got a whole King Size Snickers stuck here in the front and I couldn't get it out flor like an hour sort of conversation. And I found that that sort of thing, different conversations based on new parts of my life, have followed me around my whole life. In kindergarten through fifth grade it was who had cooties and how many milks you bought at lunch, then in college it was what's your major, and just out of college it was what's your job you found a job I can't believe it I still live with my mom I can't find a job did your hear about so-and-so he's making bank, and now, somehow, it's who is pregnant and when are you planning to have kids, and home owning. So, here is my first contribution to my new conversation: property taxes are a bitch.

Our dog, Ray, has gone backwards in his training. He poops now whenever and whereever he feels like it. We are convinced that he knows what is up--that we have moved to Pittsburgh, that he is taking revenge on us--who knows why, maybe he's a Chiefs' fan and he really hates the Steelers. We are also convinced that he journals when we're away, about his self-esteem and loneliness in that apartment, all alone, how the yellow bone wasn't as good as the dark brown one, why don't they give me the dark brown one, they hate me, I know they hate me, look at me here, all alone with this yellow bone. Think I'll poo over by their new rug--yes, that's it. Go Chiefs!

I have now met my incoming class of fellow MFAs, and two of our teachers. One, my favorite, is Chuck Kinder. He is one of those men who have managed to keep a ponytail even though he is bald. I don't know how they do it, but it is a mix of all the worst kinds of things: baldness, comb-over, mullet, ponytail, and mustache (Oh, by the way, he also has a mustache). He wears a trucker hat. He folds his arms over his belly. He mumbles. He was born in West Virginia. He has James Dean posters all over his house. He is either a famous writer or the guy in the truck next to me who keeps checking out my wife.

The day we arrived in Pittsburgh we had just driven out from Columbus, Ohio. Friends, now that I've seen more of it than I ever had, let me tell you about America. In case you ever wondered, or in case it ever entered your subconscious the way I found that it had somehow entered mine, when you see names of cities on maps in the same size font, say Los Angeles and Witchita both in Palatino 8, or New York and St. Louis in Geneva 12--it's not because those cities are the same in coolness or in stuff to do. It's because they have to make the map look good. And, using font size as a way to measure coolness would mean that there would only be like eight cities on any map.

In Columbus we stayed at a Kinghts Inn. There were approximately 87 savage kittens running around the parking lot, full of rabies and other such harmful diseases. There were no momma cats to be seen, which I did not understand. Were they like the smurfs, without the means for reproduction yet, still, somehow, there they are--the smurflings. (Either they were magic, reporducing by getting water on them like the Gremlins, or Smurfette got a lot of action.) The kittens stared at us on our way in and out of our motel room. At around midnight, someone pounded on our door. It was loud and angry and horrifying, because I don't know anyone in Columbus, Ohio. But, because I'm used to trusting people, I pulled on some pants and put on a shirt, walking to the door, about to open it. Then, my manly side came out. Wait a minute, I said to myself. I don't know anyone in Columbus. I am a stranger here. If this guy has a machete he could do many bad things to both me and my wife. Plus, I just bought a brand new Dell. No way he's getting that. I will not open the door. I looked through the hole in the door. I said, Who is it? And the guy said, I'm looking for Ant. Is Ant there? I was afraid. He was rubbing his nose and I could make out that his shirt was inside out. I interpreted his nose-rubbing as evidence for his years-long addiction to cocaine, or maybe, like me, he was allergic to the kittens outside and needed a tissue. But who looks for a guy named Ant? That sounded like a code name, an underground code name, something the cops couldn't trace. And his shirt, his inside-out shirt. That was the kicker. He had to have been a druggie. Only drug addicts have such neglect for neatness, appearance and hygeine. Where's Ant? he asked again. I put on a very manly voice. You got the wrong room, buddy, I told him. He ain't here. Yes, I actually said Ain't. I don't use that word. I was taught not to by my mother. But I said it to imply that I'm as uneducated as you are, pal, and probably just as dangerous, so get the eff away from he re before I sic my pit bull Ray on your ass.

Then, when he left, we got the hell out of there.

We packed up and drove about an hour down the road, to a Motel 6, and slept soundly.

Our movers showed up two weeks late, which means Alli and I slept on an air mattress, washed plasticwear in the sink, and spent most of our time eating Top Ramen. We had only one pot to cook stuff in, and we made Ramen. We hate Ramen now.

Alli has a job. She will start working at Southwestern Human Services next week, as a social worker--case manager--after a great set of references secured her position. I have a talented, loving wife, who cares about people, and they know it. I am sometimes awed by how good she is. As for me, I start classes on Tuesday, and I have felt very intimidated. Some of the people in my program have already been published. It intimidatese me bad. But, somehow, that I've only known them for two hours and I already know where they've been published tells me something about them, that they are intimidated too. After some thought, I think things will be all right. Chuck is nice, and I like to read books and write things, which I think is a plus.

Alli and I must be off--our parking meter is going to expire soon (here at the Library). Our own internet connection has not yet begun in our apartment, the reason it has been difficult to write back to those of you who have written us--we usually have a very limited amount of time and a lot of internet stuff to accomplish--leaving very little time for the fun stuff. I am glad to feel at least a little connection to you right now as I write this--someone from home will read this, and I know that person, and I am glad for it.

We love you very much, and miss you too.

Carlos