WORLD CUP REVIEW: BELGIUM-USA and ARGENTINA-SWITZERLAND

Great WC day! Started of at New Buenos Aires, a quaint mom-and-pop bakery in Burbank, rooting for Argentina with a bunch of families I had never met. Café con leche and a few home made pastries to start off the day on a cool place watching the World Cup. It doesn't get much better than that. We made some friends, talked shop and country and enjoyed an exciting game. Not being Argentine I was able to tone down any anxiety about the result, but I ultimately enjoyed the last minute goal by De la Virgen on yet another masterful run by The Sheriff. The place went bananas and I loved it. Argentina deserved to win, played better, played more, had more chances and sought to score with resolve. I liked the tough defense and deep plays (De la Virgen is la leche). Goalie is iffy but Switzerlandia did not do enough to really deserve better. I don't dislike their team, but Argentina was better. 

Then we met with my fellow Silverbacks at The Morrison to watch US-Belgium. Fun gathering with some of my teammates, although the visual quality in the place wasn't great (few and far screens). The atmosphere was good but you can tell the US still has a ways to go in soccer. Twenty Argentines made more noise than 200 hundred Americans rooting. It's a long shot from where it used to be for sure, but with the kind of crowd there was at Morrison the place should have been ROCKING!!!. There was excitement and some cheering but given the occasion I missed some good, old-world romping and screaming at the screens. I think a lot has to do with the fact that many people that turn out don't know the game well. Perhaps it's more cultural, although I don't think that's the reason since fans can get really crazy watching pigskin football, for example. At any rate, it was a fun time, except for the US loss. They played very hard, with great team-oriented sacrifice but that's not enough at this level. Belgium massacred Tim Howard with shots (he totally earned a raise at Everton!) and the US just didn't have enough football in the midfield to sustain a credible attack throughout the game. The last moment goal was fantastic and they still had a chance to tie it, but like Spaniards say: tantas veces va el cántaro a la fuente que al final se rompe (so often goes the jug to the fountain that it ends up broken). That's what happened, and Klinsmann's boys didn't have time to fix it. 

I still see a bright future for US soccer. Most of these guys will be back for the next WC and the talent pool keeps growing and getting better. TV, media and casual fans are catching on. Russia 2018 could be a whole different story. 

CUMPLIDOS 50 y SAN JUAN

Cayeron los 50 hace unos pocos días y mañana se cumplirán 50 de mi bautizo. Fechas que me gustan mucho, por razones obvias. De siempre he tenido querencia hacia el fuego, la luz, la energía potente, cálida y fuerte de la llama, las velas. Quizás se por lo de San Juan y las hogueras. Uno de mis primeros recuerdos de crío es ir con los amigos del barrio (de 5 a 15 años), todos juntos, a por ramas, arbustillos y muebles viejos donados por los vecinos para preparar la hoguera; la competencia con las hogueras de otros barrios (incluso la calle de al lado); el orgullo por construir la mejor pira y la satisfacción de verla arder junto con la gente congregada, la labor bien hecha y el verano por delante. Felicidad.

La semana pasada cumplí 50 años. Una fecha que para muchos es dramática pero a mi me gustó cumplir. No sólo porque soy afortunado de haber llegado a esta edad, sino también porque de alguna manera la redondez de la cifra supone una especie de tabula rasa para una nueva vida. No me encuentro donde hace 25 años esperaba estar y sigo sintiendo electricidad, ilusión por nuevos caminos, por nuevas experiencias. Echo de menos ciertas cosas que esperaba que tendría, pero la vida es lo que es y en la mía hay también muchas cosas que nunca esperé que habría, buenas también. Y eso me conforta. Como digo, los 50 no son el fin de de nada, sino el comienzo de otra etapa hermosa.

El cumple fue un día tranquilo, sin ninguna celebración especial en plan fiesta sorpresa ni nada por el estilo. Tengo pocos amigos a los que se les pudiera imaginar algo así y están dispersos. Traté de estar con quienes más cerca tengo y disfrutar de quienes se acordaron de mi. Hay que haber cumplido 50 para entender lo que significa y nadie a mi alrededor cumple ese requisito. Pero hice lo que deseé y disfruté un día de museo y jardines botánicos (Huntington) con James. Antes, desayuno en Antigua y compra de libros goxo en Vromans. Luego cena y tertulia con mis amigos argentinos Miguel y Sebastián, y al llegar a casa tarta de chocolate y apertura de Bourbon cortesía sorpresa –ésta sí– de James, la definición de un buen tipo. No hubo fuegos artificiales, ni 50 velas, ni regalos... Pero hubo salud, calor humano, recordatorios de amigos y amigas, algunos inesperados, y la charla con los padres, siempre el mejor regalo. Como es normal en la vida, hubo algunas sombras que trataron de oscurecerme el día, pero saqué el abanico y las ahuyenté suavemente. Era el 19 de junio, 50 años después de mi nacer a este mundo, y preferí gozar del sol brillante y la brisa fresca. Como casi siempre. Gracias.

Ps. Hoy me llega la tarjeta de felicitación de mis padres. Una hermosa amapola roja. Qué bien.

GOING ON 50

Fifty years old today. What a treat. Excited and a bit sad for not being able to be with loved ones to share this milestone in person. But I know love travels through the wind and I will be surrounded by good vibrations and warm thoughts. I feel that I am turning more than one corner. I am good and ready. Let's go.

ON CONFLICT

People love conflict. We say we don't but we lie. Either that or we are delusional. Or both. We love to take on other people, launch attacks, defend from them, compete, deride, criticize, punch or eat chocolate (as a passive aggressive strategy to deflect it, this time against ourselves). Maybe it's in the genes or maybe it's a social skill learned from childhood to create our seat at the table. "Quien no llora no mama" (those who don't cry, don't get to the tit) says a Spanish proverb. But we all know many of those proverbs have been sanitized to allow preachers and priests to nail us with them from the pulpit: The real words for that idea should sound something like "quien no pisa, no avanza" (those who don step on, don't move on), or "dog eats dog" in the more brutal modern American vernacular.

But that doesn't mean we go further, accomplish more or are happier. In fact, it may just be the opposite.

Perhaps conflict is indeed in our veins, but do we actually need to get sucked by it? Is it really a good coping strategy? Using a Nature metaphor, can we just not act like water and go around the rock instead of pound it? From childhood we are bombarded with tales about how hard things are, about fighting to get through, about no-pain-no-gain, and a myriad of other struggle-based life directives. No disputing here that life presents challenges. My dialogue is about whether those challenges are better dealt with through hardship, fight, conflict, battle, pain... Or whether sometimes (or always) there are other options that can be equally effective, if not more, but involve winding around the bend or sliding through the seams instead of pushing on or cutting through. In my most enlightened moments–at least I like to think of them that way–I hark back to the beautiful example provided by Miguel de Cervantes in The Quixote: In one of its most famous passages, when Alonso Quijano sees the windmills gyrating their wings in the distance, he decides they are evil ogres or giants and rambles onwards to attack them. Interestingly, not only does he not imagine they could be a bunch of affable creatures carousing in the La Mancha sun. No. Quijano (Cervantes) decides they must be bad guys and, then, goes right at them instead of, for example, taking a detour or meandering through the sharp wings (swords) in search of a better day or way to enderezar tuertos (right wrongs) in his idealist mind. Notice that I am not even referring to fleeing, but moving on without engaging in direct conflict, especially when conflict is not actively seeking us but it's just there. Granted, it may be hard to discern when we need or can skirt around, or wait for the storm to pass, and when it's necessary to clash. Perhaps if we practiced that skill or were reminded of that possibility more often instead of the constant barrage of war and conflict metaphors we might make things actually easier for us and, therefore, help ourselves to deal with obstacles in a more forgiving, less stressful and, I dare say, productive manner.

BARSTOW

If you drive north from Los Angeles on I-15 on your way to Las Vegas or Needles, Arizona, you will likely hit Barstow. At first glance this town appears to be a remnant of the old West. The city sprouted along the railroad lines laid out a century and a half ago to connect California to the rest of the country. Before Barstow it was called Water Junction. Not that the place is a beach resort but at the time there must have been either a river running through it or a water table underneath. Barstow sits in the Mohave desert, and it's as hot and it sounds. The first time I met Barstow was on a Vegas trip with Jesús. We stopped at a Chinese diner right outside downtown and had a deep Americana experience. The owner, an Army man, cooked for us and regaled us with stories about the family photos hanging on the walls. We went back another time but the place was closed–or he didn't want to open it, another merchant said.

I developed a fondness for the town. Something in the dry, blasting heat and the silent emptiness of its streets screams backwater. But I connect with something that is valuable to me. Or perhaps I just like backwaters.

Ah, we also hiked Owl Canyon. Beautifully rocky, alluring, mysterious. Alive.

VUELTA A LA

Llego a LA y me recibe la ciudad entera aunque, curiosamente, apenas la percibo, como si estuviera envuelto en celofán protector. Una vez fuera del caótico aeropuerto –trasiego de masas, coches, algarabía, pitos, luces– nos subimos a la carretera oscura que corta la ciudad como un suave pero firme hilo de seda y llegamos al que será mi hogar, temporal otra vez.

Grabadas en el zurrón de la memoria imágenes de primavera en ebullición, verdes profundos y frondosos, colorida, variable y transformadora. Me alimentarán.

Ayer participé en el partido de Los Silverbacks. Perdimos mal, pero no me lesioné. Hoy vamos a Barstow, 30ytantos grados y desierto. Comeremos china y se nos pegará el polvo a la cara recubierta de protección solar. El cielo azul de punta a punta y el horizonte abierto de par en par. Como la vida misma.

CIELOS-INFINITO

I dream, therefore I exist.

EITZA AUZOA 50

Eitza in 1914

Eitza in 2014

This is the name of the place where I was born, in the Basque Country. Last Sunday, April 27th, we celebrated a day honoring our roots, our connections. People from 50 to 97 gathered for a day of joy. Elders were recognized; people that had not seen each other for 40, 50 years met again; memories were treasured; smiles and warm hugs exchanged; conversations put on hold decades ago resumed, always mentioning the house where so and so was born or lived, a common trait in Basque genealogy and social fabric. After so many years it was still easy to recognize old faces, share common experiences, relive past times in a wholesome, festive atmosphere charged with excitement and emotion. It was hard to contain tears, often looking back at entire lives through the mirror of an old neighbor or a faded, yet fully present, picture.

For many people this will not resonate, used as we are to our modern hustle and bustle, highly mobile and skin-deep digital world. But I still remember seeing the women washing clothes by hand in the commons, or us playing Jai-Alai in the little church cloister that served as frontón, young men stoping by before heading on to the steel mill; it wasn't uncommon to see full-bearded grown ups playing along 10 year-olds like myself (always throwing me softies that I could hit).

People reminisced about the past, a past that wasn't always pretty but to us it was real, or so we like to think. Perhaps it's just time passing and leaving its soft imprint in our minds. In the end, who cares as long as the memories warm our hearts and bring us together again, like a small piece of what heaven is supposed to be?

Women and men that never wandered more than a few hundred feet from their birth place sat at the table and danced with fellow neighbors who now make their lives oceans away. Despite the diverse personal journeys, we do share an intangible bond. Yes, it may be a random existential occurrence, but we feel lucky to have been born and have played in this tiny and historical mountain enclave: Eitza, Eizaga.

And best of all, the story continues.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=1Fzvc122flY

LESS HOLLYWOOD, MORE BASQUELAND

Taking a break in my home country. Coming from Los Angeles to Zumarraga is like jumping from Start Trek's Enterprise to a Berlanga's bus, to use a transportation metaphor. And not negatively at all. The Enterprise might be all cosmopolitan and high tech versus the homespun consistency and deep ethnicity of my home town but it's all good. Or even better. I love the green fields and meandering sheep across the roads, the crisp, quiet Spring afternoons and the small coffees in Santa Barbara, one of our two resident restaurant-adjunct, top-of-the-hill hermits.

It's a bit odd to the mind to be driving down I-405 one day in California and a tree-lined backroad in the Basque Country the next. Or having carne asada tacos one Tuesday and cod pil-pil style for dinner on Wednesday. I guess I am well trained and the culture shock has been subdued this time. I am always looking for a home but it feels pretty good right now to think that I have not one, but two homes.

Now I only need a house. Ha.

EARTHQUAKE IN LOS ANGELES

OK. Was that a dream or did I just feel an earthquake? My bed moved and the house rocked for a few seconds. Not huge, not long, but clear and felt.

Just checked the seismic activity in the area and the reports indicate a 4.7 scale movement (Richter) 3 minutes ago-6:25 a.m. So it was real. To be honest, I turned my computer and began to ready up from bed to come outside of the house. Then it stopped. The neighbor's dogs started barking but nothing else moved. Thank God. A spooky experience.

HYPERION PUBLIC-BARCA vs MANCHESTER CITY

No, it's not Jodie Foster's latest movie title. It's the joint we gather to watch Champions League fútbol (we have to start a crowd-funding campaign or something to get rid of the term "soccer", seriously) and do family therapy, err socialize, after practice and games. It's kinda fun. It would make for a decent sitcom–the 21st century, hipster version of Cheers with a bunch of middle-aged men talking football and drinking beer in a cave as if it really mattered, while postponing their lives for a couple of hours. Heck, if this isn't life, I don't know what is. Well, actually I can think of a couple other things but they don't really fit in this script, so I'll avoid them: this is Hollywood, after all.

So today we watched Barcelona and Manchester City. One of the interesting things of watching soccer in the US is that people actually talk business, work on their computers and debate on tactics while watching the game (or the replays). In Spain you go to a bar to watch and you watch the game. Yes, people talk, but they do it out of the corner of the mouth and looking sort of sideways, lest they miss something. Here we eat, drink, chat and, if we are lucky, will catch the missed chance or the blown call. It must be a carry over from baseball; but hey, it's cool, nobody's perfect. That's why there is always somebody on guard duty, watching intently while the rest of the bunch pore over U-6 tactical sets, Sevens divisional rivalries, hot moms and world affairs (yeah right). As soon as Iniesta makes a crazy move or Neymar catches the ball the sentry will scream: "Hey, check it out!" and heads will turn as in a tennis match... (I know what you fútbol unlovers are thinking, but you are wrong).

I have wondered many times about fútbol's allure. What is it that makes this sport so compelling, so passionate, so ingrained in people's blood? It's a cliché, but you can go anywhere in the world (still outside the US, unfortunately) and speak football. Wars will be paused–and started–because of a football match. Bitter enemies can rally around a commonly loved player or cherished team. The game is so transformational that people who can't play worth a crap will actually blossom into respected coaches and gurus. Only football and acting offer that cathartic potential. 

It was fun today and the tradition will continue. Whenever a good fútbol game happens, men gather around the world–usually with some sort of alcoholic drink at hand (sorry, Saudi Arabia). We talk, we  argue, we laugh, we scream, sometimes we even cry. And we always have fun. Take that, Vladimir Putin!

[Fade out]

FIN

12 YEARS A SLAVE

Won the Oscars. OK, I didn't watch the "ceremony", but I got to see the end and, besides, I don't live in a cave in the Pyrenees, so I know it won. And good for the movie and everybody who worked in it. The LA Times ran a story today basically saying that 12 YAS won as a result of a sort of historical recognition by Hollywood of the slavery era and its evil; yes, the movie is good, but many Academy voters didn't watch it and still voted for it to "go with the social flow" is the Times basic argument. It may be. What's intriguing for me is the reason people in the Academy don't want to watch it. They argue it's an "upsetting" theme, as if Hollywood had never touched on "upsetting" issues: Hitler, Nazism, Holocaust, Native Americans' genocide, Injustice, Natural Disastry, End of Worldism and many more. To me it is strange there is so much reluctance to see "12 Years". Is it collective guilt? Is it individual/family guilt? Is it some kind of moral prudishness? Is it some type of "oppression-claim protectionism" (as some people in the Hollywood Jewish community, for example, unconsciously wanting to "protect" the memory and unique legacy of the Holocaust as the premiere example of racially based evil?) Maybe it's something else, I don't know.

Personally, I couldn't wait to see it when it came out, and I enjoyed it thoroughly. Yes, it's tough to watch at times, but not necessarily more than Schindler's List or other movies portraying deep personal or social injustice, violence or drama (take Zero Dark Thirty, for example). There are singular aspects to 12YAS that make it stand out (i.e.the painful torture scenes, the everydayness of submission and soul deprivation, powerfully brought out by the cast and director). That said, I am glad Hollywood recognized this film. I am not a big fan of political correctness, but the movie leaves a mark and it is very well made and acted. In addition to that, the fact that it attacks slavery in the US at its core visually, philosophically and ethically is commendable and makes it worthy of the award. Not that others didn't deserve it as well but the Oscars are heavily political–whether you want it or not–and this time politics fell in favor of the oft-forgotten. Right on here.

OSCARS

So I didn't watch the Oscars tonight. I had a baby shower to attend, my first ever, and I missed on the glam and glitter of Hollywood. Well, actually I got home before it ended so I caught the tail end of the show and was able to see Sydney Poitier and the last few awards. It was hard for me to feel emotional or excited about any of it. I tried to empathize/sympathize/be inspired by Cuarón, Mccounaghey, Blanchet or McQueen. Something in the whole thing seemed to me either rehearsed, trite or, as in the case of McQueen, borderline hysteric.

Don't know if I am less vulnerable, more cynical or simply they just didn't do it for me. The ceremony and the build up to it appeared to me this year more than ever just a "me bigger" game dependent on marketing and money-for-attention. Usually the winners are good, although not necessarily the best; politics and/or money play a big role in this, so its attraction has peeled off me quite a bit. It may also be just seasonal and next year I'll be in a different personal space to care more about this type of thing.

The baby shower was nice: excellent home cooked Mexican food and a very nice host, my friend Miguel. Good conversation, some interesting and nice people and good fun and laughter: that was more valuable to me tonight than the Oscars. That said, congratulations to all the winners and best of year for all artists.

ON HOUSE OF CARDS

I like House of Cards. It's like the 21st century version of I Claudius. Yes, I know that many people won't remember that show, one because it was British and two, because it happened almost 40 years ago. I used to watch it in Spain, in our black and white "Inter" television. Every Sunday evening I would seat with anticipation on our tiny living room's coach with my good grandma while my parents were out getting their weekly fix of working class social life.

That's almost the same anticipation I feel now when I sit with my buddies every night to watch it. The ingenuity and ability for conspiracy, double-crossing, Machiavellian malevolence, fake and allegedly real (sporadic) compassion the Underwoods show, is sometimes exhilarating, often mesmerizing and always captivating. And Stamper (Frankie's lackey) ranks up there in the creep scale. Same as the FBI guy (Stamper's henchman). I hope the writers don't do any mescal and go Prison Breakish on us. Keep it wacky, but keep it real. 

OLYMPICS in NBC PRIME TIME

The Games of the whatever Winter Olympiad are over. Nice.

Full disclosure: I have only watched the Prime Time coverage on NBC with Bob Costas, so I don't know how the rest of the coverage has been. 

But what I have indeed seen has been closer to a long supercute glossymercial than an international tournament sports coverage. I can't say that I didn't enjoy the brief moments of sports interspersed into the commercial airtime, but I was a little disappointed to see that 180 countries had been disqualified from Sochi after the first couple of days, leaving a field of only the US, Russia, The Netherlands, South Korea and, I think, Germany. Wait... No, I think an Italian ice skater stuck around too. Things are niftier and cleaner when it's only the US and somebody else, especially if the US wins or gets a medal. Or, if they fully self-destroy and then THAT becomes news fodder (e. g. Team USA's  speed skating debacle or Shaun White's descent into, ohmigod, 4th place hell!). For the record, before the games I had no idea of who White is or that the speed skaters were supposed to dominate. Costas and Co. made sure I got it right. Which is good. But using the broadcast as a glorified home team highlight show or a gossipy intrusion into our heroes' demise is subpar journalism. Also, I believe, it contributes to the distorted view many Americans have of the country's place in the world, neglecting the sacrifices made by many non-medal US athletes and other nations' accomplishments. And this not only applies to sports

For example when BobCos interviewed the IOC President, Thomas Bach, a German, Costas confronted Bach on the poor human rights record of Russia and the widely-assumed idea that these were "Putin's games". Diplomatically, Bach reminded him that it was better not do delve too much on the different countries' HR records or their allegiances to this or that regime (in reference, I suppose, to criticism of Russia's support to Syria, but also sending a subtle message that the US has its share of troubled relationships with human rights and dubious regimes). While I agree on the relevance of Costas' question, it's necessary to also look at ourselves as a country without adopting too high a righteous perch, since others can arguably lob similar criticisms to us. 

This is what happens when we only get to see the goodies but not the full, rich and not always sunny picture. It was poignant to see Noelle Pikus-Pace, who won silver in skeleton being interviewed and profusely recognized–and deservedly so–while a heart-broken Katie Uhlander, who came in 4th in the same event, received just a brief moment on TV after the race and faded into NBC oblivion after that. We can do better. *

*And no, getting to see the Jamaican two-man bobsleigh does not qualify for ample and balanced coverage.  

SURREALISMIC

This is what happens after some time in LA!

Hanging with a friend over Champions League soccer the other day we came upon the topic of surrealism. Los Angeles surrealism to be specific. Having lived in both US coasts, in between, South America and Europe I believe am qualified to tread the topic. The fact that I come from Spain, and the Basque Country at that, adds an extra layer of refinement to the understanding of surrealism Western-style. (As with multiple universes, I also think surrealism takes different shades outside our crazed up civilization.)

That said, Los Angeles tops the scale – banana or not – in my radar. It was funny my American friend brought it up: when my friends in Spain ask me about LA I find it difficult to explain anything logically without sounding moralistic, victimistic or hyperbolic. Granted, I may be all of the above at times – you see, that's part of the LA survival kit – but there is more to that. After all, how many people can boast of having been almost run over by a bus driver trying to steal your bike? Or been waived sayonara by another one while bypassing your stop? Or witnessing a maddening helicopter pow-wow in the sky directly above your garden while the hummingbird and the bees get to work on your beautifully blossoming wild flowers? And what about the one-block, virtual Iron Curtain between Yuppy Row and Skid Row in Downtown LA? Wanna travel from Kansas to Bangui, Dorothy? Just take a right-hand turn on Main Street after 10 p.m., sweetie. Yo Buñuel, something for you here?

Anyway, my friend's bringing it up and a couple of inexplicable things in my personal path reminded me of this city's surrealism. But enough; today I am opting to have some fun and remain on the real side: I am going to Disneyland.

HOLLY PAJAMERS

Lately I've been having a lot of time on my hands...so I came to thinking: What's up with those peeps that walk into Starbucks or The Coffee Bean and whatever in their pajamas? OK, I suppose valley girls think they look cool, hip and FBook rad. But growing up in the Basque Country of Spain I always assimilated people wearing pajamas and slippers on the street with some degree of personal hygiene challenges. But now I am beginning to understand that may just be an old European misconception. Hollywood being the epitome of fashion – how about them deer skin, half-calf boots and alpaca beanies in June? – I am beginning to internalize the fact that there are some fashionista mores that I fail to grasp. It may also be the age gap: I guess I missed out on the pajamas-are-cool-to-wear-out revolution. But I think I am catching on to the next one: sweat pants rolled up to the knees, combo flip-flops and pillow hair. Add a tobacco-cured grave voice and an important iPhone conversation with your agent/mechanic working on your brand new Mustang that works like a "f.cking trampoline" and you got a winner. I am gonna work on it. I just saw a rummage sale around the corner and they have a full rack of sweat pants. Sweet!

FUTBOL IN LOS ANGELES

Los Angeles is lately showing me a fun, peaceful face – knock on wood. Not only had I the chance to enjoy a great little place in Manzanita where I reconnected with my bee friends, the squirrel and a couple of chirpy hummingbirds – not to mention the skunk with a cat brain that wanted me to pet her... Between work and lack of hiking partners my weekend desert forays had become more sporadic and I was getting bored: coffee and newspaper was great in the morning, but that only got me covered for a couple hours. And spending Sunday watching TV was out of the question: this is LA, not Buffalo.

So I started to take walks around the neighborhood. I got to know every kook and crevice on the sidewalks; some residents even said hi as we crossed–usually the ones not walking a dog: interesting question for a psycho-sociologist.

One day I heard people yelling from the soccer field across the street and went over to check. There was a game going, people around my age, perhaps a little younger. I hadn't played soccer in a long while – I think it was New Jersey last year, with Pete – but I am always game to kick a few balls. I asked a guy with a D'Artagnan moustache who went by the name of Ethan if I could join them some time. He told me they were practicing for a parents vs parents school game in February (this was sometime in December I think), but that it was cool to join them for practice on Sundays. 

I was asked a few times what grade my kid was on and I had to explain that I am childless but that "I just like soccer and live across the street." I got a couple of confused looks but most people were very welcoming (even the skeptics were once they got over the thing about not being a parent). So I rediscovered playing football. Too bad my progression and getting into playing shape were cut short by a pulled hamstring (my career was almost derailed by an involuntary taekwondo kick from a goalie in a divided ball play – that ended in goal by the way). But it's been a lot of fun. And the best, as almost always in sports, comes not from the practice itself but from the people we play with. The Franklin parents have been great to play with, no-pressure and really open to learning and having fun. The coach, a no-nonsense Irishman with an old school methodology really leaves his (funny) mark. The parents vs parents took place on February 8 and the Franklin group I play with (Foxes) vanquished the Ivanhoe team (Dragons) 3-0 in a great and fun match. I couldn't play (both due to injury and ineligibility) but I did help to coach the goalkeepers, mostly Koko, a cool Armenian dude. I loved it. I had never actually done any "formal" coaching but I enjoyed it tremendously. I may use that as blueprint for future coaching/teaching. Et pourquoi pas? 

Here are a couple of pictures from the post-game celebration. Nice times. Go Foxes.

CHANGING EYES

Perspective. Look. Angle. Glasses. Funny how changes in them will affect our perception of something. We can look at the wheel, or at the spokes, even at the spaces between them. And we see something different depending on our focus. We can look at a woman with long blond hair and tight jeans or we can look at her defensive pose, in open contradiction with her fake smile. We can look at a city through the asphalt, the cement, the noise and the filth, or we can see the trees, the plants, the bushes, the colorful flowers bursting through the cracks on cement walls and decrepit narrow hill streets. We can look at the cold outside in the streets, or we can focus on the warmth of our dreams, our books inside. We can dread the grey clouds or we can smile at the blue chunks opening through.

Times are changing here. I will be gone from Manzanita in a couple of days. Sadly so. I love this place. Pete Seeger died yesterday, the great singer-warrior for causes. Thank you Mr. Seeger. I shall overcome too, for this is also my land.

NOTES FROM "LA MADRIGUERA"

A madriguera is a den, a cave, a hideout or it could be something like a nest, not necessarily for birds, a cuddling place where mammals, take a bear, go to hibernate.

And here is where I am, in my madriguera. Not for long, since I am moving out due to the end of my sublease and the return of my sublessor. I will miss this place, especially moments like this one, when I can look outside the crappy old, glassed-door and see the little hummingbird batting its wings, or the sun buttering up the side of the house. But c'est la vie. I will find another cool Madriguera. Promise.

Other than that, I am just loving it, and I don't need a big mac for that. Quite the contrary. There is a story brewing and it's shaping up pretty good. Things would be close to platinum grade if my neighbor conducted his phone business inside the house instead of hogging the common driveway's air space with his honky-tonk conversations. But he is who he is. Live and let live. Listen and let listen...or whatever. He's got a cool dog and he himself (neighbor, not dog) is a decent fellow, aside from his driveway over-phoning. So I'll move forward and up, and let it go.

I watched "Prisoners" the other night, with Gyllenhaal and Jackman. Great movie. One of the best picture I've seen all season, perhaps with 12 Years a Slave. Great script, characters, cinematography... Right on. The Oscars will go to Gravity (are they really making enough money to pay for all the marketing campaign? Geez) and 12 Years. Wolf will get something too (DiCap is excellent and so is Hill). I hope American Hustle doesn't run with it; it was good but not great. I know J. Lawrence is America's current darling but her NJ neglected-bitch wife performance is not convincing to me. Bale is awesome though. His does. I could say more about more, but I won't. Oh wait: I'll say that All is Lost is an excellent film and Redford is very good. It won't get Awards because the geezers and geezerettes that vote in this thing won't have seen it out of thematic fear. Yes, it is unnerving, but it's a movie. And it's good.

And one last note to customer service agents in the banking industry and others (including waitresses), in Spain and around the world. Customer service means that the agent/waitress is supposed to serve the customer, not the other way around. If that cramps your style, you should find another line of work.

That's all for now from the Madriguera.

A ROMANI MAN in LOS FELIZ

A few days ago I was sauntering around Los Feliz at sunset time, listening to Onda Cero radio on my iPod when a man sitting outside a donut store on Franklin and Hillhurst said something to me as I passed by. I had my earphones on so I didn't hear what he said but I stopped, took one of them out and asked him "what was it"? He wanted to know if I am from Brooklyn because I was wearing my brown (Brooklyn) T-shirt. I told him I had lived there. He was an old man with gray hair and dressed in a well-worn suit. His olive face framed two kind and mischievous hazelnut eyes. He asked me where I was from originally and I told him. He said he was Romani, born in Brooklyn. He started telling baseball stories of his beloved Brooklyn–hence his interest–Dodgers and we hit it off. He was well spoken, cultured and keen on talking. I gently refused his offer of a free palm reading (future will happen and I prefer not to be pressured to make all the right decisions or to accept resignedly an allegedly unbending unpleasant destiny) but he went on talking. Clearly he had found a good conversation companion and was happy to forsake his seer instinct for a while. He did inquire a few times if I was a teacher or a doctor, whose look or energy apparently I emanate, but other than that he was mostly interested in talking history and sharing his family and group stories. The afternoon light was beginning to acquire that orange Los Angeles hue and the air was balmy. A woman inside the donut store looked out into the horizon across the glass while her hands played distractedly with a phone; her eyes grazed my face through the glass like a cat's attention, appearing to be there but not really; I was clearly invisible to her. But not to Tomas, the old Romani man. He politely asked me if I had time to hear a story and I said yes. I had some work to do back at home, besides my entire life to sort out, but perhaps this was part of that untangling process, I thought: the situation, the place, the time seemed to beckon me to stay, so I sat down with a smile on my face and prepared to listen. For the next half hour Tomas took me on an endearing trip with an old Romani fable passed down, he said, from generation to generation, a moving fairy tale full of ingenuity and humor that seemed to contain, among the golden elements of traditional tales (kings and princesses, weddings and unconditional love), new moral quandaries and a foresight into the creation myth of the Romani people, or at least of their wandering ways. I am not going to tell the story for Tomas wants to write a book of them (he has more, he said). Indeed he asked me to write them for him, and I may very well do. I'll keep you posted. But what a great way to end my afternoon walk it was.

REYES/KINGS DAY

January 6th is the Epiphany, Kings Day in Spain. It's my favorite day of the Christmas season, and the last. I have beautiful memories of when I was a child, even though I never received what I had asked for in my letter. That always puzzled me: can't they read, these Kings? I would wonder. But I am a good sport and always ended up loving what I did get. Being here, in Los Angeles, alone, I wasn't sure if the Kings would come this far. Price of oil is high and their camels may need extra water to cross oceans and continents. I worried. Unnecessarily so, it turns out: the Kings arrived punctually, leaving their gifts by the raggedy shoes I left near the window, as tradition requests: three beautiful books, leather-bound Conan Doyle, illustrated Shakespeare and soft-covered Koertge, a sweet pencil and a DVD-pack with some of my beloved Westerns and a juicy special edition of Jaws. This time they nailed it, them Kings! So many years have passed and I finally got all I wanted and more (as some things are too personal to share here). It is never too late to be a child, and THAT is the best gift. Isn't life grand?

FUTEBOL

Domingo 10 de la mañana. Se juntan padres de niños de la escuela Franklin y un servidor, que no soy padre pero podría serlo. Correteamos un poco dirigidos por el entrenador, un irlandés sacado del troquel de arquetipos, y echamos una partidillo. Una pachanga en el sentido más esencial de la palabra. Pocos conocen este deporte así que el nivel es altamente mejorable. Si añadimos las inclemencias físicas de la mayoría, el espectáculo desde fuera debe ser para descojonarse y no parar. Pero hago un poco de deporte, corro y, de vez en cuando me sale alguna jugadita con pase entre lineas que llega a su destinatario; otros no llegan bien porque el receptor ni olió la posibilidad del pase, inició el desmarque quedándose clavado, o yo envié una castaña infumable. Pero está bien. Ando en período de recuperación física (espalda, piernas, uñas y cejas) así que piano, piano voy entrando en forma. Mi único deseo es que no haya lesionados. Por lo demás, este domingo ilumina mis mañanas. Y eso que hoy hay derby en Anoeta. Veré la segunda parte, porque lo primero es lo primero. Aupa Real.

HOOOOOLAAAAA