Change of Scenery

This is a complete turn of events for a blog that was supposed to take place on the streets of Noo Yawk. Due to various bad vibe ailments I encountered last week, I hastily purchased a low-low fare to my second home, El Spanglish Rancho deep in da rainforest on the north coast of a certain Caribbean island (did i hear you say colonia?, ah, now the Spanglish begins). I'm of course bummed that I flaked on the big Encuentro in the Boogie-Down, which I really wanted to attend because I do have a policy wonk side of me (buried under several other sides, but important nonetheless) and it probably would have been like a night on 106th Street, but with Boricuas from all over the damn place. Angelo is really going to rag on me for this.

Pero anyway the flight down, what can I say, I lucked out with an aisle seat next to a bunch of nobodies (me, myself, and I, sprawled across a trifecta of unsold tickets, watching this treacly action crap called The Rundown, starring the sort of Latino-looking The Rock...what kind of name is that for an artist?), and in a kind of saving-grace way, Chris "Continental" Walken and that most fabulous of Loisaida transcultural babes, Rosario Dawson. Here's the whole movie: The Rock says, with this very serious expression on his face, "You have two choices: A)You do some totally against your interest thing willingly or B) I make you." It kind of reminds me of toilet training, really. Like that scene in Austin Powers when he's in the stall next to Tom Arnold in the Las Vegas bathroom. Alotta Vagina, if you ask me.

But when am I going to get over this annoyance with the continually maddening flow of drivel that passes for popular culture? When am I going to get with it, so to speak? "Why don't you get stupid, instead of smart?" as James Chance used to say. The plane touches down, people applaud (it's really lost it's charm), and I get picked up by the Don and his Doña, and I get to drive the keeping up with the joneses SUV all the way down route 3 and into the sacred land of Yukiyu (remember Paulie when he did that Yukiyu improv on reverse slam night? I don't think I'll ever forget that) and the sacred tree frogs y la lluvia que no para. Nunca.

No, that's not really fair. It gets hot, hot, sunny up here quite a bit but the forecast calls for continued mojado, or as they say in Andalucía, moja'o. Which reminds me, this group out of nowhere called Chambao is really the most seductive thing I've heard in a long time and it makes me pine for some dusty dry beach anywhere between Cádiz and Marbella just to feel the heat and smell the smell whatever it is I'm there. No, no, I'm not some Spaniard-wanabee, I got mad Caribbean skills and I know who my peeps are but you can't do anything about your dreams, n'am sayin'? Not your aspirations, hopes, I mean that subconscious shit that grabbed you in your gut and hasn't let go since puberty...It's not something that can be explained in a Tony Soprano episode either.

But I've gone too far already. I was hoping to unfold the story rather slowly, maybe use a series of flashbacks, but I haven't really explained anything yet, most importantly, what Living in Spanglish is. Or gotten away from that la vida es sueño, y los sueños, sueños son cliché.