And then. . .

Description There is good music, there is great music, there is bad music, and there is badass music, we are BADASS!!! Band Interests Drinkin, Smokin, Fuckin, and being somewhat of a bastard, set to music!! Artists We Also Like The Clash, Iggy Pop and the Stooges, Rancid, Black Flag, The Descendants, NOFX, Ol' Dirty Bastard This is what you see when you go to Snappy Crotch Kicks page. I was unsure of what to expect when seeing their show at Black Market, a bar in the Cincinnati area which hosts live music, much of it, local talent. It’s located on a slope across from The Lowbrow Palace, a prominent local live music venue. As you walk inside Black Market, low ceilings give the place a basement like feel. The black walls, well they don’t help, but it supports local art shows and has a large patio that makes up for moments of possible claustrophobia. Tonight we’re here to see the Snappy Crotch Kicks play. They’re the last show of three bands. It’s 12:00am and every

            "Their sound is like  tantan tan tan tantan,  right?" "What do you mean?" I asked. "Well you know how The Strokes sound like  tantantan tantan taran ? They seem to have that tantan tan tan tantan sound in their songs." "Oh?" I wasn't sure I understood. "It's not bad. I mean all bands have their sound, you know?" "Oh, right. I get it." Daniel and I walked up the steep hill of Robinson Ave. in the Cincinnati District. The night noise of passing by cars, disembodied laughter, and music overflowing from doorways surrounded us. Cinci, as everyone calls it, is one of the nightlife areas in El Paso, and tonight we came to see The Royalty. We walked away from The Lowbrow Palace where we had just seen the band. Lowbrow is one of the handful of venues where you can see local bands, budding touring bands, and well-known bands. Pat Mahoney from LCD Soundsystem and Kinky will soon play there. Toni

Have you ever bitten into a piece of bread and let it turn into a big ball in your mouth? The mixture of saliva and bread is pushed against the roof of your mouth into a doughy ball. As you try to chew it makes it difficult to swallow because the bread absorbs the excess saliva and  for a second it's hard to breathe as it continues to cling precariously to the concave flesh roof. Trying to break the doughy mass into pieces seems out of reach as you continue to try to make a an air pocket between you and the bread, as you push your tongue against the back of your front teeth. And just when you are about to reach into your mouth, with your fingers to pull the doughy mass that feels like it's about to kill you, it comes free. You chew it tentatively, then a little more excited because you're free of the bready mass. You chew harder because for some reason you are angry at the bread for making you feel as if you are about to die. When you swallow you are a little sad, becau

A Conversation with Alex aka “Rocka”: Ex-drummer of Mexicans at Night current drummer for Los TraQues Y: How long have you been in the El Paso music scene? R: Not even that long, like thirteen years. Y: Thirteen years? Okay, how do you think it’s changed from where you started to now? R: It hasn’t really changed. Has it? Y: It hasn’t changed at all in thirteen years? R: No, I mean it hasn’t. I mean the kids did get new stuff and everything, but you know, they got new DJ stuff and all sorts of other stuff, but yeah the scene hasn’t changed. Nothing’s happened. I mean before there were a lot more original bands. Now there are a lot of posers. Y: What do you consider an original band? R: A band that doesn’t play covers. Y: And posers, you used that word, what is that? What is your definition of a poser? R: Cover bands. Y: So— R: There’s a lot more posers. A lot more cover bands. And, not enough support for original bands, because, there was a lot more venues in

Today I had the ForWord writing workshops at Glasbox Studios. The class was small, intimate. I participated with the young authors in the writing prompts I'd created for them called, "What Happened?" I gave them a sentence and they decided what would happen to the characters situation. Here is what I managed to write. I'm posting without editing. I wish I could  have kept some of the stories they wrote from the prompts because their talent continues to awe. Prompt  ·          While I was pumping gas a man came up to me.   I had been driving for two hours. Only one more to go and I would reach my destination of Austin, TX. I hadn’t seen Lori for six months, and now we going to enjoy a weekend in Austin. It was dusk, that time of day where the light and the night meet half way in the sky. My gas gauge was a little less than halfway. Although I didn’t want to stop, I knew I had too. Austin traffic could be murder and the thought of being stranded on I35 was not

I heard something beautiful said about art today. When I say art I mean every part of it, all encompassing, music, the written word, murals painted onto the concrete giants that hold highways up, Dali hanging in a museum of art, the guitarist playing on a street  corner.... "When you look in the night sky , you see a million stars.                                                     They are all there, seemingly blinking .  At times one looks brighter than the other, but in reality the stars are all working together, that's what art is."

sunday's have become the day i look forward to all week. they are the days that i have nothing planned. that i use to recharge because by saturday my red light is blinking in warning. sunday's i sleep in late. i wake from a sleep so deep and heavy it's as if my bed, with it's thick gold comforter and numerous pillows have wrapped around me in a warm embrace. i'm surrounded by warmth and an arm that reaches for me while dreaming in the middle of the night to pull me closer. half the day is spent in this overstuffed bed. only rising because the rumbling in our stomachs demands it. this afternoon? spinach and mushroom omelet with a garlic cheese middle, roasted potatoes, two strips of crispy bacon, steaming french press coffee and  homemade agua de sandia. the rest of the day is spent in the living room. it's a carpet camp out. coffee table pushed to the farthest part of the room. blankets and pillow stretched out and puffed up in a makeshift bed. i can watch

September 1, 2012 The pleasure of your company  is requested at the marriage of Amy Ann Porras to  Brandon Alejandro Ayala Dance & Celebration  Nine O'Clock in The Evening  Grace Gardens 6701 Westside Drive El Paso, TX 79932 The church nestled on the far Westside. The service, beautiful and filled with tears. The tears that glimmer and make eyes overly shinny as they hang, precarious on the edge of the bottom lid, before one spills over and glides gently down cheeks flushed with happiness. After, a certain sigh of relief as all the well wishers crowd around the newlyweds showering them with hugs and kisses, lip stick imprints and pats on the back. The sun is shining, warm. Small beads of sweat are added accessories to the court and guests as they linger in front of the church. Next? The pictures. Downtown El Paso. Surrounded by The Camino Hotel, The Museum of Art, and the breath of the southwest.          "Smile!"          &q

Fragments of Mom and Ita 1.         1. A running joke, “Ya se te olvidó que tienes, Mamá,” has morphed into a fond memory. My family, a group now consisting of my mom, my sister, and my uncle, has turned the phrase into one of standard family sayings. A repeated phrase, when you haven’t called someone in a couple days, “Ya se te olvidó que tienes hermana?”, “Ya se te olvidó que tienes hija?” etc. The use of the phrase began with my grandma, Ita. She called my mom on a daily basis. 2.         2.      “Who’s calling? I asked. We watched a movie in my Mom’s room, my eight year old body curled on my side towards my Mom. It was one of the few days she was off from work. We still had our pajamas on. This morning she called the school and told them I wasn’t feeling well. The Fritos I just ate heavy in my stomach. “Aye, it’s your Ita,” she looked at the display on the phone and set it down. “ Gorda! Dónde estás? Hablame,” her voice crackled over the answering machine speaker.

"If you ever get lonely, go to the record store and visit your friends." Penny Lane, Almost Famous  The theory behind music. Who would have thought there was a theory behind the music. That there is thought behind the incessant beat we can't get out of our minds. An ear worm that embeds itself deep into our subconscious before we even know it. And, when we hear the song, the Zeppelins and Hendrix of our lives, we believe the song was written just for us. The artist somehow knew what we were feeling and they wrote it for us. The music gets under your skin and seeps deep into your soul until its twisted, combined, and changed your DNA. It's a memory of a first kiss or a caress and that won't change from the still in your mind. From then on that song will take you back to that place, the moment when you were happy, or sad, or...and you are friends for life.

I just finished watching a cutesy movie about love. The Hollywood kind that a friend of mine refers to as presenting an idealized version of love that doesn't exist. And, perhaps she's right, perhaps it doesn't exist because nothing in life is ever that perfect and ends with a bow tied around the middle. One of my favorite movies has a quote about The Brady Bunch. 01:14:32 Understand why things just can't go back to normal... 01:14:35 at the end of the half-hour... 01:14:37  Iike on "The Brady Bunch" or something. 01:14:42 Well, because Mr. Brady died of A.I.D.S. 01:14:49 Things don't work out like that.  Maybe things don't work out that way. And, at the end of the half-hour reality sinks in. But, maybe it's not about the going back to normal at the end of the half-hour, maybe it's about the half-hour. And, maybe I'm being overly optimistic, because right now I feel like I'm in that half-hour, but if we don't

a start notes my body recognizes, foreplay... loosening me up. tip tap tip tip tap making me lan-gu-id, pliable like finger tips dancing across my skin   a rhythm created  by the drumming of fingers against my  wet lips  singing the song your hands have created against my slicked beat  flicking the strings increasing the speed of the bass  of your moans penetrating   my breathe  the treble to our song rocking           rocking                    rocking   faster in  the moment  when we, give ourselves over  to the action of being 

Last Saturday, I used an analogy that I believe gives an accurate description to one of the processes that takes place in my mind. I call it the balloons in mind. Because it's my last year of school, because it's things I worry about, because it's that person I just don't know how to deal with, because you don't know how to get the wording right, because what's going to happen in June, because, because, because, because... Because as I think of all these things I blow another breath of air into the balloons in my mind.They continue to expand and grow until the red one is bigger than the blue one, and the yellow gets pushed to the side, while the orange one, it stay the size of a medium grapefruit. With each conversation, as the breath travels up my chest and out of the pink flesh of my lungs, and into my mouth that tastes like coffee, a breath is exhaled. My words are exhaled into the balloons. They get filled with the worry and the doubt and the hopes and

The sky is clear as glass. A bright, blue, technicolor vivid. Below, it's mirrored reflection bounces on and on in the infinite blue of the water. The trees embracing the lake, stand still, towering guards. The bottle neck opening provides the only open space from the endless branches, leaves, and acorns interweaved tightly together. A canopy of life and green and earth. Suddenly, The steps of a stranger interrupt. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch .The dead animal soles echo. He walks to the edge of the lake and stares. Brown eyes attempting to take in all the blue. He looks at the trees, the water, the sky, and yells. Loud. Hard. The scream bursting out from the center of his body, out of his mouth opened wide. Stretched to the seams of where his lips meet. About to stretch apart if they could. His stomach slowly sinking in on itself as all the air vacates his body. It goes on. Long. Deafening, until he can't breath. Till the scream turns into a hoarse whisper and only his mout

perhaps it is cliche , but there is something special about desert rain. i've lived where it has rained for weeks on end, and although special, because i love rain,  it doesn't hold the same whimsical quality. whimsical. i use this word for lack of a better term. but today running through a river of rainwater racing down the depression in the mountain my campus sits in, the Sun Bowl, didn't cause frustration. instead a bubbling of laughter rose from my core. squeals escaped as the down pour increased its drenching rhythm. the splash my sandal-ed feet made echoed with exaggerated suction as i pulled away from the rain insistent in encompassing me. rain drops ran down my shortly cropped hair into my eyes, drops ran down my naked arms, splashed onto my bare legs, until i was soaked. and still more laughter escaped me because of the fruitless effort of those around me carrying umbrellas and scurrying against the running water. inside we all looked drowned and soggy; col

I need to make some clarifications before I post this.      1. I think clowns are creepy     2. a student picked this image for a writing prompt.      3. This was written in 5 minutes     3. most of the photo's were of IT. They Don't All Float White clad faces red nose changin' small car playin'                     HONK!                     BING!                     BAM!                     BOOM! Elephants trippin' tight rope walkers flyin' Lion tamers shakin' ALL        FOR                    LOL'S!                    OMG'S!                    WTH'S!

When I was younger, before I had a car and my biggest concern was what would happen if I got caught smoking a cigarrette, I was told by my mom that she could spot who my friends were before she even saw me. She'd look in the crowd of self-conscious hormonal teenagers and notice the similarities in the toss of our hair, the bobble in our neck, and our hands scribbling emphasis in the air. Now, I'm sure the way we dressed gave some things away, our scuffed Vans and low hanging pants, all hints of which group we belonged to. But, I was thinking about those gestures and how they change, evolve, and sometimes disappear. How the people in our lives help develop our mannerisms. Almost like cooking, a pinch of this person a cup of this one and WHAM! You've made them all your own. How do we know what was ours and what we picked up? There is the conscious, "I like that I'm going to start doing it." An ex-boyfriend used to dissect my phrasing and he'd steal thing

No hay mal que por bien no venga. Tanto quiere el diablo a su hijo que hasta un ojo le quiere sacar. Mejor sola que mal acompa ñ ada. Tanto pedo para cagar aguado. Lo barato sale caro. Más seguro más amarrado. Para buen entendido muy pocas palabras. Para cada roto un descocido. Hijo pepe mariquita! Para pendeja no se estudia. Limosnero con garrote. Soy como Orozco, cuando como no conozco. La zorra nunca ve su cola ni el zorrillo su fundillo. El muerto y el arrimado al los tres días huelen. Amores de lejos, amores de pendejos. Estaba haciendo chili con la cola. Me  da diarrea con gusanos. Enfermo que come y mea, y el diablo que se le crea. La esperanza es la última que muere. El flojo trabaja doble. De noche todos los gatos son pardos. Una cosa es Juan Domínguez y otra cosa es no la chingues. Es de Don Cuco, entra la bola no se supo. Primero me besa un ciego. Dime con quién andas y te diré quien eres. No porque te levantas más temprano

I darted between cars in the rainbow stained parking lot, leaping over small inky puddles from the gathering mist. I hurried, only to stand in line. I was late. I was always late, even when I tried to be on time. My phone vibrated and I looked down as it lit up with a text that said, “Inside where u @?” I sent a quick response and waited. I sighed and leaned against the wall to keep out of the spray, resigned to wait another fifteen minutes till I could get in. There was always something about live shows that I loved. The air tingled a little and people stood around anxious, waiting, hoping, that they were going to have a good time. The slight deaf feeling after and the rush of adrenaline always made them worth it. Tonight, Sage had convinced me to come out even though I didn’t know the people playing.  The walls from the venue reverberated from the music inside. I felt my leg, shaking from impatience, begin to match the beat of the muffled song. The people in front of me smoked a

It's a sauna. No, to say it's a sauna is an understatement because along with the wall of heat that hits you as you walk down the stairs there is the smell. The smell of sweat and work slick bodies working harder than they've probably ever worked before twists and combines with the humid air of the basement. I enter and feel the breeze of fans touch my already warm skin. This is a basement filled with six other people all working together, whether consciously or unconsciously toward the same moment. That point in the running, stair climbing, punching, crunching, jumping, squatting... where you don't think you can go anymore. When the burn in your muscles doesn't subside and the burn in your lungs makes each breath hard even though they are screaming for it. But, still, I punch.I punch the bag and wait for it to swing back at me to punch it again. My arms, brown, are slick with sweat. They look oiled and I feel the drops of sweat ribbon themselves down my head, m

We walked into the small viewing room. The swell of panic bubbled up into my chest toward my tightly clenched jaw, teeth forced into one another, the urge to run overwhelming. There were no windows in the small beige room, only dim fluorescent lighting that cast shadows across faces and corners.  I willed my feet to move in a forward motion knowing I would regret not seeing her one last time before the cremation. As my family walked forward, I lingered behind my mom and uncle as they broke into tears. My mom’s back heaved up and down and the ache she must have felt escaped with a low unnatural sound. My uncle sniffed and wiped at his checks while standing still and simply staring, his hand rubbing my mom’s back in a counterclockwise circle from time to time  They blocked my view slightly and I stayed back still waiting to see a sign that she was still going to look like my grandma. Finally I stepped forward and looked down at my grandma, sleeping, the sheet from her bed wrapped

today is saturday. a lazy saturday. i woke up with my cat, Drew, curled up next to me, sans alarm, sans my neighbor throwing his trash away as he does every morning at 5am, simply sans. there is nothing lovelier than waking up on your own accord, stretching from fingertips to toe tips and laying quietly with only the sound of your breath.

sometimes when your mind is deliciously empty of words that would have meaning for anyone but yourself, you search into things written in the past, and i stumbled upon an appropriate piece for today. drum beats and rocks gods and shiny things that keep your mind from standing still long enough to make a point. they keep r o l l i n g togetherintomoreandmore until you can't keep track of where you started and where things ended, started... ended. repeat and rinse, but she's still there

At Village Inn, my favorite writing place. This one, is my favorite in the city. Bright orange booths with light fixtures out of Rock Hudson's Pillow Talk, and witty quotes on the wall like, "Never trust a skinny chef."  The cloudy skies stream in through tinted windows and continue to draw me away, seduce me into daydreaming about all the things I should be writing and trips I should be taking and money I need to be saving. So I can go high and low and down below the country's line I have never crossed before.  Then I look back to the screen and I think, Ita, Ita, what do I write about Ita. My thesis, a memoir, and Yeah, my stories are that interesting. There are many, but I need pictures, I need something, because right now they are floating, tiny little words on paper bouncing around outside the atmosphere of my brain.  Oh, there's an art show soon. I should go. It's starting to rain and it makes me think of dancing. Dancing Donna Summer style wi

There are two types of Sunday afternoons: A. You realize that your weekend is almost over and tomorrow is the beginning of the week. That's right Monday, and with that comes early morning and (hopefully) coffee, work and and and.... B. The lounge-y Sunday afternoon that lets you sleep in, tangled in cool sheets (hopefully), followed by a leisure brunch. Today I am having B. I am having B and completely enjoying it, because although I don 't have a stressful summer I still have things to do like everyone else, but for now, today, I'll enjoy the warm breeze weaving itself though my house through the sliding glass doors, Luna curled up dozing, sunshine making the words I'm typing  brighter and more meaningful, and if needed a conversation, with the one writing sunlit words, as well, in the other room.

Washington D.C. D.C. D.C. I took an opportunity to visit and see your city. The work the training really had nothing to do with me (Boys and Girls Club apparently needed a girl. Thank you gender equality) Long days with sneaky rogue missions to the meet the streets The streets that hum and buzz with the plank plank plank of the souls of peoples feet, speak, and dreams. Thank you musician man for strumming Jimi as I walk walk walk toward Capitol Hill I'm just a bill, yeah, I'm only a bill, and I'm sitting here on Capitol Hill Monuments, Why hello! So nice to meet you. How do you do Mr. Lincoln and Jefferson and King and geez simply all the history. My silent repects to President Kennedy and all the soldiers resting around you, quite sombering. The smell, the green, the things that make D.C., D.C, you're all quite lovely. Rude? I'd heard rude, not with me, all smiles, suggestions, directions, hmm....perhaps it's the boobs. Today I head home, back to Texa

if my blog could talk it would say that at this moment i am hungry. it would say that summer is too hot in el paso, too hot in texas, and just plain too hot. today could not have really been the first day of summer. it's been summer since may. it would say that my fb chats with my sister are always funny my blog would talk you about all the things i don't say. about past summer nights and new conversations about wonderings and forgivings and grudges it would mention that there are moments that even when i'm happy, i'm waiting for the other shoe to drop don't look a gift horse in the mouth. it might also talk about stars and the music i've been listening to under them. it would talk about washington d.c. and kids and some dude i don't know named wally. it would talk about dinners and pizza's and bandeja's paisa attempted while having sunday soccer sunday. mexican food will always be the winner. it would tell you about boxing and the scrap

This summer I'm going to embark on something new, a summer without a job. For the first time in a long time I will not work, well not in the typical manner because I will be working on my thesis, but I will not be working for someone else, I will be my own boss, will crack my own whip, make my fingers move... you get the point. This is both interesting, liberating, and frightening. Aside from the writing, I have a created a bucket list. Well friends and I have created a bucket list so that we can ensure there are adventures and perhaps a few more stories... The Bucket List 1. Carlsbad Caverns 2. Visit a driving range 3. Wet n' Wild 4. White Sands Grilling 5. Horseback Riding 6. Downtown El Paso Ghost Tour 7. Concordia Ghost Tour 8. Strip Club 9. Tram Way ride 10. Western Playland 11. Fishing So far, we have only in the planning stages of the El Paso Ghost Tour. But, I have to say that with it only being June 13th I have already done a lot. Neon Desert Musi

Yesterday was my first day of subbing  as a paraprofessional in a class of four autistic children ages eleven and twelve. I took the job because it runs through the end of the semester, a week from now, and I have yet to hear anything concrete from all the things I have floating up in the air. When I arrived, for a moment, I thought they were sending me to assist with the alternative kids, the assholes, that can't keep their mouths shut long enough to hear the conductor saying, "Train leaving for Loserville! Boarding begins in 5 minutes!" I gritted my teeth and hoped for the best, at least this way I could simply, "keep it real". Instead, I walked into a room with pictures taped on every surface. Pictures of what goes in the cabinets, pictures which tell you to close the bathroom door, arrows that were moved to show where the students were, and so on. The classroom included two large rooms and a kitchen. I wasn't sure what to think, until I looked at one o