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Cali i never knew what blasphemy was, being like, a surfer, dude, even listened to the fish report

with a beat, and of course heard 'bout them waves, waves on the radio waves, 6' at seal was a big day, but meant it was pushin 20' at newport theres a storm off the coast. . .bitchin. [ever see a 20' wave? bury yourself in your backyard up to your neck then look up the side of your two story house, and its coming right at you.] they would tell us every morning what it was like from seal beach to newport beach. wed start at seal beach, furthest point north we went, fucking dirty with seaweed scattered like black litter that hurt your feet when you walked. the seals were all gone, had been for years, but even the dolphins liked surfing that break and lemme tell ya that was waaay cool. 4' late afternoon glassy waves with purrrfect form, breaking right to left, i caught the tube, saw the sun down the end of the tube with liquid glass pouring over my head, caught in a vortex, time slowed down. time stopped. part of me is still there. wed take a bus from cerritos to seal beach, drink southern comfort hidden behind our boards sitting in the back at 8:30 AM, smoke a bit of grass once we got there, then hit the waves, racing by chicks with outstreched arms, grabbing a handfull of ass or tits or whatever we could get.

James Rovira 2014

some got mad and left and some totally dug it. then wed catch the bus back, fucking ravenous, the munchies, you know, there was a stop at the safeway, wed shoplift chocolate donuts and icecold milk, and im telling you, that was the nectar of the gods. then wed sleep all through the next day, wake up the day after, and do it again. i learned blasphemy at the age of 17, walking through storm drains sitting out in an open field by some railroad tracks, [the tracks that ran by my house] them drains were a good 7, 8' tall and maybe 15' long and skateboarders liked hanging out there, it was the year of Devo and the B-52s, maybe 1979, and surf punk graffiti was scrawled everywhere, inside those tubes, and i read the words [BRACE YOURSELF] led zeppelin sucks, and was so shocked i couldnt move or talk, and had to explain this to my friend the next day, blasphemy against the Holy Zep, and he said the clash was cool, and the b-52s too, man, thats where its at, and i said, fuck you, man, and walked away.

James Rovira 2014

and I saw the kidman with the 1972 cherry red chevelle ss, the kidman that lived two blocks over, and tried real hard to be mysterious, and called cops the man, and was totally full of shit, kick ass down my street, and when i smelled his burned rubber, i knew all was well with the world. my friend, good irishman that he was, totally dug In Through the Out Door, and let me know it. first time i heard it we were in his car, and he played it for me real loud, his silver thunderbird flying like a god down the narrow alleys of the open air mall where he worked, one day he slid on the black bricks paving the streets, spinning the car sideways across the road, leaving mere inches between the buildings and the front and the back bumpers. Shit, were caught. HAHAHAHAHAAAA! i backed him up when he got into a fight with some mexicans. there were three of us and 12 of them, but not one fucking Christ among the bunch, fight one bean get the whole burrito, my friend said, and we most certainly ate some mexican food with our grass and shoes and punches that day, but went down fighting, [i only got stabbed with a phillips screwdriver and not a knife,]

James Rovira 2014

and the cholo gang leader came over and apologized for what happened the next day, saying, it got just a bit out of hand, and we sure as shit didnt expect that. but you need to understand the cholo: the cholo on a hot dry night on whittier boulevard, hair greased down under a black net, taught lean muscles under a white t and flannel open down the front, taught lean muscles under oversized jeans, inside velvet shoes, will stare at you walking by, tilting his expressionless face up a millimeter if he thinks youre worth a shit, [but you wont ever know why] the cholo chicks are passionate, thinks there hasnt been any good music made since 1964, firm breasts under a white t and flannel open down the front, wont nobody love you like her, a bit too much eyeliner that tends to run, run to the ends of the earth. they mean it when they kiss you. day-yam. some of them dont even speak ingls, you know? and not even spanish, really, not any kind of good spanish, but they are the bone beneath the tanned flesh, the blood pulsing through city nights, a simple reminder, at the corner of nostalgia avenue and the other way, that theres something real in california; something behind the bufftan bodies, the collagen lips and silicon tits and James Rovira 2014

silicon brains, the money, god yes the money, the real estate and subdivisions, mass culture deracinated, liposucked and tucked, the blow jobs and religions springing from good orgasms or a good high by the thousands, you got the money, baby, we got the enlightenment, and its not about the money, its how you feel, how you feel to the point where you dont gno, sis, quite who you are or ever were or maybe even came from, its all so damn homogenized, healthy, lest we should miss a single day of this shit, they are the reminders that there is a real, that someone has a culture that means something that means they are someone, came from somewhere, eat these foods cause its mammas cooking, talk this talk because its home talk, and you can think its all, like whatever, but that life you got, thats whatever, and this life I got, this life, is Mine, gringo. and i still cant quite get over, the taste and feel of cholita hotbreath lipstick and her warm brown body pressed hard against mine. James Rovira 2014

September 20th, 2001

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