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Dear Diarrhee, this is the day I turned rotten

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Back in the ’90s, when I was a 13-year-old a teenager living in a small town in near Sacramento, California, a friend made a promise to me: “next Monday, after you get out of school, I’ll pick you up from your grandmother’s house and drive you to San Francisco’s Haight-Ashbury neighborhood.” In the infamous district, she said, I’d be able to buy the kinds of records, clothing, and books that were impossible find elsewhere — “all that counterculture shit.” It was a Saturday night and that same friend, a Sac State student in her early 20s, made the pledge in her apartment and among other friends.

At her place, everyone but myself was chewing ecstasy “hits” and watching a brand-new show called South Park. An eavesdropper chimed in on our conversation: “you guy’s going to the Haight? That’s where all the goths, punks, hippies, and ravers hang out.” At that point I couldn’t tell the difference between a goth or punk, but I was fascinated by the mere existence of the terms. It’s a bit sad, really, because the closest thing we had to a subculture in the cow town where I lived was the Future Farmers of America, and I passed on the membership because I could never pull off the American cowboy look (Wrangler jeans make my pancake ass look like even worse).

Still, I tried not to get too exited about the trip since, in addition to being forgetful, my friend was literally tripping when she promised to introduce me to the mythical intersection. That night we attended a clandestine rave in the outskirts of Sacramento, which was broken up by the cops immediately after we got there. Before calling it a night, we stopped by 24-hour Del Taco to enjoy some soggy tex-mex food.

I loved crashing at my grandmother’s place because it was near my high school, but also because she had cable. That perk came with a price: since Mamá Luisa was a strict Catholic, I wasn’t allowed to go to bed until I prayed away my sins with a rosary on one hand, and a book of hymns on the other. But once grandma hit the hay (usually around 9pm), I would stay up to watch Mexican telenovelas, Daria, and Amp:

As planned, on Monday afternoon I walked over to my grandmother’s house after school. I hung out in the living room while grandma watered her plants in the front yard. Eventually she hollered at me: “Hey, mijo, your weird friend is here!” Surprisingly, Pills McTrippy, my ecstasy-loving buddy, made good on her promise, and after I convinced Mamá Luisa she was not just my “weird friend” but “a college-enrolled tutor who’s taking me to a library,” I jumped inside the Bay Area-bound Honda Civic.

Once on Haight, walking around the grimy neighborhood filled my mind with wonder. In addition to all the stylish youngsters, bums and junkies were scattered all around the street, and tech bros were nonexistent. One store, which specialized in bondage and S&M trinkets, offered an impressive selection of creepers and winklepickers — both shoes were impossible to find elsewhere. One bookstore sold imported magazines of people with bizarre fetishes, and also copies of The Family Jams, an album by the Manson family. Certain vintage clothing shops arranged their merchandise according to an era or specific style: rockabilly, pinup, mod. As far as I could tell, the Haight was holding up its legend.

amoeba record store haight

This was 1997, the same year Amoeba Music, the “world’s largest independent store,” opened its doors across from the Golden Gate Park. I walked around the mammoth record store in complete awe of its enormous selection and, of course, wished I had money to buy almost everything. But I could only afford one record, so I picked up a copy of Reproduction, the Human League’s first LP.

More so than the eccentric people roaming the neighborhood, I became interested in the various flyers found in all the shops. Some, like the ones promoting electronic music events, were incredibly intricate and colorful. Others, like the ones peddling punk and metal shows, were comically vulgar or fantastically grotesque. It’s not that I planned to go to any of them, but I still stashed copies of the intriguing propaganda in my messenger bag as souvenirs.

At Amoeba my friend bought a copy of Homework, some French band’s debut LP, and we listened to it on our way home. While going over the Bay Bridge, I thought about all the progressive music, art, and fashion I had just been in contact with. Knowing such things were less two hours away my parents’ home made me feel anxious — especially because I still had 3 years to go before I could legally drive in California. So not only did the trip alter my perception of American subculture, but it also left me thinking: tomorrow, when I go back to school, seeing if a racist cowboy fights with a cholo over a parking space will be the most stimulating form of entertainment my boring town will be able to offer. How tragic.

And then, I felt it; an internal switch had been flicked, and powerful, bitter teen angst began festering inside me. The worse was yet to come.

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Oh, right. Old-school Mexicans humiliate their children by pretending they don’t exist.

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I’ve been visiting my mother, and all of our immediate family, for the last week. They’re old-school, rural Mexicans. The kind who always offer food, even if they hate you.

I’m in my mid 30s now, and have been living on my own since I was 18, so at our gatherings I get a proper adult seat at the table. They listen to what I have to say, but it wasn’t always like that.

It’s not like that for my younger relatives, either. At family reunions, I see them out of the periphery of my eye. They’re trying to get a word in, but those older Mexicans won’t allow it. Why would they? What have those mocosos (snot-nosed kids) done to deserve anybody’s respect? Did they pay for their food? For the roof over their head? For their car, gas, clothes? No? Then they don’t exist.

Yes, they’re physically there, but unless they can prove their worth through monetary independence, they’re no one. If they try to make their voices heard, they’ll be silenced by a death stare, or an abrupt change in conversation.

If they persist, other humiliations will be flung at them, such as being asked to do something entirely meaningless, just like their opinion. “Vete a ver si ya puso la marrana” (go see if one of the pigs laid an egg) is a classic. My grandma had one of the most bizarre just-get-the-fuck-out-of-here phrases, which I’ve never heard elsewhere: “Vete a descular hormigas” (go chop the asses off ants).

I know these Mexicans sound like assholes, but they’re like that because they believe in resilience, not fragility. Giving encouragement to a mentally and physically healthy person seems redundant to them. Those people already have all they need to succeed, they’ll think.

To gain their respect, at the very least a person will need to become self-sufficient. That’s how you earn the right to sit with them. Either you’re with that, or you’re not there at all.

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“Trump Dating” site doesn’t want the gays, but allows the “happily married” to join

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You can even be mad at Trump Dating, a new website for lonely — or not so lonely, but just promiscuous — maganogamous people. It’s a perfect representation of their cherished administration, since it’s also homophobic — it only allows “straight” women or men to sign up — and, just like Trump, it’s all about adulterous relationships:

“When you kick off the process of starting a profile, you get two options for labeling yourself — ‘straight man’ or ‘straight woman.’

Yet according to Trump Dating’s rather strange drop-down menus, married people are welcome. For a relationship status, the site offers options like ‘have a significant other,’ ‘happily married,’ and ‘unhappily married.'”

And since no self-respecting republican-specific dating site should exist unless it takes an issue with race, Trump Dating allows their users to be super specific about their genealogy:

“The ethnicity options also seemed oddly specific. In addition to the typical categories, the site includes choices like ‘Scandinavian,’ ‘Polynesian,’ ‘Eastern European,’ ‘Western European,’ ‘Mediterranean,’ and ‘Eskimo,’ a term used to label the indigenous people of Alaska, Canada, and Greenland that is considered offensive and inaccurate.”

OMG, you guys. There better be a second menu where users can identify which of the five Aryan subtype races — Nordic, Mediterranean, Dinaric, Alpine, and East Baltic — they belong to. Otherwise the server room of this Trump Dating is gonna get tiki torched.

Anyway, where you at, Chispa, the “Tinder for Latinos”? You gonna let Trump Dating walk all over you? You need to re-brand to DACA Dong, Canelo Kennedy Courting, or something.

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