knockout dragdown

Joey Memíras was a straight-up polítiko through and through.

For Joey, every situation offered a new opportunity to manipulate other human beings in order to acquire, consolidate, and/or maintain power for himself.

When I met him, Joey had mastered the language of a particular brand of political ideology. Every sentence was solidly constructed of the exact right activist grammar, the correct working-class terminology, the most perfectly placed palabras of progressive parlez-vous le révolutionnaire?

But behind every radical utterance and digital display was the same, tired imperative:

“All eyes on me, ese!”

At one point, I tried to be friends with Joey, but his shifty eyes were bigger than his stomach, and when I would bring my partner around, those shifty eyes tended to wander, like his hands, a little too liberally.

Not that I was all that bent by his sniffing around—at that time in my life, I was no longer the type to get jealous or possessive. But Joey knew this about me, and I think that he mistook it as evidence that I was weak, naïve, unschooled in the barrio ethics of push and pull and coming to shove. Looking back, I think that what really bugged me was that Joey saw my white Miklo skin, and my laidback demeanor, and thought that I was blind to the annoying, disrespectful behavior that he chose to practice right in front of me.

Looking back, I think that Joey was lucky that I just let the friendship dissolve, instead of smashing it to pedacitos.


*


“There is most definitely something deeply reptilian about us, buried under all this skull.”

“You know, I’ve got good instincts, but my problem is that I don’t always follow them.”

“I feel so uncomfortable. My pants are falling down. Gravity just isn’t what it used to be.”

“This becomes a game of hide-and-don’t-seek. The winners are the weak.”


*


Hey, you know, I did not realize that you and I were in competition, carnál.

At the time, I was just expressing myself.

I believe that we have not only the right, but the responsibility, to participate in the international, transnational, global discourse of intellectual inquiry and production, to the best of our abilities. To this end, we would do well to encourage and nurture one another’s efforts to grapple with and more fully understand and articulate our realities, in whatever forms of discourse that we choose. ¿O sí, o no?

For example, sometimes I speak this way, and sometimes I speak that way. ¿Y qué, güey?

For example, the other night I was drunk off my ass, pissing on a wall at two in the morning on a busy street underneath a bridge. The stream hissed a secret code into the bricks, then trickled several lies down onto and into the concrete sidewalk. Eventually the trickle reached the flowing stream of the nearby gutter. It was like a moment of satori, instant koan in the sludge of L.A….

—Annnyway—later, we stumbled over to Paisano’s taco truck on Sunset, and my vegetarian ass inhaled three tacos de carne asada, con todo. Is that keeping it real enough for you, or what? They were fucking good, too—I don’t give a fuuuuuuuck…

For example, another recent drunken night: New Year’s Eve at Esta Noche drag bar in the Mission. We got high on sake across the street at this sushi place and then veered over all chuecked around the white girl with little white angelwings giving out free hugs on the corner of Valencia. Once inside, I was talking and a piece of gum fell out of my mouth onto the floor, and I rushed to pick it up all conscientious, and then immediately afterward, I knocked your drink to the floor when I realized that I had laid my jacket on top of one of those little red globey candles on the table, freaking out and screaming all dramático OMIGOD my jacket!—

But it was all good. Recovered my cool, bought you another one, and then we danced cumbia, merengue, house, all the cute boys giving me the eye, and it was great after two weeks of ZERO pegue in cold, white Seattle, where they thought I was a slick porno director from the Valley or something. (“Hey dude, what’s up with the scarf and ponytail?” Hey yeah, you know what? It’s called style. Look it up. And hey you know what else? This town is nothing but Houston in liberal/progressive drag. Demographics don’t lie, ese!...)

But anyway, so anyway, we were dancing and getting more high, and the drag queens were amazing. One of them and her boytoy left me their drink to watch while they went outside and you got all jealous but then they never came back, so I drank it. You snooze you lose, esa. Married but not buried! Married but not buried! Hey do you remember the conversation we had across the street? Me neither. Whatever, it doesn’t matter, it was great. Texting at midnight: HAPPY NEW YEARS CABRONES! A long, deep kiss. A fight outside, several homeboys clearing themselves some sidewalk space, the sound of a fist landing on a face, knockout dragdown happynewyears pinche fuckers—

WELCOME TO THE HUMANS RACE!

CONDITIONED LIVING/DYING! . . . . . ZERO SUM COMPETITION! . . . . . . .. . DO YOU FEEL YOUR INSTINCTS KICKING IN? DO YOU FEEL LUCKY IN THIS NEW YEAR OF THE RATÓN?

R U A MAAAAAZED?


*


I cannot write this thing that I’m supposed to write. It is easier to drink, and fight. What a typical fucking American.

No, see, it’s all in my head, right? but you’ve got to keep it real, carnál…

Etc.

Late at night, I go out onto the fire escape and watch the police helicopters taking off and landing on César Chávez near the bridge, and in the orange haze wobble of the whup-whup-whup I can see the outlines of something that looks more and more like Massive Failure taking shape. There are no stars here, man. The sky dissolves away into some kind of sickly orange and gray. On one of them, a couple of years ago, I managed to graffiti my intentions with one ragged fingernail and some tainted blood:

“I will write something that is worthy, respectful, honest, sincere, and filled with the dubious truth of a million mentiritas and half-baked lies.”

On some nights, I imagine that I can still see it, but in the morning I realize that I was only seeing what I wanted to see—again—with my dry, bloodshot eyes.

The cargo train drags along the river, underneath the bridge. Squealing rails. Rumbo a San Pedro, al Puerto de El-Ley. My memories are ground to dust in it. I am a flattened penny, wider than the silence of a mime.