By kiki
December 13, 2018: on my 82nd birthday, my driver's license expired. I received a renewal notice from the DMV around the end of October. The information said to call the DMV for an appointment for an office visit (to take a written and vision test and pay $35.00). On the first week of November, I called, and I was told that the earliest appointment I could get was on December 28, two weeks + after my license had expired. I bitched to the lady I was talking to about not being able to drive. She told me she was putting me on hold while she checked other, within driving distance offices. She came on the line and said she was sorry but that there were no earlier openings. She apologized for the DMV failings, and then she advised me not to drive after my birthday. "but I need to go places," I yelled at her. She yelled back, "Ride your skateboard" Damn freaking DMV!!
Friday, December 14, 2018
Tuesday, November 27, 2018
Frankie's Garden
By Rudy Giuseppe Coco Gandara
( Lil Rudy G, Tall Tales From El Hoyo Soto)
Back in Boyle Heights, we were kids around 10 years old, still at the age of some kind of innocence. It was me, Frankie, Randy, Crazy Tommy, and Whisky Pete. Barrio boys from El Hoyo Soto, around the hood of Whittier Blvd and Soto St. East of the L.A. River.
Our school was Soto Street Elementary. We all grew up together….during a time when the L.A. Freeways were being built all around East LA., cutting up the Barrios and “Building that Wall”, from City Terrace, Boyle Hgts, The 10, the 110, the 605, the 710 on and on…we were under attack and being Blocked.
The city of Los Angeles was growing fast and we were in the way it seems. Our neighbors were being evicted, houses were torn down, it seemed overnight. Hello, Goodbye, “where is Joey where's Chuy ”? …They were moved out misplaced, misfortunate sons of the barrio war.
NO power to stop it, East Los was up for grabs…and the community had no say. It happened in Chavez Ravine, for Dodger Stadium..so everyone seemed to just accept it and know the drill.
The upside for us little gangsters was our entire hood was like a playground with rows and blocks of abandoned houses between our homes and school. So, we would adopt a house…we each had our own house! Some still filled with furniture? Carpets…Drapes…Tables ..Chairs Family Photos …I remember one house, still had a record player and a lot of Albums. Jazz, Latin. Big Band 40’s, All collector's items today I suppose, but we just used them to toss around like little black flying saucers! One of our favorite things was to throw rocks, rocks fights were the game du jour.
We’d crash up windows…really nice stain glass windows, wood entry doors with leaded glass “bam, crash” ..done!
Once in a while, we’d find a Bum, sleeping off a hangover or squatting in “Tommy's house” or Randys or mine. So out came the rocks, we pretended we were soldiers…at war, quietly approach, and then we’d assault the poor bastard until he ran away screaming about wanting to come back and Kill us! Fuck him…these were ours!
This was the surreal dreamscape to our lives, Fields, and Freeway construction sites, Large Excavation trackers…Van Goghs “Yellow House”, Salvador Dali's “Living Still Life” Diego Riveras “Man at the Crossroads’. This was our crossroads, of our future…the destruction of our communities, barrio in Shambles…. But was still our home. We were the lucky ones that were not forced out? Yet had to live in a ½ abandoned place. Old neighbors gone…the local store is gone…Senora Chela? Mr. Kissoloff, Shuichi Akai? people we loved people we knew for years “Gone” no word, no trail just Gone. This was our reality of reality.
Of our crew, each of the boys had fathers. I was the only one without and they always reminded me of how lucky I was for it.
Our hustle was shining shoes, downtown on Main Street along the Bars, and back home on Whittier in front of the M’s Club. The M’s club was a basement lounge bar, that claim to fame was Frank Sinatra had once sung there. Now it was just another dive bar for Chicano men after work and weekends.
We’d take the bus sometimes during the week, but mainly on Saturdays all day. Up early, return after dark. Along the way, we could jump a fence and steal peaches or apricots…Steal a few sodas or beer bottles off someones back porch and sell for candy, chips and RC Coke or Orange Crush.
On an early Sunday morning about 7am, every now and then we’d meet up, and walk from Whittier Blvd Soto St. all the way to Brooklyn Ave. a couple of miles. Our inspiration was, They would deliver bundles of Sunday papers and dump them in front of local small time grocery stores or a Pharmacy. Now the Sunday paper always sold for more, like .25 cents, it was thick, had a big “Comic Section”, Sports Section, thick news! At some point when we found a Stack of Papers, one of the boys would “look out” for the Police…or strangers. Once we got the bundle, we’d split it up…each stands on opposite sides of the street corners and sell to passing cars! We made a small fortune! Quick and dirty. I found out later in life, that just a few generations before our time here, a local Jewish kid from New York named “Mickey Cohen” was in control of these same streets and he had a deal with the L.A. times Boss to do exactly what we thought was our idea! Selling papers on those streets. Mickey who wasn’t much older than us, had his boys cover the streets up and down and would issue each a corner, for a small piece of the Action. I think he was about our same age, 10 when he was in charge. Of course, he’d moved on to bigger “Gangster” hustles by our time on these streets. We were more pranksters than gangsters.
At the end of each run, whenever we were running the streets, one by one we’d say goodbye or sometimes pop into someone's house for a free sandwich or a little food. Moms where always so nice to our little gang. The Fathers were all a different story.
It seemed Drink and drinking hard after they got home was a way of life. Do your time at any one of the factories in downtown along the L.A. River…or bust your ass at a Steel or Meat Plant in the city of Vernon nearby. The Fathers would come home pissed off, tired and drunk after stopping off at the M’s club or Sabby's, or the Cita Club, The Latin Lover, one of many to choose from.
Little Frankie's father was special though. Not in a nice way, in a creepy way to us all. He would always stay quiet, in a corner…on the sofa or with a beer starring out the window to the backyard.
He worked at a Slaughterhouse somewhere. On his time off, he would go out and find tropical plants,..palm trees, elephant ears…banana trees. I don’t know where you’d find such plants in L.A. but he did, one by one ..year by year. He had what he would mumble sometimes out load was his “Victory Garden”. And as the years passed and the Palms grew thicker and taller, he would disappear in this garden. We never knew what or why he’d go into it. He’d walk in with his Dog and we never see him again for the day.
Frankies mom would just leave him alone for hours in there..until it was so late she had to yell for him to come in.
Big Frank, as they called him was a World War II Vet, from the Pacific theater. He served in many battles I learned and was a decorated War Hero, with ribbons and medals. Little Frankie would show us, boys, sometimes. We’d hold them up, rub them…pass them around then he’d put them back in the boxes and away. We had no idea, what they meant? Or why he got the honors. So, they looked special but held no value to us. Just pretty metals are all with strange names on the Boxes, like Saipan, Iwo Jima, Okinawa…Philippines
As the years rolled on, and the Big Franks Victory Garden grew, so did his madness. The garden was now amazingly a lush Tropical forest. When no one was around we would go in there and get lost, it was that thick. But every time we did that the next day little Frankie would be at school and show us his bruises from being beaten down by this Father. He knew, He always knew. The Victory Garden was off limits, “No One” was supposed to go in there Just him. Years passed, and the story is told that Big Franks depression and drinking became intolerable for his wife Ruth, and she took little Frankie away and we never heard from him again. They separated leaving Big Frank alone to his rum, demons and the Tropical Garden. Neighbors used to hear screaming late at night. Sometimes a gunshot or two. This managed to go on for a while until one day…there was a fire at the house. Firefighters were called after all was settled and the blaze was put under control there was no one in the house.
The Police searched, only found a dead German shepherd the house pet named Fritz. One officer was lured to the backyard, after hearing what sounded like “Rain” drops. Frank had hooked up a water pipe above the garden to keep them green, with a spray nozzle to simulate Rain over the Garden Palms, it was still running.
Looking further the Cop found an entry to ‘The Victory Garden”. Walking into the mud trail, seemed a maze of twist and turns He found a small clearing within…an area with a bench, a small tent, it looked like a scene from a magazine out of WW II. Amongst it all there they found Franks body, in military dress, surrounded by his boxes of metals, loaded silver plated Colt 45 pistol military issue, minus a single bullet. Apparently placing the gun to his mouth, blowing the back side of his head off gleaming with mud and blood.
No one will ever know what he did, what he saw during those years of War, the battles, blood, comrades lost ..but Sargent Frank Ruiz could never escape the Horrors of War, What the eyes see, a wailing soul harbors.
There was no suicide note, just a lifeless body eyes still open, alone in a fetal position surrounded by the small jungle Frank loved and built just for this occasion.
( Lil Rudy G, Tall Tales From El Hoyo Soto)
Back in Boyle Heights, we were kids around 10 years old, still at the age of some kind of innocence. It was me, Frankie, Randy, Crazy Tommy, and Whisky Pete. Barrio boys from El Hoyo Soto, around the hood of Whittier Blvd and Soto St. East of the L.A. River.
Our school was Soto Street Elementary. We all grew up together….during a time when the L.A. Freeways were being built all around East LA., cutting up the Barrios and “Building that Wall”, from City Terrace, Boyle Hgts, The 10, the 110, the 605, the 710 on and on…we were under attack and being Blocked.
The city of Los Angeles was growing fast and we were in the way it seems. Our neighbors were being evicted, houses were torn down, it seemed overnight. Hello, Goodbye, “where is Joey where's Chuy ”? …They were moved out misplaced, misfortunate sons of the barrio war.
NO power to stop it, East Los was up for grabs…and the community had no say. It happened in Chavez Ravine, for Dodger Stadium..so everyone seemed to just accept it and know the drill.
The upside for us little gangsters was our entire hood was like a playground with rows and blocks of abandoned houses between our homes and school. So, we would adopt a house…we each had our own house! Some still filled with furniture? Carpets…Drapes…Tables ..Chairs Family Photos …I remember one house, still had a record player and a lot of Albums. Jazz, Latin. Big Band 40’s, All collector's items today I suppose, but we just used them to toss around like little black flying saucers! One of our favorite things was to throw rocks, rocks fights were the game du jour.
We’d crash up windows…really nice stain glass windows, wood entry doors with leaded glass “bam, crash” ..done!
Once in a while, we’d find a Bum, sleeping off a hangover or squatting in “Tommy's house” or Randys or mine. So out came the rocks, we pretended we were soldiers…at war, quietly approach, and then we’d assault the poor bastard until he ran away screaming about wanting to come back and Kill us! Fuck him…these were ours!
This was the surreal dreamscape to our lives, Fields, and Freeway construction sites, Large Excavation trackers…Van Goghs “Yellow House”, Salvador Dali's “Living Still Life” Diego Riveras “Man at the Crossroads’. This was our crossroads, of our future…the destruction of our communities, barrio in Shambles…. But was still our home. We were the lucky ones that were not forced out? Yet had to live in a ½ abandoned place. Old neighbors gone…the local store is gone…Senora Chela? Mr. Kissoloff, Shuichi Akai? people we loved people we knew for years “Gone” no word, no trail just Gone. This was our reality of reality.
Of our crew, each of the boys had fathers. I was the only one without and they always reminded me of how lucky I was for it.
Our hustle was shining shoes, downtown on Main Street along the Bars, and back home on Whittier in front of the M’s Club. The M’s club was a basement lounge bar, that claim to fame was Frank Sinatra had once sung there. Now it was just another dive bar for Chicano men after work and weekends.
We’d take the bus sometimes during the week, but mainly on Saturdays all day. Up early, return after dark. Along the way, we could jump a fence and steal peaches or apricots…Steal a few sodas or beer bottles off someones back porch and sell for candy, chips and RC Coke or Orange Crush.
On an early Sunday morning about 7am, every now and then we’d meet up, and walk from Whittier Blvd Soto St. all the way to Brooklyn Ave. a couple of miles. Our inspiration was, They would deliver bundles of Sunday papers and dump them in front of local small time grocery stores or a Pharmacy. Now the Sunday paper always sold for more, like .25 cents, it was thick, had a big “Comic Section”, Sports Section, thick news! At some point when we found a Stack of Papers, one of the boys would “look out” for the Police…or strangers. Once we got the bundle, we’d split it up…each stands on opposite sides of the street corners and sell to passing cars! We made a small fortune! Quick and dirty. I found out later in life, that just a few generations before our time here, a local Jewish kid from New York named “Mickey Cohen” was in control of these same streets and he had a deal with the L.A. times Boss to do exactly what we thought was our idea! Selling papers on those streets. Mickey who wasn’t much older than us, had his boys cover the streets up and down and would issue each a corner, for a small piece of the Action. I think he was about our same age, 10 when he was in charge. Of course, he’d moved on to bigger “Gangster” hustles by our time on these streets. We were more pranksters than gangsters.
At the end of each run, whenever we were running the streets, one by one we’d say goodbye or sometimes pop into someone's house for a free sandwich or a little food. Moms where always so nice to our little gang. The Fathers were all a different story.
It seemed Drink and drinking hard after they got home was a way of life. Do your time at any one of the factories in downtown along the L.A. River…or bust your ass at a Steel or Meat Plant in the city of Vernon nearby. The Fathers would come home pissed off, tired and drunk after stopping off at the M’s club or Sabby's, or the Cita Club, The Latin Lover, one of many to choose from.
Little Frankie's father was special though. Not in a nice way, in a creepy way to us all. He would always stay quiet, in a corner…on the sofa or with a beer starring out the window to the backyard.
He worked at a Slaughterhouse somewhere. On his time off, he would go out and find tropical plants,..palm trees, elephant ears…banana trees. I don’t know where you’d find such plants in L.A. but he did, one by one ..year by year. He had what he would mumble sometimes out load was his “Victory Garden”. And as the years passed and the Palms grew thicker and taller, he would disappear in this garden. We never knew what or why he’d go into it. He’d walk in with his Dog and we never see him again for the day.
Frankies mom would just leave him alone for hours in there..until it was so late she had to yell for him to come in.
Big Frank, as they called him was a World War II Vet, from the Pacific theater. He served in many battles I learned and was a decorated War Hero, with ribbons and medals. Little Frankie would show us, boys, sometimes. We’d hold them up, rub them…pass them around then he’d put them back in the boxes and away. We had no idea, what they meant? Or why he got the honors. So, they looked special but held no value to us. Just pretty metals are all with strange names on the Boxes, like Saipan, Iwo Jima, Okinawa…Philippines
As the years rolled on, and the Big Franks Victory Garden grew, so did his madness. The garden was now amazingly a lush Tropical forest. When no one was around we would go in there and get lost, it was that thick. But every time we did that the next day little Frankie would be at school and show us his bruises from being beaten down by this Father. He knew, He always knew. The Victory Garden was off limits, “No One” was supposed to go in there Just him. Years passed, and the story is told that Big Franks depression and drinking became intolerable for his wife Ruth, and she took little Frankie away and we never heard from him again. They separated leaving Big Frank alone to his rum, demons and the Tropical Garden. Neighbors used to hear screaming late at night. Sometimes a gunshot or two. This managed to go on for a while until one day…there was a fire at the house. Firefighters were called after all was settled and the blaze was put under control there was no one in the house.
The Police searched, only found a dead German shepherd the house pet named Fritz. One officer was lured to the backyard, after hearing what sounded like “Rain” drops. Frank had hooked up a water pipe above the garden to keep them green, with a spray nozzle to simulate Rain over the Garden Palms, it was still running.
Looking further the Cop found an entry to ‘The Victory Garden”. Walking into the mud trail, seemed a maze of twist and turns He found a small clearing within…an area with a bench, a small tent, it looked like a scene from a magazine out of WW II. Amongst it all there they found Franks body, in military dress, surrounded by his boxes of metals, loaded silver plated Colt 45 pistol military issue, minus a single bullet. Apparently placing the gun to his mouth, blowing the back side of his head off gleaming with mud and blood.
No one will ever know what he did, what he saw during those years of War, the battles, blood, comrades lost ..but Sargent Frank Ruiz could never escape the Horrors of War, What the eyes see, a wailing soul harbors.
There was no suicide note, just a lifeless body eyes still open, alone in a fetal position surrounded by the small jungle Frank loved and built just for this occasion.
Monday, November 5, 2018
Was it worth it?
By kiki
Was it worth it? In reflection, I asked myself that question about the boys boxing careers. I also question myself: Did I do the right thing in introducing them to the sport?. Of course, I could say that they made the choice of embarking on a boxing career, but even though Frankie and Tony told me one night (at the age of six and three) in 1964 that they wanted to get in the ring, it wouldn't be true because they were too young to make that decision on their own. So, as a Teamsters Boys Club smoker, I decided that the boys would enter the ring very young. Do I now regret it? I do.
Why regret it if they achieved a small measure of fame and fortune? You ask. With fame and fortune, too, came a bunch of new fair-weather friends. Years later, the fame and riches are gone, and so are the new friends they made on top of the mountain. ~ I have to admit that those days when the boys were sought after for TV fights, with decent pay, no, make that really great pay for those times, were great times for us all. We've traveled the country and met some famous people. We did and saw places that, without boxing, we wouldn't have done so. But at what price? I now ask because now all they have are the memories of those famous people we met and the beautiful places we travel to, but that's only when they can remember the memories. Regret it? Yes, especially when the after-effects of long boxing careers are staring me in the face.
The slurred speech and lost memory effects of pugilistic dementia are too high a price to pay for a fleeting moment of fame and fortune. ~ Would I do it again? I have to be honest and say that I don't know, but I probably would if we were back in 1964.
Tuesday, October 30, 2018
Rancho San Antonio
By kiki
In the late '50s, I had a young and very close cousin (now deceased) who should remain anonymous here. My young cousin was a rebellious kinda kid. He would rebel against parental rules, school, law authority, or anyone who would tell him that he couldn't march to his own drummer at a young age. He didn't believe that parental rules or the laws of the land applied to him. So with that attitude, it was no surprise that he would wind up as a ward of the juvenile court. After a short time of being locked up in juvie, the juvenile court placed him at Rancho San Antonio as a wayward ward.
Rancho San Antonio (From Wiki)
"Rancho San Antonio was founded in 1933 by the Catholic Big Brothers. Rancho started as a rented home in Redondo Beach to care for 18 boys. In June 1938, Rancho San Antonio found its permanent home in Chatsworth, CA. In the 75 years since then, thousands of young men have turned to Rancho San Antonio for help and guidance. Since the 1950s, the Knights of Columbus have provided most fundraising for Rancho San Antonio. Within the first three years, they raised enough money to build the chapel, indoor swimming pool, and the first four dormitories on the grounds.
The Rancho campus sits on 19 acres, and with the continued support of the Knights of Columbus, today there are eleven-living units, a dining hall, a gymnasium, an infirmary, a recreation complex, a football, and baseball field, a group home, career resource center, an administration building which currently provides service to 106 boys and their families."
Once he was settled on the ranch Connie and I paid him a few visits. On one of our visits, he asked if he could live with us if the court okayed it. With two babies of our own and just kids ourselves and living in a small apartment on Williamson St. in E.L.A., Connie and I said yes. After a short court appearance, where questions about Connie and me were asked and answered, my cousin, who was about nine years younger than me, was made a ward of the young Baltazar couple. I am sorry my cousin's stay with us didn't work out well for him. He was doing okay during the summer that he was with us, but he just wouldn't go to school when the fall school session started. And the school was one of the conditions the court had put on him. A truant officer picked up my cousin on a morning when he had supposedly left for school. He was then placed back in juvie. After that, he was in and out of trouble, which continued throughout his adolescent years. As an adult, he kinda settled down. He married, worked, and had some kids. My cousin, who died relatively young (about 45 years old), was a good person despite his rebellious attitude. He was a funny guy that just needed to march to his own drummer.
Rancho San Antonio (From Wiki)
"Rancho San Antonio was founded in 1933 by the Catholic Big Brothers. Rancho started as a rented home in Redondo Beach to care for 18 boys. In June 1938, Rancho San Antonio found its permanent home in Chatsworth, CA. In the 75 years since then, thousands of young men have turned to Rancho San Antonio for help and guidance. Since the 1950s, the Knights of Columbus have provided most fundraising for Rancho San Antonio. Within the first three years, they raised enough money to build the chapel, indoor swimming pool, and the first four dormitories on the grounds.
The Rancho campus sits on 19 acres, and with the continued support of the Knights of Columbus, today there are eleven-living units, a dining hall, a gymnasium, an infirmary, a recreation complex, a football, and baseball field, a group home, career resource center, an administration building which currently provides service to 106 boys and their families."
Once he was settled on the ranch Connie and I paid him a few visits. On one of our visits, he asked if he could live with us if the court okayed it. With two babies of our own and just kids ourselves and living in a small apartment on Williamson St. in E.L.A., Connie and I said yes. After a short court appearance, where questions about Connie and me were asked and answered, my cousin, who was about nine years younger than me, was made a ward of the young Baltazar couple. I am sorry my cousin's stay with us didn't work out well for him. He was doing okay during the summer that he was with us, but he just wouldn't go to school when the fall school session started. And the school was one of the conditions the court had put on him. A truant officer picked up my cousin on a morning when he had supposedly left for school. He was then placed back in juvie. After that, he was in and out of trouble, which continued throughout his adolescent years. As an adult, he kinda settled down. He married, worked, and had some kids. My cousin, who died relatively young (about 45 years old), was a good person despite his rebellious attitude. He was a funny guy that just needed to march to his own drummer.
Wednesday, October 17, 2018
Two Kinds of Truth
By kiki
There are two kinds of truth in this world. The truth that is the unalterable bedrock of one’s life and mission and the other, malleable truth of politicians, charlatans, corrupt lawyers, and their clients, bent and molded to serve whatever purpose is at hand.
Thursday, October 11, 2018
Dear Daughters
An open letter by an unknown Dad
I would like to apologize for my generation's inability to learn from past mistakes. Once again, our fear and ignorance have empowered hate and greed to marginalize our humanity. We have created what seems to be an unbridgeable divide.
I apologize for my laziness and naivete; believing that good work would prevail without enduring effort.
I know a decree of contrition and shame is pointless unless pain is turned into thoughtful action. So, I use this post to declare my promise that I will do everything I can to empower you, to encourage you and to honor you.
Daughters, force our filtered ears.
Crack open our small minds.
Tell us what you need.
Tell us who you are.
Fathers, listen to your daughters. You may never completely understand her or agree with her, but you must amplify her voice- let it be strong, clear and uproarious.
In my most desperate moments, I turn to the two of you and see wisdom, innocence, and empathy and I have hope. We have put the burden of a fair-minded world on your shoulders. But I trust those shoulders will stand side by side with other shoulders - of every orientation, race, creed, and color - and your uncompromising spirit and innate sense of equality will do what we could not.
We, as a species, need a course correction. I believe you are that change. I can only that - the future is female.
I love you.
Dad
I would like to apologize for my generation's inability to learn from past mistakes. Once again, our fear and ignorance have empowered hate and greed to marginalize our humanity. We have created what seems to be an unbridgeable divide.
I apologize for my laziness and naivete; believing that good work would prevail without enduring effort.
I know a decree of contrition and shame is pointless unless pain is turned into thoughtful action. So, I use this post to declare my promise that I will do everything I can to empower you, to encourage you and to honor you.
Daughters, force our filtered ears.
Crack open our small minds.
Tell us what you need.
Tell us who you are.
Fathers, listen to your daughters. You may never completely understand her or agree with her, but you must amplify her voice- let it be strong, clear and uproarious.
In my most desperate moments, I turn to the two of you and see wisdom, innocence, and empathy and I have hope. We have put the burden of a fair-minded world on your shoulders. But I trust those shoulders will stand side by side with other shoulders - of every orientation, race, creed, and color - and your uncompromising spirit and innate sense of equality will do what we could not.
We, as a species, need a course correction. I believe you are that change. I can only that - the future is female.
I love you.
Dad
Tuesday, September 25, 2018
Frankie 'Fernie' Baltazar
By Rick Farris
After a controversial loss to Reynaldo Zaragoza, Frankie Baltazar would win his next 26 fights in a row, sixteen of those wins by KO.
During that winning streak, Frankie would score thirteen consecutive knockouts including a 4th round stoppage of world ranked Shig Fukuyama, who many will remember as the guy who stopped Danny "Lil Red" Lopez and cut Sean O'Grady to ribbons in a WBA Lightweight title defense. Had that fight been held anywhere but Sean's hometown, the bout would have been stopped and the Japanese fighter would have become Lightweight Champion of the World.
The explosive Rafael "Bazooka" Limon, who would win the Jr. Lightweight title, ended Frankie's win streak at twenty-six, stopping Baltazar in four rounds.
Not one to lick his wounds, young Frankie jumped right back on track with another win streak of ten straight (7 by KO) before dropping a close decision to Eloy Montano in Las Vegas. After that, Frankie Baltazar Jr. would fight just two more times, winning both by knockout.
We in L.A. remember the Baltzar boys as winners, as they rarely lost in the amateurs or the pros. How appropriate that after more than twenty years in the ring, Frankie Jr. would leave the sport a knockout winner. How many boxers can make such a claim?
When it was all said and done, Frankie Jr. lost only three times in 44 pro fights, his final record 40-3-1 (27 KO's)
You had one helluva career, Fernie!
Friday, August 24, 2018
The Fraternity
By Frank Duarte
As he walks through the corridors of the arena where he once fought, passing the restrooms and snack bars where hundreds of people are coming and going in all directions, he goes unnoticed. As he walks down the aisle, passing row after row of seats filled with fight fans in celebration, eating popcorn and drinking beer, he goes unrecognized. And as he sits in his seat, with a slight smile - and a tear - he reminisces of a time when it wasn’t so.
In his day, he fought to standing-ovations as the chant of his name echoed throughout the arena. If you wanted his autograph you had to wait in line because others wanted it too, and on any given day, there might be a write up on him in the newspaper because at that time he was a local hero.
But that was a long time ago, today, his life of glory has made an abrupt turn down the lonely road of reality. No more cheers from admiring fight fans, no more requests for his autograph and no more headlines in the sports pages of today's newspapers. Tonight he’ll be parking cars for a sleazy nightclub owner in the downtown area of Los Angeles, and two months before that, he was working as an unarmed security guard in one of Los Angeles’ most notorious gang-infested neighborhoods; just to earn minimum wages.
At places where men tend to gather, bars, sports clubs, and gyms, nobodies heard of him, at best, he might get a polite “Your name sounds familiar.
”Regrets? He has many. Regrets for not doing the things that he should have, and regrets for doing the things that he shouldn’t have, such as accepting that first beer that led to many.
He dwells in a life of shoulda, coulda, and with a little, more discipline, and perhaps, a little more guidance, woulda made it to that group of elite fighters whose names will live on forever. Instead, he belongs to a fraternity of forgotten fighters whose only signs of accomplishments are flat noses and scar tissue where eye-brows once grew. Its a fraternity where most fighters are designated to; soon after their last hurrah, and this! is the fraternity to which I belong.
I was watering my lawn when Rick Farris phoned me, Rick was a pretty good Bantamweight back in the late 60’s to mid 70’s. Today, he’s an astute historian on boxing and a lover of the sport, and I believe that’s what motivated him to start the West Coast Boxing Hall of Fame.
Even though I hadn’t heard from Rick in a few years, I recognized his voice immediately. My adrenaline started pumping because I knew that at any moment I would be taking a trip down memory lane. When Rick and I get to talking boxing, there’s no stopping us. We must have talked for, at least, 45 minutes about the good old days of the Olympic Auditorium, the Main Street Gym in downtown Los Angeles, and on the south side, the Hoover St Gym. The Main Street Gym, and the Hoover St Gym, besides being known for (most of the time) having backed up toilets, had some of the best fighters of all time train there. And the stories we shared about those old school trainers are priceless. Jackie Mccoy, Canonball Green and Jake Shugrue. These guys were so cool; they trained you in their street clothes, you know the look, shiny leather shoes, slacks with a sharp crease; and a button up shirt. They would lace up your boxing gloves with a lit cigarette dangling from their lips, and the great part about is that nobody complained.
Towards the end of our conversation, Rick told me the reason he was calling me was that he would be inducting me into the W.C.B.H.F on October 15, 2017, at the Garland Hotel in Studio City. He asked me if I would appear to receive the induction, to which, of course, without hesitation, I said yes.
On the morning of the function, I must have spent the first 45 minutes staring at the clothes hanging in my closet. Casual or formal, which way should I go. I decided to compromise and go in between with a semi-formal look. I chose a pair of light grey slacks that had been hanging in my closet for the past twenty years waiting to be worn. I only have one sports jacket, so that made it a lot easier for me to choose which one to wear. It’s a light beige wool with a bluish grey tweed running throughout, all brought together with a light blue shirt and a beige tie with faint blue stripes. Oh yeah, I mustn’t forget to mention my dark brown European leather shoes, made in Paris California. I looked in the mirror and gave myself a thumbs up.
I gave Agnus the address to the venue, and then I was on my way. By the way, Agnus is my GPS. My wife, Lourdes and my two kids, Katrina and Frankie, were also attending, but they were going in a separate car.
While I was driving to the event, the entire time, I couldn’t stop thinking, “What if nobody knows me?” I kept thinking of how disappointed that my kids will be when they realize that their Father wasn’t as popular as he said he was.
As I entered the driveway of the Garland, I began to scan the parking lot in hopes that I would see some of my old boxing friends, and if I did, then I could be confident that I’ll get at least a few cheers upon my induction. I parked my car and reached for my coat that was laying across the back seat of my car. When I got out of my car; from a short distance away, I thought I heard somebody say “ That's Frankie Duarte”. I froze and my ears perked up. I tried to figure out how I should respond, or maybe I shouldn’t respond at all, but how could I not?
I slowly turned my head in the direction from where I heard the voice come from, and I saw a man and a woman approaching me at a fast pace, the man was smiling from ear to ear. The man didn’t even ask me If I was Frankie Duarte, he just introduced himself to me, and then his wife. He told me of how much he enjoyed watching me fight and continued with “you were a real warrior.” He handed me a pen and the program for that day's events and then asked me for my autograph. He thanked me, and I thanked him back, I was flabbergasted. Before we departed, I asked him where the event was taking place. He pointed across the parking lot and told to go through the double doors, then up the stairs.
I began walking across the parking lot, and by the time I got to the double doors, I had been asked for my autograph two more times, one woman asked me if she could take a picture with me, and a picture was taken.
When I got up the stairs, I walked across the corridor then through the double doors that opened onto the terrace. There had to be at least a couple hundred people out there.
Right away, I recognized former world champions Carlos Palomino, Danny ‘Little Red” Lopes, Albert Davila and Paul Banke; they were standing together talking and laughing. more fighters continued to come.
I spent much of the time talking to my old boxing colleagues, but most of the time, I was signing autographs and taking pictures, I was overjoyed.
The event was about to start, so we all started making our way to the venue. when I got inside, I saw some notables sitting near the podium. there was movie actors Ryan O’Neal who was accepting The Tom Kelly Lifetime Achievement award, and actor, Paul Le Mat. Paul was there in support of his longtime friend Albert Davila, Albert was also being inducted. Although Paul’s, played in a lot of movies, he’s best known for his portrayal of John Milner in the classic movie American Graffiti.
The late Dick Enberg was also being inducted for his outstanding work as a boxing commentator. Dick is also a big part of The Olympic Auditorium history, as he commented alongside Micky Davis when they first started airing the fights in 1965.
Rick Farris, at the podium, had kind words as he told of my history as a fighter. He called me up to the podium and congratulated me as he handed me my plaque. I approached the microphone, and I said a few words before thanking the West Coast Boxing Hall of Fame for accepting me as being worthy of the honor of being inducted into their establishment.
The highlight of the day, for me, was knowing that my kids witnessed, first hand, me in my celebrity status. Until then, they had only heard me brag about it, again and again.
I left the event with a new outlook on my life as a fighter and spent the rest of the evening re-hashing everything that happened that day.
The next morning I woke up extra early, and I went straight to my desk. I turned on my computer and began typing a letter to the Fraternity of Forgotten Fighters. It was my letter of resignation.
Monday, August 20, 2018
Latino Boxing in Southern California
with author Gene Aguilera
By KiKi
Want to thank my good friend Gene Aguilera for hand delivering me an autograph copy of his new book 'Latino Boxing in Southern California'
The title of the book is self-explanatory so there is no need to explain much about what the book is all about. Having said that let me say that the book is a must-read for all boxing fans no matter the color of their skin. - Gene, in his great book, does a great job of covering all the bases on the latino boxers that practice their trade in Southern California rings from the 1900s to the present.
Gene has two great books under his belt, but these books only cover the tip of the iceberg of Southern California boxing history, so, I would suggest that my friend writes a third book focusing on the great fights (and not on the fighters per se) that were fought in Southland rings from the 1900s to the present. Those great fights that were fought by some of the most courageous warriors ever to step into a square circle in venues like the Hollywood Legion Stadium, Ocean Park Arena, The Sports Arena, Dodgers Stadium, The Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum, The Forum, Eastside Arena, and the Olympic Auditorium, et al. are stories unto themselves, and those stories are needed to be told, and Gene is the one to tell those great stories.
Tuesday, July 17, 2018
A Top Featherweight Contender
By kiki
A long time ago, a top featherweight contender was fighting in Tucson, Arizona. At the morning weigh-in, his opponent, whom only his mother can remember his name, was deemed unfit to fight that night. The promoter, Flores, whose last name is all I can remember, was pulling his hair because his main event had fallen apart. But, not to worry, Jimmy "Super-manager" Montoya rode to the rescue with his cape flying in the air.
Jimmy then walked out of the hotel where the weigh-ins were being held and stood on the sidewalk looking at the people passing by 'nope too big, nope too small,' thought Jimmy as he eyed a couple of guys passing by, he then spotted a guy walking across the street that looked to be about 125 pounds. Just like the top featherweight contender's weight!
"Hey, you" Jimmy yelled at the guy.
"Who, me?" answered the guy.
"Yeah, you," replied Jimmy.
The guy then crossed the street and walked up to Jimmy
"You wanna make some money?" Jimmy said to the guy
"How much?"
"$500.00", Jimmy told him.
"Who do I have to kill?" answered the guy.
"You don't have to kill the guy; you just have to fight him," Jimmy responded.
The guy then asked Jimmy if by fighting he meant boxing.
Jimmy said yes, that it was boxing, and that he would fight a top featherweight contender.
The guy told Jimmy that yes, he would fight the top featherweight contender.
Jimmy asked the guy if he had ever fought, the guy replied that, yes, but that only in the streets.
"Okay, but remember you are fighting a top featherweight contender," Jimmy told his new fighter.
"I don't care who I fight; for $500.00, I'll fight King Kong.
Jimmy took the guy into the hotel and introduced his "fighter" to the commissioner. A quick over by the doctor, and he was given a boxing license.
Later that day, my boxing partner John Martinez and I were in our 4th-floor room of the hotel we were staying at, looking out the window that faced the hotel's back parking lot; we were watching Jimmy with the mitts on teaching his new protégé how to jab.
That night the protégé took the top featherweight contender into the early rounds of the ten-round fight before the referee stopped the fight.
After the fight's promoter Flores had a party at his desert hacienda. I spotted Jimmy and his protégé huddle in a corner talking, and as I was walking up to them, I heard the protégé ask Jimmy "poppy, poppy, when do we fight again?"
A long time ago, a top featherweight contender was fighting in Tucson, Arizona. At the morning weigh-in, his opponent, whom only his mother can remember his name, was deemed unfit to fight that night. The promoter, Flores, whose last name is all I can remember, was pulling his hair because his main event had fallen apart. But, not to worry, Jimmy "Super-manager" Montoya rode to the rescue with his cape flying in the air.
Jimmy walked up to promoter Flores and told him, "don't worry, don't worry, I'll take care of things."
Jimmy then walked out of the hotel where the weigh-ins were being held and stood on the sidewalk looking at the people passing by 'nope too big, nope too small,' thought Jimmy as he eyed a couple of guys passing by, he then spotted a guy walking across the street that looked to be about 125 pounds. Just like the top featherweight contender's weight!
"Hey, you" Jimmy yelled at the guy.
"Who, me?" answered the guy.
"Yeah, you," replied Jimmy.
The guy then crossed the street and walked up to Jimmy
"Yeah, what do you want?"
"You wanna make some money?" Jimmy said to the guy
"How much?"
"$500.00", Jimmy told him.
"Who do I have to kill?" answered the guy.
"You don't have to kill the guy; you just have to fight him," Jimmy responded.
The guy then asked Jimmy if by fighting he meant boxing.
Jimmy said yes, that it was boxing, and that he would fight a top featherweight contender.
The guy told Jimmy that yes, he would fight the top featherweight contender.
Jimmy asked the guy if he had ever fought, the guy replied that, yes, but that only in the streets.
"Okay, but remember you are fighting a top featherweight contender," Jimmy told his new fighter.
"I don't care who I fight; for $500.00, I'll fight King Kong.
Jimmy took the guy into the hotel and introduced his "fighter" to the commissioner. A quick over by the doctor, and he was given a boxing license.
Later that day, my boxing partner John Martinez and I were in our 4th-floor room of the hotel we were staying at, looking out the window that faced the hotel's back parking lot; we were watching Jimmy with the mitts on teaching his new protégé how to jab.
That night the protégé took the top featherweight contender into the early rounds of the ten-round fight before the referee stopped the fight.
After the fight's promoter Flores had a party at his desert hacienda. I spotted Jimmy and his protégé huddle in a corner talking, and as I was walking up to them, I heard the protégé ask Jimmy "poppy, poppy, when do we fight again?"
Saturday, July 7, 2018
My Friend Charlie Ortega
By kiki
I have made some friends on Facebook. Friends like Randy De La O, Ruben Lucero, Rene Ramirez, Bob Smith, Phil Rice, Jeff Bumpus, Jerry Cantu, Frank Aragon, Hernan de la Torre, book author Gene Aguilera, Filmmakers Steve Debro and Robert Benavides, the Ortega brother's, Charlie and Big Ron, and the list goes on. But unfortunately, in 2017, I lost one of the friends mentioned above, Charlie Ortega.
Charlie, who was short in stature, but had the heart of a lion, was in his own way a very unique kinda guy; he was the kind of guy that when he walked into a room, everybody took notice because he owned the room. He was animated and loud, but not in an annoying way. - Charlie and I had become good, if not close, friends in the six years we knew each other. We would every so often get together for Menudo at La Indiana Restaurant in La Puente, Ca. Sometimes we would meet with some of the fellas I mentioned above, but most of the time, it would be just us.
Charlie became a favorite and legend with La Indiana's staff and patrons. The waitresses loved him and always asked me, "Is your friend Charlie coming?" - I remember telling him once that he and I were meeting for Menudo and that the restaurant didn't open till 9:00am. Well, around 8:30am, I got a phone call from him: "Frank, I am here" I asked him what he was doing there so early, and I also asked him if he was going to wait until they opened. "Wait outside? Hell no; I'm inside drinking a beer" I then asked him how did he get inside if the place didn't open till 9:00, and he said, "I knocked on the door, and the cook let me, and he served me two Coors," And that became Charlie's routine whenever he visited La Indiana. Did I say he was unique?!
Charlie would order a bowl of Menudo con pata, three or four soft tacos, and two Coors; he ordered his beer by two's. Once his Menudo was served, he would put the tortillas chips in the Menudo and insist that I eat the pata that he had ordered; I would decline; since I, too, had ordered Menudo con pata. He would never eat the tacos; he would try to get me or his brother Ron to eat them or take them home. The Coors? Did I say he drank two at a time?. Didn't I say that he was a unique dude?
La Indiana staff loved Charlie as he always had them in stitches with his unique funny way. He would, in his broken pocho Spanish, ask one of the waitresses for a date; she would tell him that she was married; he would then say to her, "Okay, so just give me your phone number; I promise not to call when your husband is home" of course it was all banter on his part. Charlie, too, had a way with the patrons. He would talk to them as if they were longtime friends. After eating, he and I started talking about boxing; he loved boxing. Charlie brought up former world lightweight champion Mando Ramos. He got so animated in describing Mando's fighting style that he got up and started shadowboxing on the restaurant aisle. While throwing left jabs, he asked an old man sitting in the booth next to us if he knew Mando Ramos. The old man answered him, "Yes, I know Ramos, but he couldn't have beaten my man" At that, Charlie turned to me and said, "he knows boxing" He then asked the old man who his man was, the old man replied, "the Golden Boy, Art Aragon, do you know Aragon?" Charlie replied to the old fella that he knew of Aragon but never saw him fight. "Aragon was before my time, but Aragon was my dad's favorite fighter," I think that Mando Ramos was Charlie's favorite fighter.
I invited Charlie and Ron to sit at my table at the California Boxing Hall of Fame a few times. The first time I asked them, Charlie said, "I'll go, but I have to sit with you" I told him that, of course, he was sitting at my table, "I know, but I wanna sit next to you" He did. Charlie was on cloud nine as he met the famous fighters that attended the CBHOF luncheon.
I miss my friend and his animated persona. He was a truly unique man!
Wednesday, June 20, 2018
The US Constitution vs. the Bible
By KiKi
I have some Facebook friends that use the bible when making excuses for Trump's decision making. Any president, in my opinion, that uses the Bible in making decisions that affect all of us should be impeached. A president swears allegiance to the US Constitution, and not to the Bible. In taking that oath the president and other government officials are obliged to follow our constitution in making laws that we all have to live with. and I say that because our system of government is predicated on the freedom of religion. The beauty of the US Constitution is that it gives you the freedom to believe or not to believe in a supreme being.
Now about religious beliefs: I'm a believer. I do believe in a supreme being, and I believe that the day will come when he will judge me for my actions on planet earth, I just hope he will not be too harsh on me. I also believe that my relationship, such as it is, with God is only between him and me, I sure don't feel the need to shout it out in public. I don't go to church often but I pray in my own private way, and while that might not sit well with the religious fanatics it does work well for me because I am at peace with myself and with my God.
I have some Facebook friends that use the bible when making excuses for Trump's decision making. Any president, in my opinion, that uses the Bible in making decisions that affect all of us should be impeached. A president swears allegiance to the US Constitution, and not to the Bible. In taking that oath the president and other government officials are obliged to follow our constitution in making laws that we all have to live with. and I say that because our system of government is predicated on the freedom of religion. The beauty of the US Constitution is that it gives you the freedom to believe or not to believe in a supreme being.
Now about religious beliefs: I'm a believer. I do believe in a supreme being, and I believe that the day will come when he will judge me for my actions on planet earth, I just hope he will not be too harsh on me. I also believe that my relationship, such as it is, with God is only between him and me, I sure don't feel the need to shout it out in public. I don't go to church often but I pray in my own private way, and while that might not sit well with the religious fanatics it does work well for me because I am at peace with myself and with my God.
Saturday, June 9, 2018
Withered and Sere
By kiki
I've been having trouble getting around the house in the last week or so. Getting more withered and sere by the day, and if things weren't bad enough, I get a freaking jury summons. I ain't going. They can come for me and put my withered ass en el bote. And if any of the homies en la cárcel want to shake me down for money or smokes, I'll tell them not to mess with me; I'll let them know that I'm busted for purse snatching that I am one badass old dude. Of course, though, I'll be shaking in my boots when I tell the homies that.
Thursday, June 7, 2018
Not One of My finest Moments
By kiki
In 1976, I had a youthful (I was 39, hey, that is still youthful, que, no?) moment I am not very proud of, but it happened. Whenever I look back at that moment, I say to myself, 'dude, you are one lucky sonofabitch' That "youthful moment" happened in Green Bay, Wis., and here is the story behind that moment: In 1976, my son Tony made the Southern California AAU National Junior Olympic boxing team. The national finals were held at St. Norbert College. St. Norbert College is a private Roman Catholic liberal art college in the Green Bay suburb of De Pere. - After having a couple of high-priced airport drinks, my boxing partner, the late John Martinez, and the late coach Lupe Morua (his son Aaron was also on the team) and I boarded with the rest of the team and other coaches/parents, the red-eye at LAX. On the flight, the teenage boxers were behaving like teenagers, and we proud parents were acting, well, like proud parents, and we were drinking to our proudness. Needless to say, with the party atmosphere on the plane, we didn't sleep a wink on the flight to Chicago's O'Hare airport. We arrived, needing to connect to Green Bay, at O'Hare's on Sunday morning. After running from one end of the airport to the other, we made our connecting flight and arrived in Green Bay at about noon, their time (Green Bay is about two hours ahead of Pacific time). As we got in line to deplane in Green Bay, I turned around and faced the guy behind me, and I said to myself, 'damn, I know this dude' it was former Green Bay Packers QB Bart Starr.
Once inside the terminal, I decided to rent a car, I don't remember what rental company it was, but the point is that I rented a 1976 Oldsmobile Cutlass with 250 + miles on its odometer. On the rental contract, I paid extra to waive the $250.00 deductible in case of an accident. The first thing we (John, Lupe, and I) did once we left the airport was get lost on our way to St. Norbert College. After going around in circles a few times, we decided to stop at a bar to get directions, but because you can't go into a bar and get something for nothing, we ordered some beers to make the barmaid happy as she wrote the directions. While we were waiting on the barmaid, a young couple told Lupe they would show us how to get there if we gave them a ride to De Pere. We, of course, said "sure" On the way to the college, the young couple asked us where we were from, and we told them we were from Los Angeles. And, in a surprise move, they invited us to a house party that they were going to that night and said they would come, if we wanted to go, to the college for us. They did; it was around dusk when they came for us. After driving for about twenty minutes, we arrived at the house party. We entered the house only to find out that the party was for gays, and since neither John, Lupe, nor I indulged in gay activity, we left the party. By this time, it was dark, and we were running on fumes without having slept since Friday night. And of course, we got lost, again! While trying to find our way back to the college, we came upon a railroad crossing. The crossing only had some blinking lights; it did not have one of those long crossing arms that comes down when a train is passing. I stopped at the blinking lights to wait out the slow-moving train (it was traveling no more than five miles an hour), And while I had my foot on the brake peddle while waiting for the train to go by, in my sleepless stupor, I left the car in D gear, and you know what happened. When I woke up, the new Cutlass was bouncing off the train; with the car still running, I put it in reverse and backed off; once I backed up, John, Lupe, and I got out of the vehicle to assess the damage on the Cutlass. The hood and fenders pointed in one direction, and the rest of the car pointed in another.
And, of course, the cops were called. They asked me if I had been drinking, and I answered, "no, sir, I don't drink" The cop then told me, "well, I have to write you up for something, so I'll write you up for inattentive driving." So he did; he also told me that it would cost me $69.00; he then asked me if I had $69.00; I guess we looked like illegal bums for him to think that maybe we didn't have the $69.00. asked him for the address to send my 69-dollar check, and he said no, you paid it now. I then asked him if I could pay him the money; he wasn't happy that maybe I thought he was on the take. No, you pay at the station, now! he kinda yelled at me. So we were driven to the station in a black and white car. I paid for the ticket, and a cab was called for us - The following day, I called the rental company. I told them that their new Cutlass was in the impound yard and explained the accident to them, and I was told I had to pay the $250.00 deductible. When I explained that I had paid extra to waive the deductible, they said I still had to pay the $250.00. So I hung up on them. I then told the tournament director, a lawyer, what was happening; he asked to see the contract. After reading it and seeing that I indeed had paid to waive the deductible, he called the rental company and talked with the manager; after getting off the phone, he said, to me, "it's all handle." So the following days if we wanted to go somewhere we walked. - Oh, and Tony? He won the national title in his weight class and was named the outstanding fighter of the first four lower weight classes.
In 1976, I had a youthful (I was 39, hey, that is still youthful, que, no?) moment I am not very proud of, but it happened. Whenever I look back at that moment, I say to myself, 'dude, you are one lucky sonofabitch' That "youthful moment" happened in Green Bay, Wis., and here is the story behind that moment: In 1976, my son Tony made the Southern California AAU National Junior Olympic boxing team. The national finals were held at St. Norbert College. St. Norbert College is a private Roman Catholic liberal art college in the Green Bay suburb of De Pere. - After having a couple of high-priced airport drinks, my boxing partner, the late John Martinez, and the late coach Lupe Morua (his son Aaron was also on the team) and I boarded with the rest of the team and other coaches/parents, the red-eye at LAX. On the flight, the teenage boxers were behaving like teenagers, and we proud parents were acting, well, like proud parents, and we were drinking to our proudness. Needless to say, with the party atmosphere on the plane, we didn't sleep a wink on the flight to Chicago's O'Hare airport. We arrived, needing to connect to Green Bay, at O'Hare's on Sunday morning. After running from one end of the airport to the other, we made our connecting flight and arrived in Green Bay at about noon, their time (Green Bay is about two hours ahead of Pacific time). As we got in line to deplane in Green Bay, I turned around and faced the guy behind me, and I said to myself, 'damn, I know this dude' it was former Green Bay Packers QB Bart Starr.
Once inside the terminal, I decided to rent a car, I don't remember what rental company it was, but the point is that I rented a 1976 Oldsmobile Cutlass with 250 + miles on its odometer. On the rental contract, I paid extra to waive the $250.00 deductible in case of an accident. The first thing we (John, Lupe, and I) did once we left the airport was get lost on our way to St. Norbert College. After going around in circles a few times, we decided to stop at a bar to get directions, but because you can't go into a bar and get something for nothing, we ordered some beers to make the barmaid happy as she wrote the directions. While we were waiting on the barmaid, a young couple told Lupe they would show us how to get there if we gave them a ride to De Pere. We, of course, said "sure" On the way to the college, the young couple asked us where we were from, and we told them we were from Los Angeles. And, in a surprise move, they invited us to a house party that they were going to that night and said they would come, if we wanted to go, to the college for us. They did; it was around dusk when they came for us. After driving for about twenty minutes, we arrived at the house party. We entered the house only to find out that the party was for gays, and since neither John, Lupe, nor I indulged in gay activity, we left the party. By this time, it was dark, and we were running on fumes without having slept since Friday night. And of course, we got lost, again! While trying to find our way back to the college, we came upon a railroad crossing. The crossing only had some blinking lights; it did not have one of those long crossing arms that comes down when a train is passing. I stopped at the blinking lights to wait out the slow-moving train (it was traveling no more than five miles an hour), And while I had my foot on the brake peddle while waiting for the train to go by, in my sleepless stupor, I left the car in D gear, and you know what happened. When I woke up, the new Cutlass was bouncing off the train; with the car still running, I put it in reverse and backed off; once I backed up, John, Lupe, and I got out of the vehicle to assess the damage on the Cutlass. The hood and fenders pointed in one direction, and the rest of the car pointed in another.
And, of course, the cops were called. They asked me if I had been drinking, and I answered, "no, sir, I don't drink" The cop then told me, "well, I have to write you up for something, so I'll write you up for inattentive driving." So he did; he also told me that it would cost me $69.00; he then asked me if I had $69.00; I guess we looked like illegal bums for him to think that maybe we didn't have the $69.00. asked him for the address to send my 69-dollar check, and he said no, you paid it now. I then asked him if I could pay him the money; he wasn't happy that maybe I thought he was on the take. No, you pay at the station, now! he kinda yelled at me. So we were driven to the station in a black and white car. I paid for the ticket, and a cab was called for us - The following day, I called the rental company. I told them that their new Cutlass was in the impound yard and explained the accident to them, and I was told I had to pay the $250.00 deductible. When I explained that I had paid extra to waive the deductible, they said I still had to pay the $250.00. So I hung up on them. I then told the tournament director, a lawyer, what was happening; he asked to see the contract. After reading it and seeing that I indeed had paid to waive the deductible, he called the rental company and talked with the manager; after getting off the phone, he said, to me, "it's all handle." So the following days if we wanted to go somewhere we walked. - Oh, and Tony? He won the national title in his weight class and was named the outstanding fighter of the first four lower weight classes.
Saturday, June 2, 2018
Ernesto Adame Jr.
By kiki
Thanks to Facebook, I have reconnected with my cousin Ernesto Adame Jr...Ernie and I haven’t seen each other in about 35 years; the Last time we saw each other was around 1980 when I visit him at his then home in San Jose, CA; we were still young men then, now both of us are old geezers…Circa 1980: Connie, my late boxing partner John Martinez and I were driving home from an amateur boxing tournament that was held in Sacramento, and as we got near to Stockton via HWY 99 I remember that Ernie’s brother, Amador, lived in Stockton. I took the first exit that would take me into Fat City, and as we were driving on the off-ramp, I spotted a gas station that had some phone booths; remember the old phone booths? You are old if you do! I pulled into the gas station and parked by the phone booths hoping that Amador’s phone number was listed; it was, so I drop a dime on Amador; he answered, and I told him where I was at, and he said, “don’t move from there, I’ll be there in three minutes” He showed up in about three minutes, give or take a few seconds. We followed Amador to his house, where we got reacquainted with his family. While visiting Amador, he suggested that we visit Ernie in San Jose “let’s go, we’ll follow you,” I told Amador. We had a great time getting reacquainted with Ernie, Amador, and their families.
Fast forward to 2016, Amador now lives in Mexico, and Ernie lives in Tracy, Ca. and since reconnecting on Facebook, Ernie and I have talked on the phone couple of times. I invited him to join us on our annual trip to the June Lake Loop for the opening day of the trout fishing season in late April, and I am happy to say that he accepted, and he said that maybe his son Ernie will join us too. After all, these years that have gone by, it will be great to see my cousin Ernie again.
Thanks to Facebook, I have reconnected with my cousin Ernesto Adame Jr...Ernie and I haven’t seen each other in about 35 years; the Last time we saw each other was around 1980 when I visit him at his then home in San Jose, CA; we were still young men then, now both of us are old geezers…Circa 1980: Connie, my late boxing partner John Martinez and I were driving home from an amateur boxing tournament that was held in Sacramento, and as we got near to Stockton via HWY 99 I remember that Ernie’s brother, Amador, lived in Stockton. I took the first exit that would take me into Fat City, and as we were driving on the off-ramp, I spotted a gas station that had some phone booths; remember the old phone booths? You are old if you do! I pulled into the gas station and parked by the phone booths hoping that Amador’s phone number was listed; it was, so I drop a dime on Amador; he answered, and I told him where I was at, and he said, “don’t move from there, I’ll be there in three minutes” He showed up in about three minutes, give or take a few seconds. We followed Amador to his house, where we got reacquainted with his family. While visiting Amador, he suggested that we visit Ernie in San Jose “let’s go, we’ll follow you,” I told Amador. We had a great time getting reacquainted with Ernie, Amador, and their families.
Fast forward to 2016, Amador now lives in Mexico, and Ernie lives in Tracy, Ca. and since reconnecting on Facebook, Ernie and I have talked on the phone couple of times. I invited him to join us on our annual trip to the June Lake Loop for the opening day of the trout fishing season in late April, and I am happy to say that he accepted, and he said that maybe his son Ernie will join us too. After all, these years that have gone by, it will be great to see my cousin Ernie again.
Friday, June 1, 2018
The Ex-Star-Prize-Fighter
By kiki
The arenas are now dark, and the crowds are gone, but the ex-star-prize-fighter, as he shuffles down the avenue, still waves and bows at crowds his dementia mind tells him are still there.
The ex-star-prize-fighter: who is too young to die but too old to live under dark dementia clouds, shadowbox down a barrio's alley waving to an imaginary crowd he sees as he shadowboxes his way to an imaginary ring at the Olympic Auditorium.
With pen and plain paper in hand, the ex-star-prize-fighter signed an autograph to a fan that only he could see. Then, he thanked and shook the fan's hand.
While skipping down the avenue with an imaginary rope, some kids asked the ex-star-prize-fighter what he was doing jumping up and down; he replied that he was getting ready for a comeback.
Selling the Knockout magazine/program in front of the old granite building: the famed Olympic Auditorium, the ex-star-prize-fighter was overheard telling fans to be sure to come back the following week because he was fighting the main event.
The ex-star-prize-fighter fighter overheard a young fan making his way into the famed arena ask his companion if he knew who the old pug was. The companion replied that he was just an old has-been fighter; hearing that, the old fighter told the young fans to remember that it's always better to be a has-been than a never-was. - And so it was with the ex-star-prize-fighter.
The arenas are now dark, and the crowds are gone, but the ex-star-prize-fighter, as he shuffles down the avenue, still waves and bows at crowds his dementia mind tells him are still there.
The ex-star-prize-fighter: who is too young to die but too old to live under dark dementia clouds, shadowbox down a barrio's alley waving to an imaginary crowd he sees as he shadowboxes his way to an imaginary ring at the Olympic Auditorium.
With pen and plain paper in hand, the ex-star-prize-fighter signed an autograph to a fan that only he could see. Then, he thanked and shook the fan's hand.
While skipping down the avenue with an imaginary rope, some kids asked the ex-star-prize-fighter what he was doing jumping up and down; he replied that he was getting ready for a comeback.
Selling the Knockout magazine/program in front of the old granite building: the famed Olympic Auditorium, the ex-star-prize-fighter was overheard telling fans to be sure to come back the following week because he was fighting the main event.
The ex-star-prize-fighter fighter overheard a young fan making his way into the famed arena ask his companion if he knew who the old pug was. The companion replied that he was just an old has-been fighter; hearing that, the old fighter told the young fans to remember that it's always better to be a has-been than a never-was. - And so it was with the ex-star-prize-fighter.
Saturday, May 26, 2018
Memorial Days of yore
By KiKi
Starting in the .mid-'60's, Memorial Day and other national holidays were a time for us to hit the road to the Eastern Sierra via highway 395. We made our first trip to the Sierra in a 1958 Chevy pickup. After returning from that first trip, I sold the pickup and bought a 1966 ¾-ton Chevy pickup with an 8-foot cab-over camper. We kept that pickup for about 4 years and then purchased a 19-foot Dodge motorhome. By the mid-1970, we were ready for a newer and bigger motorhome, so we bought (what turned out to be our last motorhome) a 24-foot 1975 Dodge. - From the mid-'60s till the early-'90's opening day of the trout season was reserved for guys-only trips. The national holidays were a family affair.
With the pickups and motorhomes, we could camp in many different campgrounds, which are in abounds along highway 395. By 2001, the 1975 Dodge motorhome had been sitting, without being used, in our driveway for about 6 years. At that time, I decided to donate it to some worthy cause; I don't remember what that worthy cause was, though - Nowadays, for the opening weekend (still a guy's thing) and closing weekend, my boys and I, with some friends, go to the June Lake Loop where we rent some cabins. The family trips (the last one was early-'90s) are a thing of the past as our kids are grown (read old) up and have lives of their own. Plus, some live out of state. I make fewer trips to the Eastern Sierra in my old age, but the memories of those trips of yore live on.
Saturday, April 14, 2018
Motorcycle Road Trip
By KiKi
On one of our week-long motorcycle road trips. At Bridgeport, Ca....1995
My brother Mando and his wife Pat were trying to steal money from the ATM machine (jk) with my wife Connie as the lookout.
Riding a Harley or any other motorcycle is one of the best ways to see and appreciate the beauty that is Highway 395. On our first night on the road, we camped at Mcgee Creek. - After we left Bridgeport, we rode 395 to Susanville. From Susanville, we rode west on state route 44; from 44, we took SR 89 to Burney Falls. The park was packed, and we couldn't find a campsite nearby, so we rode to Weed, where we found a campground. From Weed, we took SR 97 to Klamath Falls, Oregon. From Klamath Falls, we rode west on Oregon's SR 66 to the I-5. We then took the 5 home – I've told members of my family and friends that any chance they get, they visit resorts all over the world, Cancun, Hawaii, Cabo, Europe, etc., to make time to check out the beauty in our own backyard.
My brother Mando and his wife Pat were trying to steal money from the ATM machine (jk) with my wife Connie as the lookout.
Riding a Harley or any other motorcycle is one of the best ways to see and appreciate the beauty that is Highway 395. On our first night on the road, we camped at Mcgee Creek. - After we left Bridgeport, we rode 395 to Susanville. From Susanville, we rode west on state route 44; from 44, we took SR 89 to Burney Falls. The park was packed, and we couldn't find a campsite nearby, so we rode to Weed, where we found a campground. From Weed, we took SR 97 to Klamath Falls, Oregon. From Klamath Falls, we rode west on Oregon's SR 66 to the I-5. We then took the 5 home – I've told members of my family and friends that any chance they get, they visit resorts all over the world, Cancun, Hawaii, Cabo, Europe, etc., to make time to check out the beauty in our own backyard.
Sunday, April 8, 2018
Haircut and Greasy Menudo
By kiki
Even though I have not been feeling chipper lately (old age is really getting to me), I nevertheless drove this morning to Daniel's Hair Studio in Montebello for a cut and comb (I was long overdue). I started feeling hunger pains as Dan was working his magic. - I think that my imaginary friend Beto was also hungry because as Dan was cutting around my bad ear, he whispered in my good ear, "I need some menudo, dude, I need to cure this hangover" So I told Beto that as soon as Dan was done, I would find us a menudo joint. At that, Dan asked me, "did you say something?" I didn't answer him - It has been a while since I've had menudo. My La Indiana Friday morning's menudo runs are no more. I stopped doing the La Indiana menudo runs when the people that run La Indiana, in their good wisdom, changed the menudo recipe. We found a joint in El Monte. It was a nondescript joint on Durfee; I don't know if it's street, avenue, or blvd. We went in and ordered menudo, Beto also wanted a beer, but I nixed that real fast. Was the menudo good? No! It was probably the worse menudo I have had in my many years of eating the stuff. It was really greasy, and they make it without pata. The first thought that came to my head when I saw the menudo was 'no wonder they call us greaser' Beto ate some of his menudo, and I left mine almost untouched. Walking out, I told Beto the menudo was too greasy, and he said, 'greasy, and no pata makes for a bad menudo, but I ate mine because I have a hangover' Maybe I needed a hangover too!
Even though I have not been feeling chipper lately (old age is really getting to me), I nevertheless drove this morning to Daniel's Hair Studio in Montebello for a cut and comb (I was long overdue). I started feeling hunger pains as Dan was working his magic. - I think that my imaginary friend Beto was also hungry because as Dan was cutting around my bad ear, he whispered in my good ear, "I need some menudo, dude, I need to cure this hangover" So I told Beto that as soon as Dan was done, I would find us a menudo joint. At that, Dan asked me, "did you say something?" I didn't answer him - It has been a while since I've had menudo. My La Indiana Friday morning's menudo runs are no more. I stopped doing the La Indiana menudo runs when the people that run La Indiana, in their good wisdom, changed the menudo recipe. We found a joint in El Monte. It was a nondescript joint on Durfee; I don't know if it's street, avenue, or blvd. We went in and ordered menudo, Beto also wanted a beer, but I nixed that real fast. Was the menudo good? No! It was probably the worse menudo I have had in my many years of eating the stuff. It was really greasy, and they make it without pata. The first thought that came to my head when I saw the menudo was 'no wonder they call us greaser' Beto ate some of his menudo, and I left mine almost untouched. Walking out, I told Beto the menudo was too greasy, and he said, 'greasy, and no pata makes for a bad menudo, but I ate mine because I have a hangover' Maybe I needed a hangover too!
Monday, April 2, 2018
Acid kicked me in behind
By kiki
(Reposted from Facebook)
(Reposted from Facebook)
Hi guys. Sorry that I haven't been able to respond to your inquiries about my health status. And it'is not because I don't appreciate it, I do, please me believe me that I do appreciate it. And for those that asked if there is anything you can do for me, your prayers and thoughts are what I need right now.
As too what is going on?: It looks like I got hit with a severe massive acid reflux attack (had one about two months ago. Took me about 2 weeks to get over it). The pain and burning sensation that you get from these massive acid attacks can be brutal. First, you are afraid that you going to die, and when you don't you start thinking about your friends (which one has a gun that you can borrow?)
Love you guys, but please don't ask me any questions. Because I won't be able to answer them, I just don't have the strength to do so. This attack has me doing the 'old Man Shuffle' Hey! I bet Connie and I could have won many dancing contests with my new crazy moves. I'll be checking in on your comments. Thank you for your thoughts and prayers.
Sunday, March 25, 2018
A Symphony in My Backyard
By kiki
As I was lying in bed reading the newspaper I could hear what sounded like a symphony being played in my backyard. I got up to see if I could find out who were the culprits that were playing that artistic magic I was hearing. Looking out my sliding door I could see who the culprits were that were playing the strings and horns. On my pomegranate tree, they were. The birds. They were singing and playing their beautiful music on this beautiful spring morning. Have a great day, my friends!
As I was lying in bed reading the newspaper I could hear what sounded like a symphony being played in my backyard. I got up to see if I could find out who were the culprits that were playing that artistic magic I was hearing. Looking out my sliding door I could see who the culprits were that were playing the strings and horns. On my pomegranate tree, they were. The birds. They were singing and playing their beautiful music on this beautiful spring morning. Have a great day, my friends!
Coffee, Not Booze
By kiki
At 2:36 am this morning, I woke up to answer the call of nature. Like clockwork, a man my age wakes up between 2:30 and 3am to answer the call of nature. But, don't worry; you will find it unavoidable when you reach your elder years. As I crawled back between the sheets, my pup, Sister, notified me that she too had to go and answer the call of nature. So, I crawled out of bed again to open the door for her, then I had to sit and wait for her to finish doing her personal business. Done: she decided she wanted to play outside for a bit. By the time she was ready to come in, it was 3:20am, and by then, I was wide awake, so I decided to get into my drinks, coffee, not booze.
Tuesday, March 13, 2018
Disgusting Behavior
By kiki
I have been trying to stay clear of political stuff. But I watched Trump at the PA rally yesterday afternoon and after watching him I was left more disgusted than ever with him. The vulgarity that he uses to describe those that in his warp mind he has a beef with is astonishing. But more astonishing is the silence coming from the congressional right-side of the aisle. The same people that wanted to hang Hillary Clinton for using a private server are now tight-lipped when their hero goes apeshit. And let's not forget the people that voted for and still support him. They too are silence on the profane and disgusting treatment that he gives his political opponents...I know that politics is a tough game, but, you can be tough without being profane, a little class will go a long way in winning you votes...I have to say to my friends and relatives that voted for and still support, this poor excuse of a human being and who are silence on his disgusting behavior "you are no better than he is" If I lose friends over this post, so be it!
Wednesday, February 28, 2018
Will Trump live to rue the day he decided to run for president?
By kiki
Will Trump live to rue the day he decided to run for president? Before he decided to jump into politics, he was cheating people out of their money by not paying for work he had done on his properties and running a crooked non-university; I could go on and on, but you get my drift. Indeed nobody was looking really hard into his crooked movidas. (moves) - His sex life was not a soap opera on the 24/7 cable news channels; now everybody knows who he bedded and paid off to keep quiet - His sons and daughter were mainly unknown to the general public: now the whole world knows how arrogant and self-serving they are. Sometimes it's better, for your own good, to stay under the radar. But egomania is sometimes too complicated for narcissists to control. So, it might be that in the end, Trump will just be remembered as an impeached and crooked president who was sent to prison.
Will Trump live to rue the day he decided to run for president? Before he decided to jump into politics, he was cheating people out of their money by not paying for work he had done on his properties and running a crooked non-university; I could go on and on, but you get my drift. Indeed nobody was looking really hard into his crooked movidas. (moves) - His sex life was not a soap opera on the 24/7 cable news channels; now everybody knows who he bedded and paid off to keep quiet - His sons and daughter were mainly unknown to the general public: now the whole world knows how arrogant and self-serving they are. Sometimes it's better, for your own good, to stay under the radar. But egomania is sometimes too complicated for narcissists to control. So, it might be that in the end, Trump will just be remembered as an impeached and crooked president who was sent to prison.
Friday, February 23, 2018
Smoking Grandma's Cigarettes
By kiki
This kid reminded me of myself when I was 7 years old: My slightly older cousin Robert, who used to live with my paternal grandparents, Grandpa Francisco and Grandma Lupe in Simons, would steal Grandma Lupe's cigarettes, I believe they were Lucky Strike's, but not sure though. An older cousin, Chuy, would join Robert and me in the cow corral, and we would puff away. - I quit smoking at about 10 years old, only to start again at 17 years. I quit smoking cigarettes over 25 years ago, though I smoke cigarettes on our annual opening day weekend fishing trips. So maybe I didn't quit after all. Nothing like cheating on yourself, que no? Lol. - I used to enjoy a good cigar after a good meal
Thursday, January 25, 2018
The Granite Monster
By kiki
There is something magical and almost untouchable about the glimmer and grime of the Olympic Auditorium. These intangibles made the romance boxers, and their fans had with the fame arena seem so surreal. - Hearts were often broken at the Granite Monster's Palace, but that didn't stop the boxers, and their fans from falling prey to the Monster at 18th and Grand, Ave. - There are arenas. There are arenas, but there is only one Granite Monster, 'The Beautiful Olympic Auditorium.'
There is something magical and almost untouchable about the glimmer and grime of the Olympic Auditorium. These intangibles made the romance boxers, and their fans had with the fame arena seem so surreal. - Hearts were often broken at the Granite Monster's Palace, but that didn't stop the boxers, and their fans from falling prey to the Monster at 18th and Grand, Ave. - There are arenas. There are arenas, but there is only one Granite Monster, 'The Beautiful Olympic Auditorium.'
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