quartz

videotapes and pay-per-view

My favorite thing to do in the world was to play with my wrestlers in my closet, or sometimes in our living room for special events.  I made up the story-lines and kept accurate history books.  It was really a binder.  Sometimes I used two rings during my own pay-pay-view events, and the living room gave me more space for the ring entrances.  Sometimes I would keep the closet door open in case an uncensored brawl went from the ring to backstage or into the clothes; I'd close the closet door for the atmosphere of house shows.

My favorite place in the world was the videotape rental store two blocks up from our townhouse.  Once a week, I would walk up to the store with my grandpa, and I could rent one wrestling pay-per-view tape; sometimes, my dad would take me.  I liked to go with my grandpa, because my dad would always rush me; even when he thought he was being patient, he would hover over me, and I couldn't do my research properly.  My grandpa would call Hulk Hogan, "Superstar," because of the WWF Superstars ice cream sandwich I would always pick out from the ice cream cart. One of our relatives drove an ice cream truck; he stayed with us when he was new to the country.  One day, he tried to run my dad over with his ice cream truck.  My mom called 911 as we watched from our balcony.  The ice cream truck was really a van.  My grandpa didn't know English, and would say the sound of the word, "Superstar," with the emphasis on the first r.  He was a little taller than me, but a lot shorter than my dad.  When my grandpa would come home from work, he would wrestle with me, and we would roll around on the carpet floor in our living room between the table and our TV.  My dad made me go to Tae Kwon Do.  Class was sometime early in the evening and wrestling was at 8 P.M. 

When the program would advertise their house shows' date and time—where Hogan was finally going to take on Ric Flair—I would tell my family and we would turn to the program channel, and instead it would be, Murder, She Wrote, and I would start crying.  My parents would search through the channels while I would sit there and sulk.  I hated her and her stupid typewriter.  I didn't understand what a house show was.  I caught up with the story-lines by watching the videotapes of pay-per-view events that took place before we moved to this country.  I saw the Ultimate Warrior beat Hulk Hogan at WrestleMania 7, and he was my favorite wrestler.  I was fascinated by him because he was so mythical; but really, it was his look and intensity.  His face was always brilliantly painted, and when he ran to the ring and shook the ropes, the beads wrapped around his arms would swing.  

I watched WrestleMania 8 scrambled on my TV.  I could make out some of the commentary—sometimes, I would see a foot or a maneuver, but couldn't tell who was winning.  I was really excited when the Ultimate Warrior came out at the end to save Hogan from Sid Justice and Papa Shango.  Then he disappeared again later in the year.  Bret Hart became my favorite wrestler.  And later during WrestleMania 10, when I heard Vince or Jim say Bret Hart had won the title on the scrambled pay-per-view channel, I was jumping around, but I couldn't make out how he managed to pin Yokozuna.

In the side of the video store, there was a secluded corner section with an, "Adults Only," sign that covered up pictures of naked men and women.  I was always thinking about that section.  Something about its presence scared me and I was always aware of that section when I went to get my wrestling tapes.  My sister and I always had to close our eyes if there was a sex scene in a movie and my dad would start yelling at America if one went on for too long while we were watching TV.

One time, my cousin was staying with me from San Francisco.  I always loved when we would visit his family, so I could hang out with him.  I loved more when I knew they were coming, because we could hang out and watch wrestling and I could take him to the video store with me.  One time when they were visiting for the weekend, at the end of the evening, they told me that he was going to spend the night with another one of his cousins and I was really dejected; they were going to have fun together and I was crying.  I think my parents got mad at him because I was so excited thinking he was going to stay with me, and they saw how sad I was.  

One time when my cousin was staying with me, we walked up to the video store and as I walked towards my wrestling aisle,  I saw him walk into the "Adults Only" section, and a few moments later an Asian man walked in to escort him out.  I was very eager and asked him why he walked in, and he said he didn't even notice it was the porno section until he walked in.  I know he had time to see the naked men and women having sex before he was kicked out.  It didn't seem to faze him and he just brushed it off. 

I was staying with his family during WrestleMania 12—they had moved down near San Jose by this time—and when I got there I asked him who he wanted to win, Shawn Michaels or Bret Hart?  He said, "Bret Hart, I guess."  I pushed him back because I had become more of an HBK fan for awhile there, and he seemed irritated that I was aggressive with him.  He was more of a basketball player than a wrestling fan.

One time we had a different kind of cable, and the Spice channel was also on our TV.  I would watch it scrambled when my parents were asleep—sometimes, I could see a foot or a maneuver.  The sound was just a buzzing, and when I could see a woman's face or figure in the bathtub, in the colored waves, she looked more like some alien cartoon freak zombie with dark or white robotic laser beam eyes, and the jumbled tones made her skin look artificial.  More, the tone of her eyes and skin always contrasted to the extreme.  One day I came home and there was some Armenian guy I didn't know messing around with our TV, and then we had more movie channels, and Ch. 99 required a four digit code.  I came down one night while my parents were asleep, and pressed 0000, and the naked woman came alive on my TV.  Some man started fucking her.

dried mulberries

Check out the curtains, remind you of anything?

I'm a black belt in Tae Kwon Do, you know.  When I was a kid, my dad made me go, for years.  I always had diarrhea before class.  During my final test, I couldn't break the double wood with a flying kick over some bloke kneeling over some other bloke, but I still passed.  He knew I didn't like it, but I was always afraid to tell him I hated it.  He refused to let me quit.  I broke my arm in there when I was eight and I still had to go back. They put steel plates in my arm and I thought I was going to be like Lex Lugar and be able to knock people out with his finishing move. I loved being in the hospital because my parents would bring me Chinese food.  Edward James Olmos came to visit me and the kids in the hospital; we took a picture together, and he gave my dad an autograph.  I was still wondering, Who the hell is Edward James Almost?

I never practiced.  It was boring.  I would splash water on my face, neck, and uniform at home when I was supposed to be practicing to fool him.  He would pick me up to take me to class during work, and I would sneak back home and climb up into our balcony and hide there. One time, he saw I wasn't in class and he came home and caught me hiding in the balcony.  I also broke my foot in there.  I've never had time to use any kicks in a real fight.  

I moved up different colors; I would always hide my belt when I walked to class past the Mexican kids down the street because they would make fun of me.  But I still had to wear my uniform, and I would stuff my purple belt down my trousers.  They all lived in the same courtyard in the poorer part of the street.  In their group was a tough girl.  I had a crush on her.  She would make fun of me, too.  She was real cute, and tall.  She still is, cute I mean, when I think about seeing her.  She had that curly hair full of hairspray and the tight jeans chola girls wear when they go to the mall to take those portraits in the blue clouds.  I was afraid of her.  One time she said she was going to kick my ass.

The best part about karate class was towards the end of class, when I knew there was only a couple, maybe five minutes left, and it wasn't so bad today.  If I wasn't so busy dreading class before even going... One time, our teacher told us he was going to be on Jay Leno that night.  His name was Ivan, but he was black.  So I stayed up watching Leno and he never interviewed my teacher.  I didn't realize he meant he was at Citywalk and the camera crew filmed him doing a spinning back kick by the fountains and they decided to include that footage in the opening credits montage.  I had two days anxiety-free before—well, before having to take another shit before class.  

Some of the kids told me my rival, Zorro—that was his name—had called me soft.  He was right.  He was husky, but like, built.  His dad was old and short and bald and serious.  His dad would often watch him in class.  My dad was always busy working, thank god.  I didn't like seeing Zorro's dad; he was so serious and boring.  Maybe calling me soft was his dad's observation.  I mean, what hell is tae kwon do?  I couldn't even do the splits or somersaults.  I saw these Asian kids in a tournament flying around the Civic Center.  Now those were black belts.

I went to a tournament with my dad and I couldn't win the last match for a gold medal in my group; this kid kept running at me with nonstop punches the whole time and I couldn't even push him away.  During the break, I kept apologizing to my dad because I knew I couldn't win and I know that makes him feel really bad.  But then this other time, I went with a group to a tournament and I could only place third for something, but I had fun that day, and when I came home the crazy bastard threw my bronze medal out the balcony. 

In one of the tournament matches, in between rounds, I heard the father of my opponent trying to psych his son up by convincing him that I was a girl.  I wanted to turn around to him, because I could understand the language, and say, Hey, I'm not a girl! My dad wasn't there for that one, although I wish he was; that would have been quite the scene.  After I broke my foot the second time, and we had moved, and I was older and listening to Nirvana, I didn't have to go anymore, and we stopped talking about it.

having to go to karate, boo!

how long will your tallest buildings survive?

We stood atop a building, overlooking a sea of lights. I looked up to a moon that hovered not too far up above. In peculiar motion glimmered - somewhere, somewhere up - two window-shaped xenon lights, then disappeared. I stood motionless, fascinated, awaiting something special to come. The planets aligned themselves: the stars, the lights, not too far from my eyes, and glimmered in unison the same instantaneous bright blue. Something was in the works. Down below, a young girl met an older man. She carried on with butterflies she couldn't wait to keep from the world.

Yea, something special was about to come. There must have been a spaceship. Next I saw laser beams in swift motion tear down all the tall buildings around us. In the flat below, some girl was getting it from a guy who wanted to walk away at the right time. One by one I saw skyscrapers fall. Fire, panic, and mayhem ensued. Something special was in the works against which we had no insurance. Government became an abstraction that quickly dissolved, and the military was no where to be found. These entities could not calm the people, because it was the Earth They were after. All the tall buildings in the world collapsed. That thief, he didn't get very far.

We ran with fear but ignored the feeling. Something told us this was just the first phase. Panic loomed but the prospect of absolute extinction sank deeper, deeper, and deeper. Something we could not percieve, would finally nullify our hopes, dreams, and desires. We were running and -

Tracy

Tracy was my buddy, my short little buddy.  For a time, she was my friend.   Blonde and blue eyes, her childlike smile - this is where the tears would be if I could cry. But I can't; botched facelift. I loved it when she would giggle. She would make me giggle. She liked my pop culture references and I felt that's all that I had because I had't read a book in years.  In school, she probably wasn't a good student but already knew all the vocabulary words.

She wasn't so little. Strong hips, breasts like a cluster of grapes. She was a bit older than me and great artists steal.

I told her about my Kurt Cobain obsession years and how silly I feel now when I wouldn't shower for days and have my mom wash my new clothes multiple times before I would wear them to middle school. She told me she cried the day Bradley Knowles died. I felt so phony.  We would share my iPhone iPod earpiece and laugh about the physical awkwardness and whether we should bop our heads in unison our something. I told her I was never good at concerts; I never knew what to do with myself.

We were friends for 30 days, more or less. We would make collages together out of magazine clippings and talk about how we would go shopping together after we got out of here.

We parted ways. I left with the insurance and she was busted for using in her room. We had swapped numbers like sincere friends do, but we were still primal and looked to fulfill our common purpose...so we headed to Santa Ana.

I guess we can drop the childlike smile. Seated next to each other on the couch of an old man and teenage girl, her eyes were gone and words were blurred. She may die but she would probably just sleep, and then I left.