Music Write-Ups
How do you know Chris Earley?
How many MP3s do you have on your hard drive?
June 3rd– La madruga - I was in Amsterdam and I was realizing that my mid twenties were peaking. Boo-hoo, right? It was more than just an age. I was living in and working in a cold and old city. The Amsterdamers are set in their ways, and by most means I challenged the covers on their books: I speak English, the second tongue most Dutchies phonetically speak, but I use California words. I’m American of Mexican decent, but I look like a “disreputable and unwanted” immigrant from a Southern Europe border country. I couldn’t agree more with my collegues that my country’s fearless leader was an idiot.
I was more than leaving 25 years old, I was permanently leaving cultural and racial naivetés. I needed to get the hell outta Amsterdam for my day. I mean, did I wanna spend 26 with a couple of unfamiliar cats in a cold, old city? My options were limited but sick: XIII Arrondissement avec Francois, Zurich mit Burkhart, Kew Gardens with the Riddles, or Trieste con Giulio e la sua famiglia. Whatever, I just needed to see where the shittiest but cheapest eurojets could get me. Thank you Social Capitalists.
June 3rd– Mediodia - “Dudes I’m out. I love you all but today’s my day and I’ve always spent my day in the So-Cal sun. I cant get to Cali in a couple hours but I can make it to Trieste.” I call out, half-bragging and half-disappointed, to the motley crue of smart looking bloaks, Eyetalians, and dutchie traders. After 6 months, the Netherlands, still doesnt feel close to being home. Nope not at all, just cold and old. I gotta roll. I dont wanna get caught up feeling like my friends and family are a world away. I gotta move, I gotta stay on the go. I gotta flight to catch, I’m ditching work at noon and everyone is chill with it. Safe travels, gefeliciteerd, ciao, dooie and laters! I grab my bag and b-line towards the stairwell, down three flights and out of the office. Free five hours early from that binding yuckiness that followed me from from Cali. The coldness rushes in, and the wind perforates my skin from my capilene layer, I catch my breath on the go. I got the Intercity tren to Schipol to catch. I queue up and take my sit in my cabin, that my MAN comp’d me for bringing my ass to work out to Amsterdam.
Yea this Turkish looking immigrant is sitting in your first class. And yeah I notice, you dutch fuck, that you’re not happy with me being in here but hey I’m American so piss off. Yea, okay, conductor man you can check my second form of ID. Blam-o, see that shit, American passport bitch, now leave me be. Dooie and dag to you too.
Man I can’t wait to get down south; hashish flows like percosets, the food is made how the gods had it, and the women are sweeter than any midwest american pie. I continue reading the metro in dutch and minding my own. My tren will get to the airport in exactly 73 minutes and the dutch do have have some stellar public transportation. Fuck Cali, damn. Cmon’ Governator, why can’t you do that for me so I can enjoy my first class cabin in peace?
June 3rd– Sera - “Yo Giulio. Yo I’m here dawg. Yeah, cool I’ll be out front.” My flight was standard, a bit late, a bit cramped, and a bit tired. But worth every euro of it because my first breath of air was fresh, sunbaked hot, and Italian. About an hour later and 4 days early Giulio rolls up in his older dirty Euro hatchback at the commuter airport just outside Treviso, exactly as we met up 5 years earlier at Stazione Centrale di Milano. He doesnt get out, I pop the hatch throw my pack in and we’re out. Neither one of us hesistated, no uncomfortable moments of “wow I haven’t chilled with you in a long time”, it’s more of like turning on your sega genesis, playing your favorite game and realizing, damn this game is still the shit. The fiery red adriatic sky bleaches my eyes, he offers me some glasses from his glove box. There are sunglasses misplaced all over the car - old Porsche designed, aviators, snowboard goggles, hot pink wraps, and of course the there’s the one’s that his Italian fashion designer friends have given him that he is burdened with and tries to make me wear.
“Nah Dawg I want the goggles and some hash. You got some hash?”
“Look under your chair.”
“Hahaha, tight.”
“Stear the wheel for me.”
“Haa tight.”
“Yo check these tunes.”
I disconnect his mini-disc and pop on my flash and go straight to some Grouch No More Greener Grass.
“Tight right?”
“No doood look look listen to this: Limon Gelly.”
“Haaaa. Yea this is tight, you gotta gimme this.”
“Yes of course but in Trieste tomorrow at my home, but now we are going to Venezia to change, meet Donata, take a tour and have a dinner with my university friends for your Birthday.”
“Tight.”
-Don Raul Juan