Canto CCCLXXXII: Swing Low, Sweet Yukón

Gentle cabrones:

Those of ustedes who have been subscribing for a bit know that last year, I did a multipart series about how 2004 was one of the most consequential years of my life.

2005? Mostly meh.

I mean, my career was continuing to rise. I met my media chica. But those two developments would truly blossom the following year, so maybe I’ll write about those points in 2026, during the political storms to come.

Really, 2005 is important for one reason: Yukón.

GMC Yukon. Massive SUV. Leather seats and leather bench seat in the second row, with two removable seats in the back where the trunk is, although you’d have to duck your head and crunch up to fit.

My dad bought it after the Explorer that he had for a decade basically gave out – there’s a reason why the nickname for those were Exploders. We were always a Ford family, from the old mint-colored Thunderbird he had when we lived on La Filadelfia (Canto XXX) to a good little Ranger that was his daily driver, so I don’t know where he got the idea to buy a Yukon, the Cadillac of SUVs. (by the way, don’t buy a Cadillac SUV. They’re garbage)

In 2005, my dad would’ve been 54 years old and at the top of his trucking game, back when independent truckers could make good cash. His purchase was all about showing off. But he also had it in his mind that this was going to be the car that he could take his family around to rancho events — “Para llegar juntos” has always been a mantra of his.

But by then, us three older Arellano kids had our own cars and living our own lives, which meant we didn’t go to the parties all the time – at least me. And because the Yukon was so nice, he left it to my mami to use as a daily driver, even though she hated it – it was a big bunch of nothing for her that was only useful for Costco trips.

I didn’t care for the Yukon, either. Just another example of conspicuous consumption, which I’ve always been against but something that my dad would engage in once in a while for all the wrong reasons. But three years after my dad bought it, I suddenly had a reason to drive it. My honey and I wanted to go on the 127 Yard Sale in Kentucky (Canto CCCLXXIX), and if ever there’s a reason to drive a big-ass SUV, it’s to go rummaging.

Every summer for the next decade, that’s exactly what we would do.

I soon learned to respect the Yukon, which my honey christened Yukón because that’s how my dad would pronounce it. It was already a relic when my dad bought it. The original radio console came with a tape deck – a tape deck in 2005. But it drove like a smaller car, zipped like a sports one, and could surmount any terrain. I even bought a portable SiriusXM receiver so I could listen to Howard Stern for two weeks out of the year because it didn’t work with the Camry that I drove.

I looked forward to driving it every year, but otherwise never used it. Then 2018 happened.

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My mom stopped driving Yukón because of her illness. My dad got a 1999 Toyota Corolla from mi Tía Paulita because Yukón was a gas guzzler. My 1999 Toyota Camry broke down on the 5 freeway North on ramp from Main Street in SanTana shortly after I left the Infernal Rag because I stupidly forgot to check it for oil — had 300,000 miles on it, but was never particularly memorable.

I needed a car but didn’t wanna buy a new one, both because I’m cheap (Canto CCCLVII) but also because I felt hybrids were too expensive and electric cars were unreliable. Besides, all the 2018 cars were ugly, and 2019s weren’t exactly lookers, either — and, yes, I’m petty when it comes to the looks of my cars, because I’m a SoCal rancho libertarian cholo nerd.

My dad probably needed money, so he suggested I buy Yukón off of him at the beginning of 2018. He has never exactly been wise with his savings — but he knew how to buy cars. And Yukón was a perfect car for the perfect time.

2018 is when I started this newsletter, and when my career had to branch out out of my Orange County homeland. It revealed technology I never knew it had, like the time Yukón had a nail on its tire somewhere around Danville, Kentucky and I didn’t even know about it until a sensor lit up to let me know I had low tire pressure. Or the time a radiator hose snapped, and I didn’t realize the car’s thermostat was heating up until the engine went into sleep mode, which meant I suddenly I couldn’t go faster than 40 mph and which I never even knew there was a mode like that.

People would look at me weird whenever I pulled up somewhere with Yukón – aren’t reporters supposed supposed to drive Priuses? (Hell no: They’re ugly AF). Besides, its space allowed me to post up in the back with my mami’s suitcase as a desk (Canto I Need to Catalogue Them). But that one time when the engine overheated because I wasn’t paying attention spelled the beginning of the end for Yukón.

Soon, other sensors that had never lit up began flashing — bad sensors. No amount of wiping the computer clean by my brother-in-law could make them go away. Then the car started to belch white smoke in the morning. Then the check engine light popped in and out like a turn signal. Yukón was becoming a rolling AQMD violation.

When it was time for me to take my road trip across the Southwest last summer, I took Yukón to my trusted mechanic and asked if he would drive it that far. He said no. The official diagnosis was that the O rings were wasted, which meant oil was burning in the engine. I was putting in two quarts a week. The fix would cost $7,000 — not worth it.

And still, I did not want to get rid of Yukón. It represented the dashed dreams of my parents, but also the dreams fulfilled of one of their children. I knew I would never drive another car as good as Yukón in its prime. Besides, it was at about 260,000, and I wanted to get it at 275,000 just to say I did.

Early in January, when I was going on the 57 South interchange from the 91 East, Yukón’s speedometer suddenly started to go up and down, and the engine began to shudder. I asked Yukón to at least make it home, which it did, continuing my streak of car problems happening near my house or the safety of a metropolitan area (Canto XCII).

It was time to buy a new car. It was time to say goodbye to Yukón.

When I decided on my next ride, I asked the dealer if I could trade in Yukón — I knew I wouldn’t receive much, but it’s a damn GMC Yukon, so it would be worth something. They said that would be fine as long as I drove it to them. By then, I was only turning on Yukón to move it into the driveway on street sweeping days.

The last couple of times, I could tell that the starter was ready to fail. So I asked Yukón again to hold out just a bit longer.

The Saturday of my new car came. The previous night, I had moved Yukón to the street just fine. It wouldn’t turn on anymore. 273,535 miles.

I called the guy I was talking at the dealership, who was kind enough to take Yukón as is. Its proud silver had degraded to a fade-out brown, but the seats were still beautiful. When the AAA guy came to put it on a rig, he said how that year’s Yukons were great.

As we dropped off the car at the dealership’s back lot, I offered a prayer and thanks. I thought of my mami, who would be proud of me for buying a new car – somewhere in our archives is a photo of me with my Camry on the day I bought it. I thought of my dad, and once again smiled at the idea of him having chosen a hell of a car. And I told myself I was doing the right thing, and to let Yukón go.

When the Camry died, I cursed myself for being so negligent. When Yukón left, I just had happy thoughts. And I was reminded of what some say about grieving a loved one as the years pass by – eventually, only the good times remain.

You were great, Yukón. May someone have bought you at auction, fixed you up, and give you a life I couldn’t give you anymore.

**

Enough rambling. This was the semana that was:

IMAGE OF THE WEEK: Bad photo of the eternally great food at The Farmhouse at Roger’s Garden. Chef Rich Mead has been at it for a while and doesn’t nearly get enough credit, so swing by and buy some rare tomatoes afterward!

QUOTE OF THE WEEK: “Know where you stand, and stand there.” — Daniel Berrigan SJ

LISTENING: “'Til My Baby Comes Home,” Luther Vandross. I remember a TV commercial where Luther was singing “The Power of Love” and then MC Hammer rises from the sidewalk — was it for 92.3 The Beat? Anyways, Luther was just a bit before my time, so I’m still learning his stuff — but this one! Jazzy, gospel-inflected, groovy proto-New Jack Swing. Need to go through his albums after I’m done with Springsteen and Tom Petty’s oeuvre…

READING: “Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu”: John Updike. On Ted Williams’ last game. At Fenway. Where the Splendid Splinter trashes the media in a pregame ceremony. For the New Yorker. What else do you need? Ain’t spoiling the ending, either!

Gustavo Events  

April 12, 10 a.m.: “The Cinematic Murals of Gabriel Figueroa”: Oooo, I get to use my film studies sombrero! Going to do a short presentation on the legendary cinematographer, then see with ustedes The Night of the Iguana and then talk with ustedes afterward! At the Riviera Theater, 2044 Alameda Padre Serra, Santa Barbara.

April 26, 3 p.m.: I’ll be moderating “The Activist Spirit and the Embodiment of Solidarity” at the L.A. Times Festival of Books at Newman Recital Hall at USC. Tickets will be required but not released until April 20, so stay tuned.

April 27, 11:45 am. and 4:15 p.m.: I’ll be moderating two more panels for the L.A. Times Festival of Books: “Voto Latino: Post-Election Reflections” and “Ask a Reporter: How We Cover Immigration.” The former will be at the De Los Stage and accessible to all, the latter will be at Mudd Hall 203 and will require tickets that are not released until April 20, so stay tuned.

May 3, 9 a.m.: Join me and one of my co-authors of A People’s Guide to Orange County as we do a tour of Anacrime! Tickets are $20 but completely worth it — buy here.

Gustavo in the News

“Raising the next generation of Latinos on Selena, 30 years after her death”: A Los Angeles Times newsletter you should subscribe to plugs a columna of mine.

“Part 162: An LAPD Whistleblower – The Los Angeles Police Protective League vs. Commander Lillian Carranza”: Legendary whistleblower Zachary Ellison mentions me in a story of his.

“Threats of media censorship and protecting freedom of speech discussed at CALÓ News and LMC’s 8th Diálogo“: A writeup of the panel I hosted for the great SoCal Latino news org.

Gustavo Stories 

“Grítale a Guti”: Latest edition of my Tuesday night IG Live free-for-all.

“Meter mayhem: Santa Ana investigates parking ticket complaints”: My latest KCRW “Orange County Line” commentary talks about the jerks who toss tickets at folks like it was a parade down the Avenue of the Americas.

"At Home with the Bean King”: My latest Alta Journal story is a profile of Rancho Gordo head Steve Sando. KEY QUOTE: “He let a beat pass. “She said, ‘There’s a lot of tunes left in an old violin.’ ”

“Under the Feet of Jesus”: My next latest Alta Journal story is a reflection of Helena Maria Viramontes’ beautiful, heartbreaking book. KEY QUOTE: “This account of a teenage girl in 1960s California working la pisca is the story of my Mami, my aunts, their friends—the experience of so many people of their generation, as well as the ones before, and the too many that have followed.”

“Ask a Californian: March Madness Edition”: My latest Alta Journal co-columna. KEY QUOTE: “Anyone who calls a corner market a “bodega” in our Golden State deserves to be strapped to a chair and forced to watch the fifth inning of Game 5 of last year’s World Series between the Yankees and the Dodgers with their eyes pulled back à la A Clockwork Orange.”

“Near death, Pope Francis rallied back. We need his voice more than ever”: My latest L.A. Times columna thanks God for letting the pontiff’s prophetic voice stay with us. KEY QUOTE: “Instead, the pope has lived and preached what Jesus commanded his followers to do in the Sermon on the Mount, which to the right might as well be the Communist Manifesto nowadays.”

“A Dodgers broadcasting legend reflects on life, superstar-laden team”: My next latest L.A. Times columna sees me hang out with Jaime Jarrín! KEY QUOTE: “A waiter came over to take our order. ‘Denos unos minutitos, por favor,’ Jarrín said. Please give us a few minutes, sir. There were stories to tell.”

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