Canto CDII: "Focus. Concentrate."

Gentle cabrones:

I’ve never cared for the Fourth of July — and this is long before our current Big Beautiful Bullshit.

I’ve always subscribed to Samuel Johnson’s adage about patriotism. Have never particularly liked outdoor summer parties, although I’ll never say no to a hot dog, carne asada or hamburger fresh off someone’s grill. Am indifferent to fireworks, although only because I don’t care for their spectacle (other people can blow themselves up to their heart’s desire and fingers’ discontent).

Will never go to a parade unless I’m covering it or a second line or tamborazo is in the middle of it (sorry, Mighty Peter). Have no need to mark a pride or love for a country I’ve never not cared for, and never will stop not caring for — that’s five negatives for those of you keeping track at home, which reminds me of Alfred E. Neuman’s adage that English is a language where double negatives are a no-no.

So my media chica and I rarely do anything for Independence Day. We stay home so she can rest while bingeing something on TV, and I fidget because I’m not doing anything.

This year, she did the same — but I went to outer space.

The occasion: We hosted NELcyn, NelCYn and their five-year-old son Mateo THA GOD. Their house’s air conditioning is broken, so we invited them for breakfast and to watch the first episode of The Gilded Age in our small but well-ventilated living room.

Well.

One episode turned to two turned to the entire first season and even a few episodes of the second. NELcyn, NelCYN and my honey had a wonderful time, but couldn’t have enjoyed themselves more than THA GOD and I.

From like 12:30 to 8, we played in our backyard and garage. He got on our rowing machine and imagined it was a spaceship, so off we went to all the planets (he designated the Roman chair as our portal, and opened it whenever he wanted to go into our patio aka solar system). We also played ring toss, and sometimes our garage turned into a submarine. Sometimes, Cosmo would join us for a bit and we decided that was him scouting to make sure everything was safe and communicated with us through the Cosmo Screen, which is where my honey puts her iPad on our spaceship.

And sometimes, we played baseball.

He brought out an inflatable Peanuts baseball and ball, and THA GOD has skills! Good arm, and found his swing once I taught him how to properly stand. Even better, he smacked well both left and right — is the next Mickey Mantle going to come out of SanTana?

THA GOD is OC (out of control, for you non-SoCal Gen X Latinos) like any five-year-old boy should, which is wonderful but also a chance to teach lessons. So when I could tell he was getting frustrated that he couldn’t hit what I was tossing to him, I told him he needed to pay attention instead of just swing wildly. Slow down.

He spread out his feet so that they squared up with his shoulders, like I taught him. Held his bat almost perpendicular to his body ala Rod Carew, a move all of his own. Then THA GOOD closed his eyes and told himself, “Focus. Concentrate.”

He opened his eyes and waited for my pitch. Did it for every at-bat. And while he didn’t make contact every time, THA GOD’S follow-through was that of someone who fulfilled his self-affirmation.

What’s that adage about what comes out of the mouth of babes?

Long long time ago, when my brother was younger than 10, we used to watch Dragonball Z together. Great anime show! I always cracked up how the intro to a plot point — say Majin Buu showing up for his first fight or Vegeta and Nappa (I think) coming down to Earth in their space pod — would develop over what it seemed like 30 episodes (how long did it take Goku to run across Snake Way again?).

One day, my brother was filling me in on an episode we had watched together and mentioned the Supreme Kai, a minor yet key character in the Dragonball Z universe. My brother described the look that the Supreme Kai had in one scene as “astonished,” and damnit if he wasn’t right — but I was astonished at how he knew such a specific word at such a young age.

I’ve always liked kids, even if my honey and I never had any. But my brother saying what he did about the Supreme Kai taught me to always listen to what they have to say and pay attention to what they do, because their insights more often than not are better than what we adults offer.

With THA GOD’s “Focus. Concentrate,” mantra, I was reminded of the following truths:

• Settle yourself when it’s go-time: We can’t and shouldn’t be berserkers when the moment comes, whatever the moment may be. A game plan is great, but usually impossible to plan out — and what’s that adage about mice and men? Or the Mike Tyson one I’ve shared as a quote in a canto before: “Everybody has a plan until they get punched in the face.” But we can and should all take a moment for the moment, and proceed. Even just a second sets you in a far better place than just baptizing yourself in fire, which is what I usually do.

• Mantras forever: What do YOU tell yourself before it’s time to WERK? You don’t tell yourself anything? Big mistake: doing so is like a start button for your brain to unleash the potential that you’ve honed via practice for the moment. Kinda like the memory palace trick that Greek orators used to remember speeches and stories. “Focus. Concentrate,” is so genius because it’s so necessary yet so short and right on the proverbial nose. Me? I have a couple — probably my favorite is “Well alreet, well all root, well alright,” which shows how big of a fan I am of Cab Calloway, even though I would NEVER wear a zoot suit.

• Yes, focus: Too many distractions out there, so you need to block them out when the task before you needs to be done. THA GOD had all sorts of toys around him, but he wanted to hit the ball that Tío Guti was about to toss to him, so he needed to be in the moment. This is different, by the way, from…

• Yes, concentrate: Different from focusing. Concentrating is contemplating the moment at hand, and figuring out how you’re going to execute every part properly. A baseball swing is the perfect encapsulation of this: as the ball comes toward you, how will you activate your hips? Your bat? Follow-through? Feet? Hand-eye coordination?

After NELCyn and NelCYN had their fill of The Gilded Age (I think it’s well-written, but I don’t really care for period pieces — Mad Men, included), I asked where THA GOD might’ve gotten his mantra from. No clue, and they thought it was brilliant as well.

One other thing he said: “Baseball players never give up.” Nor should we. Focus, concentrate…

**

Enough rambling. This was the semana that was:

IMAGE OF THE WEEK: DELICIOUS corn tortillas from Maíz de la Vida in Nashville, which I finally defrosted after two years — still delicious!

QUOTE OF THE WEEK: “I can imagine how my theoretical executors are going to fart themselves into confusion” — Sergei Eisenstein

LISTENING: “El Navegante,” El Puma de Sinaloa. Kinda cheesy, kinda outdated in calling an indigenous woman an indita. But the banda is stellar, the plaintive longing is real, and I especially like when a few lines turn into a duet — and what a great stage name for . One of the few popular Mexican songs to explicitly set itself in the southern part of the country. And don’t forget to put on Gustavo Arellano’s Weekly Radiola of Randomness YouTube songlist, where I’ve included every song I’ve ever featured in a canto!

READING: “Out of the fog”: You know the painting — Romantic-era guy with a walking stick whom we only see from the back standing above a valley. Now, a thought piece from the ever-interesting Aeon that puts “Wanderer Above a Sea of Fog” in its proper context.

BUY MY NEW CO-BOOK! People’s Guide to Orange County tells an alternative history of OC through the scholarship and reporting of myself, Elaine Lewinnek, and Thuy Vo Dang. There’ll be signings all year — in meanwhile, buy your copy TODAY. And, yes: I’ll autograph it!

Gustavo in the News

“How Jarritos Defied Borders and Became a Global Phenom”: I get quoted in Imbibe’s story on the subject.

“You can’t separate sports from politics. Just ask the L.A. Dodgers”: A Los Angeles Times columnista you should reader (Mark Z. Barabak!) plugs a columna of mine.

“Once it was mostly a taco website. Now it’s covering L.A. ICE raids.”: The Washington Post quotes me in a piece about L.A. Taco and the homie Javier Cabral (Canto CLXXXIV).

“Abbreviated Pundit Roundup: Have you no sense of decency, sir?“: A plug in Daily Kos.

“At Alta Baja, the way America is supposed to work”: Rob Eshman, one of my first journalism jefes (Canto CCXXX) and author of his own fabulous newsletter you should subscribe to, writes about my honey’s store.

“Letters to the Editor: Cudahy vice mayor’s gang comments ‘are not misunderstood. They are unacceptable’”: L.A. Times readers don’t like a columna of mine.

“Who Do You Trust in a Post-Journalism World?”: In which subscribers to The Fifth Column podcast (co-hosted by Matt Welch, whom I profiled in Canto CCLXXV) do a popularity contest of the journalism voices they trust, and I’m tied for 27th place in the Individuals category along with 30-some other people!

Gustavo Stories 

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

“Santa Ana could give financial support to families affected by ICE”: My latest KCRW “Orange County Line” commentary is an audio version of my old “Notes from the Banana Republic of SanTana.”

"Fox 11 News”: Did I share this one last week? If not, here’s me appearing with Fox 11’s Elex Michaelson about the Cudahy vice mayor’s Florencia pendejada.

“Trump was winning with Latinos. Now, his cruelty is derailing him”: My latest L.A. Times columna talks about one of my favorite pieces of music EVER. KEY QUOTE: “When rancho libertarians like them are angry enough to publicly fight back, you know the president is blowing it with Latinos.”

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