22580015, originally uploaded by Chester.Soria.

Young Mammals at Cake Shop.

So WINO is still in the works, but I figure I’d start crossposting these things instead of sitting on them. You’re obligated to acting surprised and reading this again when it does go live on the WINO site. Edits and crits very much welcome. The first post is an introduction essay.

This is the part I’m supposed to come up with a witty introduction to myself using my cool and collected writer’s voice. I’d usually come up with a way to cram Venezuela, Texas, Catholicism and bourbon into a few sentences. Spoiler alert.

I spent a small portion of my childhood wanting to be an astronaut, with a brief stint as aspiring anthropologist so as to be buddies with Jurassic Park’s Dr. Grant. But when I hit the transformative age of nine, I decided to forgo any possibility of wealth and fame when I told my parents I wanted to go to Columbia University and be a journalist.

“Why would you want to go to Colombia?”, goes my dad’s well-rehearsed response. “You might as well go back to Venezuela.”

Apparently the nine-year old in me didn’t have much of a sense of humor. I spent afternoons and summers on the Soria household beat, co-opting my dad’s electric typewriter at work to draft a small circulation newspaper. I spent most of my middle school years contributing to the Cat Trax newspaper, competing for headline space with the “Newest Couples” column, and spent all four years of high school working on The Oracle looking for any excuse to overturn the Hazelwood decision.

I ended up staying in Houston and going to a small, conservative Catholic university where I would eventually run the anti-Catholic, liberal, occult-named Cauldron newspaper. I’d later have the occasional alt weekly article or blog post, but my journalism career ended before it began. I soon settled for corporate job with a massive oil company where I pretended formatting technical reports meant that I was still attuned to the publishing world. After a year of making sure everything was a banal Garamond size 12 with six-point spacing before and after each graph, I took a chance. Hello, New York.

It’s been two years since bought my one-way flight to New York City. Like anyone here would likely clue you in on, the city’s highs are high and its lows are lows. One of the highest of highs is having the distinct privilege to meet and talk to some of the most brilliant journalists, editors, writers and fellow people in between.

They, more than anything else, are a constant reminder that I’m only a WINO as long as I let myself to be. And while I hope that my WINO ways are strictly a phase that I am meant to grow out of, I’m happy to work alongside Sarah and whomever else may want to take the ride with us on the road to career recovery.

Oh, and I love bourbon.

I’m soon kicking off a new, very humble project with my Nation buddy Sarah Arnold.

It’s still in the final rounds, but I can tell you that it’s called W.I.N.O. and will hopefully reignite and focus some career aspirations.

Stay tuned.

Chances are that anyone who reads this today has already heard me sloppily recount the second part to my Christmas excursion, maybe more than once. If you haven’t, the short version features five hours worth of transportation by land, five hours in a flight reaccommodation line and going to the wrong airport. Easter eggs include but are not limited to losing my digital camera, accidentally formatting my laptop’s hard drive and cracking the screen on my fancy phone.

Speaking of trips home, I wrote this while flying over Alabama at around 450 miles per hour, surprising my family with a visit. Only a privileged few knew about the trip before hand, which has me morbidly excited at the possibility of giving a few heart attacks. I wasn’t planning on going home until about a week ago. Consider it reparations for what turned out to be a rather stressful Mother’s Day visit by my mother and sister.

The super short version of that story includes stress, tears and sushi. It was capped by my mom’s first Broadway show since Le Mis in 1989. Pro-tip: look up plots for Broadway shows before purchasing tickets, especially if the musical features the story of a bipolar mother and her dysfunctional family. Happy Mother’s day, Mom.

Actually, it was a great musical.

I’m no fan of Che, but this has to be one of the worst things I’ve ever come across on the Internet. And that includes 4Chan.

Honestly, I was expecting the ONN logo at the end.

The conservative’s Che meme was a meme before meme was a word.  Guevarra’s commodification and any subsequent criticisms of Che or progressives who admire Che are as tired as I get after spending five hours drinking margaritas in the sun.

Side note to the videographer: someone needs to find their Adobe After Effects receipt and hope to get in-store credit. I’m overdosing on overlays.

The day the earth stood still.

Prelude: It’s been an interesting couple of months since I last wrote something here. Maybe not so much interesting; distracting is probably more appropriate a word. But one of the more compelling stories of late took place in December, over the holiday season, and is the driving force behind this post. Apologies to the people who I’ve already reenacted this story for and read this egocentric tripe of a post.

“I’m PMS-ing really bad,” my roommate states matter of factly when I open the front door. She’s stuffing jackets and clothes into white trash bags. The roommates before her left an inordinate number of things in the one closet we have. Things that have been there for six months—things that I won’t even repeat in writing.

Enter what has to be the worst 20 hours of my life. Everything started out innocently enough earlier that day; a frozen, somewhat idyllic brunch in Brooklyn with friends. And a haircut so as to not look like the weekend degenerate I am in front of my family during the holidays, who I was flying to visit in less than 24 hours . It actually started snowing that day, the first substantive snow of the season. It should have been a charming and picturesque day. (In retrospect, it kind of was picturesque in a Black Paintings sort of way.)

I dug my own grave, though: I decided to help my self-diagnosed roommate move the abandoned property to the basement, clearing up some space and some of the air in our tiny apartment. The new roommate left for her parents’ as soon as we finished packing the former roommate’s leftovers, leaving me to pack for my own excursion to the proverbial homestead.

Plot twist number one: the third roommate came home later that night, with his visiting mom and none other than the old roommate, whose property we just evicted.

Then came the screaming. Oh, the screaming. Then came the crying, which spread from the hysterical former roommate to the current roommate’s mother, who was justifiably distressed as a result of her son suddenly being thrust in the middle of a domestic dispute from an alternate reality where private apartments function as public storage.

Without going into details, the screams and cries continued till about 2 in the morning, six hours before my flight to Texas, during which I had to pull the mattress out of my room and stick it in the building hallway as punishment for my trespasses, punishment that turned out to be some sort of abject lesson in loyalty and lifted soon after everything calmed down.

Some other stuff happened minutes after everything allegedly calmed down, which doesn’t merit typing out right now, but everyone ended up going to bed stressed and upset. Everyone but me, still packing. Meanwhile, there’s a fucking blizzard going on outside, but I was a little more preoccupied with the shit storm developing in the apartment.

An hour after the plot twist, I decide to take shower. Not having slept or eaten, maybe a cold one would jolt me. I walk into the shared area towards the bathroom when I hear sniffling. Crap. Crap, crap, crap. Apparently, Distressed Visiting Mom is still distressed.

(I’ll take a moment and voice the fact that I liked having D.V.M. at the apartment; she was an incredibly nice, generous woman whose presence was unknowingly needed at the time.)

I ask Distressed Visiting Mom what was wrong at three in the morning. Apparently, in an attempt to calm herself down, she decided to pick up her Bible, a decision that is perfectly aligned with her being a very traditional Hispanic Catholic woman. While preparing for the scripture reading, she sat the holy book on our coffee table, which proceeded to snap in half, probably under the weight of god almighty himself.

It took a while, but I successfully convinced her that it was just a table, that no one was hurt and that this was in no way an omen. Four years of Catholic higher education obviously had no positive effect on my ability to sense god’s perverse sense of humor.

After taking the elusive shower and after packing everything I could into my carry-on and step outside at about four in the morning, four hours before my flight, to get a car, taxi, bus, something—staying home was not an option. I took a step outside and realized what is actually involved in a Nor’easter, in this case knee-high snow and winds blowing said snow up my nose.

But nothing was going to stop me. Come hell or high water, however frozen it may be, I was getting out of New York and far away from both the insane apartment and an angry god’s escalating power plays.

To be continued.

In keeping with last week’s ego trip (what is this, a blog?) I’ve decided to catalog the music that’s defined me, for better or worse. I’ll start at the ages of four through about 10 – that’s before I discovered radio stations other than ‘Oldies 107.5’ or music outside of my parents’ CD stash.

Bobby Hebb – “Sunny”

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This song gives me a nice, warm feeling. Pun most definitely intended.

J. Frank Wilson and the Cavaliers – “Last Kiss”

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Few things anger me as much as Pearl Jam’s cover of this song. Looking back, though, I guess it’s a rather morbid track for a six year old to jam along with. I would eventually graduate to the more nuanced dark love of the Cure.

Miami Sound Machine – “Bad Boy”

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I’m relatively certain this song was in a soundtrack around 1988 or so, because I would borrow my parents’ black and green boom box to scan the radio for this song. [Update: Of course. It was in Leonard Nimoy’s “Three Men and a Baby.” It always goes back to Steve Guttenberg.]

Supertramp – “Dreamer”

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My parents ran a rather strict home, musically speaking. I clearly remember a ban on MTV and Madonna. Having a limited music selection, my sister and me would play my parent’s Best Of Supertramp comp. A lot. I’m pretty sure there’s home video to prove it. Also, just so you know, the very mp3 attached is ripped from the exact copy that my parents still own.

Belle Stars – “Iko Iko”

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My family moved to Houston after a year in Staten Island in late 1988. While we were looking for a real home, we had an extended stay in the hotel that’s now the Doubletree Galleria. My parents got two adjacent rooms, the kind with the shared door. One night, they kicked my sister and me out of their room so they could see a certain movie titled “Rain Man.”

I was livid; not only would they not buy Chef Boyardee’s for dinner, but they wouldn’t let me see the movie with them. A couple days later, though, they consoled me with the “Rain Man” soundtrack on tape, and I played “Iko” more times than they probably liked. To this day, I make it a point to own every version of this song ever made. But that’s a Tuesday Tunes for another day.

[Note: You know, if you're reading this on Facebook, you can actually listen to and sometimes download the songs in this post by viewing the original post by clicking on the "View Original Post" link at the bottom.]

First thing I did this morning was make a tasty omelette with mushrooms, green onions and asparagus.

Second thing I did this morning was watch “Ghostbusters 2.” It’s a beautiful day.

I think I’m more driven to blog when I come up with ridiculous themes or categories that I feel beholden to update. I submit to you the first ‘Do It’ post, one of many instructive posts that will guide you on how to be a better person. In my eyes, at least.

One of the greatest sources of reliefs I’ve had these last couple of weeks is my unexpected immersion in a rad group of Houston folk. One of said Houston folk was explaining a project she has in the works, and I’m sincerely fascinated by it. The Folk Architecture Tour is the brainchild of one Delaney Harris-Finch and would have her travel from Washington state through the West Coast and ending her trek in Texas, all the while chronicling folk architecture so as to explore preservation standards for the uniquely odd structures that the fanny-pack wearing, hormone-driven you might not have appreciated on that road trip back in 1989, but that your allegedly enlightened adult self fondly recalls.

In Delaney’s own words now:

The tour sites have been chosen based on physical, cultural and historical significance. My written thoughts, research, interviews and photographs will attempt to document the value in each individual site as well as folk art structures as an architectural vernacular. This information will translate into individual recommendations for the preservation of each as well as inform the development of further preservation methods for America’s odd historical resources. Post tour, this information will be assembled into a book.

Obviously, I hope this strikes a chord with Houston people the most, not only because you’re morally obligated to support one of your own, but because cities like Houston (specifically Houston) could really benefit from a project like this, looking at how we can keep these structures that we love are still around for our children and making sure that they aren’t left by the wayside in the name of short-term urban development. Or something.

Anyway, consider becoming a backer for Delaney’s project. The more you pledge, the more you get and not just in the metaphysical sense. At the very least, you’ll be getting updates on her travels and a proper ‘thank you’ in the book. Big spenders get a litany of goodies, including a six-inch scale model of any of the scheduled tour sites that you’d like and only for a paltry $1,500.

Time’s running out though: she has to raise a total of $5,000 in pledges and only has until October 16 at 11:59 p.m. Eastern. (That’s 10:59 p.m. for Houston.)

I’ve been bitten by the karaoke bug, and the cure is a couple rounds of 90-proof bourbon and sequences of generic videos with color-coded lyrics. If you’re so inclined to provide a round or three, please feel free to join in on any of my favorite selections:

Pulp – “Common People”

My standby. This is it. Jarvis and Co. have an amazing repertoire, but “Common People” brings the house down. Maybe you only know it because of a certain monotoned retired starship captain, but you know you it and you love it.

Neil Diamond – “Shilo”

My croon. Listen, we’re like what, twenty five, twenty six now? Sure, “Sweet Caroline” is a great song, but Neil Diamond is so much more than a shiny shirt and “bomp bomp bomps” that you still managed to slur back in college despite their being monosyllabic onomatopoeia. Let’s all grow up some and feel that little lump in our collective throats when we hear a song about a boy and his imaginary friend. Or you could choose the most overplayed karaoke song before you go make you girlfriend do a keg stand at the frat party.

Hall + Oates – “Private Eyes”

My jam. Not a lot to say with this one because the skills speak for themselves. I’ve honed this song to perfection after spending many a night in front of the jukebox and/or mirror. Mainly the mirror.

Michael Jackson – “P.Y.T.”

My other jam. I’ve been a little uneasy about this one, mainly because I’m sure everyone does an MJ song these days.

Rod Stewart – “Young Turks”

My white whale. This can easily turn into a It’s-The-End-Of-The-World-And-We-Know-It-LEONARD-BERNSTEIN-level disaster if handled incorrectly. You’ve got two methods: completely sober or utterly trashed. Real men (and women) know which is real karaoke and that there’s rarely an in-between. Practice makes perfect, though. Call me Ishmael because I own this.