Diary of a Bad Housewife

On The Passing Of Heroes

noreply@blogger.com (Alice Bag) — Thu, 04 Jun 2009 21:33:00 +0000

I started writing this blog to mark the passing of two of my personal heroes, both of them very different but both of them artists in their own right. It occurred to me that when a person achieves a certain heroic status that they can never really die. They've achieved immortality because of the lives they've touched, the young people they've influenced, the indelible mark they've left on the world.

I was still a teenager with dreams of becoming a singer when I first heard Koko Taylor, who passed away yesterday at the age of 80. At that time in the seventies, there weren’t a lot of contemporary pop role models for girls like me who were ready to challenge gender stereotypes and play just as hard as the boys. That’s where the blues came in. Blues had a long tradition of powerful women who weren’t afraid to speak their minds and who sang with a raw, sexual energy that I found lacking in female pop singers of the day. Listen to Koko Taylor singing the classic “Wang Dang Doodle” and you’ll instantly know what I mean: the swaggering, in your face, no-holds barred attitude is all there in that three and half minutes of sexual bravado. Or sample her recording of “I’m A Woman” – no man ever rocked harder than Koko.

I had the privilege of seeing Koko Taylor perform live at a blues festival just a couple of years ago. Thanks to my friend Candye Kane, I was able to go backstage and see Koko before her performance. Having listened to her powerful voice for years, I was excited to meet this Amazonian woman so I was surprised to see that she looked a little frail and was being supported on the arm of her daughter as she shuffled towards the stage. I hurried around to the front so I wouldn’t miss her performance and I witnessed the magical, transformative power of music. Gone was the shuffling, fragile, elderly female I’d just said hello to backstage and in her place was the legendary powerhouse Koko Taylor – a still vital force of nature, dominating the stage, the crowd at her command. A consummate professional, she gave us her all and never let her age or her infirmities stand in the way of a great performance.

Thank you, Koko. Thank you for the inspiration and the music. Thank you for breaking down barriers so that other women could follow in your footsteps. We are forever in your debt.

Also a brief mention of the sad passing of David Carradine. It's hard to explain but for those of us who came of age in the seventies, Kung Fu was an incredibly inspirational television show. Who didn't want to snatch the pebble from the master's hand and head out on a spiritual journey, kicking bad guys' butts along the way? For me, David Carradine will always be Kwai Chang Caine, the half Chinese, half white seeker of wisdom who never looked for a fight but always seemed to find one. David Carradine created much more than a television character, he created a hero for my generation.

Deep In The Heart of Texas

noreply@blogger.com (Alice Bag) — Wed, 03 Jun 2009 17:31:00 +0000

With June officially having busted out all over and my daughter safely tucked into a cruise ship cabin alongside her school friend on a week long sail to Alaska, I finally got a chance to hop on a Southwest jet and fly out to Houston to visit my hubby. The economic recession has hit many industries, including the travel industry that employs him. Texas is one of the few western states with a relatively sound economy so he went where the work was. It's a hardship being apart but it makes the much longed-for reunions infinitely sweeter. My husband made this reunion even sweeter by greeting me at the airport with a bag of freshly baked pan dulce from Houston based Arandas Panaderia.

"The first thing you have to know about Houston..." my hubby explained as we crawled to a slow roll behind a line of brake lights on the freeway, "is that it's very much like L.A. It's spread out all over the place, most people live in the suburbs and there is almost no public transportation, which means you have awful traffic during rush hour." He dutifully pointed out downtown, Minute Maid park ("where the Astros play") a new outdoor venue called "Discovery Green", the museum district and the area he described as home the the original four wards of the city. "Houston was originally divided into four wards and slaves were almost half of the population of the city. After the civil war, some of the former slaves created an area in the Fourth Ward called Freedmen's Town and parts of it still exist. They're practically the oldest buildings in the city but they want to knock them down to build luxury condos." I realized that he was right about the city resembling LA; even in its attitude towards architectural history was similar.

As we headed north, I was struck by how lush Houston is: acres of tall trees form green borders alongside the roadways. We continued driving northwest towards Austin on Hwy 290, passing through gently rolling countryside and cattle ranches, punctuated only occasionally by a small town where we'd gawk at signs for the local taxidermist, like the one that read "Blast 'em and Cast 'em."

In Austin, we decided to check out the historic and supposedly haunted Driskill Hotel. We found some friendly spirits at the upstairs bar, where the bartender poured with a heavy hand. After a couple of rounds, we started our ghost investigation. In the Maximilian Room, where we went to view the Carlota Mirrors (a gift from the Mexican Emperor to his wife) my husband noticed a dark shadow rise up in the reflection of a mirror hanging on the opposite wall, right after he'd seen my reflection pass through the same spot. "You're not going to believe this, but I just saw a shadow pop up behind you in the mirror." He had no idea that a few seconds before, I'd suddenly gotten very cold and the hairs on my arms were now standing up on goose pimples. As we looked for more apparitions in the mirrors, one of the overhead light fixtures flickered. Thoroughly excited by these occurrences and inspired by my viewings of the Ghost Hunters Sci-Fi Network show, I attempted to provoke the spirit by daring it to touch Greg. He shot me a worried look but apparently the spirits decided not to come out and play.

We found a great place to eat called Mr. Natural where we enjoyed the $6.99 lunch special: tofu and black bean gorditas, mole cheese enchiladas, spicy pepper potatoes, zucchini and chickpea poblano, homemade tortillas, veggie tamales...I was in VEGGIE HOG HEAVEN and decided it would be ok to live in Austin if I could live within walking distance of Mr. Natural. We both gave it thumbs up.

Later that evening, we made our way to the Congress Bridge to watch a local phenomenon: the flight of thousands of bats from under the bridge to begin their evening feast of insects. But first, we had to wait. And wait. Hundreds of people showed up, lining the bridge and the banks of the river: adults with batman shirts and capes, kids with bat t-shirts, people camped out with snacks and six packs of beer, all awaiting the emergence of the nocturnal creatures. Excitement mounted as the squeaks from under the bridge grew in volume and a few random bats took tentative test flights, circling out from the bridge for a few feet then circling back. It seemed as if the bats needed to build up steam in order to take flight, either that or they were waiting to build the crowd's expectations. Finally, the cloud o' bats emerged in waves, starting at one end of the bridge and rippling across the river. They flew off in a serpentine pattern toward the forest alongside the river and just when you thought they must surely be done even more emerged, darkening the sky with their multitudes.

Although part of the trip was for pleasure, there was also work to be done. I wanted to help my husband move into his temporary home in Houston, so upon returning from Austin we got to the business of stocking his new apartment. It was nice to be able to help Greg get settled. I wanted to make sure that despite his being away from home and family he would have a place to call his own. It's difficult being apart and having to commute such a long distance but I try to remind myself that economic hardships are cyclical and I have faith that things will get better and our family will be together again.

One Step Forward, Two Steps Back

noreply@blogger.com (Alice Bag) — Wed, 27 May 2009 02:12:00 +0000

"It takes no compromising to give people their rights. It takes no money to respect the individual. It takes no survey to remove repressions." - Harvey Milk

I'm sad to write that I'm truly disappointed with my country on this day. This day, which started out so promisingly with the announcement that President Obama had selected a liberal Hispanic woman, Judge Sonia Sotomayor, to be the next US Supreme Court Justice was tainted by the damnable decision of the California State Supreme Court to uphold Proposition 8, which defines marriage as the union of a man and a woman and thus denies legal recognition and protection to same sex unions.

I have to admit that I've missed living in a so-called "blue state" for the past couple of years. California, which I used to think was so much more liberal, so much more enlightened than some of the so-called "bible-belt" states has proven itself to be just as ignorant, just as conservative and perhaps even more hypocritical than the red states. The liberal west coast loves gays in the entertainment and fashion industry, just not enough to extend them the same rights as straights.

I found my own identity and consciousness as a bisexual woman around the same age as I found my identity as a Chicana and I've never had to think twice about defending the rights of my gay, lesbian and transgender friends to enjoy the same freedoms and protections I enjoyed. It's sad that even as President Obama makes one giant step forward and leads our country towards a brighter future (yes, I'll admit that I was wrong about him - he makes me proud and happy to eat my own words), narrow minded bigots beholden to the social conservative Neanderthal constituency insist on dragging us two steps backwards.

Shame on you, cowardly Justices of the California State Supreme Court. My fellow Californians, I urge you to take to the streets and let your voices be heard! In the words of Harvey Milk, hope will never be silent!

Belated Mother's Day Post

noreply@blogger.com (Alice Bag) — Tue, 12 May 2009 16:25:00 +0000

Michael Gira, Alice Bag, Rick Jaffe, originally uploaded by alice_bag.

This snapshot is from one of the old photo albums that my mother saved. I'm guessing this photo was taken in late 1978 or early 1979. Michael Gira (later of Swans and Angels of Light), me and Rick Jaffe/Morrison (BPeople, Catholic Discipline) are sitting on the steps outside my parent's house on Ditman Avenue in East LA. We were all experimenting with new musical styles by this time as early punk was splintering into post punk, dance, noise and hardcore.

The reason I've chosen to post this photo is that it reminds me of my mother, who was always warm and hospitable to my friends when they came to visit and hang out with me. She's probably in the kitchen while we're posing for this photo, whipping up some bean and cheese burritos to feed my hungry friends. She never made anyone feel strange or unwelcome simply because they had crazy colored hair or wore clothing that was considered "weird" at that time.

I'm very grateful to my mother for being so supportive and caring. If I hadn't had her and my father's unconditional love, I'm not sure how my life would have turned out.

Happy Belated Mother's Day to all the loving mothers out there.

Keep On Trekkin'

noreply@blogger.com (Alice Bag) — Thu, 07 May 2009 16:32:00 +0000

OK, I'll admit it. I can't wait to see the new Star Trek movie being released tomorrow. I've been a fan of the adventures of the Starship Enterprise since I was a young girl and I've never quite gotten over my childhood crush on Mr. Spock. I mean, what sensitive young female could possibly resist that tormented half-vulcan, half-human psyche hidden behind an (almost) impenetrable mask of stoicism? The infallible use of logic in the midst of chaos, the one eyebrow raised to indicate bafflement or surprise, the pointy ears with the bowl haircut and the (swoon) tapered sideburns?

But the hottest crew member hands down was Lieutenant Uhura, who helped define what it meant to be a strong, sexy woman for young girls like me. She wasn't just a sex kitten; as the ship's communications officer, she was smart and in control and quite possibly one of the first true feminist role models on TV.

It's probably obvious to people of my generation, but Star Trek is arguably one of the most influential cultural touchstones of the past fifty years. Sure, there have been more critically acclaimed plays, books, films and television shows during that time, but I can't think of one that touched on issues of war and peace, racial and gender equality, good and evil, the merits of unbridled technological advancement, the very nature of reality and the universe like Star Trek did. Perhaps Twilight Zone but that series never had the staying power of Kirk and co.

So I'm looking forward to seeing the early stories of some of my favorite fictional characters. I'll take my daughter of course and I'll bet you that she falls in love with Spock by the time we leave the theatre.

Live long and prosper,

Alice

Bring On The Heat

noreply@blogger.com (Alice Bag) — Sun, 03 May 2009 22:00:00 +0000

It’s been over a month since I’ve posted anything on my blog and it’s finally time for me to get back into the habit. Six months of almost daily writing while I was working on my Violence Girl stories really took a toll on me and I was very much looking forward to a nice long break upon finishing, so I guess you could say I treated myself to some time off for good behavior. In the meantime, I’ve kept myself busy with lots of baking and cooking, sewing an Elizabethan outfit for my daughter to wear to a school presentation and plenty of daily walks in the increasingly hot mornings and evenings.

It’s the time of year when Phoenix starts to heat up and the reptiles come out of hiding. So far I’ve seen rattlesnakes, a huge white lizard that scared the hell out of me and either a king snake or a coral snake; I was too busy screaming and hopping around to be able to tell the difference. It did have lots of yellow along with the red and black and I vaguely remember something about "Red and yellow, kill a fellow..." but all in all, I would say that I’ve adjusted well to desert life.

I’ve learned that a lot of the plants and animals living in the Sonoran Desert are naturally more dangerous than anything I grew up with in the city; they have to be tough just to survive in this arid environment. A couple of friends from LA, Colin and Jessee came out to scan some of my punk collection for the UCLA archives over the past few days. As we were walking through my neighborhood I told them about the jumping cholla, a type of cactus that is rumored to literally jump onto animals that get too close. They didn't believe me and insisted on seeing it so I walked them over to one, whereupon my friend Jessee went right up to it and called out to the cholla "Put up your dukes!" He bounced around a little like a prize cactus boxer but while he was looking the other way, the cholla bit him in the butt, attaching itself to his denim pants. The plant seemed to have launched two or three little cactus grenades at Jessee who made the mistake of trying to brush them away with his hand. He was visibly in pain.

"See, I told you," I grinned at him. Colin came over from where he'd been inspecting the other side of the cholla.

"Aww...I missed it, do it again!" he told Jessee.

"Fuck you, you try it, you wuss! Go on, you do it now, see if it bites you!" But Colin declined, pronouncing that he was now a firm believer in the legendary jumping cholla. The poor guy walked home with a bloody hand and liitle barbed spines sticking out of the tops of his fingers, pants and shoes. We all walked back to my house with Jessee holding his porcupine hand up like a spiny Edward Scissorhands. The patient required two shots of vodka before allowing us to removed the fish hook-like barbed spines from his fingers and from under his fingernails with a pair of pliers, "Count to three, OK? Just hold it... don't pull it yet!" he pleaded with me and Colin through red, watery eyes. We eventually got the nasty little pricks but we practically had to sit on him to get him to hold still.

Round One went to the cactus but Jessee cursed and promised he'd take revenge by peeing on it the next day. We advised him against it and the thought of a second attack from the Cholla on an even more sensitive part of his body was no doubt a strong deterrent.

The next day my city friends accompanied me on my dog walk again and as we walked on the opposite side of the street from the Jumping Cholla, Colin and I swore we could hear the cactus laughing and calling out to Jessee, "Why you walking on that side today?" So believe me when I say you should never, ever pick a fight with a jumping cholla cactus.

We are still in the process of editing and rewriting my autobiographical series, The True Life Adventures of Violence Girl. Several exciting developments have come out of my writing of Violence Girl but the most exciting and rewarding has been one that was completely unexpected. After almost thirty years of not speaking with my old friend Patricia, we are once again in regular email contact with each other. It took the process of writing about the breakup of the Bags to force me to examine my own motives and actions and to admit my own fault in the messy breakup. That led to our reconciliation, for which I am so very grateful. As difficult as I found the process of writing this book, every second of it was worth it because I have my old friend back.

Realizing that one can still change at age 50, that there is still time to learn from one’s mistakes - that’s the real reward of writing for me and so I’ll continue to blog on my Diary of a Bad Housewife.

The Last Entry of Violence Girl

noreply@blogger.com (Alice Bag) — Wed, 25 Mar 2009 19:28:00 +0000

I've posted the final entry of True Life Adventures of Violence Girl, my online autobiography project today at www.chicaviolenta.blogspot.com. We've already taken down the first half of the entries; the second half will come down in a week or so. I will not be reposting any of this work in the foreseeable future, so please check it out now if you are at all curious.

Thanks again and I'll be back to writing on my Diary of a Bad Housewife blog in no time at all!

Alice

Coming Into The Home Stretch

noreply@blogger.com (Alice Bag) — Mon, 02 Mar 2009 19:44:00 +0000

Half a year ago, I unwittingly embarked on a journey of self-discovery when I began what I thought would be a fairly straightforward project: writing a storyline for a comic book called Violence Girl, loosely based on my experiences as a punk musician. As with most journeys taken without a road map, I had a vague notion of where I was heading but no idea of how to actually get from Point A to Point B. I just got in the vehicle and naturally headed towards East LA: my birthplace, the place where my mother, father and half-sister are buried and the place I will always consider home.

Six months of almost daily writing have passed and I find myself on the final leg of my journey. Strangely enough, it feels like I’ve been to hell and back when the truth is I haven’t left the familiar surroundings of my home in the desert north of Phoenix. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t relieved that the end is in sight. I’m 50 this year and my story only covers the first two and half decades of my life, a time when I discovered the world, life, love and death. I lived and discovered so much in those years but it took the writing of this book to make the biggest discovery – me. Writing about my childhood forced me to look in the darkest corners of my memory where the monsters were hidden. Writing about my adult relationships made me realize how much I’d been affected by my own parents’ examples. It was as if I was seeing myself clearly for the first time and I didn’t always like what I saw.

As I said before, I’m looking forward to typing the final words on the final page of Violence Girl. It’s my sincere hope that someone out there who is dealing with their own monsters will recognize a bit of themselves in Violence Girl and know that there is a way out of the darkness.

Starting this week, we will be taking down all of my previous posts starting with East LA Bobsleds and working forward. Over the next few weeks, the entire Violence Girl series will come down permanently for more editing and revisions. Thank you to everyone who joined me for the ride.

Ruta 66 Entrevista

noreply@blogger.com (Alice Bag) — Sun, 08 Feb 2009 14:49:00 +0000

I was interviewed at length several months ago by Alberto Lodeiros for the Barcelona-based rock magazine, Ruta 66. The interview was published in their December issue but I only recently received a copy in the mail here in Arizona.

Ruta 66 is a beautiful rock mag, full of great writing and full color photos. It's much more mainstream than the magazines I'm typically featured in. Since I'm not one of the better known punk musicians from my era, I was happy that Alberto took the time to research his subject and send me some very insightful and thought provoking questions. I did find it odd (to say the least) to see my name on the cover alongside Sir Paul McCartney. I showed it to my 14 year old daughter who is a huge Beatles fan because I thought she would be impressed. She smiled faintly and said "oh yeah, that's cool" in a flat voice. Then she went back to the latest M.I.A. remix on her Ipod...

Here are just a few of the questions and answers. Ruta 66 did a great job of translating my English answers to Spanish, but I'm lazy and will let you translate Alberto's questions from Spanish to English. It will give you some idea of what it's like to be a Spanish-only speaking student in an English immersion class.

31.En 1981 decides abandonar todo aquello, coincidiendo con la entrada
de la heroína en la escena Punk. ¿Hasta qué punto crees que las drogas
ayudaron a acelerar la muerte del Punk?

Punk isn't dead, it's just changed. Punk is more than a type of music,
it's an attitude that transcends time and space. The thing that did
end was the Hollywood scene as it had once been. I think drugs
contributed to it but I don't know if that type of situation where
everything was open and welcoming and creative could have lasted
forever. Change is inevitable and necessary.

32.Bandas como las Go Gos salieron del circuito underground y
vendieron miles de discos. ¿Por qué crees que otras bandas muy
superiores a ellas musicalmente no salieron de aquello?

The Go-Go's were marketable in ways that some other bands were not.
Not only were they cute, stylish young girls, they played upbeat
energetic pop. I don't think their music was inferior to anyone
else's. I think music is a matter of taste and if punk was about
anything it was about obliterating the whole idea of musical
superiority. Their music was different and more commercial but the
girls were true to themselves.

33.He visto algún video delirante de Cholita, una de los proyectos en
los que te metiste años más tarde. Os declarabais influenciadas por
Gloria Trevi… ¿Qué buscabas con ese nuevo proyecto?

I wasn't looking for anything. I never look for music, it seems to
look for me. I was at a party when a friend asked me to go see him
perform with a group called the Afro Sisters. He introduced me to
Vaginal Davis who immediately talked me into going on stage with them
that same night. I improvised and it was exhilarating. After that,
Miss Davis drafted me into The Afro Sisters and then into Cholita.
Cholita was performance art, improvisational comedy, social commentary
and music all in rolled into one big fun ball, in some ways similar to
Gloria Trevi. The Cholitas were all Trevi fans.

34.Te has dedicado últimamente a entrevistar a chicas de la escena
Punk. ¿Qué crees que tienen de especial las chicas que formaron parte
de aquello a diferencia de los hombres?

All of us truly believed that we could do anything that the guys did
and we proved it.

35.Voy a hacerte una de las preguntas que tú sueles hacer a tus
entrevistados. ¿qué legado ha dejado el punk en tu vida?

I'm not afraid to fail. If I want to do something I don't let self
doubt or other people's opinions stop me. I figure even if I don't
achieve exactly what I set out to do I am still ahead and better off
for having tried. The only failure is failure to act.

36.Tienes pagina web y myspace. ¿Cómo crees que habría cambiado la
escena Punk de los 70 y 80 de haber todos estos adelantos?

It would have been amazing. I think it would have been a global
creative revolution. Can you imagine the richness and diversity that
the internet would have allowed? We could have cosmopolitan
collaborations! I find most of my favorite bands on the internet. I
rarely listen to the radio anymore. Why bother with radio or record
labels when some of the most creative work is being done online and
independently?

37.¿A qué te dedicas hoy en día?

I'm taking my punk attitude and writing an autobiography. I am not a
writer but it's good therapy for me. I'd like to turn it into a
graphic novel along the lines of Persepolis or Maus. Any willing comic book
artists out there?

NYC Summer of 78

noreply@blogger.com (Alice Bag) — Sat, 31 Jan 2009 16:12:00 +0000

nunsny1
Originally uploaded by alice_bag

This is a photo of me and my Canterbury roommate Shannon Wilhelm hanging out in NYC with our pals from the west coast, The Nuns. It's the summer of 1978. We're on the roof of The Chelsea hotel. That's me in the lavender t-shirt on the tower and Shannon is under my butt. I'm writing about this trip in my online autobiography, www.chicaviolenta.blogspot.com and I have more photos from this trip than I can possibly fit into the story but I've always liked this one and wanted to post it. Enjoy!

Why Do I Do This To Myself?

noreply@blogger.com (Alice Bag) — Wed, 28 Jan 2009 17:00:00 +0000

Ever try to make yourself do something you're not good at and then struggle through the process until you wonder what the hell made you want to do it in the first place? I took a Pilates class recently that sent me fleeing for the comfort of my old Jane Fonda and Richard Simmons video tapes.

I guess I do the hard new stuff to push myself, which leads to me the next question: is it worth it? Would I be a better human being if I mastered Pilates instead of The Jane Fonda Workout? I don't know.

For the past six months I've been working on a blog project that started off as a comic book idea, turned into a therapeutic exorcism and has recently left me feeling like a passenger in a vehicle driven by the Ghost of Christmas Past.

Every weekday I sit down at the computer for at least two hours and force myself to write something, anything. Did I forget to mention that I'm not a writer? I'm not even much of a journalist. If it wasn't for my husband's incessant nagging, telling me "Write something for your blog!" and guilting: "You should be writing instead of wasting your time on Facebook, or MySpace." (Funny how he hadn't listed his marital status on Facebook until I joined.)

I struggle to pull out my story from its age old hiding place where it's been covered with piles and piles of newer and fresher memories, innocuous memories that cover the old ones. But they are like the undead, those old memories and if you poke around they come to life, jump into the driver's seat and beckon, "Hop in!" When an old memory takes me for a ride it always takes unexpected turns; sometimes it's a fun ride, other times the ride is sad and painful.

But I'm getting ahead of myself because there are plenty of times when I feel like a pedestrian trying to hail a cab on a busy city street and I can't find a driver. It's then that the two hours in front of the computer turn into anxious tea and coffee guzzling. I start to type, then delete; start to type, then delete. I have to imagine myself as an old prospector, patiently filling my little tin pan with sandy water, swishing and swishing, hoping for a little gold dust. It's time consuming and not always fruitful but I do it anyway.

I write something every weekday when my kid leaves for school. I've learned that by allowing my memories to drive me instead of trying to remember specific events, what is meaningful and memorable to me eventually comes to the surface but it's not always fun, more often it's work, much like exercising when I'd rather be painting, or sewing, or playing music. I just don’t enjoy the process of writing in the same way I enjoy making music or painting, which are a joy by comparison. It's at those times that a little outside motivation really helps. Seeing that I have blog followers makes me feel like I owe it to them not to cop out. Getting comments from readers is huge. A reader recently wrote that they'd spent four hours reading my Violence Girl blog from the beginning (not an easy task since the blog format forces you to read from the last entry to the first) and the idea that someone who doesn't know me would take that much time out of their busy day to read about my life just floored me.

So I write, grudgingly, with clumsy fingers and awkward phrases and no idea where I'm going with my story, but I write.

Holiday Hiatus

noreply@blogger.com (Alice Bag) — Mon, 22 Dec 2008 14:00:00 +0000

As the year draws to a close, I've been struggling with a terrible cold that has left me practically unable to speak and barely able to function. I finally broke down and went to see the doctor, hoping to get something to wipe out this crud. Fortunately, I've been able to communicate using text messages and emails.

One person with whom I've recently been in communication lives far away in England. She's someone who I had practically given up hope of speaking with again because our friendship had fallen apart along with our old punk band the Bags but I am hoping that the expression "time heals all wounds" will hold true and my old friend Patricia and I can pick up where we left off so many years ago.

Maybe it's the season or perhaps it's just the timing of this reconnection, coming as it does during the year of my 50th birthday, but it feels good to be back in touch with one of my dearest friends and someone who was once such an important part of my life. Patricia and I have lots of catching up to do and she has already sent me photos of her gorgeous daughter. It's also a remarkable coincidence that we are trading emails while I am writing about the early days of the LA punk scene and the Bags on my Violence Girl autoblogography. Patricia remembers details that I've forgotten, like why we kicked Geza X and Joe Nanini out of The Bags.

I'll be taking a break to recuperate and enjoy the holidays with my family but will be back with more episodes in the True Life Adventures of Violence Girl in 2009. Thank you all for continuing to read my blogs, your comments and words of support really keep me going. Here's hoping that 2009 will be a much better year and that time really can heal all wounds.

Panic In Detroit - Thumbs Down

noreply@blogger.com (Alice Bag) — Sat, 06 Dec 2008 08:54:00 +0000

In the bad old days of Imperial Rome, the fate of political prisoners and gladiators was sometimes decided by a quick poll of the citizens gathered to witness the bloody spectacles at the Coliseum. If the audience cheered loudly enough to spare the prisoner, the Emperor would raise the "thumbs up" sign, thus saving the person's life and allowing them to fight again another day. If the audience voiced their disapproval and the Emperor gave a thumbs down, well, then the lions had fresh meat.

Today, Ford, GM and Chrysler similarly find themselves exhausted, depleted and at the mercy of the people as they await a thumbs up or down in our own political Coliseum. The Big Three, who are responsible for so much damage to our country and our planet, who killed the electric car, who conspired to destroy and derail clean and cheap public transportation, who have lobbied against every effort to reduce harmful vehicle emissions and fought the mandatory implementation of safety features such as airbags and safety belts, who continued to pump out gas-guzzling Hummers and SUV's in gleeful partnership with Big Oil, who sold us exploding gas tanks on Ford Pintos in the '70's and rollover death traps in the 80's, who have fought every meaningful attempt to bring fuel efficient, clean vehicles to the marketplace are pleading for their lives.

This citizen's voice joins the chorus calling for a thumbs down resounding through the halls of Congress. Or throw them a $34 billion lifeline and see how much things will really change; corporate greed doesn't die until the corporation itself dies. It's not about individual players, it's about nameless, faceless greed that rolls on steel belted wheels in the name of shareholder value and profit. Save the planet. Let the Big Three die.

"Why don't cha take the day off and try to repair
A billion others don't seem to care
Better ideas are stuck in the mud
The motor's running on Tucker's blood
Don't let them tell you the future's electric
Cuz gasoline's not measured in metric
Thirty thousand wheels a spinnin'
And oil company faces are grinnin'
And now my hands are turning red
And I found out my baby is dead"

The Big Three Killed My Baby - The White Stripes

Happy Birthday To Me

noreply@blogger.com (Alice Bag) — Fri, 07 Nov 2008 12:10:00 +0000

I will be taking a very brief hiatus from posting new entries in my ongoing autobiography
True Life Adventures of Violence Girl while I mark my 50th year on the planet. Violence Girl will be back with more stories of Plungers, Weirdos and the early LA punk scene next week.

XO,

Alice

Election Euphoria

noreply@blogger.com (Alice Bag) — Thu, 06 Nov 2008 04:24:00 +0000

I'm still smiling over the exciting election last night! The sudden countdown to the West Coast states' poll closing followed by an unexpected projection that Obama had won the presidency was like the giant orb dropping at Times Square on New Year's Eve. My daughter and I clapped and cheered in our living room last night, surrounded by silent neighbors here in Phoenix, Arizona: McCain Country.

Congratulations to all of my friends who worked so hard to get Obama elected. Even though we did not back the same candidate, I hope you will allow me to bask in your triumph. After all, I was a Democrat for most of my life before deciding to go Green. Voting Green this election was a personal triumph for me and my own contribution to political diversity but last night I celebrated a different sort of diversity along with the nation and the world. My heart was jubilant at seeing our first African American president-elect and at the seats the Democrats gained in the house and senate. I was proud of John McCain, whose concession speech was gracious and upbeat. And when Obama spoke about being a president for all of us, I allowed myself to hope that he wasn't just speaking to the far right but to the far left as well.

It wasn't all good news. The right to a legal gay marriage was denied or lost in some states, including California. But after witnessing Obama's impressive victory, I can't help but be hopeful that these are temporary setbacks and that tenacity and tolerance will triumph in the end. President Obama has inspired me to dream of a day when Gay, Lesbian and Transgender couples will once again be able to say "I Do." After all, it wasn't so very long ago that the idea of an African American being elected president was almost unimaginable. Let's all join in the hope that some day soon all Americans will enjoy equal rights under the law and we will live in a country free from discrimination.

It's A Big One!

noreply@blogger.com (Alice Bag) — Sat, 01 Nov 2008 20:00:00 +0000

It's almost my birthday! It's funny the way we sometimes attach so much meaning to birthdays and other times we completely ignore them, well, at least some people do. I don't think I've ever ignored my birthday. I may have had quiet birthdays and loud birthdays but I always know they're there and I wouldn't want to ignore them.

This birthday is impossible to ignore. It's my half century mark. I still remember turning twenty and crying on Craig Lee's doorstep because I was so old and felt like I had done so little with my life. Craig was older and much wiser and assured me that I still had many, many years to make my dreams come true. I didn't dare tell him that I was certain I was going to die at the age of 24. That idea had just popped into my head one day and over the years it had grown roots, irrational roots but when I was young it was much easier to do a doublethink, or to think one thing and believe the opposite. I can't seem to do that anymore, notwithstanding the fact that I still buy lottery tickets and engage in vivid fantasies about spending my winnings when I know what my odds are. But 24 came and went and I lived. The failure of prophecy didn't deter me. Like those psychics who every now and then predict that California is going to fall into the ocean, when the expected event doesn't arrive we simply change and update our prediction; thus, my new expiration date was moved ahead to age 34. Obviously, I lived through that one too. Not that I was afraid to die; mind you, I felt liberated by the fact that I didn't fear death. I think if I feared anything it was the fear of being old and brittle and forgetting things. Now that I'm old, brittle and forget things, I realize it's not that bad.

It looks like being old is in my cards. I even had a baby beyond my expiration date. At age 36, I already considered myself a mom of two beautiful stepdaughters, then I had my own kid and I was suddenly filled with a freaky fear that I would die before she could talk, then walk, later finish elementary school, etc. Every year, for the first few years of motherhood, I saw the Grim Reaper around every corner. Now I did fear death, not because I didn't know what was on the other side of that filmy veil between life and death but because I wanted to be around to watch my kids grow up. No offense to the fathers out there but I saw the difference in the way my hubby and I related to our girls and well, I thought they needed me.

Then my step-kids got older and stopped coming around as often. They had those damned boyfriends they wanted to spend time with instead of me! My little one was in school and she had special needs so she still needed me, but being a parent advocate is all work and no play.

Throughout my life, I had been playing in different bands pretty much non-stop since I was seventeen, up until I was about 6 months pregnant, which is when my doctor told me I had to be on complete bed rest. I was playing, practicing or recording until the last possible minute. I remember tripping over a PA monitor on stage when I played with Goddess 13; I turned to the side as I fell, trying to protect my swollen belly. I was playing with Cholita during that time and I had to hold my guitar over to the side because my fingertips couldn't properly grasp the neck of the guitar while reaching over my baby bump.

I took a few years off to be a full time mom and with no music in my life, I became a ticking time bomb: angry, resentful and with no creative outlet, I was a real Stay At Home Bomb. I formed a new band to express my frustration. That - together with a long overdue hysterectomy - gave me a new lease on life. Suddenly, I felt excited and in charge of my own life in a way that only music has ever made me feel. I had no delusions about the viability of a forty-something rocker chick but it didn't matter. All that mattered was playing, writing, singing, collaborating with musicians I admired and respected. I think that's when I started to understand that my best years were in front of me, not in the past.

I went out to lunch one day with a bunch of my middle-aged girlfriends whom I affectionately call The Rolling Crones and as we sat around sipping Margaritas, I thought about how strong and powerful we were. We laughed out loud, comfortable in our own (slightly) wrinkled skin, confident enough to intimidate younger men, knowing that we could and would do whatever we wanted. Every woman sitting around the table that day was talented, beautiful and wise and it made me proud to be in their company.

In about a week I will be turning 50 and I am excited about it. I think of it as the beginning of part two of my life. It's a time to try new things, to bring out those old, stored dreams that I never got around to and dust them off. I want this year to be a year of closure and rebirth. Already I'm behaving differently. I'm writing my autobiography, The True Life Adventures of Violence Girl. Last week, I sent in my absentee ballot and voted for the candidate I like best instead of the candidate that seemed least offensive. That's a first for me and it felt good, really good not to compromise. I also signed up for an oil painting class at a nearby community college. I've been wanting to learn to paint with oils ever since I walked into the Los Angeles County Art Museum as a kid; how I got to be nearly 50 without ever doing it is a mystery to me. I'm finally going to cross that off my to do list.

"Maribel With Marigolds" - I just painted this last week for Dia de Los Muertos, it's one of my very first attempts with oil painting and I can't wait to do more.

Sure, age has it's setbacks. My knees are messed up and I can't drink everyone under the table the way I did when I was young but there is so much that I can do better and with more confidence and conviction that I have to say I wouldn't want to be any other age. I don't know what I'm going to be when I grow up, but whatever it is, it's going to be fun because now I know that the journey is more important than the destination.

Mexicans have a special holiday to acknowledge the inevitability of aging and death while at the same time, celebrate living. It's called Dia de Los Muertos and is celebrated on November 2, All Soul's Day. It's the perfect time for remembering those friends and family who have passed through the filmy veil separating this life from the next and taking stock of which dreams we have accomplished and which ones we have yet to accomplish. In that spirit, I'm off to watch one of my favorite Mexican films, Macario.

Death shows Macario that life is as brief and vulnerable as the flame of a candle. From the great Mexican film, Macario.

Viva la vida!

Deleted Scenes - The Marbellite

noreply@blogger.com (Alice Bag) — Sun, 26 Oct 2008 17:06:00 +0000

Another deleted scene from my autobiography in progress, Violence Girl. You can read the full work in progress here. At the time when this story takes place, it's the mid-seventies and I am going through a mad obsession with Elton John. I'm enrolled at a private all girl Catholic school called Sacred Heart of Mary and I'm going by the nickname of Ziggy.

The Marbellite

I joined the Marbellite staff almost as soon as I got to Sacred Heart of Mary High School. I'd never had a journalism class and felt a little out of place on the school newspaper. Unsure of my writing skills, I opted for what I thought would be the easy way out; I volunteered to be the resident cartoonist and to my delight the teacher agreed. I went right out and bought a pen and ink and would have started up immediately if I'd known what to draw. I began with a few drawings of the cheerleaders and some poor caricatures of students and teachers engaged in a variety of activities throughout the school. It turned out that I sucked at being a cartoonist, which was much more difficult than I'd imagined. You can't just copy a picture the way I'd done in the past, you had to have something to say, you had to infuse personality into the characters who were like silent screen actors speaking with their faces and gestures. I had no idea how to do that and after a few of lame attempts, I decided to try to write an article instead.

The dilemma was that Ms. Milton, the teacher who supervised The Marbellite staff, was very open minded. She allowed us to choose our own stories based on what interested us. Some of the girls were writing about sports, others about certain classes or teachers but none of that really thrilled me. All that freedom and I didn't know where to start, so I called a friend of mine who was on the Montebello High School newspaper. The year before, my friend and I had pretended to be real journalists in order to get tickets to the first ever American Music Awards where Elton John's record Goodbye Yellow Brick Road had been nominated for best album. The award show was new and eager to generate as much press as possible so when I spoke to the woman on the phone and said I was from The Derrick Diary she didn't ask me if it was a high school paper and I didn't tell her. I scored two passes for me and my friend from Montebello High. Sadly, Bernie Taupin, not Elton John had been in the audience and my chance to meet Elton John in person was thwarted once again, but it was still fun going to the event. True to my word, my friend wrote about the award show in The Derrick Diary. Now we were hoping to do it again.

The American Music Awards had been a huge success and the organizers had moved the show to a larger location, the Santa Monica Civic auditorium. Weeks before the show, I started bombarding them with calls that they easily ignored. When I finally got through to someone she informed me that yes, she realized that The Derrick Diary had been invited before but now the show was more popular and there was much more interest in attending. We were off the list.

Never one to take no for an answer, I decided to show up anyway to see if I could figure out a way to sneak in. By sheer coincidence, Elton was again nominated for an award. Hoping to have better luck than the year before, I got together a small gang of Elton fans and our posse showed up early to wait outside the venue. We broke off into teams to ensure that Elton couldn't get past us and to see if anyone could find a way in. Yes, this was supposed to be about the awards but true love is more important that journalism. We met a few people who worked behind the scenes as they went in early. One of the people we met that day was a man named Sherwood Schwartz; he stopped to talk to us and find out why we were there. He didn't help us get in, but I still thought he was a really sweet man whose name I knew because he produced two of my favorite TV shows: Gilligan's Island and The Brady Bunch.

While I was busy talking with Sherwood Schwartz, the lookouts had spotted Elton's gold limousine and they ran over to tell me. EJ had entered the building and his limousine was now pulling up to a parking space behind the building. We rushed over too late; the security guards saw us and though we tried to evade them, they caught up with us and evicted us from the property.

We got some snacks from a store across the street and sat on the sidewalk watching as fancy cars, stars and paparazzi started to arrive. It could have been depressing but it was actually kind of fun sitting there on the ground, snacking, laughing at ourselves, loving Elton. We'd met a cool TV producer, spotted Elton's limo and been chased away by security guards, nothing to write a newspaper article about but it sure beat staying at home.

I had wasted so much time with cartoons and award shows that I eventually had to ask some of my classmates for help to meet the newspaper's deadline. Since I didn't have anything real to write about, I decided to dissect some classic literature. I started re-telling the story of Chicken Little and got the others involved in adding crazy details. We made up our own ridiculous version of the story. It was bad, really bad and only funny to us because we were giddy with the absurdity of the whole thing but it went into the paper. When the story finally came out in print, I was embarrassed to see my name attached to the piece. I thought to myself, "I don't ever want to be a writer!"

White Hot Interview

noreply@blogger.com (Alice Bag) — Fri, 03 Oct 2008 04:18:00 +0000

A new online article by Sandra Vista about the Vexing exhibition just appeared at WhiteHotMagazine.com. You can check out the article here.

Pink Viscera—A Permanent Triumph

Here are the original interview questions and my responses:

-While looking at your website I saw a current photograph of you in Phoenix. Your face appears soft and characteristic of a time of peace. (cara lisa) How do your experiences as being part of the East LA Punk movement contribute to what you are doing today-musically, with your family life and other creative aspects?

Yes, I'm cara lisa as opposed to that scary, angry gorgon that I used to be in my punk days but you don't have to scratch the surface too hard before the gorgon reappears! I don't know if I can honestly say that I'm at peace. I think I have figured out a way to negotiate a truce which allows me to express myself in positive ways, or at the very least, to be less impulsive than I once was. I still have the capacity to rant and rave when I'm angry and I still consider myself fairly uncivilized, but with age and experience, I learned how to channel my energy in different ways. Peace is a big word, I can't isolate a few events in my life and say that I'm at peace when all around me the world is getting fucked by corporate interests and our country is waging war.

-How is East LA, as a community, responsible for the Punk movement that you were associated with in the l970's and 80's? Does the community still have a reservoir of creative energy for the current generation of musicians and artists?

My part in the ELA punk movement is really as someone who helped set the stage for what would transpire later. I was part of the Hollywood Punk Scene which was a well integrated scene that preceded the scene at the Vex. As part of that earlier scene, I, along with other Latinos was performing alongside other punk musicians in integrated bands. My band, The Bags, was one of those bands. I know that some of the younger kids who shared my gender, ethnicity or economic level were inspired and motivated by seeing a woman from a poor, working class family from East L.A. play and sell out the most popular clubs of the day. I wasn't singing about being a woman or about being poor or about being Latina: I was simply being who I was and singing about a broad range of topics.

By 1980 when the East L.A. scene at the Vex was going strong, The Bags had broken up and I was going back to school for my B.A. in Philosophy. I still attended and played shows infrequently but I didn't consider myself part of a scene at that time because my focus was elsewhere and to be part of a scene, I think you really have to be immersed in it. I played the Vex with The Castration Squad, an all female proto-goth ensemble and I also played with other groups. Although I was not immersed in the East L.A. punk scene, I was immersed in East L.A. I moved back to my parents' house in East Los and worked my way through Cal State L.A. by working at a Franco Florist in Montebello. I worked all day and practiced and played gigs at night.

I am traditionally associated with the Hollywood Scene that centered around the Masque and predates the opening of the Vex in 1980 by at least 3 years. East L.A. is where I was born, grew up and spent most of my life. My experiences there have shaped every aspect of my life. I was in my late 40's when I moved to the Westside of L.A., then to Phoenix, and now San Diego. Every community has a reservoir of creative energy. There is no ethnicity, gender or socio-economic group that has a monopoly on talent. The problem is that not everyone has the opportunity to make his/her voice heard and that the dominant culture controls the means of production, distribution and promotion and they select artists based on corporate goals rather than artistic ones. Of course, that has all changed radically thanks to punk rock's DIY ethic and the internet. There is a more level playing field today but it is by no means an equal playing field.

Qualifications To Be Vice President

noreply@blogger.com (Alice Bag) — Thu, 25 Sep 2008 17:53:00 +0000

After receiving various emails from friends asking me to weigh in on whether I feel Sarah Palin is qualified to be Vice President of the United States, I took a quick peek at Wikipedia to see what the actual qualifications are. They are:

1. You must be a natural born US citizen.

2. You must be at least 35 years old.

3. You must have resided in the U.S. for the past 14 years.

There are no other legal barriers or guidelines.

These 3 criteria are not exactly open to debate; either Sarah Palin meets them or she doesn't. If she does, then legally she is qualified to run for the Presidency or Vice Presidency. If we are unhappy with these criteria, then perhaps we should change them; however, I don't know if we want to do that. Having these very loose guidelines allows inexperienced people to run but it also allows for a fresh point of view. If we institute too many requirements, we effectively limit our choices to career politicians.

The question of whether Palin is qualified to be VP is not really a question about her qualifications. It is a question about her beliefs. I don't agree with her beliefs, so I'm not going to vote for her. It's that simple. I refuse to participate in Palin bashing because she has openly stated what she stands for. It is the voters who are responsible for knowing what they stand for and voting in accordance with their beliefs, not simply choosing a candidate based on that candidate's personality or his or her portrayal in the media.

We are a nation where name recognition, financial backing and the ability to woo the media are much more important to winning an election than experience, knowledge or wisdom. We are a nation where movie stars, pop singers and wrestlers can and are elected to public office, why then is Sarah Palin being singled out as unqualified? Is it because she is a mother, because she is a fundamentalist, or simply because she is a woman who will make history if elected? Perhaps it's a little of all these things.

I would suggest that we move beyond discussing Sarah Palin's qualifications and focus on the candidates' voting records and what they stand for. We don't need to pull another woman down to feel superior. It isn't necessary and it distracts from the real issues. I applaud Sarah Palin's desire to break through the glass ceiling but I will not vote for her because I disagree with her, not because she is less qualified.

For the first time in my life, I intend to vote for the Green Party candidate. Her name is Cynthia McKinney. I've decided to vote for the candidate I like best regardless of her viability because this election year, I've learned that the Democratic party is too big to be responsive to me. I want to take steps towards correcting this situation by helping the Green Party take at least 5% of the vote and help legitimize it's goals. I think diversity in people as well as in political parties is a good thing. Perhaps some of you will feel like I am helping the Republicans win by voting Green. I have used the same argument in the past to convince others to join me in preventing the Republican party from winning but all that did was make the Democrats complacent. Once assured of my vote, they promptly sought to win the votes of centrists by pleasing them instead of me. My relationship with the Democratic party is over. I don't want to be in a relationship where I do all the vote giving and I get taken for granted in return. I understand why people feel that we have to choose between the two major parties; I believed that myself for many years but if we never change the way we vote, we'll keep getting the same results. This time I'm voting for long term change because that is change I can believe in.

Golden - An Excerpt from Violence Girl

noreply@blogger.com (Alice Bag) — Tue, 23 Sep 2008 04:17:00 +0000

I normally like to separate my Violence Girl stories and post them on my True Life Adventures of Violence Girl blog, but I realized that we have just marked the 35th anniversary of a famous tennis match known as The Battle of the Sexes. If you were old enough to be watching TV on September 20, 1973, then you already know what I'm talking about. If you aren't that old, then I invite you to read this excerpt from my autobiography-in-progress, Violence Girl.

Enjoy.

Golden

The television ad promised golden, sun-kissed locks if I used their product. All I had to do was spray my hair with Sun-In and go outside. I followed the directions, saturating my coal black hair with the spray and then letting it air dry in the sun, but my hair was so dark that the sun had no power over it. This gentle method was not designed for people like me with coarse, jet black hair but those ads had worked their influence on me and now I had my heart set on those golden streaks. I'd have to call in the big artillery.

I bought a package of hair dye at the drugstore and lightened my hair with it. Hair dye must be different nowadays than it was when I was growing up because my hairdressers always repeat the same refrain: "Color cannot lift color," they say to me and I do understand that, but what about the peroxide they mix it with? In the old days, hair color was mixed with peroxide and you could buy a light blonde color at the drugstore that would lift your hair several shades. I know - because that's exactly what I did. Of course it was a gamble, you didn't get the color on the box right away. With black hair you'd get a brassy, deep red the first time, then a copper penny color and if you kept at it and didn't burn your hair off, after multiple treatments you could end up with a lovely dye job just like mine.

I've always had a problem knowing my limitations. When I was very little, my father made me believe that I could be anything: President, brain surgeon - I just added blonde to the list. When I looked in the mirror, I didn't see what others saw: the cheap dye job, the broken, crooked teeth and braces, the bulging midsection. I saw myself through my father's eyes. I was a beautiful blonde and if the world thought it could limit me or beat me down, then it had another thing coming. I would never be a beaten woman.

That summer of '72 I was golden and I wasn't the only one. My world expanded beyond the everyday concerns of East LA when Munich, Germany hosted the summer Olympics. Making history was a sexy American swimmer named Mark Spitz who captivated the attention of people all over the world by winning seven gold medals, a record which stood unbroken until this year. I became a fan of his and of the Soviet gold medal gymnast Olga Korbut, but not for the same reasons. Olga made athletics look graceful. She would later receive a Star Magazine "groupie" makeover.

Olga Korbut gets the Star groupie look.

At that time in my life, I looked up to groupies. I thought they had style, sex appeal and chutzpah and I imagined their lifestyle was quite glamorous. I wondered if Olga Korbut knew what she was in for when she agreed to let the makeover team at Star dress her up. I for one wholeheartedly approved of her new look and my appreciation for her increased.

Tragedy struck at the Olympics that year when a group of Israeli athletes were murdered . Because he was Jewish, Mark Spitz was perceived as a potential target and left the Olympics early. That Fall, I started 9th grade and I drew a huge, poster sized charcoal portrait of Mark Spitz for art class. It won me a summer scholarship to the Otis College of Art and Design in Los Angeles.

The following Spring, a loudmouth, braggart tennis player started making news with his sexist statements about women in tennis. I had absolutely no interest in tennis but I found myself getting angry. Later that year, that loudmouth named Bobby Riggs would challenge Billie Jean King to a tennis match which would become known as the Battle of the Sexes. It was at that point that I realized for the first time in my life that there was a name for what I was and still am - a feminist.

Billie Jean King and Bobby Riggs

The Battle of the Sexes was like no other tennis match I've ever seen. It was more like a Lucha Libre bout: the amount of theater that went into it and the things that the athletes stood for was every bit as important as (and perhaps even more important than) the athleticism. Billie Jean was carried in on a golden litter, trimmed with bright pink feathers. She looked like an Egyptian queen and handed Bobby a live baby pig for his male chauvinistic pig statements.

Billie Jean King didn't just defeat Bobby Riggs that September day 35 years ago, she triumphed over sexism and male chauvinism and men and women who championed equality of the sexes all over the world celebrated with her. News of Billie Jean's victory reached all the way into East LA, where a bottle-blonde teenage girl whose world had been rather small up until this point suddenly realized that a woman who refused to play by the rules could change everything.

Deleted Scenes - Caliente!

noreply@blogger.com (Alice Bag) — Sat, 13 Sep 2008 18:29:00 +0000

Here's another "deleted scene" from my autoblogography in progress, Violence Girl.

Caliente means hot in Spanish but it was also the name of a racetrack in Tijuana. Well, Agua Caliente was the complete name but everyone just called it Caliente. I guess the abbreviated name better conveyed the postcard image of sunny Mexico whereas Agua Caliente (hot water) only made you think of a bathroom faucet.

With my dad, it was always feast or famine. If he was working we felt rich and if he wasn't we had to scramble for food and shelter. In times of plenty we'd make the two hour car drive south from Los Angeles to the international border crossing and then on to Tijuana. My mom liked to visit the doctors in Tijuana; she claimed they were more attentive than American doctors and that the medicine was much less expensive. My father, despite being diabetic, rarely went to the doctor if he could help it; instead, he liked to go bet the ponies.

Going to the horse races at Caliente was a real treat for me. As soon as we walked in, we were swept up in the excitement. There was an aura of old time glamour and shadiness to it. It was the sort of place where one could find a wide variety of people from all walks of life, from the well-to-do who looked like Italian movie stars to American tourists in casual shorts, straw hats and newly purchased huaraches to regular working class Mexican men in groups of two, three or four. The local women were never there alone or in groups unless they were accompanied by a man. They were usually well-dressed within their means.

Double exposure of me at Agua Caliente.

The first thing we'd do was to get a program and a copy of The Racing Form. I'd take the program, look at the upcoming races and circle the names of the horses with the most interesting sounding names. If my mom and sister were with us they'd go for the snacks. Food at racetracks is traditionally cheap, so we'd stuff ourselves but sometimes if we had cold leftover bean burritos from the drive down my mother would make us eat them instead.

My dad liked to bet Quinellas so he'd pick two horses and I'd pick one and we'd box them. If you're unfamiliar with horse racing, a Quinella bet is one where you pick the horses that will come in first and second in any order. To box a Quinella, you pay triple the amount for your bet but your three favorite horses are covered if they should come in first and second in any combination. I knew way too much about horse racing for a little kid because my father was an avid gambler. He didn't make foolish bets, except where I was concerned. Oddly, my methods for choosing horses seemed to be just as effective as my dad's. We often won when we went to Caliente - not a lot, just enough to make it fun and keep us going back.

Me astride the burro with my family in the cart.

Sometimes we'd be so busy during the day in Tijuana visiting the doctor, taking pictures with goofy hats or sitting on donkeys painted to look like zebras that we wouldn't make it in time for the horse races but that only made things even better because the one thing that I enjoyed more than an afternoon at the ponies was a night at the dog races. The dog races seemed to move at a faster pace. They were easy to watch without binoculars and being out at a race track late at night just felt a little bit naughty. It was very rare to see other children at the racetrack at night except for the little kids who were sometimes forced to sell four packs of "Chiclet" gum (3 four packs for a nickel); most of the other tourist children were tucked safely in a hotel bed or back in San Diego.

Caliente all lit up at night was like an opulent palace. Surrounded by so much poverty, it was an oasis where locals and foreigners alike could escape to a place that was worlds away from everyday life. Over the years and to this day one of my favorite things to do is to play hooky from work and spend an afternoon at the racetrack, making bets on horses with crazy names, eating racetrack junk food and drinking beer or a nice glass of scotch in the middle of the afternoon.

Violence Girl - In Progress

noreply@blogger.com (Alice Bag) — Wed, 03 Sep 2008 05:43:00 +0000

The True Life Adventures of Violence Girl - my online autoblogography project - continues at www.chicaviolenta.blogspot.com with tales of masked wrestlers, fighting heroes and a little girl named Alicia.

"Santo" by Gary Panter.

Lessons From Chavez and Huerta

noreply@blogger.com (Alice Bag) — Thu, 28 Aug 2008 20:12:00 +0000

Thank you for the well thought out comments on my previous blog entry. I know that most of you understand where I'm coming from. I don't think either disappointment or anger are childish traits. Many times, they force us to find a new direction.

It's hard for me to write this because I am still upset. I know that I've written before about how this election has personally affected me and my family but for the first time this morning, I realized that I just have to move on. Reading a transcript of Dolores Huerta's nominating speech for Hillary Clinton at the DNC really got to me. Dolores Huerta, who has been through so much and has meant so much to Latinos, helped me remember the many setbacks that the UFW has faced over the years and the long, painstaking road that she has walked to improve conditions for those who have neither a voice nor a vote.

I see now that this is one of those setbacks for women like me, who are tired of being pushed around by a seemingly omnipresent patriarchy. Change is infuriatingly slow and I am not a patient woman.

Cesar Chavez and Dolores Huerta helped the world understand the lack of basic human rights that migrant farm workers were denied. They taught us to look beyond our own concerns and to remember that whenever there is injustice toward others, we must stand united to fight against it.

This time was not our time to break through the glass ceiling and as much as I am saddened for myself and for my daughters, I realize that there is something to celebrate. As angry as I was at Barack Obama for not choosing a woman as his vice presidential running mate, it is time for me to look beyond my own concerns and celebrate the step forward that the Democrats are making by becoming the first major party to nominate an African American for President of The United States. I am familiar with Obama's voting record and as I've said before, it is very similar to Hillary's. While it is possible that he may turn out to be the best choice, I did use my anger constructively and I began to look outside the two major parties. I am currently researching Cynthia McKinney, the Green Party's presidential candidate who also looks like a good candidate. I'm not ready to say how I'll vote yet, but I am ready to move on, re-group, and move forward.

Women's Equality Day

noreply@blogger.com (Alice Bag) — Tue, 26 Aug 2008 01:01:00 +0000

As the Democratic National Convention unfolds in Denver, I find it ironic that today of all days, as we celebrate Women's Equality Day, I can't help but feel betrayed by my lifelong party. How could the party leaders ignore the message that we want a woman for President, or at least Vice President? The fact that 18,000,000 registered Democrats cast their primary election ballots for Hillary Rodham Clinton (and not Joseph Biden) is being completely disregarded in the name of "party unity," which is starting to smell more like a compromise to me.

How dare Nancy Pelosi accuse us of wallowing and tell us to "get over it." What part of the democratic process does she not understand? The convention was designed with the purpose of selecting a candidate, not crowning the party leaders’ chosen one. The people tell our elected leaders want we want and how to govern, not the other way around. I was under the apparently mistaken impression that we had a representative government, reflective of the will of the people. I expected the Democrats to understand that there is a larger victory to be won than the upcoming election in November. Putting a party victory ahead of party ideals would be a hollow victory for me and many of my sisters. It would make my party stand for nothing.

Today is a day when our delegates can make a statement. I applaud Gloria Allred, who had the guts to protest at this morning’s caucus by wearing an impromptu gag and declaring that “she was not elected as a delegate to be a potted plant."

I guess you think I'm off on this one. I'm very angry and I suppose there is probably a better way to voice my anger. But I will not simply go along quietly (shut up and sit down) while women are once again written out of the equation. What do you suggest? Women, it's time to take control of our party! There is no way Obama could not get the message that we wanted a woman in the White House, but he chose not to act in accordance with our wishes. Why? Because he is trying to win an election by wooing white, middle class voters who might otherwise go to McCain. The party is doing this at our expense because they think we're going to just lie back and get fucked. Well, I for one am not going to. If we don't fix this trainwreck, I intend to look for a candidate, perhaps among the independent parties, who puts women's issues at the top of their agenda.

Wake up Democrats, is this the sort of change we can believe in? Keep your eyes on the prize, ladies. This candidate chose another man to be his running mate when it was obvious that a very large portion of his party wanted a woman on the ticket. Instead of reaching out to the Hillary supporters within the Democratic Party he chose to reach out to mollify the conservatives within the party and on the Republican side. Where are all my liberal friends? What have you to say about this? Is this a new kind of liberalism?

I don't care if Hillary tells her supporters to vote for Obama. I will vote for the person who espouses my ideals. Our delegates need to step up today in Denver and send a LOUD message to Mr. Obama and the party not to take our votes for granted. Ladies, if we do not make ourselves heard we have no one to blame but ourselves. It is estimated that women make up over half of the Democratic Party. We need to make that party responsive to our needs. We will be heard. We must be fairly represented, NOW!

Deleted Scenes - Grand Central Market

noreply@blogger.com (Alice Bag) — Sat, 23 Aug 2008 22:36:00 +0000

I've been writing my blogography or autobiographical stories for the past couple of weeks, but there are some stories which haven't made the cut to my Violence Girl blog, not because I don't like them, but because my editor insists that they don't fit the tone of Violence Girl or move the story along. I've decided to trust his judgement...for now. Here's one of the stories I like to call "deleted scenes."

Grand Central Market

My mom loved to shop downtown. On weekends, we'd take the bus to Broadway or if my dad was around, we'd drive to Grand Central Market to do our grocery shopping for the week. If it was just me and my mom, we'd use the Broadway Street entrance. There, we'd often see an old woman who sat with a little makeshift tray and a pail of tunas (Prickly Pears), selling her sliced fruit. My mom loved fresh fruit and always stopped to have the woman slice up some tunas for us. The woman's aged, leathery hands deftly arched around the fruit, holding it steady, never allowing the spines to prick her as she peeled it with a small paring knife. In a few seconds, the fruit was peeled and cut to resemble a flower blossom. The tunas had the texture of kiwi fruit, the sweetness of a strawberry and a very faint, delicate perfume that rewarded you each time you took a bite.

After finishing off our tunas, we were ready to face the busy market. Each stall had its specialty: there were fruit stalls, cheese stalls, sausage stalls, stalls selling cooked food and much, much more. The main problem for a young kid was the hordes of people who thronged the marketplace. Everyone was pushing to get through, reaching across to get a pinch of this, a taste of that. The thought of buying a pound of anything you hadn't tasted seemed ludicrous to these discriminating shoppers. People shouted their requests to the merchants like thirsty patrons at a crowded bar, trying to catch their attention before someone else beat them to it.

"Give me a bunch of spinach!" "A pound of grapes!" Anonymous voices shouted above the din of the bustling marketplace. It was hard for a little kid to be seen or heard over the shouting, shoving crowds. Every so often, workmen would push their way through the aisles with big metal handcarts stacked high with crates of fruit or vegetables, threatening to mow down any invisible little kids.

One particular day, my mother was trying to get the attention of a fruit vendor when one of the men pushing an overloaded handcart came barreling down the aisle. It was stacked so high that the man pushing it could barely see over the top and there were so many people that he couldn't look around it. It was obvious he was pushing it blindly and recklessly through the crowd, straight towards me. I panicked and let go of my distracted mother's hand. As soon as the man passed, the crowd flooded in to close the gap between me and my mom and pretty soon I couldn't see the top of her head anymore. I felt like I had been swallowed up by a sea of people. My heart started pounding. I squeezed my way towards the back steps, where I knew I'd have a better vantage point and might be able to spot my mother. I stood on tip toe on the steps and surveyed the whole market. So many people!

"Mami!" I shouted out, starting to cry now. "Mami!" Concerned adults stopped and tried to talk to me but I was afraid of being stolen and I pushed them away. I imagined never seeing my parents again and being taken by strangers. I saw people talking and pointing at me as I continued to cry out, "Mami!"

"Alicia!" I heard an answer in the distance. My mom was pushing her way towards me. "Stay there!" she shouted. People smiled at me and seemed relieved. They resumed their previous pace. When my mom finally reached me, I got scolded for letting go of her hand, but I didn't care, I was so happy to have my mami back.

On days when my father went with us to the Grand Central Market, it was a very different story altogether. My dad liked to go into the market using the Hill Street entrance. My mom would go ahead of us into the market and, unbeknownst to my mother, my father and I would sneak a ride on Angels Flight, which was just across the street. Angel's Flight was a very brief funicular ride up the side of Bunker Hill but those red cars with their old fashioned wooden seats were so much fun to ride. You would pass so close to the car coming in the opposite direction down the hill that for a split second you thrilled at the possibility that one of the cars would jump its tracks and they'd come to a head-on collision. At the top of the hill there was nothing, just the whole City of Angels spread out for everyone to look at.

We usually spent just a few minutes at the top before riding back down. Our first stop when entering on Hill Street was always the juice stall. Into a big blender half full with ice, the juice man would put freshly squeezed orange juice, a scoop of a mysterious white power and a raw egg. He'd whip it up, then pour us the tall, frothy concoctions my dad and I loved. In those days, raw eggs were freely consumed. I remember my mom and dad ordering egg shots from the same juice bar. Into a small glass, the juice man would break a fresh, raw egg. My parents would then add salt and chili and swallow them in one gulp. That was one treat I never indulged in.

After orange drinks, my father liked to eat Chinese food. My mom hated Chinese food because it wasn't Mexican food and, being a creature of habit, she only ate and cooked Mexican food (the only exception to this was my mother's pathetic attempt at spaghetti - a soupy concoction of limp noodles swimming in tomato sauce straight from the can, covered in melted jack cheese. I loved it!). I have a hazy memory of my dad sitting at a Chinese cafe counter on the lower floor of the market. He loved Chop Suey and Egg Foo Young and he'd always let me taste his food but I never got my own order, because my mother said that I didn't like Chinese food. My father exposed me to new and exciting cuisines by allowing me to have tastes of his own food, usually the first bite. He worked all over Los Angeles and was no doubt exposed to all sorts of unusual food from different cultures.

Even though my mom insisted on maintaining the ethnic purity of her cuisine at home, she eventually allowed a chink in the "no Non-Mexican Foods" armor by consenting to take me and my sister to Taco Bell, which appealed both to her ethnic pride and her sense of economy. Of course, this put us on a slippery slope which inevitably led to McDonald's and Burger King. My mother practically died with a 99 cent Whopper in her hand.