A Week in the Life of Gustavo

"Seems to think that if he fails to write, la migra will find him."--OC Weekly More merriment available at ronmaydon@yahoo.com

sábado, outubro 11, 2003

Eight Days a Week...


Saw Kinky with Raunchy Protestant, the Fabulous G Sisters, and Pelos at some club in Hollywood. Concert was fun, I guess--let's just say I'd prefer to have gone with someone else than Raunchy Protestant, but I'm a man of my word.


Saw the Cubs win one against the Marlins with Dorky Angel. Then she forgot something. Forgiven, but I won't forget!


Am going to a wedding of someone with Downer Downey. Should be fun--I'll be going under the guise of a 1940s reporter.

Wally George died earlier in the week. Rather than offer my own lengthy obituary, I urge you to read the Rag's official obit. Rather grand. And here's my short contribution to the Wally online remembrance of the Rag...


I didn’t know how to hit on my catechism-class companion. The woman was so brilliant and beautiful I found it hard to follow the mysteries of the Trinity as they were uttered from her rose-tinted lips. None of my classmates offered me any romantic advise as they, too, ached to be press against her ample bosom. My younger sister, however, had this to say: "Talk to her about Wally George. She once met Wally, and you like Wally."

We went out on a couple of dates, but they quickly faded away: the only thing we had in common was Wally. You can’t build a relationship on Wally.

I think this article more than anything I've ever written sums up my life. This article contains everything important to me--Catholicism, family, strange likings that clash against my anarcholibertarian ways, chasing girls--and the ultimate failure of said pursuit. But I will always pursue--eventually, one of them has to say sim, nao?

And here's a true story involving Wally and me courtesy of Guillermo!


Like Jesus, like Martin Luther King Jr., like a suicide case sucking on the business end of a rifle, Wally George saw Death coming from a long way off, could hear what you hear when Death approaches—not the sibilant whisper of a scythe, but Weekly writer Gustavo Arellano. And then George called me. It was last November, and Arellano had just raved about Mr. Smoke, a Polish restaurant in Anaheim where George’s picture hangs on the wall. Let that prescience sink in: "Mr. Smoke."

Arellano described George as "the coffin-dodging TV conservative." George called me, first cursing, then threatening a libel suit and finally saying he would come down to the Weekly and "sock you in the fucking face, you little son of a bitch." Like many right-wingers—I’m thinking Bob Dornan, George Bush and Bill O’Reilly—Wally was always bluffing. I told him to stay where he was, that if he could hang onto that thought for just a few minutes, I’d spare him the drive and come rearrange the face that reminded me too much of Rebecca DeMornay in The Hand That Rocks the Cradle. Then George started crying. The Thomas Edison of Combat TV was suddenly Bawly George. He was old, he said, "and you don’t know what it’s like to escape death so often." There was some near-deadly car wreck, brain cancer and heart trouble—and his prostate, I figured--all of it followed (and he made this sound dramatic) by Arellano’s food review.

He didn’t say, "Oh, how could you mock me?" But that was kind of the point. Could I understand how he hurt? "Wally, I had no idea you were human," I said. "I’m sorry. Really. Never meant any harm." And the "coffin-dodger" comment? That was really a compliment, I pointed out. Now I bet he agrees.