I get it. I’ve been enjoying the Kirk for around 30 plus years. And because I’m an American with core memories around stuff, I remember when me and Damar, my older nephew, were gifted Adidas windbreaker sets the old man copped from Costco. We coveted those early examples of treasure-hunt finds.

Something happened with those track suits that put me on the path to realizing it’s not always about things, though.

My dad bought them for us because they were affordable and consonant with our aesthetic (mine was booger-chic, West Coast Action Bronson– Booger Bronson?). Damar influenced my style a lot in the ‘90s. I liked my high-top Chucks, but he convinced me to get low tops with fat laces (he said I should stuff them with socks, too, but I didn’t do that because they hindered my recess basketball games).

For months, we wore the hell out of our respective pairs. Now, the thing with Damar was that he was essentially an older brother to me, being 4 years my senior. Like any older brother, he would push me around sometimes. He was smarter, funnier, and stronger than I was. If I were beating him in Madden or Mario Kart, he’d get pissed and punch me. Plus, he could clown me from 2,000 yards out.

But one night, he went too far. He was spending the night after the entire family had one of those huge meals and lingered over dessert and coffee in those halcyon days. I seethed after Damar’s joke made everyone laugh at my expense. He probably called me a whiner or a crybaby or something like that, which was a huge trigger because I was trying to kick crying so easily (I finally got so good at it that in my later teens and into my 20s crying was almost impossible). This aggression would not, could not stand.

So, I waited until things died down, err, until a few minutes after people stopped laughing at me. Then, I excused myself to use the bathroom, remembering that he was staying over and had brought his windbreaker set for the next day. I got the scissors and went to work in such a way that it looked like a clean rip. It felt good to be a gangster.

Now, before you judge 8-year-old me as a brat for being so devious and vengeance-seeking, well, you’re right. I had the emotional regulation skills of a young Joe Pesci. But Damar was also the kid who would fart on my pillow and kick my ass at will, OK?

Another note. This was brave on my part. Like, extremely brave. First off, my parents are from the old school– my mom’s a Boomer, and my dad’s so friggin old that he’s from the generation prior to that– the Silent Generation. If you talked back, it was fade to black.

Plus, I was risking catching a fade from Damar. If found out, he would have zero compunction about socking me up for wrecking his gear. But I lived for the love of the game.

I took a few minutes, then went back. Nobody noticed. About 45 minutes elapsed, whereupon Damar went to unpack his stuff. Deny, deny, deny, I told myself. He noticed after a few seconds.

“What the hell?” he screamed to himself. He wasn’t trying to make a scene, but he was aghast that one of his most precious articles of clothing was ruined. “How could this happen?” he asked himself.

Nard happened. Everyone went in. They sympathized with him while conceding that it looked like it must have accidentally ripped somehow. It was thin material, after all. Man, that’s horrible, I told him. Nobody even suspected it was me. Occam’s Razor 1, Nard being found out– 0.

All this to say that Costco has a special place in the hearts of American Homo Economicus. We have core memories there, from treasure hunts to chowing down on wildly cheap grub at their food court after polishing off endless appetizer samples. But it feels like too often consumption is being fetishized to the point where it’s crowding out creation. At the end of the day, it’s just a store, not a way of life.

Listen, maybe it’s not so mutually exclusive and I should say something like “have fun where you can” and not be judgmental. But also, make something. Create something other people will enjoy and do it with your hands and/or your brain. It’s good for your mental health to make your mark on this earth. Write, woodwork, fix something, tell a funny, whatever. Be a creator. Give life.

And sure, enjoy your creation while munching on a Costco dog.

Disclaimer: Therapy and Things is for informational and entertainment purposes only and does not constitute clinical advice or establish a therapist-client relationship. If you are in a crisis, please call 911 or call or text 988. [Click here to read the full disclaimer and access a list of emergency resources.]

Really, guy? We’re dead? At worst, this was a minor inconvenience that would suck up 15 minutes of our Saturday morning. We’d wait until it passed, and then we’d be able to go along with our lives. But this guy was on tilt. What happened to him?

Well, we ended up getting out of there within 5 minutes, and we lived. But what happened to him to make him feel as though we were “dead?” At the very least, our society happened to him, causing him to shiver with anxiety at this early-Saturday snafu. To continue from last week’s theme of trauma, that’s what Dr. Gabor Maté, author of “The New Normal” would say. Maté argues that our society traumatizes us in ways that harm our mental and physical well-being.

What the doctor was particularly adept at doing in this book is describing how Western society has essentially lost its way and represents a fallen form of civilization; our market-based capitalist society has fallen from origins in communalism and solidarity into a viper pit of illness-inducing tyranny. There is the stress of work, of losing work, of not being able to pay bills, the stress of a society that doesn’t value family, and trying to make an egg carton out of 15 cents now with inflation.

Maté lays out all of society’s problems. There is the chronic loneliness, higher rates of depression, anxiety, stress, and a host of their attendant physical illnesses having to do with the immune system and heart. Not to mention the mental-health crisis and what he cites as the Internet causing a lack of empathy in young people. At the risk of being reductionist, it very likely is the society, silly.

He cites various statistics to support his claims, as well as anecdotes, and only slightly steers clear of extreme reductionism. Then, he begins an expansive diagnosis of causes of sorts, ironic because he doesn’t necessarily respect many individual mental diagnoses. Maté asks whether any of this is any surprise, given a host of factors such as the following:

• Capitalism and its cousins the free-market, wealth inequality, concentrated government power

• Loss of community and atomization of people (see Bowling Alone– it’s only become worse in 25 years)

• Economic and social instability in the form of languishing wages, social instability

• Loss of ties to tradition

• Class warfare

In truth, Mate doesn’t have all of the answers you’re looking for. There are no tidy solutions. And he could have done a better job of making direct connections between the system and physical illness. We need much more research to be conducted to prove that our society is making us sick; this book simply serves as a starting point so we can begin to understand why we get so damn diarrhetic when the Smondays hit us.

That Costco guy has to catch extreme Smondays, right?

You might even start to wade through the thicket of memory, hacking away at past lives’ foliage to explore just what happened, why it happened, and how to make better things happen in the future. Dr. Gabor Maté, famed physician who explores the unity between mind and body, wrote The Myth of Normal: Trauma, Illness, and Healing in a Toxic Culture to help people do just that. The book serves as a roadmap people can use to trace their trauma and the unhealthy coping skills that followed their trauma.

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Mate’s book explains that mental and physical illnesses are intertwined, and that mental and physical illnesses have their roots in biopsychosocial conditions. That is, the root causes of illnesses are often based in individual trauma. And by “trauma,” we’re not referring to you not being able to order mac and cheese as a side when your parents would purchase the KFC family bucket, OK?

Maté’s definition of trauma includes events that happen to people and their adverse effects as well as the things that don’t happen, such as a lack of parental involvement in a child’s life. The common definition is that trauma isn’t necessarily that thing that happened, such as abuse, but the enduring effect of that event.

But what Maté so eloquently explains is how mental conditions like depression and anxiety aren’t simply the result of brain chemistry/imbalances, but instead are the result of the traumatic things that can happen in one’s environment. Maybe this definition could include having to eat corn on the cob instead of mac and cheese as a side…OK, still no.

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The negative feelings that endure after a trauma are essentially– and ironically– coping mechanisms. For example, feelings of unworthiness can manifest because the alternative is to realize that one’s parents are monsters and to feel unsafe– it’s the brain’s perverse way of protecting oneself from even greater mental harm.

Then, there’s the attachment part of things, as depression and anxiety symptoms can manifest to preserve the attachment relationship. If only our parents could have attached themselves to the concept of letting us order our own chicken tenders meal, replete with our own potato wedges.

In reading this book, I can’t help thinking about how it applies to my life. It turns out that, unlike Winnebago Man, my mind is indeed not a piece of shit. And yet I realize where that negative self talk comes from, like when I was in a résumé review with a career counselor and I downplayed my previous work.

She was direct but correct when she stopped my self-effacement and said “Don’t do that.” Like, “hey guy, you actually did some things on this piece of paper that you should be proud of, don’t undermine yourself!” So yeah, Dr. Maté’s helping me determine why I’ve spent more than 30 years half-stepping through life hampered by these types of blinders.

The trauma we faced as children isn’t our fault, but we can change things. Maté cites a variety of cases in which people ended up with inflammatory conditions because of trauma they experienced as well as the adverse coping skills they had to employ in order to manage. In my day you couldn’t talk about your feelings. They’d just say, proverbially, to “rub some dirt on it.” I did, but then I kept eating the dirt. We don’t have to eat dirt anymore. We’re survivors. And we can all order our own meal now at KFC, mac and cheese included.

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When my mother let me know that we were having a dish like stir fry- my kryptonite- and that it would be more like a funeral in my mind, she’d try to cheer me up by singing “Stir fry, don’t bother me,” to the tune of “Shoefly, don’t bother me.” God bless her. I’d like to pretend that it didn’t ruin my day, but dammit it did.

See, I thought about dinner the minute I woke up. It was what carried me through the day. If you don’t think about dinner from your eye’s first crusty crackling in the wee morning, then chances are you will never truly understand me. See, I’m a gavone. Food does and always has meant more to me than normal people can imagine.

But when we had beans and chile, there was no whining. Whenever we had that dish or any of its variations, all was right with the world.

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Nuevo Mexico, 1600s to Now

PSA: we’re discussing chile, meaning the chile pepper, not chili, something you slather on a hot dog and the intestinal effects of which you mitigate with an entire tub of Tums.

Beans were first eaten in that region of my ancestors, Nuevo Mexico, by indigenous people, along with squash (calabacitas, anyone?) and an assortment of other nutritious items such as potatoes.

When my Spanish forebears came to the area, they mixed with my indigenous forebears and eventually added their own twist to things. This included flour tortillas, flour being preferred by the Spanish. Corn tortillas, of course, existed in Mexico long before the Spanish, but if you know anything about New Mexico, you know that corn tortillas aren’t traditional.

Some trace chile’s origins to Juan de Onate’s incursions into the area, while others argue that chile was already in the area and farmed by the Pueblo tribe. In any case, the chile is the conductor of the symphony that is New Mexican cuisine. There’s the famous red, the famous green, and if you’re ordering a dish in a restaurant you can get Christmas, which is in between (apologies for the rhyme).

Fast forward to the mid 20th century, and my family’s living in the greater Los Angeles area following the explosion of the post-war American economy. They left a place that generations had called home, abandoning certain practices that allowed them to endure in the harsh rural climate of northern New Mexico.

But they didn’t forget all of their traditions. Both sides of my family brought their beloved beans and chile with them to LA’s Harbor Area and South Bay. I can still remember going to my grandparents’ house in north Torrance on weekends and basking in the aroma of warm flour tortillas, with fresh beansand green chile stew.

They had to eat that every day because it was all that my grandfather liked to eat, to the point that he couldn’t go out to eat because there was never food hot enough (including Mexican food). A similar phenomenon in my dad’s household, except that his father wasn’t Hispanic and it was his mother who carried the traditions.

“Beans and chile,” is really a catch-all for a variety of food items that really only need to have beans and chile at their base. Growing up, we could either have literal beans and chile– typically during Lenten Fridays– which consisted of chopped green chile, whole pinto beans, fluffy flour tortillas, and fried potatoes.

The idea is to put the chile and beans together onto the flour tortilla, but you can do whatever you want with it. This includes lacing it with cheese, a move my uncle Paul kvetches is not traditional. Older New Mexicans tend to be a conservative lot both culinarily and socially.

Then, there are the dishes involving meat. Of course you can do enchiladas and burritos and such, but there’s the staple of green chile stew, which consists of green chile, potatoes, onions, and various spices along with either pork chunks or ground beef. Carne adovada is a dish with pork chunks and red chile sauce done in an adobo style, and is so good it’ll make you want to slap all of your ancestors.

There are a variety of other New Mexican dishes, from enchiladas to burritos, and chicharron, but those are the staples. The world might be crumbling, war might be making love with pestilence, and inflation might be turning a C note into $20. But beans and chile is always good food.

The Culture

If you’re like me, you were the only Latino in your neighborhood, let alone the only person with Chicano/Mexican-American heritage. The traditions were different for everyone else in my friend group, especially since my mother was really the only person who could cook Mexican food (she eventually learned how to cook more conventional Mexican food such as rice and refried beans, rice being something that is not traditionally New Mexican; old school New Mexicans will have beans and fried potatoes as a side dish, not rice and beans).

We were the loudest house in the neighborhood, especially on weekends when we would feast on beans and chile. Laughter would flow, as would arguments, and the smell of beans and chile beginning a new life would emanate throughout our gabacho neighborhood. I guarantee you there were no sounds like that in our neighborhood that weren’t coming from us, and the laughter and arguments still echo in the soul of 34th and Almeria streets.

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To understand this unique Latino experience, it’s helpful to read Mexican-American and Native American author Leslie Marmon Silko’s description of her work in the book Celebration: “She, like her hero, Tayo, is of mixed blood; most of her work could be said to explore those borderlands of identity experienced by mixed-blood people- individuals who, in a sense, find themselves stuck between cultures, neither wholly in nor wholly out of what may be their native society; too often they are viewed suspiciously by both the peoples whose blood they carry.”

You will not find a better, more succinct description of Hispano New Mexican identity.

While my experience was much different than Silko’s, looking “white” presented something of an identity crisis, especially since I didn’t grow up in an area like New Mexico, where people take it for granted that Hispanics come in all colors. “White” people typically thought I was Italian (only partially true) and were too happy to label me as such, while Mexican immigrants and Mexican-Americans didn’t know what to make of me unless they really understood Chicano history.

But I wasn’t a victim. I didn’t face real discrimination, nor did I grow up without a sense of self. I grew up being proud of my heritage and proud of our cuisine and cultural practices. And all my friends who got to eat our food loved and appreciated it. These days I’ve had the blessing of connecting with other Hispanics who’ve taught me so much more about our collective heritage. I’m lucky to have them in my life.

And we’re all lucky that there’s much more knowledge about the diverse traditions in Mexican culture and cuisine. Our people are on the map in a way that they’ve never been before.

And so is beans and chile.

They appeared severely displeased but begrudgingly accommodated us. In abiding by my request, however, they decided to seat us at a small table for two smack damned dab in the middle of two other tables with diners. Now, my wife wasdispleased.

How could this happen? The maître de told us that we could always move inside, as though this was a typical practice because of course people don’t want to gnaw on fine flesh next to a casino parking lot? And wouldn’t they impart this information to the servers?

No, it appeared this wasn’t relayed to the server at all. The maître de was likely just providing an empty gesture, not expecting us to bite. I wanted to eat steak and a couple-three scallops, but maybe I was just destined to eat an L instead.

Sauvignon Blank

The adjacent tables left quickly, though, so it was just us. Having started the drinking in earnest earlier at a wine-tasting room in nearby Solvang, I thought “What better way to end the night’s imbibing than by drinking some sauvignon blanc?”

There were better ways. The waiter took our drink orders and promptly returned the skimpiest pour of wine I had ever seen. But I couldn’t complain. If I were to complain after already annoying them, they likely would have fed me Alpo. Or worse– Kibbles and Bits.

Now, this night could have gone much, much differently if me and the waiter had chosen different behavioral routes. For one, I don’t complain at restaurants or ask them to take back any food, save for a few exceptions: if they send out the wrong dish, or if I order a burger well done (not every place uses steak-grade meat for their burgers) and they send it out medium or below. Don’t get me wrong, I will up and leave a spot if the vibes are off. But I don’t ever leave Yelp reviews.

Liv was not going to abide me trying to cajole us to up and leave anyway, not that I was trying to. We were pot committed. If this night were going to improve, it was up to me. I had to be calm, pleasant, and solicitous of our server. I breathed, putting myself in their shoes, knowing that I had made their difficult line of work slightly more difficult.

Alas, I messed up again. In ordering our entrees, I made it a point to ask the server what they liked. I was trying build rapport with them, like “See, I’m not a nudge, I’m really a good guy– please don’t fart in the bearnaise!” But I forgot about ordering a wedge, a must at any high-tone steak spot.

Noooooo. I imagined the waiter repeatedly poking holes in my body and then stuffing them with blue cheese dressing. I could have forgotten about the wedge. I could have chosen to just take that L and live with it. But I needed to live on the wedge (I do apologize).

Instead, when they came back, I apologized profusely and asked for a wedge salad. They paused for 3 seconds, which felt like 3 hours. “Sure.” Oh No. OH NO. Again, I apologized for my lapse. But they wouldn’t let me forget it.

They like me, they really– err, they really don’t hate me that much

That wedge was the best I’ve had, with its firm hard-boiled eggs, chunky bacon, beautiful blue cheese crumbles in the dressing, and iceberg lettuce gone platinum.

In the middle of the salad, though, our entrees came. “Sorry, I would have timed it better if I knew you wanted a wedge earlier,” the server said with a snip.

But my wife was happy with her starter, and nobody could get me off my cloud of wedge salad glory. So, I responded with something like “Oh yeah, so sorry about that again, but this wedge is amazzzzinng, wow. The best wedge I’ve ever had. And this steak and scallops looks incredible! Thank you so much!”

The server smiled with a little more genuineness than earlier. It seemed like they were cracking under my relentless positivity and good will. Those steak and scallops were cracking like the CIA and Contras in the ‘80s, too. Juicy, tender steak centered the dish along with succulent, pliant scallops and creamy but thick mashed potatoes that provided a sturdy foundation upon which to absorb the dish. Cholesterol was in my veins, but love was in the air.

The waiter checked on us again, and we provided yet another glowing review and thanked them for being so patient. They glowed, themselves; the walls had come down.

We made sure to ask the server about what they liked to do at the casino. They lit up again when being asked about themselves, telling us about the games they prefer and all of the lore of the casino in terms of the lucky games and the unlucky games. They even laughed a bit.

We were lucky. We more than broke even.

Also also also, school being just about complete (really!!), I’m back to writing non-academically again. Enjoy, and maybe even tell a friend or acquaintance about this little newsletter. Bean on.

The inciting incident in season 2 of Netflix’s miniseries Beef feature’s a couple’s squabble that devolves into domestic violence, for which there is no excuse. Oscar Isaac and Carey Mulligan reunite (Drive) to break each other in ways that only a broken-in couple can– that undercurrent of disdain, that comfortable hatred mature couples often settle into; that steady resentment that hums in the background like a creaky HVAC unit.

From there, the show moves in myriad directions that explore relationships, capitalism, and Korean-American identity. It’s a good show. But it’s that argument that makes you curious about what goes wrong with relationships. The Gottman Method has something to say about that.

The Fight

Before examining Gottman, though, there are ways this couple could have de-escalated things. Right off the bat, they should have walked away and communicated why they were doing so clearly to each other. Along those lines, they could have performed Dialectical Behavioral Theory interventions to regulate their emotions (e.g., TIPP– basically changing their temperature, moving around, etc.) and other things to get the hell away from each other and their heightened states. For example, one of them could have said “I need a break, let’s please talk about this when we’re calmer.”

But they didn’t do any of that. Instead, they chose hand-to-hand combat like they were at Chosin Reservoir. Their fight featured a series of escalations, personal attacks, hateful invective, and resentment. Guitars were smashed, wine was spilled, hatred was had. They complained about sex, or the lack thereof, and Oscar Isaac’s character said he didn’t want to have sex with her after Carey Mulligan prodded him.

They both said they hated each other, and then Carey Mulligan became exasperated and cried “You’ve wasted my whole life.” Bust out the Cheez-Its, cuz whoa, that’s a lot.

What Gottman Says about the Fight

Gottman (it’s a couple, but I’ll just use their last name) is known for a few specific claims. For one, they assert that, to predict relationship success, you should view a couple’s interactions when not fighting. Another tenet of theirs is that marriages tend to end within 5-7 years due to conflict, and then between 10 to 20 years due to lost intimacy and connection. Then, they are well-known for positing that there are argument types, such as soother, attacker, avoider. What’s important is how these types interact (certain ones, like attacker and avoider, being particularly problematic). On a somewhat pessimistic note, they argue that the bulk of couples’ problems get managed, not solved.

The above being the foundation of their thought, Gottman then provides strategies couples can use to manage their problems under the guise of specific theories. Foremost among these is the concept of Positive Sentiment Override (PSO) versus Negative Sentiment Override (NSO), in which positive sentiments and behaviors can counteract negative sentiments and behaviors. The aim here is for couples to use way more PSOs to counteract the NSOs that inevitably arise in any romance. Think a 4-1 ratio.

Then, with NSOs there come what Gottman calls the “4 Horsemen”, which are things that people do that signify a crumbling marriage. These are: Contempt, Defensiveness, Criticism, and Stonewalling. There are specific ways to counteract these, not the least of which is Bids for Connection (think a hand hold or an offer to go on a date), which can be either accepted or rejected. The more one person attempts a Bid for Connection and is rejected, the less they will try.

With the Beef fight, Gottman would say there are specific reasons for their breakdown. For example, there’s a major collapse in emotional connection. They’ve been together about 15 years, so Gottman would argue they’re at risk of losing their relationship due to a lack of intimacy and connection. Lo and behold, they’re fighting about a lack of intimacy and connection! Yep, they’re on completely different pages and they’re trying to ignite a spark that doesn’t involve them breaking each other’s faces, but instead breaking each other’s backs (I apologize for nothing).

Gottman would have more to say about them as their argument proceeds. In terms of arguing types, Carey Mulligan’s character in the Big Fight Scene (BFS) is in attack mode and Oscar Isaac is in avoider mode. She even tells him this during the fight when she refers to him running and listening to podcasts since he obviously wants no part in the conversation. These types of couples have the most difficult time due to this interaction style dynamic, according to Gottman.

Then, you have the NSOs all over the place, and the 4 Horsemen storming the plains of relationship conflict with axes ready to swing at any semblance of healthy interaction. There is contempt, criticism, and defensiveness aplenty throughout this explosive display, and the stonewalling itself is alluded to with Oscar Isaac’s character. It really seems like they just hate each other at this point.

Gottman would probably say it’s over. What do you think?

Or, you know, sometimes I wish I could just live a stultifying existence and enjoy watching Netflix and listening to an array of comedy podcasts while reminding under-qualified coworkers who got an English degree in 1988 how to widen an Excel column every other day.

Alas, I am grateful for this journey. Not a day goes by that I don’t praise the universal life force for guiding the way. You see, I chose the MSW program for a reason. Specifically, I chose the path of MSW because I wanted to be a therapist who works with people experiencing substance-use disorder (SUD). That is my path to purpose.

This decision came years after obtaining an expensive master’s degree in public policy– even with a half scholarship, it still subjected me to a comfortable form of debt bondage in which I could still enjoy lunching at Lemonade and buying Pellegrino in bulk at Costco while being crushed by federalized debt continually compounding with interest.

Really, I chose to pursue a master’s in public policy because I figured I had to do something in life other than work a part-time job and scribble poetry/errata, and why not get a master’s degree that could help you change the world potentially and blah blah blah. I won’t mention my bachelor’s in journalism, OK? DON’T ASK.

My pursuit of an MSW, then, represented the first time that I pursued a degree with the intention of committing to a specific profession. Seriously. Most of my other career or even personal decisions had been inarticulate at best, and roulette-wheel emotional at worst. This time, though, I looked deep in my soul and questioned it as though it were Pythia at the Oracle at Delphi.

I thought about my family and the addictions that plagued us. I thought about my good friend Craig, whose body succumbed to alcoholism at just 33 years of age. He left a daughter behind. He left a lot behind. I also talked to people to decide on whether they believed that I had it in me to be a healer. I talked to people who wouldn’t BS me. I got my answers, and after months of thinking and informal interviews, I decided to pursue a degree that would help me become a therapist.

But why an MSW? Why not, say, an MFT? I chose the route of MSW over MFT for a few reasons. First off, I felt as though the degree was clinical enough to allow me to learn how to do actual therapy, and yet broad enough that it would reinforce policy and advocacy skills I had forgotten or never learned along the way. Then, there was the accessibility of online programs.

Plus, there just weren’t many MFT programs out there that offered relatively affordable, part-time instruction that made it viable for a full-time member of the proletariat. Most of my decisions on this front were based on that most American of criteria– convenience.

So, I chose a specific MSW program that offered coursework online and in-person internships. Indeed, I say I chose this program because it was the only program to which I applied. The specific program (private message me for details) was a 2.5/3 year, part-time program marketed to people who work full time. Since I worked full time, I thought it was perfect.

And many of the professors were practitioners themselves, having worked for various public agencies but also in private practice in addition to their academic work. The program consists of course work and two 500-hour internships (about 8 months each).

It’s been grueling, but I finally feel like I’m living the life I was meant to live. Here’s to the experience.

My mind will fail me, though. That bastard always does. There I am, to think of nothing, trying to make like a pre-born entity floating through the void, free of cosmic chains and trying to empty the ol’ cabeza (sometimes I try to think of a peaceful image, like El Santuario de Chimayo) and breathe and count while my dome piece takes me to places I don’t want to go.

For instance, strange places. Places that make me wonder why I’ve never seen my uncle Pablo’s arms in my entire life to the point that now I’m wondering if the dude is subtly ripped and has a secret Nobody-type life he can’t tell anyone about. Or, I wonder if there’s some point at which my wife will have divorced me when she steps on yet another one of my errant nail (toe) clippings– is it something like 435, or more like # 42,301? Then, I inevitably think of 9/11– whatever happened there…

Because the content of my mind is a jump-cut collage of a mescaline George Costanza doing a crossover into a Ren and Stimpy episode and having a lust child with a random millennial’s TikTok feed. So, I spiral. Sometimes I don’t make it back from that MC Escher-like crevice my amygdala’s fallen into. Luckily, my prefrontal cortex is typically able to pull off a high-stakes recon mission into the depths of my subconscious to retrieve whatever it is I think I am.

So, I inevitably stop meditating and then endure the self-loathing of anyone who willingly watched Cocaine Bear in theaters (I’m not linking to that out of respect for Ray Liotta’s memory). I’m trying to figure out why I don’t mesh with meditation, or other ways to meditate, or whether I should maybe just try it each morning and be consistent while being clear about my goals.

Time to meditate on meditation.

What Meditation Is

Meditation’s sort of an “I’ll know it when I see it” thing. But, the Cleveland Clinic defines it as “a practice that involves focusing or clearing your mind using a combination of mental and physical techniques.” That’s pretty intuitive. The clinic goes on to delve into the various genres of meditation, from Buddhist (Theravada, Zen) to Transcendental to Guided and Yoga.

From there, it’s a bunch of various specific types of meditation, from mantra to mindfulness to visual. The form I attempt is a quasi-mindfulness one I learned about that combines box breathing techniques with the Buddhist practice of emptying your mind.

The benefits of meditation are better mood and reduced stress, along with long-term benefits such as a reduction in an aging brain and things of that sort, according to the Clinic. Combine this with various breathing techniques you can potentially use to ground yourself when feeling stressed and overwhelmed, there’s plenty you can do to center yourself. Now, what to do when the very thought of meditation is overwhelming?

The Ultimate Goal

The way I look at it, meditation’s a means to an end. That end is mindfulness and stress reduction. The implication, then, is that there are other activities you can do besides meditation to reach those goals. Doing activities to improve stress levels and increase mindfulness are often referred to as behavioral activation.

One thing I do to better know my mind and reduce stress is write. Another thing I do is cook. Except, while I consider myself a good writer, I’m still an extremely novice cook who is in the final stretch of an MSW program and a grueling schedule of work-school-internship. Which means that I haven’t had the time to write and hone my cooking skills. Which means I get the cooking in where I can fit it in. These days, I can barely fit it in. But that’s OK.

I think what people like me must realize is that all of this is a process. We’re likely not going to reach the mountaintop of enlightenment, after which we can coast down to the smooth plains of easy living. No, it will always be work. The positive part of this is that we don’t have to master mindfulness in one fell swoop. It’s a lifelong journey.

What do you think?

One of Tony’s foremost truths was that food can be a bridge to the soul of a people, a sequence of steps to a people’s story that can be appreciated and layered with the stories of others. Of course, Tony also believed that life is unfair, but that we have a responsibility as members of this unique species to make it fairer. And lest we forget, Tony was an omnivore who believed that humans are animals at the top of the food chain. We are apex predators. With that comes responsibility to be good stewards of earth and all its creatures.

Bourdain’s beliefs pervaded his writing. The “Anthony Bourdain Reader” not only illuminates Bourdain in his most celebrated glory, but it proves that writing was his most important identity.

The book shows how Tony was a writer first who worked as a chef and then TV host. Indeed, his writing informed everything else, acting like an anchor to which his life was tethered. This compendium of some of his most classic words fully demonstrates this. Yes, there are the snippets from his cookbooks and the hits from Kitchen Confidential (shout out to my big sister, Juana, for buying this for me some 20 years ago and making me a Bourdain head and for getting me tickets to see him speak in 2010), but then there are the lesser-known essays and stories in various stages of completion that give you a glimpse into Bourdain the storyteller.

This is where we fall in love again with Bourdain the seeker. His essays wax poetic about his fatherland of France, provide tours of the kitchen that served as his fortress of order in which he knew his place, and finally embrace awe while he makes flavors he’s lived come to life on the page. The essays are vintage Tony, rich in description and amply seasoned with piercing humor that sets your synapses on fire and expands your mental palate. Oh, and he gets plenty gritty with the offal.

His stories, on the other hand, show you who he is. Often involving tales of underworld intrigue borne of a life on 9-5 society’s margins, Bourdain’s fiction transports you to those nether worlds he’s rubbed up against. His exposition is always detailed, his descriptions setting the table before the action rises like any good curator of an experience. And with Tony, there was always action. His were tales of chefs slumming it, hectic kitchens buzzing with white-knuckle ferocity, and mob scenarios that would fit into any Scorsese joint.

His imagination was vivid because he was a keen observer of the human condition, as any writer is. Indeed, he paid attention to everything around him, always on the prowl for stories in ordinary and extraordinary circumstances. Tragedy, irony, action, and suspense- Bourdain hit all those notes. The last story he was working on before his death was incomplete and untitled. It was about love.

Of course, our beloved Bourdain’s life ended in tragedy and ambiguity, not unlike the material found in so many of his pages. While Tony had forceful, even dogmatic, opinions about certain things (TV chefs, Kissinger, democracy, etc.) he knew he didn’t have the answers. Writers- at least the good ones- understand this. They even provide hints to the reader, lest the reader begin to think them a sage. Tony knew he wasn’t a sage. But he was a seeker, and he knew that, which is why he put pen to page. His words remain forever. May he rest in peace.

As the LA Times reports, Homeboy Industries has taken over Hollywood’s the Monastery of the Angels and, with a treatment company, is creating a 60-bed facility that will serve people formerly in gangs and formerly imprisoned who have substance-use and mental health disorders. What’s unique about this is that they’re providing a template for how SUD treatment should work on a broad scale.

In the Times article, Father Boyle mentioned the importance of community as a bulwark against addiction. Homeboy has been in the business of connecting people with employment as a means of doing this, to the point that it’s inspired shows like “This Foo” and been immortalized in LA in general. What this facility intends to do with the help of a partner SUD-treatment program is to provide most of the stops on the SUD continuum of care- inpatient (residential), outpatient, case management services, and then connections to employment. All of that will be in-house, essentially.

They’re doing this with the help of another organization, yes, and with funding through California DHCS (using Medi-Cal funding), so the population is people who rely on Medi-Cal for their insurance and not private insurance. A toney, Malibu treatment facility this is not (not that there is anything wrong with those facilities). Malibu, we need you too. And other coastal towns as well. Just don’t kick Lebowski’s out, OK?

What makes this so special, though? Aren’t there plenty of other SUD programs in LA that have inpatient, outpatient, and even sober living alongside a variety of case management services that help people find work? The data isn’t clear on this, and, in fact, it’s not clear where there are statistics on the percentage of outpatient clients who gain employment from treatment programs.

Muddying this potential data is the fact that recovery can take a while, and typically it’s at the less-intensive outpatient phase and sober living phases in which people would be able to learn skills necessary for long-term employment. The data is not fully publicly available on a macro scale, though this is collected individually in Medi-Cal clients’ charts.

To be honest, employment isn’t anywhere near a priority for most treatment programs, for a variety of reasons. For one, it’s difficult enough to operate a program that helps clients’ recover from their substance abuse in the first place. People experiencing substance use disorder (SUD) are often high acuity, and the recovery process can take a long time. Not to mention, there are often other case management needs that this population has, from court involvement to education to housing.

There are myriad intersectional factors playing roles in all these clients’ lives, which makes it extremely difficult for programs to focus on connecting these people to gainful employment. If you’re in LA, that beautifully boisterous and chaotic county and city of angels, these intersectional challenges are only compounded by more macro barriers.

Housing is scarce, and/or too expensive, jobs are hard to come by, and then there is the matter of racialized location patterns and the lack of adequate public transportation. To ask treatment programs to deliver their clients to housing and employment is, like the expectation that most millennials will own homes, laughably unreasonable.

But Homeboy is doing it, because they’ve honed their model over decades. And yet, there is so much more to do. The implication is that employment and housing need to be more focal parts of the long-term picture if we’re serious about SUD treatment.

And this can’t necessarily be the responsibility of individual programs, no matter how much capacity they have. Society needs to start discussing options for making housing and employment easier to come by for everyone, including people recovering from SUD. This will take some time, but in the meantime, we have Homeboy Industries.

Despite the stream of Better Help ads (not a sponsor) populating all 5,489 podcasts you listen to, this just isn’t the case. Let other people go to therapy if they want to, and maybe just show some support. Or maybe, just maybe, listen.

Here are some anti-therapy statements that we often hear, along with some rebuttals. Remember, therapy is voluntary (exceptions do exist at times), and at its core it’s just assisted emotional problem solving.

• “You don’t need therapy, just watch a sunset (or insert activity of choice)”:

Well, like, that’s just your opinion, man. While The Dude doesn’t make this assertion, it is often dudes who say stuff like this. Why? What issue do they have with other people choosing to get help to work on themselves? It seems like these kinds of folks are threatened by healthy, help-seeking behavior. *inserts stereotypical therapist voice* Let’s talk about why these people feel the need to tell people what they should and shouldn’t do.

And sure, many people feel like they don’t need therapy. And if they think that, then they’re right. But don’t tell other people what they should do if they feel they need assistance and they’re engaging in methods to help themselves. So if you ever feel the need to say this to a friend, maybe be quiet for a little bit. Yeah, just go to Joshua Tree and watch the sun set.

• “We didn’t need therapy when I was a kid.”

“You sure about that?” Again, how do you know what other kids may have needed when you were a kid? Sure, maybe you didn’t need therapy, but others maybe felt they did and avoided it due to the stigma. Also, people did weird stuff back in your day. They used to beat kids in school back in your day. They didn’t allow Hispanic kids to speak Spanish in school back in your day. They made football players go out on the field concussed back in your day. So maybe 1972 shouldn’t be used as the barometer of a healthy society.

• “If you need therapy, you’re weak.”

What a weak take. Struggling with mental health is human, and so is seeking help. More than that, what’s strong about therapy is it empowers people and helps them realize that they can get better and develop coping strategies to be able to solve problems. Therapy is about creating survivors, not victims. And then there’s the fact that if your definition of weakness means seeking help and trying to better yourself, this seems like a perverse definition of “weak.”

Also, dudes tend to say this more often than women, but just think of the strong, badass dudes who have openly talked about going to therapy: Bruce Springsteen (The Boss), The Rock, Michael Phelps, Brandon Marshall, Michael B Jordan, Jay Z, John Hamm, and Robert Downey Junior, among many others. All of these men were/are successful and exhibited emotional grit in overcoming obstacles to achieve that success. In my eyes, that’s the opposite of weak. And what can be stronger than confronting the shadows that lurk in our heart with a little bit of help? Don’t detectives usually work in pairs, anyway?

• “Society is over-therapized.”

Where to begin with this one. First of all, such a statement assumes that there’s an optimal amount of therapy for any given society, that there is peak therapization and then diminishing marginal utility from there on that can be quantified. No such thing exists. Then, what exactly is meant by “therapized?” Do people who utter this statement believe that people are getting therapy when they don’t need it? How would they know if other people need it? WHY DON’T PEOPLE JUST MIND THEIR OWN BUSINESS?

I’m only getting faux annoyed because I know why some people are saying this. To interpret it charitably, maybe it’s because of social media and therapy speak they see on Instagram and the Tok of Tik. But social media is not real life, no matter how troubling its content can be. There may be people misusing terms and concepts found in treatment, or there might even be some unethical practitioners out there. You see, though, that this is not the practice of therapy itself, just how it’s discussed in pop culture. And pop culture speak isn’t representative of actual therapy. Plus, the vast majority of Americans have not been to therapy.

But it works both ways. These days, I hear a lot of people in person and online saying stuff like “Oh, they need therapy” or “My aunt needs therapy.” Please don’t do this. Therapy is personal, and the choice is the individual’s. Telling them to go to therapy is not your place, and even if it were, it’s judgmental, unsupportive, and very unlikely to sway them to go therapy if that is your goal. It makes people feel like something is wrong with them. Instead, just listen to them.

So, what do you think? I’m listening.

“You don’t need therapy, just go watch the sunset.”

“Therapy will turn you into a bootleg Brene Brown who talks about boundaries and yet exhibits zero boundaries when striking up a conversation about croutons at Panera.”

OK, that last one’s not a real quote, but the others are regularly heard in casual conversation. Therapy’s seemingly everywhere now, even though the vast majority of Americans still don’t receive any kind of mental-health treatment.

Even so, misunderstandings around the practice abound, and there appears to me that there’s a general aversion to therapy in American culture. This makes sense. Introspection isn’t necessarily historically valued in our society, much less assisted introspection via professionals, thus many of us still use terms like “shrinks.”

As in, they’ll shrink your dome piece and Freud you up. While some will never want to understand it, it’s a relatively simple concept. The Oxford dictionary defines therapy as “the treatment of mental conditions by verbal communication and interactions.” I tend to think of therapy simply as assisted emotional and mental problem solving.

Therapy basics

It sounds relatively simple because it is. Imagine you’re a therapist (I don’t call Gabriel Byrne’s character from In Treatment). A client comes into– or Zooms into– your office experiencing a mental-health struggle that’s causing them distress and/or impairing their life functioning in some sort of way. For example, say they’re exhibiting symptoms of anxiety that cause them mental anguish throughout the day while also impairing their ability to adequately complete tasks in their daily life. So, they seek your help. Straightforward, right?

Now, there are a variety of strategies, called modalities, that the therapist can use depending on the population they’re working with. This is often informed by their own treatment philosophy. Some of the options are: Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT- think challenging your thoughts of anxiety), Dialectical Behavior Therapy (DBT- think skills such as emotional regulation for people experiencing substances), psychodynamic (think free association a la Jung).

The psychodynamic approach is what most pops into my head when I think of therapy– it’s the old-school, pipe-tobacco-smoking “analysis” sessions of the mid 1900s. You lay on a couch and try to interpret the meaning of your dreams that have been infested with bears, tigers, and crocodiles (does anyone else have these dreams?) as the analyst takes long, tobacco-exhaling pauses. A few other strategies include Narrative Therapy and Solution Focused Therapy, and then there are the multiplicity of family and couples’ therapy modalities.

Following the process

Whatever the modality, most therapists follow the same general process with clients: engaging clients in treatment and building rapport; assessing clients (this can include diagnosis, but also risk assessments and assessments for suicidality and homicide); treatment planning, where the therapist starts to employ the interventions in their modalities; ongoing evaluation using scales and other approaches; and termination (yes, therapy, like snack wraps, aren’t meant to last forever).

From there, there are many ways therapy can go. But the guiding principle is that the client has agency. Therapy is about empowering people to make the choices to arrive at the life they want– that’s the ultimate goal of therapy. In order to reach that goal, the therapist helps the client resolve those mental/emotional problems. The common understanding these days is that the root causes of problems like depression, anxiety, and OCD are based in trauma, usually childhood. Longer-term modalities focus on resolving these traumas by driving at their root causes. This can help clients understand the causes and stop the cycle of self-blame that afflicts so many people.

But not everyone has time for that. And not everyone even wants to investigate the labyrinths of their past. Some people just want their symptoms gone as quickly as possible, making short-term approaches like Solution Focused Therapy attractive. In this approach, therapy only lasts a few sessions up to 3 months. It emphasizes client strengths and empowerment, having the client take ownership for what it is they want to change and how they want to change it without focusing on the problem. No Dr. Melfi-style, decade of psychodynamic therapy here.

Ultimately, no matter the approach, the client has to own the process. In this story, the therapist is the guide, and the client is the hero.

And now, we’re supposed to just watch as rights like due process we used to think were inviolable get trampled. We’re just supposed to work and raise a family and be happy as the federal government tyrannizes communities and surges toward authoritarianism. Just supposed to watch an ICE employee murder a mother and then call his dead victim a “bitch” and get on with our lives.

I guess that’s what us American millennials are supposed to do, right? Just act like everything’s normal, that the things we were taught to value as kids in the 90s weren’t meant to last, that nothing lasts anymore. But it’s not normal. For our generation, things haven’t been normal for at least 25 years. Though our political beliefs aren’t homogenous, it’s obvious that this dysfunction has hit millennials extremely hard. The upshot is that not only has this affected our mental health, but that practices such as psychotherapy aren’t going to cut it. Instead, we need to create a better society.

Indeed, we millennials grew up in an era in which mental health became discussed more openly than in previous generations. But, we also experience unique mental-health struggles. So, yes, there’s the stress, depression, and anxiety that we suffer at higher rates than previous generations.

None of this should be surprising, though. Having been raised by one boomer parent and one silent generation parent (yeah, my old man’s old old), it’s apparent that the course of our lives were different. They could get a minimum wage job when they were young and live in their own apartment, close to the beach. We could not. And then, yes, they had the specter of nuclear meltdown, but then again so do we and oh, the twin towers fell as we were getting ready for first period in 7th grade.

All of these societal factors have an impact on mental health. The research says that societal factors play a significant role in determining people’s mental health. These macro factors can include the government, economy, and cultural factors as well. Again, all of this is painfully expected. What isn’t expected, though, is how conversations still revolve around access and not tangible, macro-level interventions.

Not that I would even know what those interventions are and should be, exactly. I know that, as a budding social worker, we’re expected to advocate for just and equitable systems. But other than that, it’s murkier than a 9/11 conspiracy theory. Plus, there’s the fact that I’m still tethered to the frayed edges of the American dream– you know, work hard and stuff and once your debt’s done with maybe you can buy a house and have a kid and go out to a decent brunch spot on Saturdays and maybe sometimes get a little bit too drunk and challenge everyone to a bout at the driving range but then twist your back into 2012. And yet, there are things that us millennials can do and often are doing to help ourselves.

Indeed, we can choose to be victims or we can choose to be heroes. Since life’s too short to be a victim, better to figure out how to be a hero. Or, at least a non-victim. For one, we’re advocating for more and improved mental-health services. We’re not the youngest and loudest anymore, but we can still make our voices heard. Then, there’s being there for friends and maintaining a community.

For me, it’s those simple things that give life meaning, that breathe vibrancy into all of us. But then, it’s not all kumbaya. Nope, we’re going to have to do uncomfortable things to create a society that’s in harmony with our human nature, to diminish mental illness but also to establish a peaceful, just, and prosperous world. We’re going to have to confront people who want to hurt us and others; we’re going to have to stand up to those in power, the people who want to take resources away from us and hoard things and just immiserate us economically and spiritually.

It’s going to be hard. It’s going to be difficult. It’s going to be nasty.

But my generation’s been uncomfortable for a generation now. Hell, I know I’ve been popping generic Imodium off and on for at least that long. It’s nothing new. But now, we’re more prepared than ever.

Then there was the personal storytelling presentation, in which me and my classmates bore our souls to each other to get to know each other and model openness. I shared different versions of my story, all uncomfortable and all terrifying moments. I used to do stand-up, but talking about awkward childhood moments in front of nurturing people over the Internet is way more anxiety-inducing than telling randos jokes in North Hollywood. but I had a safe space, they were supportive & I got to do so very thoughtfully, rock pendant of vulnerability à la Brené Brown.

But me and my classmates learned. Specifically, we learned that vulnerability directly allows people to be more attached to us, & us to them. Vulnerability is the secret.

If you don’t want to read the rest of this essay, just watch Brené Brown’s now-canonical Ted Talk on the power of vulnerability. She argues that vulnerability is not only vital for expressing ourselves and committing to our paths in life, but also to connecting with others. Of course, what prevents us from doing so is fear—fear of judgment & shame. If you continue to practice being vulnerable, you’ll come to realize that you’ll become more attuned to people, and vice versa. The upshot is that you’ll have more connected, genuine relationships based upon the person you really are.

Vulnerability plays a major role in the attunement-attachment balance of relationships. This is the part where Brene Brown’s words on shame as being a barrier are extremely relevant. If you have a friend or family member or partner with whom you’d like to have a deeper relationship, you want to open up your true self to them.

Except the risk is that in doing so, in trying to build that attunement with that person, they might reject you and thus threaten your mutual attachment. For example, if you reveal to your 7th grade classmates about how you’re afraid of the dark, you just might die. If you had a rolling backpack, you were already done for. Semi-seriously, though, you must do risk calculations, and you might even find that it’s worth suppressing yourself to preserve attachment to that person (or community). Many people choose to do that, of course, although there are always spiritual consequences that come with lacking attunement.

The payoff to letting your heart roam free upon the plains of existence is that people know who you are. People will see you. In turn, they will open up to you and you will see them. For me, I’m trying to be more revealing of my true self to those in my inner circle whom I love and care about deeply. I have the good fortune of having a supportive wife and family, so that makes things easier. And luckily, I have classmates who know how to give a good listen.

But I must return the favor, and I always do so with an open heart and mind. I choose to do so with the inner circle, but I’m slowly working on creating a safe space for others by being vulnerable myself.

Have you thought about vulnerability? What steps, if any, are you taking to practice it? If you feel like sharing, feel free to drop a line in the comments. And happy new year (apologies to Mr. Larry David for the late refrain).

This time it was easy, since we both knew we wanted something tasty, relatively affordable, healthy, and convenient. We had an ace in the hole, a ready option in our backpocket. We had the chain Mediterranean, South Bay strip-mall stalwart Chicken Maison.

Scrubbin Like Faison, Chicken like Maison

Besides having about 10 locations in the South Bay and OC, what makes Chicken Maison special is its array of excellent food at solid prices. If you find you can’t order anything there, you might be more suited for an IV of Banquet frozen fried-chicken dinner. Because this spot hits like Otani.

The first time I ate there was around 2010 at one of the Torrance locations. It was revelatory because I had never eaten anything like this. “What, you hadn’t ever had Mediterranean food before?” you might be asking. I had, but what I hadn’t ever consumed was a salad called the Maison Special with chicken, fried-pita croutons, rice, luscious lettuce, and lemon-vinagrette dressing. This is truly a meal-level salad, and it’s only around $17 and huge.

Besides the salad and items like whole chicken plates, the go-tos here are the juicy kofta, steak kabobs, chicken kabobs, and shrimp kabobs. Every plate comes with two sides, like baked potatoes and Greek cole slaw, among many other options. And there are the classics like falafel and pita.

The food is vibrant, and the portions will send you straight to nappy noo noo depending on your combination of sides and main dish. If I’m estimating correctly, there are 54,672 different combinations of items you can get here. If you wanna order extras, there’s the fried pita chips, plus the pistachio-fried pitas for dessert.

You can get out of there for around $44 bucks, drinks and extra pita chips included. Speaking of pita, the only demerit here is that while every dish comes with pita, the pita leans toward flavorless cardboard that can double as a napkin for sopping up that kabob juice. But the people at Chicken Maison provide ample garlic puree that you can fling on them to make them more palatable.

Clutch Your Pitas

There we were, shopping in Palos Verdes/Rolling Hills/whatever the patricians in that area like to call it. We were in the line at Habit for some quick fast casual lunch to find that, while waiting there 5 minutes, they were too slammed to even acknowledge us at the counter. All good, I thought. We walked out in pursuit of better fast casual living.

It being a Saturday, we knew that Chicken Maison was open. Now, if one of us mentions Maison, the other one automatically starts driving over there, which is what we did. It didn’t disappoint, because it’s as reliable as a Toyota Camry.

The truth is, we don’t know much about the owners’ story. Sure, they’re a family of Lebanese heritage and have been operating the small chain for about 20 years, but that’s all we know beyond an unrevealing social media presence. They make good food at a good price that you can’t get anywhere else. That’s more than enough.

The Ingredients

• The sauce

  • 4 dried chiles de arbol

  • 5 dried chiles de ristra

  • 3 cloves garlic

  • Salt

• The stew

  • 2 pounds boneless pork shoulder

  • 2 teaspoons ground cumin

  • 2 tablespoons vegetable oil

  • 1 large white onion, diced

  • 8 cups chicken broth

  • 1 tablespoon dried oregano

  • 1 tablespoon bouillon or caldo de pollo

  • 1 bay leaf

  • 2 pounds canned hominy (You can put more, depending on how much you enjoy this). You can also use fresh hominy and cook it yourself, if you feel froggy.

You can choose to go with the chiles de arbol and the chiles de ristra, or you can do what we do, which is substitute 9 dried New Mexico chiles. We typically have a supply on hand at all times from trips to New Mexico, but if you don’t have these on hand, just hit up your local Northgate, Vallarta, or ‘Merigan grocery store.

Unlike your grad school econometrics syllabus, this recipe has some flexibility. For instance, we tend to use pork loin rather than pork shoulder because it’s easier to find at local grocery stores (though we are working on finding a butcher in town). Whether it’s a local butcher or supermarket chain, you should always duke your hard-working butcher a $20 at minimum if you have them cube the pork for you. Some people also substitute avocado oil for vegetable oil, and then there are people who eschew cumin on everything.

Lastly, lots of people out there don’t go pork mode. Not to worry, as you can still bask in the warmth of the solstice sans puerco. If you don’t eat pork or celebrate pork-mas, there’s always the option of using beef instead, particularly beef chuck roast. Just substitute that cut of beef for pork, and enjoy.

Making It

• Use scissors or a sharp knife to cut the stems off the chiles and shake out the seeds. Put the chiles in a bowl and pour boiling water over them until they’re submerged. Soak for about 30, or until they’re soft.

• Place the soaked chiles in a blender and add 1.5 cups of the chile soaking liquid to the blender. Add the garlic and blend until smooth. Taste the chile sauce and add salt to taste. Put the sauce aside, avoiding the temptation to eat it all immediately.

• Cut the pork into cubes (if you haven’t had the butcher cut it up already) and rub with 0.5 teaspoons of salt and the cumin.

• In a large pot that can hold all of the ingredients, heat the vegetable oil on low/medium. Add the onion and cook for about 5 minutes, stirring occasionally, until soft and translucent.

• Turn up the heat to medium high and add the meat to the pot and brown it, mixing it in with the onion. Make sure you’re browning the meat to bring out that flavor.

• Add the chicken broth and bay leaf, stirring to remove the bits of browned meat from the bottom of the pot (FLAVORRRRRRRRR). Add 0.5 of the chile sauce and stir to combine.

• Reduce the heat under the pot until it reaches a low simmer. Cover the pot and cook, occasionally checking on the puerco. Stir the pork over once or twice when you’re cooking to ensure it cooks evenly. Simmer for 3 hours, or until the pork is tender and beginning to fall apart. You want it tender, so low and slow gets the glow.

• Keep in mind that as the pork cooks, the liquid level drops. Just add water and a little scoop of caldo de pollo and mix it in to make sure it incorporates well. Use your eyeballs.

• After 3 hours, taste the broth, add salt to taste, add oregano to taste, add cumin to taste, and add caldo de pollo to taste. Again, FLAVORRRRRRRRRR.

• Add the hominy and the rest of the chile sauce and top the pot off with more water (you can also add a bit ot caldo de pollo to taste because adding water can dilute the flavor a bit). Only add more water if the posole seems too thick.

• Simmer for an hour or more, or until the pork is falling apart when shredding with a fork.

• When the pork is ready, turn off the heat and adjust the seasoning, if necessary. This is your last chance to get the taste you want. If you still need to season, make sure to simmer it for about 10 more minute to make sure the spices meld with the soup.

Final Thoughts

All there is to do now is add serve with some toppings. Maybe some diced avocado, shredded cabbage, cilantro, diced onion, and radish slices. Add tortillas, bolillos, and/or tamales and be happy. And remember, posole pairs perfectly with family dysfunction. ‘Tis the season, after all.

The South Bay sky may have shone gray that Christmas Day, but it shone itself on material comfort, a comfort my uncle and dad never had growing up poor. My father was sick on Christmas Day, adding to the spiritual malaise that tends to afflict us during the holidays.

My uncle, with my aunt’s help, wanted to make Christmas dinner perfect. And while he stressed over it, it ended up being exquisite. There was prime rib, turkey, and all the fixings and desserts fit for a royal ball.

But there he was, a half hour before we were to sit down and pray over our feast, mired in contemplation while the gloom hung low. He told me about the poverty him and my father experienced as children.

I knew this, I knew how there was neglect and addiction in the household, I knew that they were food insecure and one of my uncles only had one pair of pants and kids would call him “black slacks.” I knew my father had abdominal pain in Marine boot camp that military doctors told him was the result of malnourishment, that it got better when he had a regular diet.

But I didn’t know that trauma still tore at their hearts during Christmas, that they had to work to experience this joy. Both were lucky enough to live into old age, and yet those demons still lurked in the background.

But there are those people we love who didn’t get to outlive their demons. I think about the people we’ve lost to pain, those people who can’t be with us.

Christmas 2008

Coastal San Pedro is magnificent in the late fall and winter, its oceanic blustery winds dueting with the scent of the approaching solstice. It was 2008 and my 19-year-old self would take walks around the neighborhood at night with our beloved dog, Pasha (RIP). I saw him get out of an old Ranger pick-up– I hadn’t seen Nick in years.

He barely recognized me. As I approached him, he seemed more mellow than I remember, to the point that I wondered whether he was heavily medicated. Whenever we would hang out, we would smoke weed, maybe drink, and watch some movie like Conan the Barbarian. Nick wanted to be like Arnold Schwarzenegger with every fiber of his being. He was small, though. So he took steroids and lifted weights, manifestations of behavior that even me and my other teen friends recognized was addictive and problematic.

So, it wasn’t always fun being around him. His behavior would be erratic, and he was the kind of person who always had to hit you, flick your ear, or do something annoying. Still, we’d smoke cigarettes together in the boy’s room in high school and avoid going to class.

But when you do the things that kids do, in that smoky haze of confused youth and trying new substances, you have those deep conversations that we couldn’t have with our fathers. You talk about the girls you like, about your family problems, and what you want to do when you get older if you’ve even decided on it.

But I never shared as much as he did. I couldn’t get that close; I couldn’t let him or anyone else know about my mental-health problems that stole away my confidence, that reduced me to a fat kid who played too much GTA San Andreas and did Hank Hill and Family Guy impressions on demand in Algebra class. There was the Michael Jackson impression too, which was always a hit.

The jokes were a wall I’d construct to protect myself from the potential of any vulnerability. I’d come to find out later that a lot of us were like that, that it’s a very common thing to do. I was afraid; I couldn’t share what I truly felt.

Or maybe I could have. After all, Nick did. Nick was a walking wound, a scab that never crusted over. Me and other friends knew it, but all we wanted to do was let loose. We’d walk up to his house and tap his window (cell phones weren’t yet ubiquitous for teens in the early 2000s) and then the night would begin. But really, we used him. He always had the supply, and that’s what we wanted. He wanted friendship.

Eventually we got older and stopped hanging around him once we had other things going on or other sources. We would hear stories in the coming years about what happened to him, about how he would get beat up and was sliding further into addiction. You feel bad, but not bad enough to do anything about it.

When I saw him that cool winter night, it was clear he was on the path toward some sort of recovery. We went inside his house and talked for about a half hour, him describing his hike that day and trying to put things back together in his life. I was happy to listen, to hear what he said. I wish I had listened sooner.

Finally, he asked me, “What was I like back then?” He couldn’t remember. Me and my other friends just smoked weed and drank as a form of teenage experimentation, but he did other things and it was clear that it affected him and his faculties profoundly. I didn’t understand it.

We had fun, I told him. He was a good guy. You were cool, I told him. But we weren’t.

That was the last time I saw him. I’ve tried looking him up on social media, but I haven’t been able to find him. I never tried hard enough.

Christmas Future

This is a time for reflection, a time to ponder life and the people we value the most. I think about the people we’ve lost or who were always lost, from a grandmother to an uncle to one of my best friends. And many more. These people will never return in physical form, but I believe that in some way they are always with us.

Maybe I peer into the past too much. I’ve tried to write something about my dad’s other brother, the criminal who I never thought I’d meet, let alone talk to regularly. I was lucky enough to meet him and talk to him, though. He’d check on me occasionally and see how I was doing, even as he spent his last days impoverished, with a multitude of health problems.

And I want to write about my grandmother, a woman who struggled through addiction and poverty but enriched the lives of our family with true love and genuine care. We will never truly know her pain, or the pain of others like her. But we need to honor that pain, ensure that other people don’t ever have to live with that pain again. We can do better.

We miss our people, we want them to be with us to celebrate another Christmas. I wish things were different, that I could have had more time with people or at least some time with them. I realize that I wasn’t always a good friend, that I wasn’t always a good son, nephew, or brother.

I have more work to do, but I get to do it. I’m lucky. Chances are you’re lucky, too.

SNAP benefits have largely been curbed this month due to the federal shutdown. Maybe the federal government has too much power and too much responsibility, but that doesn’t mean that it’s right to just yank away crucial benefits that so many people rely on at this point. By virtue of being human, people should have enough food to eat. This means that people are responsible for feeding each other.

Now, the system can make it difficult for many of us to feed ourselves regularly. Given our economic system and the laws around private property, it’s not like one can just go into a field and start gathering food for themselves if they’re starving. Think of your ancestors who tilled the land and slaughtered animals when necessary; they always had enough to eat. And they had land, community, and an economic system not dictated by the almighty dollar. They got by.

And then, slowly but surely and starting with the enclosure movement in England that didn’t have the consent of the people, any society dictated by Anglo-American capitalism lost the ability to feed each other together as a community due to these systemic factors. In these parts, there was the theft of American Indian communal land, and of mestizo land in the borderlands. In this way, the land form of private property was indeed a form of theft.

Not to say that the land form of private property doesn’t have its advantages. But given the fact that the state created a system that doesn’t allow people the freedom to opt out of the system and feed themselves, it stands to reason that government should at least compensate people through basic guarantees of food (and other stuff, sure).

And if you don’t buy all that, then there’s the utilitarian argument that individuals in society are just better off if everyone has food. That makes sense, right? Plus, we live in a nation of sorts that’s held together by common interests, if not so much common beliefs (see free speech and due process).

While there might not be a truly analytic way to describe it, one can’t help but have the feeling that we’re responsible for each other in many ways. There’s an intuitive belief that we’re all one, united by a universal life force that endows us all with the same spirit.

We don’t just breathe the same air; we are the same air. And at the same time, we have our own identities. Our existence is a paradox, and so many of the features and arguments surrounding our existence transcend rationality and clear, logical chains of premises.

So, whether this shutdown ends, we should guarantee everyone enough to eat somehow and in some way (whether it’s fed, state, or local). Charity is nice, yes, but it’s not as reliable and efficient as government is in this area. Let’s take care of each other.

If you need to find a local pantry, here’s a link to a food finder:

https://foodfinder.us/

And the waitstaff would treat us like family, unlike some old hometown friends who mean mug me like I’m a rival gang member whenever I see them at Albertson’s. At brunch, for example, everyone gets a couple gratis mimosas– anything gratis is automatically more delicious, but gratis mimosas make you want to front kick your old pals with love.

The thing about these waiters, though, is that if they know and like you, they’ll keep plying you with mimosas and straight champagne. They’ll ply you with so many champs that you’ll be reciting Bukowski poetry as if you’re in some alcohol-induced revelation.

Often, somewhere between your 5th bowl of chips and salsa and your 4th mimosa, you come to understand that, yes, love is indeed a dog from hell, but that you were destined to love, so what the hell? And then they deliver your dish– typically huevos ranchers and chilaquiles, or carne asada and eggs– but at that point you’re halfway to a nap. Leftovers, right?

But the last time you visited, it sucked. Pallid eggs, strip-mall salsa, and watery beans. The waitstaff looked disheveled, too, like they were coming off a Memorial Day drunk with the ghost of Bukowski himself (last Buk reference). They seemed surprised like we were even there. What made it more confusing and disappointing was that I took my father and sister here from out of town, and then this happens? Everyone remarked that my salsa was way better than theirs. Indeed, I had perfected my basic salsa recipe

Now, I’ve thought that maybe I’m overreacting. This place is my old stand-by, and they shouldn’t be judged by one off day, right? I can’t just drop them like an albondiga in hot soup, right?? Am I a disloyal customer?

I’m giving myself some slack because part of their value for me is their food’s consistency. Beyond hooking it up with extra champagne being not all that expensive, their service tends to be subpar. On some of their off days, you wait for a long time to get your food. I’ve seen quite a few people leave before getting their food, even. And this happens when food prices are soaring in general, making brunch easily climb to start off your Saturday.

So, their sole value proposition is the food and extra champagne, but if the food starts to falter, I don’t just want to be guzzling bubbly. Below are a few options. What would you choose?

• Ghost them

• Leave a negative review on Yelp

  • Return after, like Judas

  • Ghost them after the Yelp review

• Bring it up with them using assertive communication skills

• Return, with reservations

• Return full bore, like nothing happened

So, which option would you choose? Let me know in the comments.

That first date gave way to dates in San Pedro, sharing my port-town memories with her and eating great Calabrese food. More things connected us, like the physical, comedy, Catholic guilt, duty to family and liking to take care of people, introversion and both versions of George Costanza in terms of neuroses. Then, we were also slow starters, we’re creative in that Liv sings and does pottery while I write, and we’re both amateur foodies.

A year later, having moved into her family’s place in Simi Valley against my better judgment and amid a maelstrom of drama, we were married. But I missed San Pedro, that little port town bustling with trade, creativity, and a delicious array of ethnic food. I felt like Henry Hill in Goodfellas after he entered the Witness Protection Program– Simi Valley had Italian restaurants serving marinara that tasted like ketchup and Wednesday conference calls.

In those early days of marriage, me and Liv made it a mission to spend our weekends in LA. I would start out each Saturday at Republic of Pie with my writing partner. We were putting together a comedy sitcom that we were set to film on a shoestring budget and then shop around to production companies, both of us living that LA dream. I loved comedy, and so did my wife. Those pre-COVID weekends would be spent waxing whimsical at The Museum of Jurassic Technology, laughing at Upright Citizens Brigade on Sunset, and watching Jeff Garlin bomb with ferocity at the Hollywood Improv.

The pandemic stopped those LA weekends. They stopped a lot of things. While work from home became convenient, so did holing up and not savoring our first years of marriage. We explored Ventura County more, but it just wasn’t the same as LA. The interactions with in-laws and other roommates in the house became too obtrusive, too– sometimes, you just want to make Sunday Brunch alone, ya know?

Later in the pandemic, when it became safe and after I was properly vaccinated and boosted, I set off on my own to do stand-up comedy. I loved it. I had no plan, and no dreams of headlining clubs like the Improv or opening for Jeff Garlin and watching him bomb. I just needed to do it, and I did. I reached a community of fellow Latinos on Twitter, and even spent time with them in the real world. But where was this marriage? I didn’t know how to communicate at all.

I loved driving to LA every day after work and doing 5 minutes at an open mic like the Fourth Wall, or munching on a dog at Chili John’s in Burbank before doing a set featuring my famous Matthew McConaughey impression. But no, it took me realizing that all I really wanted was to get out and socialize to understand that I needed a new way of life. And it took a toll on our relationship, with me being gone most days early on in the marriage.

But me and Liv worked through it (shout out to our couple’s therapist, Cherie!), and eventually set off on our own in Simi Valley. I wanted to move back to San Pedro, but leaving her hometown and family at that time proved to be too much of a challenge at that time. Plus, my experience doing stand up and with creatives, and the loss of family and friends to mental illness and addiction had shown me my path and made me feel like maybe moving back to San Pedro with the old ghosts of memories might be too much for me.

Liv and I decided that I should go back to school to become a therapist. I applied to CSUN’s part-time MSW program, and was fortunate to be accepted. Within a few months of starting the program in early 2024, my understanding and flexible boss quit. Liv worked throughout the pandemic in Ventura County, but I was able to work at my LA-based job on a hybrid basis.

However, with a new boss, I had to start going into work in LA while balancing school and an internship. There was only one option in having to move back to LA– we were going going, back back, to Pedro, Pedro.

As we entered Joseph’s Bakery on that summer Saturday morning, I didn’t think the owner would recognize me. She took a look at me, trying to place me. Then, she exclaimed, “My neighbor!” Me and my wife gave her big hugs. Mrs. Tuberosi and her family still helmed Joseph’s Bakery after all these years. She sent us home with plenty of sweets after we talked about how different our lives were now.

That was that San Pedro love that we had so missed when we were in Simi. You didn’t have that in many other places. I was in love, and my wife even more so. We fell in love with Mary Star of the Sea Catholic Church, which we would visit weekly– err, try to attend weekly.

Our new neighbors in our beach-close apartment provided that Pedro love, too, as did my artist father who lived down the street. There was an immediate invite to a party, followed by laughs and friendly banter throughout our story there. We would exchange food, recipes, and laughs. Me and Liv loved our little love nest, a block away from the water and 20% cheaper than our place in Simi. We love our place; we love our LA.

We had come so far in our half-decade of marriage, but we rekindled a lot of that old magic in this little port town. I never thought that this would be our LA story, but I learned that sometimes you have to just let the story come to you.