A connection, mi amigo

Pictures of the border line by Kinsee Morlan

I found the coolest little magazine yesterday. I ordered a chai latte at my favorite little cafe in Zona Rio, then stood there feeling awkward because I was the only customer and there were about 15 employees staring at me. To avoid the awkwardness, I picked up a newspaper and pretended to read it even though I can only read about every third word or so. I was lost in translation as usual until I found a tiny (as in three inch by two inch) magazine called Statt (that’s a link to the Statt editor’s myspace page, I don’t think they have their website up yet).

Statt is in Spanish, too, but it’s easy to understand and it contains an unoficial guide to Tijuana, which I plan on following as soon as I have time. It also has a profile on artists Oslyn Whizar and Edgar Mendoza, a bit of poetry and even a few pages for notas at the end. My favorite part is the mag’s back page, a list of recommended songs to add to your playlist.

The owls go…Architecture in Helsinki

Earth Intruders…Bjork

Yo quiero una morena para mi…Zemmoa

Rehab…Amy Winehouse

Can’t tough this…MC Hammer

All good choices, really.

Quiero aprender Spanish, goddammit

Photos of the border line by Kinsee Morlan

So, it’s almost been a year and my Spanish is still just okay, at best. It’s pathetic. I listen to audio CDs in my car, take podcast Spanish lessons at work and try to speak it as much as possible when I’m in Tijuana, pero yo todavia hablo como una idiota. Spanglish; that’s what I speak. I have some sort of brain block and it’s pissing me off.

I get press releases from the Centro Cultural de Tijuana (CECUT) every day but I just trash them, frustrated by my lack of understanding.. Maybe I should try translating them. A girl in Rosarito told me she learned English by reading girly magazines like Cosmo and Self.

Anyway, I’m going to figure out what’s going on in this damned thing (click below to read).

Messy meaningful

Charles Glaubitz solo show currently on view at Galeria H & H in Tijuana is a collection of his recent drawings and paintings with a fun and colorful felt-and-plastic-ball installation to top things off.

His paintings are busy, almost to the point of looking messy, but if you take the time to let your eyes roll slowly from left to right, top to bottom, you’ll find a lot of symbolism, storytelling and maybe, just maybe, some meaning in the young, Tijuana artists playful dreamscapes.

You could spend hours looking at Glaubitz’s drawings — small 8×10 pieces of paper filled with his crazy characters and unsuspecting super heroes — but you won’t spend more than a few minutes, you’ll be too distracted by the installation calling to you from the center of the gallery. One of Glaubitz characters is brought to life, dressed in a cape and hat and suspended in air above a sea of McDonalds-style toy balls.

The exhibition is fun when taken in parts, but when viewed as a whole it shows just how much Glaubitz has produced and, because of all his hard work, grown over the past few years.

Money gone

Pictures of the border line by Kinsee Morlan

So, I withdrew $40 from an ATM in Tijuana yesterday and when I woke up this morning to check my account, I found that $200 had been withdrawn from my account from the same ATM minutes later. I walked away from that ATM with two twenties, not 12 twenties. In other words, I got jacked. Damn.

I’ve heard of this type of thing happening to people in foreign countries, but I’ve been going to this ATM consistently for the past year. I trusted it, it was my buddy — the only ATM in Tijuana that gave me American dollars rather than pesos. I loved that ATM, but it let me down. It more than let me down, it took my money, put me over my credit limit and made my bank charge me an extra $120 in overdraft fees. Damn, damn, damn.

It wouldn’t have been such a huge deal, but you see, not only do I live on the border line, I live on the financial crisis line. I’m sinking into the quicksand of debt so fast I can hardly breathe. My nostrils and eyeballs are still above ground, but it’s only a matter of time before I get pulled all the way under. What happens to people who can no longer pay their bills?

Tijuana cafe culture

Pictures from the border line by Kinsee Morlan

I haven’t been to La Casa de la Nueve yet. It’s a cafe that holds art shows, film screenings and all kinds of cool stuff.

Click below and check out the schedule of events:

Sights and sounds

Photo by the greatest freelance designer money can’t buy

Two local musical masterminds, DJ Jon Baker and El Poeta, went on a super stealth mission to get field recordings of Tijuana this weekend — live mariachi, vendor calls, taxis; you get the picture. They got plenty of raw, live sound, but they also caught some pretty sweet sights (see above).

I guess the convertible stopped at one point and everyone got out except the luche libre wrestler, who posed for pictures while the car showed off its hydraulics. Awesome.

From the mouth of a horse

Pictures of the border line by Kinsee Morlan

The last time I went to a show at Tia Juana Tilly’s, I danced like Elton John’s tiny friend. The next day, I happened to walk by Tilly’s at about 1 p.m., and I swear I saw what must have been the last of the other tiny dancers stumble out.

What I’m trying to say is that parties at Tilly’s go ALL NIGHT LONG. Plus, the show coming up on Saturday came recommended by club dude extraordinaire, Justin Roberts. This is a night not to be missed.

Come to Tijuana. Don’t be scared.

UPDATE:

The show was okay. Just okay. Not great, as I had expected, but I had a blast with fellow CityBeaters who put my meager attempt at dancing all night (I went home at 4 a.m.) to shame. You two know who you are; you rock.

Enrique and I are no mas

Pictures of the border line by Kinsee Morlan

I’ve often said it isn’t who you’re with that’s important, it’s who that person makes you when you’re with them.

Let me explain; when I’m with my friends, I’m happy-go-lucky, always-trying-to-be-funny, let’s-all-just-have-fun Kinsee. When I was with Enrique, my lovely little Tijuanense who I was dating until late last night, I somehow converted into bitchy, snobby, crazy Kinsee.

Near the end, Enrique had even started referring to me as two people; Kinsee, the bitch, and Quincy, the fun one (sometimes I’d switch back and forth between Kinsee and Quincy four or five times a day).

I blame my mutiple personalities on misunderstandings and cultural differences. Last night, I was trying to give him directions to where I was and he just wasn’t getting it. On top of that, he was hours late. When I finally tracked him (and my car, which I had loaned him) down, it was past midnight and he was at a bar, drunk.

We Americans are anal for the most part. Time is of the essence and we tend to look down on drinking and driving. Mexicans tend to be a bit more relaxed. Enrique had no idea why I was so pissed at him, which, of course, enraged me even more.

In a flood of tears on my end and “it was fun while it lasted” and “thanks for showing me love again, even if for just two months” on his end, I drove Enrique to Tijuana. As soon as we crossed the border, his attitude changed from trying to play it cool to bitterness and anger — he truly didn’t understand why I was telling him we had to end things.

I stopped the car and got out to open the gate to my driveway. He grabbed his backpack, got out of my car and turned to go.

“Wait Enrique, where are you gonna go?” I asked, “You have nowhere to stay. Just stay here tonight and I’ll take you somewhere in the morning.”

“I’m fine,” he said. “I’m in my country now.”

I turned around to unlock the gate and by the time I turned back toward Enrique, he was halfway down the block. No goodbyes.

So it’s officially over. I cried last night, but I feel fine and refreshed this morning. Enrique and I were different, which I initially loved, but that whole “opposites attract” thing is total bullshit. Opposites can hang out for a few months, they can even think they’re in love with each other for a short period of time, but opposites eventually repel and send one another flying in opposite directions.

The Utopian dream

 

Pictures of the border line by Kinsee Morlan

 

Strange. I checked my email today and this YouTube video was sitting in my inbox. It’s from a dude named George who wants to start a Utopian society somewhere in Mexico.

Most people would just delete the email and think nothing of it, but I’ve always half jokingly talked about starting a commune, so the vaque little video caught my attention.

The closest I ever came to starting a commune was when I lived in downtown San Diego with seven other official roommates (and a flux of about four other unofficial roommates who’d sleep on our balcony).

We cooked with each other, split all the bills and partied in a cloud of Captain Morgan’s and philosophical debates. It was perfect, but we all grew up, eventually got kicked out and went our own ways.

When I moved to Tijuana, I initially wanted to find a cheap house and convince a handful of my friends to move down with me. With prices the way they are in Tijuana, I figured we could each end up paying less than $100 a month for rent and all our bills.

But instead I moved into a studio where I’ve paid $250 a month for the past year. It bought me a certain level of freedom from my capitalistic responsibilities and woes, but I still struggle. See, like a lot of people in their mid 20s, I’ve got student loans to payoff. My loan payments total about $250 a month.

The bills are like shackles. They keep me down in more ways than one — I can’t drop everything and travel around the world, I can’t take entrepreneurial risks and I sure as hell can’t go help my buddy George start a Utopian society in the jungles of Mexico. I’ve got bills to pay.

Damn my capitalistic upbringing.