Hispano Month September 2026

Una Docena Latino Music Artists from My Playlist

That You Need to Listen To This Season!

Introduction:

September is Hispanic Month. I supposed that's as good as any word to cover the entire Latino populations all over the world. So that's what we'll be talking about here: Latino/Hispano Music, and selections that are favorites from my playlist. As with any culture, there are all kinds of music, but I tend to favor soft and hard Rock, ballads, and Romantic Pop (also known as Latino New Wave, or 80s radio hits). Most of these artists are well-known today, but were at their prime in earlier decades. 

Let's get to our list:

1. Miguel Bose--Often called "the David Bowie of Latino Rock", Miguel Bose has experimented in many musical styles from Hard Rock to Romantic Pop, but the mainstay of his music is his unique voice, which is highlighted in this song, Si Tu No Vuelves (If You Don't Return) from his Latino Grammy Award winning album, "Bajo El Signo de Cain" (Under the Sign of Cain). 

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2. Heroes del Silencio--Indie Metal Hard Rock. A singer who resembled Jim Morrison and had the vocal range of Ronnie James Dio, Heroes burst on the scene with a double album that shook up the music scene as they covered a wide spectrum of Rock genres but were hard to classify by radio stations. So what little radio play they did receive was mainly in their home country, Spain. Thankfully, Mexico discovered their new sound, and from there, it reached Los Angeles. Luckily, I attended their final concert before Enrique Bunbury, the singer, left the band to pursue a solo career. One of my favorite songs by the band is Entre Dos Tierras (Between Two Countries) from the album, "Senderos de Traicion" (Paths of Betrayal). 

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3. Karina (La Voz)--Karina, from Venezuela, refers to herself as "La Voz" (The Voice) to distinguish herself from all the other Karina's out there in the music biz. But it's not a brash boast. It is her voice that made her a star and it was her voice that attracted such writing talent as Rudy la Scala to compose many of her hit songs. In concert she is a bit much, dancing out of sync with the tone of the song, but I'm in the minority with my complaint. She's been putting out hit albums since 1985, concentrating her songs on ballads and Pop Rock. My playlist favorite of hers is Lamento de la Jungla (Lament for the Jungle) from her album "Desde Mi Sueno" (From My Dream), a combination of Peruvian Pan Flute music with Power Ballad.

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4. Mecano--Latin Pop Rock sensation from Spain is comprised of brothers Nacho and Jose Maria Cano, keyboards and guitars, and vocalist Ana Torroja. They were the Latin New Wave band whose sound was copied by every new artist trying to break into the music market. Few could match their famous sold out arena concerts, their success around the world, and the influence of their albums across genres. Even Sarah Brightman recorded one of their songs, Hijo de la Luna (Son of the Moon). For me my favorite song by Mecano is El Fin del Mundo (End of the World), from their self-titled album, Mecano. 

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5. Valeria Lynch--Argentine Balladeer introduced "Romantic" musica to the 80s, which started an avalanche of power ballads that exaggerated themes of broken hearts and betrayals with the use of over-the-top lyrics and orchestral arrangements that swell unnecessarily loud and long. My favorite cut tells the story of a bored housewife who daydreams of leaving her family and building her life anew. The song is sardonically called "Querido Mio" (My Love) from the album, Sin Fronteras (Without Borders). Stay till the end as the singer's frustration and hope turn into a scream which then segues into a unexpectedly vicious  guitar solo.

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6. Nydia Caro--Puerto Rican singer/actress became famous in the 1970s with her popular blend of cultures throughout her many albums. From Japan to Mexico, she has had hit song after hit song. But her love for experimenting with musical styles and forms won me over with her album De Amores Luminosos (Of Illuminated Loves). She wrote music around the poems of St. Teresa, Luis de Leon, and John of the Cross. At times, liturgical and somber, at other times, inquisitive and contemplative, these songs stay with you and demand multiple listenings. My playlist favorite is called, Na Te Turbe (Remix Version). This one shows her love for mixing genres to create an alternative flair to old music. 

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7. Sonia Rivas--With a strong start in traditional Mexican ballads and ranchera, Sonia Rivas found her audience fast early in her career, but when the 80s hit, she thought she'd do a one-off New Wave album, and Blanco y Negro (White and Black) was created. I am not a big fan of traditional Mexican music where brass and violins drown out the singer's screams of cowboy pride. So, when I heard Rivas was doing a New Wave album, I didn't give it much of a chance of catching the New Wave audience. Problem was, it didn't. Radio stations didn't play it, and audiences didn't know what to make of it. But I loved it. It would have played fine on American New Wave radio, but it was in Spanish, so there went that. After this album, Rivas returned to the sound that made her career, but this is the only album of hers in my collection. I recommend listening the album beginning to end, but you can start with the opening song, Esparare (I Will Wait).

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8. Rudy la Scala--Juan Gabriel is considered the greatest Latino Balladeer in the world, but Juan Gabriel insists that Rudy la Scala is. While Gabriel leans into traditional Mexican ballads, la Scala writes his ballads with 80s Romantic  excess: Big orchestras, tragic love stories, and catchy tunes that are covered by many pop stars from the 80s to today. I used to play la Scala for my Spanish classes because his enunciation was clear enough for beginners of the language to understand. But it was the tragic lyrics that pulled them in. Me too. Rudy la Scala is a mainstay in my playlist at home and for travel. This is En Cuerpo y Alma (In Body and Soul), both song and album title. Classic betrayal love song that's you'll be humming for hours afterwards. 

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9. Angela Carasco--Another 80s Romantic Balladeer, Angela Carasco played simple ballads to orchestally arranged power ballads. She dominated the charts with a long line of hit songs, usually two to three minutes long, but her five minute-plus songs that never reached the radio waves are the ones I favored, the ones ignored on the albums. Mientras Mi Alma Sienta (Meanwhile My Soul Feels) has become a mainstay all of my playlists. 

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10. Los Prisioneros--Chilean band who mixed activism with American-style New Wave, with its roots in Chilean music. Yeah, that's a mouthful, but Los Prisioneros made it work. To this day, their songs are anthems for protest and Rock and Roll. No other band of its time captured the spirit of community, culture, and celebration. The song from my playlist is called Tren al Sur (Southbound Train). It challenges the concept of South Americans ever heading North to the U.S.A. They sang of the pride of travelling South. In essence, don't run away to look for a better life; stay here and fight to improve our life here. As I said, their words weren't just lyrics, they were a rally cry demanding change for the masses. And the music is damn good too. 

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A Plague of Flowers

Dozens of red and white roses covered the bloodstains on the sidewalk by the liquor store doorway where Benito “Junior” Lopez was shot and killed by the Korean store owner as Junior attempted a beer run. The teenage homeboy had grabbed two 12-packs of Natural Light and high-tailed it out the front door. Mr. Andy Park, as the store owner preferred to be called, grabbed his handgun, ran out the back door to the alleyway and surprised Junior, who thought he had outdistanced Mr. Park. Junior skidded on the oily ground and reversed around the corner back toward the store front. Mr. Park fired the weapon till the bullets ran out. Two slugs struck Junior in the back. As Junior bled out in front of the store, Andy Park called 911 on his cell phone. He kicked aside a 12-pack of beer so that blood wouldn't get on it. He thought that he still might be able to sell it. The other 12-pack was already covered in Junior's blood. 

********

Gerry Pantera counted 17 lit candles on Junior’s makeshift shrine and probably several dozen flowers, some real, some plastic. Junior's family and friends gathered what money they could and bought what they could afford in memory of their loved one. Gerry was on his way to work at the Pronto Advertising Agency, a few blocks down from the liquor store, but stopped by for a second because he wanted to see the murder site after hearing about the attempted robbery on the TV news last night. He was surprised to find the shrine put up so fast. The mourners must have been at work on it from midnight to five this morning. Mr. Park appeared in the doorway followed by the ring-a-ding of the entry bell. “Police no charge me,” he told Gerry, who smiled but remained silent. He nodded at the shrine and Mr. Park said, “For two 12-packs of cheap beer. Not Corona. Not Bohemia. Just Natural Light. It’s stupid.” Gerry nodded agreeably and continued his walk to work.

As Gerry slouched in his leather chair in the corner office assigned to him when he was promoted to Marketing Vice President, Eddie Rodriguez, P.R. VP, entered without knocking. “Did you hear about the cholo shot up the street?”

“Saw it on TV last night.” Gerry turned his swivel chair to face Eddie. “Just came from the liquor store. Bunch of candles and flowers piled in front of the store. Mr. Park said mockingly, ‘Police no charge me.’”

Eddie laughed at the dead-on impression of the Korean store owner. “And I remember that kid. He used to play with Tony, my oldest boy. But they went their separate ways once they reached high school. My Tony went out for the school football team, and Junior joined his big brother’s ganga, Los Twenty-Sixers. If I remember correctly, his brother’s name’s is Marco, but his gang name is Navaja: the Knife. I wouldn’t want to be Mr. Store Owner right now.”

“Or any other time.” Gerry exaggerated a sigh.

“I hear that.” Eddie played a rim shot on Gerry’s desk and stood. “I’ll see for lunch at twelve.”

“You’re on.” Gerry swiveled back to his window view after Eddie had shut the
door.

********

Eddie’s 2003 Mercedes bounced over the speed bump. “Careful,” Gerry warned his co-worker and friend, “those shocks are almost three years old.”

“I’m thinking about getting a new car next week—as soon as the Banyon Account closes and we get our bonuses.”

“Hell, mine is already spent," Gerry laughed without humor. "Wife and kid, man. After marriage, you never see your own check anymore. Not that I'm complaining." 

“I told you: It costs more to divorce them than to stay married to them.” Eddie joked, but no laughter followed. He took his marriage too seriously, he thought just as he saw the traffic-light turn yellow. It was either hit the gas pedal or slam the brake. He went for the former. A car honked at him. “First come, first served.”

Gerry grinned at his friend. “Unless it’s you that comes in second, right?”

“Yeah, something like that.” Eddie turned on the radio and switched to the all-news 980 AM. “Let’s see what tonight’s weather looks like. The Clippers are playing tonight and I’ve got me a pair of seats to die for.”

Suddenly, Gerry grabbed Eddie’s shoulder. “Stop the car. Pull it over now.”

Gerry was not one to joke around when it came to driving, so he pulled over next to a yellow zone curbside. Gerry raced out of the car. Eddie noted that they were by the Park Liquor Store, exited the car and joined his nervous looking co-VP. There was a sign on the closed front door of the store, which read: CLOSED. WILL NOT REOPEN. There beside the door were bundles of flowers and tall glass candle holders. At the center of the lit candles was a picture of Mr. Andy Park with sprawled letters that Gerry could barely make out. “Rest in peace, Joon Li, 1969-2006. The shrine was no more than twenty feet from Junior’s.

“Look.” Eddie pointed to the glass front to the right of the door. There was blood splattered over the glass and across the NATURAL LIGHT BEER neon sign.

"This is no more than a few hours old," Gerry pointed out with surprise. "I just talked to the guy this morning. We should have heard something. A shot or some gossip at the office, something. This is too weird. Let's grab some take-out and get back to the office."

"You don't have to convince me this is weird," Eddie agreed. "How'd he get killed, the cops investigate, close down the crime scene, and put up the sidewalk memorial? Look, there's no police tape anywhere. Who closed the store? You're right, let's get back to civilization."

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After picking up some Jack in the Box take-out, the two VPs returned to the office and sat themselves before the TV in the executive lounge. Some subordinates and coworkers were already there, watching the Channel 9 News Update. Tisha Suyana, the field reporter, was standing by Park’s makeshift shrine, saying “…and that makes two deaths on this once peaceful corner of Lincoln Drive and Rosemead Boulevard in the City of Monte Alta. Police suspect gang retaliation. Back to you in the studio, Dave.”

Dave Johnson, the Channel 9 News Anchorman, seemed to be caught off guard and quickly shot a question to Tisha. “Do the police have any leads?”

“As I said earlier, they didn’t rule out gang retaliation in the death of Mr. Andy Park, the naturalized name Joon Li of South Korea chose when he became a U.S. citizen. Gang members are being rounded up and questioned."

"Thank you, Tish," said Dave now that he had regained his composure. He continued, "We have since learned that police have questioned and released a friend of Benito Lopez, who had found the corpse of Andy Park, also known as Joon Li. According to the witness, he was at the store to leave flowers on Benito's sidewalk memorial when he noticed the blood in the open doorway. He followed the bloody trail that led to the cash register counter, where he found the decapitated head of Andy Par. The name of the witness was not released because of his age, but police say the boy has no gang affiliations. And now to our Weather on the Spot reporter, Jill Banks.”
 
Eddie used the remote to turn off the set. “Back to work, folks. You can get the latest when you get home.”

Gerry waited until only he and Eddie were left in the lounge. “Well, it looks like you were right about the retaliation.”

“Next time, we’ll make a bet, and I’ll give you two to one odds.” Eddie snapped his fingers in the air.

“If there is a next time.” Gerry snapped right back. Chills ran across his chest with a painful tightness after he said it. He thought, Must be the Breakfast Burger, rubbing his chest till he burped. Should have went to Denny's. 

********

Gerry awoke the next day at his usual time of 5:30 a.m. Marta, his wife, was still asleep. He had trained himself to wake up at the crack of dawn so that he didn't need an alarm clock. Early on in his marriage, he found that Marta hated waking up to an alarm. She'd fume for days. She'd send their daughter Becky off to school without a kitchen made up lunch and instead give her five dollars to buy herself something at the cafeteria or a nearby fast food joint. No wonder the poor kid was a bit on the portly side. (Was that word still in use? Sounded better than chubby, that's for sure). Marta just had a way of taking out her anger on Gerry through their daughter, Becky. Bet the kid couldn't wait to leave home for college. 

Gerry showered and shaved, ate a hearty breakfast alone, trying to be as quiet as possible, and opened the morning Los Angeles Times newspaper. The article on the two liquor store deaths yesterday was tucked away on the last page of the California Section. Five paragraphs. No photos. And no mention of the decapitation. No update either. Just another gang banger in the morgue and one less Korean store owner. There were probably some people out celebrating the deaths. L.A. was a morbid town. Gerry let the events of the previous day sink in good and deep. He wouldn’t even be thinking about it had it not occurred so close to his office. And something deep down told him that the retaliations were only beginning. He’d have to watch his ass as he drove to work this morning. He'd skip his walk to work today. There's been enough gruesomeness for a lifetime. Better to waste a gallon of gas than suffer another look at those sidewalk memorials.. He folded the paper, donned his coat, and headed for the office.

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Gerry knew it was morbid, but he had to see the shrines once more. They were still there and had grown quite considerably. The Lopez memorial now had over two dozen bunches of roses, mostly red, and nearly 50 lit candles. Someone had placed a picture of Junior at the center of a wreath tied to the storm drain of the liquor store so that the flowery adornment hung over the glowing candles. Its position there gave the shaved head youth the appearance of a saint. Mr. Park’s memorial had also grown. It had many flowers that Gerry was unfamiliar with, and added to the candles were foul-smelling incense sticks, burned halfway, as though they had just been placed there a few hours ago. More photos of the young Joon Li and the older Mr. Andy Park were added to the lone picture from yesterday.

Gerry heard the footsteps scurrying at a distance and getting closer. Suddenly, some homeys rushed by Park's memorial, knocking over the candles and scattering the flowers; the photos flew into the air and floated down, some in the street and others by the shrine. The young gangsters were no more than 15 years old. Gerry watched them run and come to an abrupt halt by Junior’s shrine. They turned to Gerry and threw him the middle finger, then resumed running. The shocked Marketing VP walked swiftly to his car and accidentally banged his head on the door frame as he entered. As he pulled away from the curb, he felt a trail of blood stream down his forehead, across his left cheek, and drop onto his collar. He headed for the company infirmary across the street from his office.

“This is nothing to worry about,” said the company nurse, Janice Eubanks. “If you want to go home, I can write you an excuse.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Gerry felt the bandage on his forehead. It was just a small cut. No snitches were needed. No tetanus shots. No need to go home. “Thanks, Janice.”

“Anytime, Mr. Pantera,” said the nurse as she started to clean up the bloody gauze and alcohol wipes.

The valet had moved his car to his private slot in the VP parking lot. He didn’t want to leave his Mercedes unattended on this street. Two deaths. One robbery. One retaliation. Gerry walked to the corner and pressed the cross-walk button. The light was engineered to change to green almost immediately pending traffic in order to reach the infirmary quickly from the company office in case of emergencies, and vice versa, so that the nursing unit could reach the company offices promptly. The light changed to green, and the little green figure appeared. A pigeon paced about in the green WALK sign, blocking view the letters WA, then LK, and back again. Gerry crossed the street, looking both ways several times as he was taught in elementary school. When he reached the other side, he saw the makeshift shrine by the palm tree that shaded the front of the company building.

At its center, leaning against the tree base, surrounded by the tallest glass candle holder and dozens and dozens of daisies, was a photo of Eddie. This was impossible. Was he still asleep? Was Marta trying to wake him? It was the security guard trying to get his attention. He said, “There were two kids running down the street. Mr. Rodriquez was just getting into work. He was climbing the stairs to the front door. I reached for my gun, but the punks were too fast; they ran right by me and stabbed Mr. Rodriguez in front of me. Then they threw me the finger.” The building security man, Billy Cadenas, a youngster no more than 22 years of age, broke into sobs. He hid his face in his palms.

Nelly from accounting sidled up to Gerry and said, “The ambulance took his body. The police really didn’t tell us anything or ask any questions, but admitted that it might be gang-related. They were just kids, not gangbangers. I know the difference between cholos and wannabees. I mean, they went straight for Eddie. They didn't touch Mr. Cadenas. Everyone is so angry these days. Can't tell your friends from your enemies. I saw the whole thing from my window there, and the cops don't want to know what I saw. They'll call me, they say. They don't even take my business card.”

She placed a comforting arm across Billy’s shoulders. His tears were endless. 

“Thanks,” Gerry said, then wondered why he said it. He entered his office, closed the door behind him, and picked up the phone. He dialed the number he had dialed a thousand times over the past five years since he nd Eddie had become friends. His home phone. 

“Hello,” said the woman who answered.

“Marcy, this is Gerry.” He waited to see if she would mention Eddie first. She
didn’t.

“Is Eddie okay?” Her intuition was good, Gerry thought.

“I’m sorry, Marcy, but Eddie’s dead.” 

"Are you sure? You''re kidding, right? I saw him off to work this morning. He kissed the twins goodbye and left like he always does. How can he be dead? There hasn't been enough time. There's something wrong with your clock." He fought back tears as he heard Mrs. Rodriquez grab something and throw it to the ground. He found out later that it was the kitchen clock.

*********

The funeral of Edward Jamie Rodriguez had a huge turn-out. His seven brothers and 2 sisters had brought their children, ages 4 to 17, undisciplined and loud, to the burial. The younger ones were playing hide and seek behind the tombstones, while the teenagers either looked bored or tuned out with their Ipods. Several adults, family, friends, and co-workers tried in vain to shush the kids. Marcy smiled weakly, telling the attendees not to mind the children.

As the Pastor reached the “ashes to ashes” part of the service, it started to rain. Everyone, except for two of Eddie’s older brothers and Gerry remained to watch the coffin lowered to into the six-foot depth.

“Was it Los Twenty-Sixers?” asked the elder brother Jose. The question could have been meant for either Gerry of the second oldest brother Dionicio.

Gerry answered. “It was LTS. Two of the punks attacked me yesterday. Must have known where I worked and tried to ambush me there. Poor Eddie got caught in the crossfire.” 

Jose nodded. “They still hang at the Brady Courts?”

"Far as I know," answered Gerry. "They don't usually stray far from the projects."

A loud long squeak broke the patter of rain on the glossy white coffin as it was lowered by hand crank and pullies into the grave. 

Gerry added, “Same turf we hung out when we were kids, 'member?”

Jose said, "Some things we never forget." He hit Dionicio on the chest with the back of his hand. “Time to go.” As the brothers left, the squeaking stopped. Only Gerry watched the tarp as it was removed from the pile of dry dirt. The caretakers shoveled the dirt into the grave quickly before it turned to mud. He made the sign of the cross over his heart and left to join his wife and daughter waiting for him in the car.

********

“Channel 9 News Special Report. Dave Johnson Anchoring.” 

As the intro voiceover trailed off, Dave Johnson saw the green camera light flash on. “Dave Johnson here. We have just received word that Joon Li Park, son of murdered store owner, Andy Park, has been arrested for gunning down a teenager at Marshall High School during lunch at an estimated time of 12:30 p.m. Police report that Joon Li Park may have been seeking revenge on members of the LTS gang better known as Los Twenty-Sixers, but according to witnesses who knew the victim, he was not a gang member and teachers describe him as a good student who kept out of trouble. We cannot release his name because he is a minor. The school has been closed and parents have been called to pick up their kids. Police vehicles have closed off the entrance to the school and have barricaded the driveways in and out of the school grounds. However, according to the latest reports, many students have begun rioting, breaking windows of the many Korean stores lining Laramie Avenue a few blocks from the school. We are switching now to Rick Muri in our SkyNews Copter. Rick.”

“Thanks, Dave. The story here is that looting has erupted along Laramie Avenue. At first it was only students breaking windows, but now it seems there are many locals stealing items from the store fronts that the broken windows give them easy access to. Police are slow in arriving to the scene. From what I’ve been told, City Police from Maybrook Police Department and Vista Gardens P.D. have joined Alta Monte P.D. and have mobilized riot squad on Winter Boulevard and Laramie to block further access to the vandalized shops.

"We just received word that the County Sheriff’s Department have dispatched deputies to support the P.D.s' blockade by setting up road blocks on Riverdell Boulevard, boxing in the rioting high schoolers and vandals. As you can see from our aerial view, there are about two hundred kids and adults looting shops and stores and attacking any salesperson inside the shops and stores. 

"Police in riot gear are now beginning to enter the hot spot. Looters are fleeing toward the residences on the west side of Laramie, where many of these vandals live. Fires are breaking out at some of the stores and the smoke is beginning to thicken and we are having trouble seeing down below. We can hear what appears to be firecrackers but may be gunshots. We are going to circle around and try to find a clearer shot for the camera. John, back to you in the studio.”

“We’ll be returning to Rick in the SkyNews Copter as soon as we more news. Meanwhile, for those of you just tuning in, riots have broken out on Laramie Avenue between Riverdell and Maybrook after the alleged shooting of a Marshall High School student allegedly by Joon Li Park, son of Andy Park, owner of the Park Liquor Store, the origin point for this riot. Rick? Any more news from the hot spot? Rick?”

PLEASE STANDBY. TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES. PLEASE STANDBY.

Gerry aimed the remote control at the TV and turned it off. “What do you think happened?” Marta asked her husband.

“We’ll worry about that later. Let’s go pick up Becky at the school. She’s probably scared to death right now.”

"Her school's nowhere near Marshall," Marta said, wondering what Gerry was really worried about. 

"Better safe than sorry," he said. 

Then she understood Gerry's concern and joined her husband as they walked to the carport. 

********

Becky saw the helicopter fall like a stone from the sky. Something had hit it and the copter shifted sideways. I spun out of control, and then it just fell. The teacher, Mr. Irwin, closed the blinds as the students began to chatter and whisper. The news of the riot was only rumor, but the kids were afraid. The teachers were informed to keep the students inside until they received further instructions. Though that didn't make sense to Mr. Irwin, he followed orders even against his better judgment. 

Gerry and Marta abruptly entered the classroom. Mr. Irwin lifted his hands defensively, but before he could say anything, Becky ran to her parents and hugged them. They whisked the scared girl to the car and headed for home, ignoring the nosy neighbors along the block looking at each other with paranoid thoughts. 

Once Becky was taken by her parents, the other kids in the math class ran out of the room and ran for home. Irwin mouthed the words, Sit down, but he couldn't speak the words. He put on his coat, locked his desk, and headed for the teachers' parking lot. 

********

Midnight brought with it a calm that masked the violence earlier that day. There were extra patrol cars cruising Laramie Avenue and surrounding streets. The rioting was stopped, but there were some reports from neighbors in the area that gangbangers were cruising, looking for Koreans. So the police were randomly pulling over vehicles with more than one person and checking for weapons. 

Gerry pulled the curtain aside to look out the front room window, and a police flashlight beam struck his face. He didn't move. The light stayed fixed on him until a suspicious looking vehicle with two older looking cholos drove by. The policeman got back in his patrol car and gave his siren a short blast. The 1985 Lincoln Coup pulled over and the police aimed his searchlight into the car. Gerry saw that it was Jose and Dionicio. He exited his house and walked toward the cop to explain who they were.

“Sir, go back inside,” the officer yelled. 

“Those are my friends, Officer.”

In the moment that Gerry said those words, Jose lifted the .38 off his lap and fired into the backs of the officer, who crumpled onto the sidewalk. The Lincoln’s wheels spun for a second, burning rubber, then carried the Rodriguez brothers down the street, leaving a trail of smoke and the wail of the screeching tires. Gerry backed away and reentered his home. Becky and Marta were shivering with looks of horror on their face.

********

The following morning, Gerry and Marta decided to keep Becky at home.

Although Marta protested, Gerry went to work. He had to make sure to close down the office and send all employees home. He opened the front door expecting to see either a dead cop or a swarm of forensics experts and some groggy detectives ready to ask him questions. He had called 911 last night but there was only an answering machine taking messages. He fell asleep in front of the TV that still had the TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES posted on all the channels. What he did see there on the bloodied sidewalk where the cop was shot, shocked him more than it did his wife: A makeshift shrine of Carnations, candles and a police badge next to a picture of the fallen cop. 

"When did they put that up?" asked Marta.

"Doesn't matter," said Gerry. "Get back inside with Becky and wait for me. I'll call you when I secure the office. Got to have an office to go back to once all this madness is over."

Marta nodded in agreement, though in her heart, she knew it was just beginning.

********

The front of his office building was covered with flowers, lit candles and photos of all his co-workers and one of the security guard. Across the street, there were memorials for the Nurse and her staff. Gerry looked up and down the street and all he could see were makeshift shrines, the candles still glowing fresh, the scent of flowers filling the air with a thick nauseating perfume. Gerry abandoned his car, still running, its driver’s door still open, and he began to walk. He passed the liquor store and saw several new shrines: Joon Li Park, Mrs. Andy Park, Marco Lopez, others whose names he did not recognize. Most of the photos were of the gang members he'd seen around the projects. There were also pictures of police officers and politicians, doctors, lawyers, and children, so many children. 

There was no room to walk, for the sidewalks were covered with easels and wreaths, flower bundles, teddy bears, votive candles and smoking incense sticks, and, of course, photos and photos and more photos. The streets were empty so that's where he walked. Most of the cars were abandoned, some had shrines inside. No buses. No airliners. No white noise, other than the wind and the beating of his own heart.

When he reached the San Inez Church, he went in. A lone priest was seated at a pew, praying with a rosary chain. "Father," said Gerry. The priest turned, surprised to see him. "My son, welcome to my parish," the priest said, standing and extending his hand. Gerry accepted the gesture and shook his hand.

"I am Father Sanchez," he said warmly. "I, too, was left behind, as they say."

Gerry was somewhat creeped by his smile. It was no longer friendly. "What do you mean, 'left behind'?"

"They've been taken. They've been judged. Most people assume the taken are taken up." He gestured with his hand and upward motion. "But no, for many are taken down. The partitions have been set. The reservations have been kept."

Gerry stepped back when the priest approached him and said, "We are not alone, my son. There are those in Heaven and those in Hell, but us, not us. We are the judge-less, neither good nor bad, innocent nor guilty. We were left behind."

"Whatever has happened, it is not the end of the world," Gerry argued. 

"No, not the end, but the beginning," said the priest sternly, "for The Beast will soon arrive, and the Anti-Christ will rule. Just now, when you came in, I was praying for death."

Gerry asked, "It is just people killing people. No Devil."

The priest answered, "No, not the Devil; it is God who leaves the memorials on the streets, after he's chosen their path. It is those without a street shrine who have been taken down to Hades, and those with shrines of candles and flowers, they've been taken up to Heaven. Before they took Sister Maria, she said the plague of flowers is upon us. Poor sister, for she did not get her flowers. She was always lost in her body and soul. We both were. But she was taken down, and I was abandoned here."

"But my family..." Gerry started to say. 

"You must go to them," the priest warned. "You should not have abandoned them. There may be time for you and your family. Hope, my son, that the Day of Judgment has a few moments left before The Beast arrives. Go!"

********

Gerry ran for miles. Nothing. No one. But for every missing person, there was a shrine. Then he thought of Becky and Marta. Home. He tripped over a vase and it shattered into pieces. He sprung to his feet and dashed homeward. He ran and ran, and as he ran, the streets began to disappear, replaced by a jungle of plants in pot holders next to favorite toys, lucky T-shirts, worn down sneakers and tennis shoes, blankets with Pokemon and Charlie Brown, reading glasses, F. Paul Wilson novels, and Playstations. Gerry could see home in the distance, beyond the rainforest of death memorials, and all he could think of was: Would there be one—or two shrines on the porch of his house. If they were gone, maybe that was good, but at the same time, he didn't want to be alone without them. What kind of God made such a world?

Before he got his answer, The Beast howled in the distance, and Darkness showed its true face to those who were left behind. 

 

"Multiple Personalities" by Chickanese.

Legion

Time to wake up; no, five minutes more please

I want pancakes for breakfast; no, we're late

Tell them we are sick with some new disease

That lie does not work so don't make them wait. 

Don't drive so fast; I do not want to die

That red car is following us too close

The driver is looking right in my eye

He makes me feel naked, scared, and morose

I am on time; still, the boss will fire you

I am at my desk; destroy your laptop

I begin my work; scream, scratch, and screw

I finish the day; run and do not stop.

I take my meds and drive home on my own

When I arrive, we all enter alone.  

Yesterday Came Again

I forgot my password

Lucky I wrote it down under the computer

As I typed the kitchen smoke alarm sounded

The scrambled eggs were burning

Took a few hours to clean things up

What was I doing?

Couldn't remember so I showered

Shampoo bottle was empty

Why was the towel already wet?

I'm still hungry 

Didn't I just eat breakfast?

I turn on the computer.

It is already on in sleep mode.

Someone's in the shower

I get my baseball bat

Peek in the bathroom

No one in there.

Shower is running by itself.

How did it do that?

I turn it off. 

I check on the eggs

They're in the trash can burnt

The smell of smoke in the air

The smoke alarm hanging broken

Someone took a baseball bat to it

Will order some door delivery

Get on computer

The Pizza House app is open

Door bell rings

Pizza that I didn't order

Must be kids pranking me

It's paid for says the deliverer

I close the door, eat a slice

Phone buzzes, I block call

Spammers always calling

The Pizza app must be hacked

Forgot to tip the deliverer

That must be him at the door

Knocking, doorbell, knocking

Saying a name I don't recognize

Wrong apartment, wrong door

More voices join in

Christmas carolers?

Must check the computer

Look at my schedule

What day is this?

What month, what year?

Then silence. 

Too quiet. 

I remote the TV on

Just to hear some chatter

From the advertisements

From the game shows

But only static hissing sounds

I wish I had a window

To see what the world looks like

To feel the weather

To know what season it is. 

So many walls in my place

It's easy to get lost

But I always find myself

By searching the internet

Someone has locked me out

And I forgot my password. 

Unlucky for me. 

Guess Who/Don Felder 

The Takin' it Back Tour

Beyond the nostalgic setlists of the Guess Who and Don Felder, there are two stories of legal troubles in and out of court that will put this concert into perspective. You see, for these two talents, they are taking back what they've briefly lost. I will cover the concert, but I'd like to discuss the reason for the tour at this point in time. It's more a celebration than a reunion. It's a continuation after an interruption. Let me explain.

In the case of Don Felder, co-guitarist of the Eagles, he was fired from the band in 2001 and went into legal litagation with Don Henley and Glen Frey for unlawful termination. The disagreements were settled and the suits were dropped. Since departing the Eagles, Felder has been releasing solo albums and working on charity projects. 

The Guess Who mainly consisted of Burton Cummings on lead vocals, rhythm guitar, keyboards, flute, and harmonica, Randy Bachman on lead and rhythm guitar, and backing vocals, Jim Kale on bass, and backing vocals, and Garry Peterson on drums, and backing vocals. They put out three popular albums, "Wheatfield Soul", "Canned Wheat", and "American Woman". Then in 1971, Randy Bachman left the band, and later formed the hit-making group, Bachman-Turner-Overdrive. Jim Kale left in 1972 to form the Jim Kale Band. 

With Bachman's song-writing skills to complement Cummings' talents, and Jim Kale's Rock bass work, the Guess Who songs began to lose momentum with the tops of the hits charts and began to lean toward Jazz. Burton Cummings was displeased with the direction of the Guess Who sound and disbanded the group in 1975. 

In 1977, the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation (CBC) invited the Guess Who to reform the band for an event for broadcasting. Cummings and Bachman turned down the offer, but Kale and drummer Garry Peterson accepted. Kale obtained permission from Cummings and Bachman to use the band name and to play its songs, and Kale's ex-bandmates agreed. However, after the CBC event, Kale continued to use the band name for future concerts and on several albums without Cummings or Bachman's consent. 

Then Jim Kale took matters one step further. In 1986, he registered the band name, "Guess Who", with The United States Patent and Trademark Office (USPTO). Kale continued to tour as the Guess Who and even leased the name to cover bands who wanted to do a Guess Who Tribute concert. 

When Burton Cummings and Randy Bachman began doing joint concerts in 2004, they began to disparage Kale's Guess Who as "fake" and "bullshit shows". In 2023 they filed suit against Kale because many of his leasers were advertising the Guess Who Tribute shows as legitimate shows featuring Cummings and Bachman, who were featured in the advertisements. In 2024, they settled the case out of court and regained control of the band name. 

In 2026, The Takin' it Back Tour addresses how Don Felder has taken back his songs and independence from the Eagles, and how the Guess Who has taken its name back from the "fake" Guess Who. Both bands played their songs with the confidence of defiance that they won their respective cases out of court and achieved what they were after. And this concert was a celebration of the victory. 

Don Felder played:  

Already Gone
One of These Nights
Victim of Love
Seven Bridges Road
I Like the Things You Do
Heavy Metal (Takin' a Ride) From the movie, Heavy Metal (1981)
Heartache Tonight
Life in the Fast Lane
Hotel California

Guess Who played:

Runnin' Back to Saskatoon
Proper Stranger
Hand Me Down World
These Eyes
Albert Flasher
Let It Ride (Bachman-Turner-Overdrive)
Clap for the Wolfman
Laughing
Undun
Star Baby
You Ain't Seen Nothing Yet (Bachman-Turner-Overdrive)
My Own Way to Rock (Burton Cummings Solo Song)
Bus Rider
Roadhouse Blues / American Woman
No Sugar Tonight / New Mother Nature
No Time

Encore:
Share the Land
Takin' Care of Business (Bachman-Turner-Overdrive)

With these setlists, the songs were more than just a nod to nostalgia, they were a celebration with music as its cry of victory. The concert on the whole was fun for the crowd because the performers were having fun, telling stories, jamming up the songs with new gusto. I really think that Don Felder should be touring as an headliner, playing full sets. His guitar work and Hard Rock versions of his Eagles songs were something new that the crowd really got into. The show was not a look back at what was, but a look forward at what these musicians are still capable of accomplishing now that their legal troubles are behind them. 

 

The Claymen Hallucination

I remember meeting the Claymen family for the first time while writing a short story. They were an ordinary family of four or five, if you included Grandfather James Claymen, who was dying of several known diseases, a few unknown, and, of course, the aptly named Claymen Pineal Degenerative Syndrome (or in laymen’s terms, a wart on the brain). The head of the family was M. Foster Claymen, an Oliver Reedish fellow of mid thirties appearance with a thick American accent, Southern Californian. Mrs. Cymbeline Winter-Claymen was like a fortyish Winona Ryder type except around the eyes and neck where she was more like fiftyish. Though their wealth permitted such luxuries of cosmetic alterations, the Claymens frowned upon the mutilation of aging. The three children included the eldest, James, a masturbation addict who loved Gothic novels and yellow highlighters, the middling, Laurine, a twelve year girl mentally enslaved by a 100 year old spinster who lived to read books about death and collected Victorian dolls, and little Baby M., named for its father who didn’t know what the asexual M. stood for.

Every evening the family gathered for dinner and philosophical conversation. Tonight’s meal consisted of crab bisque, a small kale salad with lemon and oregano dressing, thinly sliced boneless pork chops cooked rare, Claymen Zinfandel 1984, the family brand, and cherry-pie with decaffeinated coffee on the side. The toothless baby had pretzel pudding and a nipple bottle of near-beer. There was muffled chewing at the table that lasted several minutes. Mr. Claymen insisted on thoroughly chewing and swallowing every morsel of food in one’s mouth before beginning the topic for discussion. The lengthy chewing was indicative of a poor choice of topics. No one dared risk opening the conversation without proper empirical data, literary allusions, and an adequate amount of irony and litotes for droll observations and asides.

I rudely interrupted the munchy silence. “Vlad the Impaler,” I remarked, “sucked prick.”

“That’s almost a pun,” observed Mrs. Claymen through her wrinkle of a mouth. “Puns, as you know, are the lowest form of humor, right beneath Hee-Haw and just above Nyuk-nyuk.”

Mr. Claymen continued chewing, exaggerating his side to side jaw movements as if rushing to get into the discussion. The children slowed their jaw movements, expressing the opposite of their father. Baby sucked at the squealing nipple obliviously.

“Bram Stoker, or is it Stroker…?”

“One more pun and I’ll have the servant escort you from the table,” announced Mrs. Claymen.

I continued…”who wrote ‘Dracula’ with Vlad in mind. Note that you must impale a vampire with a stake through the heart in order to kill it.”

“A vampire is already dead,” Mr. Claymen pointed out condescendingly, pieces of meat flying from his mouth. “You don’t kill a vampire. You destroy a vampire.” He resumed chewing the mouthful of pink pork. A trickle of pig juice trailed down his chin. He leaned his head back till the red droplet rolled back into his mouth.

“I think this subject is dead,” I sighed.

“I warned you, sir,” Mrs. Claymen spat with fiery red eyes. "Puns are not allowed at the table." She rose slowly but deliberately, stepping up onto her chair, then atop the table. She kicked aside the bowls, plates, and glasses. The older children snatched their wine from the tabletop and went to their rooms. Baby dropped its bottle and drooped into a nap, its mouth drooling from both corners. Mr. Claymen lifted his plate of pork chops and left the room.

I was hypnotized by Mrs. Claymen’s long shapely legs and muscular calves revealed by the slit up the front of her dress rising up to the cleft of her pubic patch covered only by the sheerest of pink panties. She stood above me, her nine-inch spiked heel imbedded in my generous slice of cherry pie. My gaze traced her body from her curvaceous ankles, swelling hips, slender waist, voluptuous bust, to her mouthful of pork dripping red fangs.

“Wait a minute. Whose hallucination am I in?” I wondered aloud. Her ten-inch fingers wrapped around my neck, and I was lifted till we were face to face. She kissed me full on the mouth, her tongue slipping against mine between the great gaps in her sharp teeth. She wrapped one arm around my waist to hold me in place and released her snaky fingers from my bruised neck. In one swift motion her fangs sunk into my throat. I could hear and feel my Adam’s Apple pop. I gurgled a few syllables to draw attention from my erection. My clothes were soaked in blood, shit, drool, snot, urine, and now, most shamefully, semen. With what little strength I could muster I shoved her slightly back. Her grip on my waist remained firm. “Whose hallucination am I in?” I demanded to know.

Someone gave the answer just as I passed out.

***

I awoke comfortably seated in a musty old armchair. It was a Civil War chair, courtesy of the Salvation Army. I was in the living room. The children were lying on their stomachs, watching the uncut version of “King Kong” on PBS. Kong was stomping on natives with his hand-like foot, smashing them to pulp. The time of night was indeterminable since the room had no windows and wall to wall drapes. The Baby M. slept beside the warmth of the TV. Kong roared and Baby M. awoke, its two mouths crying for near-beer. Its cries turned to snarls when it didn’t get what it wanted. It stood upright like a human adult and grinned wide till all its flat pointed teeth were displayed. Its fat little hands grabbed James by the hair, lifted his tubby body, and plunged its two sets of fangs into the cherub’s face. The four rows of razor-like teeth hummed like well-oiled chainsaws. Laurine raised the volume on the TV when James started screaming. Blood gushed by the gallons like in a bad B movie.

I dialed 911 on my pink cell phone.

The doorbell rang and the police let themselves in. “What’s the problem, sir?”

I pointed to Baby M. and James. The lean officer yawned and then removed his revolver, firing a silver bullet into the baby’s brain. Then the heavy-set officer checked to make sure both baby and brother were dead, patted Laurine on the behind, and wrote me a bill. The two law enforcers then left.

Laurine turned to me and pointed out, “This isn’t my hallucination. Why would I pat my own buttocks?”

Damn it. I forgot where I was. I woke up inside a dream where someone was hallucinating this Claymen family. But why was I here? The only way to know was to find out whose hallucination manifested inside my dream. Then maybe I could reproach the person to leave my dream and wake up and go back to sleep. Was Papa Claymen to blame? Was I in his hallucination? Perhaps it was James. But he was dead. No, not in a hallucination inside a dream. That didn't make sense. Everyone was still suspect.

I needed to figure it out before this fever dream shifted. Too late. I was inside the TV. The black and white cast were playing their roles purposefully, running about, escaping the danger of the giant ape. Suddenly, Kong’s smelly foot was above my head; it pressed my head into my shoulders, my shoulders into my midsection, my midsection into my hips, my hips into my knees, and my knees into the ground till I was just a mere sound lost in the crackling static of the TV static.

Then as sound, I took shape just as someone turned off the TV.

***

Grandfather Claymen rested on his deathbed surrounded by beautiful nude-magazine model nurses. I sat in a fake Napoleon chair, bothered by all the peas under the stuffing. I shifted uncomfortably until the bumps and rolls of the seat fit the contours of my cellulite buttocks. The women wrapped in tight white hospital outfits fluffed the old man’s pillow, straw fed him dinner, tidied his sheets, and injected him with Morphine laced with Viagra. To no avail, for he remained in pain and penile disinterest. He brushed aside the nurses and told me blankly, “I brought you here. You’ve been nosing around, haven’t you? These are my hallucinations. How do you like that? And just how did he get inside them anyway? Dreamers don't usually trespass across to others dreams, let alone others hallucination. Mushrooms, you see. Peyote Synth. New type of plant they created in the lab. My son got his hands on some. Thought they'd take me out, you know, kill me. But it didn't. Crossed over to the place between dream and hallucination. So, I'm happy. You see my nurses, don't you? Too bad the damn Synth doesn't make me young. Still can't get it up.

" But back to you, boy. Are you asleep somewhere on this wavelength? You know none of this is real except for you. But you got to wake up. I can give you a rude awakening if need be. You gots to be carefully not to plunge to your death in a falling dream. Or maybe you're not in a dream. Are you lying dying somewhere with a bullet or knife in your gut, the victim of some practiced ruffian? Has a taste of death put you in tune with my ripe soul ready for the Devil to pluck? How did you get here? This is not your world or your business. You’ve violated my hallucinations and now you trespass my reality. I will my family into being. How is it you're interacting with them?”

The old man scratched his head, confused. The nurses now had Medusa heads, with dozens of snakes hissing at me. "Seems my dream girls don't like you," he said. "How can you be doing this?"

“I’m a writer,” I confessed. “I’m writing this.”

“You think you’re writing me, you little piece of shit?” Grandpa grinned menacingly. “I blinded Milton for saying the same.”

“I never read ‘Paradise Lost,’ I’m sorry,” I admitted. “My field is Romantic literature.”

"Vampires and zombies, I believe,” he boasted, obscenely staring at the rear ends of the nurses.

“That’s right,” I told him. "And mountains and valleys. The stuff of fear and awe."

At that moment the nurses all faced me at once. Although their beauty remained, their life was gone. Their snakes were gone. Their nurse hats returned. Their flesh was a mix of maggots and skin. Skeletons with the make up of a geisha. The old man was playing his ace in the hole.

Zombie nurses. "You don't belong here," he said with a raspy anger. Then the undead girls in white rushed me.

I flew from my seat and tossed the chair at them. It struck one in the face, caving in her once beautiful features, releasing swirling waves of earthworms from where her mouth once pouted. The worms bore through the uniform and reentered the rotting flesh. The blow of the chair neither deterred her nor slowed her down. She and the others were on me in a split second. I was pinned to the floor by our finest hospital staffers.

“Now I’m writing you,” Grandfather Claymen laughed.

The bedroom door flew open. M. Foster Claymen entered, his fists pressed on either side of his hips. “Laurine tells me you’ve been touching her inappropriately during our guest’s visit to your hallucination. Is this true?”

An awkward silence followed. The nurses stopped and fidgeted nervously. They were no longer zombies and had returned to the lovely sexy outfits the dirty old man had imagined for them.

The embarrassed nurses released me and excused themselves from the room clumsily. I arose, brushing the wriggling little maggots from my coat. Grandfather James Claymen darted his eyes to and fro trying to think up an excuse or a carefully woven lie. “Shit,” was all he could say.

M. Foster walked up to the bedside and told his father, “This is for your own good.” He yanked the fluffed pillow from under the patriarch’s head and shoved it across his gray face. There was a brief struggle, but it didn’t last long. Within minutes the elder Claymen stopped fighting and waited for the Devil to pluck his soul from the dead branch of his life. After tossing the pillow aside, revealing Grandpa Claymen’s death grimace, the younger Claymen straightened his vest and tie.

“There,” M. Foster said, swiping his hands free of the invisible dust that wasn’t there. “Now what should we do about you? My wife hates your puns. I don’t like the way you look at my wife’s legs. And the children tell me you entered their movie and spoiled one of their favorite scenes. And to top it off, the baby won’t stop crying now that it’s dead. You must return back to your world through your manuscript. We must be quick for your wife is reading it now.”

We exited the room. M. Foster instructed to go to the end of the hall and don't stop. I stepped lively down the shrinking hallway, pretending that I wasn't afraid of being crushed alive. I was a clastrophobic since birth, my mother used to tell me. Faster, I heard M. Foster cry. The walls are closing in. Literally. I start to feel like ink. The hallway is the quill my liquid form inhabits. Its tip scratches me across a white floor make of paper. I am written like so many symbols. I concentrate until I begin to regain form; blood and flesh reattach to my bone dry skeleton.

Hurry, man, the voice behind me shouts. I am beginning to solidify. The Claymen hallucination is fading and my liquid form is leaving the story. I dry across the white walls. But the walls are still closing in on me, sealing me in symbolic characters. In a far distance I hear M. Foster whisper, "Too late". The final white page closes on me. My entire human essence, thoughts, ideas, dream, liquefied and scribbled away squirt inward as I am flattened like a butterfly in the pages of someone’s manuscript. My skin, tissue, muscle, bone, heart, liver, intestines, spleen, testicles, spine, brain, mind, and all the other atoms and molecules that make me what I am are crushed into text. I am gone. Only the memory of the dream remains.

***

“Good story,” said the Missus as she replaced the manuscript atop the typewriter. "You really poured yourself into this one. I'll toss it into the box with the others after dinner. Finish your dram and come down to eat before the rats have at our meals."