Recap: Right before I retired from my last full-time job in March 2024, I began posting about the gigs I’ve had in my working life. This includes part-time and full-time work, freelance, consulting, even work I didn’t get paid for. At the end of this one, I’ve included links to the others. This set begins when we left Dallas, TX with $300 between us to return to our hometown of Wilmington, CA. I’ll try to get back to this more frequently!

Coming back to Wilmington, CA after two years living in the Pacific Northwest (cold, rainy, green) and one in Dallas (hot, dry, brown, except when the storms from the north blew in from the north), was a shock to the system. We accepted my parents' offer to live with them until we got our shit together, all five of us cramped in a small bedroom.

The first thing I did was go back to the Wilmington Branch Library (See job #16) to see if they had any openings. Turns out they had one for a part-time clerk-typist. But because it was a civil service position, I had to apply through the LA Public Library system, take a series of tests (including a typing test), and wait for the results.

Fortunately, it didn’t take long, and before I knew it, I started the job.

Not only did I get paid decently, but the job also came with benefits, including enrollment in a health plan. Good thing … I could get all my kids vaccinated before school started and we could all go to the doctor and dentist when needed.

The job itself was pretty straightforward: half the time I worked at the circulation desk, where books, magazines, LPs and more were checked out and returned, where fines for late books were collected and the first stop before patrons got sent to the reference desk if they had questions or were looking for a particular book. Also, if they didn’t have a library card, I got the process started for them.

The rest of the time was spent in the workroom. It was the first stop for material coming in from Central Library before it went out on the shelves. Brand-new books were delivered in big canvas bags almost daily, along with a printout showing the title, author, Dewey Decimal System number, and other pertinent information.

My job was to get the material ready for circulation. This included typing all the info in several places: onto a card that would go into the card catalog drawers in the library; on a small pocket glued to the inside front cover of the book; and on the small rectangular card that would go into the small pocket.

That card would be inserted into the large, metallic card reader, which would take a microfilm picture of the book card along with the patron’s library card.

Once the cards were ready, I’d get an ink stamp and stamp “Wilmington Branch Library #10” on the inside front cover, the inside back cover, and on the edges of the book.

Once all the books in the delivery got processed, I’d take them out to the library, put them in their proper place (based on the Dewey Decimal System), and place the catalog card in the catalog card drawers scattered around the library.

My hours were usually in the afternoon or evening, including some Saturdays. Most day, it was a pretty quiet place (back in the day, the librarians would make sure that things stayed quiet.) We had lots of regulars, including students of all ages, seniors, stay-at-home moms, and, occasionally, someone doing research.

One group of neighborhood kids, however, did their best to disrupt the whole operation for fun. I don’t remember their names, except for one kid, about 12 years old, who went by the nickname Shorty, because he was, well, short. A real travieso, he’d harass the young girls – junior high and high school age – and run around knocking books off the shelves. I tried to get friendly with the rowdy kids to compel them to settle down, but it didn’t work.

One evening when the place was closing, I did my usual check through the book stacks, under desks, in the restroom (located in the scary library basement), and other places, only to find Shorty hiding behind curtains in the adult section’s reading room. He laughed uproariously as I grabbed him and dragged him outside.

By then, the library, built in 1927, was showing its age and signs of deterioration. The AC rarely worked, the restrooms flooded, and the surrounding neighborhood got a little sketchy.

Gang-related graffiti marred the exterior of the old building. Requests to the city to paint over the placas went unheeded. I persuaded the head librarian to stage an event to get the local neighborhood involved, a paint-out. I got a local paint store to donate paint, brushes, rollers, pans, tape, and tarps. We had a good turnout, and even the local U.S. Congressman Glenn Anderson showed up, and not just for a photo-op, but to actually paint.

I held on to this job for a couple of years, and a few outside gigs later I even came back to the library, either in Wilmington or at the Central Library downtown. The library has been good to my family over the years … my two sisters worked there, my wife Linda retired from the library after more than 30 years, and each of my kids worked there at one point or another.

My wife, Linda, leads a children’s party at the Wilmington Branch Library, 1988. Our daughter, Ana, on the left.

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Big day tomorrow.

I show up Norris Comprehensive Cancer Center at Keck Medicine of USC tomorrow at 5:40am to prep for a series of scans to determine where I’m at with this fcking cancer: a full-body positron emission tomography (PET) scan followed by two computed tomography (CT) scans for my abdomen, pelvis and chest, with and without contrast.

I have been responding positively to the chemo for the main source of the fcking cancer, my bile duct, and the places it metastasized to (lungs, liver, stomach lining). But now it’s spread to my right leg (knee, tibia) and possibly to my left leg (I have an MRI for that coming up.)

I had radiation treatment for the cancer on my right leg a couple of weeks ago, and I can say it’s less painful, but I’m still using the wheelchair to prevent a fracture. I tried different meds (oxy, Norco) and was even prescribed morphine for the pain, but the effects were worse than the symptoms, so I stopped using them.

The type 1 diabetes that resulted from immunotherapy is more or less under control, due to the food that Linda prepares for me and the insulin I inject four times a day. I’m slowly gaining some of the weight I’ve lost.

But can’t lie: I am kind of worried. Since my diagnosis in September, when the oncologist gave me two to 16 months, my body has gone through so much – pneumonia, thrush, hand-foot-mouth disease, cellulitis.

But I haven’t lost hope. When the oncologist first gave me the diagnosis and timeline, she added as an afterthought ....

“and every once in a blue moon ...” And that’s where I’m at.

Thanks again, my friends, for your prayers, support, energy, positivity, and the gifts some of you have sent my way.

I love you all.

It's been a while since I've posted an update on my cancer adventure. Here's the latest:

Although the original diagnosis of cancer - cholangiocarcinoma or bile duct cancer - had been responding positively to the chemotherapy and immunotherapy as of the last scans in May, additional challenges have come up, including Type 1 Diabetes brought about by side effects from the infusions.

Early June, I began experiencing pain in my right leg. We do a lot of walking and hiking and it was getting more difficult. A couple weeks ago I had an MRI and it showed that the cancer is now in that leg, centered on the knee and tibia.

This past Monday I met with Dr. Ling, a radiology oncologist, to discuss next steps. I'll be doing a CT scan the week after next, where they will map out where the cancer lies so they can direct the radiation to kill the cancer cells and keep them from growing. Then daily over a week's time they'll do the radiation itself.

That's on top of the continued infusions and trying to keep my blood glucose in check.

I'm in a bit of pain (an understatement) but I can still get around, slowly with a cane and faster and smoother with this cool wheelchair that we had on hand since Linda had foot surgery.

For now, I'll keep smiling between the tears, receiving continuing loving care from Linda, the daily calls from my mom, family and the energy and positivity I get from all of you. Accepting, adapting and praying. Love you all.

Photo by Linda de la Peña

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This will be brief.

I’m sitting at the Huntington Hill Imaging Center in Pasadena, waiting for 45 minutes (or less) for radiation fluid to coarse through my body in preparation for a PET Scan. The tech will also shoot me up with contrast once I’m in the machine room for the CT scan they’ll be doing.

It was a little iffy that this would happen because my blood glucose levels are a bit high, right now at 230 although it’s been going down steadily over the past couple hours.

I’m happy this is happening even though the scans may show either positive progress in my body’s response to the chemotherapy and Immunosuppressant I’ve been receiving over the past months or a negative outcome.

This was supposed to happen a couple weeks ago at the same place. But when the tech measured my blood sugar, it was through the roof, over 500.

I called my spouse Linda to quickly come get me. She had just started a hike in the Lower Arroyo Seco after visiting the tree-shaded spot where I’d discarded offerings to Eshu Elegua, a santería deity. She noticed the coconut I’d left near the top of a tree was gone. The other offerings that I’d buried a few weeks before … small toys, coins, a small bottle of rum and more … appeared undisturbed.

I ended up at nearby Huntington Hospital’s ER, where I ended up being admitted, staying for four days while they ran tests. The diagnosis: Type 1 Diabetes, most likely a side effect of the immunotherapy.

The doctors prescribed two types of injectable insulin, one administered three times daily and the other at night.

Finger pricks, measurements, shots, planned out meals, feeling pretty crappy.

A couple days later after I was discharged, back to ER because the blood sugar spiked. I was in there from 5 pm to 3 am. as I was being discharged Linda mentioned to the doctor some spots on my hands.

Hand, foot and mouth disease, something small kids get. Lucky me.

Last, I now have an endocrinologist on my team. He prescribed a sensor that sticks to my arm, sending blood measurements to my iPhone every 5 minutes.

Linda’s getting the hang of meal planning and injecting me. I have to get get used to the needle pricks and being on a strict diet and schedule.

The tech will probably come and get me soon.

Prayers and positivity, por favor.

PS: I didn’t see the sign above me until just now. Ooops!

After 50-plus years of being a fan, I finally got to hear Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band in concert this past week. It’s his Land of Hope and Dreams tour. They hadn’t planned on touring this year, but the shit show our country’s in right now compelled him to bring music, showmanship, and inspiration to the masses.

I had glanced at a review in the LA Times about his first show here in LA, which took place on Tuesday, and suggested to Linda that we should try to go see him. I’d heard they’d scheduled a second show and thought we’d missed it.

We checked out his website and saw that he was going to other cities, including Phoenix, Austin, and New Jersey, and began pricing out the tix and the cost to fly and stay for the concert.

Then I scrolled back up the schedule page and saw that tickets were still available for Thursday night! We grabbed the cheapest seats we could find, the second-to-last row, furthest from the stage. We took an Uber, and settled in for a solid two and a half hours of power, dynamism, great solos, solid singing, and some of his best-known songs like Born in the USA. Hungry Heart, Born to Run, Dancing in the Dark, The Rising, some of his more socially-conscious tunes like Ghost of Tom Joad and Streets of Minneapolis , along with select covers … War! What is it Good For! and Clampdown. During 10th Avenue Freeze Out, he went out into the crowd.

He spoke a lot, about the fucked up situation we’re in due to the incompetence of the orange turd, but as the show progressed, he got more positive, calling for the community to rise and do SOMETHING … march, protest, write letters, help each other out, because we’re a better country when we all get involved.

I’d just had my chemo the day before, and I’m usually kind of wiped out the first couple of days after. But not that night!

In the end, I was drained but filled with joy at having experienced one of the best concerts I’d ever attended. Tight band, incredible guitar solos by the four front guys, including Bruce, Little Steven, Tom Morello of Rage Against the Machine, and Nils Lofgren. The pounding drums by Max Weinberg. I was transported by the music, lyrics, and energy, which I am still carrying with me.

Music has forever been a mainstay in my life, in our lives. Linda and I first became friends by sharing our favorite songs and artists. Over the past few months, it’s become even more important.

We’ve created specific playlists that help to keep the positivity going. We’re actually listening to all our LPs, going from A-Z (currently on the Ds). CDs are next.

We’ve been going out to listen to live music. Over the past few weeks, we’ve been to the Catalina Jazz Club to listen to great shows produced by our friend Guido Herrera-Yance; checked out The Bad Plus at Blue Note Los Angeles, and Quetzal, Trio Los Caramelos and others in a benefit at a new venue within walking distance of our home called Sid the Cat.

Music in the car, music on our iPhones, as we’re walking around the neighborhood. Making music on my steel tongue drum and acoustic guitar.

Music by itself can’t heal me, but it sure helps me keep positive, hopeful, and energized.

My oncologist’s nurse practitioner, the great Ron Stein, announced that I’ve reached a milestone: After eight rounds of infusions, I am now going to be treated with just one instead of two chemo drugs.

The difference? No more big bags of hydration before, during and after the infusion, cutting nearly three hours from the procedure. Also, less side effects, especially the bloating. Plus I got out of there while the sun was still out.

Also, the fantastic nurses know what I like for lunch ... their egg salad sandwich on white bread. They gave me two, one for me and one for Linda!

I got home on time to Zoom in on a poetry workshop (my first ever!) organized by the Cancer Support Network of Los Angeles. After a brief intro, the two other participants and I were given three prompts for to write our own poem.

Here’s the prompt I chose: “Time is a precious thing, never waste it.”

And here’s the poem I wrote (full disclosure: I’m a rock and roller at heart, among other things.)

Enjoy Every Sandwich

Warren Zevon was a gunslinger, an excitable boy

A writer of stories and singer of songs,

A raconteur whose words cut deep and long

With melodies that were a joy to hum

On stage he’d howl like a werewolf

Toughly thrashing on his guitar, owning the stage

Telling outrageous tales of outlaws and mercenaries

Of romantic conquests

Of life’s disappointments

Poor poor pitiful me, sung ironically

Not asking for sympathy

Opening doors to an underground world

That mirrored his descent into personal crisis and addiction

Of his own making

Welcoming vice and recklessness

Making it seem attractive

Avoiding self-care

Ignoring the cough, cough, coughing

As long as he could

His cancer caught him by surprise

Birthed from playing in the asbestos filled-attic of his daddy’s carpet store

But he rocked on, more and more

Refusing treatment

Reflecting on life

With more great melodies and cutting lines

As he neared his body’s end

He broke it down to his friend

Letterman

asking if with all he was going through

If he could share what he now knew

Of Life and Death

Quietly, he said, something that’s stuck in my head

“Enjoy every sandwich”

And the band played

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead

”

Before leaving SER-Jobs for Progress (Job #23) after nine months on the job, I was approached by Rene Casillas, a Dallas-based communicator and entrepreneur, about stepping into the editor role of a start-up bi-weekly newspaper called “The Texican.”

I’d checked out the newspaper a couple of times before: tabloid-sized, eight to twelve pages per issue, with articles focused on the Dallas Mexican American community, covering education, politics, culture, sports, and more. Although my only editing jobs prior to this were at my community college newspaper – news editor, editor-in-chief, photo editor – and at SER, where I edited newsletters and research documents, my proclivity for jumping in without thinking too much led me to take the job. None too soon, it turns out.

The office was in a small building farther inside the city, so we left the house in Irvine and rented an upstairs apartment near the job. Mistake #2 (as you can probably guess, taking the job was the first mistake). I wouldn’t describe it as squalid, but it was funky. And since Linda was no longer working due to the longer commute to her job, the price was right.

At the time, there were three staffers – Rene, me and Rudy Longoria, a gregarious and enthusiastic Dallas native – and a small roster of freelancers. My first job was to write, photograph and edit issue number 4. I took direction from Rene on what topics to cover.

That first issue included coverage of a speech given by Henry Cisneros, then mayor-elect of San Antonio, who later served in the Clinton administration as Secretary of Housing and Urban Development; a profile on a radio personality; a story on a demonstration organized by area Salvadorans protesting U.S. intervention in El Salvador; and other local happenings. It was a whopping 16 pages. I would run each story, photograph, and layout (which included ads) by Rene.

After staying late in the office over a couple of day, I got the layout to the printer on time, and went home feeling good.

It was short-lived, however. I received a call from Rene at home early the next morning. The papers had been delivered to the office, and he was pissed. He complained about the front page, the stories that were published, and a couple of typos he found. On and on he went, until I told him I needed to get ready to go to the office.

When I arrived, I expected another scolding. Instead, we had a mostly quiet conversation about what he expected for the next issue and the issues that would follow.

Issue #5, the following issue, was now down to 12 pages. Rudy, the ad guy, was having trouble getting businesses to buy ads. There were little to no sales of the paper itself. It was priced at 35 cents a copy, which affected the circulation, which is what businesses were most concerned about. It was English-only, while most of the small Latino businesses in Dallas catered to the Spanish-speaking. Subscriptions were weak as hell.

Still, I moved forward, though with slightly less enthusiasm. Rene and I seldom spoke, except when I’d present the stories that would run in the subsequent issues. He’d still review each story, photo, and layout. He had a couple of other gigs going on, including serving as a co-host to a local Latino-oriented show on a local TV station; a translation service; and some consulting.

I wrote about a third of the stories, accompanied by photographs I’d take. But he insisted that I not have a byline, for some reason. He also had a deal with the school district, printing a four-page insert every other issue with info on schools, the board of education, and staff and student achievements.

Ad sales continued to tank. Rudy, the ad guy, left, demoralized by the lack of support from the business community. He was replaced by Joe Marquez as general manager, not just for “The Texican” but also for Rene’s other businesses. Joe and I worked together at SER, where he was a business development specialist. A good guy.

I trudged on, becoming more familiar with the city and its Latino community. We covered redistricting; the attempted recall of the Dallas City Council’s only Latino member; a ride-along with a local policeman; more arts and culture, including stories on boys taking ballet lessons, a Latina in competitive figure skating, a visit by Airto and Flora Purim to a local club, and about half of the topics mandated by Rene.

The page count continued to shrink, now down to eight pages. Ad sales were poor, street sales worse, and subscriptions barely trickled in.

Meanwhile … the home situation was not any better. The neighborhood we lived in was kind of dicey, with nothing for the kids to do except hang out around the apartment. My wife was unhappy with the situation … the heat kept rising, both at home and in the city itself.

One of my brothers came to visit, which calmed things down for a little while. But ultimately, I was given an ultimatum … she was leaving back to L.A. with the kids, and I could stay or go. Let’s go.

I quit by phone that weekend. No pushback from Rene … I wasn’t expecting any.

We bought airline tickets for our youngest child so she could fly back with my brother. I quickly sold some photos, rented a trailer with the proceeds, packed up, hitched the trailer to our van, and within the week, we were on the road again, out of the hot, flat, unfriendly environs, my tail somewhat between my legs. Glad to be heading home, making the drive back to Wilmington in less than 24 hours, about $300 between us.

Ready for the next job.

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Leaving the Northwest, cold and rainy and damp as it was, was bittersweet. We had good, if not great, job and had a tight circle of friends. But after finishing my BA at The Evergreen State College, where I attended while also working at Weyerhauser, I took a job in Dallas, TX. This was the summer of “Who Shot J.R.” from the “Dallas” TV series and of more than 100 days of 100 degrees Fahrenheit in the region.

The job? Communications Director for the national office of SER-Jobs for Progress (SER stands for Service, Employment, Redevelopment). Founded in 1965, and by 1980, the year we moved there, SER was a multiservice educational and training organization with 134 affiliates in over 100 cities.

My wife was not too happy with my taking the job, but she relented after some persuasion. We packed our stuff in our VW van, drove first to our hometown of Wilmington, CA, where I left her and our three kids with my in-laws, and made my way to Dallas, a 20-plus non-stop drive, fueled by my first and only black beauty

I quickly rented a room not too far from White Rock Lake.

SER was located in a high-rise near the Mary Kay Cosmetics HQ. Responsibilities were standard public relations stuff … drafting and distributing press releases and media advisories; researching, writing, editing, publishing, and distributing newsletters; editing reports written by the research team; photography for internal use and publication; answering media inquiries (not much of that); and serving as occasional spokesperson for the organization.

It was a one-person operation.

My family joined me a couple of months after I arrived, after I’d rented a home in Irving, TX, from the company president (not the best of ideas). We enrolled our sons in a nearby elementary school and our daughter in a preschool. My wife found a job at a mall, then applied for and got a job at GTE at their Dallas-Fort Worth Airport office.

The job was fairly unexciting, although there was some travel involved, to Laredo, San Antonio, and Washington D.C. I don’t remember any particular assignment or outcome. The most memorable parts of the job were the people I worked with: Frank the Nuyorican, Ricardo from Salinas, CA, Rene from the Azores, and Lionel from Crystal City, TX AKA Cristal.

Living in Dallas, though, was a culture shock for us. Before my family joined me, I took a walk around White Rock Lake when a truck pulled up beside me. “Catch this, beaner!” called out the guy in the passenger seat before he threw an unopened can of beer at me. I dodged it, and it exploded on the sidewalk. We were often kept waiting for a table at restaurants, while people with lighter complexions than ours were quickly seated. Our sons would come home from school, asking, “What’s a wetback?” and “Why don’t some of the kids want to play with us?” My wife’s first job was at the Swiss Colony, handing out snack samples; some women with lighter complexions wouldn’t accept samples from her. Working at GTE, she quickly got promoted, then was accused by another woman with a lighter complexion that she only got the job because she was Mexican.

Nature had its surprises for us as well. We took a walk on the Trinity River Trail'; somehow, we ran into poison oak. We’d go into a store, the sun shining in the clear blue sky; when we walked out, it would be raining or hailing. One of our sons was bitten by an insect, causing his arm to swell hideously; we drove to the clinic in heavy rain, lightning crashing all around us; when we reached the clinic, the staff was amazed we’d driven in that weather. We were attending evening mass in our neighborhood church when the priest commanded us to move to the back of the sanctuary, away from the windows; a tornado was on its way. Windows shook, the wind howled, the lights went off. It passed us up.

There was good stuff, too. The Tex-Mex food was incredible! Parks were plentiful. Lots to explore: Fort Worth, Oak Cliff, Arlington.

About nine months in, the company's president called me in. He informed me that he was going to raise my rent significantly. But, don’t worry, he told me, he was also giving me a raise to cover the rent.

I turned in my resignation at SER shortly after that.

Fortunately, I had a lead on another job. In Dallas.

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I may be late to the game (no pun intended), but with all the conversation going on about Bad Bunny headlining the half-time show at the Super Bowl, I figured it was time to see and hear what the fuss was all about.

No, not the fact that he was selected ... I’m very cool with that ... but what is it about the music that has galvanized not only the Latino community, but a global audience as well, racking up millions (billions?) of streams, sold-out concerts, and given him not just commercial success, but also cultural and social-political impact.

So, as I’m lying here at USC Norris receiving my chemo / immunotherapy infusion, I’ve been taking a deepish dive into his music, streaming his award-winning album “DeBÍ TiRAR MáS FOToS,” watching some of the videos associated with this and his other albums, concert clips, and interviews, I can honestly say I’m a convert.

Note: I’ve been serious about my music since my mamá would listen to her Mexican artists on Radio KALI, switching to KRLA for us bilingual kids. Rock (classic and contemporary), jazz, salsa, country, bluegrass, alternative, pop … I’ve collected these for decades and will give a listen to all.

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Bad Bunny’s music itself, especially on “DTMF,” is hummable, danceable, and sing-along-able, with arrangements that are tight and swinging at the same time and lyrics that are timely and nostalgic, personal and political. A little salsa and reggeatón here, a little plena and bomba there, the rhythms are infectious. I’m still getting used to his voice, but there’s no mistaking the passion and playfulness he has for his island and our gente.

Listen to his Grammy Award speech, which encapsulates his head and heart.

I was asked to turn the volume down a couple of times... if I weren’t hooked up to this IV attached to the new port on my chest, I’d be dancing in my room!

Here’s a link to a short film he co-produced and directed to accompany his album. Not sure if his music is in it, but it will give you a glimpse into his head, heart and creativity. And it may bring a tear or two to your eyes, as it did to mine.

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Starting my sixth cycle of chemo, plus a dose of immunotherapy, at @uscnorriscancercenter

Began at 8:30 am with blood draw, then a visit with my oncologist. She says my blood work is looking good. Asked about how new meds are working out (fine) and how I’m dealing with after effects of these infusions. No complaints, though it does take a long time: hydration, anti-nausea medication, chemo drugs, immunotherapy drug, more hydration, then out of here about 7pm.

Tomorrow, a Jin Shin Jyutsu healing session in Los Feliz, couples counseling with Linda (who was able to stay with me for chemo) in Sierra Madre and an MRI in Pasadena to see if my brain is free of lesions. A small lesion was removed via radiology back in October.

On Friday, I have outpatient surgery back at Norris to insert a port in my chest, making it easier to draw blood and for chemo and immunotherapy infusions. After months of treatments and blood draws, my veins are saying 'no más!'

Saturday, fun stuff, if I'm feeling OK. First, Wilmington's @banninghspilots 100th anniversary celebration, then tasting of non-alcoholic Trejo's Tequila at @burdenofproofna in South Pasadena.

And on Sunday, lunch at @sanantoniowinery with classmates from Holy Family School in Wilmington. Haven’t seen some of them in more than 50 years! No wine for me, though … sigh.

I'm feeling good, positive and energetic but mostly grateful that treatments seem to be working and extremely thankful for your support, prayers, blessings, good wishes and consejos/advice. ¡Gracias!

#miracleshappen #fuckcancer #gratitude

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A few weeks before I retired from a full-time employment in March 2024, I began a series of posts on my Facebook page chronicling all the jobs I’ve had, beginning when I was about 12 years old. (I’ve reposted them on Substack. Here’s a compilation of the first 20.)

Now, I use the word ‘job’ rather loosely … full- and/or part-time employment with a paycheck, ‘working’ (for free) for a friend or a relative, gigs … but I’ll stick with one of Merriem-Webste’s definitions: something that has to be done.

Right now, fighting this cancer (fourth stage cholangiocarcinoma) a full-time job and today I’m getting close to working overtime, arriving at USC Norris Cancer Center at 8am for bloodwork, a consult with my oncologist, and now on my final two hours of infusions (chemotherapy and immunotherapy).

Every day is different: some days, like last Monday, the first work day after the holidays, I was barraged with a combination of more than twenty texts, emails, phone calls and voicemails, all before noon. There’s visits to my primary care clinician, my palliative care team, my oncologist and my Jin Shin Jytusu practitioner, sometimes three in one day or on succeeding days.

There’s making appointments (online and on the phone), seeking authorizations from my health plan for specialized care, rescheduling appointments, calls to providers. Testing: MRI, CT Scans, PET Scans, lab work. Forms to fill out, research on the drugs their giving me, driving to and from appointments and the pharmacy. Sorting out meds. Filing paperwork.

And then the treatments: six to eight hours weekly for the infusions. Two hours weekly for the bloodwork, showing up to the lab at 6:30 am to get in line. Three hours for the PET scan, two hours for the MRI and CT scans. Drive time to Pasadena, Los Feliz, Arcadia, Lincoln Heights. Sorting out meds. Going to the dispensary for edibles. Walks, at least twice a day for at least 30 minutes, to keep active, be in nature and hang with my wife, my caretaker, my love, Linda. Visits to my parents and in-laws and other fun places. Prayers, meditation, groundings.

There’s also ‘getting my affairs in order,” making sure we have all the correct info for insurances, services, advance directives, wills, accounts, etc.

This has been going on since last September, when I spent six days at Huntington Hospital for the initial tests, diagnosis, consult and the first round of chemo.

All to keep myself alive for a while longer.

The saving grace: engaging with family, friends, acquaintances and social media followers on a consistent basis, in person, by phone, text and email, on Facebook and Instagram. There’s been such an outpouring of support (prayers, blessings, manifestations, words of encouragement) coming my way that it’s hard to comprehend. But it’s so much appreciated.

Yes, fighting this cancer has been like full-time job, but like with all my other jobs, there are side gigs, too.

I continue to edit for CALÓ News and from November until now, we’ve moved and settled in to a new home, from a two-bedroom to a one-bedroom. Which meant boxing stuff up, loading and unloading (though we had a lot of help with that), downsizing i.e. getting rid of a lot of stuff, listing them and negotiating with potential buyers on Facebook Marketplace, Craigslist and Next Door.

So, if I’m a bit behind in keeping up with my Substack, have a little patience, please.

I’m a working man on a cancer adventure.

My fifth outpatient chemo treatment, Monday, December 15, 2025.

Three months ago, on September 15, 2025, after weeks of wondering what the hell was going on with my body and mind, I was diagnosed with cholangiocarcinoma, cancer of the bile duct.

These noticeable health changes followed a two and half week-long road trip my wife Linda and I took in June to the Great Northwest and in July, a week of camping and condo-ing in Mammoth Lakes. We’d just bought a small truck, stuck a camper shell on top of the bed, and were set on doing longer trips in the months ahead. (This the part where God laughs).

Late July, I started experiencing back pain, dizziness, fatigue, weight loss, and numbness in my leg. I had a round rash on my upper arm that had appeared some weeks earlier, so in doing my research, (and reading the latest gossip news), I really thought I had Lyme disease.

The physician assistant suspected inner ear trouble for the dizziness and rheumotology for the pains. But once blood test showed elevated levels of cells that mess with the liver. I underwent additional tests including more blood work, EKG, and ultrasounds.

Finally, he ordered a CT scan, followed a few days later by an early morning MRI, showed some bad stuff going on. That same afternoon, after my physician assistant received the results, he directed me to go to the ER. The ER doc looked at tests, and told me I was going to stick around for a while. I was admitted to Huntington Hospital in Pasadena.

More tests, including a two and a half hour MRI and finally, a biospsy provided all the proof needed that I had cancer and that had metastasized to other parts of the body, including the gall bladder, liver, and even a minor brain lesion.

My prognosis … not good. Once symptoms are noticed, it’s advanced.

There’s been a lot going on this past three months: informing family and friends, doctor visits, getting authorizations for treatments, booking appointments, receiving medical and holistic treatments, physical and emotional challenges, couples counseling, prayers, denial, acceptance, adaptation. Even though I’m pretty terrible at journaling, I want to document what is going on, to remember and maybe inspire.

I am determined to fight this as long as I can. And I have the best caretaker, Linda, along with my family, giving support.

I had not shared this with very many others. It’s been an emotional process.

But it’s important to me to share this with you …

Today, I received my fifth outpatient chemotherapy treatement. Thankfully, I have had few major side effects so far, but chemo does drag me out for a couple of days. The drugs they are putting in me don’t cause total hair loss, only 30% or less

I’ve been utilizing other treatments: lots of prayer, blessings (from a priest and an ex-nun friend of the familia), Reiki (via Zoom!), Jin Shin Jyutsu, and even a Santera sending prayers to Babalu-Ayé, the Cuban deity for healing!

Covering all bases!

Maintaining normal activities is important to me, though I do things a little more slowly: neighborhood walks, visits to our favorite parks and easy trails, music (and even dancing!), movies, playing games, shopping. My parents, in-laws, kids and grandkids, friends, have been great...calling me, taking me out for meals, sending care packages and cards. But what I mostly cherish is the support and good will I’ve been shown. ¡Gracias!

And now, if you’re still with me, I ask that you, too, to send positivity my way. That would mean a lot to me.

And if you have any advice or suggestions, please feel free to send them my way.

By the way, it’s pronounced koh-LAN-jee-oh-KAR-sih-NOH-muh.

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On the day I arrived in Tacoma at my wife’s aunt and uncle’s home, I met a friend of theirs named Manny. He worked at Weyerhauser, a global wood products company (lumber, paper, forest management), and mentioned he had an opening in his department. By the end of the week, I had a job: Audiovisual technician.

The job: Help schedule, deliver, set up and take down AV equipment to various areas in Weyerhauser’s corporate HQ, including conference rooms, meeting rooms, wherever they needed them. Plugging in and setting up the machine (overhead, film and slide projectors, video machines and TV monitors ) and projection screen; testing it out to make sure it worked and that the images were in focus and fit the screen; and when the meeting was over, taking down and returning the equipment to AV.

A few weeks into the job, I discovered that Weyerhauser also had an in-house photography department. I checked it out, spoke to the head photographer and after printing a few black and white prints from some funky negativew, I got the job as a photo lab tech/photographer. Using my photo / darkroom skills, at last.

It was a small but busy department: the head photographer, a lab tech that processed all the film, color, and black and white; a lab tech that handled the color printing, a couple of receptionists, and me.

All of us, except the receptionists, also doubled as photographers when the workload got heavy. My area of expertise was event photography (meetings, conferences, dinners) and the occasional portrait.

It was a busy operation, with orders coming in from not only the HQ but from lumber mills and other areas across the Northwest.

I spent a lot of time in the darkroom, which wasn’t too bad. I set up a stereo record player and blasted albums while I printed hundreds of black and whites per day. (My co-workers frequently mentioned that they could hear me singing along. I’m not sure if they were complaints, just observations. Winters, though, were kind of rough: I’d get to work while it was still dark and wet, spend eight hours in the dark, and leave for home in the dark.

But work was steady and my colleagues were pretty cool. The company had an in-house gym and offered recreational activities after work, like volleyball tournaments, cross-country skiing excursions, and more. I also scored some freelance photo jobs and had my personal photography accepted to a jury-selected exhibition at the Tacoma Art Museum two years in a row.

My wife eventually got a job at the HQ as well, in the reprographics department and we made some great friends. A fun bunch, we’d go camping, party, have scavenger hunts and have drinks at the local tavern.

In my second year there, I convinced my boss to let me take one day of work per week to attend school. I enrolled at The Evergreen State College and enrolled in an all-day series of classes called “The Nature of Community,” a mix of history, anthropology, sociology and literature. With the credits I’d received from Harbor College and Art Center, I’d have enough to get my BA.

Then, on May 18, 1980, Mount St. Helens blew up, killing 58 people and devastating a large area, including many square miles of Weyerhauser property: forest, equipment and infrastructure.

The photo department went into overdrive. The head photographer spent many hours in a helicopter documenting the destruction and the photo lab spent just as many hours processing and printing them. 12-14 hour days were the norm. I started going a little stir-crazy.

At the same time, with my BA under my belt (or so I thought), I was searching for the next job. Lots of resumes sent, few replies, until I got a call from the Seattle office of SER-Jobs for Progress, a nonprofit specializing in developing employment and training programs for Latinos in different parts of the U.S. The job: director of communications. The rub: the job was located in Dallas, TX, where the org had recently relocated to from Los Angeles.

I was offered the job, at almost triple the salary I was making. The decision to take it was brutal … my family loved the Northwest, the kids liked the neighborhood we lived in, we had great friends and some family close by.

But after continued job searches and no bites, I accepted the job, packing up the van and driving back to L.A., where I left my wife and kids with the in-laws, and made the solo trip to Dallas.

Job #20 - 1978- 1979 - 25 years old

My one year of art school at Art Center College of Design, majoring in photography, was brutal. Long days and nights in classrooms, the studio, and the darkroom took their toll, but I learned a lot. I made as much time as I could for my growing family - wife, kids, ages 5, 3, and 1, supporting us with a combo of scholarships, grants, and the GI Bill, but by the time the last assignment was done, we were broke. Finding work was imperative.

Fortunately, a family friend heard I was looking and directed me to Johnny Mendez, whom I knew through his work as the deputy to L.A. City Councilman John S. Gibson, one of the head chingones of L.A. politics at the time. I knew of Johnny through my previous work with the City (see Job #16)

At the time, the City was swimming in money through various federal grants, primarily through the Comprehensive Employment and Training Act (CETA), thanks to President Jimmy Carter. I was hired on the spot as a Community Service Representative, assigned to the Wilmington District Office, reporting to Johnny.

Initially, the job was to write, edit, take photos for and publish a newsletter focused on the community of Wilmington, particularly the work being done by the City and its partners: CETA jobs programs, city services like tree trimming, and profiles of prominent residents. They gave a small desk and a Selectric typewriter; I provided my own camera and paid for the film. The stories were brief, public relations-style writing, straightforward and devoid of any genuine human interest. I included a list of city services with phone numbers and the names of the rest of the people on the Councilman’s staff.

The newsletter was eventually published and distributed to a bunch of residents. There wasn’t much feedback from residents, but John seemed pleased.

And then they pulled the plug after that one and only issue.

I was told that it was because the City Attorney ruled that such communication was not authorized, whatever that means. Personally, I thought it because it wasn’t a very good newsletter.

Fortunately, they didn’t let me go. They just gave me other things to do, sometimes partnering me with another staffer, Eddie Ceja. He was the brother of a couple of people I knew from the neighborhood, an ex-con who had gone somewhat straight, a jokester and bullshitter. We got along great and sometimes hung out after work. We had access to a big, bulky city-owned International Harvester, which we called the Yellow Submarine.

It was mostly running errands, picking up and delivering equipment, shuttling other CETA workers to job sites, and checking out constituent concerns. I also bought myself a moped (remember those), which got me back and forth to work and which I’d use when the Yellow Submarine wasn’t available.

Other times, I’d sit in the office, answering phones, greeting people as they walked in, writing reports … busy work.

Cool stuff I got to do:

• Drive around and survey each and every alleyway in Wilmington, write a description, and take photos of their condition. Some of them were almost undrivable, filled with junk or overgrown with weeds and other vegetation.

• Take my moped out to the most eastern part of Wilmington (not East Side Wilmas, the neighborhood I grew up in, then and now somewhat gang-infested) and survey the many junk yards, horse stables, and light industrial businesses. I got chased by packs of dogs and mad dogged by the homeless people living in decrepit trailers.

• Drive up in the Yellow Submarine to the Korean Bell in San Pedro, where work crews were renovating the old upper Fort MacArthur barracks. I’d explore the bunkers and missile silos.

Other stuff wasn’t too much fun, especially dealing with constituent complaints. One call was from a mother / daughter household (I think I went to high school with the daughter), who lived near the then-Union 76 refinery on the West Side. They called in to complain about a bad odor that was coming into the house.

Tommy and I drove up, and yes, there was a putrid smell that grew stronger as we approached the home. Knock on the door, the door opens, and we’re hit with an unbelievable stench. Peeking in, we saw stacks of junk - newspapers, trash, open containers - stretching from the living room to the back. Hoarders! We walked in took a quick look, and ran out. We reported back in. I think they were visited by the Health Department. I hope so.

It was an OK job, but I was getting antsy to get back to school, and I realized that we could not afford it. My wife was also having issues with her family, who didn’t think much of me. Gang stuff was increasing in the community, especially in the area where we lived. Time for a big change.

Also (and this is embarrassing), I wrecked the Yellow Submarine. Was driving solo, coming out of a City recycling facility, making a right-hand turn onto a busy street in San Pedro, colliding head-on with a truck making a left-hand turn on the same street.

It took a while to repair, and then they took away my keys.

I gave my notice, and a couple of weeks later (after they threw me a nice party), we packed up some of our stuff, sold or gave away the rest and moved to Tacoma, Washington, to start a new life.

In March 2024, I retired from full-time employment, marking my last stop at LA Plaza de Cultura y Artes. This experience got me thinking about all the jobs I had before that: full-time, part-time, corporate, government, small business, start-up, and self-employment. I began by posting them on Facebook, stopping, starting, stopping, and starting again.

Now, I’m posting them on this platform, going through the FB entries, copying and pasting, no edits. Enjoy!

Job #1
My first ‘job’ was selling flower seeds … one of those back-of-comic book ‘opportunities’ … with my friend and classmate Tony Islas. Maybe 12 years old. Our goal: earn enough to get a guitar. Not an easy sell in our barrio neighborhood, that’s for sure! (I don't remember if we got that guitar)

Job #2:
After graduating from Holy Family Grammar School in Wilmington, my parents didn't really want to send me to the local junior high. I was a nerdy, glasses-wearing, short, chubby, Catholic school kid, so they thought I wouldn't survive very long there. Their solution was to send me to the closest Catholic high school, the late, great Fermin Lasuen in San Pedro (boys only). But tuition was kind of high, so the plan was for me to get a job to help pay for it.

My dad was manager at Harbor Furniture, one of three furniture stores in Wilmington at the time. Every Saturday, starting that first week of summer vacation, I'd show up at 8:30 am and start dusting, sweeping, mopping, vacuuming, window washing, furniture moving, bathroom cleaning ... all for $5. I'd be done by 6. After getting home, tired and sweaty, I'd give my dad half. But by then, dinner was already over, so I'd get my $2.50 and stop first at the local liquor store to buy a comic book or two (Action, Superman, maybe an Archie), then head over Gilbert's Stand, a burger joint right across from Banning High. A cheeseburger, fries, Cherry Coke (made with real syrup), and my comics. What more could a 14-year-old kid want?

(I eventually got a raise, to $10 a day. And I lasted a year at Fermin ... I mean, it was an all-boys school!)

Job #3: In the 11th grade, my friends and I had jobs at El Taco, not to be confused with Del Taco. It was a small stand on the corner of PCH and Wilmington Ave. We made and served excellent burritos, tacos, quesadillas, chile verde and colorado, chiles rellenos, and more. It was tough ... drunk guys demanding free food, fights on the sidewalk and parking lot. It was fun ... Fidel the assistant manager blasting rock n' roll from his giant stereo system he had set up in his office while we sang along. It was absurd, with customers asking for some of that 'Guadalajara' sauce and us trading tacos for hot dogs with the guys from Der Weinerschnitzel across the street. And kind of gross ... cheese fights, warnings of 'don't eat the beans today,' and scooping up and then serving spilled food. The best part was hanging out with my friends ... Carlos, Ernie, Richard, John, Sam ... before, during and after work: playing pool at Sam's, listening to records at Carlos's, riding bikes to Redondo Beach on Saturday mornings. So what if we had to weigh the burritos, clean grease traps and stinky toilets, and come home smelling of melted cheese? We got paid the $1.35 minimum wage, but just as important, we learned that fast food wasn't going to make it as a career. But it was great while it lasted ... that summer, my parents sent me to Mexico to straighten me out, which that leads me to job #4.

Job #4 - in the summer of 70, my dad sent me to Mexico to accompany my sister, who was attending a Universidad de Guadalajara language program at their Escuela de Artes Plasticas. We stayed at our Tía Alicia’s house. The first few school days, I sat at a table in the student cafe, quietly waiting for her. I eventually befriended the student/workers, translating for las chicas de los EEUU, taking orders, serving snacks, cleaning up. No pay, got a couple tips.

Job #5 - Later in my stay, I took a bus to Chapala to stay with Tío Beto. He was the local Coca Cola distributor In the evenings after the trucks’ route, I would help empty the load: wooden cases filled with empty glass bottles. Mexican glass bottles. Those suckers were heavy. No pay, free Cokes.

Job #6 - and during the day I’d help my cousin at my uncle’s hardware store … stocking, loading, sweeping. No pay, got to hang out with my cousin Robertito.

Job #7 - not a job, more of a gig… every Sunday Afternoon in Chapala’s malecón, there’d be live music at a club called La Pantera Rosa. Came in to listen, the cover band was playing … Born on the Bayou (Creedence), No Time (The Guess Who), Purple Haze (Jimi). I’d been playing in a garage band at home, so I figured I’d share my talents (?) jumping on stage to join in. Did that a few times. No pay, but didn’t get booed offstage.

Job #8 (a continuing series) - First, some context ... in the summer of 1970, I was sent to Guadalajara to accompany my sister as she attended a summer program at the university. I think my dad sent me there to get me away from 'questionable influences' including a girl I liked. I spent the summer there (see previous posts) and when he and my Tio Mike came to pick us up, my hair was long, a had a mustache going, wore a string beads around my neck, and was barefoot. Apparently, it didn't work.

Upon returning to the US from Mexico, my dad sent me to work for a family friend at his place of business. Rene's Garage was located in San Pedro, close to the docks in the barrio part of Pedro. My mechanical aptitude at the time was close to zero (much as it remains now). My tasks: sweeping, draining oil from motors, cleaning the worn-out gaskets from manifolds, moving tires from one end of the garage to the other, stuff that wouldn't endanger the customer's car. I got oil and grease on my hands, my clothes, my hair. But the worst part: He had the radio on to some station that played the pop hits of the time and they were the worst ... "My Baby Loves Love" by White Plains, "Julie Do You Love Me?" by Bobby Sherman, "Hitchin' a Ride" by Vanity Fair, "Snowbird" by Anne Murray. Why do I still remember these songs?

I lasted there two weeks, then told my dad, "¡No más!"

I think he understood. Besides, no pay.

Job #9 - 1970 / 1971 -

Senior year at Banning High in Wilmington: Due to unexpected circumstances, I needed $$ fast! Not many options. A friend told me about an opportunity at the newly-opened Payless ShoeSource. It was a big deal in our little town

I've always been fascinated with shoes and shoe buying (weird, yes). Every September before the start of the school year, the family would travel to the Long Beach Sears & Roebuck to buy a pairs of shoes meant to last the entire year. I dug getting my foot size measured with that Men's Foot Measuring Device (I had to look it up to see what it is called), ask the sales person to bring a variety of shoes, get them laced up, walk around with them on, check them out in the mirrors that tilted down ... the entire ritual ... although would I end up with the sturdiest, plainest black leather shoes with the thickest soles, every year.

So when my friend told me about the opening at Payless, I was excited. I thought I'd be one of the sales guys who would get to measure the customer's feet, go to the back and bring out a incredible selection, lace them up, give my expert approval and ring up the sale. Little did I know that Payless lived up to its name because it was self-service ... rows of shoes, segmented by men/women/boys/girls; mirrors; benches; and end caps with sox and other foot-related accessories. No personal contact with the customer.

My job: Open up the cartons filled with shipments of new shoes, sandals, boots, etc. Review the packing slip. Set up the pricing gun. Label the individual shoe boxes. Put out the new shoe stock. Clean up after customers who'd leave a big pile of boxes of shoes, making sure that the right shoes returned to the right boxes. Straighten out the racks. Vacuum, sweep, wash windows.

It was a five-day-a-week part time gig that paid minimum wage, that wan't too hard. We could play music loud in the backroom and I would work on my homework between the chores. Best part: I scored two pairs of some cool off-brand brown hightop sneakers that I thought looked cool, but in hindsight were probably dorky, kind of like me at the time.

Job #10 - April / May 1971

I left my job at Payless Shoe Source to go on an adventure (another story altogether). When I returned I still needed $$ but also needed to make up the school and homework I missed while I was away (senior year at Banning High in Wilmington) with only weeks before graduation. So an after school job was out of the question. The solution, a before-school job ... throwing the LA Times early in the morning.

Getting the job was easy. At the time the paper was big and fat, filled with classified ads, and that's where I found out about it. There was an immediate opening for a route in nearby Carson. Only later did I find out why there were always openings.

The hard part, besides convincing my dad to let me use the family car, was getting up at 3:30am to be on time at the parking lot of the local Market Basket, where a crew of older guys and me would wait for the delivery truck with bundles of freshly printed LA Times. The first day the boss gave me a stack of addresses, showed me how many papers in a bundle (which would change every morning, depending on the thickness of the day's edition), and how to work the machine that tied up the individual papers.

It was a scary and strange-looking contraption, kind of like a giant sewing machine. I'd have to fold the paper a certain way and gently press it on a lever that activated a metal arm that wrapped itself (and the twine) around the paper a couple times and somehow tie it. It took a while to master it, but I eventually did, managing to not getting my hand caught in the twine.

The first morning, after tying 200+ papers and loading them into our '66 Plymouth Fury station wagon, I drove the route, accompanied by my boss. The main part of my route took me through two huge trailer parks in the north part of Carson. They were both confusing mazes, with hard-to-read street signs and easy-to-miss addresses. The subscriber's addresses were printed on long and skinny pages with tiny writing. My eyes strained to make them out in the dim light. The boss barked out: "Go right .. make a quick left here ... papers go to that one and that one ... the next one only gets the Sunday edition ... you missed one, go back"

Three hours later, all the papers were gone and we drove back to the loading dock. I was exhausted.

"You'll be on your own tomorrow. You'll have to do better than that."

I never did get better. Almost every day, I'd miss at least two to three trailers and have to return later in the morning. I'd get lost in the trailer park labyrinths and need to double back. I almost ran out of gas once or twice. Sunday's were the worst. This was back when the Times was the thickness of telephone books (remember those), and a couple time I'd have to take two trips on account of the station wagon getting filled up. Rainy days were the worst. Not only did I have to tie them using the infernal machine, I'd also have to stuff them into plastic bags that slid all over the car seats. And throwing papers with one hand while driving with the other ... not for the faint of heart.

The only good part? At the time, there was some pretty darn good music on the car radio. Early morning AM DJs played stuff they wouldn't play during the day: "What's Going On," "Me & Bobby McGee," "If You Could Read My Mind," "Oye Como Va" and much more.

I lasted a long, dreary month. The pay? I'm too embarrassed to say. After the gas and the wear and tear on the car, I didn't come home with much, but I did add some to my bank account.

And I graduated.

Job #11 - 1971 through 1973

After graduating from high school, I desperately needed a job. I had a newborn son and a girlfriend to take care of. Applied where I could with no luck. My sister’s then-boyfriend took me to the Army recruitment center (he was a veteran), convincing me that I’d not only get paid and have medical benefits, but that I could get money for college when I got out. I enlisted from two years. After basic training and clerk typist school at Fort Polk, Louisiana and more training at Fort Benjamin Harrison (and getting married in between), I was shipped to Germany to work as a personnel management specialist, ending up in Nuremberg.

The job was to review records of enlisted soldiers who wanted to transfer to other units, apply for medals, or change their military occupational specialties (MOS) and recommend approval, or not. It was basically office work, 9 to 5, occasional 24/7 guard duty. Cool office-mates, decent supervisors, downside was bombing of Army bases, including ours, by the radical Red Army faction.

Job #12 - To earn extra money to fly my new family in to join me, I took a part-time job working at the Army base library as a clerk. Very low-key and quiet, I made enough to rent a small house off-base, buy a beat-up VW bug, take care of family necessities and travel a bit in our beat-up VW bugs and by train to Austria and Italy. Oh, and have another son. An adventurous start to our life together.

Job #13 - A couple months before my enlistment was over, my family returned to the states and I took part in a program that aimed to transition soldiers to civilian life called Project Transition (obviously). I was placed in a recreation center located in military housing, where I was the director’s helper, checking out games, equipment and supplies to what were then called ‘Army brats.’ Actually, there were pretty cool kids.

One month before my ETS (end of term of service), tragedy struck: My 16-year-old sister Ana Veronica died in an accident as she saved two young neighbors being pulled by a riptide off the coast of Ensenada.

I was flown out immediately. My family was devastated, the sadness near overwhelming. I was glad to be back, but not under these circumstances.

Job #14 - After the funeral, I reported to serve out the final three weeks of my enlistment at Fort MacArthur in San Pedro. Most of the time was spent on menial tasks like picking up trash and painting walls. Much to my dismay, I was ordered to serve on Honor Guard funeral duty, twice. Put on my dress greens and shiny shoes, get issued a weapon and three blanks, ride out to a cemetery with six other soldiers, stand at attention a short distance from the gravesite, listen for the “Ready, aim, fire” discharge the weapon three times for the 21-gun salute, listen to the mournful “Taps” while standing at attention, and finally ride home in silence back to the base.

On my last day, June 22, 1973, as I was signing my discharge papers, I was asked, “Are you sure you don’t want to reenlist?”

“No thank you, sir.”

Job #15-1973

After leaving the Army and returning home to my family in Wilmington, I was offered the job that my sister Ana Veronica worked at before she died: part-time messenger clerk at the Wilmington Public Library. I was the third one in the family with the job: first my sister Elsa when she was in high school, then Ana, then me.

Growing up, the library was like a second home for my siblings and myself. We'd walk together from our home on the East Side, give a quick 'hi' to our Tia Lola, who lived halfway between our house and the library, and spend hours on Saturdays and during the hot summer months in the coolness and quiet of the old building.

Now, I get to work there, for three hours on weekday afternoons and on Saturdays, shelving books, taking books out of the book drop, picking up books left on tables and desks, arranging books, making sure they are in order according to Dewey Decimal System, making sure the little pockets have the card with the correct name of the book, author and Dewey Decimal System number .... it's not hard, not too tedious. It was back when library's were quiet places, sometimes filled with students and patrons, other times silent and still. Besides the money, of course, the solace I found working at the library was something I needed at the time.

The job lasted a couple months, when I enrolled at Harbor Community College. But I would be back, at least once more.

Job #16 - 1973

If one job wasn’t enough, I scored a second job that summer after getting home from the Army with the City of Los Angeles through a family friend. At the time, there were plenty of summer jobs available to low-income kids through city funding, and I was assigned to the Wilmington Teen Post in my hometown. The Teen Post was a recreation center that catered to kids in the Westside of town. When I was living at home, my parent’s weren’t too keen on the Teen Post, thinking gang-bangers hung out there, which may or may not have been true.

The Teen Post hosted at least 100 summer workers, placed at various locations around the town doing custodial work, landscaping, summer camps, clerking and more. I was paired up with a Teen Post regular, Ernie Villarico, a Filipino a couple years older than me who drove a bright red Dodge van.

Our assignment: distribute time cards to all the jobs sites so that the workers could fill them out, pick them up at the end of the day and take them back to the Teen Post so that a couple workers could cross-check them. And on Fridays, take all the time cards to City Hall, where the Summer Youth Program was administered, so that the time cards could be verified, checks would be cut for all the workers, and Ernie and I would drive back the 20 miles to Wilmington and take the checks to the job sites and distribute them to the workers.

It was not a stressful job, the only problem being when a worker did not fill out their time card correctly and their check would be smaller than they anticipated. When that happened, the worker would first cuss us out and threaten to kick our collective asses, but once we had them fill out a form to correct their error, they would calm down.

A big fear was getting robbed between City Hall and the various job sites. Ernie knew all the regular and alternate routes to get us from one place to another safely. Another concern was losing the checks, something that had happened to Ernie the year before, when a stack of checks he’d placed on the center console of his van flew out the window as he and his then partner were speeding south on the Harbor Freeway.

We kept the windows closed, and nothing like that happened to up that long, hot summer.

Job #17 - 1973

In my first semester at Harbor College in Wilmington, I saw a flyer in the job board for jobs with the post office. We were doing OK with my GI Bill money and a small Cal Grant, but with the holidays coming, a little extra cash would come in handy.

I applied, took a test, and ended up getting hired as a Clerk/Carrier with the U.S. Postal Service, assigned to the Long Beach Distribution Center, a huge warehouse on the north end of the city.

On my first day, I was sent to the loading dock, the area designated for Parcel Post, the service for mail for packages and boxes, the size ranging from a standard mail package to a box large enough that can be transported in a wheelbarrow.

I worked swing shift, 3 pm to 11:30. At least five to six semi trucks showed up daily, their enormous trailers filled with mail sacks filled with packages waiting to be unloaded, opened, sorted into giant canvas basket carts, stuffed back into mail sacks and sent out to the 10 or so Long Beach post offices.

Work was non-stop. Trucks backed in, the trailer door opened, a giant portable conveyor belt would be positioned and the unloading began. The bigger, stronger workers did the unloading, we'd do the sorting, reading the zip code on the packages and placing them in the right basket truck. Once the truck was filled, we'd repack the packages into mail sacks and take them to another part of the distribution center.

It was tough, fast paced work. Packages came in all sizes and weights, mail carts filled up fast, we'd empty them quickly, then another truck came in and we'd start all over. But my co-workers were cool and time went by quickly.

One night, our boss asked for volunteers to unload the truck. I'd made friends with another young worker, a Chicana about my height (not tall).

We volunteered.

The other workers chuckled, doubtful that we could actually do it. The stacks of mailbags were heavy and unwieldy, the canvas rough to the touch, almost toppling on us as we got deeper into the trailer, where it was dark, stuffy and hot. But we kept at it until the last mail sack was loaded onto the conveyer belt. When we emerged, the other workers burst into applause. Once, however, was enough.

Parcel Post slowed down after Christmas, naturally, so I was reassigned to mail sorting area. A table held trays filled with letters. I'd take them to my station, sort them and stick them in the proper zip code slot. Boring, but it didn't last long, as I was laid off shortly thereafter.

It was good money while it lasted, enough for not only the holidays but lasting us into the next semester.

Pro tip: Don't take the packages you get directly to your home for granted. It's hard work getting them to you.

Job #18 - 1974

In my second semester at Harbor Community College in Wilmington, I joined up with a group of fellow veterans organizing to protest the Federal Government's plan to cut benefits for returning Vietnam vets.

The call to action was to set up a tent city in the middle of campus, where we camped out for several weeks, bringing attention to our cause.

I was enlisted as their communications guy, writing talking points and press releases and speaking with the media. Our classmates supported us very well.

We received a visit from Ron Kovic, the founder of the American Veterans Movement and author of "Born of the Fourth of July." We were also invited to meet with Joan Baez and her then-husband David Harris before one of her concerts and eventually had a chance to present our demands to then-administrator of Veterans Affairs Donald Johnson.

Eventually, in 1974, the "new GI Bill," formally known as the Vietnam Era Veterans' Readjustment Assistance Act, was passed in Congress. It significantly expanded educational benefits for veterans.

Harbor College hired an on-campus director of Veterans Affairs. I was brought on part-time to research employment opportunities for vets and publish a monthly newsletter called "Veterans Source," which I held until I left the school.

Job #19 - 1976

The day after I got fired from Firestone Cameras & Guns, I received a call from Newman's Photo & Sound in Carson, the shop where Harbor College had an account for camera and darkroom supplies. They asked if I'd like to come in for an interview (I'd told them that I'd graduated and needed a job before starting school in September).

As opposed to Firestone, Newman's was a legit store. One side of the shop was devoted to the latest equipment—cameras, darkroom, projection, display—while the other was devoted to stereo equipment—turntables, speakers, receivers, equalizers—but the biggest sellers were car stereos and speakers.

It was heaven, with a minimum wage salary plus commission. I got to learn about and try out lots of gear, get a discount on supplies, and connect with other photographers. The people I worked with were friendly and knowledgeable. It was a cool place to work and support my growing family as I prepped myself for the next milestone.

Job #20 - 1977 - 24 years old

In the last month of my first— and only —school year at Art Center College of Design as a photography major, I was running out of money. My only sources of income were the GI Bill and a small Cal Grant, which supported my by-then family of five.

With school days (the drive from Wilmington to Pasadena and back, class sessions, studio shoots, darkroom) stretching from 8am to 10pm every day except Sunday, there was only one recourse I could think of to bring in some extra income ... delivering the LA Times, from approximately 3 to 6:30am.

I'd done it before (See Job #8), so I knew what to expect. I'd pick up the papers at a shopping center underground garage near Peck Park in San Pedro. My route took me up into the Palos Verdes Drive East, a winding road that runs up the hillside overlooking L.A. Harbor, and then down cul-de-sacs into some well-to-do neighborhoods. I delivered about 250 papers daily, a little more on Sundays.

I didn't take long to learn the route, but there were some challenges: the streets I'd drive on were narrow and winding; my VW van is tricky to drive going up and down hills; and some of the customers demanded that the paper be on the porch instead of the driveway, adding time to the route.

Worse, I'd get harassed by the local police, not only asking why I was in those ritzy neighborhoods late at night, but also why I was driving on the wrong side of the road.

As the days got closer to the end of the school year, I was burning out...

One night, I got up from bed and drove to the distribution spot, only to find that I had arrived two hours early. I drove back home, slept another hour, then returned.

Another night, I began arguing with police. It got a little heated, but he let me go and finish my route.

Finally, one night, as I was driving down a dark, winding street, I somehow found myself at the end of the road, stopped at a dead end, the engine idling. I didn't know where I was or how I got there.

I turned the van around, drove back to the underground garage, and dumped the newspapers I hadn't delivered. Then, I told the boss that I was quitting. He shrugged, told me he'd mail my pay and walked away. And I made it home to my warm, welcoming bed.

We made it to next month.