a scantily clad pirate wrestler pins her spike-collaredopponent to the mat while an ululatingmass of sweat-soaked spectators chantTHIS IS REAL! THIS IS REAL! THIS IS REAL!until I almost believe it. I’ve been trying to be morecultured lately. I’ve been trying to take lessfor granted. All summer, I break the bankto see HoodSlam, Monster Jam, and stadiumsof teams that are all flying away. When did the Baybecome a centrifuge? Yes, I know the universehas flung itself out since the start, a spiralsmear of decay, but I never thought the lawof entropy would act so fast, on the scale of cityblocks in the blink-time of our youth. The lights,red or green, mean nothing anymore. Everyone justhurtles through on their way from one hit-and-runto another. Whenever I come home, I runonly into the people I want mostto avoid. Downtown is a nightmare. Last nightafter drinks at Lucky 13, I dreamt of fireengulfing my favorite taco truck. So today, my brothersand I buy dos de lengua y dos de buche each,con todo. Siempre con todo. We eat too fast aftersmoking on the hoods of our cars across the waterfrom the port cranes we grew up callingthe Dinos. Salsa-pricked, our poresopen their mouths to exhale beadsof dew, all salt and translucenttrickle under cranelight, insisting:this, too, is real.