Wednesday, October 31, 2012



This post is me writing recently, as in right now. No diary. This is me now.

I just wanted you to know that while I am working on transcribing my first diary from 2002 into posts on this blog I am currently starting to write in my brand new 11th book.

This is what it looks like:

Pretty sweet, right?

Ok. Back to the diaries now.

Sunday, October 28, 2012

February 15th, 2002

I'm at a really small dirt bar called The Maple Room right now drinking with my older brother and listening to some drunk guy sing "Friends In Low Places".

Welcome to California, right?

See, I call this place "the dirt bar" because it's the bar equivalent of the crappy mall in Malrats, what one character lovingly calls the dirt mall. Well, this right here is the dirt bar.

The people are nice. They're nice enough, I guess.

I am exhausted.

See, bars close at 1am in Arizona. In California they close at 2am. A-a-a-a-a-and there's a one hour difference between Arizona and California now. So, technically, to me this bar closes at three am. And I am still exhausted from the 20-something hours that it took to get here. But my brother said I HAD to come to this place. The people are nice and they have karaoke most nights. Still, it's almost midnight for me right now.

So here we are.

What's with me and writing near midnight?

Let me tell you why this experience is freaking me out: I absolutely cannot believe how much this places looks like the little dirt bar that we used to go to back in Glendale when we all lived there and life was grand. That crappy hole on the ground on like 35th and Union Hills right next to the bowling alley. THAT crappy place looked just like THIS place! Seriously, the only difference is that here the bar is against the left side instead of the right side. Other than that its the same sad faces singing the same sad songs.

What is with my brother and dirtbars?

Fuck this place.

I want to sing a metal version of Britney Spears. Knock these fucks on their asses.

Wednesday, October 24, 2012

February 14th, 2002

It's Valentines Day and I just left my fiance to go drive in a car with my dad. I'm moving. I'm moving from Arizona to California. And I'm leaving my fiance in Arizona.

Wow. Happy Valentine's Day, right?

So it's almost midnight right now and my dad and I are almost past Los Angeles. We're trying to drive around L.A. because even though we're driving at 11:45 at night we just don't want to drive thru all that mess. Screw L.A.-that's what we think.

Look at that. I'm saying "we" like I'm doing some of the driving. NOOOOOO way! No driving for me. I'm 25 years old, sure, but my father would NEVER allow me to drive him somewhere, not in a billion years. Neeeeever. So I'm just sitting here in the complete darkness, no music, just the darkness and the passing desert.

But this isn't all boredom. My dad has his laptop here. It's connected to the lighter and he has this new type of software that shows us where we are and where we're going. It's an amazing toy to lay with! I've honestly never seen anything like it! The thing even shows you what restaurants and shops and places are on the road around you. That's how we got KFC and Starbucks on the road! It's amazing!

So I've pretty much been focusing on this map thing since it got too dark to read. I mean, honestly, it's either doing this or its being forced to talk to my dad. And I already feel like a loser because of all this.

Kicked out of my house. Leaving my fiance in another state. Switching stores with my job. Moving out of the state for the first time. Leaving everything I have in my in-laws garage, the in-laws that never loved me in the first damn place. Moving in with my parents until I get settled in. I feel like such a failure. I feel like I'm still a kid. Here I am, I failed again,and now my daddy is picking me up and cradling me like the baby I am.

I also feel like I'm running away, you know, away from my life and from my problems, from my dull job, from my racist father-in-law who wants me dead, from my brother's problems with the law, from the state which bore me, and from the woman that I want to spend the rest of my life with.

But that's all negative thinking.

Remember, this isn't a good-bye. That's what I said to her when I left today. No good-byes. Just a see you later. Because this is just a different sort of beginning for me and for us both. I'm scared, sure. But I have hope. California will be great. Work will be great. I will be great here. And soon Debby and I will be living somewhere by the beach for the rest of our lives together.

I'm sure of it.


Gonna try and sleep now.

Monday, October 1, 2012


My name is Steve Galindo.

Wait, shit, let me start over.

My name is Esteban Christian Galindo.

It's a deeply Latino name and it's pretty much the only thing that makes me a Mexican besides my brown skin. And maybe my mustache. When my parents left Mexico they LEFT Mexico! I was never taught Spanish. I know nothing about Latino culture. I hate Mexican food. I can't eat anything spicy.

When people ask me what my nationality is, I usually say American. Sadly, though, people usually just laugh and say "No, really."

Right now as I write this I am a 35 year old man with three kids, a difficult job, and a sometimes happy and sometimes failing marriage. I sometimes feel like I am lost in life, utterly confused, and all I want to know is how the hell I got here. How did I go from being a reckless, careless guy to a father with responsibilities and ar payments and normal shit like that?

That's where "the books" come in...

These are them, the books, and, as the title suggests, these are in fact "The Private Diaries Of Steve Galindo."

I have been writing in these books since 2002. I carry them everywhere, write in them all the time, and I use them to vent my frustrations and chronicle all the successes and failures in my life. And right now I am writing in my 11th book. Pretty impressive, right? That's a lot of life chronicled right there.

And now I am going to put my private diaries right here, all of them, in the hopes that I can somehow find out how the hell I became who I am.

Wish me luck.