A week-long, city-wide party funded by drug money is just as wild as it sounds. ATVs with 22" Hummer wheels. Lifted trucks with suicide doors. Juniors (the rich-as-sin children of narcos) paying a 10-piece band the equivalent of a week's pay just so they can dance with their girlfriends in the middle of a crowded intersection, while their armed entourages block traffic. Puke, piss and trash everywhere. Mexican supermodels on the arm of every distant relative of a known narcotraficante. Uzi-armed police quietly looking on as people drive fast and drunk into crowds. The cops don't do much beyond directing traffic, in fear of pissing off the wrong junior from Culiacan. Unlike big debauches in the States, I didn't witness a single fight, probably because everyone knows that there's at least a few guns in every crowd. And everyone, everyone was wearing matching Ed Hardy hats, shirts and shorts.
______________
I was walking home the last night of the party at 6 AM, navigating my way around an impromptu lake in the middle of the street when some drunk junior asshole honked his horn and came roaring past in his truck, creating a tidal wave that crashed right onto me, soaking me from head to toe. I was paralyzed with disgust, until the smell kicked in and I realized that this street-lake was actually composed not of water but of piss, beer and god knows what else. I hailed the first cab back to my place. While I was getting in the cab and driving off, I saw the same junior dick making another lap of the lake to spray someone else, or maybe just to hydroplane for pure sport. I was shaking with rage by the time I got home to take a shower. It gave me a twisted, sadistic comfort to think that this schmuck lives everyday in fear of his father or himself dying in a flurry of drug violence. There is justice in the world.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
MexiFungus: It's not as fun as it sounds
As far as public service announcements (PSAs), Mexico wins. There's a billboard PSA here for maternal health checkups that's just a huge picture of a woman breastfeeding, nipple and all. What's more, the drunk driving PSAs far surpass their American counterparts. Forget a fucking billboard! The Mexican authorities actually just towed a mangled car into the middle of a crowded intersection and left it there, with a sign that says, "Drinking and driving don't mix." And, saying this car looked "mangled" doesn't really do it justice; it looked like it was the centerpiece at a Transformers gangbang.
_____________
So I developed my first MexiRash about a week ago. Yup, exactly where you think it is. I was hoping it'd go away, but after a week of it getting worse and worse I said, "Fuck it," and walked into a doctor's office. He said I had hongos from wearing a wet swimsuit all day for a few days (I had a string of beach days). I had to think of what hongos was, and then I remembered that it's the word for mushrooms. I didn't like the thought of growing mushrooms on my skin, so I bought all the medications he suggested. One doctor's visit, one tube of antibiotic cream, one package of antibiotic pills: US$8.00. There is something seriously wrong with the American medical system.
In related news, this MexiRash really makes me feel like one of the people, ya know?
_____________
Speaking of bodily functions, Mexicans are way O.K. with just putting it all out in public. It's not uncommon to smell a fart in a bar, and for some cute girl to raise her hand and admit it was her. Weird.
I was chatting a girl up in a bar as the place was closing. My odds felt good, and my buddies were working on her friends. I suggested that we all go to the beach, to which she said, "O.K., that's great, but I can't go swimming because I'm on my period." I was taken aback because I know that's not a good excuse, and that is also not something an American guy is accustomed to hearing within a couple minutes of conversation with a girl.
_____________
So I developed my first MexiRash about a week ago. Yup, exactly where you think it is. I was hoping it'd go away, but after a week of it getting worse and worse I said, "Fuck it," and walked into a doctor's office. He said I had hongos from wearing a wet swimsuit all day for a few days (I had a string of beach days). I had to think of what hongos was, and then I remembered that it's the word for mushrooms. I didn't like the thought of growing mushrooms on my skin, so I bought all the medications he suggested. One doctor's visit, one tube of antibiotic cream, one package of antibiotic pills: US$8.00. There is something seriously wrong with the American medical system.
In related news, this MexiRash really makes me feel like one of the people, ya know?
_____________
Speaking of bodily functions, Mexicans are way O.K. with just putting it all out in public. It's not uncommon to smell a fart in a bar, and for some cute girl to raise her hand and admit it was her. Weird.
I was chatting a girl up in a bar as the place was closing. My odds felt good, and my buddies were working on her friends. I suggested that we all go to the beach, to which she said, "O.K., that's great, but I can't go swimming because I'm on my period." I was taken aback because I know that's not a good excuse, and that is also not something an American guy is accustomed to hearing within a couple minutes of conversation with a girl.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Lions and tigers and...midgets?
So I awake from a nap to hear the sound of a pre-recorded lion roar—the kind you hear in movies—coming from outside my window. I'm already drafting the angry "Dear Mexico" letter in my head by the time I open my drapes to see what abomination just woke me up from my nap.
I'm immediately startled to see that the noise was not pre-recorded but was, in fact, a real motherfucking LION being wheeled in front of my house in a tiny cage. The cage was on a flatbed trailer next to other cages filled with pumas, tigers, monkeys and camels. Three semi-trucks' worth of cages crawled slowly through my front yard. Bookending these animal trucks were boxtrucks atop which stood bevvies of scantily clad women. I thought maybe they were representing the Mexican Bedazzler conglomerate, because they had seemingly been shotgun-sprayed with rhinestones and glitter. Someone was barking shit over a loudspeaker over and over—it was at this time I really wished my Spanish were better so I could figure out what the fuck was going on.
The coup-de-grace, you ask? Well, that must have been the final semi-truck, which had a sign on the side that said Circo Norteamericano (North American Circus). On the flat bed of this truck was a large cage, from which issued forth the most tremendous chorus of growls and barks. Jaw dropped in amazement, I saw a cage jam-packed with midgets in onesies, yelping and yowling like ravenous beasts, pawing at the air with imaginary claws.
Dear Mexico...
___________________
I've been holding onto cabs and trucks while I'm riding my bike, just to save me all that pedaling. Yesterday I had my first "issue" with this practice.
I should have realized when the cabbie looked at me through his rear-view mirror with a maniacal grin that he was up to no good. He switched out of the curbside lane and, moving into the fast lane—usually used only by non-cabs—he picked up the speed to about 25 mph. While this is no speed record, it's really fucking fast to be holding onto a wobbly bike with one hand. Then I saw the truck.
Yes, the truck. The cabbie was trying to scrape me on the side of a Chevy pickup truck which he was about to pass on the left. Two seconds later, there I was smack dab in the middle between a truck and a cab, with two feet of space in which to maneuver one-handedly at 25 mph. Somehow, I managed to not hit the truck as we slid past it, and once in front of the truck I let go of the cab, told the cabbie in Spanish to go fuck his mother, and then coasted to the curb with my heart pounding in my throat and the adrenaline making me dizzy. This cabbie is the first genuinely evil man I have come across in my 5 weeks in Mexico.
___________________
While the casinos here are completely without card, dice or table games of any sort—therefore rendering them shitty wastes of time—they are not without their perks. Just as with casinos in the States, you get waiters taking free drink orders. However, unlike in the States, they also give you bowls of pork rinds covered in hot sauce. In addition, if you put a cigarette in your mouth and wait about ten seconds, an employee will come light it for you. Now that's service!
I'm immediately startled to see that the noise was not pre-recorded but was, in fact, a real motherfucking LION being wheeled in front of my house in a tiny cage. The cage was on a flatbed trailer next to other cages filled with pumas, tigers, monkeys and camels. Three semi-trucks' worth of cages crawled slowly through my front yard. Bookending these animal trucks were boxtrucks atop which stood bevvies of scantily clad women. I thought maybe they were representing the Mexican Bedazzler conglomerate, because they had seemingly been shotgun-sprayed with rhinestones and glitter. Someone was barking shit over a loudspeaker over and over—it was at this time I really wished my Spanish were better so I could figure out what the fuck was going on.
The coup-de-grace, you ask? Well, that must have been the final semi-truck, which had a sign on the side that said Circo Norteamericano (North American Circus). On the flat bed of this truck was a large cage, from which issued forth the most tremendous chorus of growls and barks. Jaw dropped in amazement, I saw a cage jam-packed with midgets in onesies, yelping and yowling like ravenous beasts, pawing at the air with imaginary claws.
Dear Mexico...
___________________
I've been holding onto cabs and trucks while I'm riding my bike, just to save me all that pedaling. Yesterday I had my first "issue" with this practice.
I should have realized when the cabbie looked at me through his rear-view mirror with a maniacal grin that he was up to no good. He switched out of the curbside lane and, moving into the fast lane—usually used only by non-cabs—he picked up the speed to about 25 mph. While this is no speed record, it's really fucking fast to be holding onto a wobbly bike with one hand. Then I saw the truck.
Yes, the truck. The cabbie was trying to scrape me on the side of a Chevy pickup truck which he was about to pass on the left. Two seconds later, there I was smack dab in the middle between a truck and a cab, with two feet of space in which to maneuver one-handedly at 25 mph. Somehow, I managed to not hit the truck as we slid past it, and once in front of the truck I let go of the cab, told the cabbie in Spanish to go fuck his mother, and then coasted to the curb with my heart pounding in my throat and the adrenaline making me dizzy. This cabbie is the first genuinely evil man I have come across in my 5 weeks in Mexico.
___________________
While the casinos here are completely without card, dice or table games of any sort—therefore rendering them shitty wastes of time—they are not without their perks. Just as with casinos in the States, you get waiters taking free drink orders. However, unlike in the States, they also give you bowls of pork rinds covered in hot sauce. In addition, if you put a cigarette in your mouth and wait about ten seconds, an employee will come light it for you. Now that's service!
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
MexiButts 101 & the Bizarre World of the Mexican Sex Trade
Heard over the loudspeaker at a strip club one Friday night:
Mr. Lopez Rubio, Mr. Lopez Rubio, your wife is making a scene at the front door of the club. She's crying and hysterical, and she knows you're here because she found your car outside. Please go deal with her, she's scaring away the customers. What? What's that? Oh, oh God. Mr. Lopez Rubio, she brought your children with her. She says they're not leaving until you come outside.
___________________
A vagrant came up to me while I was using my computer outside a coffee shop one night. He was clearly trying to rob me, but I couldn't understand exactly what he was saying or threatening. I just kept saying, "Huh?"
He eventually dumbed it down thusly: "I want your computer, yours, this one right here."
But I wouldn't budge, "Huh? Talk slower please." After a couple minutes of this, he gave up and walked away, quite frustrated. I guess there's one benefit to being behind in my Spanish classes.
___________________
American women have nothing, nothing on MexiWomen. Some scientist down here must be tinkering with human genetics, because everywhere you look there are women with impossibly narrow waists, stork-like stilts for legs, behemoth breasts and butts, oh, their butts. It's a good thing I'll be going to school in East LA for the next four years of my life.
___________________
Speaking of MexiButts, there's a tradition here that's half party game and half rite of passage. It starts with MexiMen setting their beer bottles on their girlfriends' butts while the girls are standing upright. The girlfriends line up at a starting line and see how far they can walk without the beer bottles falling off their butt-shelves. Whoever gets the farthest is seen as the most desirable mate, and her boyfriend is more likely to ask for her hand in marriage. If your girlfriend performs particularly bad at the game, she's given a second chance at the starting line with another beer. If she does really poorly twice in a row, the man is encouraged to cheat on her.
___________________
Taxicab drivers earn a commission that's equivalent to a full day's pay, just for taking you to a brothel.
___________________
There's a special kind of taxicab in Mazatlan that doesn't exist anywhere else in Mexico. It's a cross between a golf cart and an African safari vehicle. Probably due to their open-air construction, they're called pulmonias, the Spanish word for pneumonia. I like to hold on to them while I'm riding my bike so I don't have to pedal. The drivers are pretty good-natured about this, even though they look at me like I have tits growing out of my eyesockets.
Mr. Lopez Rubio, Mr. Lopez Rubio, your wife is making a scene at the front door of the club. She's crying and hysterical, and she knows you're here because she found your car outside. Please go deal with her, she's scaring away the customers. What? What's that? Oh, oh God. Mr. Lopez Rubio, she brought your children with her. She says they're not leaving until you come outside.
___________________
A vagrant came up to me while I was using my computer outside a coffee shop one night. He was clearly trying to rob me, but I couldn't understand exactly what he was saying or threatening. I just kept saying, "Huh?"
He eventually dumbed it down thusly: "I want your computer, yours, this one right here."
But I wouldn't budge, "Huh? Talk slower please." After a couple minutes of this, he gave up and walked away, quite frustrated. I guess there's one benefit to being behind in my Spanish classes.
___________________
American women have nothing, nothing on MexiWomen. Some scientist down here must be tinkering with human genetics, because everywhere you look there are women with impossibly narrow waists, stork-like stilts for legs, behemoth breasts and butts, oh, their butts. It's a good thing I'll be going to school in East LA for the next four years of my life.
___________________
Speaking of MexiButts, there's a tradition here that's half party game and half rite of passage. It starts with MexiMen setting their beer bottles on their girlfriends' butts while the girls are standing upright. The girlfriends line up at a starting line and see how far they can walk without the beer bottles falling off their butt-shelves. Whoever gets the farthest is seen as the most desirable mate, and her boyfriend is more likely to ask for her hand in marriage. If your girlfriend performs particularly bad at the game, she's given a second chance at the starting line with another beer. If she does really poorly twice in a row, the man is encouraged to cheat on her.
___________________
Taxicab drivers earn a commission that's equivalent to a full day's pay, just for taking you to a brothel.
___________________
There's a special kind of taxicab in Mazatlan that doesn't exist anywhere else in Mexico. It's a cross between a golf cart and an African safari vehicle. Probably due to their open-air construction, they're called pulmonias, the Spanish word for pneumonia. I like to hold on to them while I'm riding my bike so I don't have to pedal. The drivers are pretty good-natured about this, even though they look at me like I have tits growing out of my eyesockets.
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