Due to political reasons, the weather, my computer, and the .mx http suffix, I had to move the blog elsewhere. It can now be found at:
www.dudemexicobro.wordpress.com
Thanks for reading,
-Randall
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Police
I attended a party this weekend. It was a pretty standard apartment party - lots of drunk young people in not a lot of space, bottles everywhere, cigarette smoke, loud music, and angry neighbors. I was outside, casually sipping a beer, talking with some friends, when all of a sudden the all too familiar figure of an automobile with lights on top of it turned down the street we were on.
In the States, over the course of high school and college, young men like myself cultivate an extra muscle that senses police activity in one's area, and then shuts off all functions of the brain as it tries to answer the question of "what do I do now?" which almost always results in awesome descision making under these circumstances. When I saw the cop turn the corner, the beer had already been thrown over my shoulder, I had changed into running clothes, and was in the process of trying my shoes, so very ready to do something dumb. Right before that happened, however, I realized that the drinking age was 18 and I was quite alright, legally speaking. I was still worried about this rambunctious party I was at, however. It was then that one my Mexican compadres explained to me the dynamics of the social relationship between the San Pedro Police and Monterrey's young people.
Compadre: Yea man, es de, the police can't really do anything as long as you aren't drinking in the street.
Randall: Really? Dude that's awesome. So if I just stand here (on the edge of the property), I can just hang out, maybe say hey. "Hola, policia, ¿como están?"
Compadre: Kind of. But don't say hey, that's bad. Then they can come in. Because you said hey.
Randall: Oh. Buzzkill.
Compadre: Yea man, es de, one time I was having a party and things got pretty loud, so the police came around to break it up - they can do that if they get enough complaints. Since it was my house I went outside to talk to them and just explained that the party was over, that it was my house and that we were all going to go to bed. The cop said fine, and left. Fifteen minutes later he came back, and I told him again that things were quieting down, that I was just getting people out and that everyone was going to bed like, pronto. He said fine and left. He came back again some time later, maybe like fifteen or twenty minutes, and by this point I was pretty drunk, so when I went out to talk to him I said "Sorry officer, I've been trying to go to sleep, but I can't, cause you see, es de, there's a party in my house..."
In the States, over the course of high school and college, young men like myself cultivate an extra muscle that senses police activity in one's area, and then shuts off all functions of the brain as it tries to answer the question of "what do I do now?" which almost always results in awesome descision making under these circumstances. When I saw the cop turn the corner, the beer had already been thrown over my shoulder, I had changed into running clothes, and was in the process of trying my shoes, so very ready to do something dumb. Right before that happened, however, I realized that the drinking age was 18 and I was quite alright, legally speaking. I was still worried about this rambunctious party I was at, however. It was then that one my Mexican compadres explained to me the dynamics of the social relationship between the San Pedro Police and Monterrey's young people.
Compadre: Yea man, es de, the police can't really do anything as long as you aren't drinking in the street.
Randall: Really? Dude that's awesome. So if I just stand here (on the edge of the property), I can just hang out, maybe say hey. "Hola, policia, ¿como están?"
Compadre: Kind of. But don't say hey, that's bad. Then they can come in. Because you said hey.
Randall: Oh. Buzzkill.
Compadre: Yea man, es de, one time I was having a party and things got pretty loud, so the police came around to break it up - they can do that if they get enough complaints. Since it was my house I went outside to talk to them and just explained that the party was over, that it was my house and that we were all going to go to bed. The cop said fine, and left. Fifteen minutes later he came back, and I told him again that things were quieting down, that I was just getting people out and that everyone was going to bed like, pronto. He said fine and left. He came back again some time later, maybe like fifteen or twenty minutes, and by this point I was pretty drunk, so when I went out to talk to him I said "Sorry officer, I've been trying to go to sleep, but I can't, cause you see, es de, there's a party in my house..."
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Lucha Libre
Last night, in the spirit of embracing Mexican culture totally and completely, I went to a professional wrestling event. When my friend asked me if I wanted to go see "Lucha Libre", I honestly thought it was the Spanish translation of the Jack Black film "Nacho Libre". Little did I know that I was in for the experience of a lifetime.
I've seen the signs that wrestling is a big deal in Mexican culture. When you browse the merchandise being peddled on the street, there's always at least one kiosk of wrestler's masks in a myriad of colors and patterns. I almost bought one once, just for fun. To be clear, when I say wrestling, I mean WWF/WCW/WWE/WTF? style, television driven, redneck fan base, sweaty, fake, man on man action inside a boxing ring with a softer floor and microphones to amplify the sound of man hitting mat. Not to be sexist, I also mean the kind with the occasional testosterone-saturated woman with fighting under a name like Rain or Luscious Lisa Fury.
We took a taxi to the Monterrey Arena, a large structure not unlike Phillips Arena in Atlanta, slightly smaller, but with events that are just as important (e.g. the upcoming Rhianna concert). We stopped and when I was halfway out the door, Andrea chimed in from the back seat, "oh no, I'm sorry, not the Arena de Monterrey, the Colisuem de Monterrey. " I got back in the cab and five minutes later we rolled up to a shabby looking building in quite the un-inviting neighborhood where the Lucha Libre was to take place.
I paid about five bucks (worth every peso) for a ticket and nervously waited for the rest of the group to enter. We arrived late (as everyone does for everything in Mexico) so when I walked in the lucha was in full force. I imagine that it was the exact same as being ringside at an HBO featured world title boxing match, only that the HBO was the live feed to the in house not-quite-so-jumbotron, the world class boxers were pretty normal looking Mexican dudes aging from 20-45, and ringside was more or less the only seating option. These warriors adorned garments ranging from almost semi-professional grade to blatantly homemade. Some examples include sparkly white body suit, red man-capris with skin tight red shirt (almost the same shade, but not quite), black body suit with flames and matching mask, Mexican flag themed sparkly suit, dude dressed like Jason - mask included, and black body suit complete with neon accessories such as hearts, skulls, and letters that read "Sex Machine" on the rear. Obviously the last one was my favorite.
We had an extremely good time yelling all kinds of things from the close proximity of the stands and the wrestlers were surprisingly interactive. Once I ran out of Spanish trash to talk (about 2 sayings into things...) I switched to English language insults like "The red guy failed kindergarten! TWICE." (Credit: Austing Grieb). Somehow, our antics garnered the attention of some people making a short video to air on Mexican cable TV this coming saturday, and they deemed it a good idea to interview us. In response to the question "how is lucha libre different from wrestling in America?" I rambled, in broken Spanish, something along the lines of "In America its just for television, but here it seems to be more a way of life." And I meant it.
In conclusion, taking into account all the sporting events I've been to in my life - the Georgia Blackout, the Thrashers, the Atlanta Knights, The 1996 Paralympic track and field finals - I must say that this was easily the best night of sport I have ever experienced.
I've seen the signs that wrestling is a big deal in Mexican culture. When you browse the merchandise being peddled on the street, there's always at least one kiosk of wrestler's masks in a myriad of colors and patterns. I almost bought one once, just for fun. To be clear, when I say wrestling, I mean WWF/WCW/WWE/WTF? style, television driven, redneck fan base, sweaty, fake, man on man action inside a boxing ring with a softer floor and microphones to amplify the sound of man hitting mat. Not to be sexist, I also mean the kind with the occasional testosterone-saturated woman with fighting under a name like Rain or Luscious Lisa Fury.
We took a taxi to the Monterrey Arena, a large structure not unlike Phillips Arena in Atlanta, slightly smaller, but with events that are just as important (e.g. the upcoming Rhianna concert). We stopped and when I was halfway out the door, Andrea chimed in from the back seat, "oh no, I'm sorry, not the Arena de Monterrey, the Colisuem de Monterrey. " I got back in the cab and five minutes later we rolled up to a shabby looking building in quite the un-inviting neighborhood where the Lucha Libre was to take place.
I paid about five bucks (worth every peso) for a ticket and nervously waited for the rest of the group to enter. We arrived late (as everyone does for everything in Mexico) so when I walked in the lucha was in full force. I imagine that it was the exact same as being ringside at an HBO featured world title boxing match, only that the HBO was the live feed to the in house not-quite-so-jumbotron, the world class boxers were pretty normal looking Mexican dudes aging from 20-45, and ringside was more or less the only seating option. These warriors adorned garments ranging from almost semi-professional grade to blatantly homemade. Some examples include sparkly white body suit, red man-capris with skin tight red shirt (almost the same shade, but not quite), black body suit with flames and matching mask, Mexican flag themed sparkly suit, dude dressed like Jason - mask included, and black body suit complete with neon accessories such as hearts, skulls, and letters that read "Sex Machine" on the rear. Obviously the last one was my favorite.
We had an extremely good time yelling all kinds of things from the close proximity of the stands and the wrestlers were surprisingly interactive. Once I ran out of Spanish trash to talk (about 2 sayings into things...) I switched to English language insults like "The red guy failed kindergarten! TWICE." (Credit: Austing Grieb). Somehow, our antics garnered the attention of some people making a short video to air on Mexican cable TV this coming saturday, and they deemed it a good idea to interview us. In response to the question "how is lucha libre different from wrestling in America?" I rambled, in broken Spanish, something along the lines of "In America its just for television, but here it seems to be more a way of life." And I meant it.
In conclusion, taking into account all the sporting events I've been to in my life - the Georgia Blackout, the Thrashers, the Atlanta Knights, The 1996 Paralympic track and field finals - I must say that this was easily the best night of sport I have ever experienced.
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