Mother's Day, denim, and leather.

  

Growing up in a musical house really opened me up to new sounds and made me appreciate the work my father does. I grew up listening to everything from classical and opera to Bee Gees and Eric Clapton to quinceanera music. My father always made sure that we had tickets to every big artist that came to the city. Carlos Santana, Rod Steward, Paul McCartney.. I appreciated my father's passion for music, and the great seats we always got to see great artists that I didn't care for. After years of studying the greats and classics, I developed my own taste: Guns n Roses, a bit of Metallica, some early Sheryl Crow. I was obsessed with Janis Joplin and Nina Simone and one of the perks of my father being a musician was the fact that we had recording equipment at home so I would take lyrics from Beatles songs and mix them with music from November Rain and Aerosmith's "crazy". Seeing Liv Tyler dance on a pole for the video really inspired me to create my own dance routines to my Beatles mashups.

It was in the early 90's that a deity exploded onto the scene and along with her my ability to make reasonable choices disappeared. Her name was Alejandra Guzman. For those of us that have been faithful from the beginning she is simply Ale. Ale was a rich girl turned dancer turned singer for no other reason than she was the daughter of one of Mexico's most famous actresses,  and her father was a teen sensation back in the 60's. My grandma still thinks he is hot.

The Guzmans were all kinds of fucked up. The youngest daughter committed suicide by driving her Porsche as fast as it would go straight into a concrete wall. The other sister was a failed actress with a drug problem, and became famous just because she tried but not because of her work. Ale was the crown jewel. She would make the rounds at the cities hottest spots with politician's sons as arm candy and pictures of her doing inexplicable amounts of cocaine were always on the pages of TV notas (the mexi Us Weekly). Clearly it was just a matter of time before she reached icon status in my life. Almost a mentor.

My father did not understand my obsession, but respected it nonetheless. Even when I would try to emulate her drunk poses as she was stumbling out of a club, my family would just look the other way and pretend that it didn't happen. Secretly they were just jealous that I did the poses so well. I learned every song and trained my voice to sound just like she did (which was a mix between rough-night-morning-after and 30 years of smoking cigs....possibly crack) In other words, I was ready to go to one of her concerts and showcase my hard work and commitment.  As odd as it may sound, picking a cocaine addict party girl as a role model was one of the healthiest things I had done in a while and my father supported this by getting some much sought after Ale tickets. As soon as I got them in my hand I knew exactly who I was going to take with me. I ran straight to my room and rummaged through my sterling silver cigar box (a gift to my dad from one of his clients) where I kept trinkets and letters and early teen shit. There it was, a postcard I had received from my mother weeks before "Greetings from Richmond!" it read. I still do not know what my mother was doing in Virginia and out of respect I never asked. Her new number in the city was on it, no address however (I wonder where I get my fear of commitment and closed off nature from).

Mom, I have tickets to see Alejandra!! please come with me. "Okay, I will pick you up but I don't want to come in, just come out when I get there". What to wear? what to wear?!! Duh, acid wash denim with a rip right under the right ass cheek, black steel toe boots, white t-shirt, lots of bracelets. Its all in the accessories.

The concert was amazing. I had been to many concerts but this was the first time I was seeing someone I actually liked, and she did not disappoint. Most importantly, I saw a side of my mother I have not seen in a long time. During one of the slow sets, Ale sang a song she wrote while she was pregnant with her daughter (whom also tried to commit suicide a few years ago. She went to rehab and now lives in Miami). In the song, she sings about how she wondered what color her eyes would be and what her voice would sound like. Right there in the middle of the song, standing in a crowd of thousands, my mother began to cry. She hugged me and told me she loved me. She also apologized for not knowing all the songs but reassured me that she would sing if she knew the lyrics. I hugged her back and I said "today is Mother's day. I didn't forget".

And there in the middle of Auditorio Nacional, a coke head with a raspy voice dressed head to toe in leather brought my mother and I back together.

Happy mother's day, Mamma Cortes.

Hood dreams and expensive shoes.

Dreams do not always come true, that does not by any means imply that I would not try to make them happen.

It was during one of my Mother's trial separations- and by that I mean, from the whole family. We didn't see her for over a year- that I found myself living with my grandparents. Living with them was always a good time, I was the oldest of the grandchildren and the most troubled and I certainly took advantage of that. Anything I wanted, whenever I wanted it. My grandma was always willing to put up with my ridiculous requests. Weather out of love or pity, since I often found myself parent-less.

My grandma was an accountant and worked basically all day. My grandpa was in sales and his job required extensive travel so we only saw him for a week out of the month. My two uncles were still young and lived at home, but they were certified man sluts and often spent the nigh with random girls, smoking Marlboro reds. So needless to say I had plenty of alone time. This lack of parental supervision or parents at all, gave me ample TV time.

I remember it clearly and unmistakeably accurate. During one of my Saturday viewings I came across a show that unknowingly would change the course of my life as I knew it. Mi Barrio! translation: My hood! This Saturday afternoon extravaganza was able to incorporate every aspect of a life I never knew I wanted. This show was basically a block party that a well known Mexican network would put on every week. Each week they would go to a different run down, gritty, real Mexi hood; they would bring musicians and TV personalities and close down a few blocks, brought food and drink and the whole thing was like a quinceanera on steroids. I had finally found the missing piece in my life. 

To this day I do not know why I am drawn to the tackiness of it all. I figured the Mexican half is well rooted in me. Every week I would watch in awe and stare at the television. The dancing, the tacky music and outfits, the people, the garbage, the run down streets and laundry hanging on roof tops and windows. These were things that lured me. I wanted to be there. I wanted to be on television dancing and laughing as I stuffed taquitos in my mouth and drink horchata. I wanted to sing along with Los Bukis and wear bright colored mismatching garments bought at the public market, hopefully second hand. I had to come up with a plan. If I wanted to be hood I would have to move and if I have learned anything from my Mother is how to be resourceful so I called my dad. My dad's parents lived in a very different area than my mother's parents, the neighborhood was community oriented, local merchants and flea markets, a little trash here and there, cholas and beat up cars. oh, and a church right across the street. I was never more certain that this was Mi Barrio.

In order to be hood I had a few things to learn and my plan was flawless. I took some of my NOT hard earned money and went down to the subway station, which was only 2 blocks from my grandma's walk up. I purchased boot leg cassette tapes from "my" local vendor Manuel (he always had the latest and Sundays were 2 for $5 pesos day). If I wanted to be authentic I would have to learn the lyrics to a whole new genre of music and bands that were not allowed at home (except on Mi Barrio Saturdays, which my grandma detested). I really trained hard and in no time I knew all the lyrics to Los Temerarios, Los Tigres del norte, Los Bukis, etc. If it was barrio and had a beat, I knew it. The next step was to tell my grandma that I wanted to move to my paternal grandparents home. When I asked, she fearfully asked why. All I said was: "I want to be on Mi Barrio!" She was mortified. This is the woman who would never eat food that cannot be eaten with utensils. This was the woman who would never drink nor smoke because its not lady like. This was the woman who taught me table manners, such as how to place your utensils at a restaurant in order to show weather you enjoyed your meal or not. I had fallen from Italian heaven and blue blood status, I could tell by the look in her eyes all she could see was my head stone and it read something like this: "Here lyes Joel whom refused the Cortes throne and became hood".

I moved in with my other grandparents in hopes to become hood royalty. Having given up the Cortes status and the beautiful palm tree lined streets where horchata would never be served, I became the mere  embodiment of mi barrio. I went to the flea market on the weekends and bought my new second hand wardrobe. Everything I had had been previously owned and possibly urinated on by someone who I would never meet nor wanted to. I became a regular at the corner store where the owner gave me a nick name which I actually do not remember and changed schools, a bonafied hood school with graffiti on the walls. My dream was becoming a reality, all I needed was for Mi Barrio to answer the letters that I had sent. In each one I would describe how authentic my barrio was. I would talk about my cousin's qunceanera and how she was actually pregnant already when it took place. I would talk about the stray dogs roaming around the streets, and the homeless dudes that would drink everclear and pass out on the church steps. I would describe in detail what I would wear to the taping (just in case they had their own stylist, I wanted them to know what I had available). 

Sadly, Mi Barrio never replied. I was devastated for weeks, I had put in so much work into it and all I had left were second hand clothes and a full repertoire of tacky songs that I memorized. I expressed my disappointment to my aunt Ana as she was the only constant in my life. Ana was the youngest daughter and therefore the caretaker to my grandparents until death. She lived at the house as well, and upon experiencing my devastation over Mi Barrio she took action. She always detested my "hood" ensembles so she took me shopping. After a whole day of extravagance, the only thing I remember is the beautiful blue suede pumps she got at Gucci. On our way home as we walked from the metro station to the house we stopped right at the end of the block, she looked at me and said "We may be in the hood, but child, we are expensive".

Blue suede never looked better.

Novela Royalty.

My mother has always been ahead of the times, weather calculated or simply Maybeline-born-with-it, she is always ahead of the trends. Back in the late 80's after having conquered the world of banking and fitness, and birth giving, she decided to become a television star. You see, my mother is ever changing and when she decides to make changes its all or nothing.

Unlike the starlets of the day, she was not about to do the usual "casting couch"in order to get in. Nope, not her. She devised a plan so well orchestrated you'd think she was a Russian spy. Never one to burn bridges she uses her resources well and her Rolodex at the time was as intriguing as Heidi Fleiss's black book. During her bank manager days (and not by mistake) she took over a branch in one of Mexico City's most affluent areas. TV stars, old money, new money, CEOs, the type of people who give Chanel jewelry and bottles of Dom for Christmas to their banker/financial advisor -and so they did-. This gave her everyday contact with agents, actors, managers and thus the said Rolodex became to be.

The first step in her plan was to contact her uncle Quito. Quito was my grandmother's only remaining sibling. He looks like Salvador Dali with a couple of extra pounds, intimidating as hell and a man of VERY few words. More importantly, Quito at the time owned a very influential/scandalous newspaper in Monterey. His newspaper was known for exposing the truth and dirty laundry of politicians, lawyers, judges and the occasional coke overdose. L.A. Confidential Mexi style. Quito agreed to give my mother a press pass on the sole condition that she would always wear high heel shoes to the events. Whatever, between the press pass and the million dollar Rolodex the heels were just the beginning.

Her first assignment was to cover the Palmas de Oro awards. Sort of like the Latin Oscars but with more sequence. Way before Angelina was sucking on her brother's face at the Oscars, my mother took her role as "scandal" journalist very seriously and took her brother as her date.  I remember it all so well, the gold lame dress, the gold pumps, the coiffed do, the accessories -which I picked, and I'm never wrong-. The evening was just what she had planned and TV stardom was within reach. Soon after, the calls began. She got parts in numerous soaps and TV ads, she even tried to get me into a few commercials. At first it was exciting but once at the casting calls I found it hard to act excited about laundry detergent or a hypoallergenic broom. In any case, her brief TV career was great. I got front row seats to the hottest shows and the not so hot such as Disney on Ice, a show nonetheless. I got to see my mother on TV which got me brag rights at school, but most important, I got to see her realize one of her dreams and that is priceless like MasterCard.

Whenever I bring it up she quickly changes the subject. Very modest and always a lady. However, I will take credit and forever be Novela Royalty (by proxy).

Glamorous vandalism

My father often reminded me to "honor" my name. Mainly because in English it translates to "courteous". I say he reminded me often because often I was an asshole. I didn't mean to be or at least not all the time. 

As a teen I split my schooling between public schools in the USA and private schools in Mexico, mainly because I couldn't help throwing a tantrum mid semester and telling my mother that my tongue was too tired to speak English and that it would be best to speak Spanish for a while as to keep it fresh, sort of like muscle memory. I would then proceed to phone my father's travel agent and in no time I was back in the mother land. My father would then have to pull strings and pay thousands to find a school that would agree to take a troubled teen in the middle of the semester. It was during one of these jet-set schooling trips that I met what I can only call perfection. Her name was Dayana and she had all the right traits to become the next Courtney Love (sigh). She was careless, dark, smoked, and got into fights with other girls out on the sidewalk before walking into first period.

The school had a big open area from where on the far side the actual building stood 3 stories high. All the classrooms faced the huge courtyard, reminiscent of a Motel 6 where all the rooms look out to the parking lot filled with Buicks, and Chevys. On one occasion the director's assistant asked for the whole student body to be out in the courtyard for an important announcement. We were asked to form straight lines by grade, gender and height going from short to tall at the very back. Dayana immediately ran towards me yelling that this was starting to look like a concentration camp and that it was our duty to beat people up and break free. I told her to relax. As we all stood in the sun by height and gender and so on, a tall skinny man in a grey suit came out from one of the classrooms on the first floor, he had a microphone and over the P. A system he proclaimed to be Arturo, the new director. At first we thought it was rather funny that a man who would ask for attention such as forming rows of people would only go by a first name but soon we found out that he was actually a dick and Dayana queen bee wanted him out.

Dayana and two other classmates decided to take action and show Arturo that our school was not to be messed with. She had created a whole strategy to scare him out, and the first step was to graffiti school walls with eloquent words like "pig", "out", and "nefarious" which was my contribution. We even took it up a notch and formed full-ish sentences: "Arturo, you suck" and "get out, you pig". We were to meet on a Saturday night outside the school dressed in black. This event stressed me out. Mainly because I didn't have any suitable black ensembles, I mean, what does a teenage vandal wear to a graffiti party? I was able to bedazzle something just before meeting time, but I still managed to be late because I needed my grandma to fall asleep so I could take her pack or Marlboro reds.

I met my classmates/influential minds ten minutes past the agreed time. Dayana had already broken into the building and thus missing the glamour that I put together for the occasion. I went into the building and started spraying walls. I brought neon pink, yellow, and green. This colors were not only on trend, but there were also cans that I already had because 2 weeks prior I had redecorated my room with said paint and in true Mexican fashion I could not let the remaining paint go to waste. We were to be in the building for only ten minutes and then meet 2 blocks away to smoke my grandma's cigarettes. I made it my personal goal to make works of art and so all of my profane words were written in cursive.
Who said I couldn't be classy while defacing school property?

We went back to school the following Monday and I was excited to see our work. In the dark I couldn't really see if my cursive was crooked or soft enough but in bright daylight it looked better than I thought, I mean, the neon really made it pop. I told Dayana my work was better than hers, she gave me a playful slap and told me to shut the fuck up.

Nobody ever found us out.

On a recent trip to the mother land I reunited with Dayana and another school friend. We had drinks and smoked like old times and we simply laughed at all the "artistic" things we did. Although there is nothing courteous about what we did we did it because we wanted change, we wanted a voice and we wanted people to know that we are not to be messed with. I still believe in this way of life, and I still make my voice heard when I believe it needs to be heard, I however do it in a more courteous manner nowadays.

Dayana is now a lawyer.

Chanel slap

There is a time in life when one simply must speak up. Well that is exactly what I did but what I have to say is not always well received and honesty sometimes hurts, especially when talking to a parent. You see, I am a well mannered, easy going person but when you push I shove and when my chance at celebrity status is at risk things get ugly.  Nasty Aussie rapper and most-influential-being-in-my-life-this-week Iggy Azalea said it best "If I have to tell you one more time I blow like a bomb, like a horn, like a bitch behind a bungalow at prom".

When I was around 11 years old I had an appetite for ripped jeans, crocheded vests, high tops and Madonna. I had just found out that she was on tour and my dream of becoming a real life groupie became an obsession. If I could somehow get to the concert I would show Madonna why I would make the best groupie/assistant/back-up dancer/back vocals that she had ever encountered and thus fulfilling my worldwide stardom fantasy. With Madonna having done all the leg work and the bed hopping all I had to do was be part of her posse and I would immediately be famous. 

Lucky for me my aunt Veronica was equally obsessed and she somehow scored tickets to the concert. I think she had to sing a snippet of "Like a Virgin" while simultaneously farting into the phone for a radio contest, or so she told me. She was in her early 20's, had big hair and a shared passion for ripped clothing and leather bracelets. Most importantly, she had my ticket to word domination and flashing lights. We used to hang out a lot on the weekends and she asked if I wanted to go to the concert with her. I immediately said yes!

That evening my mother was getting ready for an evening out with Roberto. Roberto was a well known corrupt lawyer and part time photographer whom once pulled strings to get me to the Formula One races which I watched from the "pits" while sipping on Fanta as he and my mother held hands as if posing for Page Six.  My mother was putting on her earrings when I went into her room to ask her about the Madonna concert. "Mom! Veronica has tickets to the concert and the rest of my future, can I go?" She flatly said no. I flatly called her a bitch.

She slowly put her gold patent leather Chanel clutch down on the dresser as to not get it dirty before slapping me across the face. "Never talk to me like that again" she said calmly. I was shocked! The woman with the gold Chanel just slapped me! I looked at her and apologized. After that night my mother and I made an agreement, I would never disrespect her and she would never slap me. Sounded like a fair deal to me.

I never did go to the concert but the Chanel slap incident did bring us closer together because there was always respect and honesty. That is the thing about making deals, they are in a way promises and breaking them will only make one look dishonest, disrespectful and mostly unglamorous, and that to me is dreadful. I'm not sure what happened to the gold Chanel, and as for the ripped jeans, they were thrown out one day while I was at school. I cried, listened to lots of Guns n' Roses and was over it by the weekend. I've yet to achieve superstardom, but I will be seeing Madonna this fall. Here's hoping!

Politics and Techno. (Colosio murio, Colosio is dead)

                                                                                  

In 1992 a very catchy/annoying rendition of "James Brown is dead" was heard all over Mexico. The genius behind such masterpiece was Memo Rios, however he sought out to take it further and changed the lyrics to "Pedro Infante murio" along with a good dose of sticky techno-pop beat.

Pedro Infante,  for those of you who are not Mexican, was an actor/singer who was married numerous times, slept with half the country, and had a pack of children. Still, if Mexico had royalty, he would be king. Clearly it was only a matter of time for a clever Memo Rios to conjure techno gold, and thus "Pedro Infante is dead" became the soundtrack of 1992. Kids who didn't even know who Pedro was were singing and dancing to the amazingly awful techno madness. I for one felt accomplished because I actually knew who the song was about. My Grandmama was obsessed with him and every Sunday was Infante day, so we were all beaten over the head with Infante movies in black and white. During commercial breaks she would have shots of tequila and would let us kids have sips of beer. Intoxicating.

Even though I've lived in the US for over half of my life my Father would not let me forget where I came from,  and as a very thoughtful gift he gave me an Infante DVD not that long ago. Yes, I have watched it, numerous times in fact. You know you shouldn't and you know its wrong, but sometimes we all fall victim to a guilty pleasure.

Two short years after the wild success of Memo Rios's song,  a very hopeful and promessing candidate for Mexican presidency came along; Colosio.  Colosio was determined to change the rules. He would run around the barrios and mingle with the homeless, shake the hands of lepers and still come out without a scratch. Having golden boy status, Colosio was taking the country by storm and me being Joel had to stay abreast of the trends. I learned how to spell his name, and learned his catchy phrases. I could have been his assistant. My family was sick of my political shit. I was 11 and wanted to run away and join the Colosio revolution. Nobody gave a fuck except for my sister. I had a way of always making her believe in my madness and I figured 2 crazies was better than 1.

My dreams of political insanity came to an end in March of 1994 when Colosio was shot. The only way I can explain it is to compare it to the Kennedy assassination. The Mexiland was devastated. I think my sister cried but only because I told her to. Oh well, we were over it by the week end. However, like any good Mexican I wanted to capitalized on the tragedy and in doing so, catapulting my singing career. I ran to my room and shuffled through all my cassette tapes; there! no! shit! that one! found it! Memo Rios!

Like Memo Rios before me I took something borrowed and freshen it up. "Colosio murio!" (Colosio is dead). I took the beat and changed the lyrics. My sister decided that we would be more successful as a duet, because one delusional Cortes is not enough. She did choreography and back vocals. We debuted our act after dinner on a Saturday and the reviews were very mixed. Grandma loved it! my cousin laughed yet she didn't know who Colosio was and grandpa clapped. My aunt's husband; uncle George however did not think it was going to be a success. Having been a lawyer in Colosio's campaign I sort of see his point (now).

A mess on the roof and late night TV.

Across the street form my grandparent's house lived a young girl, her Mother, and young brother; Alejandra.  Alejandra was obese and foul, she would wear Stevie Nicks ensembles but was 100 lbs over the hippie chic limit. I remember thinking her brother was cute but now I cannot remember what he looked like. Her mother had cats and always smelled like a Mexican hotel bathroom.

The best part about hanging at Alejandra's house was that she lived in an actual house. Up to now all I've ever lived in was apartments and a loft with my mother's "modular furniture". Her house was on a corner lot and it had this amazing entry room with marble floors and a spiral stair case. Once again my novela dream was becoming reality.

One day Alejandra took me to a little room on the roof of the house that was built for the help, but after her Father died her mom could not afford anymore rural Mexican girls to do the cleaning, so the room became Alejandra's domain. The room smelled musty and had writings and drawings on the walls, candles were burning and incense was smoking up the place. There were also blood stains and a huge star of David painted on the floor.

I was not sure what that all meant , but after I went home and shared my adventures my grandma forbid me to ever go back.  I now realize that this marks the day on which I became obsessed with messes whom do drugs and talk about things that they only see or hear in their heads, much like Courtney Love. Although I'm not sure what happened to Ale my fascination remains.
I did not have many friends while living at grandma's, and now that she knew that Alejandra was performing chicken sacrifices on the roof top I was officially friendless. This allowed for ample TV time and since I had one in my room I would watch all kinds of programming that was not necessarily suitable for viewers my age.

One of my favorites was on at 1 am and I would make sure to stay awake. "My night with Shanik" was a talk/game show. Shanik was the hostess. She had amazingly awful bleach blond hair and was creepy skinny, her voice was as annoying as Chihuahuas in heat but all the sex talk and "position of the day" segment made her voice as pleasant as margaritas on taco Tuesday.  Shanik would interview celebrities and ask about their sex lives while they would lay on a bed that was set as the "sitting area" and sip cocktails. This, to me seemed like a dream and I made it my personal goal to lay in bed half naked with someone and sip on my vodka soda. Thanks to my perseverance that dream is now my every night reality.  There were also games such as: pop the balloon with your ass while sitting on a blowup doll, and pin the penis to the stud. The kind of entertainment every child should watch before bed.

After MY night with Shanik I would go to school in the morning and talk to the kids at school about my viewing experience.  To some, my sex talk was viewed as highly inappropriate, specially to my teachers. But for the horny few that were interested I was some kind of connoisseur; an explorer of sorts. Here I was  telling tales of my late night adventures and some of the kids didn't even know that Santa was just a fat guy in a suit popularized by Coca Cola.  Teachers would tell me to stop distracting the class, but it was not my fault that my sexual findings captivated my audience, I mean, someone had to stay abreast of the latest vibrator technology.