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.

Selling candy.

After my mother's aerobic craze and utopia failure we moved in with her parents. Living with my grandparents was not so bad. They had a TV in every room and my nana watched all the novelas from 6 o'clock on, including "Telarana" which was basically a mind fuck. The Mexican twilight zone but better.

Since my grandparents did not have a huge terrace and a sunk-in living room my mother had to go back to work. She could not possibly teach aerobics in the building lobby, although I suggested the rooftop which had a billboard for Salem cigarettes. She ultimately went back to banking. It was good money and she could wear gold jewelry and high heels, as she did jumping up and down on the terrace with the aerobics group.

During that summer my mother had to work long days so I had to go to work with my nana, since nobody could babysit me.  Going to my grandma's office was actually somewhat of a treat. I could socialize with adults all day and take a nap once they annoyed the shit out me.  On those days that I would go to the office withe her I had to get up at six in the morning, and she had to drag me out the door.  We would walk three blocks to the subway station. I loved the subway! The sweat smell, the poor ventilation, and people packed so tight that you are bound to rub against some one's genitals, kind of like prom without the satin dress.

After 45 minutes on the subway we would get off at Morelos station, come out for air and catch a bus. If you have never been on a bus in Mexico City I highly recommend it. It will make you appreciate air conditioning and deodorant to a whole new level.  A long bus ride, and another short walk we would arrive at Hacienda. Hacienda is the equivalent of the IRS in Mexico and my nana was an accountant there for the better part of her life.  The whole setting of the office reminds me of the movie "Brazil", grey, machine like, and people are generally happy only during lunch hour or while taking a shit.

There were open floors with rows and rows of desks with people typing or looking at numbers on ledgers.  My favorite part was "making the rounds" with my nana. Ever the businesswoman she would bring in merchandise in her knitting bag and sell it installments  to fellow co-workers, sort of like Kmart layaway but "granny in the offices of the IRS" style.  Small radios, flashlights, pen/pencil sets, nana was the general store of Hacienda and we would go floor to floor taking people's money and possibly new orders. "What is that, you need a cordless phone?, yes, I can get it to you next week". Nana would never say no, if she saw dollar signs or in this case, peso signs, she would find a ceramic piggy bank with a pink ribbon on it for Rosa in auditing.

Following in her steps, I later started selling pencils, pens, erasers, and other school supplies to kids at my grade school. "What is that, you want a sharpener/eraser set in pink? I can make that happen next Monday". Nana would take me to the street market to buy my "merchandise" over the week end and I would deliver right on time to my customers by Monday. When inventory was low, I would also sell candy that I got in goody bags at other kids birthday parties.

Aerobics on the roof-top

Not that long ago when my mother was visiting me in Seattle we started counting how many times we moved when I was a kid. I counted 12. She said 5. Those who know me know that I do not tend to exaggerate. In fact 12 is probably less than the actual number of mother-son re locations.

You see, my mother could possibly be the Mexitalian Madonna. I have seen every color in her hair. From "blue black" Nice n' Easy to no, I'm not a clown red. Her fashion is equally ever changing, "which gold lame leopard print dress goes best with these shoes?" she would ask me as I ruffled through her jewelry to complete the ensemble.  So, when it came time to move she was equally impulsive.

I recall an amazing loft-type place that we had in Mexico City during one of my parents trial separations. The place was big and it had a sunk in living room,  just like I've seen in the soap "Quinceanera".  Quinceanera was by far a gem in the world of early 80's soaps. I always thought of myself as the pretty 15 year old girl, whose biggest concern was to find the right boyfriend to take to her becoming of age Mexican tacky mess. I was jealous.

The loft also had a bathroom with a huge tub, oh, and it also came equipped with my mom's trial separation boyfriend, Hugo.

Hugo was not very tall and had curly hair. As with everything in my mother's life, her eclectic taste in men was not disappointing.

A new place also meant new friends and I didn't have that many, but every so often a couple of them would come by and we would go out on the huge terrace. That's where my mother would teach aerobics classes to the neighborhood women. She would type up pretty signs and post them at the local store or even in phone booths, and at the meat shop down the street. "Aerobics classes Mon, Wed, Fri. come sweat in style ladies".

 The signs were a hit and on aerobics days the terrace was a reminder that  the Jane Fonda workout video would never die. Women big and small, all trying to follow my mom's leotard and leg warmer moves. My friends and I would run in between them acting as if we were judging a pageant. I would point at one of the women and my friend would nod yes or no.

Aerobics nights were so intoxicating. The music, the leg warmers, the boom box were all signs that we were on our way to becoming the next big thing in the hood. It was also a sign that my delusion was apparent, even as a child.

My friends also liked to come over because unlike their parents, my mom would buy sugary soda and give us potato chips with hot sauce as a snack. The combination is really a party for the senses. They also marveled at the fact that unlike their homes with suede couches and cherry wood furniture, the furnishings at my place were made entirely out of vegetable wooden crates, yes, like the ones at the grocery store. Mama would buy them for cheap at the market and paint them in candy colors; green, yellow, pink.

My mother was a pioneer of the modular furniture. Our book cases were lime green and my "platform" bed was cherry red. The dining room was what I would call Japanese style dining. The table was 2 crates high and we sat on pillows that my mother also made. Her creative mind knows no boundaries. What do you do when the latest trend calls for wide, bright colored bangles? buy some? why? take a can of tuna, rinse it out well, cut out the bottom, and voila! wrap it in upholsterers  foam and vibrant colored fabrics. Do you want wooden platform shoes? take remnants of wood flooring, stack them a few high and glue a pair of sandals on top. My mother would not miss out on the latest trends.

My new friends were impressed. I thought they were just sheltered. Then again, compared to their lives I probably seemed like a character on "Beverly Hills 90210". Fun but devastatingly insecure; hot but unaware, and a dysfunctional family in which the parents act like teenagers.

Not long after the aerobics craze and the pioneering of modular furniture, my mother and Hugo broke up. For my mother it meant failure. To me, it meant the end of a sunk in living room, and the cherry red "platform" bed.  It also meant we would have to move in with my grandparents.