|IT'S CINCO DE MAYO AND THESE LADIES ARE FEELING MEXCELLENT!|
|Kelly Mills, Elita Bradley, Krista Garcia, Becky Hayes and Jen Hubley||
How much does The Black Table loooove Cinco de Mayo? We woke up this morning and took a bath in salsa and are currently riding burros around Manhattan handing out chimichangas and parasitic water. But even though Cinco de Mayo is dominated by idiots like us mainlining margaritas, it is, in fact, an actual holiday. Apparently, on May 5, 1862, a French army landed in Mexico to collect outstanding debts from the newly elected government of democratic president Benito Juarez. Well, there would be no dinero for those greedy frogs as 4,000 scrappy Mexicans beat the pommes frites out of the French army and protected their homeland. O-fucking-le!
So to commemorate the greatest holiday on the planet The Black Table asked a few of its own chicalitos to pay tribute to our gloriously tanned brothers to the south. And as your hoisting up your eight-hundredth Corona this evening, remember to say a little prayer for the feisty Mexicans who lost their lives so we could get drunk and stupid.
Even though I live in California, a.k.a. North Mexico, the only Spanish I know is the ever-helpful phrase, 'Yo soy una tamale caliente.' Spanish is one of my all-time favorite languages, yet I have intentionally avoided becoming bilingual. Why? Because, to a non-speaker, even the most mundane Spanish phrases sound incredibly dirty. German is essentially the precursor to barfing, and French is nasal and prance-yy. But every unintelligible syllable of Spanish just sounds like straight-up fuck talk. There's just something about the lilt and enunciation that comes across nasty in the best possible way. Como estas? Oh yeah, baby, I'll como estas you all night long. I live in terror that one day I'll walk through the Mission in San Francisco, and all of the sudden I'll actually understand what is being said around me. It'll likely be boring, everyday talk, and my reveries involving Benicio del Toro and a dozen jalapenos will be ruined. Luckily, my ineptitude with languages has preserved the joy of Spanish so far. The one and only trip I took to Mexico felt like I had dialed a 1-800 number and just kept it on speakerphone for an entire week. Let Salma Hayek utter two syllables of espanol and I'm smoking a cigarette before I know it. Sometimes I turn on Telemundo and close my eyes, just to get in the mood. Even the names of most Mexican foods lend themselves to the cheapest kind of entendre imaginable. Care to play hide the enchilada? Let me tell you what I'll do to your huevos rancheros, as soon as I finish this delicious horchata. Don't even get me started on the taco, because I'm not going to quit until I've had my fill of carne asada and all you can say is gracias, gracias, gracias.
Kelly Mills is a freelancer living in North Mexico masturbating to "Sabado Gigante" on weekends.
His name was Carlos. He was a busboy. I was a regular at the bar. Maybe it was his leather apron. Maybe it was the lubrication inspired by my fourth mojito. "Come home with me," I told him.
The next morning, I told him the rules: You can see other people, as will I, but when I call you, you come to me. No excuses. The third time you tell me you can't make it, this comes to an end. Do not call me. Ever. I don't want to know how your day was. I don't want to hear about your hopes and dreams, your car troubles, or even what your favorite cereal is. I do not care and I won't tell you mine.
"Okay," he said.
Privately, I called him "my little Latino houseboy" -- he was half Mexican, half Guatemalan -- but to my girlfriends I referred to him as "my maintenance man." "You got a housecleaner?" my younger sister asked, confused. "I've got a pipe cleaner," I explained.
It was the perfect relationship. Once or twice a week, I'd summon Carlos. We'd drink some Rioja. Fuck. Play chess while we rested up. He loved my body. "Dulce" he'd whisper between my legs. "Piel de canela" he'd say, nibbling at the backs of my calves. He laughed when he came. About two months into it, he starts trying for pillow talk about his new manager. Shhh, I say. The next week, he's back at it. His car's been stolen. "I told you, I don't care," I say, smiling sweetly. I don't call him for two weeks, hoping he'll get the message. The next time I see him, he tells me he's fallen in love with me.
"Really? What's my last name?" I ask. He stammers. He guesses. He's wrong. Twice.
"Querido," I say, (I'd liked practicing my Spanish 101 on him), "You only think you love me cause I don't treat you like a real boyfriend. I don't tell you my problems. I don't make you spend any money. And the only time you see me is when I want to fuck you. This isn't love. It's porn."
We lasted about two weeks after that. And I found a bar with even better mojitos.
When Elita Bradley isn't humping busboys, she's a freelancer which means you shouldn't ask her about her day. You really don't want to know.
George Lopez? Er, Mario Lopez? Borriing (though that "Pet Star" is quite a doozy). Mexicans who look Mexican are so over. Everyone knows that E.A.s (ethnically ambiguous) are in. Take Jessica Alba -- she's kind of black (and abdominally overexposed) in "Honey," sort of white (and ass cheeky) in "Sin City" and Cyber/Goth/Genetically Engineered/Latina(?) in "Dark Angel." It's all so confusing and mysteriously sexy.
I don't need that bullshit; I want my Mexican-Americans heavy on the American, you know, like a breakfast burrito. To celebrate such a fine semi-Mexican holiday like Cinco de Mayo, it only seems right to salute the semi-Mexican E.A.s (ethnically anonymous) who've festively filled our television screens and mildly spiced up our lives. (If the New York Post were writing this headline, it would say "Cinco de Sly-o")
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Krista Garcia is a freelancer that plans to find the Mexican in all of us.
"Where's CoCo?" I ask the other white girl who's been having him in the basement.
"Back home, I guess," the girl shrugs, turning back to the remaining dishwashers.
I go back to work. It's dead. It's afternoon and so freaking hot. I sit at my back table and eat grapes that I've advanced from the fruit salad.
CoCo I'll miss, if he's really gone back to Chiapas. He is the Steve McQueen of the kitchen, and on benders a weepy Peter Sellers. Management, as the band of Greek brothers is loosely addressed, keeps him on the payroll because he is always good for new blood; some prima's novio always needs work, and CoCo, nee Francisco, is a dynamite proxy.
I feel for CoCo; he's meant for telenovelas. After a week of observing me, he asked -- as I was burping a Heinz -- "Porque triste, chulacita? Digame. Porque?" My Spanish is cock-eyed, but I'm an awkward flirt in any language. "A causa del mundo?" I tried. The next day revealed a pornographic tableaux sketched on a napkin and stuffed in my "mailbox" under the cash register. "Pssha," said Lola, the night manager. "CoCo is slut."
A management brother confirms CoCo's departure; also, we are not to mention his name. Behind him, the counter girl rolls her eyes. She's eighteen and Greek and has no filter.
"He's at his brother's on 4th Ave.," she tells me on break. "Hiding out."
"Why?" I ask.
"From Kristos and them," she shrugs. "They want to kill him."
We look through the doorway at Kristos, mired in the Post.
Some boys in baseball ware file silently past, wincing at the Narcocorridos blaring from the kitchen. "It's just rap!" she yells.
"God I hate white boys," she sighs. "They take everything for granted -- pussy, America, everything, you know?"
Becky Hayes is a freelance writer that runs around with The Lexicon Project and worships dishwashers from afar.
Many of my more adventurous friends have actually gone to Mexico. When
they go, I always tell them the same thing, "Good luck with that
abortion, and please bring me back the tackiest piece of tourist crap
you can find."
This might seem like a lot of useless shit to find storage for, but I have to tell you, it comes in handy. For example, what would you do, if a friend of yours came over to your house for a small gathering, and then passed out cold on the couch? If you answered, "Dress her up as a drunk Mexican and take pictures," good for you.
My friend Meredith had passed out on the couch during one party or another, and I was trying to keep my other friend Rod from peeking under her skirt. In order to distract him from her lower half, I took my sombrero from its place on the coffee table, and balanced it on her head.
"Wow," Rod said. "She looks great. Do you have any more Mexican stuff?"
Did I! By the time she woke up, she was wearing the sombrero and the poncho. She had a pair of maracas propped in the crook of one elbow, and an empty bottle of tequila in the other. She might have slumbered on peacefully for hours, but the flash from my camera woke her up.
In retrospect, I can kind of see why she was upset. Which is why I now issue this disclaimer to all guests in my home: If you pass out at my house, you will wake up dressed as a drunk Mexican.
Jen Hubley is a Beantown freelancer and doyenne of JennieSmash.com.
Be sure to stay away from alcohol if you visit her home.
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