Tag Archives: Mexico

MJ Thriller Pics

Check out homeboy in purple shirt practicing in the background.

Check out homeboy in purple shirt practicing in the background.

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Chilangabacha Goes to Wachington (and LA and NYC)

Have you been feeling like something/one wonderful, witty and a little bit wiggity wack has been missing from your life these past couple of weeks? That’s prolly ’cause La Chilangabacha was out on vacation. I decided the gabacha part of my being needed a reboot, so I went on a United Statesian adventure (if you want a cheap fair, amigos, look for flights on Tuesdays or Wednesdays).

Wouldn’t you know it – my beloved Mexico followed me from sea to shining sea. From the Oaxacans buying gel at Target in North Hollywood (why-oh-why did you have to import tubs of gel, Target?) to my homeboy from Neza who gave me directions to the PATH train in NYC,  I didn’t have a chance to get homesick.

Check out my USAMEX pics. There are a couple in the bunch I took in Mexico. Try to guess which ones. If you guess right, you get a prize.

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Spainish Lessons

Go ahead, make my burger.

Go ahead, make my burger.

I was going to be lazy and forgo blogging this morning, but I stopped dead in my tracksuit this morning when I saw this photo on the cover of La Jornada. The artwork is part of a Burger King advertising campaign for a new “Texican” Whopper that rained down like a giant doo doo storm in Spain. The Mexican embassy caught wind of it and those güeyes were not happy.

According to the A.P., the commercial component for said campaign shows the cowboy lifting up the “little Mexican” so he can help him clean windows the Mexican in turn helps the cowboy open a jar. There’s no mention if the cowboy helps the modern version of Frito Bandito lasso up a pair of huaraches. The Mexican embassy says the greatest insult isn’t the tiny subserviant paisano, but the flag he’s wearing as a poncho (According to me the biggest insult is the freaking ingredients – “cajun” salsa, cheddar cheese, taco meat and beans – sick!)

What I want to know is where’s the indignation my gringo bretheren? We’re more than just a bunch of chaps-wearing cowboys who like to lean against fences, employ Mexicans to do our dirty work and grill things! Come on Spanish marketing company. Get a clue!

Seriously, if this is what the rest of the world perceives about the relationship between the U.S. and México, then we have some serious work to do, no? Ironically, Barry Obama will be arriving this week. I’d like to see what he thinks about some of Mexico’s friendly little ad campaigns. Ahem…

* first image from  La Jornada. Second from http://www.marketing-up.com.mx

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Last Days in Wonderland (for now).

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That picture of a Loretana wearing a t-shirt with her own face on it was the last picture I took before returning to Los Angeles after six months abroad. I couldn’t have asked for a better image to usher me out.
Loreto is an incredibly amazing place, with craggy red mountains that resemble Sedona and parts of the Grand Canyon, and its situated on the Sea of Cortes, which is home to dolphins, sea lions and a whole lot of delicious seafood. I don’t have anything snarky to say about it, and that says a lot.
My last day in Loreto was spent snorkeling near a pristine beach on Coronado island. I ended up getting stung by some microscopic jellyfish all over my body. Our panga captain said, “Shit, you need some vinegar.” As the deserted island contained no Oxxo, I just had to enjoy my hives.
My misadventure didn’t stop me from enjoying an early afternoon of strolling downtown Loreto. Calling that place charming is like calling Mexico City crowded – way too much of an understatement. I ran into face shirt girl at a quirky fruit stand that was decorated with coconuts carved into the shape of pirates. She willingly posed next to a pile of calbazas and told me she had the shirt custom made at the town’s last big fiesta. I need to come back and get my own shirt.
I ended up arriving at the airport way too early and had time to grab a beer at the improvised snack stand. My companions were a Mexican-American fight promoter and a gringo with a fresh golf tan. When the gringo asked the bartender for another shot of An-eh-ho, and if he had change for a $100 bill, I couldn’t help but interject.
“It’s An-ye-ho,” I said. “A very important word to know.”
I had forgotten that this man was on his way out of Mexico, and not just arriving like most of the other paisanos I’ve met over the past six months.
“And, why do you know how to say it?” he asked.
“Because I’m La Chilangabacha!”
Just kidding, I didn’t really say that. I just told him I’d been there for a while. The fight promoter flirted and probably judged me in all sorts of ways for being a single female drinking alone at a bar.
When it came time to board, it was incredibly hard for me to put down that dos x and and follow Mr. An-eh-ho on to the plane, but I did. It was a pleasant flight and I kept wanting to ask the flight attendants questions in Spanish. After I walked through customs at LAX, I was expecting a parade of blonds to greet me in the arrival lounge, but instead found the waiting rail to be lined with people shouting into their Blackberries in Chinese. Oh L.A., how I’ve missed you.

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