A while ago I was booked to play music at a private event. It was the type of event that doesn’t need a DJ, but New Yorkers have been duped into believing that any boring art opening, fundraiser, PTA meeting, and Union Square protest can be made exciting if a deejay is playing music in the background.
If it sounds like I’m complaining, I’m not. This is the most over-stimulated city in the world — NYC has more bars, clubs, galleries, and theaters than it knows what to do with — so, when tasked with putting on an event, people go all out. They anxiously try to avoid boring their guests and that = gigs for Yours Truly.
The downside is that, at the non-bar or club-related events, a DJ is no more than an awkward prop. People walk past my DJ booth — usually a wonky table with a corona box stacked on the top — and give me nasty side-eyes. “Remember: you’re making stripper money,” I tell myself. But I can read their mind: “I hate New York. Should I move to LA? No, they give reiki to parrots out there. I’ll just continue to tolerate this, for now.”
But something magical happened at the event I started to tell you about. A man, who looked like Ty Cobb, Donald Trump’s lawyer, came up to me to request a song. He had one of the thickest New York accents I’ve ever heard, and he slammed a 20 dollar bill next to my laptop.
“Hey, buddy, play that slow song by the fella on the radio,” he said. I was already getting paid to play music there, so I didn’t want to take his money, especially because I was not going to be able to decipher who “the fella on the radio” could possibly be.
“You don’t have to pay me,” I told him, “I’ll just play whatever you want, but I need a better description. Which fella are you talking about? How does the song go?”
Dressed in an a gray ’80s-style suit, Ty’s look-alike became flustered. “You know — that fella that’s married to the girl with the red hair. He has that song on the radio right now,” he said. I gave him a blank stare, but he wouldn’t give up: “Hold on. Let me get my wife.”
The man brought his wife, a Latina-looking gal half his age, over to my makeshift booth. She also didn’t know the song, so he started yelling at her: “Well, what the fuck do you want?! I’m a 65-year-old asshole. I can’t remember shit. Come on, baby — you know the fucking song we like.”
The woman was completely unfazed by her distraught husband. She kept smiling at me because, clearly, this wasn’t her first time dealing with her man’s spotty memory, or his outbursts.
“John Legend. My husband is referring to his new song,” she figured out. “Give me a moment to download it,” I told the both of them.
The mustachioed romantic took his wife towards the front of the Corona box-turned booth. A couple of minutes later I played their song and they started to slow-dance. He reclined his head on her shoulder, she put her arms around his back.
I still don’t know what to do with Cobb Copy’s $20. Perhaps I’ll use the bill to buy a whole pie of pizza for a special friend.
Oh, right. Old-school Mexicans humiliate their children by pretending they don’t exist.
I’ve been visiting my mother, and all of our immediate family, for the last week. They’re old-school, rural Mexicans. The kind who always offer food, even if they hate you.
I’m in my mid 30s now, and have been living on my own since I was 18, so at our gatherings I get a proper adult seat at the table. They listen to what I have to say, but it wasn’t always like that.
It’s not like that for my younger relatives, either. At family reunions, I see them out of the periphery of my eye. They’re trying to get a word in, but those older Mexicans won’t allow it. Why would they? What have those mocosos (snot-nosed kids) done to deserve anybody’s respect? Did they pay for their food? For the roof over their head? For their car, gas, clothes? No? Then they don’t exist.
Yes, they’re physically there, but unless they can prove their worth through monetary independence, they’re no one. If they try to make their voices heard, they’ll be silenced by a death stare, or an abrupt change in conversation.
If they persist, other humiliations will be flung at them, such as being asked to do something entirely meaningless, just like their opinion. “Vete a ver si ya puso la marrana” (go see if one of the pigs laid an egg) is a classic. My grandma had one of the most bizarre just-get-the-fuck-out-of-here phrases, which I’ve never heard elsewhere: “Vete a descular hormigas” (go chop the asses off ants).
I know these Mexicans sound like assholes, but they’re like that because they believe in resilience, not fragility. Giving encouragement to a mentally and physically healthy person seems redundant to them. Those people already have all they need to succeed, they’ll think.
To gain their respect, at the very least a person will need to become self-sufficient. That’s how you earn the right to sit with them. Either you’re with that, or you’re not there at all.
“Trump Dating” site doesn’t want the gays, but allows the “happily married” to join
You can even be mad at Trump Dating, a new website for lonely — or not so lonely, but just promiscuous — maganogamous people. It’s a perfect representation of their cherished administration, since it’s also homophobic — it only allows “straight” women or men to sign up — and, just like Trump, it’s all about adulterous relationships:
“When you kick off the process of starting a profile, you get two options for labeling yourself — ‘straight man’ or ‘straight woman.’
Yet according to Trump Dating’s rather strange drop-down menus, married people are welcome. For a relationship status, the site offers options like ‘have a significant other,’ ‘happily married,’ and ‘unhappily married.'”
And since no self-respecting republican-specific dating site should exist unless it takes an issue with race, Trump Dating allows their users to be super specific about their genealogy:
“The ethnicity options also seemed oddly specific. In addition to the typical categories, the site includes choices like ‘Scandinavian,’ ‘Polynesian,’ ‘Eastern European,’ ‘Western European,’ ‘Mediterranean,’ and ‘Eskimo,’ a term used to label the indigenous people of Alaska, Canada, and Greenland that is considered offensive and inaccurate.”
OMG, you guys. There better be a second menu where users can identify which of the five Aryan subtype races — Nordic, Mediterranean, Dinaric, Alpine, and East Baltic — they belong to. Otherwise the server room of this Trump Dating is gonna get tiki torched.
Culture3 weeks ago
Calm the f*ck down with your “Despacito” Grammy outrage. It’s not that serious.
Culture4 weeks ago
Dating a Latina from another country gives me the right amount of separation from my culture
Culture3 weeks ago
Just because I’m not dating a Mexican doesn’t mean you shouldn’t
Culture3 weeks ago
Adultery, greed and hypocrisy: The dark side of Chespirito