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I almost died on a flight while listening to Shakira. Now my life has changed forever.



Earlier this month I went back to California to visit some bitter-ass Mexicans, which also happen to be my family. Yesterday that whole mess came to an end and, while flying back to my precious, dirty, cold, and disgusting New York, I began to overheat.

I’m going through the early stages of man-o-pause, or some shit, because I was watching awful Shakira videos on YouTube — the red-eye flight had free WiFi — when, out of nowhere, I developed an aggressive fever. Beads of sweat started dripping down my forehead, just like Truthful Hips after she was ordered to pay 25 million dollars in back taxes earlier this week.

I didn’t feel like throwing up, but didn’t want to take any chances so I jumped over my dozy neighbors — I had a window seat — and stumbled towards the restroom in the rear. Halfway through the plane my sight began to fade and, instead of holding on to a seat, I accidentally smacked a sleeping passenger on the face.

I have no idea what that person’s reaction was like because I was crawling like a Walking Dead zombie by the time I reached the restroom area. Understandably, I scared the shit out of a distracted stewardess. After screaming bloody murder, the woman asked what was wrong with me, and for some dumb reason I said “la pinche Shakira.”

“Can I have more free wine? Yes, the red, please.”

“What?!” she replied. I realized I was making no sense and composed myself — well, tried to, because I was still crawling on floor. “Sorry, I feel very hot. May I have some water?” I think was my request. The woman handed me a bottle of water and started scooping ice inside a plastic bag, which she eventually placed on my head.

Now, I never get nauseous or sick when I travel, and I have no health issues whatsoever, so I was genuinely scared. Plus dying on a plane while watching Shakira videos is a super lame way to go, so I thought about pulling a Pancho Villa. After he was shot, the Mexican revolutionary supposedly told a man “Don’t let it end like this. Tell them I said something.”

I, too, wanted to tell the stewardess to pretend I said something witty or glorious. I also wanted her to run over to my seat to cue up a less embarrassing video on my laptop. Maybe “Maligno” by Aterciopelados? Yes, if I’m gonna go out listening to Colombian music, that’s a great song to die to. “Aw, he was heartbroken,” the paramedics would say. Not “Gross. He was probably perreando all over this tiny, dirty seat.

Luckily the water worked almost instantly. I began to recover my balance and sight quickly after chugging the bottle. A second stewardess walked up to us a few seconds later, but her reaction was a lot more passive than her co-worker’s. “There’s one of you on every flight,” she said.

“Do you think there’s a sick, reggaeton-hating ghost on the plane who goes around possessing people’s bodies?” I asked the second stewardess. “A what?” she replied. “Uh, nothing. I’m going back to my seat now. Thank you,” I told both employees.

I’m never leaving you again, New York.

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Andrés Cantor, the most important sportscaster of a generation, liked my Tweet




This past Sunday I logged on to Twitter to see what 45 was up to, and a friend had tweeted a video clip of Andrés Cantor, the Argentine sportscaster, belting an elongated “gooooooool” after Colombia had scored against Poland. I immediately replied with a simple innocuous response acknowledging I grew up listening to him, and his emotion never gets old.

Monday morning I woke up with a notification on my phone: “ANDRES CANTOR liked your reply.” Having worked around celebrities in a previous life, something like this wouldn’t make me  giddy, but this was different. I remember Andrés, along with Norberto Longo, announcing the Italia 1990 World Cup matches on Univision.

At the time, Univision was the only broadcaster airing all the matches, so non-Spanish speakers also got to experience Cantor’s signature phrase.  He made watching the matches so much more exciting. It wasn’t just his particular enunciation, but his narration, which adds nail-biting suspense, and has a way of scrambling one’s feelings.

He knows his audience very well; just this week, during Mexico vs. Sweden, in the last minute of the match, he began to narrate the results of the match, which allowed Mexico to advance to the next stage. His energy matched those of the stadium, as he announced in Spanish: “Korea takes out the champion (Germany), Korea advances Mexico!

OH. MY. GOD. How can you not get caught up in the drama?

It’s not the same, but there have been some improvements with soccer matches called in English. Fox’s F1 has the English language rights for the world cup. They had two Latinos with thick accents announce Mexico vs. Sweden, and they added their own flair with dramatic cadences in English. But it’s Andrés Cantor who has laid the foundation for dramatic futbol game calling.

I remember during the 1998 World Cup, when Mexico played Germany in the round of 16, the match was tied 1-1. Pavel Pardo tried to do some fancy footwork against a German player, and Cantor quickly commented to stop it and not to do this against Germany. I was thinking the SAME thing — what an idiot! That match had me on the edge of my seat, and Cantor read my mind. Mexico ended up losing the match and getting eliminated.

I heard Andrés for the first time during the 1990 World Cup, but it was in 1987 that he was hired at Univision to call the matches for the Liga MX. For most, it wasn’t until the 1994 World Cup that Cantor came into the limelight. He was recognized with several awards, including a regional Emmy and a National Career Achievement Emmy, for his work during the tournament. He even made an appearance on the David Letterman show.

From a 1994 interview in the LA TIMES:

He said his ‘Gooooooaalllll!’ call isn’t really a trademark, and not even unique. That’s the style of the announcers he listened to as a youngster in Argentina.

Andrés Cantor is very much the voice of soccer in the USA. He came up a time when there was only one network broadcasting the World Cup, and he called the matches like the announcers from his childhood. Ultimately he’s written the announcers playbook, and many who’ve come after him have been influenced by his style. Yes, Cantor’s booming voice has become an unmistakable trademark, but for me his observations are just as important. He’s always saying what I’m shouting at the screen, and, apparently, liking my tweets.

Tizoc Schwartz co-wrote a short film on the word ‘Chingar’ and has written other stuff you’ve never heard of.  He’s a carb enthusiast, and dislikes social media.

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Drunkards in the night: A hallway, two keys, and one lasting memory




Last night I met a student from upstate New York. She was drunk and locked out from the apartment across from mine, which she leased through Airbnb. She was given two keys; one unlocked the front door of the building, the other one unlocked her anxiety, frustration, and some other door elsewhere, but not the front door of her leased apartment.

I asked her if she was okay and she said “yes” with plenty of confidence. I entered my apartment only to be distracted by her weeping a few minutes later. I don’t know my neighbor — I mean, I’ve seen him, we wave at each other. But I don’t know his name and definitely don’t have his number because, well, it’s New York. Not having to speak to your neighbors about pleasantries — or at all — is one of the perks of the city.

I walked back to the hallway and asked the woman, who was in her early twenties, at most, if she had my neighbor’s number. In her state, my question barely registered, so instead I asked for her name, and to unlock her cell phone, which she was fumbling with. “Nawn…cie. Here.” She handed me her phone where, coincidentally, a group text was blowing up on the screen.

I got in on that: “This isn’t Nancy, but a stranger who found your drunk friend in a hallway in the LES. Someone should come get her. She’s locked out.” I offered her a glass of water, but instead she bolted inside my apartment, ran directly towards the toilet, and threw up. She figured out the layout of my place almost instantly, which was very surprising considering her altered state.

After handing her a wad of napkins and the glass of water, Nancy crawled towards the living room. “Sorry. You’re so kind, and decent, I think. I’m from Ithaca. That’s not relevant to this situation, but yeah, I’m from Ithaca,” she explained while climbing on top of an office chair (I don’t have real living room furniture).

Her friend, Rachel, texted back: “OMG. I’ll be there in 20 minutes! Please take care of her.” I relayed the information to my sudden guest. “Well, Nancy. I guess Ithaca rolls pretty hard on Monday nights,” I quipped. “Naw. Just me,” she replied, before adding that she’s a “computer science student.” “Is that relevant to this situation?” I asked. “Yes. There’s nothing wrong with computer science, actually, but my dad forced me to study that. I’m not good at it, so I’m always getting wasted.”

Nancy’s struggle was all kinds of endearing, but it wasn’t my place to dish out advice because 1) she didn’t ask for it, and 2) she already knew shit was wrong, but simply decided to deal with it in an unhealthy, self-destructive way, just like most young people. It’s actually an important stepping stone in youth, the kind that simply needs to play out.

Rachel finally showed up, adding: “Thanks for taking care of her. We didn’t think she was this drunk when she left the bar.” Still woozy, Nancy looked in my general direction before she left, and mentioned a parting gift. “It’s next to your toothbrush. Thanks, dude.”

She left a memory — yeah, figuratively, but also literally. A 4 gigabyte Samsung DDR3 RAM laptop memory module.

Nancy’s funny. Nancy’s gonna be alright.

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