How Not to Be an Asshole

I mith Zzzzzzz. She’th currently walking acroth Thpain and tho my I mith her hashtag ith #bringbackourgirl.


T-Pain in Thpain thtayth mainly on the where ith the Malaythian plane?

That’th thuch a bummer about thothe kidnapped Nigerian girlth.

But srsly, the threat (I gueth you can’t get away from it) of a misogynist militia busting into your classroom and snatching you and your friends and then selling you for five pesos or feeding you to mambas does make for what education wonks refer to as “high-stakes learning.”

I keep talking about the snatching with my students and mostly I ask them, “Where do you think the girls are?” but yesterday, I was asking these twins, “The ones they didn’t take, how come you think they didn’t get ’em?” and I swear the alpha twin answered, “Because those were the cholas.”

And then my head got this whole fantasy of Nigerian cholas macheteing into the jungle to bring back our non-cholas.

(Widow’)speaking of cholas, I put on my unibrow to go the Frida fotography x-ibit at the Museum of Latin American Art which lies about a tamale’s throw my pad.

There are some gueys that I’m totally over Frida, like, how many times can you reFrida that same beans (?) but then who else do we have (?), what other Mexican art saint with downy facial hair can we worship? The collective needs a receptacle for its love and the only can of beans furry enough for that is Frida’s.


So, my mother called me at seven forty something this morning and I called her back and my dad answered which means that somebody probably died and she’s too in it to answer or talk and yes, that was the case, my tio Alvaro died this morning, and so I can’t keep writing this blog which was going to the Frida K. exhibit or the Mike K. exhibit at the MOCA because my tio is dead and I keep remembering and remembering him at his mom’s wake weeping and singing LLORAR Y LLORAR with goofy mariachis who kept playing with their phones.

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AQUI ESTA MI TIO, showing a wannabe Vincente Fernandez how its done

The thing about Alvaro is that he was love. He gave when he didn’t have anything and so he was magic. He’d create something to give and that inspired people around him, the ones who wanted to be good, to try to practice that magic, too. He inspired me to be less of an asshole. My hands down fave memory of Alvaro is from when I was fifteen and he and Abuelita greeted me at the Guadalajara airport, they were both standing behind sawhorses, and I thought to myself, “My god, that man looks like a sex criminal.” Alvaro was a unique Mexican spinster, he didn’t have a dollop of machismo, to him, and that day at the airport, he was wearing Brady Bunch trousers and a too tight t-shirt that read LIFE’S A BEACH across his unresponsive nipples. I loved him so much in that moment that I wanted to become one of his ribs.

Alvaro, thank you for inspiring me to emulate your kindness and be one less asshole. Tu Gloria Trevi…siempre.


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