Tonight I played billiards with a Mexican dude, J. I suspect he's at least halfway gay, but that's cool with me. He told me he'd pay for the game if I won 3 out of 5. I won the first 2, then he said he'd pay for the beer for the winner of the next game. I won the next one, even according to his rules, that you need to sink the 8-ball into the same pocket in which you sunk the last of your balls, a rule which I'd never known before. So he wanted to play still more, and I won 4 out of 5, at which he decided to call it quits. But he tried to get me to pay for part of the expense, which of course I denied. He had given his word to pay for the games, and I told him as much: "Un hombre vale solo su palabra. Si el palabra vale nada, el hombre vale nada." He understood, and he quit pretending, and paid for the games. And he even thanked me for telling him that.
I got quite a sendoff. The owner of the bar, who by rights should hate me because (I'm quite sure) he knows I'm crazy about his wife (as are most other hetero males in Rosarito -- she is an absolute babe), said thanks to me before I left, and some of the other regular clients, whom I regarded highly but didn't have any idea it was reciprocal, came and shook my hand and/or hugged me. The girls crafted a missive in english: "As of today we're going to miss you a lot. We hope you come back soon. The ladies in Barandas. Sincerely, Carina". I hugged and kissed a couple of the girls -- what a joy it is to have these young beauties pressing against my body. Overcome with alcohol and emotion, I asked one of them to spend the night with me; when she declined, for which I don't blame her, I didn't bother asking any of the others. I think I spoiled the moment as it was, at least for her.
Another thing which really made my night: there was this Canadian dude in there, tossing his head as he spoke, and making all these generalities about Mexican women and men. After a particularly scathing generality, I told him I thought he was a racist and a fool, and I didn't want to talk with him any more. At that point he vigourously denied it, and lit into me with venomous invective like you wouldn't believe, accusing me of all kinds of social irresponsibility of which I'm not remotely guilty. He then spent an hour or more talking with some Mexican dude, presumably to show me what a wonderful citizen of the earth he really is. When he finally left, I asked Mari, the girl behind the bar, if she thought he is a racist or not. "El es racista", she said without hesitation. I felt so wonderfully vindicated.
The Molotov song Frijolero has stirred up, over recent years, a lot of hateful discourse from neocons like Allan Wall, but to me it's just a confirmation of what I've already experienced: that there is plenty of racism on both sides of the border. The coup de grace comes from the one Gringo member of the band, who raps: "I wish I had a dime... for every single time... I've been stared down for bein' on the wrong side of town...". He knows: he's the fucking gringo puñetero. He's seen the racismo from both sides of the fence, and it's making him sick, as it's making me. Nation-states have reached the end of whatever useful life they might have had, as I was trying to explain to the Canuck tonight, if he'd been willing to listen. It's over, dudes. Love each other, or kill one another for food, it's all cool to me, just don't try to justify your foolishness with any kind of racial, political or religious bullshit, because I'm not buying.
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last updated 2013-01-10 20:37:37. served from tektonic