Today´s rock en español treat--Mexican music group Café Tacuba (or "Tacvba," if you insist) performing their 1990s hit, "El baile y el salón"--"The Dance and the Salon."
I don´t know if this would be considered a typical Café Tacuba song in that, from what I recall, none of their songs are "typical," i.e., their sound is highly varied. I remember some punk/metal-sounding numbers, some ballads, some "cod reggae" (or am I mistakenly channeling Juanes?), some pop, and then something like this, a jazzy, breezy little pop tune that sounds joyous and practically effortless.
I was fortunate enough to see Café Tacuba in concert in San Antonio in the late ´90s--in a nightclub of all places in the far northwestern suburbs. You could do that in San Antonio because Latin pop and rock, while listened to, were secondary, maybe even tertiary, in popularity to Tejano music, Norteño music, and other variations on what might best be described as Mexican and Mexican-American folk and country. Heck, I suspect even salsa, cumbia, and other Caribbean and Latin music styles were more popular in San Antonio than Latin pop and rock en español.
And while at the time I considered that something of a sad testimony to San Antonio´s lack of verve and cultural focus, in retrospect, I think I was just mistaken and misinterpreting the reality in which I lived. Despite being a self-touted "gateway to Mexico"--despite one, in fact, being part of Mexico--I always thought the city looked inward, not outward. But it was and is a majority Mexican-American city, a full 150 miles (250 kilometers maybe?) from the Mexican border and 300 miles or so from the nearest major Mexican metropolis, Monterrey. Thus there was no reason San Antonio should carry out my fantasy of living in Latin America. It was always fine as is, as a Latino city. It´s just that I wasn´t as interested in that aspect of the culture. While I did my best to appreciate it, the culture didn´t belong to me.
In life, I´ve struggled with the idea of appreciating a place for what it is rather than what I want it to be, which may explain why I´ve tended to move around a lot and moved to another country at the ripe old age of 54--and still have the urge to move again one or two more times before all is said and done. Maybe I don´t know what I want, or maybe I--altogether now--"still haven´t found what I´m looking for."
I suspect it´s the latter, but it begs the question, "Does what I imagine, does what I want, actually exist?" Maybe, maybe not. Maybe what most of us get in life is a momentary taste of what might be--a nibble, a morsel, enough to make you crave more, rather than a wealth, a cornucopia of flavor, and full satiety.
Yet I still want to be satisfied. Maybe that will come through more travel and a sooner-rather-than-later retirement, being able to do what I want when I want, rather than being tied to a schedule and responsibilities. Money is an issue. As is time. Always time.
In the meantime, though, these little memory trips down Latin America way help get me through a cold Canadian reality, allowing me to live in my warm South-of-the-border fantasy, despite what the weather and the culture want me to conform to. And maybe that´s good enough for now and even forever, in case the fantasy never becomes reality.
But I still hold out that, in time, the fantasy will become my day-to-day life. Otherwise, what´s the point of striving? And I´m always ready for more striving, as long as some success comes with the effort.
Your daily dose of Rock en español: the video for La Ley performing ¨Día Cero,¨ their huge hit (at least in Latin America) from 1997 or so.
Twenty years later, this remains a favorite of mine. I don't remember when or where I first heard it--perhaps San Antonio's former Latin American top hits station, La Romántica, or maybe one of the Saturdays I used to stay at home to watch "Telehit," Mexico's real answer to MTV, which was rebroadcast on Galavision. I don't even fully understand the lyrics to the song, mainly because I haven't taken the time to. But the mood the song creates, the sound both of the music and the singer's voice, that's what has always captivated me.
But maybe now, twenty years later, it's time to understand the lyrics. There are a few that I get easily through listening: "En ese un camino largo" (on this long road) and the title itself (Day Zero). But others, not so much, and even when I read the lyrics, I'm not sure I fully understand. The limits of my Spanish, alas.
Which has got me thinking: It's time, past time, to work on my Spanish again, to visit Mexico again, and to visit places I've longed to but haven't found the time to or didn't have the money to before--Buenos Aires would be at the time of my list. Cuernavaca. Antigua, Guatemala. Bogotá. Cuzco. Havana.
Now I have the money but often not the time. Nonetheless, this is goal worth working toward in 2018.
¡Buena suerte para mi! May today be Day One of my quest to explore and learn from nuestro mundo.
If you've given more (or less) than a cursory glance at this blog, it's of course no secret that I have a thing for soap operas. And this "thing" extends to soaps from many countries and in many languages--at least in languages that I understand or that are subtitled to aid in my understanding.
I chalk up the life-long interest in soaps to my upbringing when the daytime soaps were a big part of our family's life. My grandmother was a CBS soaps fan (As the World Turns, Guiding Light), my Mom, an NBC one (Another World). Growing up, I watched Another World and Dark Shadows(ABC) with my sister and brothers. I distinctly remember Rachel #1 (Robin Strasser) purposefully spilling the beans to Alice Matthews that she was pregnant with Steve Frame's child (Steve was Alice's fiancé--trust me, this was explosive stuff in the late 1960s). I also clearly remember Barnabas enclosing the Reverend Trask behind a brick wall, a la The Cask of Amontillado, leaving him to die. (Trust me again, Trask deserved it.)
Later, along with some combination of friends, family, and coworkers, I watched All My Children, Texas, Days of Our Lives, Santa Barbara, One Life to Live, Guiding Light, and now, occasionally, The Bold and the Beautiful. I never got hooked on The Young and the Restless, As the World Turns, or General Hospital, even as a social habit. You can imagine that with the demise of nearly all soaps on American TV since 1999, it's been a lonely, frustrating time for a dedicated soap aficionado.
Orange is the new Itatí Cantoral
Thus over time I've turned to soaps from outre-mer, such as Britain(EastEnders, Coronation Street, and the execrable Hollyoaks, which if I were a particularly stupid trashy teen from the UK, I might find it appealing, but since I'm not, oh well . . .), Australia(Neighbours, Home and Away),South Africa(Egoli: Place of Gold, 7de Laan, Muvhango, Isidingo, Generations), and especially Mexico and Latin America.
See what I mean about a "thing"?
* * *
I'm not sure what triggered the memories but over the last couple of days, I've had flashbacks to scenes from a number of Mexican telenovelas that I've watched over the years--or, rather, over the decades, as I got turned onto novelas during my first trip to Mexico in 1989. That was an eye-opening, mind-expanding, and life-affirming vacation, exposing me to various aspects of Mexican art, language, music, society, business, transportation, religion, and government. And I was only there for 10 days!
Fernando Colunga, '90s novela star. And to think I dated a guy who looked similar to this and broke it off because I thought he was boring ...
My Spanish--learned in high school and college--was fairly rudimentary then. It got better after I moved to Texas in 1995. And while I've never been fluent, I managed to get more competent when I had a Mexican boyfriend who had limited English. Much of the responsibility for communication fell on me, and I gladly accepted the duty.
I've had less opportunity to speak Spanish since moving back east in 2004 and even less than less opportunity since moving to Canada in 2015. But I try to keep up as best I can. The trip I made to San Antonio about a year ago really sparked a renewal in interest. Even at my ripe middle age, I still yearn to be more fluent in Spanish and still regret that I didn't pursue my original plan of an undergraduate degree in Spanish back in the day. A missed opportunity, but honestly, I couldn't see any future in it at the time. I wasn't planning to teach, I wasn't good enough to translate or interpret, and I didn't see myself going on to a PhD in anything. Never mind that I've used Spanish in most of my jobs. Never mind that I still like to speak it when I can. Never mind that I always have felt more comfortable--and more alive!--in Mexico than I have in the colder, blander climes of the U.S., Europe, and, alas, Canada.
I still love English--its fun, flexibility, and global influence. But ay, dios mío, why didn't I move to Mexico all those years ago? Why haven't I traveled more in Latin America--to Buenos Aires or Cuzco or San Juan--especially now that I have the money to do so? Why haven't I taken a Spanish course in Costa Rica or Colombia, similar to what I did when I took a French course several years ago in Montreal? Might I be able to at some point in the future, when retirement finally releases me from the day-to-day and hum-drum of this working life--live, travel, study? Espero que sí.
In the meantime, I'll have to content myself with memories of '80s and '90s telenovelas de amor.
* * *
First, a true confession: Even though Betty la Fea (Ugly Betty)
was a huge hit when I lived in Texas, I never watched it. Probably a
mistake because I missed out on a cultural moment. But, truth be
told, I've never been a fan of the Cinderella nature of some of the
novelas--which makes it challenging to watch them because so many have
the same plot: A poor, innocent, humble but ultimately gorgeous girl
from the barrio meets an incredibly handsome, if somewhat spoiled
and arrogant, aristocrat. He is engaged to a she-wolf, a demon, a viper
. . . an Itatí Cantoral, for example. Eventually he pays
attention to the poor wallflower who, overnight, blooms, and he comes to
his (deeply romantic) senses. He breaks it off with the banshee, but
she won't let him go that easily. That or some handsome ne'er-do-well
pursues the princess-in-waiting until he's about to discover the flower
of her secret. Struggle, drama, vengeance, some more drama and struggle
ensue, et voilà, the protagonists find their way to each other, marry, and (one assumes) live happily ever after.
There's only so much syrup I can drink, only so much cheese I can snack on.
Besides it's not my story, it's not my desire: I just can't work up a
lot of energy about these "hetero-normative" fantasies. (I don't
seriously call them that; instead, I just call them boring, predictable
storylines.) I much prefer the humor and plot intricacies, the drama,
and the survival-against-all-odds storylines.
Sí, Eduardo es más macho que Jack Lord
Another true confession: While I saw episodes of Teresa,Salma Hayek's
breakthrough role, when I lived in Texas, it was only after she became
famous. So I have no idea if I would have spotted a star being born. I
do know, however, that I could never get into the Teresa storyline, even in reruns. And what was with all the wind? Another cultural moment missed.
And still one more true confession: I skimmed Dos Mujeres, Un Camino, starring Erik "Poncharelli" Estrada, because my Spanish wasn't good enough then. But, hey, neither was Erik Estrada's . . . .
* * *
Instead, I remember bits and pieces of some novelas--Dulce Desafío, perhaps the first one I saw, starring Adela Noriega and Señor ¿Quién es más macho?¡Sí, Eduardo Yáñez! I always translate the title as "Sweet Rivalry," but I've also seen it translated as "Sweet Competition" (I like my version better). As far as I could determine, the story was centered around young female runners at a boarding school. I was never sure if Eduardo was the boyfriend or the teacher or the coach or all three--likely a character that would be frowned upon in our #metoo #timesup era.
Two other early novelas I remember . . . confusedly: Simplemente María and Mi Segunda Madre. There's probably no good reason for me to confuse them, other than I discovered them at about the same time, with Mi Madre airing in 1989 and María in 1990. Or vice versa. I forget which.
Mi Segunda Madre is a standout for its rather creepy, slightly surrealist intro (see below) and also for it's heavy use of music by Art of Noise, including, naturally, "Moments in Love." That really caught my attention as that was an album I really enjoyed then and still listen to from time to time. I'm not sure I remember the plot to Mi Madre or even ever understood it, but it had enough mystique about it to lodge into my brain, however piecemeal.
Simplemente María is memorable perhaps for all the wrong reasons--the cheesy intro (see above) with a too adult Victoria Ruffo trying to pass herself off as a simple india from the countryside. And those ridiculous children rubbing their eyes to convey crying, then waving maniacally as María heads off to el DF to find fortune, fame, and love, all apparently in her own fashion design business.
(Don't laugh! It could happen!)
There are others that I watched every now and again when I lived in Texas: María la del Barrio for one, which actually never really interested me in a major way.I think Thalía is a wonderful singer, a great little spitfire of an entertainer. But I don't know that I enjoyed her acting--and, besides, I never understood that whole Jughead del Riverdale barrio costuming they forced her into. ¡Híjole!
There was also Marimar (also starring Thalía) and María Isabel (also starring Adela Noriega). And let´s not forget Cañaveral de Pasiones (which I think translates as Plantation of Passions? But what do I know?). And many, many more--but above all else, there was Tú y Yo.
* * *
Fernando Carrillo spent too much time with the barbells and not enough time with the books
Los galanes--the hunks--of which there were many, although too many now seem interchangeably gorgeous, as if some hunk breeding experiment in the jungles of Colombia has gone wonderfully, horribly wrong.
I mentioned above Fernando C (sleep with), and Eduardo Y (sleep with and marry), two of my favorites. But there were many, many others, mostly of the "sleep with" variety and maybe even one or two "kills." There was Eduardo Capetillo as well--he of the lush chest hair forest (sleep with) and the impossibly cute button nose (kill). There was Francisco Gattorno, who was just so fine, so sleep with and marry.
And there were others who were just . . . annoying. Fernando Carrillo, for example (see photo). I know I'm supposed to be turned on by this, and I'm sure he's a lovely person, but he just looks . . . manufactured. I mean, if you turned him over, I'm positive you'd see an "Hecho en México por Televisa" sticker on what I can only assume is a delectable, well-chiseled ass.
Sigh. I like a slab o' meat as much as any gay man, but not just any slab o' meat. It's got to have some character--and look like it could sign its own name to a check or two. And, sorry, Carrillo, you just look a little dumb.
There was also Juan Soler(Argentine; sleep with, maybe cohabit with not marry) and Sebastian Ligarde(American and an out gay man at that; sleep with but his acting is always very OTT, so kill as well). And others that I no longer recall, despite once having owned a copy of People en Español´s "Top 50 Galanes" (or some such).
So the eye candy on novelas is of very high quality--obviously the makers of these shows know their audience consists of millions of straight women and gay men. But when it comes down to it, I don't actually watch the shows for their hunkitude (although I wouldn't necessarily turn the channel either). Instead, I watch them for the story, the drama, the acting, the sets, the cultural/educational moments, the Spanish vocabulary lessons, and for the lovely ladies who lead us through 180 degrees of emotions--from joy to rage to that gutted feeling you get in your stomach when it all goes pear-shaped and you don't feel you have a friend in the world who can help you out of the mess you're in. You know, love and its after-effects.
Antes de convertirse en actor, Eduardo Capetillo vivió en un parque zoológico
* * *
As mentioned above, my favorite novela back then and even today is Tú y Yo. From the looks of the intro and even many of the early episodes, the show resembles that old song, "The Cowboy and the Lady," brought to cinematic life. You just know that Tomás (Joan Sebastian) and Estela (Maribel Guardia) are going to be put through the mill of love but that, somewhere down stream, they'll find their way back to each other.
Except . . . well, why spoil the story? Let's just say that who you thought would end up with whom didn't go according to plan, and while apparently that was quite by accident, they made magic out of it, turning Tú y Yo into a sort of anti-novela telenovela.
I will have to do some digging in Spanish-language newspapers to give you the full story because I might not recall it correctly 20 years later, and it´s delicious enough that you´ll want to savor every second, in and out of love. And when I discover it again, I'll write a fuller reflection on Tú y Yo. But not today and probably not tomorrow. But soon. Stay tuned.
Oye, after all this, you weren't expecting a season-ending cliffhanger? Chavos y chavas, you need to catch up on your stories.
While you do so, perhaps you'll enjoy the show's intro from 1997.
And all these years later, I still love that song and still adore that show. Es algo personal. It takes me back to my life in Texas, my semi-regular visits to Mexico, to a couple of sweet boyfriends, to great memories, and to feeling alive and happy, like I'd never felt before and hadn't experience recently until I moved to Canada to be with Cairo. Then as well as now, I had my left foot in America and my right one in, well, otro mundo, another world.
And one of these days both of my feet are going to be firmly planted in one world, a beautiful world, a loving world. And I pray to the gods, Christian, Aztec, and otherwise, that that world calls itself Mexico.
Or at least San Antonio. Or maybe Tucson. Or even Santa Fe.
I'm still trying to fathom why anyone would eat a Tide detergent pod, regardless of the challenge or even the flavor. (Spring Meadow Some Velvet Morning Phaedra Is My Name or whatever is not without its appeal, I'll grant you that.) I mean, I know it's the age of Xtreme!™ everything, but still ... detergent ... in a pod.
The most wild 'n' crazy challenges involving (in)digestibles I accepted in childhood were as follows:
In the late '60s, a cousin dared me (or I offered all on my own, I don't remember exactly) to eat dirt. True to my word, I did. It was ... grainy. A little sandy. Kinda earthy, you might say.
Sometime in the early '70s, my sister and I dared each other to try a dry nugget of Gravy Train, our dog's preferred dinner. It was ... rusty. A little crunchy. Kinda canine, you might say.
That's it, kids. And guess what? I'm still going strong at 56, despite a little arthritis in my hands and a certain fondness for sugary snacks.
Meanwhile, if you drop a pod of Tide, you'll be lucky if you survive until 16, physically or mentally.
It's your life, of course, and I, a Friend of Little Debbie, would be presumptuous if I were to tell you what to eat, gluten-free, vegan, or phosphate-feeble. Science, medicine, government, and the media--well, they say no! don't do it! you could kill yourself! But, hey, it's your Sophie's challenge.
Just know that if you do decide to taste the Tide pod rainbow, you'll be doing us all a big favor--one less stupid person to have to look after into Social Security, let alone the SATs. Our tax dollars not at work if you cark it. Hallelujah anyway.
But then again, if you go forth with tipping the Tide velvet and end up just brain-damaged, our insurance rates will go up, and we'll hate you with the fierceness of a thousand bottles of Sunlight dishwashing detergent. So, rather you don't eat the Tide, please.
