Let's just say its the two days of the year where you get to dress up like old people and dance for fruit and candy in the street. There I said it. Every year around this time comes the greatly anticipated celebration of "Corpus Cristi" or "Dia de Los Viejos" (Day of the Old Folks). It's actually something of importance within the Catholic Church, who really knows what Christ's Body day entails: all I know that it was last Wednesday and Thursday. The tradition is a midday Wednesday mass, everyone in their respected colonia, then assorted dancing and merriment in and around the colonia. Then on Thursday an 8am procession from each of the colonias diverges on the plaza of downtown Temascalcingo. Let me just say that the vibe is crazy. Supposedly the old men and old women are dancing for rain (as it mysteriously rains like clockwork two days after the dancing). Now these old folks aren't just velcro shoes and prune juice, were talking elaborate disguises! Traditionally the men of the village dress in over-sized pillow-stuffed garments and wear wrinkled old-people masks and have over-sized accessories. The masks alone are completely ridiculous. The traditional mask is made from the dried ultra-light root system of the maguey and carved into elaborated wrinkled faces. Once the design is carved, cow dung is spread over the surface to give a leather skin-like completion. Once the features are smeared on, ixtle, or the dried ultra-white maguey root is carefully assembled as hair, mustaches, beards and eyebrows. Finally upholstery sponges are used and bicycle tire inner-tubes are used to secure the mask to the dancers head. Almost everyone wears lucha libre masks underneath their old person facade, as it hides their identity and traps the sweat from getting in their eyes. I unfortunately didn't have the pleasure of a wrestling mask (as I'm still broke) and when the sweat started staining my corneas I suddenly regretted not stealing one. So here I am, Wednesday morning. It's hot as sin and I'm dressed up like an old lady: wrinkled mask, linen dress, sandals, cane, stuffed derrière and two grapefruits as, well, chesticles. I must admit that when buying a bra for my old lady costume caught the girl at the lingerie store by surprise. I went in asking for the largest bra they had. Let's just say that it wasn't even close to the mammoths I've seen passing through Sears in the states. I politely asked her for a larger one, as it was for my grandmother. She looked uncomfortable. I then slipped in that if I was this giant, she should imagine my grandmother. She went to the back of the store and produced an equally medium-sized brassiere. She still had not gotten the point. I then told her that my grandmother's had fallen and were now being tucked into her skirt elastic. The girl looked like she might get sick, and got me yet another equally mediocre example. I grabbed the linen-ware and told her granny would have to squeeze 'em in, paid the $15 ($1.25USD) and was out the door. I looked back over my shoulder as I was leaving to catch her staring at me, all I could do was smile. With my new costume in place, my spiritual advisor, Karlos with a K, gave me a crash course in the old person dance and we were on the way. It was much like dancing reggae on molten lava in slow motion: a quarter jump, quarter hop, quarter groove and a quarter shuffle seemed to be the recipe. Along with the dancing came incoherent wailing from the supposed geezers and to finish - ragtag fiddle/tambor (bass drum) "music". The three-stringed fiddle was being manned by a toothless farmer while his ogre of a son untimely banged the tambor. Yes, this was going to be an experience. Since we were late, the group of old folks had already left to assault the colonia. We followed the yells and tambor for about 15 minutes until we found them. There were about thirty dancers dancing in the yard of a house with about 70 onlookers cheering the group on. We quickly hobbled into the masses and started dancing away. In about three minutes time I was exhausted and salty sweat began to perforate my pupils. The dance must go on. We danced for about three hours in various yards, streets and fields until we were given a break. We had arrived at the house of an actual old person who had prepared charape for all. Charape is a most wonderful concoction: It starts as an ordinary batch of pulque (mmm...) and is spiced up with unrefined sugar and a slurry of fermented corn and extracts to make a most wonderful and intoxicating beverage. I was warned not to drink more than a cup because I would "be on my ass drunk", so I drank about five cups. It was so hot and the charape so delicious that I couldn't stop. The interesting part was that I didn't get drunk, or even tipsy. In fact it only gave me more fuel to dance. Refueled, we assaulted the streets again, asking for candy and fruit in every storefront and house that we danced for. I only lasted about five hours, as I had to cook a fifty person banquet in another city. My mask and stuffed linen garb were soaked from hours of dancing. It also turns out that I had three quarter-sized blisters on my right hand that had been ripped open by my cane. Bleeding, I changed into my cooking uniform. A neighbor came by with a cool bag of tapache. Tapache is a curious pineapple drink, that, when cold can only be described as 'godly'. Somewhere in between nectar and heaven, the yeasty-alcoholic goodness disappeared within seconds, I slapped on a few band-aids and was of to work. Corpus Cristi 2009 had officially been a success! 20 June 2009
Captain's Log: Corpus Cristi
Let's just say its the two days of the year where you get to dress up like old people and dance for fruit and candy in the street. There I said it. Every year around this time comes the greatly anticipated celebration of "Corpus Cristi" or "Dia de Los Viejos" (Day of the Old Folks). It's actually something of importance within the Catholic Church, who really knows what Christ's Body day entails: all I know that it was last Wednesday and Thursday. The tradition is a midday Wednesday mass, everyone in their respected colonia, then assorted dancing and merriment in and around the colonia. Then on Thursday an 8am procession from each of the colonias diverges on the plaza of downtown Temascalcingo. Let me just say that the vibe is crazy. Supposedly the old men and old women are dancing for rain (as it mysteriously rains like clockwork two days after the dancing). Now these old folks aren't just velcro shoes and prune juice, were talking elaborate disguises! Traditionally the men of the village dress in over-sized pillow-stuffed garments and wear wrinkled old-people masks and have over-sized accessories. The masks alone are completely ridiculous. The traditional mask is made from the dried ultra-light root system of the maguey and carved into elaborated wrinkled faces. Once the design is carved, cow dung is spread over the surface to give a leather skin-like completion. Once the features are smeared on, ixtle, or the dried ultra-white maguey root is carefully assembled as hair, mustaches, beards and eyebrows. Finally upholstery sponges are used and bicycle tire inner-tubes are used to secure the mask to the dancers head. Almost everyone wears lucha libre masks underneath their old person facade, as it hides their identity and traps the sweat from getting in their eyes. I unfortunately didn't have the pleasure of a wrestling mask (as I'm still broke) and when the sweat started staining my corneas I suddenly regretted not stealing one. So here I am, Wednesday morning. It's hot as sin and I'm dressed up like an old lady: wrinkled mask, linen dress, sandals, cane, stuffed derrière and two grapefruits as, well, chesticles. I must admit that when buying a bra for my old lady costume caught the girl at the lingerie store by surprise. I went in asking for the largest bra they had. Let's just say that it wasn't even close to the mammoths I've seen passing through Sears in the states. I politely asked her for a larger one, as it was for my grandmother. She looked uncomfortable. I then slipped in that if I was this giant, she should imagine my grandmother. She went to the back of the store and produced an equally medium-sized brassiere. She still had not gotten the point. I then told her that my grandmother's had fallen and were now being tucked into her skirt elastic. The girl looked like she might get sick, and got me yet another equally mediocre example. I grabbed the linen-ware and told her granny would have to squeeze 'em in, paid the $15 ($1.25USD) and was out the door. I looked back over my shoulder as I was leaving to catch her staring at me, all I could do was smile. With my new costume in place, my spiritual advisor, Karlos with a K, gave me a crash course in the old person dance and we were on the way. It was much like dancing reggae on molten lava in slow motion: a quarter jump, quarter hop, quarter groove and a quarter shuffle seemed to be the recipe. Along with the dancing came incoherent wailing from the supposed geezers and to finish - ragtag fiddle/tambor (bass drum) "music". The three-stringed fiddle was being manned by a toothless farmer while his ogre of a son untimely banged the tambor. Yes, this was going to be an experience. Since we were late, the group of old folks had already left to assault the colonia. We followed the yells and tambor for about 15 minutes until we found them. There were about thirty dancers dancing in the yard of a house with about 70 onlookers cheering the group on. We quickly hobbled into the masses and started dancing away. In about three minutes time I was exhausted and salty sweat began to perforate my pupils. The dance must go on. We danced for about three hours in various yards, streets and fields until we were given a break. We had arrived at the house of an actual old person who had prepared charape for all. Charape is a most wonderful concoction: It starts as an ordinary batch of pulque (mmm...) and is spiced up with unrefined sugar and a slurry of fermented corn and extracts to make a most wonderful and intoxicating beverage. I was warned not to drink more than a cup because I would "be on my ass drunk", so I drank about five cups. It was so hot and the charape so delicious that I couldn't stop. The interesting part was that I didn't get drunk, or even tipsy. In fact it only gave me more fuel to dance. Refueled, we assaulted the streets again, asking for candy and fruit in every storefront and house that we danced for. I only lasted about five hours, as I had to cook a fifty person banquet in another city. My mask and stuffed linen garb were soaked from hours of dancing. It also turns out that I had three quarter-sized blisters on my right hand that had been ripped open by my cane. Bleeding, I changed into my cooking uniform. A neighbor came by with a cool bag of tapache. Tapache is a curious pineapple drink, that, when cold can only be described as 'godly'. Somewhere in between nectar and heaven, the yeasty-alcoholic goodness disappeared within seconds, I slapped on a few band-aids and was of to work. Corpus Cristi 2009 had officially been a success! 
12 June 2009
Further Adventures of Breadline Tuck
With "La Luchadora" in almost working condition, it was time to tackle the weekend. Saturday morning it was up early and on to play rehearsal. Don't get your knickers in a knot, I'll explain. To make a short story even shorter, one of my students who goes to high school in Atlacomulco, asked me to direct a short scene. How could I say no? I had a great stint as an actor in high school and here was my chance to give back. So I went to the high school to talk with the teacher in charge. Maestro Juanito, or so he is called had a striking resemblance to a clean-shaven Gimley and was very cordial in contracting me. He commented that they never had a theater presentation before and he'd love for me to "share my craft". He had chosen a scene from "El Espejo" which involved a husband coming home to find his wife alone, dressed in dinner attire at three in the morning. Her lover is hiding in the bathroom, wrapped in a shower curtain as she tries to keep her hubby from entering. He finally enters and questions the dame. A plumber, her brother and a whole slew of lies come from her mouth, until the man passes out after being 
deceived by his own wife. Not to tough, even if he was giving me only ten days to rehearse and if the students had never acted before, but I love a good challenge. So Saturday I had the "half-way" rehearsal (five down and five to go). Not to toot their own horn, but the kids were stunning: the boy manly and wacky (as the scene called for) and the girl breathtaking (just the way I like it). We rehearsed for a few hours then it was each on their own way (It was Saturday and they were high school students). A low-key evening ensued as I got ready for my debut as a party photographer. A neighbor had called on me to document her daughter's two-year birthday fiesta. I had my reserves, as I'd never photographed for anything more than for some lousy blog. She waved $400MP under my nose and my camera suddenly had a full battery. Sunday morning she recruited me into helping make tamales and then on to the big photography debut! I snapped some 350 pictures over the course of three hours. How could I not keep snapping away with a specimen tan linda! The little girl, Melissa, was absolutely stunning. From her not wanting to hurt the piñata, to eating cake by the fistful , she was lovin' the party. After some formalish shots I took her on a walk by the canal in her favorite toy car. This is where she shined: fake flow
ers in hand and grinning ear to ear. I've also left you with a picture of the near-decapitated Minnie Mouse piñata and 180 degrees of the mob that flocked. In Mexico there are a few very distinct types of dress, here we see a great example. The rockero (the rock-and-roller): Judas Priest T-shirt, leather jacket, jeans, biker boots, long hair, and sunglasses. It's funny because just by looking at him you know what kind of music he listens to, what he'll ask to drink and where he was last Friday night. In the background we also see a prime example of an adobe shack, clothesline and gossiping women. What a beautiful moment. After the cake was cut and divvied up, I went to take a leak. Folks, there
's no way to put it pleasantly, I peed in the canal. Yes, the family didn't exactly have a bathroom (they did have a sheet partitioning a corner of the cornfield for Number Two), so I had to improvise. It wasn't the classiest thing I'd ever done, but on the way back to the fiesta, I caught Melissa's four year old aunt in a most candid pose. Marian Monserrat (or Monce) as she is called was sitting in the threshold of the shack deep in thought, slowly nibbling her birthday pastel. I stood there for a few minutes snapping away until she saw me and immediately turned beet red. The party was a success and I went home to get ready for another sunny Monday morning.07 June 2009
Captain's Log: Bonito Juarez
I am a firm believer that every man at some point of his life goes through a "gunfighter" stage and needs a picture as proof. That point for me was about ten years ago when I was crazy about Wyatt Earp, Bittercreek Newcomb, Grat Dalton and "Killer" Miller. The thrill of a brace of six-shooters, armadillo skin boots and a duster, gallivanting around the Old West beckoned me from a young age. Traveling much of the Southwest only sharpened my knowledge of the craft. Here in Mexico more than a decade later, I deceided to revisit my gunfighing roots and don my gunfighting garb for a most epic portrait. 1/3 country gentleman, 1/3 bad-ass, and 1/3 mystery is the recipe for the perfect gunfighter pose. Since we are in the year 2009 and I, in fact have no gun, I had to modify, but the formula reamins the same. For the country gentleman, I elude my profession with the painfully elegant Geoffrey Beene fresh-manure-brown polyester suit coat. The bad-ass is captured 1/3 in the jeer, 1/3 in the headwear and 1/3 in the footwear. I chose a deadpan stare, a most threatening bone-colored hat and slick brown calf-skin kickers. For the mystery I chose the sinister "hand in the pocket" and the suspicious all-grey background. Folks, I don't even know what I have in my pocket...I'm that mysterious. As for the ungiving background, I could be in my bathroom, the morgue or in a Michigan cloud. I just need a name...I was thinking Bonito Juarez or 'Tuck the Nasty'.03 June 2009
The Adventures of Breadline Tuck
Monday morning I woke up with $0USD to my name. I didn't even have enough to take the guilero (antiquated commuter bus) to Sta. Rosa to teach my Monday morning class. On a prayer I jumped into my new car and hoped for enough gas to get me there. I got there, and back, I also lied: It's not exactly new. I'll explain: Last Thursday I was driving home from class when I saw a most enticing 1979 VW Microbus. Now I've always wanted a VW bus, mostly because they are amazing (
and I don't exactly fit into a Beetle.) I pull over and ask a most craggled man about the price. The man seemed to be on another planet and surely had William McKinley beat on eyebrows. He told me that it was, Mauro, his brother who I wanted to talk to and that he would be back "later". The problem was that I couldn't exactly come back "later" as I had class then play rehearsal, then more class. Hmmm. It would have to wait. Friday rolled around and I found myself face to face with the notorious Mauro. He was one of these guys who had a space in between his teeth and chain smoked Raleigh cigarros. He told me that he wanted $11,000MP for her and if I was interested. I in fact was quite interested, but seeing as I had $37 pesos to my name, it didn't seem very feasible. I thanked him kindly and told him I'd get back to him when I rounded up the remaining $10,063 pesos. Mauro almost laughed and showed me out the door. Before I could say "Emiliano Zapata's ghost" Mauro, as soon as he saw it, was asking about the 1976 Renault 5 I had drove up in. Small talk ensued and finally he offered the bus to me for a good-old-fashioned switcheroo. I couldn't say no. What a beaut! The VW is white with Bond-O blemishes pocking its stressed skin. Spiderweb cracks dance across the windshield, rear window, side window, rear-side window, and side-rear window and the rear-view mirror are also broken. No seats, dashboard, or spare tire to speak of. The driver-side door only opens form the inside, the passenger-side door only opens from the outside: a perfect harmony of ying and yang. The good news is that the windshield wiper (yes, singular) works and
that the back is tiled in faded-blue faux-mother-of-pearl linoleum. Mauro doesn't have any paper (except the lining from the Raleigh carton) so we decide to do the business on Mondays, still trading the cars at this moment. No worries. I attend to some business and home. It's about ten at night, and tired, I think to take the shortcut by the haunted dam. Bad decision. The bus shorts out on a most steep 35 degree incline. I pop that bad boy into R and plan to push start the bus down the hill. Just my luck. The bus hits a rock and stops dead in it's tire tracks. No problem: I'll just give it a push over the rock to get some speed and jump in to pop the clutch. Easy enough. I jump out of the bus and position myself in front of the depressingly smashed windshield and 1-2-3 GO! The VW jumps the rock as planned, starts gaining speed as I go to open the driver-side door. As my fingers fumble to open the handle I realize that the door only opens from the inside! Hijo de su pinche madre! I wildly scamper to the other side as the bus races towards an adobe house. I think I hear children praying before bed just audible through the laminate roof. My mind races as I picture their indigenous faces clasping their rosaries as their mother warms up fresh donkey milk, so they can get to sleep. A tear jerks to my eye as the passenger-door catches and I jump inside. I frantically wriggle into the helm and slam on the brakes. I stop millimete
rs away from the earthen wall as I hear the children squeak "....amen." My heart sighs as I right the bus to the road. Another try and I'm off. This time I take the canal, a much planer, yet scary route. My luck kicks in again, as the VW shorts again. My patience and regulator are fried so I opt to crash on the dingy linoleum. The night was for the least, chilly and dis-concerning, as the canal is haunted. Luckily no llorana gave me trouble. I awoke to push the luchadora to my friends house and we got the mighty beast running, but I needed a second opinion. The only mechanic in town that isn't a total cheat is this guy I met at a first communion bash. I hadn't caught his name, could be the fact that he's a deaf-mute and I don't know Spanish sign language. I spent an hour deciphering his signs (although the only sound he can manage is a rolled rr (incidentally the problem with my transmission)) Anyhow, He fixed my problem and with a new regulator on board, I was on the way. So "El mudito" (the little mute) had saved the day.
and I don't exactly fit into a Beetle.) I pull over and ask a most craggled man about the price. The man seemed to be on another planet and surely had William McKinley beat on eyebrows. He told me that it was, Mauro, his brother who I wanted to talk to and that he would be back "later". The problem was that I couldn't exactly come back "later" as I had class then play rehearsal, then more class. Hmmm. It would have to wait. Friday rolled around and I found myself face to face with the notorious Mauro. He was one of these guys who had a space in between his teeth and chain smoked Raleigh cigarros. He told me that he wanted $11,000MP for her and if I was interested. I in fact was quite interested, but seeing as I had $37 pesos to my name, it didn't seem very feasible. I thanked him kindly and told him I'd get back to him when I rounded up the remaining $10,063 pesos. Mauro almost laughed and showed me out the door. Before I could say "Emiliano Zapata's ghost" Mauro, as soon as he saw it, was asking about the 1976 Renault 5 I had drove up in. Small talk ensued and finally he offered the bus to me for a good-old-fashioned switcheroo. I couldn't say no. What a beaut! The VW is white with Bond-O blemishes pocking its stressed skin. Spiderweb cracks dance across the windshield, rear window, side window, rear-side window, and side-rear window and the rear-view mirror are also broken. No seats, dashboard, or spare tire to speak of. The driver-side door only opens form the inside, the passenger-side door only opens from the outside: a perfect harmony of ying and yang. The good news is that the windshield wiper (yes, singular) works and
that the back is tiled in faded-blue faux-mother-of-pearl linoleum. Mauro doesn't have any paper (except the lining from the Raleigh carton) so we decide to do the business on Mondays, still trading the cars at this moment. No worries. I attend to some business and home. It's about ten at night, and tired, I think to take the shortcut by the haunted dam. Bad decision. The bus shorts out on a most steep 35 degree incline. I pop that bad boy into R and plan to push start the bus down the hill. Just my luck. The bus hits a rock and stops dead in it's tire tracks. No problem: I'll just give it a push over the rock to get some speed and jump in to pop the clutch. Easy enough. I jump out of the bus and position myself in front of the depressingly smashed windshield and 1-2-3 GO! The VW jumps the rock as planned, starts gaining speed as I go to open the driver-side door. As my fingers fumble to open the handle I realize that the door only opens from the inside! Hijo de su pinche madre! I wildly scamper to the other side as the bus races towards an adobe house. I think I hear children praying before bed just audible through the laminate roof. My mind races as I picture their indigenous faces clasping their rosaries as their mother warms up fresh donkey milk, so they can get to sleep. A tear jerks to my eye as the passenger-door catches and I jump inside. I frantically wriggle into the helm and slam on the brakes. I stop millimete
rs away from the earthen wall as I hear the children squeak "....amen." My heart sighs as I right the bus to the road. Another try and I'm off. This time I take the canal, a much planer, yet scary route. My luck kicks in again, as the VW shorts again. My patience and regulator are fried so I opt to crash on the dingy linoleum. The night was for the least, chilly and dis-concerning, as the canal is haunted. Luckily no llorana gave me trouble. I awoke to push the luchadora to my friends house and we got the mighty beast running, but I needed a second opinion. The only mechanic in town that isn't a total cheat is this guy I met at a first communion bash. I hadn't caught his name, could be the fact that he's a deaf-mute and I don't know Spanish sign language. I spent an hour deciphering his signs (although the only sound he can manage is a rolled rr (incidentally the problem with my transmission)) Anyhow, He fixed my problem and with a new regulator on board, I was on the way. So "El mudito" (the little mute) had saved the day....To Be Continued...
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