Welcome back from the far reaches of civilization. Hopefully you had the chance to catch up on the current affairs of the national government, the fashion fopas in the entertainment industry and your younger brother's high school gossip. I tore through multiple media avenues of cultural assessment and refilled my cup of social nuances. These are my conclusions from the articles that I read: There is trouble in the Middle East, the theater is dead and Brooke has a crush on Andrew.
After learning everything I needed to know about the outside world via newspapers, smoke signals and primitive dial-up Internet, I boarded a plane and shipped myself to Mexico: The Land of a Thousand Holas.
Like Canada, Mexico is a seedy, third-world country with desolate and impoverished scenery, street-merchant child labor and extremely high jet-ski rental prices. The country is covered with pyramids and ruins that we'd have the decency to fix in America, and no matter how many times you order a side of fries, you always get chips, guacamole and salsa. These problems can be over-looked though because of the country's beautiful beaches and rich theatrical culture. While in America we may feel that theater is dead, in Mexico you can find live entertainment quicker than you can accidentally drink the water and die.
South of the border, dinner wasn't complete without a small, audience-based show. After getting hyped on refried beans and pico de gallo, one of the waiters, officially known as "Cool Guy Pedro," grabbed everyone's attention with a megaphone, airhorn and his T-shirt's overpowering salsa stench. The show began when Cool Guy Pedro invited several females from the audience to participate in a family-oriented, unobtrusive, strip contest. The first act consisted of making the girls run around the restaurant and take off different items of men's clothing.
Like the crying child Cosette from Les Miserables, I watched a fellow spring breaker crumble to the floor as he got assaulted by one of the female participants. Without so much as an introduction, the girl pulled the boy's pants to his ankles where his shoes prevented her from taking them off completely. Determined to win, the girl dragged the poor weeping boy across the floor by his feet and delivered him to Cool Guy Pedro. For this task she got the chance to be harassed by the other waiters, while the boy got to spend the rest of the night removing bits of tortilla from his inner thighs.
As an encore to "Strip a random stranger for the sake of making the patrons feel uncomfortable," CGP had some unsuspecting Americana white boy run around and kiss any female who had, or would eventually develop, a pair of breasts, on the breasts. As a prize, the boy now gets to tell his therapist for the rest of his life that he kissed a 60-year-old Mexican woman's tit.
The Show Goes On
American theater is drowsy because Americans are sleeping at the critical moments. If we, the world's only English-speaking super power, had the energy to stay up until four in the morning, we'd see something sicker and more demonic than Joan Rivers's smiling face as she trashes and rehashes celebrity fashion. The club is where the show goes on.
At 3:45 in the morning, every morning, a man completely painted in silver, garbed in war armor and a colorful feather headdress reminiscent of the hat Aunt Zuzu wore at my Bar Mitzvah, appears on stage brandishing a fiery base stick. He explains in a voice of thunder that he is in fact "The Devil," and that he'd really appreciate it if everyone would dance with him. This makes the audience extremely happy because no one can think of a better dance partner than Satan.
During the dance, the Lord Hades graciously offers everyone "sex, drugs, and house," and while these things don't usually make great souvenirs, they're free, which makes them even more enticing than the grass hats and young Hispanic children you can buy on the streets during the day.
Just when you think your night is complete, there isn't a cab driver in Mexico who doesn't know the way to "Girls, Girls, Girls," the only nudie bar where the doormen wear bullet-proof vests and carry assault rifles. This gives the place a militaristic ambiance of love and makes watching "Cool Girl Juanita" that much more enjoyable.
Back in America, I'm starving for some of the wholesome entertainment I saw in Mexico, because most of the theater here is dead and what isn't, I'd like to scalp. Don't get me wrong, with "Everybody Loves Raymond" on four different channels at the same time, there's plenty of mind-numbing merriment to distract me from my educational responsibilities. The problem is: I hate Raymond. Maybe I'm the statistical outlier, but I really hate Raymond. Raymond can go to hell, and while he's there, maybe the devil, my new best friend, could drug him, sex him up, house him and televise it in every franchised restaurant and club across the country. Now that would be some impassioned American entertainment worthy of my two pesos.