So you think you can Mariachi!
It’s embarrassing the intense love I feel for Mariachi musicians. You know how in boy bands there’s the cute one, the gay one, the irrelevant one and the one who goes on to a promising solo career? I’m convinced that such a pecking order exists in Mariachi culture as well but I’m too busy tracing the outline of their naughty bits in their skintight pants to care.
I have now been an important part of two weddings where I completely lost interest in the nuptials altogether when the sombreros and obscure instruments came out. What kind of a friend blocks out ‘to have and to hold’ in favor of dreaming of ‘having and holding’ any one of the hired musicians in big sequined hats?
If you know me at all you know I have a strict ‘no uniform’ policy when it comes to the men in my life. No cops, no firemen, no pilots, no parking attendants, no doctors, no wanna-be cops customs officers, no exceptions – that is unless you are a Mexican with mad skillz and a sewing machine. This is an area I couldn’t possibly discriminate. I love the tall guy (5.9), the slick guy, the one who reaches my navel, the guy with the biggest instrument, the one with Dos Equis belly, tiny ukulele guy and the one who’s there strictly for decoration. Sigh!
Many normal people fantasize about threesomes with Hollywood’s elite or romantic, rose petal moments with Harlequin heroes. I dream of inappropriate touching hour with Juan Gabriel’s stage musicians. I’m not proud of course but it’s fresh. Two nights in a row there have been Mariachi bands in my hotel lobby. I am fairly certain they’ve been sent to test me. When El Fogoncito and boatloads of Tequila appear on my expense report my fantasy will be fulfilled…and inevitably exposed.