It's amazing how this ad has exposed the mindless jingoism, xenophobia and, most prominently, the out-and-out insecurity of certain Americans. This ad seems to have instilled panic and terror among those who lie awake at night worrying that Mexico--or Iraq or Cuba or Mars or Pluto--is going to invade the USA and diminish the size of their bullying, war-mongering country. Aside from the website Gawker, I have not found any other voices in the blogosphere who aren't reaching for their bayonet-adorned muskets or wrapping themselves in Old Glory. It's all so retrograde, dears. Were you this outraged when the Bush regime began murdering innocent women and children during its illegal bombing and invasion of Iraq? As for this Absolut boycott that these right-wing yahoos have been calling for, I have to ask: Did they even drink Absolut vodka in the first place? My guess would be that their alcoholic beverages of choice are Pabst Blue Ribbon (drunk un-ironically) and terrible wine that comes in a box. (If you need to be reminded of how close-minded and intolerant Texans are, for example, I suggest a re-viewing of the film "Borat.") As for their characterization of Mexicans being nothing more than dirt-poor savages, it's obvious they are not aware of the country's substantial middle class and its sophisticated, authentic culture. But I've ranted enough. All I can do at this point is share my memorable experiences with the Mexican people during my trip to Mexico City for Fashion Week in the fall of 2006. As for the American Empire, its worst enemy has always been itself. Good night, Amerikkka.
Saint Death, Telenovela Stars, and Rampaging Fashion Designers
A week in the life of Mexico City
By Glenn Belverio
“I never like to stray too far from the hotel,” the late photographer Helmut Newton once said of world travel. “Everything happens there.” Watching the world go by in the giant lobby of the Camino Real Hotel in Mexico City, during Fashion Week Mexico Spring 2007, is an activity Newton surely would have loved. A conga line of Latina beauties in cha-cha heels, an armada of handsome Spaniards in pricey Italian suits, flamboyant Mexican fashion editors, and a statuesque Angela Davis doppelganger—complete with afro and bellbottoms—paraded by with dizzying frequency. Most seemed headed for the cavernous penthouse of the hotel where the shows were being held.
Above: Beautiful people, fresh off the runway
Despite being in its 16th season, Fashion Week Mexico still has a nascent feel to it—but the rough-around-the-edges vibe only added to the fun. Case in point were the real bodies on display at Sergio Alcala, “the Heatherette of Mexico”, where voluptuous girls in itsy-bitsy bikinis caused more than a few New York fashionistas, unaccustomed to the sight of wide, womanly backsides on a runway, to recoil in horror. Jovial Mexican cable TV stars from the 80’s modeled Alcala’s riot of colors, prints, and pop culture embellishment: a Simpsons character here, a lucha libre mask motif there, while the Virgin of Guadalupe held sway on a bolero jacket or two. The bottles of bright green absinthe that lined the runway disappeared into a few editors’ tote bags only seconds after Alcala, dressed to upstage his own collection, finished taking his bows.
Above: Yummy eye candy
LA-based designer Louis Verdad, who won the FWM award for Best Women’s Designer at the end of the week, showed a multitude of dress silhouettes, from 50’s cocktail to 80’s drop-waist, that seemed more an exercise in the color crème than a full-on collection. One of Verdad’s claims to fame are his designs for his ‘Mexican muses’—singers and actresses, especially Mexican soap opera actresses, many of whom were present in the front row of his show. “Performers who want to make it in Latin American entertainment have to start in Mexican soap operas, in telenovelas,” Verdad commented before the show. “Those programs are the main platform for success.” Notorious for their Grand Guignol-like nature—shrieking, lip-lined sirens, campy violence, rivers of glycerin tears—Mexican soap operas are the most popular of their kind across Latin America and beyond. Proof of this phenomenon exists with the widespread adoption of chilango slang, which originated amongst Mexico City’s working classes but is now spoken in both urban and rural areas of most Spanish-speaking countries.
Above: Me (far right) and my friends from Guadalajara at a fashion week after-party. Afterwards, we hit the Mexico City gay disco scene. What a night that was! Don't even remember the number of vodka and cactus juice cocktails plus the 3am Jaigermeister tsunami.
Life seemed to imitate Mexican soap operas at the Armando Mafud show, when the designer (who had allegedly over-indulged in Colombian marching powder) showed up late, began screaming because the clothes were also late, and reportedly punched and manhandled the woman who was the head of backstage security. Forty-five minutes later, the packed house was still waiting for the show to begin when fashion week organizers announced that it would be cancelled. As the confused audience was herded toward the elevators, a raging Mafud tore through the crowd striking random fashionistas and punching a hole in a wall, while the paparazzi were in hot pursuit. This unexpected Mexican remake of La Dolce Vita seemed to overshadow, in fashion circles, at least, news of the violent, leftist revolution that was raging in the nearby state of Oaxaca.
Above: Me with the Luchas Libres at a book party for "Lucha Loco" at the trendy Condessa Hotel
If, after all this, one still felt the urge to stray from the hotel, rewards and punishments awaited. A car ride from, say, San Angel in the south of the city to the Catedral Metropolitana in Centro Historico during the wrong time of day would subject the traveler to a few grueling hours of the huge city’s legendary, nightmarish traffic—vehicles moving sluggishly in random directions with no rhyme or reason—and a ghastly shroud of thick, grey smog. On other days, ideally when sunlight and blue skies triumph over air pollution, a trip to idyllic Coyoacán (“place of coyotes”) will reveal quiet cobblestone streets, Spanish Colonial-era villas, poet cafes, and a museum dedicated to the life of celebrated artist, Frida Kahlo. A few blocks away lies the house that Marxist maverick Leon Trotsky lived in after Stalin and the rest of Europe had him ejected. It was here that Trotsky had sex with fellow communist Kahlo, discussed Socialism with Mexican intellectuals, and was murdered by an ice axe-wielding Stalinist. If you’re up for a longer trip, you can visit and climb the world’s largest pyramid and stroll down the Street of the Dead in the ancient ruins of the city of Teotihuacán. If you don’t wear a hat, sunglasses, sunscreen and are susceptible to altitude sickness—Mexico City and its environs are a staggering 2,100 meters above sea level—you will quickly discover why it’s called the Street of the Dead.
Above: Yes kids, this is where Raquel Welch filmed the brilliant video for "Age of Aquarius" for her 1971 TV show. We climbed all the way to the top!
Above: R.I.P. Comrade Trotsky. His house can be seen at right.
If you’re an urban explorer with nerves of steel, more fun with death can be had in Mexico City’s northern barrio of Tepito, the most famous neighborhood in all of Mexico. This colorful and foreboding demimonde/bargain market is populated by a rogue’s gallery of tough guys, or cabrones: thieves, drug dealers, prostitutes, murderers, street gangs, and world-champion boxers. Within Tepito’s labyrinth of narrow streets brave shoppers can buy stolen goods that have been smuggled across the US border, at rock bottom prices. If you’re not constantly on your guard, you’ll quickly understand the meaning of a popular Tepito saying: “Camarón que se duerme, ahí lo plancharon”—the shrimp that sleeps just got flattened. The patron saint of Tepito—Santa Muerte, or Saint Death—is unsurprisingly not officially recognized by the Vatican, and her cult is followed across the country by Mexico’s underworld. Once a month, the residents of Tepito parade Santa Muerte, depicted as a life-size skeleton wearing a gown, rosary beads and tiara, and bearing a scythe, down the Calle Bravo at midnight. “She accepts us all,” the denizens of Tepito are wont to say. “She understands us because she is a cabrona like us.”
Meanwhile, back at the Camino Real, a fashion writer from The New York Post was nearly trampled to death by an impossibly large gaggle of Mexican models that emerged from the lobby bathroom like a crowd of circus clowns exiting a miniature car. It’s not for nothing that André Breton once pronounced Mexico City, “the last surrealist city in the world.”
Mexico City Lowdown
Where to stay: The Camino Real Hotel is a 713 room luxury behemoth with a cubist décor scheme, an all-blue cocktail lounge, a Le Cirque, and modern art in every nook and cranny. The hot pink sculptured and nacho cheese yellow walled driveway is an eye-opener.
Av. Mariano Escobedo 700, tel: 5263-8888
Where to shop: The upscale neighborhood of Condessa, the “NoLita of Mexico City," boasts over 60 new boutiques and art galleries. Stop in Juana de Arco for lingerie and Colectivo 7 to check out the work of seven young designers.
East of Bosque de Chapultepec and south of Zona Rosa
Where to eat: El Califa is an unassuming, cheap taqueria in Condessa that offers possibly the most divoon tacos in the city. Open till 4am, most late-night partiers end up here to pig out on beef, chicken, or cactus served on soft tortillas with a rainbow of hot sauces.
22 Calle Altata, tel: 52-55/5271-7666
Where to be gay: Tom’s Leather Bar is not really a leather bar, but where else can you see naked go-go boys two-stepping on the bar to “I Feel Like a Woman” while videos of hardcore porn and Dom Deluise in drag play on several screens? The German gothic cathedral décor and dark room for sex add to the experience.
Ave. Insurgentes Sur 357
Above: Viva Mexico, Viva Morrissey!
In Mexico
I went for a walk to inhale
The tranquil, cool, lover's air
I could taste a trace
Of American chemical waste
And the small voice said
"What can we do?"
In Mexico
I went for a walk to inhale
The tranquil, cool, lover's air
I could sense the hate
of the Lone Star state
And a small voice said
"What can we do?"
It seems if you're rich
And you're white
You think youre so right
I just don't see why this should be so
If you're rich and you're white
You think youre so right
I just don't see why this should be so
In Mexico
I lay on the grass
And I cried my heart out
For want of my love
Oh, for want of my love
Oh, for want of my love
It seems if you're rich
And you're white
You think you're so right
I just don't see why
This should be so
If you're rich and you're white
You think youre so right
I just don't see why
This should be so
In Mexico,
I lay on the grass
And I cried my heart out
For want of my love
For want of my love
For want of my love
For want of my love
