El Sid in Mexico City

Mexico City helped me solve one of the great mysteries that I have struggled with for many years. As I walked through the business district last week I noticed that all the women looked as if they had just stepped out of a Robert Palmer video and all the men looked like Freddie Prinze Jr. No business casual in this city.

So what’s the mystery, you ask? It helped me solve the Aprieta y Gana dichotomy. What the hell is Aprieta y Gana, you ask? Only one of the greatest TV shows of our time. If you haven’t seen it, you need to start watching more Univision. Sure, they speak Spanish, but that hasn’t stopped me and the only Spanish that I know is “Deja de morder mis pezones, por favor.” (Please stop biting my nipples.) But I digress. But please stop biting my nipples. Really. I’m serious.

Aprieta y Gana is some sort of Hispanic game show that matches a team of four hot women against a team of four supposedly hot men. Hosted by the great Camila Canabal (currently #8 on my list). And by great, I mean hot. So the hot guys compete against the hot women in games involving ponchos, whip cream, tricycles, blindfolds and feather boas, some singing, dressing as sandwiches, fake moustaches, silly string, and possibly midgets. I want to attend a taping, but there is also an audience participation element and I don’t know all the songs and related motions yet. That would be like showing up to a midnight showing of the Rocky Horror Picture Show without rice or toast. But I digress.

I checked out a US map and found that Texas borders Mexico, which explains the large Hispanic population in Texas and in my particular neighborhood. However, I have yet to see a Hispanic woman that looks like Camila Canabal, let alone any of the other four hot women contestants. In fact, I don’t even think there are any women in my neighborhood that weigh-in less than a buck eighty. And therein lied the Aprieta y Gana dichotomy. Now I know that all contestants are recruited from Mexico City and not my little neighborhood in North Texas.

In addition to all the Mexico City women looking like they stepped off the set of “Addicted to Love”, they’re making out all the time. Only guys shake hands when saying goodbye. If it’s a chica/guy or chica/chica, then they kiss goodbye. I’m sure they were just being polite in my presence by doing the cheek-to-cheek thing, but I know there’s got to be tongue when dirty Americans like me aren’t around. I tried to let them know it was OK by blowing in their ear, but all I learned was that Mexican women know how to stomp a guy’s instep with their heel as well as their American counterparts. I limped away and decided they probably don’t French kiss after the first meeting.

With a sore foot, I got a taxi back to the hotel. In Mexico City, the road markings are merely guidelines and drivers pretty much go where they need to regardless of who might already be there. It’s called “throwing metal” down there and seems to work for them. My host said he gets nervous driving in the US since he has to concentrate on staying in his lane and using his turn signals. I get nervous when bears come to my door trying to sell me magazines. I really don’t want to say no and piss them off, but I really don’t need a subscription to Field & Stream.

Anyway, we threw metal back to my hotel in La Zona Rosa (the Pink Zone), which ironically is full of titty bars and gay male couples, and I got to bed early and looked forward to the French kissing the next day. Now both feet hurt.