Vi su pelo blanco, dividido en dos bloques sedosos. Le gusta decir que la culpa fue de su primer rodaje. En cambio, no me excitan las albinas. No quiero explicar las razones porque cuando se publican me doy cuenta de que no son razones. Suficiente tuve con lo de los caballos.

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I looked at her white hair, split into two silky blocks. I love young women with white hair. Brenda is 43 but her hair has been this way since she was She likes to blame it on her first shoot. She was in the desert in Sonora, working as a production assistant, and she had to round up tarantulas for some horror-movie genius.

She pulled it off, but when she woke up the next morning she had white hair. Anyway, she likes to see herself as a heroine of professionalism who went gray because of tarantulas.

I had enough of that with the horse thing. Nobody has ever seen me ride one. I am the only mariachi star who has never in his life mounted a horse. It took the reporters nineteen video clips to catch on. The Society for the Protection of Animals said they were ashamed of me. Plus, a reporter who hates me got his hands on a photo of me holding a high-powered rifle in Nairobi. I made the horse declaration after singing until three a. I was leaving for Irapuato two hours later.

Do you know what it feels like to be fucked up and have to leave for Irapuato before the sun rises? I wanted to sink into a Jacuzzi, to stop being a mariachi. I said yes to avoid an argument. She has the mind of a porno screenwriter: she likes to imagine herself as a neurophysiologist, stirring up desires in the operating room.

They helped me leave my therapist. He thought the same thing as Cata. I had gone to see him because I was sick of being a mariachi. Maybe it comforts some patients to know their doctor has hemorrhoids; someone intimate with suffering to help them confess their own horrors.

But not me. I only stayed in therapy because my therapist was a fan. They described his most terrible goring: his intestines fell out onto the sand in the Plaza Mexico. He picked them up and managed to run to the infirmary. That afternoon, he had been wearing dark purple and gold. My doctor flattered me so ridiculously, I loved it.

I could fill Azteca Stadium — including the field — and get , souls to drool. My mother died when I was two years old. This is an essential piece of information for understanding why I can cry on cue.

All I have to do is think about a photo. He got me into ranchera songs. He also gave me the photo that makes me cry. Outside the frame, my father snaps the shot with the bliss of the wretched. This titillated the doctor and he stopped singing my praises.

I went to our last session dressed as a mariachi because I was coming from a concert in Los Angeles. He asked to keep my tricolor bow tie. Catalina was also in therapy. On the other hand, she believes the only thing I could have been is a mariachi. I have the voice, a face like an abandoned ranchero, and the eyes of a brave man who knows how to cry. My father made me record my first album at I never went back to school or looked for another job.

I was too successful for a career in industrial design. I met Catalina the way I met my previous girlfriends: she told my agent she was available. Leo said Cata had blue hair and I figured she could probably dye it white. We started going out. Plus, authentic white-haired women are inimitable. Then there was Rosa, who was 28 with beautiful white hair and a diamond-encrusted belly button which I only knew about because of the swimsuits she modeled.

She hated ranchera music and wanted a blond boyfriend. She was born in Guadalajara but lived in Spain. She went there to get away from mariachis. Now she was back in Mexico with a vengeance. Chus Ferrer, a genius filmmaker I knew nothing about, was in love with me and wanted me in his next movie, no matter the cost. I had already looked. Catalina thought Brenda was past it. I only like movies with spaceships and children who lose their parents.

I read the screenplay so that Catalina would get off my fucking back. The truth is they only gave me bits and pieces, just the scenes in which I appeared. I suppose Catalina was hoping they would give her a role. I read them at the worst possible time. My flight to El Salvador was cancelled because there was a hurricane, and I had to go by private jet.

Amid the turbulence of Central America, the role seemed incredibly easy to me. A man can accelerate up to kilometers an hour, he can win and win and win, he can donate a fortune, and he can still be treated this way, in my own bed.

My life was unraveling. My face stretched out over four square meters on a billboard in the Alameda in Mexico City. Forgive me for saying it again. My father took charge of killing my mother, crying a lot, and making me into a mariachi.

Everything else was automatic. Women seek me out through my agent. What would I like? To float in the stratosphere, look down at Earth and see a blue bubble without a single sombrero. I was thinking about that when Brenda called from Barcelona. He wants you to grow your fingernails out like a vamp. Perfect for a slightly seedy queer.

Do you mind being a vamp mariachi? I fancy you, too. I masturbated after I hung up, without even opening the copy of Lord magazine I keep in the bathroom. Later, when I was watching cartoons, I thought about the last part of our conversation. When she pulled off my pants, I thought about Schumacher, the master of mileage. We banged for three hours, not quite as long as a Formula 1 race. A mariachi should breed like a stud bull. I thought about the biker I was supposed to tongue kiss.

The shoot was a nightmare. Chus Ferrer told me Fassbinder had made his star actress lick the floor of the set. I had to wait for so long on set that I became a Nintendo prodigy. I was also growing more and more attracted to Brenda. One night we went out to dinner on a terrace.

Luckily, Catalina smoked some hash and fell asleep on her plate. One afternoon a porn star visited the set. Brenda was standing beside me. Even though the phrase was offensive, they went off happily to get dinner with the porn star.

The actor who was playing the Catalonian biker was shorter than me and they had to put him on a stool. He had taken ginseng pills for the scene. He ate lots of tomatoes because it improved the taste of his semen. The female porn stars appreciated it. I was intrigued. Did that kind of courtesy really exist in porn?


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Juan Villoro lee su cuento ‘El mariachi’ acompañado por guitarras y rancheras




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