Concha 2, Hollywood 0 | 2002-07-18 - 8:32 p.m.


Now, if this were one of those fictive diaries, where the narrative is little more than a decorativa but opaque shower curtain through which a shadowy flickering realidad can be intermittently and indistintamente glimpsed, you'd expect Sr. Long Hair to clasp his hands together in alegr�a and gasp, "That's it! That's our bailiff! We've found our bailiff!"

But this is not one of those fictive diaries. Oh, no. Here, there is ninguna separation between narrativa and reality. Te lo juro: everything in this diary is absolutamente true, and adem�s, presented to you exactamente as it happened, with ning�n embellishment.

As� qu�, much as it pains me to tell you, the expresi�n on Sr. Long Hair's face was not one of delight. It was not one of astonishment, nor even of mild inter�s. It was the expresi�n one would adopt upon whiffing a particularmente foul emission of intestinal gas. In a crowded elevator. During a power outage.

Sr. Long Hair fixed Concha with a penetrating look, as if by concentrandose hard enough, he could make her cabeza explode. He then turned to Cuticle Goth, who stood behind him with clipboard in hand, and hissed theatrically, "Call the police."

Although Cuticle Goth had no doubt undergone her share of run-ins with Juan Law, she seemed only too happy to comply with this request. Smirking like a Republican potentate, she reached for her cell phone, snagging one of her ragged cuticles on the black leather case.

Concha y yo didn't wait around for the desenlace. Without a word, we quickly picked our way through the prone bodies of the combatantes and their tacky debris. The other auditioners moved aside as we passed, as if making way for royalty. Or the mentally ill. I could feel Cuticle Goth's smirk burning a hole into my back, and believe me, if I had possessed an onza of Concha's courage, I would have turned around right then and there and finished off her cuticle mutilation for her.

But this being a true story, I did no such thing. I hung my head in verg�enza and went down the stairs. Concha, on the other hand, planted herself at the end of the hallway and yelled, "Screw your chingada audici�n, pendejos!" before making her final exit. It was her finest momento.

Once we were on the street again, I turned to Concha, l�grimas of shame pricking in the corners of my eyes. "What now?" I asked. "What about the audici�n?"

"M'ija," laughed Concha, "weren't you listening? I just passed."

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pride and prejudice - 2004-09-07
wherein I become a Yahoo! Search Result - 2004-06-23
like 9-11 all over again - 2004-06-20
enough said - 2003-02-05
tirar por la calle de en medio - 2003-01-28

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