The other night I went to downtown Las Vegas for this big cholo party some guy was having at the Beauty Bar.
For those who don’t know, a cholo is a Mexican gang-banger. You know the type: khakis, Nike Cortez, Pendleton buttoned only at the top button. His female counterpart, the chola, is perhaps better known due to her crazy Sharpie eyebrows and hideous brown lip-liner.
So I put together my best chola outfit and headed downtown. I ended up looking more like a guera Gwen Stefani-type poseur chola, but it was all good. I put about half a can of Aqua Net on my pompadour and decided to ride my bike down there since it was such a nice night, and it’s easier than trying to find a place to park. So there I was, pedaling furiously down the street at 10:30pm on my crazy-ass, pink-duct-tape-covered bike, and my hair did not move AT ALL.
I arrived at the party with my mighty pompadour still perfectly intact and enjoyed some vodka cranberries while mingling with other cholos and cholas to the sounds of classic East-LA tunes.
The only bummer was, it wasn’t so much of a costume party as a REAL cholo party, so I was kinda afraid of getting my ass kicked.
Back in high school in California, I went to a school with a LOT of Mexicans, and this one cholo had a crush on me, and used to walk up behind me on my way home from school to pull my skirt up, exposing my 14-year-old-girl panties. Trouble was, this one chola had a crush on him, and was so jealous of me that one day she jumped me and beat the holy living crap out of me in front of all her chola friends! Ever since then I’ve had a deathly fear of cholas.
But I’m all about facing my fears, so I soldiered on and went to this party, rubbing elbows with the likes of the girls who beat my ass in high school. Yay, me!!