Hispanic Fanatic

I’ve written hundreds of blog posts — enough words to fill one huge book or two medium-sized ones.

So I figured, why not go ahead and write a novel while I’m at it? And I’d make it a real one, with a plot and characters and themes and stuff like that. Wouldn’t that be great?

Yes, it would. So I’m happy to announce that my debut novel, Barrio Imbroglio, is now available on Amazon.

What’s it about? Well, here is the official synopsis:

“Abraxas Hernandez never wanted to be a detective. But when his cousin is murdered, Abraxas is dragged into a frenzied investigation that takes him from the mean streets to the corridors of power in City Hall to a tequila-fueled pool party that turns deadly.”

The novel is a black comedy / mystery, and it builds off my writings about Latino culture. Oh, and the story is full of violence, vulgarity, homicide, and stray jokes about Immanuel Kant.

So please grab a copy (just $3.99) and let me know what you think of it.

Thanks in advance.

There I was, ready to enjoy some enchiladas suizas and a generous helping of tequila, when I saw them.

But first, let me be clear about the Mexican restaurant in which I was dining. Years ago, I saw Brad Pitt in the place. He wasn’t around on this night, so I don’t want to implicate him. The point is that this is a popular LA site that teeters on the edge of authenticity (good food in a simple setting) and hipster irony (the kid of place where Brad Pitt walks in to show off his bona fides).

So I shouldn’t have been too surprised to see a large table of yuppies (tangent: do yuppies still exist?) hooting and hollering nearby. It was a birthday party apparently, and they had their own wait staff.

Now, the waiters and waitresses for our area were dressed casually, in jeans and polo shirts. The wait staff for the private party, however, was dressed, well, more colorfully.

The waitresses had frilly dresses and Carmen Miranda-style headpieces, and the waiters were decked out in campesino attire, complete with huge sombreros.

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I’ve written before about my mother. Recently she visited my wife and me here in LA.

One evening, the three of us headed out to a party. I wondered aloud what we should bring as a gift for the hosts.

“Just remember,” my mother said. “Everybody likes tequila. Everybody.”

It struck me as an especially profound piece of maternal wisdom. But just to be sure, I ran through the list of potential exceptions to the rule.

Left-wing suburban dentists? Disgraced former CEOs? Kalahari bushmen? Argentinean gauchos? Inner-city kindergarteners? Transgender German prime ministers?

For each objection came my mother’s reply: “Everybody.”

It’s official. This isn’t a hypothesis. This is a fact.

Use the information wisely.