Ahh, my crew. All the bros and their ladies and me, everybody’s favorite dancer/drinker/ sis. We gathered at my boy Babo’s pad to watch Golden Boy Oscar de La Hoya take on jackass of the year Floyd Mayweather(or whatever his name is.) I was appalled when I saw Floyd decked out in red, white, and green with his entourage dressed, as R. put it, like un grupo, Los Tucanes. If I was still in college, I would have written a controversial column about the play on race and ethnicity(why is it okay for a black man to mock Mexican pop culture but there would have been a riot if Oscar came out in overalls holding a watermelon.)Then it was time for the fight and damn if it wasn’t a letdown. No drama and a loss for our side. The best part was hearing the boys’ running commentary.

All night I had quietly had my share of Mexican beers: Pacifico, 2 Sols, a Modelo. Then H., that devil, brought out the Cazadores and handed me my shot. Me, brash as ever, downing it. A while later, he brought out what was left of the bottle and said, “Finish it. I bet you can’t.” Me, chip on my shoulder growing by the second, taking the bottle and tipping it back.

We danced like mad. First it was old school jams, some hiphop. Finally, we put on the reggaeton and it was on. I did some belly dancing to Yankee’s “Mirame.” Q. was so impressed he told his gf E. all about my back-in-the-day go-go girl antics. So I decided to show my audience my samba moves to “Pam Pam.”

My sis drove me, my bro, and my boy T. back to my neck of the woods. On the 880, we called up Beautiful, supposedly in the South Bay smoking and drinking. My bro gave him a hard time about flaking on the fight. Beautiful told him he wouldn’t be at R’s wedding on Memorial Day weekend so I started yelling that he was wack. I had T. call Beautiful on his phone. Beautiful spoke with me for a few drunken minutes. He had the nerve to ask if I would join him later. I told him we had already had that conversation(birthday flashbacks!) and reiterated “I wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot pole.”

The guys wanted to hit up the local biker bar, the one where Play Brother was hit on by an old lady back in the day. We stumbled in, getting hard looks from the locals. My bro claims some girl threw a balled-up paper towel at him. We left before my bro could get too loud. Dropped off T. and then they left me at home. Time to sleep and worry about the hangover later.