There’s a series of stories I’ve been carrying for a while—stories that needed telling.
But before I share the rest of my collection, I wanted to start here, with this one
to test the waters and see if my words find a home with you.

These stories come from a place of memory, humor, and a little bit of heart—
snapshots of moments that shaped me and the world around me.
Some are light, some are raw, but all carry the thread of where I come from.
It is my hope to one day publish these as a collection.

So, with a little hope and a lot of gratitude,
allow me to share this one with you.
Consider it the first note in a longer song—
one I hope will keep playing for a while.

Enjoy.

Before Viral Was a Thing: Mariachi vs. Migra
(For performed storytelling — think stand-up comedian)

If there was ever a time I was thankful social media didn’t exist…
it was this moment.

Or maybe that’s the tragedy.
Because this?
This should’ve gone viral.

It had everything:
A ridiculous freeway scene, full costumes, authority figures,
and a chorus of honking Angelenos narrating the whole thing like it was a live novella.

But back then?
No phones. No followers. Just traffic.
And me…
in a full Mariachi suit. Arguing with Border Patrol.

Yeah.

Let me take you back.
True story. (Scout’s honor.)

So I’m in art school at UCLA, right?

Weekends, I’m hustling as a Mariachi trompetista.

That was the side hustle—paid for gas, tacos, and whatever weird stuff I needed for painting class.

And if you know LA, you know—weekend gigs are everywhere.

Van Nuys. Boyle Heights. Huntington Park.
Sometimes all three in one night.

I pick up Roberto—fellow trumpet player, partner in crime—
We’re both decked out:
black three-piece traje de charro, silver botonadura shining in the sun,
and those fat red moños around our necks like we’re about to duel with violins.

We hop on the 405 South.
It’s about 3 PM.
Traffic’s getting thick. LA is doing its thing.

I signal to merge left—
check my mirror—
and then—

SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEECH

A black Camaro side-swipes me.

Hard.

I hadn’t even started merging.
He came right into my lane like I wasn’t even there.

We pull over to the shoulder.
I get out—heart pounding, hands shaking.

And who steps out of the Camaro?

A Border Patrol agent.
In full uniform.
Tall. Crew cut. Tactical boots. Sunglasses. Badge.
Like he walked off the set of Traffic.

We lock eyes.
And I swear…
The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly theme starts playing in my head.

Whistle. Whistle. Wah-WAH-wahhh.

He walks over and says:
“So, what’re we gonna do about this?”

I’m still trying to stay calm.
“You hit me. I need your info.”

And he goes,
“Listen, kid, I’m already late for work. I don’t have time for this.”

HONK. HONK.
(From the freeway: “Ask for his paaaapers!”)
Laughter trailing behind them.

I try again. “You came into my lane, man. Let’s just exchange info.”

He snaps.
“It’s your fault. I can’t do that.”

HONK. HONK.
(“Ay güey, they called ICE on HIM!”)

Now I’m mad.
“If you’re gonna argue, then fine—we wait for CHP.”

So we wait.
Fifteen minutes.
On the side of the freeway.
Me in full Mariachi getup.
Him in full Border Patrol uniform.
Hands flying. Voices raised.

HONK. HONK.
(“Que cante! Que cante!”)
Someone yells: “It’s a freeway serenata!”

Then—CHP pulls up.
The officer gets out. Sees us.
A Mariachi and a Migra,
arguing like cousins fighting over who crashed the piñata.

He chuckles.
Doesn’t even try to hide it.

HONK. HONK.
(“Deports his a**!”)

He hears both sides.
Migra-man spins his version. I give mine.
The officer just nods. Takes pictures. Calls it in. Jots some notes.

Comes back and says:
“Alright. Here’s what I see—”
(points to Migra-man)
“You went into his lane. So I’m gonna need your insurance info.”

HONK. HONK.
(“Check out the Mariachi laying down the law! ¡Tú dile, güey!”)

We exchange info. He gives us a case number.

HONK. HONK.
(“¡Que toque unaaa!”)
Like I’m about to bust out the trumpet right there on the shoulder.

We get back in the car. I look at Roberto.
He looks at me. We’re still buzzing.

We make it to the gig—ten minutes late.
Played like nothing happened.
Mariachi face on. Trumpet up. Boom.

But now?

Now I look back at that scene,
and I realize what it must’ve looked like—

A Mariachi and the Migra.
Full costume vs. full uniform.
Arguing on the shoulder of the 405.
Honking cars. People shouting. Laughing.
Filming with their eyes.

In today’s world?
That’s a TikTok.
An Instagram Reel with three million views by midnight.
That’s a meme: “La Migra met La Música.”

Your move, TikTok.

But back in 1990-something?
It was just another LA afternoon.
Just another story no one believes…
Not even when they hear it from me.

But believe me I was there.

Oh, and I played that gig… en tono bravo.