"You have to understand, I've been all over the world and not even the herdsmen of Turkmenistan dared pull these shenanigans. And the protestant lord knows they wanted what I had on me."
That's how my personal friend Kelsy Nelsonson, norwegian-new yorker royalty introduced herself after a year of almost inexistant contact with her extradited friend.
"Kelsy, you must be careful. These twelve year olds here... they don't fuck around. They'll put a bullet in you if you're not grateful enough to be able to pay back on the imperialist ways of your race."
She quickly forgot about her barely missed and hastily replaced belongings and shifted her attention to more pressing matters. "Oh, dear. Forget those ugly things. They were last season's anyways. Wouldn't be caught dead on Main (that's East Hamptons) sporting those. Tell me about your troubles. But first, let's get a bottle of champagne. I'm parched."
So we called up the waiter whom dressed like a buccaneer carried all the hopes and dreams of the working class on those skinny but overworked shoulders. "Happy hour Cristal, dear sir. Make it snappy." The waiter of course knew not what she meant so I explained in Spanish what the lady wanted. There was no such thing as happy hour Cristal, so he just brought out full priced Mumm.
"It is terrible. I've been stranded in this country for six months. Nothing goes on here and the embassy keeps ignoring my calls. I was hoping your political connections..." She interrupted my desperate plight and said. "Oh, dear. Let's get a second round for that. It is truly tragic, what you have been suffering. It is nigh impossible to withstand it on just one bottle." So we ordered a second round. My happiness to finally be in the presence of someone from the inner circle who had arrived to help me out was unsurpassed.
The waiter/pirate was hacking at a fourth bottle of Mumm and Kelsy was possitively trashed. When I finally got through my story and my request for help getting back home she could only muster the words "Darling, I seem to have left my purse behind at the hotel. Would you be a dear and get this tab. Please, don't you ever think not to remind me to get you next time." With which she got up and stumbled away, stopped a cab and mumbled "Four Seasons."
I lived among the Argentinians long enough to know this called for the skipping of a tab. That is how it would be done.
Showing posts with label fruitless searches. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fruitless searches. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Well Hot Argentine Summer
Oh, Argentinians. Will thou ever cease to amaze me. You have taught me so well how little effort is necessary for a state to exist. For that I must thank you. Political scientists of the world, drop what you're doing and please shuttle yourselves down here immediately. The books must be rewritten! Retire Hobbes and let's work our way up from Aristotelian enumeration. If Tristan Tzara had written a country, it would be Argentina.
After Christmas, my family, joined me in Pinamar, where Argentinians summer. Even though the topic of conversation was to be my prolonged absence from the states it became clear that the only possible course of action was ethnographic study.
In Pinamar the Argentine mid to high class throws what little social norms they mimic to the wind and drive ATVs like maniacs to wide windy beaches. The men sport third world chieftain bellies and black moustaches. Women show off their carefully sculpted (by a plastic surgeon) bodies wearing the minimalist expression of a bikini. Needless to say I was perplexed by this practice and observed it in detail to further human understanding of the universe.
They soak in the sun all day trying to attain a purplish brown complexion. Around midnight Argies abandon their attempts to treat third degree sunburns and flood parrillas and other eateries. Reinvigorated they start dancing around 2:30AM.
"Danceen's da wrk aw da, Deveel, buoy. Doncha go trustn' no danceen man. Ah reckn' he's a gawna try n' poke ya in da rear." Rang Charley's words reason for which I kept my distance from men. Women seemed to keep their distance from me on their own, making my work half as hard.
After risking our necks in this 'Lord of the Fliesque' setting we took our chances on Argentina's highways. I never knew a 1960 Ford Falcon could reach such speeds, though at the cost of what seemed like bone shattering vibration. Back in Buenos Aires my family caught the first flight out of this land. They abandoned their attempt to identify the forces gaving cohesion to this state.
I was alone once again until old pals from the yacht racing world invited me to the Rolex South Atlantic Circuit. Apparently if there is something that Argies like more than creating new laws to break them, it is to buy a Rolex to have it stolen. Again to Punta del Este with an Argentine crew? Nay I say! After my Pinamar experience rest was imperative. These swashbuckling argies wouldn't take no for an answer and abducted me in hopes that I would share America's sailing secrets. Their disappointment was short lived. If the last crew I joined to Punta del Este was odd, this was straight out of The Black Pirate (1926), I, of course, was Douglas Fairbanks' character. This is footage from the regatta
Punta del Este was in full swing. There seemed to be a linear relationship between the money women spent on their appearance and their expediency to discard my attempts at conversation. Attempts which were entirely for anthropological purposes. I blame some of my crewmen. Despite the fact that their antics were sometimes humorous, their notorious eagerness to express affection to these highly produced females seemed excessive. One of them memorably insisted in throwing his lips at them. A couple of close calls with boyfriends only seemed to convince him that this method was working.
Alas, I could not take this savagery any longer and attempted to return to my port of call by bus and then ferry. Of course nothing is that simple in the River Plate. I reached the terminal with my bag of gear and two of my crewmen only to find the bus driver cripplingly inebriated. One of my companions hypothesized that kicks to the ribs would sober the man up, a notion which I sternly, but fruitlessly refuted. Eventually after a dialogue with the local sheriff, my primal friend was pardoned and a less drunk driver was produced. In all this confusion my ship's coxswain exploited these shows of brutishness to attract a couple of females. They were puzzlingly attracted by these posturing and chest bumping so we were favored with their contact information.
All in all I think this was a valuable experience. I am no closer to justify the peoples of the southern cone, but at least my understanding and ability to mimic their behavior in order to get around is vastly improved.
I bid you fair well until my next account.
After Christmas, my family, joined me in Pinamar, where Argentinians summer. Even though the topic of conversation was to be my prolonged absence from the states it became clear that the only possible course of action was ethnographic study.
In Pinamar the Argentine mid to high class throws what little social norms they mimic to the wind and drive ATVs like maniacs to wide windy beaches. The men sport third world chieftain bellies and black moustaches. Women show off their carefully sculpted (by a plastic surgeon) bodies wearing the minimalist expression of a bikini. Needless to say I was perplexed by this practice and observed it in detail to further human understanding of the universe.
They soak in the sun all day trying to attain a purplish brown complexion. Around midnight Argies abandon their attempts to treat third degree sunburns and flood parrillas and other eateries. Reinvigorated they start dancing around 2:30AM.
"Danceen's da wrk aw da, Deveel, buoy. Doncha go trustn' no danceen man. Ah reckn' he's a gawna try n' poke ya in da rear." Rang Charley's words reason for which I kept my distance from men. Women seemed to keep their distance from me on their own, making my work half as hard.
After risking our necks in this 'Lord of the Fliesque' setting we took our chances on Argentina's highways. I never knew a 1960 Ford Falcon could reach such speeds, though at the cost of what seemed like bone shattering vibration. Back in Buenos Aires my family caught the first flight out of this land. They abandoned their attempt to identify the forces gaving cohesion to this state.
I was alone once again until old pals from the yacht racing world invited me to the Rolex South Atlantic Circuit. Apparently if there is something that Argies like more than creating new laws to break them, it is to buy a Rolex to have it stolen. Again to Punta del Este with an Argentine crew? Nay I say! After my Pinamar experience rest was imperative. These swashbuckling argies wouldn't take no for an answer and abducted me in hopes that I would share America's sailing secrets. Their disappointment was short lived. If the last crew I joined to Punta del Este was odd, this was straight out of The Black Pirate (1926), I, of course, was Douglas Fairbanks' character. This is footage from the regatta
Punta del Este was in full swing. There seemed to be a linear relationship between the money women spent on their appearance and their expediency to discard my attempts at conversation. Attempts which were entirely for anthropological purposes. I blame some of my crewmen. Despite the fact that their antics were sometimes humorous, their notorious eagerness to express affection to these highly produced females seemed excessive. One of them memorably insisted in throwing his lips at them. A couple of close calls with boyfriends only seemed to convince him that this method was working.
Alas, I could not take this savagery any longer and attempted to return to my port of call by bus and then ferry. Of course nothing is that simple in the River Plate. I reached the terminal with my bag of gear and two of my crewmen only to find the bus driver cripplingly inebriated. One of my companions hypothesized that kicks to the ribs would sober the man up, a notion which I sternly, but fruitlessly refuted. Eventually after a dialogue with the local sheriff, my primal friend was pardoned and a less drunk driver was produced. In all this confusion my ship's coxswain exploited these shows of brutishness to attract a couple of females. They were puzzlingly attracted by these posturing and chest bumping so we were favored with their contact information.
All in all I think this was a valuable experience. I am no closer to justify the peoples of the southern cone, but at least my understanding and ability to mimic their behavior in order to get around is vastly improved.
I bid you fair well until my next account.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Atta boy!
A week of revelations and the re-arranging of priorities. Identifying things most despised, is necessary to easily pass judgment on entities I consider damaging to the human spirit, or the liberty and freedom of man.
Such list is with some unoriginality topped by the -isms (Nazism, communism, and extremism of all flavors and excuses). I'm aware it's easy and uncontroversial to complain against, e.g. Nazism in particular, but this is a very well thought through abjection, I assure you. A more sophisticated and elegant one. So it is for communism. I will not elaborate on easily achievable conclusions. Read a book, maybe the ones used to justify these shenanigans. If you still don't get it, go read about Ga-Ga and stop clogging my bandwidth. My 2 billion readers(1) will not yearn for you. Yes, two billion readers, that is one thousand million times two and only the second post.
My second greatest hate is for sports cheats. I can make a goal with my hand too. We wanted to know who's the best with their feet. Thanks for being meaningless, FIFA World Cup.
Cheating in other instances I can understand. Fourth is Graham Siegel. Fuck that guy; "my name doesn't show on spell check. FB update: got a haircut, baked a pie, and changed the font on my resume today." We don't care! It goes: Nazi, Thierry Henry, BA night-clubs, GS. Then it's Julia Roberts: Mystic Pizza (never again), and resembles GS. They're all pretty close in hate-points difference.
Digressing. I despise Buenos Aires night clubs. For my more proletarian followers who have not been allowed into "exclusive" night clubs remember the scorn with which you were rejected by Parisian/New Yorker snobbery. Now make it 10% snottier. Voila, your average BA night club.
The rigidity of the dress code makes it all the more aggravating and ridiculous.
For men replace dress shoes for a nasty pair of Adidas. Now put your "I've-been-saving-for-this-A|X" shirt back in the drawer. Replace it with some ratty t-shirt. It can be dirty, you could have been playing rugby in it earlier. You are ready to mingle with the children of Buenos Aires' elite and it's less industrious heirs.
Women shall abide by the dress code of any elite European night-club. You better look like a darn model, or it's gonna be a long night out in that street line with a mugging rate only describable as "off the charts ."
I was exposed to this barbarity thrice in the past two weeks. As a man It's a challenge to get the right amount of scruff. For my first attempt I sported flip flops based my yachtsman's assessment of atmospheric conditions. Got into one bar, later rejected from a club because "There is too much glass on the floor, señor! Just come back with shoes/sneakers." I had taken it too far even for this rustic lot.
Upon my return no one else was passing but the door-sentinel who had sent me away recognized my port and informed another sentry to grant me access. The ancient and honorable trade of the grinding cage gate-keeper seems to be an ethical profession.
The second time around I sported skater sneakers. I gauged dress shoes might be excessive. It made no difference. Apparently as long as the toe is not evident it's cool.
The third time around some pseudo-friend summoned me to an establishment close to my crib claiming easy access. A lie if I ever heard one! Ole Charley warned me thus:
"Neevr dee ya trust dem frnrr woman! Dey fool ov'em tricks dey bee!"*
This was of course after ole' Chukles' heart was all tore up from the leash and lashes of the oriental woman.
The line was deep and the Patovas** scrupulous in their selection. They violently rejected folk who was in search of no more than a denigrating night club experience. A patova quickly took note of my determination to go to sleep and rushed to inform me I was amongst the chosen few by the broad in the background to cross the portal. Fuck her. My opinion? This only happened because for the occasion I was wearing nice shoes. "This gringo is going to drop some reserve currency on our ass" they conjectured. How wrong they were! I'm cheap as boxed wine on sale!
The last laugh was theirs; I was now trapped in this chamuyo*** factory. Never would I find my peoples on the inside, only to dance with a doctor woman who would leave me with a broken heart. I'll never forget the awkwardness and discomfort of that night. I even spotted an American. I gave him a nod encoding the message "Sup, brah. I'm a Green-go as well. Got your back, son." He gave me a look which can only be interpreted as "This Argie is mental." The fool thought me Argie, Hoya wanker fo'sho.
-----------------------------
(1) This is en estimation based on the author's ego.
Idiomatic notes:
* "Women in foreign lands are not as trustworthy as American women, raised in liberty. Lies are there as common a currency as the greenback."
**Patovas is the vernacular short form of Patovicas which is vernacular for night-club-door-man.
***Chamuyo (Tchah-moo-shoh): the practice of whispering lies to a woman in order to secure sexual favors. In general chamuyo is a form of lie which can only be stomached in an inebriated state, both by the emitter and the receiver.
Such list is with some unoriginality topped by the -isms (Nazism, communism, and extremism of all flavors and excuses). I'm aware it's easy and uncontroversial to complain against, e.g. Nazism in particular, but this is a very well thought through abjection, I assure you. A more sophisticated and elegant one. So it is for communism. I will not elaborate on easily achievable conclusions. Read a book, maybe the ones used to justify these shenanigans. If you still don't get it, go read about Ga-Ga and stop clogging my bandwidth. My 2 billion readers(1) will not yearn for you. Yes, two billion readers, that is one thousand million times two and only the second post.
My second greatest hate is for sports cheats. I can make a goal with my hand too. We wanted to know who's the best with their feet. Thanks for being meaningless, FIFA World Cup.
Cheating in other instances I can understand. Fourth is Graham Siegel. Fuck that guy; "my name doesn't show on spell check. FB update: got a haircut, baked a pie, and changed the font on my resume today." We don't care! It goes: Nazi, Thierry Henry, BA night-clubs, GS. Then it's Julia Roberts: Mystic Pizza (never again), and resembles GS. They're all pretty close in hate-points difference.
Digressing. I despise Buenos Aires night clubs. For my more proletarian followers who have not been allowed into "exclusive" night clubs remember the scorn with which you were rejected by Parisian/New Yorker snobbery. Now make it 10% snottier. Voila, your average BA night club.
The rigidity of the dress code makes it all the more aggravating and ridiculous.
For men replace dress shoes for a nasty pair of Adidas. Now put your "I've-been-saving-for-this-A|X" shirt back in the drawer. Replace it with some ratty t-shirt. It can be dirty, you could have been playing rugby in it earlier. You are ready to mingle with the children of Buenos Aires' elite and it's less industrious heirs.
Women shall abide by the dress code of any elite European night-club. You better look like a darn model, or it's gonna be a long night out in that street line with a mugging rate only describable as "off the charts ."
I was exposed to this barbarity thrice in the past two weeks. As a man It's a challenge to get the right amount of scruff. For my first attempt I sported flip flops based my yachtsman's assessment of atmospheric conditions. Got into one bar, later rejected from a club because "There is too much glass on the floor, señor! Just come back with shoes/sneakers." I had taken it too far even for this rustic lot.
Upon my return no one else was passing but the door-sentinel who had sent me away recognized my port and informed another sentry to grant me access. The ancient and honorable trade of the grinding cage gate-keeper seems to be an ethical profession.
The second time around I sported skater sneakers. I gauged dress shoes might be excessive. It made no difference. Apparently as long as the toe is not evident it's cool.
The third time around some pseudo-friend summoned me to an establishment close to my crib claiming easy access. A lie if I ever heard one! Ole Charley warned me thus:
"Neevr dee ya trust dem frnrr woman! Dey fool ov'em tricks dey bee!"*
This was of course after ole' Chukles' heart was all tore up from the leash and lashes of the oriental woman.
The line was deep and the Patovas** scrupulous in their selection. They violently rejected folk who was in search of no more than a denigrating night club experience. A patova quickly took note of my determination to go to sleep and rushed to inform me I was amongst the chosen few by the broad in the background to cross the portal. Fuck her. My opinion? This only happened because for the occasion I was wearing nice shoes. "This gringo is going to drop some reserve currency on our ass" they conjectured. How wrong they were! I'm cheap as boxed wine on sale!
The last laugh was theirs; I was now trapped in this chamuyo*** factory. Never would I find my peoples on the inside, only to dance with a doctor woman who would leave me with a broken heart. I'll never forget the awkwardness and discomfort of that night. I even spotted an American. I gave him a nod encoding the message "Sup, brah. I'm a Green-go as well. Got your back, son." He gave me a look which can only be interpreted as "This Argie is mental." The fool thought me Argie, Hoya wanker fo'sho.
-----------------------------
(1) This is en estimation based on the author's ego.
Idiomatic notes:
* "Women in foreign lands are not as trustworthy as American women, raised in liberty. Lies are there as common a currency as the greenback."
**Patovas is the vernacular short form of Patovicas which is vernacular for night-club-door-man.
***Chamuyo (Tchah-moo-shoh): the practice of whispering lies to a woman in order to secure sexual favors. In general chamuyo is a form of lie which can only be stomached in an inebriated state, both by the emitter and the receiver.
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