"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 Developing world. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Developing world. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
Hot Wheels~
I recently befriended this Argentine who has become my urban sherpa so I keep him around. His name is Nicanor "El Lagarto" Fletas. Much like the Himalayan variety he's not a talker. This helps him exudes an aura of wisdom which is really no more than familiarity with the place in which he's been stranded for life.
Just as when I was trekking the Himalayas, sometimes keeping up with these folks in their natural habitat can be perilous. But here it is way more dangerous. There is no Base Camp to fuck around here, you'd get pick pocketed in a minute. Traversing this city should be illegal. Maybe that is why anything can be delivered: ice cream, booze, cigarettes, and the local favorites: strippers and pizza. Of course the army of delivery scooters is more hazardous than the Grand Duke of Baden's feldjägerkorps and equally mean spirited.
Jaywalking maneuvers that normally kill your average DCite are easily performed by Porteños. These people are like ninjas of pedestrian infraction. But Darwin said it, other lifeforms adapt as well or perish. In order to catch up with Porteño pedestrians, Porteño drivers have developed astounding assasination skills, sometimes a driver will divert three or four blocks from destiny to take down one of these street lynxes.
This in in part why Argentines never really converted to automatic transmission. You gotta have that quick acceleration to run over grandma trying to cross on yellow. But grandma is not that easily caught. These people are like Emperor Penguins, the ones that made it past 18 are probably gonna push it to 90. Imagine if Oprah Winfrey's Katie Holmes debacle Tom Cruise had played Maverick in TopGun. Now add more hand gestures and a burgee of their soccer team, voila, your average Porteño driver.
A serious problem compounds on this: the car park is what some might call full of "classics." Between the Ford Falcons, Renault 12, Fiat 600 and IES (which is a ripoff of the shittiest Citroen) one really comes to understand what it is to be among people of faith. Faith makes your 1940's-60's piece of shit car perform like a Ferrari Enzo (in your mind, of course). The 1960's Fiat 600 outperforms every Ferrari in the local form of abstract pavement anyways. I keep telling them to no avail that the similarities between the Enzo and the 600 really end at four wheels and Italian. Their ego is writing checks their car body shop can't cash.
But one might ask, how does grandma survive thus far when her speed is severely diminished by arthritis, high cholesterol and 50 years of psychoanalysis? Well, abuela is no longer an ordinary human.
When you're crossing an avenue there is no calculation, cars are coming too fast, their course is too erratic (they side swipe to maximize contact), too many new objects are popping into the picture. You just got to do, and she does. That is how one learns to let an out of control bus flash inches front of one's face at 60 mph. It's all about reacting to the environment, it doesn't matter if it's one inch or ten meters. Apparently the more you do it the better you get at it.
A major cause of death is "loss of conentration due to Porteñas wearing a jean miniskirt and high heels at a busy intersection." I've been told it's an actual line in the statistics ministry's records. The same ministry which claims claims inflation is 0.7%.
But these Porteñas are just one more trap this city lays for you.
Just as when I was trekking the Himalayas, sometimes keeping up with these folks in their natural habitat can be perilous. But here it is way more dangerous. There is no Base Camp to fuck around here, you'd get pick pocketed in a minute. Traversing this city should be illegal. Maybe that is why anything can be delivered: ice cream, booze, cigarettes, and the local favorites: strippers and pizza. Of course the army of delivery scooters is more hazardous than the Grand Duke of Baden's feldjägerkorps and equally mean spirited.
Jaywalking maneuvers that normally kill your average DCite are easily performed by Porteños. These people are like ninjas of pedestrian infraction. But Darwin said it, other lifeforms adapt as well or perish. In order to catch up with Porteño pedestrians, Porteño drivers have developed astounding assasination skills, sometimes a driver will divert three or four blocks from destiny to take down one of these street lynxes.
This in in part why Argentines never really converted to automatic transmission. You gotta have that quick acceleration to run over grandma trying to cross on yellow. But grandma is not that easily caught. These people are like Emperor Penguins, the ones that made it past 18 are probably gonna push it to 90. Imagine if Oprah Winfrey's Katie Holmes debacle Tom Cruise had played Maverick in TopGun. Now add more hand gestures and a burgee of their soccer team, voila, your average Porteño driver.
A serious problem compounds on this: the car park is what some might call full of "classics." Between the Ford Falcons, Renault 12, Fiat 600 and IES (which is a ripoff of the shittiest Citroen) one really comes to understand what it is to be among people of faith. Faith makes your 1940's-60's piece of shit car perform like a Ferrari Enzo (in your mind, of course). The 1960's Fiat 600 outperforms every Ferrari in the local form of abstract pavement anyways. I keep telling them to no avail that the similarities between the Enzo and the 600 really end at four wheels and Italian. Their ego is writing checks their car body shop can't cash.
But one might ask, how does grandma survive thus far when her speed is severely diminished by arthritis, high cholesterol and 50 years of psychoanalysis? Well, abuela is no longer an ordinary human.
When you're crossing an avenue there is no calculation, cars are coming too fast, their course is too erratic (they side swipe to maximize contact), too many new objects are popping into the picture. You just got to do, and she does. That is how one learns to let an out of control bus flash inches front of one's face at 60 mph. It's all about reacting to the environment, it doesn't matter if it's one inch or ten meters. Apparently the more you do it the better you get at it.
A major cause of death is "loss of conentration due to Porteñas wearing a jean miniskirt and high heels at a busy intersection." I've been told it's an actual line in the statistics ministry's records. The same ministry which claims claims inflation is 0.7%.
But these Porteñas are just one more trap this city lays for you.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Weekend at Berno's
The other day one of the locals I befriended named Berno invited me to celebrate his child's birth.
The child in it's early developmental stage seemed hardly capable of contributing much worth noting, yet I thought older people would provide insights into the Argentine condition.
My first impression of Argentina infant birthdays was rather positive. The father was cranking Jimmy Hendrix full volume and the baby was playing with an Argentine edition Winny the Pooh (it was a Peronista street protester the Pooh). There was an assortment of party food such as chips, cheetos, guacamole and tortillas, Coca-Cola, Sprite and Heineken. Until then these Argentines seemed to be accepting global hegemony. Everyone was getting along and the conversation was amenable.
But then the troubles started.
The mother rolled out the local food: peceto, arrollado dulce, and what really seemed to tip the scale: Russian Salad. From that moment on everyone got a little louder. Controversies started to erupt. River vs. Boca, City vs. Country, Capitalist vs. Communist, etc. The mounting tension was palpable. We seemed to drift closer, with every byte of these local flavors, to a full out fist fight.
"Marn', ween ya see them trybl' peepls goin et'it, doncha take naw sydes. Das how ma papa went. Arraw to da hed tryn' to fix'em up Cherokee cheevs." Charley, I tried to follow your advice... but then, the grandmother in a fit of fury after losing face in an argument about pasta vs. potato gnocchi confronted me.
She considered herself grieved because I came to her country, was invited to her granddaughter's birthday and had the spunk not to talk to or play with the child.
What did she want me to say? "Congratulations on successfully circumnavigating the sun, through no merit of your own despite your caretakers best attempts to die of red meat ingestion and 70's rock overexposure."
And as far as playing with the child, frankly, I only came because of the father. As far as the child goes, I wasn't sold. When we could have a basic conversation then we could agree to spend some time at parties. I'm not going to sign any papers with someone who could turn out to be a Khmer Rouge sympathizer.
These completely reasonable arguments only seemed to enrage the abuela even more. My attempts at reasoning were thus exhausted.
For the old woman's sake I did what Niels Bohr would have done and tried to unify our theories. This was a poor assessment. It turns out that if there is something Argentines love more than complaining it's staunchly defending a position solely to contradict others. Reaching accords is a major faux pas.
My friend kindly asked me to apologize for this, but I thought he meant to apologize about my original statements. The woman was pushing ninety and did not look good. She already had enough of a stoop story without the trip to the ER. When I was about to retract for the sake of peace Berno's face twitched, he stopped me to say under his voice "don't you dare apologize for your opinions in my house! This is a free country..."
After that I played with the baby, which was the appropriate way to reach a truce. Everyone including the grandma seemed satisfied. The baby turned out to be a lot more sophisticated than I anticipated being fully dexterous in kissing on the cheek, high-fiving, knocking heads on command and displaying her index finger when asked about her age. She also discarded most gifts while primal-dancing to "All Along The Watchtower." With that nascent being I already found some points of agreement.
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.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
A taste of the old country
I've hypothesized that one of the reasons for the ensuing wilderness of these parts is the lack of decent food. Everyone knows, from the halls of Montezuma to the walls of Tripoli that America has the best food in the world. God being one of the founding fathers was also the first American Chef.
Argentina's meat is deplorable. It is not hard nor fatty. Instead of burning the outside to a crisp to a gasoline powered flame while the inside remains frozen straight from the meat packer (to keep the hormonal effect) like we do in America, their beef is soft and flavorful, generally slow cooked to an open wood-fire. There's not even any steak sauce to be found! How is one to ingest a healthy dose of high fructose corn syrup this way?
The trials I'm facing here seem to have no end. I was escorted by some locals to a "parrilla"*. In this dreadful honky-tonk the backwardness of third world countries is fully exposed. A man in a filthy getup violently tossed wooden plates on a surface officiating as a table. Quite a stretch in my opinion, but it is unfair to compare advanced societies with their less gifted brethren.
The culinary nightmares did not end there. When one of my shirpas deciphered the menu for me my choice was that of a skirt steak. I recalled wise Charley's words:
"When ya' dout, skertsteek's da way. Nut ev'n dem Apache coulda mess dat wun up!"
What that primeval version of a waitperson brought from the back was truly appalling. Two sizzling brown skirt steaks glittering on a metal grill, pink on the inside. Mouthwatering if I had been a caveman! "El sauzo del steak-o senor." No answer would follow. It is no coincidence that this grub was the equivalent of nine US dollars.
The night would end with a huge attempt at desert they call "panqueque de dulce de leche." Truly scandalous. The lack of decorum of this society was materialized on that plate. And these are my burdens at the moment.
----------------
*pah-rrEE-shiah
Argentina's meat is deplorable. It is not hard nor fatty. Instead of burning the outside to a crisp to a gasoline powered flame while the inside remains frozen straight from the meat packer (to keep the hormonal effect) like we do in America, their beef is soft and flavorful, generally slow cooked to an open wood-fire. There's not even any steak sauce to be found! How is one to ingest a healthy dose of high fructose corn syrup this way?
The trials I'm facing here seem to have no end. I was escorted by some locals to a "parrilla"*. In this dreadful honky-tonk the backwardness of third world countries is fully exposed. A man in a filthy getup violently tossed wooden plates on a surface officiating as a table. Quite a stretch in my opinion, but it is unfair to compare advanced societies with their less gifted brethren.
The culinary nightmares did not end there. When one of my shirpas deciphered the menu for me my choice was that of a skirt steak. I recalled wise Charley's words:
"When ya' dout, skertsteek's da way. Nut ev'n dem Apache coulda mess dat wun up!"
What that primeval version of a waitperson brought from the back was truly appalling. Two sizzling brown skirt steaks glittering on a metal grill, pink on the inside. Mouthwatering if I had been a caveman! "El sauzo del steak-o senor." No answer would follow. It is no coincidence that this grub was the equivalent of nine US dollars.
The night would end with a huge attempt at desert they call "panqueque de dulce de leche." Truly scandalous. The lack of decorum of this society was materialized on that plate. And these are my burdens at the moment.
----------------
*pah-rrEE-shiah
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.
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(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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