...But I Do Know Crazy

I've managed to go my entire life without being robbed while traveling -- except for the time my wallet was stolen by a group of 6-year-old girls.

That actually happened. I was about twenty at the time, on an excursion to Tijuana with a group of friends. We took the bus across the border and about two minutes after being dumped on Revolution street I was mobbed by the kids. They swarmed me under the guise of selling roses and by the time I managed to shake all of them off I realized that they had my wallet.

A couple years later I managed to talk a large and burly corrupt Tijuana cop out of rolling me, so I have some street sense... I'm just no match for toddlers. 

After the shame wore off I promised myself I wouldn't get taken again, and in nearly six years of travel I have kept that promise. Granted, I don't have much luck in the United States, where my personal belongings get stolen from me like I was a human "going out of business" sale. But in Mexico, Belize, Guatemala, Cuba, Costa Rica, Panama, Columbia, Ecuador, Peru and Argentina I am just fine -- which is why alarm bells went off in my head when I found myself in a dark basement in the seedier section of downtown Buenos Aires, the door in front of me blocked by two hookers and the biggest goddamn Porteno I've ever seen.

I was walking home from the bars one night and decided to check out a small hole-in-the-wall club around the corner from where I live. I had frequently passed by the place on my way home from picking up food or coming from a night out, and decided that a dank underground bar called "Eden" was just the type of place I needed at that moment. A smiling and friendly middle-aged women (probably a hooker) out front led me down a flight of stairs to the bar area -- which was completely dark. In fact, all of it was dark. And other than the hostess, a large Argentine doorman and young waitress (probably doubled as a hooker) it was completely empty. As I was processing the scene the waitress approached me.

"Something to drink?'

"Beer," I said taking in the empty bar, neglected pool table and dancerless dance floor. Not that it would have mattered if dancers did show up because there was no music. It was just dark, empty and silent. I made the decision that this was not the joint where I needed to "make my scene" so I turned around and headed for the only light there was but the doorman placed himself between me and the stairwell.

"You gotta pay for your drink," he growled while eyeballing me like a psychopath.

"I don't want it anymore," I reasoned, but he wasn't having  it. Neither were the women. They joined their doorman friend, forming a trio of people who were obviously going to rob me.

"How much is it?" I asked.

"30 pesos," he said while continuing to stare me down.

A ten dollar beer in a country where beers routinely run you one american dollar was pretty stiff and I wasn't excited about paying it. But what could I do, really? Time seemed to slow down as I relaxed my vision and considered my options. I could just give up 30 pesos and hurry out of there, but if I took my wallet out the guy was likely to steal the entire thing. I could fight him, but me winning a fight with that giant, scrappy meathead was about as realistic as me becoming a Hugo Boss model. As I glanced back at the doorman, the tension in the air reaching a fever pitch, I considered a third option:

I could open the floodgates.

I had used this tactic one other time in my life to great effect. I'm sure it was great because I survived unharmed. About four years ago my friend Hunter and I decided to walk from a loft party in Downtown Los Angeles back to our Apartment complex in Los Feliz -- a distance of only about five miles. In the middle of the night. Through the ghetto. While drunk. Needles to say, it was a poorly thought out decision. And once we neared the railroad tracks and section 8 housing we truly recognized that we were in over our heads. But I had an idea to get us out safely:

I would act batshit crazy.

I logically surmised that no matter how violent someone may want to get with you, they will probably steer clear if they think you are a lunatic. The reasons for this are twofold: crazy people are unpredictable, and crazy people are confusing. So whenever we would pass a populated stretch of road I would flip the loony switch. I screamed at Hunter as loud as I could and was expecting him to respond in kind, thus making us a sort of tandem, runaway train of belligerent lunatics. It didn't happen. Hunter, a fairly even-tempered person by nature, felt it was above him to put on such airs, therefore forcing me to do all the heavy lifting. To the outsiders who watched us as we passed by, it must have seemed like a quiet and normal person was taking a paranoid schizophrenic out of the hospital for a walk. I would yell and scream at him as we walked, my face about two inches away from his ear. He would silently take the abuse I laid on him, which for some strange reason always devolved into homophobic verbal attacks.

"You like running around like a fucking faggot all the time, don't you, faggot?!!!!!" I would scream as he continued to walk with his head down.

"You're a buttfucker!!! A BUTTFUCKER!!! You fuck butts with your dick!!! YOUR DICK!!! BUTTS!!! AGAHGAHGAHAGHAGAHGAH!!!!!" I continued. He still didn't say anything. 

"AGAGAGAGAGAGAGAGAGGAGA!!!!!!!!"

That was pretty much our routine until about an hour later when a cab picked us up. And as I said, I still consider it a success because we weren't murdered. 

I decided to employ the same tactic in the bar. After the doorman demanded that I give them money for a third -- and what sounded like final -- time, I raised my eyes and started to pace around in a circle. Slowly at first, but gaining momentum. I then started talking to myself, quietly at first, then louder. For them it was confusing. They couldn't put their finger on what exactly was happening, but they did know something was happening.

I started talking in gibberish and berating myself.

I started spinning around faster.

The three of them actually took a step backward, unsure of how to proceed.

I was now screaming at the ceiling.

I was now jumping up and down in a circle.

They were shocked silent as I continued to bounce around and yell. I considered ripping my shirt off and scratching my chest in faux self-flagellation but decided against it (I only have about three nice shirts that I can wear out). Then, almost instinctively, and without looking at one another, they stepped apart, opening up a path to the stairwell and signaling that it was more than okay if I wanted to leave. I took them up on their tacit offer and hopped to the stairs. Halfway up I turned around to see them still silent and confused. I felt the urge to gloat, but the adrenaline I used to psych myself up was still going strong so my taunting, which I wanted to come out like "Ha ha ha, fuckers!" came out more like "AGAGAGAGAGGAGAGA!!" complete gibberish. But I screamed at them so long the doorman got fed up and made like he was going to come after me. I immediately switched off the rampage and booked it out of there, up the stairs, out the door and onto the street, running back to my apartment... laughing all the way.

Once safely back in the old loft,  I took stock of what had just transpired... and decided it was awesome. After hearing all the stories of expats getting robbed, beaten, poisoned and hustled by everyone from the police to the mafia to college students, I had maintained my near perfect record of never being taken advantage of in Latin America. I had smartly calculated the best course of action to get me out of a harmful situation with absolutely no one getting hurt. Taken into account everywhere I've been, and how I have fared, I can rest comfortably with the knowledge that I possess survival skills that should help see me through the traps and pitfalls common to travelers...

 Even though I still think about crossing the street whenever I see a 6-year-old girl walking towards me.

Responsible Professional

I came down to Buenos Aires two months ago with the intention of finding gainful employment and becoming a productive member of a foreign society. And for the last two months I haven't really accomplished much other than drinking myself stupid and stealing movies off the internet. My original plan of attack was to blitz Craigslist with ads offering my services as a private English "Professor." Despite a seemingly bare market as far as English teachers native to the U.S. are concerned, I didn't get one bite. Well, not one interested in learning English, anyway. An Israeli salesman did respond to my ad asking if I would be interested in signing up for a pyramid scheme.

I then tried my social connections. Through local acquaintances I was put in touch with a girl in her early twenties who was interested in taking classes once a week for an hour and a half. She was studying at the University and her finals were coming up in a few months, so she wanted to brush up on her English before the big test. It was a good situation for both her and I. For twenty pesos an hour she would have a native helping her with English and I would have my first client. With luck maybe she would pass the word along to her friends and I could build a steady stream of revenue.

The first class went very well. She was pleasant and fun and we spent most of the time going over a workbook she brought along and practicing conversation. The teaching actually came pretty natural to me. Despite failing miserably as a writer in Los Angeles, I discovered that twenty years spent in the practice of writing gives even the biggest fuck up a pretty good handle on the English language. I'm living proof of that. So, all things considered, I felt that I had somewhat of an aptitude for helping people learn the language. Everyone has to start somewhere, and I was off and running.

There was just the tiniest bit of a professional setback after our second class, when I slept with her and then subsequently broke off all contact due to my overwhelming sense of shame. She was nice and very attractive, but the act itself was just another affirmation that more often than not I make poor decisions. So, on the one hand my teaching career was brought to a screeching halt while still in it's infancy due to a stupid mistake. On the other hand, I did get sex out of the stupid mistake, so I kind of look at it as a push.

There were a couple other opportunities that didn't amount to anything. I interviewed for a job writing press releases for a marketing company run by a couple North American expats. The guy I interviewed with was nice enough, despite working in marketing and being an obvious cocaine addict. We chatted outside of a Starbucks, throwing around marketing buzz terms like "SEO"  and "rapid deployment" like two giant douchebags for about half an hour before I went home and took a rape shower. In the end it worked out for the best, because they ended up going with someone else. I may still be unemployed and running out of savings, but at least I've never had to write a press release hyping some bullshit mobile application for the Iphone. And that means I still have my soul.

So, in the end, I've earned a whopping nine dollars in my two months spent in this city. I'm going to have to dig a tad deeper if I want to be able to support myself in the coming months. I'm probably going to have to start waking up before three PM, ease back on the binge drinking, suddenly become proactive, sociable and above all else curb the virulent rage that wells up inside me every time I meet some asshole from the United States living here -- which is most of them.

You're Not Really Going To Fuck That, Are You?

(Note: I'm writing this about 20 hours after giving myself alcohol poisoning at Gran Bar Danzon, so if the normally corpulent prose is lacking that certain pop, it's because I'm almost dead.)

I met Maricella about a month and a half ago at a small get together I threw in my downtown apartment. My place is way too big for just me so I try to have people over as much as possible. However, back then I really didn't know anyone so the "party" consisted of Augustina, the young Paraguayan immigrant who works at the corner store, two of her gay sidekicks, Rodrigo and Diego, and Maricella. I had the bar stocked and ready for a gathering of at least twenty, so with only five people in total, we weren't wanting for booze.

I had a little interest in Augustina. A nice girl of around twenty-three, she's a Paraguayan, which automatically means she's attractive. But when she brought Maricella my compass was thrown off. I remember that she was tall with big brown eyes and a large smile that seemed like a nice contrast to my negative disposition. I also noticed when she told me she was only eighteen. Now, If my math is correct, eighteen is the very definition of the term, "barely legal," it is also a giant red light that signals any rational adult to change course. There just wasn't much I could do to make it work. I mean, I couldn't start telling everyone I was nineteen, but unfortunately everyone who knows me has already figured out that I'm 30.  Even though the legal age of consent in Argentina is 16 (the only liberal viewpoint in this country I shy completely away from) eighteen was still too young. I could talk to her, get to know her as a friend and admire her from a distance... but I couldn't sleep with her.

About three hours later, after sleeping with her for the first time, I lied awake next to her in bed considering my behavior. It wasn't that I didn't like her, on the contrary I thought she was sweeter than Dulce de Leche and decided that I was very lucky she ended up liking me. I was just worried about what it would lead to if it continued. But maybe it would lead to nothing. I wondered if it was just the one night for her. I had been in a few situations in the U.S. where women have woken up next to me hungover and completely sickened with themselves. On top of being a wonderful feeling knowing that you were someone else's drunken mistake, the other certainty is that you'll never see or hear from them again. Half of it is because, unlike Zach Effron, I am not young, physically attractive, wealthy, successful or even intelligent for that matter. In fact I have strikingly few redeemable qualities, if any at all. Therefore I can't fault the women that are nauseated at the mere idea they let me enter them in a blackout. The other factor is cultural. The United States is a tad more puritanical than most other developed nations and there is still a stigma attached to sex. If a woman in the U.S. sleeps with someone the first night they meet them then they are more likely to beat themselves up about it than they are in other cultures. Which makes absolutely no sense at all.

Unfortunately Maricella was not repulsed at the site of me the next morning, nor did she feel she made any kind of mistake. After that it was out of my hands, I was dating an 18-year-old. I was like Hugh Hefner without any of the actual achievements. Things were bound to get interesting. 

Actually we got along surprisingly well and fell into an easy routine. She worked six days a week waxing wealthy Portenas at a salon in Belgrano while I slept in, watched cable, drank and didn't write. She would come to my place around 9:30 and I would make dinner and then we would have sex on every piece of furniture in my apartment. After that she would go to sleep and I would stay up watching movies on my computer while killing bottles of Malbec. I would stumble up to bed around four or five in the morning, she would wake up when I lied down and then we would have sex again. Thinking back on it, not only was it an easy routine, but awesome, too.

Reality hit home one day when I went to my English-for-Spanish exchange that I do with a therapist in Palermo. Once a week I take the train to her place where I edit documents and e-mails to her North American clients. In Exchange she gives me Spanish lessons. Sometimes, if she's had a particularly long day at the office listening to expat businessmen from Connecticut complain about not being able to find a good housekeeper or ball washer, she passes the buck to her 11-year old son, Mauro. My time on this earth is rife with incidents of abject humiliation but there's nothing quite as degrading as being yelled at by a chubby pre-teen for not knowing the present continuous of the verb "Traer". One evening as the child held my hand through some painful vocabulary exercises, I looked at him and realized that, age wise, it made more sense for Mauro the 11-year-old to be dating Maricella than it did for me to be dating her. He was that much closer to her age than I was.

But I liked her. I actually liked her staying at my place most nights and enjoyed having someone to sleep next to. And being a hot-blooded Latina, her body was exceedingly warm. She was also fun. At eighteen she wasn't weighed down by life and self-loathing like me and whenever I looked at her I saw a person infused with the joy and innocence of youth and in her eyes I always saw the promise of happiness in her future. She didn’t know anything about loss or failure or love or heartbreak. She only knew how to have fun and be pleasant. In other words, she had yet to take her first steps in this life. But I still couldn't take the next step. Whenever it would come up I evaded the topic or got off it as quickly as possible with a simple, "I can't have a serious girlfriend now. I'm not good for anyone." Those words were irrefutable truth that a statement can be both true and complete bullshit at the exact same time.

Her nineteenth birthday was on a Wednesday but we had the party at my place because it made more sense. I stocked the bar, bought the cake and got her a bag from a boutique as a gift. I've never had a long-term relationship with a girl (other than frighteningly protracted casual partners) and had only been with a girl on her birthday one other time. That one ended abruptly and I wanted this to be better. I wanted to make it special for her. 

I think it was. About twenty people showed up to the party with the birthday girl in a fairly stunning blue dress. The group were all friends of hers and really good people that I enjoyed talking to. I think they even enjoyed talking to me, despite my broken Spanish and being close to a decade older than all of them. Everyone got drunk on Gancia, Martinis, Quilmes and Vodka and gay Diego turned my television area into a nightclub after he threw on a Michael Jackson CD, which got the girls onto the makeshift dance floor. A couple hours later everyone sang the Spanish version of "Happy Birthday" (I really can't remember the words and didn't understand them anyway) and she blew out the candles on her chocolate cake. A few hours later the party died down and a little while after that I dragged my drunk ass up to bed. That night I slept alone.

The next morning I woke up around noon to the sounds of Maricella cleaning the kitchen. She was doing the previous evening's dirty dishes, even resorting to cleaning the plastic cups and stacking them in a pyramid on the counter. I was too hungover to make the trek downstairs so when she was done I called down to her. She came up and lied on the bed next to me. 

"Did you have a good birthday?" I asked, tired and smiling.

"Yes, I was with friends."

"I'm glad," I said. And  I meant it.

She told me her mother wanted to see her so she had to hurry out the door in order to catch a bus to the provinces. I let her out and kissed her goodbye. I told her I'd talk to her Monday. 

I never saw or heard from her again.

I was reading an article in some magazine I can't remember that was written by a terrible writer. The tip off was that the story had no substance and the ending was even worse. Not having an actual end to his piece, he resorted to what I call the "Hemingway Hail Mary". Don't have an ending? No problem, write a couple simple declarative sentences that don't mean anything but sound deep.

 

EX: 

I watched her go and then went upstairs and brushed my teeth. I never saw her again.

She wanted more than I could give, so she left. Then I brushed my teeth. In the rain.

She was with another man and I didn't care. And then I watched the bullfight. And it was good.

Those aren't endings. they're just pieces of bullshit. In the true end I realized that I will miss her more than I thought. For many reasons. Because I didn't appreciate her as much as I should have when we were together. I didn't give as much as I should have. Because she was a genuinely fun time.

She'll cross my thoughts every now and then, and I'll miss her almost as much as I miss my own youth, which is just as dead as that fledgling relationship.

But I was still dating a fucking 18-year-old. I should have my goddamned head examined.

A Mexican Invasion Part 4

Saturday presented us with a problem specific to Argentina. The country was having their version of the midterm elections on Sunday so, as a precaution, all bars and clubs were forced to stop serving alcohol at midnight, Saturday. This was yet another safeguard put in place to prevent the Argentines from committing murder. Whether it's soccer or politics, these people can always come up with a reason to beat the shit out of one another. So it was looking like the most exciting night of the week to be in the city (Saturday) was going to be cut short.

(note: due to the fact that I normally operate in a booze-induced haze, I can't seem to remember if the events of Saturday afternoon actually took place on Saturday afternoon. For all I know they could have occurred Friday -- or even Monday. Either way just go along with the notion that the events did actually occur some time during the weekend... probably.)

Saturday afternoon we went to the posh cemetery in Recoleta that is home to some of Argentina's most landed, albeit deceased, gentry. For a shitload of money you can stow your loved ones in a tomb or mausoleum so large and gaudily decorated that it could easily pass for an upper-middle class apartment in Paris. The caretakers of this thriving tourist attraction are the families of obese cats that roam the interior. I was never a cat person anyway, but walking amongst the remains of dead Portenos while these things stare at you with the cold, calculating eyes of feline serial killers, is more than enough to loosen the bladder.

We saw the Duarte family tomb, home to Evita Peron, who, as everyone knows, is Madonna. Other than that she was the damaged wife of a dictator in the forties and early fifties. She had a god complex, built a tiny amusement park for children and dwarfs, got cancer, died of it, and now lies in a cage where locals leave flowers and tourists take pictures. After that we continued our stroll, stopping occasionally to admire the masonry, artwork and actual human skulls that make up the tombs. The masonry and artwork I can get behind, the skulls, on the other hand, tell me a spring cleaning may be in order.

That night we had dinner at a restaurant across from the cemetery and nestled in between the upscale brothels called Puerto Zuelo. It's very nice with good food, but is popular with North Americans, which is an obvious drawback. After the steaks and pork chops were devoured we lingered at the bar for a while. Juan ordered a twenty dollar snifter of absinthe. They just legalized absinthe in the states but don't allow the addition of wormwood, the active ingredient in the potent liquor. Without the wormwood, the absinthe they now sell in the U.S. falls under the category of most things in my native country: pointless.

I tried a sip of it and immediately got the sensation that someone rubbed smelted metal in my eyes while simultaniously pouring battery acid down my throat -- with a minty aftertaste. After that I decided to stick to my rum drinks. I thought I would try something new that evening and the bar had a happy hour special on two for one strawberry daiquiris. Sergio informed me (multiple times in the course of five minutes) that the reality of me drinking the daiquiris was twenty times gayer than just the idea of it. But what the hell, they tasted good. Although I did switch to beer afterward.

Later we went to the Irish pubs in downtown and quickly found out that, although bars couldn't legally serve alcohol past midnight, they could easily circumvent that little inconvenience by bribing the cops who stopped by to make sure they weren't selling. But even though we could find booze after midnight, there were so many places not selling that hardly anyone was out. After a few pints of Heineken we packed it in and headed back to the loft. For a city that is alive when the sun goes down, trust me: there's nothing more soul-crushing than a quiet Saturday night in Buenos Aires.

The next day I lied in bed like a wasted sack of shit while the guys went to the Sunday afternoon street fair at Plaze Dorrego in San Telmo. I would have gone too but the marathon drinking sessions over the last few days had left my alcohol-soaked body in need of a brief respite. I had to nurse myself back to health, mostly because we were going out again that evening. So around ten we headed back to San Telmo.

Every Sunday night, during my first month in B.A., I would go to Plaza Dorrego in San Telmo, sit at an outside table drinking a Quilmes, and watch the locals who would come out to dance tango in the open air of the courtyard. It's one of the most relaxing and fulfilling ways to spend an evening in this city and the fact that there are people from my country who live here for close to a year and haven't experienced it is infuriating. I hope they all get Hepatits C and die.

Unfortunately Cris, Sergio and Juan wouldn't get to experience it either. It was raining and most people were at home watching the election results anyway, so the courtyard was empty. We went to a jazz bar across from the plaza and had a few beers while we listened to a trio of locals bust out the standards on a tiny stage. Afterward we headed down the street to a dark and moody milonga called Tasso. It's my favorite place to drink Malbec and watch people dance, and every Sunday night around midnight they put on a show with a couple of professional dancers. To see it is to truly experience the history and beauty of the Tango. 

Of course, because of the election, there was no show. Looks like the guys picked the perfect weekend to spend in B.A.

We had dinner there and then headed back to Puerto Zuelo where we lounged, drank and chatted with a couple of Brazilian girls about the merits of putting ketchup on French fries (the Argentines, like lunatics, prefer mayo). We went home late and passed out. When I woke up the next afternoon I promised myself I would never drink like that again. A promise I think I broke around eight or nine hours later when it was time to go out again.

The day the guys left we had lunch at Cafe Tortoni, that musty old relic down the street from the Casa Rosada. It was a nice enough meal but a relatively bittersweet experience as the guys had to leave for the airport at five. When five did roll around they got their stuff together and we all said goodbye. I'm sure they had a good time but could have used at least an extra week to really get the city. Trying to see Buenos Aires in five days is like trying to beat off in a bathroom your entire family is waiting for: It's just better when you have more time.

When they left I guess I was sad. There isn't much I care about back in the U.S. There's no culture to miss and I have no roots that pull me back. The only thing I would like would be able to see friends again...

To spend more time with them...

To have more weeks like that one....

And to never have to see Sergio naked ever again.

A Mexican Invasion Part 3

I'm not the type of person who feels the need to violently attack a hooker after I've tied her to a radiator in a cheap hotel and forced myself on her.

It's true. 

I'm not compelled to subjugate women from third-world countries due to some deep-seated insecurity that manifests itself in notions of superiority. And I also don't have a raging cocaine addiction guiding my immoral behavior as I storm through the city like Pac Man gobbling up everything in sight.

I drink enough to make uniformly terrible decisions that result in one or more of the following: embarrassment, loss of pride, alienation, low self image, loss of bladder control, continuous feelings of inadequacy, enhanced self hatred, protracted masturbation sessions, the inability to decipher who I am, where I am, who I'm talking to, or how I intend on getting home.

Adding a cocaine addiction to all that would be counterproductive.

I bring all this up because when I last left off my friends and I were at a bar called the Newport talking to hookers. And many of these women have to deal with foreigners and locals mistreating them. It's one of the many occupational hazards people face when they decide to put their vagina on the open market. But I am consistently surprised at how many women down here don't let the idea that they have sex for money define them. In all honesty, I actually really enjoy talking to the prostitutes here. They're awesome!

The conversation didn't last too long, though, because once they found out we weren't spending any money other than a few rounds of beer they moved on to greener pastures (i.e. money, penis). Sergio and I stumbled out of that bar around 3AM and were pulled up a few flight of stairs into what appeared to be a large strip club. It was black-lit with stripper poles and filled with about two dozen more hookers. At this point it was overload. I would have never believed it myself but as it turns out, there really is a limit as to how many fake tits can be shoved in your face during the course of one night.

We got a cab home and passed out the second we stepped through the door. The next day we bought some churipans and fried eggs from the parilla next to my building. A choripan is an Argentine sandwich that consists of a french roll and a large grilled sausage. It's simple, delicious, and when paired with fried eggs you have a perfect hangover food that is guaranteed to highly offend the delicate sensibilities of any cocksucking North American idiot vegan stupid enough to spend time in this country. 

Friday night was fast approaching and since this was the only weekend the guys would have in this country, I really wanted to do it right. We had a busy night ahead of us. We were going to a bantamweight title fight at Argentina's main sports arena, Luna Park, to see a native Argentine defend his championship against a Mexican. On paper it looked great. As a group Argentines are fiercely nationalistic when it comes to their sports. Riots breaking out is a common occurrence whenever one of their two main soccer teams (River, Boca Juniors) play Locally. These people are so crazy I'm sure that if an Argentine were competing against a British person in a televised ping pong tournament, the locals could find a reason to punch white people.  So the idea of my three Mexican friends in an arena filled with a few thousand rabid Argentines, all rooting for an local boxer who was facing a Mexican, was very exciting to me. If for no other reason than because if shit did go down, and the Mexican won, I could easily disappear into the crowd and watch as a spectator as my three buddies got torn to pieces (There was absolutely no fuckin' way in hell I was going down with that ship).

I'm a huge boxing fan and for my first live prize fight it was a little bit of a letdown. To avoid complete chaos they don't sell alcohol at sporting events in this country, so I couldn't start boozing. This really got me. Throughout the duration of the night I couldn't wrap my mind around the fact that I was watching a title fight live...without beer. It's sort of like getting to fuck Angelina Jolie...but only for four seconds...in total darkness...and with her upper torso wrapped in an electric blanket and a potato sack on her head.  Another interesting thing about the match was that the fighters in the main event were bantamweights. That means they are really fucking small. So small that, were they not fighters, the only work they could find would be as jockeys or department store elves. 

After about three hours of undercards we finally reached said main event. I outed my friends when, after the Mexican was introduced, I stood up and pointed down at Sergio's head for about three full minutes. The stage was set. We were ready for action. The bell rang signalling the start of the first round, and with that the little bastards went at each other.

 It was eerily quiet most of the fight, with only sporadic insults blurted out during the rounds. I couldn't make out most of the swear words but I'm relatively certain that at one point a man from the stands called the Mexican a chupacabra. A fictional creature which is, if my knowledge of folklore is correct, a spiny bearlike creature that drinks the blood of goats. Based on where I was sitting I could not confirm whether or not the Mexican was, in fact, a chupacabra.

The fight ended with the game little Mexican warrior getting knocked out in the ninth round, thus denying me the chance to see Sergio get thrown around the arena like a human medicine ball. Afterward we grabbed pizza and then headed off to a club in Palermo called Ink. It's a nice place filled with amazing looking locals. But that night it was a little too crowded for our tastes so we headed back across town to the Shamrock. We had many pints of beer, Juan told everyone how much he loved them, and we went home around four. It was an event-filled Friday night, but not quite as crazy as I would have liked. 

As far as I'm concerned, for a Friday night to be considered truly awesome someone has to at least get kicked out of a bar, throw up, contract an STD, physically fight their own friend, yell racial obscenities at total strangers, get their dick sucked in a panel van, or some combination of the above.

Next post, the final installment

A Mexican Invasion Part 2

I realized the other day that I neglected to mention a certain incident that was worthy of including in my previous post. At the end of the guys' first night in town, Sergio and I were leaving a bar and he slipped a 9-year-old beggar -- we'll call him Jerry -- about 20 pesos in exchange for two minutes of indentured servitude. Sergio's sole order to his short-term employee was to have him walk over to a drunk girl standing about ten feet away and slap her ass. Jerry approached this task with all the zeal and enthusiasm of a 9-year-old who is actually getting paid to slap a hot girl's ass. He ran up to her, excitedly slapped aforementioned ass, and then laughed hysterically as she angrily spun around and gasped. And I could tell Sergio was living vicariously through this brief action, as the smile didn't leave his face for hours.

The next day we all woke up around one fighting mean hangovers. I decided that what better way to cure alcohol-induced gastric distress than a full and complete assault on the lower intestine with Argentina's flagship dish, the parilla. A parilla is literally the metal on which meat is grilled. As a dish, it is every single type of meat that has ever been identified by man. There is chicken, different parts of the cow, regular sausage, and the always appetizing blood sausage, the only meat that has the texture of a mashed potato. We went downstairs and headed into the small, working class diner next to my apartment building. I eat there regularly and have come to know the owner, Raymond, very well. A man of European heritage in his late-fifties with a moustache and close-cropped grey hair, he's kind of like a sweeter, more avuncular version of Adolf Hitler. Except without any of the obvious character flaws.

Raymond brought us two full parillas and we proceeded to shamelessly shovel grilled meat in our faces until it looked like the world was going to stop spinning on its axis. After the marathon session we left Raymond's in a daze. For my part it felt like I was having an out of body experience. Although I hadn't been physically raped, I felt the combination of shame and sickness that usually accompanies one being violated. We stumbled up to my place and proceeded to pass out wherever there was space. For the next few hours I was haunted by dreams of meat shaped people with sausage arms punching me in the stomach over and over again.

That night we opted for sushi, because more steaks in such a short amount of time would have caused a collective explosion of our lower intestines that could only be compared to a supernova. We went to a really nice bar and sushi spot on the edge of downtown called Gran Bar Danzon. I first went to the place in 2005 and have been going back ever since. The food is good, the bartenders are great, the atmosphere is nice and dark, and there are only a handful of North Americans on any given night. One of the main reasons Danzon continues to be such a great place to go is because it is not listed on the nightlife page of the the worst travel website in the world: Argentinastravel.com

When I say "worst website in the world", I think I really mean it. I know that websites created by evangelical lunatics listing the home addresses of all the abortion doctors in the country are bad, but this one can't be any worse. The people who created Argentinastravel.com should be dragged through the streets of Palermo Soho ("the hippest barrio in B.A.!") and have the shit kicked out of them. It sounds harsh, I know, but then again, they're contributing more than anyone to fucking up this city and turning it into the next Cancun. Need proof? When some idiot "staff writer" from New York posts an article that reads "Get Mexican Food in BA at

the California Burrito Company!" it makes me want to buy a rifle and murder people in the street. The California Burrito Company is a fast-food restaurant in centro that tastes exactly like what it is  -- an unbelievably shitty knockoff of Chipotle. Forget authentic Mexican food, it's some of the worst food, period. Ever. In the history of food.

Another example hit particularly close to home that night after we left Danzon. I had been hearing rumblings about a new bar in Palermo (does anything in this city happen anywhere other than fucking Palermo?!!) called 878. I had seen it on the nightlife information page of Argentinastravel.com so I was understandably nervous. However, a few other people I knew talked up the bar so I decided to give the antichrist website the benefit of the doubt. Me and the guys were now off to the new bar that the site raves: "beyond cool, 878 is currently in vogue as the city's hippest, formerly underground nightspot." And with a recommendation like that, how could one not love it?

Fairly easily, as it turns out. The entrance to the bar is in Argentina but once inside you're in the East Village. Other than the bartender, who I'm not even really sure was a local, there was not one native Argentine in the entire place. It was filled with vegan hipsters, bankers, students and other morons, all from the good old US of A. We stayed for one sad round of Heinekens before making our escape to the Shamrock (hey Argentinastravel, you don't like the Shamrock? Good, then I'll continue to fucking go there). On the cab ride away from the worst bar in the city (if only because of the clientele) I couldn't shake the thought that all the listings in the nightlife section of that website seem to be written by an idiot 22-year-old with no mind of their own. It's almost like they're deciding which bars and clubs are cool based on someone telling them which bars and clubs are cool, rather than forming their own opinions. Later I looked on the site and discovered that the nightlife section is, in point of fact, written by an idiot 22-year-old. From this I can extrapolate that the rest of my theory is sound: this person does not have a mind of their own. I don't really blame the kid, though. People in their early twenties are easily led and tend to go with the flow. I blame a bullshit website that doesn't pay professionals, instead opting for college students that, on top of being terrible writers, are willing to work for free.

After a few drinks at yet another pub-themed bar, the guys decided they wanted to check out one of the many "hooker bars" they had heard so much about. Since prostitution is legal in this country there are clubs all over the city that are packed with ladies of the night eager to ply their trade (You can take a look at my very first posting if you want to see some of the ways gentlemen from my native country like to have fun with them). It's a very different dynamic than it is back in the US. For example, when I lived in downtown LA I would run across various prostitutes eager to suck a dick in order to get some quick cash and score classy drugs like crack or methamphetamine. In Argentina most of the girls turn to prostitution in order to support their children, as is common in third-world countries. Drugs are a problem for some in BA, but not the destructive motivation that it is back home.

We went to a bar by the cemetery called the newport. It's like going into a regular bar back home with one subtle difference, every woman inside is a hooker (actually, maybe it's not so different from back home). That's right, you can buy pussy mere feet from where Evita Peron and heroes of the Falklands war are buried. We sat and drank with a few of the girls and got to know them over the course of an hour or so. Some of them were immigrants from Paraguay but many were locals.  I saw the same things in Cuba, Tijuana and various other Latin American cities: girls who couldn't make any money any other way so they had to resort to this. I  guess I like the prostitutes here because I come from a city where everyone is a hooker. And by everyone, I mean everyone. 

Hollywood is filled with people who have come from other cities looking to sell every ideal they've ever held for a guest-spot on 24. For some they achieve this by being actual prostitutes, like the girl who sucks a PA's dick for a SAG voucher, or Ryan Seacrest, who attended many of Merv Griffin's gay fuck boy parties before he was famous. Others are just willing to sell everyone and everything they've ever loved for a bit of fame. The weird thing is these same people would come down to Buenos Aires and look down on these women. They'd feel superior to them. I guess it's their inalienable American entitlement that allows them to do it. And they'll continue to do it as long as there is a Los Angeles to live in or a United State to be from. But it doesn't change the reality that there are poor hookers in this city who are worth a thousand aspiring actors and actresses back home. Because they may sell pussy, but they don't sell who they are.

It's always nice to end on a political note. I'll write the last installment later. Right now it's time for me to get drunk.

A Mexican Invasion Part 1

Today is one of those days where I'm feeling sufficiently empty enough to continue the blog. So here's an account of one of the more eventful weeks of the past month. After all, what isn't interesting about hookers, Absinthe, blood sausage and human skulls?

When I  announced my intention to return to Buenos Aires (about two years before I actually got on the plane), my small group of friends back home seemed appropriately disinterested. In fact, the only real times the issue was even brought up by someone other than myself was when I was out with an old work buddy named James.

"Aren't you supposed to be gone?" He would invariably ask during the course of the night. This wasn't asked out of concern for my well being, or because he would miss me when I finally did move, but because most of the time he genuinely hated being in my presence. And it is this very reason why I like him as much as I do.

"Why are you here?" Was always the inevitable follow up, and before I could get an answer out he would hit me with the trump card: "I hate your stupid mouth."

After I reserved my apartment I started putting the word out that anyone who wanted to visit me was more than welcome. I tried to sell the idea by playing up that I had two extra rooms and a giant bar, but most people I brought it up to were noncommittal -- except James, who made his opinion known.

"Why would I go to Venezuela just to watch you blow a bunch of 10-year-old boys?" Was his stance on the matter. I tried explaining that, although Venezuela is on the same continent, I was actually moving to Argentina, and had no intention of blowing anybody.

"Well I'm not going to a place just to have dicks everywhere and you fucking them," was his reasoning. After that I didn't really broach the subject again with James. So I was mildly surprised when Sergio and his brother Juan, upon hearing of my plans, immediately bought tickets for late June to come visit me. 

There is a small but very unique group of people I spend time with back in LA. They are a group of five or six guys who all look like derelict criminals, bikers, white supremacists or extras from "American Me," but actually happen to be the most talented and successful artists I've ever been lucky enough to know. And they get extra points for all being LA natives. I have a sculptor friend named Phil, who on paper looks like the type of big and frightening bald man that men immediately assume will brake into their houses and women have rape fantasies about. In reality Phil owns his own successful sculpting company and spends his days rendering movie and comic figures. 

Through Phil I met Juan, also a sculptor. Juan's blog is linked to mine and he posts photos of his pieces on it. For the two or three people who are bound to read my posts, I strongly urge you to go see what real artistic ability looks like, unlike the glorified journal entries that are known as blogs. Juan's brother Sergio is a graphic designer with his own thriving company and the uncanny ability to endear himself to almost any woman, despite looking and behaving like a Polynesian version of Danny Bonaduci. One of Sergio's great qualities is that he's impulsive. The day after I told him I was moving to Buenos Aires he had already booked a ticket and convinced his brother to come along. I didn't know if the Portenos where ready for the Balandran brothers but it was too late. They were on their way.

By the time they showed up I had already been in Buenos Aires for about a month. I was drinking a lot, eating a lot, and generally doing my part to help wreck the last semblance of a decent reputation that we North Americans had in the country. They brought their friend Chris, Juan's coworker from back in Los Angeles, and he proved to be an across-the-board good guy. I know this because the first night we went out we all ate and drank ourselves stupid and he took care of his own business.

 It started with a kickoff dinner at the ridiculously foo foo steakhouse "Las Lilas" in Puerto Madero.  It was a really fun time and the best steak I've ever had in my life, but it's the type of place that isn't letting you go without a fight. It starts with half a dozen girls who walk around with baskets and trays of bread, which they stuff in your face like you'd just been liberated from a concentration camp. And just when you think you can't handle any more bread, some other random girl comes around with another basket and shoves more bread and croutons in your fat face. Then the steaks come. I had the simple strip steak and even that was such a giant slab of crispy buttery protein that it completely kicked my ass. Sergio got some sort of rib thing that looked like that giant rack of meat Fred Flinstone gets at the drive through restaurant in the opening credits of the Flinstones. I don't remember what Juan and Chris got because I was too busy flailing around on the carpet after finally conquering my steak. To top it all off the waiters brought us a small bottle of Argentina's flagship liquor, grappa. If you haven't yet had the chance to try grappa, imagine drinking a pint of paint thinner with about a teaspoon of lemonade mixed in it and you've pretty much got an idea.

I stumbled out of the restaurant fighting off steak-and-grappa-induced hallucinations and we all hopped in a cab. We went to a nightclub in San Telmo called Museum and it turned out to be pretty fun. It's not new news that nightclubs are silly and pointless but there is something different about them in Argentina. Nightlife is part of the culture here and the Argentines take it very seriously. One of the main reasons North Americans suck so much in this city is because we really don't understand it. We get way too fucked up way too early. The Argentines take their time, savor the experience and, more importantly, pace themselves so they can stretch night into morning.

That's what they do, we just drank a lot and did laps around the dance floor. There comes a point in the night when everyone in the bar or club start to make out with one another. This is a culture in which human beings are just fucking and making out constantly. So around 2 AM, when the semi-orgy was in full swing, we took it as our cue to head out, since we had no women and weren't about to make out with each other -- although, considering the amount of times Sergio strutted around my loft throughout the week wearing only a bath towel, I'm not sure I can speak intelligently about what was going on in his mind around the time we left the club.

Next was a succession of the ubiquitous, Irish-themed bars of the downtown area. The Temple Bar? Kilkenny? Matias? Who knows, they all start to look the same after a while. I know there were copious shots of Jameson at one of them; loud, drunken, uniquely North American behavior at another. And the pub we closed the night out at is the one where Chris threw up and had to be taken home early, Sergio spent time at the bar with a trannie, and I made out with a Brazilian prostitute (I found this out after an hour of conversation, a few rounds of drinks on me, and said open-mouthed kiss.)

Sergio and I returned to my loft to find Chris rampaging through the place like a human vomitorium. Anything that could have been puked on, he puked on it. Juan got him to the bathroom where he expelled the contents of his body for a good couple of hours before passing out in my spare bed with a plastic bucket placed strategically under his mouth. But the next morning he was up early and cleaning up the mess. He even mopped the bathroom. That's when I knew he was a soldier. I don't know many people who would have taken that initiative. Especially me. 

I'd say over all it was a first day worthy of the standards I set for myself of pushing things well past the responsible limit. And we still had four more to go.

Next post: the rest of the week.