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.