Bored Boozing

The following is a game I’m going to play with myself over the next few hours because I’m really bored. The rules are simple: I will continuously consume beer and/or wine throughout the night. Periodically I will take a shot of Jameson for that added kick. After a certain amount of shots of Jameson I will respond in one or two paragraphs to talking points I have outlined earlier.

The initial subjects will be very light and informal, and as the evening progresses they will get more serious, political, topical and nuanced. The reason for this is simple: the more in-depth and serious the questions, the drunker I should be when writing about them -- because it’s funnier that way.

All of the text will be unedited nor proof read in order to preserve the authenticity of the drunken ramblings. And tomorrow morning, at the moment I wake up, I will immediately write a short paragraph describing in detail exactly how I’m feeling at that particular moment.

So, I've been out already, imbibing a few beers and shots, therefore now is as good a time as any to commence with my first talking point (note: there is a new talking point for every shot of Jameson consumed. However, beer and wine will be consumed on top of the whiskey, I just won’t be keeping track of how much -- although I’m sure it will be plenty. )

(new note: I've already had quite a bit of booze tonight, so this should be fun.)

1) ONE SHOT -- Reflections on living in Buenos Aires:

Fuck, that was miserable. The Argentines aren't big shot takers so I'm a little out of practice. That sickly sweet burn was absolutely miserable. Im going to hate myself tomorrow. Anyway, thinking about the few months I've lived here I guess I've enjoyed it. No, I've really enjoyed it. I spent two and a half years trying to get the money to come back down here and, after I finally got it, I've had three of the most fulfilling months of my entire life. I've had a blast and I wouldn't trade it for anything. But, to be perfectly honest, I have bad dreams about the things I had to do to get here. That's the worst. I don't think it's necessary to get into the details, because it's no different than what hookers do on a day-to-day basis. 

And it feels just as bad.

2) TWO SHOTS -- Current North American movies:

My god, I didn't think the second shot could be worse than the first... but it was. It really was. Okay, back on topic, I guess I'm supposed to talk about movies or some bullshit like that. I actually like a lot of the movies out right now. The problem is that it takes so long for current new releases to get down to Argentina. But I go almost every weekend. I saw drag me to hell and I can't remember the last time I had such an awesome time at the movies. Then, the other weekend, I had a couple of cocktails and saw the hangover. I know I'm supposed to put titles in a quotes and capitalize letters and shit but I don't give a fuck. Anyway, I drank a bit then and went and saw the hangover. Argentine audiences are awesome. They really get into the movies. Whether it's comedy or horror or drama, they're just good audience members. And this time was no different. Unfortunately I was the one who ruined it for everyone by getting up to pee twice during the movie.

Sorry Portenos,

Chris

3) THREE SHOTS -- Healthcare reform in the United States:

This was the worst idea I've ever had in my entire life -- and to put it all in perspective, I've made an unnatural amount of bad decisions in my life. This is just stupid, though. I'm fucked up right now. really fucked up.

What's my topic now? Health care? Honestly, what the fuck? Anyway, I've been away for a while so all I get of the dialogue is the loonies on youtube and the daily show. I understand that it may seem presumptious of me to label every opponent of universal healthcare a loony, but, then again, all I have to go on is the internet. There are people with guns and signs comparing Obama to Nazis and at this point I don't understand it. Granted, I'm fucked up, but I can't even pretened to be a informed critic under these circumstances.

but really? Giving poor people access to healthcare means the US is  commie? I don't know, lesser countires than ours have given their people healthcare with zero problems. 

I just don't understand a lot.

ANd I'm fucked up.

4) FOUR SHOTS --  Ideas for the future:

I am not kidding, this was reaterded. I don't want to do this anymore.   i hate myself. I'm watching 2-year-old reruns of "To Catch a Predator" and am fucked up on Jameson. This is no way for a person to live a life. What are my ideas for the future? I don't know, to not become a fat, argentine pervert.

Fucker bitches

5) FIVE SHOTS -- A planet in crisis:

No one in the free world is stupid enough to do what I'm doing right now. I  will be epically hungover tomorrow and I'm still trying to push it.Okay, I['m done. Who gives a afuck? My only concern is that I  want to be with mu friends

6) SIX SHOTS -- Potpoirri:

faaaarrrrrrt

THE NEXT MORNING:  I am unwell.

 

1)  

An E-Mail to Phil

(I don't really feel like writing anything so I'm just going to copy an E-mail I sent to a guy named Phil Ramirez about a week after I arrived in this city. On top of looking like a white-supremacist gutter punk version of Alex Von Ferstenberg, he's also a good friend who helped me get down here. I want to keep this E-mail for posterity because I enjoy how happy and excited I sound about having finally returned to Buenos Aires. So, as you can see, the reason I'm posting it has absolutely nothing to do with Phil)

(Oh, and FYI: The "Chris Early" referred to in the middle of the letter is a giant maniac who looks like Sloth from "The Goonies." And  the "Butterfly" referred to at the bottom of the letter is a coke-addict stripper I'm pretty sure I made cry)

Sergio gave me this e-mail so hopefully, unlike your evilelf account, it works.

So after a narco-induced near coma I landed in Buenos Aires and somehow managed to check into the loft. The first couple days were rough, since for the last three years I've been living in converted patios and storerooms. The place is so big I even thought about sleeping in the back walk-in closet just so I could feel more at home. It was like some weird Shawshank Redemption experience where I couldn't adjust to life outside the prison. But after a day or two I settled in and even got used to the fact that my bed isn't inflatable. The first night I stayed out so late, drank so much, made so many awesome/bad/epically glorious decisions that when I came-to the next day I was certain that if things continued at that unrelenting pace, I would be dead within the month. Over the next couple of days I had to learn to stretch out the nights. Things don't shut down at two here. Where we were all wrecked by one in the morning before, here in this city people aren't that drunk until four or five. Maybe even six or seven. 

The women are the biggest problem. I'm pretty sure they outnumber the men and are a stimulating presence everywhere in the city at all hours of the day and night. I've even wanted to take pictures of random women I've seen eating in restaurants because I couldn't believe how beautiful they were. I was at a down and dirty tango club in one of the oldest, filthiest, greatest neighborhoods in this city on Sunday night and I saw a girl in a black dress that made me want cut my eyes out of their sockets with shards of broken glass.

See, all the girls born and bred in Argentina are of mixed European blood and it's a potent combination. I never want to hear you say "I don't like Chris Early's wife so I don't think I'd like Argentine women." ever again. I'm going to try and be as tactful and respectful as possible when I tell you that YOU HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT! Or what you're missing, for that matter.

Other than that there have been the Brazilian flight attendants, the Columbian bartenders, the girls studying from Peru, the Paraguyan girls with playmate bodies sitting alone at bars.

Then there's the food: Steaks and ribs and chicken and lomo and sausages, all grilled asada-style in a pit over hot coals. These "parillas" are everywhere. It's a culture that sustains itself almost exclusively on meat and italian food. And it's the best beef in the world. I'm sure even Japanese grillers of Kobe beef have contemplated sepuku after tasting the steaks here.

I'm telling you all this because Sergio hinted that you may be in. This time the place even exceeded my expectations. You'll have nothing less than one of the greatest weeks of your life if you come here.

I'm not sure what will happen four or five months from now, I'm still not sure where this whole thing ends. So hopefully you come now, while everything is still wide open.

Anyway, hope all is well in Los Angeles. I miss all you guys, and whatever ends up happening, this wouldn't have been possible without you.

That's something that I can't ever forget.

Oh, and tell "Butterfly" I'm sending my sweetest sentiments to her from here at the end of the world. He he

Wallace out

Fat Face

"You've gotten fat since the last time I saw you"

"Really?"

"Well, not your body, but your face."

I ran into a girl I hadn't seen in a while and that was the first thing she said when she saw me. I probably would have let it get to me if it wasn't such a glaringly accurate observation. I've learned the hard way over the last couple of months that a diet plan revolving around pizza, pasta, empanadas, and a whole bottle of wine every night of the week isn't exactly a shortcut to eliminating body fat and burning calories. In fact, the consensus opinion is that it's actually unhealthy. 

The problem is that there are only four things to eat in this city, and I've already named three of them. The other is steak, and combined with the other three Argentine food groups you have a pretty potent -- and potentially lethal -- diet. I guess I could only eat salads and nothing else, but then again, I could also shove a goddamn railroad spike in my eyeball and get the same satisfaction.

The girl remarked that my bloated features were mostly concentrated in my face, but that's kind of misleading. My panza (gut, as it translates to in English) is swelling to a fairly respectable size. I actually look like Damon Wayans in "The Great White Hype" except only slightly less black. Before I left for Argentina there was about a month or so where I was fairly svelte. One night a girl at a bar actually told me I looked like Peter Pan. If that was true then, now I am more like Peter Pan's older fat alcoholic brother with bags under his eyes.

In an effort to curb my expanding waistline and engorging jowls, I actually picked up my jump rope for the first time since I bought it over a year ago. I've heard from reputable sources (like YouTube) that jumping rope is the most efficient way to burn calories, even more than jogging. That's a good thing, because running for no other reason than to run is the apex of stupidity. Not that I was really excited about the prospect of skipping rope most days. I hadn't had one minute of exercise since middle school -- almost twenty years of complete muscular atrophy -- so I was more than a little out of practice.

Over the course of a couple weeks I got used to jumping up and down with the rope, which is more difficult than one might imagine. There's a rhythm involved that means the difference between a smooth, rapid workout or tripping over the rope for ten minutes straight while screaming "fuck" at your wall. But once I did get the hang of it, things only got worse.

Jumping rope isn't fun. Working out isn't fun. There's nothing enjoyable about any form of exercise. A friend of mine once told me that a lot of people actually enjoy the rush of working out, the juice you get from pushing yourself to the physical limit. I know that's true, but I also know that those people are morons. They have systematically destroyed their brain cells over the course of a lifetime spent in the gym and way too many protein shakes. A guy may be able to deadlift a few hundred pounds, and that is impressive, but ask the same guy what his favorite movie is and the answer will likely be somewhere between "Kickboxer" and "Big Momma's House."

But I guess the rage I direct towards exercise is only a smokescreen to hide the fact I'm just not any good at it. Most days I only get about ten minutes through a jump rope workout before I collapse on the floor with my lungs on fire. If my calculations are correct that means I burn about 100 calories in a session. That isn't even one cup of the bottle of wine I consume nightly. And if it's beer I'm drinking? Well then I manage to work off one beer out of the eight I will inevitably have that day. And the pizza and sausage sandwiches I've eaten before the drinking even gets started? Not a dent.

I know where this long road of fatness will end: my father. People who knew him have pointed out that I look more and more like him as I get older. And that is more frightening than one could ever begin to imagine. He was overweight in middle age and now, well into his sixties, his physical appearance can only be described as "snowmanlike."

One day -- assuming I'm unlucky enough to live that long -- I too will be obese and without an identifiable neck. All the marathon 10 minute jump rope workouts in the world won't be able to change it. Which is why I guess it was always important for me to travel as a young man rather than an old man. At this phase of my life I can meet women in Latin America and there will be the very real possibility of mutual attraction. But when I'm older I'm sure they'll just look at me and want to roll me in flour. 

Or I could always just give them a gold bikini, wrap a chain around their necks and tether them to my fat leg while I stuff my face with empanadas in my nightclub.