dead man talking

I came one step closer to making my dream of becoming a Latin American dictator a reality yesterday when I received my very first death threat.

'D A' writes (poorly and without any punctuation or diacritics in Spanish):

i found out everything you did in your stay in buenos aires
i ask you never return again because you are dead man
i swear i wait for you in ezeiza [the airport] and you are not going to enter to the country
wanker fatty take care of yourself if you want to remain alive
you already know with whom you had lain son of a bitch you're going to see how you will end the next time
don't even think about calling anyone here i have everything under control
i know everything you are dead man if you call anyone here
[one of those angry face smileys to round off the death threat]

I made a few calls to Buenos Aires to discover the identity of my secret admirer, but to no avail.

I will keep you posted as this melodrama unfolds - but rest assured - no one calls me 'fatty' and gets away with it.

de qué estás hablando, Willis?

The dialect spoken in Argentina (as well as in Chile and Uruguay) is much different from any other in Latin America and certainly Spain. Many of the words (seemingly all of the more common ones and much of the grammar even) differ greatly from my castellano madrileño. Intonation (replete with effusive hand gestures) is much more akin to Italian (the largest ethnic group in the capital) and there are many borrowings from English, German, French and indigenous languages, specifically Guaraní.

As in much of Latin America, the preterit or simple past (hablé) is used instead of the present perfect (he hablado) and direct object pronouns (lo, la) replace indirect objects (le).

When attempting to speak like the locals, with their ‘ž’ and their ‘š’ for ‘y’ (as in yo = sho) and ‘ll’ (calle = cazhe) and unable to refrain from zezeando – that lispy Spanish ‘th’ for c’s and z’s many of you hate (cerveza = therbetha) – I found myself literally frothing at the mouth and basically sounded like a Brit trying to imitate a Southerner.

Which was quite unnecessary. The locals seem to love my accent and the feeling is mutual, thank you. About 95% of the locals thought I was Spanish, while others guessed French or Brazilian for some reason.

I spent my first weekend there almost exclusively with Spaniards, only partly by accident, in order to firm up my accent. All of the new argentino words, expressions and patterns of speech were, however, surprisingly easy to learn (the second person singular or familiar ‘vos’ form, used instead of ‘tú’ is, for example, almost without exception, entirely regular as well as terribly quaint.

People are incredibly friendly, which extends to the way they speak and what they talk about. No subject is off limits and their curiosity knows no bounds – examples: a particular waiter seemed obsessed with the progress of my laundry and a taxi driver asked me the size of my penis. They do most of the talking – and literally will not shut up - they go on and on and on. It may surprise you to learn that I enjoyed the break.

where's the beef?

I’m pleased to announce the winner of the great steak contest and hence the winner of a giant bifé de lomo the size of your head, purchased at the best and most expensive supermarket in all of Argentina on my last day is... Dr. T.R. Parker of Poughkeepsie, New York.

I consumed 38 and a half steaks during my seven-week stay in Argentina (the other half of my last steak I was forced to trade for a half portion of Galician grilled octopus – what would you do?). Dr. Parker was closest, having guessed 33 steaks, followed very closely by Vladan Crha of Prague with a guess of 46. Those of you (and there were many) who guessed over 70 are simply insane or wishing to cash in on my non-existent life insurance policy.

I am not so pleased to announce that ALL of my meat – more than U$D 100 worth – was confiscated by the Department of Agriculture at US Customs in Miami. Several kilos of vacuum-packed top grade beef, more than two dozen sausages and fuetes, more than twenty packs of bondiola, jamón crudo (prosciutto), matambre and panceta will allegedly feed the fires of the airport furnace along with the lighters and toenail clippers of outbound passengers.

I am left with an assortment of relatively mediocre cheeses and canned seafood patés.

The USDA claimed a threat of ‘mad cow disease’ (unknown in Argentina) as the reason for the seizure. This would imply that my intention was to feed my expensive, high-quality steaks raw to American cows as part of some peculiar terrorist plot or just for the hell of it. ‘Hoof in mouth’ disease was what they gave for the theft of my pork products – implying that my plan was to rub the noses and lips of American pigs with the smoked and cured body parts of their Argentinean cousins. I leave it to you, dear reader, to determine the likelihood of these two scenarios.

A more likely reason is a highly-politicized and moneyed corporate US Farm Lobby that is unable to compete with superior and cheaper free range beef and pork, in order to better push their substandard hormone-laden, genetically-modified, pent-up, tortured, artificially-fattened, mutant aberrations of nature on an uneducated public – thanks to a Congress and an administration that depend on their cash and votes.

The only meat allowed in from Argentina is cooked chicken – not exactly their strong suit – although I wouldn’t know, as I never had any during my stay.

The woman next to me on the plane from Miami to New York (a venerable 80 year-old witch from Jamaica with gold teeth, a cane, and obvious respiratory problems) had a suitcase full of jerks and curries (over 250 dollars worth, according to her) confiscated as well. They left her only with a single veggie empanada. She was pissed and so am I. And so is Dr. Parker. Thanks for playing and be sure to write your congressman!

they grow up so fast

In celebration of his 20th birthday and the fact that they finally turned the hot water back on in his palatial squat (or squatty palace – I haven’t decided which, but it’s really nice or was or will be), a.v. invited me over for dinner tonight:

av: Do you want to come over for dinner tonight? I’m making dinner.
mg: Sure! What time?
av: Now’s good.
mg: Do you want me to bring anything?
av: Nah, nothing. Maybe just some bread and tomato sauce and some grated cheese.
mg: Why don’t I just bring over a couple of pizzas? It would probably be easier.
av: Because we’re having pasta.

I have to say, given the proper ingredients, that boy can cook. We had pasta with tomato sauce and grated cheese and watched 'Scary Movie', while his little brother flirted rather successfully with half the country in a multi-tasking blur of popups over MSN chat.

We threw the garbage out of the window as we had already taken the garbage out once that evening after cleaning the kitchen in order to make dinner. For his birthday, I gave him a pipe and an NYPD t-shirt. He just needs a little balance and hot water and he’ll be fine.

la ley y el orden

Many of you have pointed out that the picture I’m painting here appears to be rather negative. I’ll address that more generally elsewhere. But for starters, here are the facts about crime minus the spin:

None of my friends here have been mugged, beaten or even pickpocketed, with the exception of the Bush family, who are no friends of mine – an event that, I’m proud to say occurred a block away from my house (I’ve been trying to find her mobile at the bazaar for weeks so I can prank call ‘Daddy’ at three am). In fact, the only place my friends have actually been robbed is Spain.

I have never felt threatened and I live in an essentially ‘bad’ neighborhood according to most locals – a ‘no go’ area at night, according to the more conservative tour guides. I go out a lot at night and so, have to leave from and come back home at night or early in the morning, respectively, and have never had a problem.

People used to say the same things about the East Village when I lived there in the early 90’s before my rent shot up by a factor of six. Fact is it’s probably a bit more dangerous now that people have more than $10 in their pocket and won’t put up a fight for it (and probably don’t have a gun as well), as was the case back then.

The streets of my neighborhood, especially mine, Defensa - the oldest street in the city, are busy to packed with locals, tourists, cops, cartoneros, passing buses and taxis almost 24 hours a day. Restaurants are open until 2 am, bars until at least 4, clubs until 8. Many places are 24 hours. I have never felt unsafe coming home at night, usually on foot, crossing most of the neighborhood from the center or from much further afield. Actually, what often happens is I meet someone on the street and we wind up going for beer and breakfast, talk for a few hours and never see each other again.

Buenos Aires is no more dangerous than New York or Madrid and much less so than much of London, Paris, Poughkeepsie or Middletown. My 'bad' neighborhood, San Telmo, is much safer than Žižkov.

These urchins I keep going on about are just very unsupervised, misguided and rather uninhibited kids who build social structures according to the degree of risk involved in a particular shenanigan. Not really a positive cycle of behavior reinforcement. Their damage (depending on what your wearing at Carnaval) to society is minimal and they’re actually learning valuable lessons in socializing in the process. My childhood wasn’t very different. It beats sitting home alone watching television.

old latrobe

That’s right – 33 steaks as of yesterday. And although I haven’t looked at the entries yet (as promised), I know that many of you will be disappointed, having expected a bit more meat out of me. But unlike the other big steak eaters (and you know who you are), I don’t have a ring on my finger and so can’t afford a larger one around my waist. But it ain’t over until the fat man sings and the great steak opera has at least thirteen more acts to go.

That said, I miss the obese, they make me look good (not a simple feat in the land of the beautiful). Luckily, the only fat man in the city works (for food, obviously) just across the street, enticing and ushering in tourists to a mediocre grill with day-long, mouth-watering cries of “grill for two... for three... for four... for five...” you get the picture, or do you:

My dear friend and two-time college roommate, Tim, flew down to outdrink me last week and finally get me out of the city for the first time in over a month. We took a first class executive sleeper bus to the Days Inn in Pinamar – a relatively posh beach resort four and half hours south of BA.

Since my arrival here, I had been frantically searching for my karaoke fix and like-minded exhibitionist ilk and coming up empty, but we found it in Pinamar. Turns out they don’t use the Japanese, but call it ‘cantobar’ instead and it's very popular. They give you the words on a piece of paper and the KJ (or CbJ) sings your backup, which is tricky, but somehow more fun. Even though everyone was already standing, I got a standing ovation along with a receiving line of hot fans after my performance. So much for I ain’t gonna play Sun(burn) City...

Back in BA, we went down to La Boca, a ‘working class’ hood just south of my own. After I paid 60 cents for the privilege of taking a foto of a mini-favela, a lone woman in a very out-of-place expensive blue silk dress ran up to us screaming (in English, mind you): “I don’t know what you’re doing here, but it’s very dangerous. You need to run. RUN RUN RUN out of here RUN.” She sure knew how to make us and herself less conspicuous. Of course, it being a ‘working class’ hood, most people were working at the time and there were few around to appreciate her rantings and ravings.

Thinking my previous entry about my neighborhood Carnaval an exaggeration, Tim insisted we check it out. A block away, we were water-ballooned and then promptly foamed from several angles / urchins. We lasted all of 20 seconds.

It seems that everyone under the age of 16 here is a criminal, at which point they either move on to more complex scams, like selling those free airplane socks or corporate embezzlement, or they just start having sex and forget about being complete jerks.

Carnaval ended last Sunday in grand fashion. The drums and foam had just begun in earnest when suddenly a biblically-proportioned storm kicked up, first blowing then washing away all of the garbage, human and otherwise, in whirlwinds of filth and filthy off to the more affluent northern neighborhoods. I couldn't have been more pleased. Miss you. Home soon.

the teachings of don guapo: a yanqui way of knowledge

Well, it’s official. I used the very last of my Czech toothpaste yesterday and in four minutes, I will have been here a month. I must actually ‘live’ here now because I’m already moving: out of my ridiculous ‘department’, which is a former roof-top storage shed or ‘quincho’ that they’ve decided to suddenly call a loft and accordingly raise the rent. I’m going all the way from San Telmo Hollywood (there go the property values!) to San Telmo Viejo – a total distance of three short blocks.

I’ve had some good times here with Frasier, Old Christine, Dr. House, Will and Grace, and what must have been the entire New York City police force after six seasons of Law and Order – but as much as I’m going to miss Stewie, Macchio (marathon career retrospective – what could I do?) and Shatner (especially Shatner - that guy cracks me up) dubbed or subtitled, I’ll be glad to see the other side of the door of this place and maybe see a little more of Buenos Aires in the daytime.

During commercial breaks, I’ve been missing Prague a bit, which begs the question: “What the hell’s the matter with this picture?”

Don’t get me wrong, I love it here: beautiful, friendly, fun and smart people, great food and drink, cheap smokes, comprehensible language, etc., but it’s been a month, so here’s what’s the matter with this picture:

The bitch list (c’mon, you knew it was comin’)

Crossing the street;

Waiting to cross the street;

Cars, buses (kinda enjoyed the novelty of riding around on an old bus for awhile, especially when you have to jump on and off while it’s still moving, OK, I guess I still like the buses), trucks and all of the above’s resulting pollution;

Incredible lack of alternators – almost all cars and buses, even taxis, ambulances and police cars go around with their lights off at night or, at best, very romantically dimmed. The theory behind this is that using lights somehow uses more gas, which doesn’t really cost anything here anyway thanks to Mr. Chavez. I’ve tried to explain how the engine via the alternator charges the battery, which powers the lights, without any increased gas usage. No one believes me and I’m starting not to believe me either;

Lack of proper banking system - having to go to 15 different banks (at 5 bucks a pop per withdrawl) to pay my rent;

The sun, the heat, the humidity – summer basically – turns out I don’t really care much for summer;

Little kids who ask me for money; older kids who ask me for money; older men who hardsell me on the homeless magazine and then think that gives them the right, duty, or god-sworn deathbed obligation to chew my ear off for an additional ten minutes while expectorating through missing teeth;

‘Pan francés’… kinda like ‘franczouský brambory’ or ‘spanish bird’ - when they don’t want credit for it, they blame it on another country. Contrast with pan casero which is homemade and absolutely delicious;

People who think I’m French; and/or think me inclined to prefer the aforementioned;

Hamburgers - although much better than in Prague, are strangely not as good as in the US. I think the meat may be too lean to make a good hamburger, but they only cost a dollar;

People constantly trying to get me to eat inedible parts of cow for no apparent reason:

“No thank you, I don’t eat garbage.”
---
“No really, I don’t care what you people do, that’s great, more edible parts for me. No really, I don’t mind. You eat the brains, innards, entrails and assholes, and I’ll stick to the steaks, thanks”
---
“Really, it’s cool, boludo.”

Completely non-absorbent napkins (like in Spain, but worse) - there exist three varieties: newspaper, cardboard and plastic-covered;

Elevated trashcans on the street that never seem to have a bottom attached to the bottom of the can – thus, IMHO, defeating the purpose of a trashcan while only drawing even more attention to the fact that people just don’t fucking care where they throw their trash;

Supplement to the above: the whole city has an average turd to square meter of sidewalk ratio as high as Prague 7’s;

Getting sprayed at Carnaval;

Vietnamese potravinies;

Bottle returns – the deposit on a liter bottle of Quilmes is anywhere between 50 and 75% of the total cost of the beer. You’re asked upon purchase if you’re returning any bottles. A negative response inevitably elicits a disappointed shrug and sigh, then a downward sideways wistful look and the beginning of a tear in the left eye of the clerk. They then inform you (wincing prior to the expected outrage) that you will have to pay a deposit on the bottle. They issue a receipt that is only redeemable at their store (along with the bottle). You can imagine that I haven’t taken very well to this system and am now overrun with a fortune’s worth of bottles. I only recently figured out a (scam) way around this and am slowly starting to regain some floor space in my apartment, but it requires a lot more drinking;

Really unbelievably fucking big-balled how’s that for cojones gringo you’re mine mothafuckah gimme them peanuts pigeons (see below). Where’s my mace?

And ‘Ryan’ from “The OC”.

That’s it. Everything else is absolutely fantastic! So, demons purged; and new apartment, renewed optimism:

I had the good fortune to run into my new neighbors, Eugenio and Laura, on my first trip over to the new place and I laid it on thick, really thick, like they like it down here. They said:

“Anything you need, let us know, OK?”

“Sure, same to you guys, I’m charmed, really charmed. Anything you need… wait a minute, I don’t really have anything… but I drink a lot. I usually have something to drink.”

“Great!”

So with a spring in my step, I bounced on back to my old neighborhood and made my rounds charming the asses off of everyone on my last night. For a month late and a peso short, I think I did pretty well. I got to see everybody, make a great last impression and spread the love (except the Vietnamese, long story short: they tried to screw me out of some bottle returns and I made a scene and don’t shop there any more, even if they are cheaper and open longer).

When I got back to my old ‘loft’, I finally caught my cacti blooming after a month of constant nursing (sunburn to prove it). Turns out they only come out at night… I guess we have a lot in common. I’ll be taking the last unopened bloom with me to the new place.

of carnavals and clubs

'Carnaval' began yesterday in my hood, so I decided to have a look, take in a little of the local culture and feel the love and vibe of community spirit, before hitting a club. What the hell, I said, it was all just outside my door, and thus, on the way.

Carnaval in my barrio, however, seems to only consist of arming all of the neighborhood street urchins, ne'er-do-wells, guttersnipes, brats and baby blackguards, orphans, pretend orphans, wannabe orphans, scamps, waifs, hooligans, hoods, hoodlums, hoodwinkers and wankers, rapscallions, scalawags, skullduggers, imps and punks, grovelling grifters, little rascals, rogues, teeny robbers, beggars and boppers (of whom there are literally thousands in a four-block radius - hence the highly-evolved pecking order) with industrial (or family-size - same difference) canisters of a high-pressure Barbasol / spray-on PAM type foam mixture that flies out of the can with deadly accuracy, speed and damage at the freshly primped and preened.

Oh yeah, there was some parading of half-baked dancers in half-baked costumes who also let fly as they glided and slided, fumbling and foaming on the slippery streets.

I escaped quickly in a taxi that had also just been bombarded by the filmy foamy menace. So much for my stroll and my shower.

More on the surprising lack of dancing ability in a country that prides itself on its dancing ability in a future post.

the song sorta remains the same

In honor of Groundhog Day, I thought I'd pay a little homage to all of the uncanny similarities between .cz and .ar - the shadows of things I haven't had the opportunity to miss. The Spocks and Kirks with beards, if you will:

čau = chao - although I've never seen it in print. This particular similarity has me saying 'tak čau' out of habit, which, of course, doesn't make any sense, but is usually excused as a tic or just a tak, which it is;

fernet - they love it here - turns out it's Italian, but comes from Brazil. I'd always thought it was Czech, go figure;

vietnamese potravinies - yup, that's right. And they can't pronounce the r's or l's here either. Can't count very well, strangely. I guess we get the second string down here. I love having to order my 'Mahlbolo Pox' every morning in order to be understood. They never even heard of New York - I guess NYC is now low-profile, 'under the vietnamese radar', so to speak;

smažený vepřový řizek - known here as a 'milanesa', the name derived from its true origins in Northern Italy. Often made from beef - no thanks;

fried cheese - well, it's grilled actually, and a lot better, but the idea of cheese as a full meal or vegetarian facsimile of one does exist in both countries;

meat rollups a la spanish bird - haven't tried one yet, don't plan to;

stella artois and segafredo - hard to believe, but those people are everywhere. Still not drinking either;

all of the shows you spend hours to download are actually just on television here, go figure;

cars;

flimsy ice trays;

clueless real estate agents;

silverware placed atop of napkin pile in precarious log cabin formation, making it impossible to get to aforementioned napkins until after desert course unless 23rd level magus intervenes to magically remove napkins without disturbing aforementioned log cabin; No, I'm kidding, they don't do that here - that would be silly.

That's it. Everything else is completely different. I will explore these differences in future posts, but wanted first to expose the profoundly rich tapestry of common underpinnings that knit both cultures together.

Miss you all, since you're not here, but don't worry. I'm quickly replacing all of you with younger, thinner, more tan, Spanish-speaking doppelgangers. As my memories of you inevitably fade, I'm getting a little sloppy with the necesity of accuracy in the namesakes, e.g. "Argentina Jiffy" is actually a pretty hot 20-year old female dental assistant, who just happens to eat a lot of American fast food. -m

consumer price index

Knowing that most of you, like myself (or even love myself), are cheap ass bastards interested more in dollar drafts than art openings (no offense, Camy), I thought I'd give you the skinny on the low cost of low living south of the border (with Uruguay). All prices are in U$D, which isn't actually worth anything any more anywhere anyway - except here maybe:

these steaks I've been eating (depending on cut and whether or not the restaurant has a ceiling): $2 - $7

three-course lunch including wine at my local: less than $5

beer (1 liter): store = less than $1, restaurant $2 - $3, club $3 - $4
- been drinking way too much of the stuff 'cause it's so damn hot

bottle of really good wine: less than $3
- been drinking way too much of the stuff 'cause it's so damn good

cafe con leche: $.50 - $1.50

Marlboro Red (16): less than $1, (20): a little more than $1
- I smoke the slim&trim line o' 16s, they fit more stylishly in the pocket

SMS on a pre-paid card: $.02 / local call: I don't know; I still have $4 left on my $6 credit, including international

laundry (wash, dry and fold - same day service): about $2 per load
- I go through more costume changes in a day than Stevie Nicks at the Garden

bus ticket: $.25

taxi across town: $4

haircut: less than $3

25g herbal tea: $30

my rent: $450

dream house in my hood $120 000

the great steak contest

Day six, steak six. Guess how many steaks I'll eat during my entire stay and win a thick and juicy Argentinian beefsteak!

The nearest steak guesser will win a steak, but if you hit the cow on the head, you'll also receive a bottle of fine Malbec. Send your entries to contest@xeno.cz by Thursday, February 1st at the latest.

Some things to keep in mind:

1. I won't look at the entries until my departure on March 11th, whence I will be eating my last, or maybe final two, thick, juicy steaks before returning with your prize;


2. I've had an average of one steak per day since I arrived. This does not include the steak on the plane, but does include the large steak sandwich I had at the food court of the mall on Thursday;


3. Argentinian cuisine can be more varied than Spanish, French, and Italian cuisines combined ('cause that's kinda what it is, and then some), so I'll probably be tempted to eat something else: e.g. no steaks yesterday, just a sausage sandwich and a hamburger... and a pizza;


4. That said, you know how I like my steaks;


5. Hamburgers (or any other carnal integrity defamation of bovine flesh) obviously don't count, no matter how good it tastes and despite their size; Pork products certainly do not count; Any mixed meat style skewers do not count;


6. Steaks smaller than 150 grams obviously don't count; Steaks up to 100 kilograms will still count as a single steak; If I start eating such large steaks, I will probably not be able to return owing to IATA weight restrictions and the contest, for obvious reasons, will be considered null and void;


7. With the exception of fat, grizzle and bone, any unfinished steaks do not count, although I tend to eat those bits anyway;


8. If US customs, as is their wont and want, steal my steaks, (under the guise of current regulations concerning alleged water content or just simple hunger, greed or power trip) you will be treated to a smazeny syr on Narodni; I'll be really pissed off and will drink my wine with the homeless while you eat your cheese;


9. All steaks consumed within the Republic of Argentina, the Republic of Chile, and the Federation of Brazil, as well as their respective territories, count;


10. Residents of the aforementioned countries are not eligible for this contest, sorry;


11. To avoid any pursuant legal action, vegetarians are, sadly, eligible;


12. The contest is void where contests involving meat are prohibited;


13. The steak counter will be updated with each blog published after the contest deadline;


14. I plan to eat a steak within the next hour.

So enter now and win a steak! contest@xeno.cz

My mobile number here is: +54 115 013 0235 .

Big Steak = Big Love -m

day three

Hey! A lot has happened since I've seen you guys last and I'll try to get to it eventually. This, however, is kinda fresh and probably gives a better indication of my current existence: http://www.clarin.com/diario/2007/01/13/policiales/g-05802.htm

My best (and only) friend in Buenos Aires, a.v., dropped this bomb on me yesterday after I hadn't seen or heard from him in more than two years. The event happened shortly before my arrival and immediately after his father's 70th birthday. I'll summarize for those of you who don't speak Spanish:

"I killed my wife, she called me a 'cuckhold', so I shot her in the head," Dad says.

When the police arrived they found his wife sitting on the toilet with her pants around her ankles and a bullet in her head. In addition to the murder weapon, the police found six other guns, including assault rifles and semi-automatic pistols (all of them legal).

"I got tired of my wife, so I shot and killed her," Dad told the police.

A few days before he shot his wife (38), he told her, "I'm going to kill you, don't spend any more money, I'm going to kill you; on the 28th of December I'll be 70 and they'll just give me house arrest."

Believe it or not, there are, in fact, extenuating circumstances. Here's a snippet of the conversation a.v. and I had regarding the incident:

av: Well, you know, these things happen.

mg: Uh. No they don't. Not really. These things happen on tv and in the paper. Look, see it's in the paper, see...

av: Right, sure.

mg: Your father's in the paper, he's 70, he's not even supposed to be in the paper, not for something like this.

av: Right, sure.

mg: Let's get a drink. I think they might have Czech beer next door.

av: OK.

We're going to try to hit the art museum today. Hope you're all well. love -m.