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.