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.