la sangre derramada no sera negociada.
(we will not negotiate bloodshed.)
con paciencia y salivita un elefante se la metio a la hormiguita.
(with patience and saliva the elephant seduced the ant.)
la gata flora cuando se la ponen gritan y cuando se la sacan lloran.
(the kitty flora screams when you put it in and cries when you take it out.)
un pelo de concha tira mas que una yunta de bueyes.
(one hair of the pussy pulls more than a yoke of oxen.)
Friday, July 16, 2010
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
porque naranja significa la union entre el hombre y la mujer!
a new addition to the blog will be the quote of the day - depending on the quality of characters i encounter, nico's mood and what i manage to read. the following is from hannah arendt's 'the human condition' which, although a rather dense read, has its lucid moments:
the bubbled age of compartmentalized political paranoia is no stranger to the southern realm. oddly enough, it is only after a few pints in a northern Bs As dive and a thorough reading of a truly terrifying article on the contemporary state of american democracy (http://www.thenation.com/article/37165/kabuki-democracy?page=0,0) that i've come to realize this. on the one hand, our culture wars are not that different. hundreds of thousands of orange-clad, banner-waving reactionaries took to the streets the other night to protest an upcoming floor debate on a bill that would potentially legalize both gay marriage and adoption rights (why orange, you wonder? because "naranja significa la union entre el hombre y la mujer." i'm not making that up - apparently winter can have that effect on those accustomed to more sexually enticing summer hues. personally, i would've gone with cafe con leche - but that's just me). true, it was an ambitious first step to take for a country that's yet to legalize abortion (and still apparently far from doing so) - though was still disheartening to see the cameras pan from the raving, flame-emblazoned familial values vanguardia marching against the bill in front of Congreso to the hundred or so supporters thereof meekly disseminated around the Obelisco a half mile away. Hannah Arendt once noted that (political) power is "dependent upon the unreliable and only temporary agreement of wills and intentions." what a frightening permanence such wills occasionally have the tendency to betray. oh, the perennially sweet, sad power of no.
on the other hand, our culture wars are markedly different. conservative argentine political culture does less to romanticise, so as to appropriate, the values of the working class, as is more likely in the case in our fair land. regarding the (north)american 'working class,' of course, we mean white 'working class' - a group whose politico-economic aspirations, it has been said with no dearth of bad faith, are supposed to mirror those of their masters. in argentina, such is not the case. political stability is a fragile affair, and one that would be wrought with further complications should the conservative factions try to enlist the cultural wrath of the underclasses - as been done with its caucasion variant north of the rio grande. argentine conservatism, on the other hand, betrays an odd cosmopolitan-bourgeois, militaresque consensus of catholic solidarity praising a past that never existed and a future that never shall. that in mind, should it really strike us as that odd that our metropolis-dwelling concitoyens not prove the vanguard of progressive tolerance we've come to expect from voters in New York, Boston and San Francisco? Face to face with - and fully benefiting from - the contradictions of modern urbanity, who can blame them? alas, at times the pie only seems to be getting smaller...
if the fear of political implosion in plutocratic democracies is not unmerited - perhaps it could be useful to chart international variations thereof. one the one hand, conservative and liberal (north)american pundits alike, in wildly varying shades of veracity, either augur a forthcoming nationalsozialistische dictatorship and or (somewhat accurately, in my opinion) expose the baffling contradictions of the one already in place (the reader is implored to see the above-mentioned article). in argentina, there is no frantic denunciation of that which lie around the imminent historical corner: according to every party, the worst has already manifest itself. "i was thinking of traveling to entre rios this weekend - you know, get a taste of the argie countryside to ease my urban conscience," i mention to my spanish prof in passing. "tis full of fachos - good luck! you have to realize, my dear, you live in a bubble of light - an island of humanity amidst a sea of unrepentant fascists. they'll skin your poor soul if they can." admittedly, i am exaggerating - though she's not entirely mistaken. rather than insinuate 'locking and loading' a la palin to resist obama's snakelike stranglehold on the american soul, noted argentine journalists still openly advocate military coups against the leftist kirchner government (here's to you, grondona). eventually, you begin to sympathize with her conviction that we bold 'argonauts of the ideal' are perpetually encircled by legions of reactionaries ready to pounce at any moment.
here, conspiracies, blanket denunciations and genuine mistrust exist on an altogether different scale. "80 percent of robberies, burglaries and brake-ins are conducted by - or linked back to - the police," my friend Dario, a very intelligent and studious young political scientist, tells me. "when pablo sanchez refused to keep robbing at their behest, he was disappeared." i do not deny the darker doings of the argentine security forces - though do find this systematically unsophisticated pillaging of the populous a tad far-fetched. but don't get me wrong, little in life is more fun than simplifying the universe into little prettily-packaged cup-cakes of quantifiable misinformation; indeed, the bulk of my worldly convictions were born of this pastime. that being said, whereas mine usually intended to be a coy, if not slightly obnoxious, caricature of more candid attempts to document reality, in argentina the art has been taken to new extremes - and not always by well-intentioned conspiracies from the Left. "90% of the students at the UBA are foreigners (that is, negros)," nico's facho aunt from entre rios reminded us one night over dinner (maybe my spanish prof was onto something!). "and 60% of argentina is jewish."
in any case, the moral of the story is that this trench-like political mentality - the fear of ideological engulfment from every possible front - is rampant and all-encompassing amongst the educated (that is, leftist), moneyed and middle class catholic (that is, rightist) factions. tis a peculiar suspicion, a primal pessimism if you will, that i've only encountered amongst the most fervent of american leftists; generally, the latter's countryfolk, however politically involved they may be, tend to betray an almost-clumsy optimism in the efficacy of their efforts (we won't speak of the politically apathetic, disenchanted or disenfranchised for the time being) - a spring of belief whose source, while dwindling as of late, has not been irreparably depleted, i should hope.
Popular revolt against materially stronger rulers, on the other hand, may engender an almost irresistible power even if it foregoes the use of violence in the face of materially vastly superior forces. To call this 'passive resistance' is certainly an ironic idea; it is one of the most effective and efficient ways of action ever devised, because it cannot be countered by fighting, where their may be defeat or victory, but only by mass slaughter in which even the victor is defeated, cheated of his prize, since nobody can rule over dead men.
the bubbled age of compartmentalized political paranoia is no stranger to the southern realm. oddly enough, it is only after a few pints in a northern Bs As dive and a thorough reading of a truly terrifying article on the contemporary state of american democracy (http://www.thenation.com/article/37165/kabuki-democracy?page=0,0) that i've come to realize this. on the one hand, our culture wars are not that different. hundreds of thousands of orange-clad, banner-waving reactionaries took to the streets the other night to protest an upcoming floor debate on a bill that would potentially legalize both gay marriage and adoption rights (why orange, you wonder? because "naranja significa la union entre el hombre y la mujer." i'm not making that up - apparently winter can have that effect on those accustomed to more sexually enticing summer hues. personally, i would've gone with cafe con leche - but that's just me). true, it was an ambitious first step to take for a country that's yet to legalize abortion (and still apparently far from doing so) - though was still disheartening to see the cameras pan from the raving, flame-emblazoned familial values vanguardia marching against the bill in front of Congreso to the hundred or so supporters thereof meekly disseminated around the Obelisco a half mile away. Hannah Arendt once noted that (political) power is "dependent upon the unreliable and only temporary agreement of wills and intentions." what a frightening permanence such wills occasionally have the tendency to betray. oh, the perennially sweet, sad power of no.
on the other hand, our culture wars are markedly different. conservative argentine political culture does less to romanticise, so as to appropriate, the values of the working class, as is more likely in the case in our fair land. regarding the (north)american 'working class,' of course, we mean white 'working class' - a group whose politico-economic aspirations, it has been said with no dearth of bad faith, are supposed to mirror those of their masters. in argentina, such is not the case. political stability is a fragile affair, and one that would be wrought with further complications should the conservative factions try to enlist the cultural wrath of the underclasses - as been done with its caucasion variant north of the rio grande. argentine conservatism, on the other hand, betrays an odd cosmopolitan-bourgeois, militaresque consensus of catholic solidarity praising a past that never existed and a future that never shall. that in mind, should it really strike us as that odd that our metropolis-dwelling concitoyens not prove the vanguard of progressive tolerance we've come to expect from voters in New York, Boston and San Francisco? Face to face with - and fully benefiting from - the contradictions of modern urbanity, who can blame them? alas, at times the pie only seems to be getting smaller...
if the fear of political implosion in plutocratic democracies is not unmerited - perhaps it could be useful to chart international variations thereof. one the one hand, conservative and liberal (north)american pundits alike, in wildly varying shades of veracity, either augur a forthcoming nationalsozialistische dictatorship and or (somewhat accurately, in my opinion) expose the baffling contradictions of the one already in place (the reader is implored to see the above-mentioned article). in argentina, there is no frantic denunciation of that which lie around the imminent historical corner: according to every party, the worst has already manifest itself. "i was thinking of traveling to entre rios this weekend - you know, get a taste of the argie countryside to ease my urban conscience," i mention to my spanish prof in passing. "tis full of fachos - good luck! you have to realize, my dear, you live in a bubble of light - an island of humanity amidst a sea of unrepentant fascists. they'll skin your poor soul if they can." admittedly, i am exaggerating - though she's not entirely mistaken. rather than insinuate 'locking and loading' a la palin to resist obama's snakelike stranglehold on the american soul, noted argentine journalists still openly advocate military coups against the leftist kirchner government (here's to you, grondona). eventually, you begin to sympathize with her conviction that we bold 'argonauts of the ideal' are perpetually encircled by legions of reactionaries ready to pounce at any moment.
here, conspiracies, blanket denunciations and genuine mistrust exist on an altogether different scale. "80 percent of robberies, burglaries and brake-ins are conducted by - or linked back to - the police," my friend Dario, a very intelligent and studious young political scientist, tells me. "when pablo sanchez refused to keep robbing at their behest, he was disappeared." i do not deny the darker doings of the argentine security forces - though do find this systematically unsophisticated pillaging of the populous a tad far-fetched. but don't get me wrong, little in life is more fun than simplifying the universe into little prettily-packaged cup-cakes of quantifiable misinformation; indeed, the bulk of my worldly convictions were born of this pastime. that being said, whereas mine usually intended to be a coy, if not slightly obnoxious, caricature of more candid attempts to document reality, in argentina the art has been taken to new extremes - and not always by well-intentioned conspiracies from the Left. "90% of the students at the UBA are foreigners (that is, negros)," nico's facho aunt from entre rios reminded us one night over dinner (maybe my spanish prof was onto something!). "and 60% of argentina is jewish."
in any case, the moral of the story is that this trench-like political mentality - the fear of ideological engulfment from every possible front - is rampant and all-encompassing amongst the educated (that is, leftist), moneyed and middle class catholic (that is, rightist) factions. tis a peculiar suspicion, a primal pessimism if you will, that i've only encountered amongst the most fervent of american leftists; generally, the latter's countryfolk, however politically involved they may be, tend to betray an almost-clumsy optimism in the efficacy of their efforts (we won't speak of the politically apathetic, disenchanted or disenfranchised for the time being) - a spring of belief whose source, while dwindling as of late, has not been irreparably depleted, i should hope.
Monday, July 5, 2010
el antitesis nordico-mediterraneano
since 'national stereotypes' are on the family menu this week, i won't be one to miss an opportunity. that being said, though there's precious little material more fun than national finger-wagging, that doesn't preclude us from looking further into the magician's hat for old, if not beloved, tricks. the nation, as every good grad student knows, is but an imagined community - a 17th century trojan horse of traveling salesmen, an 18th century swindle to shore up a budding bourgeoisie, a 19th century scour upon the international labour movement. several chatanooga-bound train stops shy of civilizational skirmishes, however, there lies a fading formality of cosmo-provincialism: the time-tested prequel to 'when mediterranean harry met nordic sally' (i'll let the ACLU and Anti-Defamation League settle that one). yes, we're going there - from the dasein of the deutsch dandy to the cogitations of the catalonian caper; au dela de la critique weberienne to the original north-south divide; what makes dutch parliamentarians ride their bike to see their mistress, whereas italians might bring a cousin-clad motorcade; why the visigoths were able to bypass roman import quotas on alcohol, tobacco and firearms with rapacious, albeit pre-modern, efficacy. bien, perhaps not quite that far - but you get the point.
greek financial crises aside, the new world usually provides an ample supply of civilizational fodder to the age-old debate surrounding 'cultural variations' within 'euro-white civilization' - and argentina is by no means an exception. if it's 'popular' in some sense to have irish blood in the U.S. (a trend that i've been told is rather bothersome for those actually born in eire), it's positively 4/5 up the 'respectable' fence of humanity in argentina. not that it's in any way disrespectable in north america - it merely means you can write, fight, govern/police, booze and be a bigot - and that you're probably mobbing deep. in argentina, it just means you're northernish-white, linguistically-hegemonic and not english - which, however unmerited, gives you unspoken advantages in this part of the world. but getting back to the point of our discussion - how argies, or at a very minimum my spanish prof, define the geo-cultural divide.
bibi tonnelier is a character if ever i've met one. at the ripe old age of 21 she set out on a 17-year self-imposed exile to switzerland, spain and greece to avert what she (somewhat) accurately predicted would be menem's neo-liberal inferno that first came to power in 1990. with the kirchners in office, however, she could finally return to her native land of facho's (i'll elaborate momentarily) - and enjoy the 'petty bourgeois' comforts of a proletarian wage teaching english to various krauts and yanks downtown. her grandfather originally fled from pas de calais, in the north of france, whence he'd dodged the great war draft and made off like a central american dictator on his way to miami - albeit minus the bilingual parrots, family caskets and cachets of cash-money. nonetheless, la patrie wasn't having any of that and, in turn, shipped his 16-year old brother off to the front - an act the younger frere would never forgive. years later, the latter would follow the former as far as uruguay in a fit of fratricidal rage; unsuccessful in his first fatal attempt, he took his own life a year later in cordoba. an familiar ode to modernity, i know. bibi, however, wouldn't learn any of this until well into adulthood, when - after making a misguided attempt to apply for french citizenship - her application was rejected for consanguineous treachery nearly a hundred years after the fact. gaullic memory, it shall be noted, apparently doesn't fade as fast as in our culturally miscegenatious new world republics. but back to the lesson at hand.
from the little i've seen thus far, argentine cinema is generally quite good, if not subtly despondent. that being said, the majority of good pictures outside (and within) the US usually are (call me a doleful downer - it's true. if the americans have one talent, it's their ability to give the cinematic impression that the state of the world is generally quite good - which, as we all know...). in any case, i asked her why this was. "in general, we're a very meloncholic people." this is not the first impression one has of argentines (nor the intermediary, nor the last, for that matter - if such a thing exists). well fed and read? it would appear at first sight. vane? not nearly to the extent that outsiders claim they are (which just goes to show just what kind of neighborhoods even the relatively indigent international traveler can afford to live in here). extremely class-conscious? amongst the educated, most certainly. a tad facho at times? in the running. but melancholic? i wouldn't have said so. bibi continued: "all mediterranean peoples are melancholic; the argentine merely expresses it with more grace and a keener sense of separation." true, i would rather pay my dues to the temple of sadness at her aegean, rather than patagonian, outpost. that being said, the generalization, whose form i usually relish, still doesn't seem to fit. "let me elaborate," she assured me, "on the dichotomous value system that separates the nordic from the mediterranean entity:"
how so? the reader is curious to know. though bibi's a fabulous teacher, she had a tendency to arrive 35-45 minutes late each day. seeing as my opportunity cost of each three-hour lesson was the equivalent of a week's worth of groceries (or, consequently, two lobster dinners - or - twenty three packs of cigarettes - or - thirty five liters of quilmes, you get the point), i took it upon myself to mention that we try and make up for lost time the following week. "on the one hand," she reminded me, "nordics tend to be consumed by notions of duty and guilt. schedules, times, meetings, appointments - they are the superstructure of nordic efficacy-worship. mediterraneans, on the other hand, live through the antithesis of honor and shame and are infinitely more concerned with quality over quantity. a nordic student, for example, might get his panties in a bunch over missing several minutes of an hours-long class. mediterraneans, however, are more concerned with embodying a general paradigm of qualitative excellence. we do not fret over small beer but, rather, remain intimately concerned with the bigger picture. i will not give you a reading assignment and then sit there and watch you read it. what a complete and utter waste of time." though i was mildly taken aback, you have to give her credit. to arrive 45 minutes late to a three hour lesson two days in a row and then call you a nordic time-worshipping rule-monger in a one-on-one conversation course is an impressive feat. and not that we don't get along - we're the best of mates. a cultural difference i both admit and even reluctantly envy. if only i wasn't paying for it.
greek financial crises aside, the new world usually provides an ample supply of civilizational fodder to the age-old debate surrounding 'cultural variations' within 'euro-white civilization' - and argentina is by no means an exception. if it's 'popular' in some sense to have irish blood in the U.S. (a trend that i've been told is rather bothersome for those actually born in eire), it's positively 4/5 up the 'respectable' fence of humanity in argentina. not that it's in any way disrespectable in north america - it merely means you can write, fight, govern/police, booze and be a bigot - and that you're probably mobbing deep. in argentina, it just means you're northernish-white, linguistically-hegemonic and not english - which, however unmerited, gives you unspoken advantages in this part of the world. but getting back to the point of our discussion - how argies, or at a very minimum my spanish prof, define the geo-cultural divide.
bibi tonnelier is a character if ever i've met one. at the ripe old age of 21 she set out on a 17-year self-imposed exile to switzerland, spain and greece to avert what she (somewhat) accurately predicted would be menem's neo-liberal inferno that first came to power in 1990. with the kirchners in office, however, she could finally return to her native land of facho's (i'll elaborate momentarily) - and enjoy the 'petty bourgeois' comforts of a proletarian wage teaching english to various krauts and yanks downtown. her grandfather originally fled from pas de calais, in the north of france, whence he'd dodged the great war draft and made off like a central american dictator on his way to miami - albeit minus the bilingual parrots, family caskets and cachets of cash-money. nonetheless, la patrie wasn't having any of that and, in turn, shipped his 16-year old brother off to the front - an act the younger frere would never forgive. years later, the latter would follow the former as far as uruguay in a fit of fratricidal rage; unsuccessful in his first fatal attempt, he took his own life a year later in cordoba. an familiar ode to modernity, i know. bibi, however, wouldn't learn any of this until well into adulthood, when - after making a misguided attempt to apply for french citizenship - her application was rejected for consanguineous treachery nearly a hundred years after the fact. gaullic memory, it shall be noted, apparently doesn't fade as fast as in our culturally miscegenatious new world republics. but back to the lesson at hand.
from the little i've seen thus far, argentine cinema is generally quite good, if not subtly despondent. that being said, the majority of good pictures outside (and within) the US usually are (call me a doleful downer - it's true. if the americans have one talent, it's their ability to give the cinematic impression that the state of the world is generally quite good - which, as we all know...). in any case, i asked her why this was. "in general, we're a very meloncholic people." this is not the first impression one has of argentines (nor the intermediary, nor the last, for that matter - if such a thing exists). well fed and read? it would appear at first sight. vane? not nearly to the extent that outsiders claim they are (which just goes to show just what kind of neighborhoods even the relatively indigent international traveler can afford to live in here). extremely class-conscious? amongst the educated, most certainly. a tad facho at times? in the running. but melancholic? i wouldn't have said so. bibi continued: "all mediterranean peoples are melancholic; the argentine merely expresses it with more grace and a keener sense of separation." true, i would rather pay my dues to the temple of sadness at her aegean, rather than patagonian, outpost. that being said, the generalization, whose form i usually relish, still doesn't seem to fit. "let me elaborate," she assured me, "on the dichotomous value system that separates the nordic from the mediterranean entity:"
el sistema de valores nordico se base en la dicotomia "deber-culpa," en tanto el sistema mediterraneo se basa en la antitesis "honor-verguenza." por ende la actitud de las personas frente a la vida difiere muchisimo.
how so? the reader is curious to know. though bibi's a fabulous teacher, she had a tendency to arrive 35-45 minutes late each day. seeing as my opportunity cost of each three-hour lesson was the equivalent of a week's worth of groceries (or, consequently, two lobster dinners - or - twenty three packs of cigarettes - or - thirty five liters of quilmes, you get the point), i took it upon myself to mention that we try and make up for lost time the following week. "on the one hand," she reminded me, "nordics tend to be consumed by notions of duty and guilt. schedules, times, meetings, appointments - they are the superstructure of nordic efficacy-worship. mediterraneans, on the other hand, live through the antithesis of honor and shame and are infinitely more concerned with quality over quantity. a nordic student, for example, might get his panties in a bunch over missing several minutes of an hours-long class. mediterraneans, however, are more concerned with embodying a general paradigm of qualitative excellence. we do not fret over small beer but, rather, remain intimately concerned with the bigger picture. i will not give you a reading assignment and then sit there and watch you read it. what a complete and utter waste of time." though i was mildly taken aback, you have to give her credit. to arrive 45 minutes late to a three hour lesson two days in a row and then call you a nordic time-worshipping rule-monger in a one-on-one conversation course is an impressive feat. and not that we don't get along - we're the best of mates. a cultural difference i both admit and even reluctantly envy. if only i wasn't paying for it.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Politica. Economica. Sociedad. Mundo. Deportes.
such was the order on the bottom of the television screen. from politics to economics, we move onto more important matters - from examining the state of contemporary society to covering world affairs. only once we've reached a truly global perspective, however, can we proceed to sports. i'm desperately trying to recall the order in which the newscast went back home, but to no avail. it's been years since i lived with a television and in the 'pick-and-choose' media age that simply caters to our own selective mediatric biases, it is easy to lose sight of the mediating power of order. in austria, for example, the day's skiing results were the first thing to appear on screen - well before the latest from the political spectrum. when the l.d.g - r.e.k mob allegiance begins its uprising, we'll proffer the latest in sour-gummie engineering before news from the front unsettles early evening appetites.
argentines call bean bags 'poofs' and bogies 'poochos.' when nico speaks of love (in english), his "whole world turns pink." whenever nico speaks in english, the world of 1230 saavedra becomes an outrageously funnier place. "love," he reminds his amante, "is an invention of the mind. except for mine is a communism love - not a capitalism love. you cannot understand communism love from a capitalism vision." the night progressed in concomitance with his romantic revelations; by ten oclock, he was reordering the romantic wheel: "first, of course, are you, my dear laura (his companion and our roommate), "followed by maradona, revolution and, finally, drugs." within seconds, however, his forehead cringed in reflection. "no, i'm sorry, my dearest. first, maradona, then you, revolution and drugs." by midnight he had us all singing along to "oh i love your tits on winter." the drugs, of course, were but an decorous prop. as far as i know, he doesn't smoke beyond tobacco and can hold his drink for the most part. indeed, nico is an intelligent, hard-working and courageously funny man. he is also an ardent marxist revolutionary with an agenda. something happens, however, when he begins to speak english.
if all language is ideology, then despite his political affinities and projects, nico's conception of our mother tongue must be a pleasant, if not at times slightly vulgar, one. once he gets cracking in anglosaxon-speak, he cannot seem to stop. of course, when navigating your way in a foreign tongue, the best way to get cracking is by bringing up the obvious. "what do you think about the malvinas war" is always a interesting one in this part of the world. "what becomes of vegans in argentina" is another? after posing the latter i was met with a fury of disgruntling groans of disgust. "first we fuck them then we kill them.. and then we fuck them again." how, when said with a perfect blend of linguistic naiveté, ignorance and audacity, can such statements produce such a hallucinogenic humour? it may sound absurd at the time of writing this, though i assure you - it 'seemed like a good idea at the time.' somehow we stumbled upon circumcision, nico being convinced that marianna was in love with a jewish man, to which she replied, "impossible. i take either all or nothing." i told them that the majority of americans were circumcised as well. after learning of the hygienic powers thereof, he concludes: "it is true, if you don't shower enough, you generate some cheese." when later pressed on his choice of words, he reminded us that his english was "latin american english. the revolutionary english. the english that talk fidel and che. when are you going to get a phone, evan?! imagine we are starting the revolution - how do i reach you?"
the man, as the reader can clearly see, is more than down for the cause. "how much do you love the revolution?" we ask him. "i love it more than popcorns in USA."
the clock is ticking and we've all got a big day ahead of us, not to mention the essay i'd yet to write on the 'role of the intellectual' in latin america (yes, i'm that twat). the strumming wound down and several roommates made for their sleeping quarters at a quarter past 1. we would need to conserve our festive forces for the morrow's celebration. around 1:30, he put the icing on the evening's cake: "tomorrow we're going to throw the house out of the window. i am shakespeare."
argentines call bean bags 'poofs' and bogies 'poochos.' when nico speaks of love (in english), his "whole world turns pink." whenever nico speaks in english, the world of 1230 saavedra becomes an outrageously funnier place. "love," he reminds his amante, "is an invention of the mind. except for mine is a communism love - not a capitalism love. you cannot understand communism love from a capitalism vision." the night progressed in concomitance with his romantic revelations; by ten oclock, he was reordering the romantic wheel: "first, of course, are you, my dear laura (his companion and our roommate), "followed by maradona, revolution and, finally, drugs." within seconds, however, his forehead cringed in reflection. "no, i'm sorry, my dearest. first, maradona, then you, revolution and drugs." by midnight he had us all singing along to "oh i love your tits on winter." the drugs, of course, were but an decorous prop. as far as i know, he doesn't smoke beyond tobacco and can hold his drink for the most part. indeed, nico is an intelligent, hard-working and courageously funny man. he is also an ardent marxist revolutionary with an agenda. something happens, however, when he begins to speak english.
if all language is ideology, then despite his political affinities and projects, nico's conception of our mother tongue must be a pleasant, if not at times slightly vulgar, one. once he gets cracking in anglosaxon-speak, he cannot seem to stop. of course, when navigating your way in a foreign tongue, the best way to get cracking is by bringing up the obvious. "what do you think about the malvinas war" is always a interesting one in this part of the world. "what becomes of vegans in argentina" is another? after posing the latter i was met with a fury of disgruntling groans of disgust. "first we fuck them then we kill them.. and then we fuck them again." how, when said with a perfect blend of linguistic naiveté, ignorance and audacity, can such statements produce such a hallucinogenic humour? it may sound absurd at the time of writing this, though i assure you - it 'seemed like a good idea at the time.' somehow we stumbled upon circumcision, nico being convinced that marianna was in love with a jewish man, to which she replied, "impossible. i take either all or nothing." i told them that the majority of americans were circumcised as well. after learning of the hygienic powers thereof, he concludes: "it is true, if you don't shower enough, you generate some cheese." when later pressed on his choice of words, he reminded us that his english was "latin american english. the revolutionary english. the english that talk fidel and che. when are you going to get a phone, evan?! imagine we are starting the revolution - how do i reach you?"
the man, as the reader can clearly see, is more than down for the cause. "how much do you love the revolution?" we ask him. "i love it more than popcorns in USA."
the clock is ticking and we've all got a big day ahead of us, not to mention the essay i'd yet to write on the 'role of the intellectual' in latin america (yes, i'm that twat). the strumming wound down and several roommates made for their sleeping quarters at a quarter past 1. we would need to conserve our festive forces for the morrow's celebration. around 1:30, he put the icing on the evening's cake: "tomorrow we're going to throw the house out of the window. i am shakespeare."
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
pero si no son negro de piel?
one of the principle advantages of being politically retrograde, economically struggling and geographically isolated is that, no matter how sophisticated you may or may not be, you are unwittingly forgiven an egregious degree of political incorrectness (then again, perhaps i only speak for myself; that is, yes, i herein bare my colors: foreigners' prejudices are both amusing and strangely becoming at times. at least, that is, when they differ from one's own. do not humor and fascination occur when our worldviews are merely shaken but not stirred?) that is not to say that only argentina, albania and alabama share this affinity; i would imagine frogs, krauts and canadia-landers to be as epistemologically 'incorrect' as the next kid on the global block, if only by omission rather than commission. what is different, then, is what you take the liberty to say. and in argentina, the difference is huge.
a personal disclosure: i do not condone argies bigotry, i merely hope to expose it (which anyone with a half an ear, .6 of a frontal lobe and a quasi-functioning esophagus can readily do), comedify it and, yes, have a chuckle. tis like what paul mooney said in response to michael richardson: "anyone can make jokes about race, so long as it's funny." i am certainly taking him out of context on this one. he also said that kramer could only make up for his capital blunder so long as he performed the same act on stage at the apollo (after which greta van susteran - yes, i'm using paul mooney and greta van susteran in the same sentence - enlightened her audience by reminding them that the 'famous' theatre was in harlem; to which mooney responded, "trust me, sweatheart, the apollo in harlem is as white as you, so don't worry about it, it's safe.").
there was a time when i lived in a small town in the pampas called 'general villegas,' a micropolis that took its trusty name from one of the more infamous leaders of the 'conquest of the desert' - that is, patagonia and the inland provinces southwest of buenos aires - toward the end of the 19th century. at least the yanks had the good sense to wage their wars of genocide before the invention of the telegraph and global standard time zones (which i imagine greatly facilitated reporting such matters), much less call it a 'desert' campaign. we even named a large chunk of our emerging sporting franchises after the brave resistance with which we were met. the argentines, oddly enough, still name their teams after the english patrons for whom they 'conquered' the 'desert' to begin with (if hints of cynicism or antipathy toward my new gracious host appear, bare in mind i'm living with and being taught by militantes for whom the yanks aren't the sole hemispheric culprits). anyway, back to villegas (which is currently the cause of national scandal, a matter we'll touch upon momentarily).
upon arrival in the small town, i would often wander the streets by day - in between giving lessons, of course - and make for the corner dive at night. humbly opening onto a principle corner, my initial social stakeout boasted a small pool table, an abundant supply of ice-cold 3-peso/liter quilmes and mani salado - and a straggle of interesting, if not quite sober, patrons. i'd bet a peso here and a peso there, usually lose the game, but have a 'local' story in between - and usually a new mate or two after each encounter. they weren't the most strapping gentlemen in town but, remember, this is another advantage 0f travel - or at least removing oneself from the usual socio-economic-educational comfort zone: the further you get from where you started, the more fun, interesting and, frankly, welcoming, they tend to be. and the spot on the corner was no different. as my language teacher reminded me this morning, tis only the reactionary middle classes - identical across the globe - that we need to worry about. i'm still not quite sure if i'm to be rich or poor, though. enough of that, however. the point is that upon arrival to my host family's house, they would ask me where i'd been (these days, my youthful gaze could come in handy: young enough to 'not know better' though old enough to 'hold his own' should the ramparts give way from the other side of the tracks. and yes. the town was literally, socially, aesthetically, footballishly divided by then-defunct tracks). i had been to a history lecture at the catholic church earlier that night (deft alibi, i know), though in the end decided to disclose most of the whole truth - i'd been back to the corner spot to shoot pool with the laborers and drink beer. "no - ebaan! you must not be with these people! the negros are sure to take you for a ride!" every family i stayed with - and they seemed to toss me about throughout town - repeated the same misgivings. "only negros smoke shit - and play pool - and labor - and eat cheese on sundays." i was stunned. i'd only caught my first glimpse of real-life (white) american racism at a high school party on the south side and was flabbergasted these things still existed (in words, if not in every civic body with some social function). yet in argentina - on the pampas - the nebraska of south america - the trou de cul de rien de l'est - there isn't a black person for hundreds of miles. "what do you mean, negros?" i asked one of the landed families i happened to be staying with for several weeks. "no no no - ebaan - no son negro de piel, si no negro de corazon!" ah, yes, now i see.
a personal disclosure: i do not condone argies bigotry, i merely hope to expose it (which anyone with a half an ear, .6 of a frontal lobe and a quasi-functioning esophagus can readily do), comedify it and, yes, have a chuckle. tis like what paul mooney said in response to michael richardson: "anyone can make jokes about race, so long as it's funny." i am certainly taking him out of context on this one. he also said that kramer could only make up for his capital blunder so long as he performed the same act on stage at the apollo (after which greta van susteran - yes, i'm using paul mooney and greta van susteran in the same sentence - enlightened her audience by reminding them that the 'famous' theatre was in harlem; to which mooney responded, "trust me, sweatheart, the apollo in harlem is as white as you, so don't worry about it, it's safe.").
there was a time when i lived in a small town in the pampas called 'general villegas,' a micropolis that took its trusty name from one of the more infamous leaders of the 'conquest of the desert' - that is, patagonia and the inland provinces southwest of buenos aires - toward the end of the 19th century. at least the yanks had the good sense to wage their wars of genocide before the invention of the telegraph and global standard time zones (which i imagine greatly facilitated reporting such matters), much less call it a 'desert' campaign. we even named a large chunk of our emerging sporting franchises after the brave resistance with which we were met. the argentines, oddly enough, still name their teams after the english patrons for whom they 'conquered' the 'desert' to begin with (if hints of cynicism or antipathy toward my new gracious host appear, bare in mind i'm living with and being taught by militantes for whom the yanks aren't the sole hemispheric culprits). anyway, back to villegas (which is currently the cause of national scandal, a matter we'll touch upon momentarily).
upon arrival in the small town, i would often wander the streets by day - in between giving lessons, of course - and make for the corner dive at night. humbly opening onto a principle corner, my initial social stakeout boasted a small pool table, an abundant supply of ice-cold 3-peso/liter quilmes and mani salado - and a straggle of interesting, if not quite sober, patrons. i'd bet a peso here and a peso there, usually lose the game, but have a 'local' story in between - and usually a new mate or two after each encounter. they weren't the most strapping gentlemen in town but, remember, this is another advantage 0f travel - or at least removing oneself from the usual socio-economic-educational comfort zone: the further you get from where you started, the more fun, interesting and, frankly, welcoming, they tend to be. and the spot on the corner was no different. as my language teacher reminded me this morning, tis only the reactionary middle classes - identical across the globe - that we need to worry about. i'm still not quite sure if i'm to be rich or poor, though. enough of that, however. the point is that upon arrival to my host family's house, they would ask me where i'd been (these days, my youthful gaze could come in handy: young enough to 'not know better' though old enough to 'hold his own' should the ramparts give way from the other side of the tracks. and yes. the town was literally, socially, aesthetically, footballishly divided by then-defunct tracks). i had been to a history lecture at the catholic church earlier that night (deft alibi, i know), though in the end decided to disclose most of the whole truth - i'd been back to the corner spot to shoot pool with the laborers and drink beer. "no - ebaan! you must not be with these people! the negros are sure to take you for a ride!" every family i stayed with - and they seemed to toss me about throughout town - repeated the same misgivings. "only negros smoke shit - and play pool - and labor - and eat cheese on sundays." i was stunned. i'd only caught my first glimpse of real-life (white) american racism at a high school party on the south side and was flabbergasted these things still existed (in words, if not in every civic body with some social function). yet in argentina - on the pampas - the nebraska of south america - the trou de cul de rien de l'est - there isn't a black person for hundreds of miles. "what do you mean, negros?" i asked one of the landed families i happened to be staying with for several weeks. "no no no - ebaan - no son negro de piel, si no negro de corazon!" ah, yes, now i see.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
bendicion a las 24 horas
underneath the crumbling, calcutta-meets-parisian belle epoque a l'americaine awnings reads the sign, "bendicion a las 24 horas." overblown 'southern-city-that-never-sleeps' comparisons may be premature, though i'll take the 4-am blessing over a paco-induced mugging up the block any day. in what appeared to be an ancien-theatre-aux-spectacles-turned-temple-of-god, the evangelicals outdid themselves once again. if catholics could ever be as creative in their architectural appropriations as their pentacostal counterparts, who knows how many less hearts ole ratzinger would have hardened. en fin, this is neither the time nor the place for such ripostes - merely a call to appreciate the aesthetically-less-intimidated. some day historians will chart the fluctuations of (post)modernity by the structural conversion rate to and fro the house of God: in Montreal the Cathedrals have been converted into condos; in Buenos Aires the theatres now double as neon Pentacostal storefronts.
i am exaggerating, of course. gaging the piety of metropolitan outposts in the New World has never been an simple affair - and i, for one, claim no insight thereupon. furthermore, we must also bear in mind the socio-geographic origins of our study: the capital federal, as is well known amongst portenos and astute outsiders alike (however subtly acknowledged), is as geographically divided by class as any other metropolis; what makes the geography of its socio-economic divide slightly more enthralling is that they begin (at least in theory) at one major east-west thoroughfare (the Avenida Rivadavia) and proliferate the further north - and, consequentially, south - you get. furthermore, as if popular urban folklore weren't enough, the names of the north-south bound streets even change once they cross this threshold. imagine, for example, if something like 'malcolm x boulevard' became 'avenue of the americas' on respective sides of central park (oh wait, it does). now imagine if that happened at one intersection, ad infinitum, all they way from east to west of town. now that's what i call a roundabout cabbie's dream ride with recently arriving swedes heading for their hostel.
it should go without saying, then, that we live on the southern side of the tracks (though with the current exchange rate could also readily live in much of the northern bits. that being said, if it is only somewhat degrading to pay triple for tall-boys in the west village, tis that much more demeaning to forgo their presence altogether - as is the case in bougified bits of argie-towns). if Saint Louis, Mo can boast neither a particularly privileged northern or southern side of town (much less east or west), then both parties (if not all four) have the distinct privilege of claiming the hard-earned pride of the materially-less-endowed that occurs in many an American town. (no high schooler, on the other hand, gets to brag about growing up in clayton). Buenos Aires, alas, does not seem to allow for this sociological incongruence: wealthy enough to for its privileged classes to believe themselves part and parcel of the global, developed elite they so desperately strive to embody - but poor enough to sense the potential onslaught of darkened 'masses' at their door - northern-dwelling portenos, as of yet, do not seem to relish the prospect of dining, shopping, relaxing - much less living - in the south. as far as i can tell, there is no romanticization of the barrio - much less those that live there, as is the case in some american cities (i once had a mate who moved to bed-stuy to be closer to jay-z's birth place; no one, i'm afraid, will be moving to the villa to honor maradona).
i am exaggerating, of course. gaging the piety of metropolitan outposts in the New World has never been an simple affair - and i, for one, claim no insight thereupon. furthermore, we must also bear in mind the socio-geographic origins of our study: the capital federal, as is well known amongst portenos and astute outsiders alike (however subtly acknowledged), is as geographically divided by class as any other metropolis; what makes the geography of its socio-economic divide slightly more enthralling is that they begin (at least in theory) at one major east-west thoroughfare (the Avenida Rivadavia) and proliferate the further north - and, consequentially, south - you get. furthermore, as if popular urban folklore weren't enough, the names of the north-south bound streets even change once they cross this threshold. imagine, for example, if something like 'malcolm x boulevard' became 'avenue of the americas' on respective sides of central park (oh wait, it does). now imagine if that happened at one intersection, ad infinitum, all they way from east to west of town. now that's what i call a roundabout cabbie's dream ride with recently arriving swedes heading for their hostel.
it should go without saying, then, that we live on the southern side of the tracks (though with the current exchange rate could also readily live in much of the northern bits. that being said, if it is only somewhat degrading to pay triple for tall-boys in the west village, tis that much more demeaning to forgo their presence altogether - as is the case in bougified bits of argie-towns). if Saint Louis, Mo can boast neither a particularly privileged northern or southern side of town (much less east or west), then both parties (if not all four) have the distinct privilege of claiming the hard-earned pride of the materially-less-endowed that occurs in many an American town. (no high schooler, on the other hand, gets to brag about growing up in clayton). Buenos Aires, alas, does not seem to allow for this sociological incongruence: wealthy enough to for its privileged classes to believe themselves part and parcel of the global, developed elite they so desperately strive to embody - but poor enough to sense the potential onslaught of darkened 'masses' at their door - northern-dwelling portenos, as of yet, do not seem to relish the prospect of dining, shopping, relaxing - much less living - in the south. as far as i can tell, there is no romanticization of the barrio - much less those that live there, as is the case in some american cities (i once had a mate who moved to bed-stuy to be closer to jay-z's birth place; no one, i'm afraid, will be moving to the villa to honor maradona).
Sunday, June 20, 2010
the departure
It all started on the way to the airport, as many a tale does. Not that this is really a tale - more like a sketch of sorts; an observational sphinx that rears its head during occasional moments of reflection. We were ahead of schedule, but I'd missed my flight to Saint Louis from New York the week beforehand and was still a tad agitated with my recent negligence; a league or two shy of anxious, I didn't mind sitting around O'Hare for a few hours and catching up on the weekly periodicals. Might as well, now that they're trying to charge $7 for the Economist. (and $45 pesos on the Recoleta stands, mind you. Didn't think reactionaries could also be opportunists, a friend of mine from Bushwick might have quipped.) In any case, I would need at least a short hour to mull over my pack of Camels and the summertime continent I was henceforth abandoning.
Brasil had just beaten the North Koreans, and my uncle was to bring me to the airport at 5:30. This is neither the time nor the place for a meritable character sketch, though a proper rendition of such would be, of no doubt, unquestionable benefit to humankind. I say that without any facetiousness or hint of irony. This chap is one truly funny bastard. That being said, we set off for O'Hare around 6:15, slightly behind schedule but with enough slack to check in before the 9:10 haul to Sao Paulo. After pretending to rear-end a Hyundai with his Audi A8 - and coming alarmingly close to doing so - we were met with uncanny delay of sorts, even by Chicago rush-hour standards within a missile's throw of the world's fourth busiest airport (I'll let the reader divine the first three). The standstill, shall we say, posed a particularly interesting dilemma. Historically speaking, I've always find it more than remotely difficult to engage with this particular uncle, if not with older relatives in general whom I only encounter on rare occasions. Within recent years, however, and with one particular occasion in mind, he'd displayed several miraculous gems of comedic genius - if you were able to consign a layer or two of social conditioning to oblivion. (For instance, the time on New Years day with Christoph when my uncle pretended he was going to run over the poor Mexican lad standing in the cold and taking orders at the hotdog joint; only minutes later, he offered the same bloke $100 if he could read the signature on the credit card receipt. A bold fresh piece of humanity, I must admit.) The question of breaking the ice, however, is always the same: where to begin?
I thought I could knock at the golden gates of comedic folly with the odd quip on whether or not Lebron was thinking of coming to the Bulls from Cleveland. Twas the only thing I could muster about sports and Chicago, apart from the recent Stanley Cup parade (and my uncle didn't strike me as much of a hockey type). "Now why would he wanna do that?" Uh oh. "Oh I don't know," I blustered, "they say Chicago's a much bigger market." "You think that guy give's a shit about the market?" Fuck. "Maybe he wants to go to Miami," he continued. "Oh yes, good point," I feebly reply, "that's certainly a possibility." He pauses, before resuming, "Think I give a rat's ass about those guys? Absurd, the amount of money they make. Fucking kiddin' me," was the general response. (Keep in mind that none of this is verbatum - I'm merely trying to recapture the essence of what is now a five day old memory. Not particularly mnemonically ambitious, I know.) 0 for 1 - but at least we're onto Miami.
My uncle then went on to recount his most recent experience in that lovely Floridian hedonopolos - the highlight of which was the extraordinary people watching in the hotel's lobby. I can only imagine. (I do envy witnessing the monstrously fabulous gems that are said to exist in that town - if only from a somewhat (temporally) short, if not sweet, distance.) Somehow, we get to the topic of stripclubs - of which, to my great relief, neither of us were big fans. Were the opposite the case for either party, things could have become slightly more awkward, as each either sought to play down his 'sensibilities' - or subtly justify his own lack thereof; en fin, that wasn't the case - and we could get back to more important matters - like finding the terminal, for instance.
"So where am I taking you anyway?" he fondly repeated every third minute or so. "Oh I'm pretty sure there will be a sign up ahead," I reply with the wisdom of an ancient sage. "You sure about that?" "Ye-yeah," I stammer, "I think so." "I think, therefore I am - they teach you about that, eh?" For some reason, I hesitate just enough for him to answer his own question: "Immaan-yua-al Kant." Seconds later, I come to my mnemonic senses, "No, I think it might've actually been Descartes." "Whatever... they're cousins, anyway," he assures me. "Nothing but a bunch of screwballs, those Europeans. Mothers, brothers, aunts and uncles, who knows what the fuck those nutjobs are up to over there." My love and appreciation for the New World have grown seven-fold ever since.
We reached but another interminable light - at which point I began to wonder if I really should've have watched the rest of that game after all. As we sat in the rain and funneled the stations for the usual inaudible high-afternoon mutterings, some crafty chap zips by on the left, a blasphemous violation of both those holy yellow stripes - and our notion of order, not to mention our pride and sense of urgency, mind you. As we inch forward in the early summer drizzle, my uncle reminds me of the civic costs of such an undertaking. "All it takes is one cop - and POOF you're in the slammer for some bullshit you didn't do. You never know with these guys; they got mix-ups all the time. We get pulled over and all they gotta do is screw up their records and BAM you're on the phone with your lawyer and missing your flight. Now, you got any idea how to get to the airport?" Before I can answer, he's driven up the curb and onto the 10 foot wide median separating the four-lane road at the upcoming intersection. He hits the accelerator and we buzz pass the remaining 30-40 cars dutifully inching toward the blinking red light at the intersection. We momentarily pause at the corner, before hitting a hard left onto the perpendicular thorough-fare. "Bunch of suckers," he reminds me, as we scurry on into the horizon and make for the terminal.
Brasil had just beaten the North Koreans, and my uncle was to bring me to the airport at 5:30. This is neither the time nor the place for a meritable character sketch, though a proper rendition of such would be, of no doubt, unquestionable benefit to humankind. I say that without any facetiousness or hint of irony. This chap is one truly funny bastard. That being said, we set off for O'Hare around 6:15, slightly behind schedule but with enough slack to check in before the 9:10 haul to Sao Paulo. After pretending to rear-end a Hyundai with his Audi A8 - and coming alarmingly close to doing so - we were met with uncanny delay of sorts, even by Chicago rush-hour standards within a missile's throw of the world's fourth busiest airport (I'll let the reader divine the first three). The standstill, shall we say, posed a particularly interesting dilemma. Historically speaking, I've always find it more than remotely difficult to engage with this particular uncle, if not with older relatives in general whom I only encounter on rare occasions. Within recent years, however, and with one particular occasion in mind, he'd displayed several miraculous gems of comedic genius - if you were able to consign a layer or two of social conditioning to oblivion. (For instance, the time on New Years day with Christoph when my uncle pretended he was going to run over the poor Mexican lad standing in the cold and taking orders at the hotdog joint; only minutes later, he offered the same bloke $100 if he could read the signature on the credit card receipt. A bold fresh piece of humanity, I must admit.) The question of breaking the ice, however, is always the same: where to begin?
I thought I could knock at the golden gates of comedic folly with the odd quip on whether or not Lebron was thinking of coming to the Bulls from Cleveland. Twas the only thing I could muster about sports and Chicago, apart from the recent Stanley Cup parade (and my uncle didn't strike me as much of a hockey type). "Now why would he wanna do that?" Uh oh. "Oh I don't know," I blustered, "they say Chicago's a much bigger market." "You think that guy give's a shit about the market?" Fuck. "Maybe he wants to go to Miami," he continued. "Oh yes, good point," I feebly reply, "that's certainly a possibility." He pauses, before resuming, "Think I give a rat's ass about those guys? Absurd, the amount of money they make. Fucking kiddin' me," was the general response. (Keep in mind that none of this is verbatum - I'm merely trying to recapture the essence of what is now a five day old memory. Not particularly mnemonically ambitious, I know.) 0 for 1 - but at least we're onto Miami.
My uncle then went on to recount his most recent experience in that lovely Floridian hedonopolos - the highlight of which was the extraordinary people watching in the hotel's lobby. I can only imagine. (I do envy witnessing the monstrously fabulous gems that are said to exist in that town - if only from a somewhat (temporally) short, if not sweet, distance.) Somehow, we get to the topic of stripclubs - of which, to my great relief, neither of us were big fans. Were the opposite the case for either party, things could have become slightly more awkward, as each either sought to play down his 'sensibilities' - or subtly justify his own lack thereof; en fin, that wasn't the case - and we could get back to more important matters - like finding the terminal, for instance.
"So where am I taking you anyway?" he fondly repeated every third minute or so. "Oh I'm pretty sure there will be a sign up ahead," I reply with the wisdom of an ancient sage. "You sure about that?" "Ye-yeah," I stammer, "I think so." "I think, therefore I am - they teach you about that, eh?" For some reason, I hesitate just enough for him to answer his own question: "Immaan-yua-al Kant." Seconds later, I come to my mnemonic senses, "No, I think it might've actually been Descartes." "Whatever... they're cousins, anyway," he assures me. "Nothing but a bunch of screwballs, those Europeans. Mothers, brothers, aunts and uncles, who knows what the fuck those nutjobs are up to over there." My love and appreciation for the New World have grown seven-fold ever since.
We reached but another interminable light - at which point I began to wonder if I really should've have watched the rest of that game after all. As we sat in the rain and funneled the stations for the usual inaudible high-afternoon mutterings, some crafty chap zips by on the left, a blasphemous violation of both those holy yellow stripes - and our notion of order, not to mention our pride and sense of urgency, mind you. As we inch forward in the early summer drizzle, my uncle reminds me of the civic costs of such an undertaking. "All it takes is one cop - and POOF you're in the slammer for some bullshit you didn't do. You never know with these guys; they got mix-ups all the time. We get pulled over and all they gotta do is screw up their records and BAM you're on the phone with your lawyer and missing your flight. Now, you got any idea how to get to the airport?" Before I can answer, he's driven up the curb and onto the 10 foot wide median separating the four-lane road at the upcoming intersection. He hits the accelerator and we buzz pass the remaining 30-40 cars dutifully inching toward the blinking red light at the intersection. We momentarily pause at the corner, before hitting a hard left onto the perpendicular thorough-fare. "Bunch of suckers," he reminds me, as we scurry on into the horizon and make for the terminal.
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