Why U.S. Child Labor Laws Suck
My MILFY Quito Family & Friends
The Reason Ecuadorian Homes Are Cheap
The Infamous Spanish Teacher
Monday, December 25, 2006
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
How the North Won
Dropping your pants and humming Barbara Streisand tunes is a great way to gain attention. Wearing a veil and publicly castrating yourself will get you even more attention.
1. Knowledge of anything
2. The ability to speak the same language
3. A willingness to burn in hell
Accept Jesus, and we will help you. And you must cut your hair. It is against the teachings.
The Spanish was working. Everybody understood the idea of their being no ONE right religion. And they seemed to grasp the MUSLIM reference. But I couldn’t hold my ground with chants of “MUSSELMAN”. When performing in front of a crowd, one wants the crowd on their side. To achieve this feat, one must play to the the crowd’s taste.
These women deserve to wear pants. They have earned the right to wear pants. They must wear pants. Just look at those tight asses, you wouldn’t see that in a long loose skirt (ok…I didn’t say that last part, but I should’ve. Shock’em when you got’em).
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Nice is not a Nice word
But she’s nice. Really really nice.
Words of Doom to the single male.
But why? Why can’t men be with a woman who is really nice, even if she has a face that Halloween mask sculptors would envy?
Or a body that requires a special chair to be brought out at dinner.
Is vanity a natural trait? Or one indicative of a failure to mature?
If a prospective intimate partner has all the traits you want in a mate, minus the attractive look, shouldn’t the 2 out of 3 principle count. Or is it better to be the CAUSE of the hypergrowth in anxiety women feel about their bodies?
In addition to the personal conflict of consummating with the teacher and the landlady, I was saddled with another foreign soil drama. And its one that happens all over the world.
Especially near Bob Marley flags. Why is he so popular? If he only ate tofu and beets, refusing to smoke, would he still be so cool to the freedom seekers of the world?
Ah…but where to start young one. Ok. How ‘bout…
When visiting a foreign place, even another city in your own country, its important to ‘go out on the town’. Its just an easy way to get to know locals. Really. That’s it.
Now, when your alone, the task is a bit more daunting.
Somehow, during the Great 472nd bash of Quito, I found myself chasing a cell phone of a newfound Quito friend. Having buried my own mobilelifeline deep into a file cabinet, I was forced to find phone cabins every 15 minutes. After being unable to locate my Quito buddy among the innumerable street revelers, I decided I could make my own friends.
Do you if join to you ok my mind?
What?
Uh, can I with you to join ok?
{odd looks precede a bewildered exodus]
Such are the difficulties when thinking grammar is irrelevant in learning a new language.
Hopefully, somebody will teach me.
So striking up conversation among locals was a bit tough. And resorting to speaking English to other foreigners seemed defeatist. Goddammit. I was hear to learn about the locals and speak their language. But how many ‘turnaways’ can you put up with?
After befriending a young petite male bouncer (no…there is a no leadup to gaylove here) at a presumed upscale nightspot, I was invited from the joyous throngs, to the elite upstairs enclave.
And yet another universal trait becomes apparent. The Velvet Rope syndrome. Whenever you see the Velvet Rope, anxious mobs barricaded by it’s furry power, the bystander is left in wonder. What is that place all about…IF only
And for those unlucky enough to wait and gain entry…a room full or stiffs attempting to impersonate former stiffs they saw on television. And these places always seem to have some one word esoteric name.
This one was named SUTRA.
The Indian Foreign Ministry should collect a royalty tax on their stocknames: BUDDHA, YOGA, KARMA, SUTRA, TANTRA, SLURPEE. And all they need to do is look in any pretentious gathering spot, where they are bound to find a group of people Hinduism would probably drop off at the doors of the local Mosque; refusing their worship and poor Malaysian reproductions of their catchphrases.
So, you know you’ve entered a place gone IndoHip, when you find brightly colored pillows strewn about the floor, and furniture acquired from Midget Surplus. In addition, these establishments manage to find 17 varieties of the Buddha to fill their fauxopium dens.
And how do you think that corpulent little Asian fellow feels about the drunk & Vain getting shitfaced under the watchful eyes of his peaceful belly?
There is only one other religion with a known action figure, and the only drinking establishment J.C. seems present in, is in the back corner of Mexican Dive bars.
How’s that for comparing religious tolerance among the East vs. West?
Well, upon entry in the coveted Sutra, I ended up Barside, befriended by the owner, getting shitfaced with her lover, another gal -- a knockout Brasilian, and her Yoga instructor. This is not the beginning of a joke.
Another crosscultural phenomenon was about to take place.
The COCKBLOCK.
But nothing stings more then getting cockblocked by another woman.
The cockblock is an ancient tradition where one knight would step gingerly in front of the other night, preventing him from raping his peasant subject. The Knight who stepped in front would then proceed to clang his heavy armor in a vain attempt to woo the potential rapee. His results would usually end in the rapee fleeing, preventing neither the original Raping Knight, or his cockblocking predecessor from embarking on the rape.
Things have changed over the generations, and the technique is not only used during rapes, but also during nonessential miscellaneous pick-ups in places littered with the sexually desperate.
And the Brazilian was such a stereotypical Brazilian, that you had to be thankful for stereotypes.
Although, speaking a second language to a person who knows neither your first or second is kind of like speaking in tounges to a Blind Jew. So maybe the cockblock simply prevented me from further embarrassing myself.
Alas, one arrives at the dilemma. One heard around the world:
She may not be physically attractive. But..She is bright. Hip. Witty. Sweet. She knows how to dance. Uh…
But yet, you just want her to be your friend. Will you..be…my..friend?
Who says that after they meet someone? But I knew. We ended up spending many more hours together under the eyes of the intranslatable Brasilian. But I was merely a tease.
I didn’t mean to be. A tease. It was a great cultural moment. And not a word uttered in English.
However, and this however must be noted. After a couple of hours of singing, dancing, drinking, talking, she explained, in Spanish how she used to teach in a small American University. Literature. English Literature. What the fuck.
[in English} You speak English….
Of course, silly. Didn’t you hear what I told you? I wansn’t teaching Cervantes. {In perfect American English}
That’s weird.
It was like I just met someone speaking in Tongues. Possessed. You struggle for hours to put your thoughts in another language, only to find out the person can easily communicate at your native level.
And odder still, was during that brief out of body experience, I realized how utterly unattractive the English Language was. Spoken, anyway.
The Pre-Conceived Idiom Affect is not only available in Latin women with English Lit. degrees. For further case study, We shall visit the world’s most traveled migrant. The Chinaman.
Americans (or sub in any nationality living among the Chinese), have come to expect two sounds emanating from Chinese mouths.
1. the apparent sounds of the Chinese language
2. the apparent sounds of the American English language
When the subject’s mouth behaves as the native’s mind is conditioned, then all sides are at peace.
Now imagine the Chinese denizen speaking in Spanish. The once notorious proprietor of MSG laced products, has abandoned your expectations. In complete violation of the Pre-Conceived Idiom Affect. Bastard.
It’s just plain weird. Chinese people speaking Spanish. And abandoning the Queen’s tounge.
Maybe further explanation is needed of the Pre-Conceived Idiom Affect. Since, its not only human subjects who fall prey to it’s dire consequences.
Allow us to witness the Dog. Man’s good friend and Garbage can. Even the Chinese can take part in this experiment.
On initial contact with Ecuador’s dogs, I immediately tried to communicate my feelings in English. Despite the fact that I had refused to use the language with fellow humans.
Come here. Come on. Be a good Dog. Wait. Stay. Come. Sit. You little fucker.
No response. Nothing. Until I realized I had been a victim of the Pre-Conceived Idiom Affect.
Obviously, well—obvious now, these critters only knew Spanish, or Quechua –the Incan language.
Bueno perrito. Bueno perro. Todo es bien. Ven aqui. Venga. Por Favor. Queda. Queda. Sienta se. SIENTA SE. Podimos ser amigos? Solo amigos. Puta.
{Good Doggy. Good Dog. Everything is ok. Come here. Come. Please. Stay. STAY.
Sit. SIT. Can we be friends? Only Friends. BITCH!}
Speaking to a dog in a second language, and having no response from that dog, is more dejecting then women failing to recognize your lines of seduction. Cause at least the women respond, with such phrases as, ‘What?”, “I don’t understand” or “Bastard”. Sometimes you even get drastic facial expressions.
But with a dog, all you get is a blank stare. Absolute zero validity that you exist. At that very moment, you are worthless to the planet. And that hurts.
Earlier in the evening, on a public bus, trying to find my stop in the dark, I had befriended my seatmate. A smiling cute local girl/woman.
It was a Friday night during the city’s biggest festival of the year. And she was flirting with me.
I wanted to follow her to whatever party she was going to.
I don’t drink. I’m going to Church. I always go to Church at this time.
Yikes. Do you follow that girl to Church?
While many single guys would say, OF COURSE, JACKASS. ALL THE NICE ONES ARE MET AT CHURCH. My mind has been cursed with a conscience.
Single women in poorer countries are not single women in ‘Western’ countries, raised with values that allow them to have meaningless affairs with men, and move on to more money and more men.
In South America, The women of the upper middle class and beyond do share these values. Thank god for the Rich.
But women from poorer families are looking to start a family, live close to the parents, have a married life, all those terrible values that America luckily has abandoned.
And this concept may work for some people. But if you violate these known sentiments, you end up with a woman obsessed with you, devastated that you don’t return her letters/calls/emails and on the verge of suicide.
Don’t mistake this for cockiness. This has nothing to do with what the male looks like.
But the impoverished female will contemplate suicide, or worse, a marriage to a Canadian. I can’t do that. No way.
Not in my first week in the city. Maybe I’ll see her again in a few more weeks.
My mind filled with that thought, as I was, yet again, in the same evening facing a dilemma.
Should it be? How many times has a girl said she only wanted to be friends?
Friends are good. Friends play cards with you. Watch movies with you. And listen as you tell them how you struck out with some girl you met. Apparently, she only wanted to be friends.
The journey continues with this masked woman, as we enjoy the city together, as I try to explain the South Park movie in Spanish, and why Americans find being shit on quite funny. I can’t bear to tell her that Im not attracted to her. I feel so rude. So vain.
I want to think she calls me daily, at the home of the Taboo Mommy, simply to practice Spanish with me, or catch another cultural event.
Cause I like those things. I really do. As friends.
Words of Doom to the single male.
But why? Why can’t men be with a woman who is really nice, even if she has a face that Halloween mask sculptors would envy?
Or a body that requires a special chair to be brought out at dinner.
Is vanity a natural trait? Or one indicative of a failure to mature?
If a prospective intimate partner has all the traits you want in a mate, minus the attractive look, shouldn’t the 2 out of 3 principle count. Or is it better to be the CAUSE of the hypergrowth in anxiety women feel about their bodies?
In addition to the personal conflict of consummating with the teacher and the landlady, I was saddled with another foreign soil drama. And its one that happens all over the world.
Especially near Bob Marley flags. Why is he so popular? If he only ate tofu and beets, refusing to smoke, would he still be so cool to the freedom seekers of the world?
Ah…but where to start young one. Ok. How ‘bout…
When visiting a foreign place, even another city in your own country, its important to ‘go out on the town’. Its just an easy way to get to know locals. Really. That’s it.
Now, when your alone, the task is a bit more daunting.
Somehow, during the Great 472nd bash of Quito, I found myself chasing a cell phone of a newfound Quito friend. Having buried my own mobilelifeline deep into a file cabinet, I was forced to find phone cabins every 15 minutes. After being unable to locate my Quito buddy among the innumerable street revelers, I decided I could make my own friends.
Do you if join to you ok my mind?
What?
Uh, can I with you to join ok?
{odd looks precede a bewildered exodus]
Such are the difficulties when thinking grammar is irrelevant in learning a new language.
Hopefully, somebody will teach me.
So striking up conversation among locals was a bit tough. And resorting to speaking English to other foreigners seemed defeatist. Goddammit. I was hear to learn about the locals and speak their language. But how many ‘turnaways’ can you put up with?
After befriending a young petite male bouncer (no…there is a no leadup to gaylove here) at a presumed upscale nightspot, I was invited from the joyous throngs, to the elite upstairs enclave.
And yet another universal trait becomes apparent. The Velvet Rope syndrome. Whenever you see the Velvet Rope, anxious mobs barricaded by it’s furry power, the bystander is left in wonder. What is that place all about…IF only
And for those unlucky enough to wait and gain entry…a room full or stiffs attempting to impersonate former stiffs they saw on television. And these places always seem to have some one word esoteric name.
This one was named SUTRA.
The Indian Foreign Ministry should collect a royalty tax on their stocknames: BUDDHA, YOGA, KARMA, SUTRA, TANTRA, SLURPEE. And all they need to do is look in any pretentious gathering spot, where they are bound to find a group of people Hinduism would probably drop off at the doors of the local Mosque; refusing their worship and poor Malaysian reproductions of their catchphrases.
So, you know you’ve entered a place gone IndoHip, when you find brightly colored pillows strewn about the floor, and furniture acquired from Midget Surplus. In addition, these establishments manage to find 17 varieties of the Buddha to fill their fauxopium dens.
And how do you think that corpulent little Asian fellow feels about the drunk & Vain getting shitfaced under the watchful eyes of his peaceful belly?
There is only one other religion with a known action figure, and the only drinking establishment J.C. seems present in, is in the back corner of Mexican Dive bars.
How’s that for comparing religious tolerance among the East vs. West?
Well, upon entry in the coveted Sutra, I ended up Barside, befriended by the owner, getting shitfaced with her lover, another gal -- a knockout Brasilian, and her Yoga instructor. This is not the beginning of a joke.
Another crosscultural phenomenon was about to take place.
The COCKBLOCK.
But nothing stings more then getting cockblocked by another woman.
The cockblock is an ancient tradition where one knight would step gingerly in front of the other night, preventing him from raping his peasant subject. The Knight who stepped in front would then proceed to clang his heavy armor in a vain attempt to woo the potential rapee. His results would usually end in the rapee fleeing, preventing neither the original Raping Knight, or his cockblocking predecessor from embarking on the rape.
Things have changed over the generations, and the technique is not only used during rapes, but also during nonessential miscellaneous pick-ups in places littered with the sexually desperate.
And the Brazilian was such a stereotypical Brazilian, that you had to be thankful for stereotypes.
Although, speaking a second language to a person who knows neither your first or second is kind of like speaking in tounges to a Blind Jew. So maybe the cockblock simply prevented me from further embarrassing myself.
Alas, one arrives at the dilemma. One heard around the world:
She may not be physically attractive. But..She is bright. Hip. Witty. Sweet. She knows how to dance. Uh…
But yet, you just want her to be your friend. Will you..be…my..friend?
Who says that after they meet someone? But I knew. We ended up spending many more hours together under the eyes of the intranslatable Brasilian. But I was merely a tease.
I didn’t mean to be. A tease. It was a great cultural moment. And not a word uttered in English.
However, and this however must be noted. After a couple of hours of singing, dancing, drinking, talking, she explained, in Spanish how she used to teach in a small American University. Literature. English Literature. What the fuck.
[in English} You speak English….
Of course, silly. Didn’t you hear what I told you? I wansn’t teaching Cervantes. {In perfect American English}
That’s weird.
It was like I just met someone speaking in Tongues. Possessed. You struggle for hours to put your thoughts in another language, only to find out the person can easily communicate at your native level.
And odder still, was during that brief out of body experience, I realized how utterly unattractive the English Language was. Spoken, anyway.
The Pre-Conceived Idiom Affect is not only available in Latin women with English Lit. degrees. For further case study, We shall visit the world’s most traveled migrant. The Chinaman.
Americans (or sub in any nationality living among the Chinese), have come to expect two sounds emanating from Chinese mouths.
1. the apparent sounds of the Chinese language
2. the apparent sounds of the American English language
When the subject’s mouth behaves as the native’s mind is conditioned, then all sides are at peace.
Now imagine the Chinese denizen speaking in Spanish. The once notorious proprietor of MSG laced products, has abandoned your expectations. In complete violation of the Pre-Conceived Idiom Affect. Bastard.
It’s just plain weird. Chinese people speaking Spanish. And abandoning the Queen’s tounge.
Maybe further explanation is needed of the Pre-Conceived Idiom Affect. Since, its not only human subjects who fall prey to it’s dire consequences.
Allow us to witness the Dog. Man’s good friend and Garbage can. Even the Chinese can take part in this experiment.
On initial contact with Ecuador’s dogs, I immediately tried to communicate my feelings in English. Despite the fact that I had refused to use the language with fellow humans.
Come here. Come on. Be a good Dog. Wait. Stay. Come. Sit. You little fucker.
No response. Nothing. Until I realized I had been a victim of the Pre-Conceived Idiom Affect.
Obviously, well—obvious now, these critters only knew Spanish, or Quechua –the Incan language.
Bueno perrito. Bueno perro. Todo es bien. Ven aqui. Venga. Por Favor. Queda. Queda. Sienta se. SIENTA SE. Podimos ser amigos? Solo amigos. Puta.
{Good Doggy. Good Dog. Everything is ok. Come here. Come. Please. Stay. STAY.
Sit. SIT. Can we be friends? Only Friends. BITCH!}
Speaking to a dog in a second language, and having no response from that dog, is more dejecting then women failing to recognize your lines of seduction. Cause at least the women respond, with such phrases as, ‘What?”, “I don’t understand” or “Bastard”. Sometimes you even get drastic facial expressions.
But with a dog, all you get is a blank stare. Absolute zero validity that you exist. At that very moment, you are worthless to the planet. And that hurts.
Earlier in the evening, on a public bus, trying to find my stop in the dark, I had befriended my seatmate. A smiling cute local girl/woman.
It was a Friday night during the city’s biggest festival of the year. And she was flirting with me.
I wanted to follow her to whatever party she was going to.
I don’t drink. I’m going to Church. I always go to Church at this time.
Yikes. Do you follow that girl to Church?
While many single guys would say, OF COURSE, JACKASS. ALL THE NICE ONES ARE MET AT CHURCH. My mind has been cursed with a conscience.
Single women in poorer countries are not single women in ‘Western’ countries, raised with values that allow them to have meaningless affairs with men, and move on to more money and more men.
In South America, The women of the upper middle class and beyond do share these values. Thank god for the Rich.
But women from poorer families are looking to start a family, live close to the parents, have a married life, all those terrible values that America luckily has abandoned.
And this concept may work for some people. But if you violate these known sentiments, you end up with a woman obsessed with you, devastated that you don’t return her letters/calls/emails and on the verge of suicide.
Don’t mistake this for cockiness. This has nothing to do with what the male looks like.
But the impoverished female will contemplate suicide, or worse, a marriage to a Canadian. I can’t do that. No way.
Not in my first week in the city. Maybe I’ll see her again in a few more weeks.
My mind filled with that thought, as I was, yet again, in the same evening facing a dilemma.
Should it be? How many times has a girl said she only wanted to be friends?
Friends are good. Friends play cards with you. Watch movies with you. And listen as you tell them how you struck out with some girl you met. Apparently, she only wanted to be friends.
The journey continues with this masked woman, as we enjoy the city together, as I try to explain the South Park movie in Spanish, and why Americans find being shit on quite funny. I can’t bear to tell her that Im not attracted to her. I feel so rude. So vain.
I want to think she calls me daily, at the home of the Taboo Mommy, simply to practice Spanish with me, or catch another cultural event.
Cause I like those things. I really do. As friends.
Traditions Make Good Gifts
Ole! Ole! Stick ‘em in the eye. Cut off his Sack. Careful…You’ll dirty your pretty pink smock.
These are the familiar chants of a bullfight.
The great municipality of Quito celebrates its foundation with a week of Bullfights.
And if the Bull wasn’t teased, tortured, and murdered, there may be no impetus for this article.
But he was. And the worst part…no one got offered free beef sandwiches afterward.
While witnessing the spectacle with my sexy Spanish teacher, and her equally gratifying ladyfriend, my thoughts were taken deep into the bull fighting saga.
If man is suppose to be different then animal, is it because Man has the ability to tell Right from Wrong, or simply show compassion. Maybe its Man’s innate ability to laugh at his own flatulence.
If Man was subordinate to other Animals, would things be different (see: the Hounhymns in Swift’s Gulliver’s)? Would one Horse taunt us with a giant bag of Cheetos, only to stab us once we got to close to him? Would all the Horses in the audience chant ‘Cheetoh’ every time we ran into the seductive Orange Bag?
Would other Horses line up outside the BullRing protesting their fellow Hoofers poor treatment of defenseless man? And would gluttonous horses entering into the spectacle taunt their fellow big teeth members with the chomping of Human Thigh Sandwiches?
The bullfight may be summed up as incredibly representative of life’s dichotomy – Beauty & Evil.
On the NICE side, you have a Tormenter who moves with the grace of a professional ballerina. The Tormenter manages to make every gesture into an art form. In addition, the manly man is adorned in the most regal of outfits – tight sequined pants stopping at the calf, complemented by knee high booties, a matching sequined jacket that’s too small, and a captain’s hat. But it does look pretty.
On the other side….well, the Peter Pan looking fellow repeatedly stabs the defenseless creature until his mates circle around the big beast and deliver one final blow, saving the Toro the misery of having to stare at the strangely dressed male anymore.
But for the sake of TRADITION, shouldn’t Bullfights continue? There are very few spectacles left that have such a steeped tradition.
Some may argue, Why not continue the tradition of the Coliseum? And to them, I say…Fuck yeah.
Who wouldn’t love to see convicted criminals running scared around a subterranean labyrinth only to finally be slaughtered by a poached Sumatran Tiger.
Its not like thousands of bulls are killed daily for the sport.
Isn’t the excitement that the ritual tease&slaughter bring to tens of thousands worth the perceived cruelty?
Or should traditions change as education changes?
Its no longer acceptable to gas Jews, or lynch Blacks, or call Chinese people, Oriental.
We have found alternative ways to satisfy our enlightened minds.
We call the Jews Cheap Heebs, and clutch our handbags when black people come near to us. And the Chinese get their language mocked.
Apparently, these things are ok.
But the question persists…SHOULD TRADITION BE ADJUSTED FOR MODERN TIMES?
Is tradition so sacred that we allow it to persevere despite modern norms?
……………….The Electoral College
……………….The Right To Bear Arms
……………….The Refusal to allow Gays in the Church
……………….The Church’s Refusal to teach Safe Sex techniques
……………….The election of a person who has the most advertising
……………….The continuation of Reality TV
The BullFight is the event in which to contemplate such profound issues.
Even if the majority of people there resemble Cubs fans; displaying more interest in passing the jugs of wine, then actually watching the Dance with the Bulls. And the only true excitement came from fights in the stands (fairly universal), and the female roars that followed the very blonde looking Swedish BullFighter.
There is the situation of the SWORD. The sword is sheathed behind a brightly colored cloth. A weapon of Death disguised as a thing of Beauty.
This seems the perfect analogy for the conquistadors. A small group of Spanish men who arrived in Latin America with the blessing of God. They hooked the Indians by building the most ornate churches man could build. They lined streets with gold, and built grand palaces.
And behind the scenes, millions of Indians were forced to work in mines. Rapes were as common as dinner meals. And all the fortunes were sent back to Europe. And that’s before the African slaves even arrived.
So as one watches the Bullfight, reveling in the Spaniards founding of the great city of Quito, an outsider is forced to ask, What the Fuck. Holy Shit. What the Fuck are you Thinking?
Why would any independent group of people celebrate the traditions of their rapingpillaging forefathers? Especially since they fought for independence from Spain.
Its like the Jews watching Germans conduct celebratory gassings.
Or the African-Americans watching fat white men shout insults and whips at black cotton workers.
Part of the entrenched issues in South America come from the very method with which the Spaniards settled the continent. The Spanish (&their Euro counterparts in Portugal, Holland, England & France) cocksuckers murdered, raped, pillaged, enslaved, and didn’t even try to help build a free society. They left a legacy of betrayal and deceit that has been hard to break.
And yet, despite the overall abuse of Latin America by cowardly Europeans………Latin Americans remain some of the warmest, most lively, and most welcoming people on the planet.
It just goes to show ya…..no matter how bad things may seem, there is always a bright side.
These are the familiar chants of a bullfight.
The great municipality of Quito celebrates its foundation with a week of Bullfights.
And if the Bull wasn’t teased, tortured, and murdered, there may be no impetus for this article.
But he was. And the worst part…no one got offered free beef sandwiches afterward.
While witnessing the spectacle with my sexy Spanish teacher, and her equally gratifying ladyfriend, my thoughts were taken deep into the bull fighting saga.
If man is suppose to be different then animal, is it because Man has the ability to tell Right from Wrong, or simply show compassion. Maybe its Man’s innate ability to laugh at his own flatulence.
If Man was subordinate to other Animals, would things be different (see: the Hounhymns in Swift’s Gulliver’s)? Would one Horse taunt us with a giant bag of Cheetos, only to stab us once we got to close to him? Would all the Horses in the audience chant ‘Cheetoh’ every time we ran into the seductive Orange Bag?
Would other Horses line up outside the BullRing protesting their fellow Hoofers poor treatment of defenseless man? And would gluttonous horses entering into the spectacle taunt their fellow big teeth members with the chomping of Human Thigh Sandwiches?
The bullfight may be summed up as incredibly representative of life’s dichotomy – Beauty & Evil.
On the NICE side, you have a Tormenter who moves with the grace of a professional ballerina. The Tormenter manages to make every gesture into an art form. In addition, the manly man is adorned in the most regal of outfits – tight sequined pants stopping at the calf, complemented by knee high booties, a matching sequined jacket that’s too small, and a captain’s hat. But it does look pretty.
On the other side….well, the Peter Pan looking fellow repeatedly stabs the defenseless creature until his mates circle around the big beast and deliver one final blow, saving the Toro the misery of having to stare at the strangely dressed male anymore.
But for the sake of TRADITION, shouldn’t Bullfights continue? There are very few spectacles left that have such a steeped tradition.
Some may argue, Why not continue the tradition of the Coliseum? And to them, I say…Fuck yeah.
Who wouldn’t love to see convicted criminals running scared around a subterranean labyrinth only to finally be slaughtered by a poached Sumatran Tiger.
Its not like thousands of bulls are killed daily for the sport.
Isn’t the excitement that the ritual tease&slaughter bring to tens of thousands worth the perceived cruelty?
Or should traditions change as education changes?
Its no longer acceptable to gas Jews, or lynch Blacks, or call Chinese people, Oriental.
We have found alternative ways to satisfy our enlightened minds.
We call the Jews Cheap Heebs, and clutch our handbags when black people come near to us. And the Chinese get their language mocked.
Apparently, these things are ok.
But the question persists…SHOULD TRADITION BE ADJUSTED FOR MODERN TIMES?
Is tradition so sacred that we allow it to persevere despite modern norms?
……………….The Electoral College
……………….The Right To Bear Arms
……………….The Refusal to allow Gays in the Church
……………….The Church’s Refusal to teach Safe Sex techniques
……………….The election of a person who has the most advertising
……………….The continuation of Reality TV
The BullFight is the event in which to contemplate such profound issues.
Even if the majority of people there resemble Cubs fans; displaying more interest in passing the jugs of wine, then actually watching the Dance with the Bulls. And the only true excitement came from fights in the stands (fairly universal), and the female roars that followed the very blonde looking Swedish BullFighter.
There is the situation of the SWORD. The sword is sheathed behind a brightly colored cloth. A weapon of Death disguised as a thing of Beauty.
This seems the perfect analogy for the conquistadors. A small group of Spanish men who arrived in Latin America with the blessing of God. They hooked the Indians by building the most ornate churches man could build. They lined streets with gold, and built grand palaces.
And behind the scenes, millions of Indians were forced to work in mines. Rapes were as common as dinner meals. And all the fortunes were sent back to Europe. And that’s before the African slaves even arrived.
So as one watches the Bullfight, reveling in the Spaniards founding of the great city of Quito, an outsider is forced to ask, What the Fuck. Holy Shit. What the Fuck are you Thinking?
Why would any independent group of people celebrate the traditions of their rapingpillaging forefathers? Especially since they fought for independence from Spain.
Its like the Jews watching Germans conduct celebratory gassings.
Or the African-Americans watching fat white men shout insults and whips at black cotton workers.
Part of the entrenched issues in South America come from the very method with which the Spaniards settled the continent. The Spanish (&their Euro counterparts in Portugal, Holland, England & France) cocksuckers murdered, raped, pillaged, enslaved, and didn’t even try to help build a free society. They left a legacy of betrayal and deceit that has been hard to break.
And yet, despite the overall abuse of Latin America by cowardly Europeans………Latin Americans remain some of the warmest, most lively, and most welcoming people on the planet.
It just goes to show ya…..no matter how bad things may seem, there is always a bright side.
DAVID LEE ROTH´S DEAD
Festivals are Fun.
That’s what the root of festival means.
Funerals, Circumcisions, and near drowning of the Lord’s Children, are not truly festivals.
Most nations partake in a minimum of two, several day festivals a year. They generally involve the closing of government offices, daytime parades and concerts, and plenty of evening debauchery. Police/Military Juntas are usually remarkably calm. And the public genuinely seems to revel in the affair.
The Worlds Greatest Country, or the USA, depending on your education, celebrates its birth with 15 minutes of fireworks and the grilling of pre-cooked Dog Wieners. Other giant American Holidays include the Guilt Tripped Forced Homecoming where a Large Bird is served and the awkward family gather around the tv to watch a parade of corporate floats and football. Another festival involves more grilling of pre-cooked alleged meats, no firework, and the supposed remembrance of those valiant citizens who died defending the great nation. So, basically, the U.S. has no real festivals unless you count Gay Pride and Mardi Gras. And most Americans don’t.
Ok. Now lets not get too down on the US. The teaser was only meant to exemplify that the US is a nation that prides itself on work, not on time to shut down offices and make funtime. Ok. Great.
Well, the city of Quito, Ecuador, nestled snuggly in the Andes, likes to celebrate its birth, apparently just turned 472, with a thing they call a festival. The festival is uniquely named, “The Festival of Quito”.
Upon arriving in Ecuador, the author was warned about the mayhem of this citywide celebration. The author assumed it to be another global excuse to enjoy the intoxicating affects of alcohol. And it was, +++some.
An essential highlight to share involves the Open Air Urban Assault Vehicle (the acronym is an Incan word meaning Elusive Meaning). The Vehicles are medium sized flatbed trucks, outfitted with several rows of benches, a rear outdoor terrace, and a full roof. All trucks are outfitted with a large band that plays constant music as the Truck roams the city. Within its packed confines, revelers of all ages sing songs, blow whistles, and drink hot schnapps. Occupants on the rear balcony and rooftop test their balance while hanging precipitously low from the loosely welded railings.
On any given day or night, at least 100 of these Machines would be roaming the city.
They are known as Chivas. Also known in the West for its intoxicating affect.
And while these PartyMachines are primarily meant for locals displaying their pride in having the oldest city in Ecuador, one can not fully enjoy a new city without hitching a ride on the Chivas.
Riding Rear Terrace, with a large plastic cup flanked around my neck, I was being outdrank by my 13 year old neighbors. And her Dad kept filling her up. Really.
The only participant not enjoying the ceremonious sweet liquer was the 3 year old. And that was only because the whistle seemed stuck in her mouth.
We drove around the city for hours, purposely causing traffic, screaming shouts that I think translated into “I want to Suck You Quito…”. No incidents of road rage. People in cars simply watched, amused at our merrymaking. We stopped in the city’s historic squares for photos, where in one instant I was deemed the official dance partner of our Ship’s matriarch, the 86 year grandmother of the riding habitants.. And I was only a few more plastic cup fulls away from partaking in the Queen mother’s personal Chivas.
But I had my own female dilemma to handle on the homefront.
And the police never bothered us once. In a continent of notoriously corrupt police.
As you frolicked in this splendid jubilation of a city you really didn’t give a crap about (and now suddenly loved), the mind was brought back to life in America.
An inebriated car parade (driver’s are allegedly sober) could never ever never ever take place in the U.S. Apparently America is too sophisticated to delve into such barbarian festivities. America is civilized and law abiding. And with this PuritanicalConservative argument follows the well known retorts of “too many people would get hurt—it’s not safe---the trucks would plow over hundreds of innocent children—people would stop working and drink on the backs of trucks for the rest of their lives”.
Yet a bustling city of over one million people, with minimal police stating, and a uniquely universal human trait, known to Paine readers as “COMMON SENSE”, manages to enjoy such a cacophony for a week, with barely an incident.
The best part about such festivals…they bring about a sense of brotherhood (sister’s too).
Kind of like attending Large American Sporting events, or a consensual gangbang.
No matter what culture you find yourself in, everybody has their own personal problems. And every country has its own national problems. But despite the hardship that life sometimes bears, a festival seems to be a miraculous way to leave behind all those negative themes, and simply enjoy.
Or one can choose to shop. A great modern statesman once said, “Do not live in fear. Get out there and Shop.” Our nation depends on it.
That’s what the root of festival means.
Funerals, Circumcisions, and near drowning of the Lord’s Children, are not truly festivals.
Most nations partake in a minimum of two, several day festivals a year. They generally involve the closing of government offices, daytime parades and concerts, and plenty of evening debauchery. Police/Military Juntas are usually remarkably calm. And the public genuinely seems to revel in the affair.
The Worlds Greatest Country, or the USA, depending on your education, celebrates its birth with 15 minutes of fireworks and the grilling of pre-cooked Dog Wieners. Other giant American Holidays include the Guilt Tripped Forced Homecoming where a Large Bird is served and the awkward family gather around the tv to watch a parade of corporate floats and football. Another festival involves more grilling of pre-cooked alleged meats, no firework, and the supposed remembrance of those valiant citizens who died defending the great nation. So, basically, the U.S. has no real festivals unless you count Gay Pride and Mardi Gras. And most Americans don’t.
Ok. Now lets not get too down on the US. The teaser was only meant to exemplify that the US is a nation that prides itself on work, not on time to shut down offices and make funtime. Ok. Great.
Well, the city of Quito, Ecuador, nestled snuggly in the Andes, likes to celebrate its birth, apparently just turned 472, with a thing they call a festival. The festival is uniquely named, “The Festival of Quito”.
Upon arriving in Ecuador, the author was warned about the mayhem of this citywide celebration. The author assumed it to be another global excuse to enjoy the intoxicating affects of alcohol. And it was, +++some.
An essential highlight to share involves the Open Air Urban Assault Vehicle (the acronym is an Incan word meaning Elusive Meaning). The Vehicles are medium sized flatbed trucks, outfitted with several rows of benches, a rear outdoor terrace, and a full roof. All trucks are outfitted with a large band that plays constant music as the Truck roams the city. Within its packed confines, revelers of all ages sing songs, blow whistles, and drink hot schnapps. Occupants on the rear balcony and rooftop test their balance while hanging precipitously low from the loosely welded railings.
On any given day or night, at least 100 of these Machines would be roaming the city.
They are known as Chivas. Also known in the West for its intoxicating affect.
And while these PartyMachines are primarily meant for locals displaying their pride in having the oldest city in Ecuador, one can not fully enjoy a new city without hitching a ride on the Chivas.
Riding Rear Terrace, with a large plastic cup flanked around my neck, I was being outdrank by my 13 year old neighbors. And her Dad kept filling her up. Really.
The only participant not enjoying the ceremonious sweet liquer was the 3 year old. And that was only because the whistle seemed stuck in her mouth.
We drove around the city for hours, purposely causing traffic, screaming shouts that I think translated into “I want to Suck You Quito…”. No incidents of road rage. People in cars simply watched, amused at our merrymaking. We stopped in the city’s historic squares for photos, where in one instant I was deemed the official dance partner of our Ship’s matriarch, the 86 year grandmother of the riding habitants.. And I was only a few more plastic cup fulls away from partaking in the Queen mother’s personal Chivas.
But I had my own female dilemma to handle on the homefront.
And the police never bothered us once. In a continent of notoriously corrupt police.
As you frolicked in this splendid jubilation of a city you really didn’t give a crap about (and now suddenly loved), the mind was brought back to life in America.
An inebriated car parade (driver’s are allegedly sober) could never ever never ever take place in the U.S. Apparently America is too sophisticated to delve into such barbarian festivities. America is civilized and law abiding. And with this PuritanicalConservative argument follows the well known retorts of “too many people would get hurt—it’s not safe---the trucks would plow over hundreds of innocent children—people would stop working and drink on the backs of trucks for the rest of their lives”.
Yet a bustling city of over one million people, with minimal police stating, and a uniquely universal human trait, known to Paine readers as “COMMON SENSE”, manages to enjoy such a cacophony for a week, with barely an incident.
The best part about such festivals…they bring about a sense of brotherhood (sister’s too).
Kind of like attending Large American Sporting events, or a consensual gangbang.
No matter what culture you find yourself in, everybody has their own personal problems. And every country has its own national problems. But despite the hardship that life sometimes bears, a festival seems to be a miraculous way to leave behind all those negative themes, and simply enjoy.
Or one can choose to shop. A great modern statesman once said, “Do not live in fear. Get out there and Shop.” Our nation depends on it.
MobileMundo
Why do humans have an insatiable appetite for communication?
Are Buddhists popular simply for their temporary willingness to sever communication?
Well…..at least, conversation with other sentient beings.
A debate of very minimal consequence has been raging in the States for years….
An argument sure to bury the foes & friends of meat-eating-fetus-killing-limotruck-driving conisseurs. A controversy that is currently tearing at the afghani threaded fabric of the nuclear age family.
Cell Phones.
Or heretowithinsaiddocument referred to as:…cells (non-terror), mobile (limbs not required), portatelly (ability to correspond with other beings while on temporary crapper non-essential).
Americans have been so self-absorbed in this debate of a determining factor for the recently developed addition to daily life, that people have forgotten that the entire world has become subject to this controversy.
At this very moment, while Bob in Chilicothe is reaming out Dave in Dayton for ordering too many X293’s for the Spring inventory; simulataneously irritating dozens of unintentional eavesdroppers in the Cincinatti Airport……there is a young Ecuadorian woman on her country’s Pacific coast, trying frantically to regain a signal with her Aunt in Quito.
However, the debate does vary based on economics.
While the device of controversy may be identical, the observed consequences are different.
Most South Americans are not subject to the decibel shattering shouts that accompany US mobile calls. Here, below the equator, a majority of people can not afford the high cost of cellular service.
So, most mobile plans are fairly affordable but that is because they only include a buttload of free text messages, and free incoming calls.
In practical terms…..Entering a public space in North America means slamming your ears into a unorchestrated concert of “HELLOHOW MUCH I DIDN’T KNOW HER I CANT HEAR YOU ARE YOU STILL THERE WHAT TIME I SAID WHAT TIME”
And entering a public space in SurAmerica entails witnessing a bizarre cult of people who treat the cellular as if it were man’s first contact with fire.
People of all ages clutching their pocket life lines, staring into the window as if Hayzeus himself is about to portal his way through. And if their not zoned out on incoming anticipation, then their fingers are performing a rendition of “An Evening With My Coke Addicted Stenographer.”
Researchers have yet to discover the source, but many believe that a coordinated effort between the mobile companies and Latin American Prison Wardens are randomly calling a rolodex of cellular numbers. A very very clever effort, some would say, to remind those not receiving calls that a phone call is always possible. You just don’t know when. So you too can have that celebratory feeling of jackpot winning elation. Just Stare and Wait.
It seems to trouble many First Worlders that places once met for reflection (public toilets, elevators, waiting rooms, phone booths), are now corrupted with this demonic device. And the troubled would argue that the noise levels are shattering their moment of tranquility.
But perhaps the rage goes deeper then simply being subjected to excessively loud talking.
It is just as frustrating to be seated at a dinner table with 5 others in a ‘Poorer’ nation, and be privy to a cult of phone zombies. Then to be invigorated with talk of emerging Latin American power and localities specializing in women with loose values. Then to have the following sentence interrupted with a catatonic stare between the speaker’s legs, as if they were watching a minion of microscopic martians peforming Aida. Two minutes later, as the speaker regains consciousness, the remaining disciples take to their laps to watch the continuation of the Lilliputian Operatic performance.
And yet, no one bothered to interrupt the table with cellular SHOUTS. No cellular stereo rang violently with the pulsating beats of “Its Getting Hot in Here”. Only the open invite to watch a phenomenon simply described as, “Temporary Abduction”.
But people need it. According to unofficial stats from unknown sources, more people now own cell phones then televisions, vcrs, and refrigerators combined.
Scientists are now proposing that mobile phones may soon knock ‘SHELTER” out of its coveted number two spot in the Primary Needs Chart.
And despite the rapidly changing norms of daily life, billions of people seem genuinely happy due to their portatelly. One is able to wonder into the South American countryside, a region of the world notorious for its malnourished victims of life’s cruelties, and watch Native Incan women texting their way to Cellular Nirvana. Nearby, village children are talking away, even if it may be to no one. And the patriarch of the family, sits calmly nearby, playing cards with his mates. Only to periodically break concentration, and glance at his cellular amulet splayed out beside his deck, bringing a glint of happiness to a man who has seen too many tragedies.
Are Buddhists popular simply for their temporary willingness to sever communication?
Well…..at least, conversation with other sentient beings.
A debate of very minimal consequence has been raging in the States for years….
An argument sure to bury the foes & friends of meat-eating-fetus-killing-limotruck-driving conisseurs. A controversy that is currently tearing at the afghani threaded fabric of the nuclear age family.
Cell Phones.
Or heretowithinsaiddocument referred to as:…cells (non-terror), mobile (limbs not required), portatelly (ability to correspond with other beings while on temporary crapper non-essential).
Americans have been so self-absorbed in this debate of a determining factor for the recently developed addition to daily life, that people have forgotten that the entire world has become subject to this controversy.
At this very moment, while Bob in Chilicothe is reaming out Dave in Dayton for ordering too many X293’s for the Spring inventory; simulataneously irritating dozens of unintentional eavesdroppers in the Cincinatti Airport……there is a young Ecuadorian woman on her country’s Pacific coast, trying frantically to regain a signal with her Aunt in Quito.
However, the debate does vary based on economics.
While the device of controversy may be identical, the observed consequences are different.
Most South Americans are not subject to the decibel shattering shouts that accompany US mobile calls. Here, below the equator, a majority of people can not afford the high cost of cellular service.
So, most mobile plans are fairly affordable but that is because they only include a buttload of free text messages, and free incoming calls.
In practical terms…..Entering a public space in North America means slamming your ears into a unorchestrated concert of “HELLOHOW MUCH I DIDN’T KNOW HER I CANT HEAR YOU ARE YOU STILL THERE WHAT TIME I SAID WHAT TIME”
And entering a public space in SurAmerica entails witnessing a bizarre cult of people who treat the cellular as if it were man’s first contact with fire.
People of all ages clutching their pocket life lines, staring into the window as if Hayzeus himself is about to portal his way through. And if their not zoned out on incoming anticipation, then their fingers are performing a rendition of “An Evening With My Coke Addicted Stenographer.”
Researchers have yet to discover the source, but many believe that a coordinated effort between the mobile companies and Latin American Prison Wardens are randomly calling a rolodex of cellular numbers. A very very clever effort, some would say, to remind those not receiving calls that a phone call is always possible. You just don’t know when. So you too can have that celebratory feeling of jackpot winning elation. Just Stare and Wait.
It seems to trouble many First Worlders that places once met for reflection (public toilets, elevators, waiting rooms, phone booths), are now corrupted with this demonic device. And the troubled would argue that the noise levels are shattering their moment of tranquility.
But perhaps the rage goes deeper then simply being subjected to excessively loud talking.
It is just as frustrating to be seated at a dinner table with 5 others in a ‘Poorer’ nation, and be privy to a cult of phone zombies. Then to be invigorated with talk of emerging Latin American power and localities specializing in women with loose values. Then to have the following sentence interrupted with a catatonic stare between the speaker’s legs, as if they were watching a minion of microscopic martians peforming Aida. Two minutes later, as the speaker regains consciousness, the remaining disciples take to their laps to watch the continuation of the Lilliputian Operatic performance.
And yet, no one bothered to interrupt the table with cellular SHOUTS. No cellular stereo rang violently with the pulsating beats of “Its Getting Hot in Here”. Only the open invite to watch a phenomenon simply described as, “Temporary Abduction”.
But people need it. According to unofficial stats from unknown sources, more people now own cell phones then televisions, vcrs, and refrigerators combined.
Scientists are now proposing that mobile phones may soon knock ‘SHELTER” out of its coveted number two spot in the Primary Needs Chart.
And despite the rapidly changing norms of daily life, billions of people seem genuinely happy due to their portatelly. One is able to wonder into the South American countryside, a region of the world notorious for its malnourished victims of life’s cruelties, and watch Native Incan women texting their way to Cellular Nirvana. Nearby, village children are talking away, even if it may be to no one. And the patriarch of the family, sits calmly nearby, playing cards with his mates. Only to periodically break concentration, and glance at his cellular amulet splayed out beside his deck, bringing a glint of happiness to a man who has seen too many tragedies.
The Reality of Desire
I didn’t know who to look for. I simply figured they would shout ‘Set, Set’ Set;, in the deliciously cute way that Latinos consistently mispronounce the third son of Adam & Eve (Im not sure if the founders of the discreetly packaged phallic toys also had a 3rd son).
Staying with a family takes patience. And a slightly absurdist state of mind considering most people can’t even remain with their own families. But when a person wants to immerse themselves in a culture, staying in an assembly line hotel or a hostel full of inebriated backpacks will not suffice.
So when your new host, turns out to be a single hostess with a wit to match her rack, the mind exits the physical body and carries on an extended touchdown dance while the mindless sap thanks the pre-ordaining bestowed upon him by the Dumpster Dude.
Then, the Reality Show mindset, something every American can be proud of obtaining, starts producing. America may be rightfully mocked for many things, but when it comes to earning a living off ideas, the kids of Uncle Sam rule. Even if those children think they invented ideas that come from other lands.
So the Reality show goes a little something like this…..wide eyed gawky gringo moves into a foreign city with some foreigners. Cast includes:
Hot Mommy who is having a texting cell phone affair with a mystery man in Barcelona (I meet him on ‘Match punto Com)
Her very charming Mom, known as MaMa who is also the leader of a clothes smuggling affair, where she sends boxes of clothes to Cuba for resale
The undisciplined & hysterical 4 yrold son/grandson
The HOT Daughter, now legally downloaded at 18
Will family conflict ensue? Can gawky gringo actually pull off the trifecta? Will the recently seduced daughter walk-in on her mom & G.G.? Or will MaMa walk in on the childgrandchildfuturesoninlaw reunion? Will the young boy stab the visitor in a jealous rage? Or has this whole game been put on by granmama to bring her internet love of an American to Quito simply to prove her latinaness to her doubting daughters?
Is it wise to sleep with women you must have non-intimate relations with? Landlord>Tenant, Teacher>Student, Boss>Underling, Father>Daughter, etc.
This universally known dilemma would soon become more complicated. Like trying to decide between a hot fudge sundae and vanilla milkshake while the server lets you take a bite of a freshly baked double fudge brownie. Oh..there’s a reece’s pieces ice cream cake under the showcase.
Going back to school is daunting. Perhaps explaining why I’ve withdrawn grad school applications TWICE. Berkeley is probably still waiting for my essay on “Cultural Anthropology & Why I like it” But if your going to be filming a Reality tv show, and you need to stay put for awhile, and the inhabitants of the Set are not home during the day, and, yeah that’s Right, another AND, you have no job so you need something to do……..going back to School for Spanish class becomes an option.
So what happens when a young man, who can never get a seat assignment with cute Caroline, walks into his first classroom in over ten years and finds a sumptuous petit Latina, wearing library glasses, long dark Incan hair, with a tight cream colored top delicately exposing her bodies ANDEAN descent, and a half serious face that conveys “Im ready for a new Conquistador”.
Not to bring my good friend back into the picture, but Jesus Christ, can’t a guy have a simple place to stay with an unattractive boring family and learn Spanish with a serious Male scholar (a bit elderly too).
Things did improve on the Homefront. Libidinal concentration was able to be concentrated on one member of the Reality Hosts. One night after dinner, while fixating on the youngest gal’s dishwashing technique, A prolonged exposure of dense Amazonian growth running lengthwise from the spine’s centerpoint well into the forbidden ravine hidden between Lee’s Best ended any hope for the Triple Play. But Grandma still looked ravishing, in her own Post-Flapper way.
But school…well, if that’s what you call a dilapidated 8x12 astroturfed office in a condemned building…..was proving a concentration disaster. Not only did my ‘Professor’ (a term of my fantasy’s giving for the former Opair – yep, that one dark girl with the two young blonde kids in a yuppie neighborhood near you—and part-time airport worker) taunt me with her slightly revealing wardrobe, but she continued to dole out that stern look behind those 50’s styled glasses. I needed to change focus.
When unable to conduct conversations in the darkest of humor, my mind turns to items of a ‘societal’ nature. Which, in retrospect, are probably the same thing.
Somehow, with a 4th grade Spanish vocabulary, I was able to discuss the underbelly of American social problems, that many American delirious 3rd World residents forget about. Heck, even American delirious Americans forget about.
The conversation seemed ok, until a particular translation. Now, to footnote, without straining eyes or losing place, speaking a second language requires the constant translation of words in your head. Until you know the language so well, that you actually think in two languages. Not here. So while diatribing in a hopefully thoughtful, but most likely retardedly slow way, I came upon my next sentence for translation in my wave pool of a mind ----
“Americano Africano…”. Yeah. It sounded that stupid to me too. But I was trying to spread the disastrous politically correct movement to a new continent. Well….Teach gave me an incredibly non-sensual befuddled look. I tried saying “Americanos con Afros.” Shit. I was doomed.
TeacherYOUR-SUCH-A-BADSTUDENT began to explain her concerns in Spanish. I seemed to understand. She never knew we had so many Africans in our country. And why so many of them don’t get married and allow a relative to raise their kid, who then grows up undisciplined, joining gangs, and tormenting inner city residents until death or the church saves ‘em. She didn’t understand the problem Africans had in America.
Its one thing to talk about race issues in America, and say the “Blacks” or the “Whites”.
But to have an American Societal conversation in Spanish, and say “Los NEGROES”, sounds a bit callous.
And explaining the concept of politically correct gets even more toungetwisting.
My vocabulary was running on empty when trying to explain why “midgets, jews, homos, hugs, casual wear, ass slaps” were no longer popular excepted terms/things.
But promising to tell the truth on a Christian Bible in a National Court of Law was still appropriate.
I finally lost patience with the whole concept in translation, when I wanted to refer to black African Americans as “people who were born to people who were born to people who were born to slaves that were forced to come to America” That long translation amounted to “people are born to people and are born to people until they come as slaves to America” Completely frustrating. But looking back, perhaps more truthful than I realized in relation to all colors of immigrants coming to the Land of Liberty.
Oh, ‘DoucheBag’ is not in my Spanish/English dictionary. The slowhand Spanish translation of “una bolsa para su punani” doesn’t exactly pack the same kind of heat.
Next time a Hispanic looking person tries to cut you off on the road, try using the Spanish version, and see if you have any feeling of redemption after muffling that one out your lips.
Like all good reality shows, this one will be extended for more heart wrenching episodes.
Spanish Class continues with such seducing lessons like verb tenses and pronouns, posed by Professor S&M, as: “You ate lunch. You eat lunch. You would like to eat lunch. You would like to eat my lunch. You would like me to eat your lunch.”
And on the homefront, Mommy, not to be confused with MaMa, has been giving the Gawky Gringo Salsa Lessons. An act that requires close contact and loose pants.
And to add to the kink factor, involves the entire family, along with friends, watching on the couch.
The next episode will delve into G.G’s mixed emotions after learing that Mommy has been vigorously exercising to a tape.
“Maybe know him. Billy Banks. A black man”
Do you hit on a MILF trained by America’s B Movie Star Sensation turned Infomercial Tae-Bo Jihadi Trainer?
Staying with a family takes patience. And a slightly absurdist state of mind considering most people can’t even remain with their own families. But when a person wants to immerse themselves in a culture, staying in an assembly line hotel or a hostel full of inebriated backpacks will not suffice.
So when your new host, turns out to be a single hostess with a wit to match her rack, the mind exits the physical body and carries on an extended touchdown dance while the mindless sap thanks the pre-ordaining bestowed upon him by the Dumpster Dude.
Then, the Reality Show mindset, something every American can be proud of obtaining, starts producing. America may be rightfully mocked for many things, but when it comes to earning a living off ideas, the kids of Uncle Sam rule. Even if those children think they invented ideas that come from other lands.
So the Reality show goes a little something like this…..wide eyed gawky gringo moves into a foreign city with some foreigners. Cast includes:
Hot Mommy who is having a texting cell phone affair with a mystery man in Barcelona (I meet him on ‘Match punto Com)
Her very charming Mom, known as MaMa who is also the leader of a clothes smuggling affair, where she sends boxes of clothes to Cuba for resale
The undisciplined & hysterical 4 yrold son/grandson
The HOT Daughter, now legally downloaded at 18
Will family conflict ensue? Can gawky gringo actually pull off the trifecta? Will the recently seduced daughter walk-in on her mom & G.G.? Or will MaMa walk in on the childgrandchildfuturesoninlaw reunion? Will the young boy stab the visitor in a jealous rage? Or has this whole game been put on by granmama to bring her internet love of an American to Quito simply to prove her latinaness to her doubting daughters?
Is it wise to sleep with women you must have non-intimate relations with? Landlord>Tenant, Teacher>Student, Boss>Underling, Father>Daughter, etc.
This universally known dilemma would soon become more complicated. Like trying to decide between a hot fudge sundae and vanilla milkshake while the server lets you take a bite of a freshly baked double fudge brownie. Oh..there’s a reece’s pieces ice cream cake under the showcase.
Going back to school is daunting. Perhaps explaining why I’ve withdrawn grad school applications TWICE. Berkeley is probably still waiting for my essay on “Cultural Anthropology & Why I like it” But if your going to be filming a Reality tv show, and you need to stay put for awhile, and the inhabitants of the Set are not home during the day, and, yeah that’s Right, another AND, you have no job so you need something to do……..going back to School for Spanish class becomes an option.
So what happens when a young man, who can never get a seat assignment with cute Caroline, walks into his first classroom in over ten years and finds a sumptuous petit Latina, wearing library glasses, long dark Incan hair, with a tight cream colored top delicately exposing her bodies ANDEAN descent, and a half serious face that conveys “Im ready for a new Conquistador”.
Not to bring my good friend back into the picture, but Jesus Christ, can’t a guy have a simple place to stay with an unattractive boring family and learn Spanish with a serious Male scholar (a bit elderly too).
Things did improve on the Homefront. Libidinal concentration was able to be concentrated on one member of the Reality Hosts. One night after dinner, while fixating on the youngest gal’s dishwashing technique, A prolonged exposure of dense Amazonian growth running lengthwise from the spine’s centerpoint well into the forbidden ravine hidden between Lee’s Best ended any hope for the Triple Play. But Grandma still looked ravishing, in her own Post-Flapper way.
But school…well, if that’s what you call a dilapidated 8x12 astroturfed office in a condemned building…..was proving a concentration disaster. Not only did my ‘Professor’ (a term of my fantasy’s giving for the former Opair – yep, that one dark girl with the two young blonde kids in a yuppie neighborhood near you—and part-time airport worker) taunt me with her slightly revealing wardrobe, but she continued to dole out that stern look behind those 50’s styled glasses. I needed to change focus.
When unable to conduct conversations in the darkest of humor, my mind turns to items of a ‘societal’ nature. Which, in retrospect, are probably the same thing.
Somehow, with a 4th grade Spanish vocabulary, I was able to discuss the underbelly of American social problems, that many American delirious 3rd World residents forget about. Heck, even American delirious Americans forget about.
The conversation seemed ok, until a particular translation. Now, to footnote, without straining eyes or losing place, speaking a second language requires the constant translation of words in your head. Until you know the language so well, that you actually think in two languages. Not here. So while diatribing in a hopefully thoughtful, but most likely retardedly slow way, I came upon my next sentence for translation in my wave pool of a mind ----
“Americano Africano…”. Yeah. It sounded that stupid to me too. But I was trying to spread the disastrous politically correct movement to a new continent. Well….Teach gave me an incredibly non-sensual befuddled look. I tried saying “Americanos con Afros.” Shit. I was doomed.
TeacherYOUR-SUCH-A-BADSTUDENT began to explain her concerns in Spanish. I seemed to understand. She never knew we had so many Africans in our country. And why so many of them don’t get married and allow a relative to raise their kid, who then grows up undisciplined, joining gangs, and tormenting inner city residents until death or the church saves ‘em. She didn’t understand the problem Africans had in America.
Its one thing to talk about race issues in America, and say the “Blacks” or the “Whites”.
But to have an American Societal conversation in Spanish, and say “Los NEGROES”, sounds a bit callous.
And explaining the concept of politically correct gets even more toungetwisting.
My vocabulary was running on empty when trying to explain why “midgets, jews, homos, hugs, casual wear, ass slaps” were no longer popular excepted terms/things.
But promising to tell the truth on a Christian Bible in a National Court of Law was still appropriate.
I finally lost patience with the whole concept in translation, when I wanted to refer to black African Americans as “people who were born to people who were born to people who were born to slaves that were forced to come to America” That long translation amounted to “people are born to people and are born to people until they come as slaves to America” Completely frustrating. But looking back, perhaps more truthful than I realized in relation to all colors of immigrants coming to the Land of Liberty.
Oh, ‘DoucheBag’ is not in my Spanish/English dictionary. The slowhand Spanish translation of “una bolsa para su punani” doesn’t exactly pack the same kind of heat.
Next time a Hispanic looking person tries to cut you off on the road, try using the Spanish version, and see if you have any feeling of redemption after muffling that one out your lips.
Like all good reality shows, this one will be extended for more heart wrenching episodes.
Spanish Class continues with such seducing lessons like verb tenses and pronouns, posed by Professor S&M, as: “You ate lunch. You eat lunch. You would like to eat lunch. You would like to eat my lunch. You would like me to eat your lunch.”
And on the homefront, Mommy, not to be confused with MaMa, has been giving the Gawky Gringo Salsa Lessons. An act that requires close contact and loose pants.
And to add to the kink factor, involves the entire family, along with friends, watching on the couch.
The next episode will delve into G.G’s mixed emotions after learing that Mommy has been vigorously exercising to a tape.
“Maybe know him. Billy Banks. A black man”
Do you hit on a MILF trained by America’s B Movie Star Sensation turned Infomercial Tae-Bo Jihadi Trainer?
Flying with the Lord´s Shepard
You’re just going to love Quito. Really. Such wonderful people. And if you get sick, you should go to this hospital (unnamed for legal reasons)
These were the heartfelt words of my airplane neighbor. I’ve been flying my entire life, the deleterious result of cross-country custody. And I have never, and this a capitally bolded NEVER, had an attractive single woman sit beside me. At some point in the life journey, the odds must, absolutely must, allow for fantasy to become reality. Right?
Being simultaneously blessed/cursed with the gift of extroversion, I continued to converse with the well meaning Dubya lovin’ neighbor – who I might add was kind enough to allow equal room on the adjoining armrest for both arms. Would the mile high beauty grant the same easement?
Well, as divine luck would have it, Papa No-el – my allotted seatmate, was on a mission. Unlike the Blues Brothers, his ordained calling involved working with children in dumps.
Yep, piles of unwanted Quito waste. They would be bringing the love of Christ into these kids by showering them with toys—papal approved, Im sure. Now the kids could stop playing with the package of Barbie, and have the real deal. The Apostles would also be preparing food that the dumpster divers couldn’t obtain within the piles of stuff. Such Ecuadorian goodies as Mac&Cheese, peas&potatoes, & mini-burgers.
Was the food conditional on unconditionally loving the martyred hippie carpenter?
Absolutely not.
That’s charity.
And that’s how I knew I would love Ecuador.
If one should find themselves on a plane, to a country with a spittle of white residents, and the only other white people on the plane are missionairies, you have found yourself an adventure. [see: Aruba vs. Angola ]. And I had thought Ecuador, a country known for supplying America with its kitchen staff and banana bunches, would be some Galapagos seeking Darwinian infested breeding ground for the middle age couple with belt bags and binoculars stapled to their skin.
Ecuador has been pre-ordained before I could even smile at the cute customs girl.
How did humanity function before the arrival of the culturally respecting Conveyors of the Word?
These were the heartfelt words of my airplane neighbor. I’ve been flying my entire life, the deleterious result of cross-country custody. And I have never, and this a capitally bolded NEVER, had an attractive single woman sit beside me. At some point in the life journey, the odds must, absolutely must, allow for fantasy to become reality. Right?
Being simultaneously blessed/cursed with the gift of extroversion, I continued to converse with the well meaning Dubya lovin’ neighbor – who I might add was kind enough to allow equal room on the adjoining armrest for both arms. Would the mile high beauty grant the same easement?
Well, as divine luck would have it, Papa No-el – my allotted seatmate, was on a mission. Unlike the Blues Brothers, his ordained calling involved working with children in dumps.
Yep, piles of unwanted Quito waste. They would be bringing the love of Christ into these kids by showering them with toys—papal approved, Im sure. Now the kids could stop playing with the package of Barbie, and have the real deal. The Apostles would also be preparing food that the dumpster divers couldn’t obtain within the piles of stuff. Such Ecuadorian goodies as Mac&Cheese, peas&potatoes, & mini-burgers.
Was the food conditional on unconditionally loving the martyred hippie carpenter?
Absolutely not.
That’s charity.
And that’s how I knew I would love Ecuador.
If one should find themselves on a plane, to a country with a spittle of white residents, and the only other white people on the plane are missionairies, you have found yourself an adventure. [see: Aruba vs. Angola ]. And I had thought Ecuador, a country known for supplying America with its kitchen staff and banana bunches, would be some Galapagos seeking Darwinian infested breeding ground for the middle age couple with belt bags and binoculars stapled to their skin.
Ecuador has been pre-ordained before I could even smile at the cute customs girl.
How did humanity function before the arrival of the culturally respecting Conveyors of the Word?
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