Minha Janela

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When the Cloverleaf Learned to Samba

“We’ll meet at the Irish bar. Flanagans. On the Square. We be there after 9. Ok. Good. I see you then. Tchau.”

Yes, yes, the IRISH BAR. Ye know such place. Once upon some time ago, when farming and family rearing were no longer desirable, and the Lord’s minions sought out other lands in which they could commercially procreate, a lottery was formed. There were to be winners and, sadly, losers. All of life is a balance, HE spoke, and Earthlings will never have peace without wars, prosperity without famines, and Led Zeppelin without Coldplay. HE did offer that rumors were floating amongst the planetary deities of some land known as Yuranus where all life lived in contented harmony. But due to a malignant strain of Homophobia that had spread throughout the G-ds, no Ruling Power would accept dominion. Apparently, something went down with that Greco Zeus that really put the fear of god into the Higher-Ups.

So, the day of the fateful drawing, numerous tribe representatives gathered at an undisclosed hilltop, perched over a rocky coastline. Feathers. Pantaloons. Scythes. Animal Masks. Including one very scary looking Tiger with red beady eyes. Floor sweeping Beards of wisened gray. A small man with curled up boots and a rather large top hat. And naturally, the little oily haired man with the hooked nose and olive skin, who would always touch thumb to neighboring finger and then proceed to make forceful movements against imaginary flies, well he was late. But somehow, he managed to kiss all in attendance, and after a few brief hand swatting orchestral productions, and a couple of pinches on the bottoms of those masked women with the camel man, he was given reprieve, and took his place amongst the anxious hopeful.

Due to territorial conflicts, a joint commission presided. God would share power with The Lord, The Lord’s misogynistic doppelganger, Allah, plus that silly clutz of an Elephant who was always knocking things down with his arms, that Short Fat Smiling Baldie who refused to stand, an elderly man with stringy chin hair and shrunken eyes who seemed fond of telling riddles no one understood, and some really scary looking Black Dude.

Numbers were drawn. And the prizes were announced. The People commonly referred to as CHINCOS, otherwise known as ‘not them again’, would have unfettered access to every conceivable place where humans live, to…..open eating establishments. They would never be subject to Franchising, and would be permitted to serve food that they themselves would never eat. Many in attendance considered this to be the Golden Egg. Sensing that humans really liked to eat ‘exotic’ food, the Bosses bequeathed another Dining Power, to the ass pinching tardy fella who wouldn’t shut the fuck up. This really enraged the crowd. So, to help mitigate matters, this new winner would only be given domain over larger population centers, would be mandated to pay for complimentary bread to all customers, would have to follow strict design codes utilizing only shiny checkered tablecloths, and foggy red soda cups. And further, to add one more hindrance, as the crowd still appeared less than satiated, these new culinary colonialists would be vulnerable to Franchising which was guaranteed to slander any esteem their countrymen had in fine cuisine. ENOUGH. The Beings continued:

Back to the East, the two chinco cousins, from over on the islands, would be given very specific dictates. The Guy with the large sword over in the corner, with the pony tail and enormous diapers, mounting his powder faced dolls in the silk bathrobes, well, he would be allowed to sell rice rolls. Eventually he could put small pieces of discarded fish inside. The Big guy was not happy. So the Board told him he could charge extraordinary prices, and people would pay. He would have a limited market, due to the large scale rape orgies his people would later perform, but still, income would be there to earn.

And to his fellow islanders, across the way, they were to be given sole authority to clean clothes in market economies. No other group should be allowed to enter foreign land and extract money for fabric laundering. The islanders seemed happy, so to slightly squash their excitement, they were told that smiling was mandatory with all consumers. No matter how angry a customer would get, they must keep the smile, or be subject to the anger of their Deity. And since the crowd seemed amused by this addendum, the Rulers, feeling empowered by the tribe leaders’ chuckles, added that whenever a customer would yell, or throw something at them, which would happen, since they were being given control over an art that would never have perfection, well, these folk would have to laugh back. Yes yes, they would have to laugh at their accusers, which would surely make them more mad, they protested. No matter, the GodPeople retorted. You will only be allowed to laugh. And, due to some small objection from the littlefatman god, be permitted to use the words, “So Sorry”, repeated in intervals of two.

Ok. Hmmhmmm. Things were moving along now. Anxiety had tipped to excitement, and all waited to see what great gift would come next. To the turbaned man on the camel, with the wagon full of eye revealing persons, he shall receive generous access to a rock liquid. Then, at said time in the future, he would sell this liquid at RockLiquid Dispensaries around the world. The people of the Klutzy Elephant God would run these dispersal centers. The Powers seemed happy with this hereto-unknown act of multi-cultural commerce partnership. No, no, the angry camel jockey protested. We will not get some stupid liquid of the rock. We not want. You give us more, or I make big problem for you.

The Lords did not take lightly to this threat, so act as if they were enhancing his rights, they gave the miser unlimited rights to sell the chickpea. A severely confused bean that no one wanted. No other tribe shall have market rights to the chickpea, but the Garbanzo was still available. Only the grump on the camel could use the chickpea. Fry it. Squish it. It was his for the taking. The crowd really guffawed at that one. And the angry man in white pyjamas rode off with his strange wagon, promising that wasn’t the last they’d here from him. Meanwhile, the dark skinny man from AwkwardElephantLand was quite happy. He profusely thanked the Gods for this opportunity bobbling his around in circles, ‘thank you so verrrry much. It is such pleasure to have to serve you. Oh, this is very good.” Feeling their first bit of appreciation, the Ruling Elite decided to allow this man to branch out from his RockLiquid management position. He would be permitted to run stand alone establishments selling already cooked food items, including a frozen ice specialty with secret addictive formula. Further he could run his business throughout the evenings, and feel free to violate the Sabbaths. And, if he did well, they would consider granting rights to run inexpensive roadside lodging in a location to be announced at a later date.

The Gods took a look around the mountaintop, and decided that a few more awards would be given. To the large yellowed hair white man with those horn things on his hat, he would be given, hmmm, what, oh yes, to you we give access at a later date, but please trust us, that this will be most valuable. He was granted the furniture trade. He protested over the bulk of such an export, that his ships could not possibly turn a profit. So they allowed him to not assemble these furnishings. Just build the pieces cheap, they said, but make them look good. Stick them in a box. The people will finish building it themselves. But how, he objected. It is not a problem, you will only include one diagram with some basic drawing. We have given our people the ability to think. They are not animals. They will figure such thing out. Fine, he pouted. Knowing the horn hat man would have to wait a long time for such a venture, they also threw in international babysitting authority. All of his beautiful young women would be allowed to travel to certain countries, where they would take care of the wealthy’s children, and disrupt marriages abroad with their sumptuous breasts bathing in the draped reveals of their blonde curtains, so that upon returning home, a feeling of liberty would overtake his people, and all laws of fidelity would be abolished.

WHAT? The crowd was dismayed, confused, even the Camel Man yelled back from down the hill, “IT CAN NOT BE. DEATH TO YOU INFIDELS!!” Still a bit unsure of things, the horn hat asked for clarity. The crowd quieted. Even the little top hatted fellow shut up. The little man, with the gray chin hair spoke from the Lord dais, “Your people will Fuck. Everybody fucking. Nobody care. Lot of fucking. Even animal, like horse. Will make for good picture, I think. Remind me of story, There are three boys…” People from the crowd started hissing at the riddle telling old man until he sat down. The blonde haired man didn’t know if he should be happy or angry. He said he’d think about it, and maybe give rights to his tribal neighbors, the even blonder pansies to the East.

The crowd was growing restless. The Gods were losing their minds. Free love, Man can not accept this. What was next, a woman to lead. A man to care for child. The drawing still continued. But laziness of thought even affected the Great Powers. They summoned the following leaders: The little man with the red cape and skinny sword, from the large peninsula in the southwest, his tribal neighbor who spoke a similar tongue, from that smaller enclave on his eastern coast as well. The little frowning man with the glass of wine from the larger region to the north. Yes, you too, get up to the table. They chose a couple of more. That one inebriated guy with the really bad teeth, who kept kicking the frowning little man with the glass of wine. Get him up here. And they brought up one more. The tall blonde guy with the harsh dialect, similar to that fatter mustachioed fellow, who had been harassing the tall guy all day. Threatening him, it appears. Alright, well, they were all gathered, anxiously waiting for the table to deliver their winnings.

Mr. GOD spoke. Each of you will be put in a competition to determine your superiority.
The little man with the wine objected, but before he could sputter his pretension, Mr. GOD slapped him, spilling burgundy colored wine all over his well sewn threads. Mr. G continued. It is with such behavior that we feel you have nothing of value to offer the World. But, being that all of you have come so far, we feel we can allow you something. You will take your ships and go to lands you do not know. The people will not like it. They will try to kill you. They will give you disease. You will have to find a way to rule. But in these places, riches will await you. Riches beyond the imagination. Whoever collects the most area will have the power to rule the material world, and receive a round trip ticket to the heavenly paradise of their choice, plus receive a limited edition set of these wonderful knives I have with me. The tall man who was being beaten by the fat man, objected. We are but such a small place. How will we compete in this race. And the island man with the bad teeth, added that his people were an isolated bunch, unable to achieve such glory. Not to worry they were promised. Compete with your heart, and you will have the spoils of victory. But they all asked in unison, of where and who shall they go to. The Table of Lords all looked over to the one they call GOD. He brought the tribal leaders in closer. Then, he pointed over to the short brown skinned feathered people, who had kept silent throughout the affair, and then, over to the Heavy Black Men, beneath the Masks. To the lands of those you will travel.

The Lordly gave each other satisfied looks of accomplishment. Even the large Black god gave a nod of approval before returning his head down to his hands where he was in a counting frenzy over his newly begotten stack of rare gems. Balance, he was told, it had to be done in the name of balance. The feathered brown men continued to behave oblivious to the entire day’s proceedings, instead focused on these strange birds that kept appearing on the various boulders dotted around the mountaintop. And then, there was that whole incident where one of the feathered people ate the heart of one of the primly dressed white guys. But no matter. God, the elected leader, was asked to adjourn the affair.

Before he could even raise his 100 meter long gaveling phallus, two different leaders approached, each expressing his disapproval. First, spoke the anxious little whiny guy, with the eyeglasses and receding hairline. He wanted to know what his people did. They were always obeying their God. And as much as they wanted to, they still continued to refrain from that tasty succulent delicacy: Pig. GOD took this one himself. He assured the little guy that they were not forgotten, and that eventually they would inhabit two very small but valuable pieces of land. They would have a home in which their way of thinking persevered. And as a token of appreciation for their continued refusal of the Pig, they were promised exclusive dealership rights to a small gemstone, clear and shiny. It may look a bit boring, but he was promised that all the world would eventually want it. Women would control the future with this previously worthless rock. The small guy with the big nose, looked up, and simply stated, “Well, I guess, if that’s all you got. I’ll take it. I’d like a little more, you know, just a little something extra, but yeah, fine. That’s fine. Sure. Ok. Thanks. Um. Yeah, ne-ne-nevermind.”

Then, pushing aside the small whiner, spoke the fatter mustachioed man in his harsh dialect, with the large drink mug, the one who was beating up his taller tribal neighbor. The fat man was told that his behavior would not be awarded. And that instead he would be given a large bathing room, and a large cooking apparatus. These would be specially formulated to ‘clean’ his people so that they would no longer behave in such an obnoxious manner. Upset over his long, arduous trip to this remote moutaintop, the fatty broke his precious mug, and declared none of it mattered, as he represented a godless people. He then looked over to his nearest competitor, the little whiny guy, with the glasses, and said, as punishment to his precious little God, that he better ‘vatch it.’ The Whiner didn’t know what to say. The HornHat man was yelling “kick he’s ass.” The little bespectacled guy could only muster a bad joke, before he trotted off, shaking his head in confusion. As the little guy walked away from the table, he heard a hissing sound coming from within the crowd. He hunchbacked his way over to the source, to the guy who had won the worldwide restaurant hegemony. The yella fella pulled the insecure man close, within a whisker or two of a kiss, and then handed over a small white box with some red writing on it and a metal handle, and into the ears of the confused recipient, uttered two words, mind you, two words that would leave the recipient’s descendants confounded for millennia. MOO-SHOO.


Finally. This time as GOD unfurled his Giant gavel to the shocked crowd, and the Chinco people asked why they had been endowed so unfairly, a rather strange incident occurred. An invisible voice shouted, “What about my fuckin’ people, huh, you bloody fuckin’ twats.” Out of the small mass of tribal leaders emerged the source: A rather tall green top hat, revealing strands of fiery orange hair. He began clicking his boots together doing some kind of bizarre dance. And then jumped on top of the table, in front of the Almighties, and declared, “So, as I was sayin’ to ya. What have yas got for me, eh?”

The Holier than thou’s expressed shock that this little thing represented a body of people. Who would choose such a thing? They all looked at each other, unsure of what to do. The little smiling fat man, still in the same spot as when they started the meeting, concurred with the gesticulating Elephant, that they just assumed the little man with big hat was part of the hired entertainment that the caterers brought. The other LordMEN thought he was some annoying drunk friend one of the leader’s brought along. And the feathered guys thought he was a byproduct of the plants they had been eating all day.

The Leaders had been packing up there belongings when the little guy began his amusing dance. Jumping from the little fat man’s head and then catapulting himself on the elephant’s arms onto the immense back of The Lord. As the Gods took swings at him, he would simply escape onto the back of another, chuckling some indecipherable rhymes. After some time, shortly after two of the so called Chinko people began dancing with the uptight wine man, and one of the feathered brown guys, GOD spoke. But not before the little rhyming guy landed on his nose. But instead of attacking the convivial cretin, GOD issued one more Lottery pick. With the briefest of consults, GOD had declared that in the name of his people, the jester shall have sole rights to open alcohol drinking establishments around the world, where strangers could forget about their stresses, bestowed upon them in a God run world, and just have a good time. And, GOD added, the little man was warned that his people may never come into good commerce, and may be forced to flee to parts unknown. This venture would provide them with a home away from home. The Tophat bent forward from his nose encampment, and into GOD’s eyes went the spectacle of a little white butt, jiggling itself into a frenzy. Then, he flipped onto the priestly precipice of the table’s edge, declared his sincerest of thanks, and disappeared from sight. Forever. Not to be seen again until centuries later, when he would magically appear in bowls of a certain breakfast food.

That is how the ubiquitous Irish Bar became ubiquitous. And for centuries, many people’s lives have been enhanced thanks to it’s ubiquity. Ah, the memories, where would they be shared if not for this welcoming home of iniquity. But some cultures, well, maybe they don’t need an Irish bar. Like the Germans, or the Czechs, or the Poles. Those people know how to drink. And have the establishments to make it happen. But those new places, the ones that were to be conquered in far away lands, they would not have such a culture, and would depend on the Irish to introduce their trifecta of alcohol, inebriation, and friendliness. The LeperchauanLand´s later addition of a native singer, who would voice his disdain behind partially shielded shades, carrying on about the consequence of the godpeople’s decision to allow the black people to be conquered, well, The Irish would like to extend an apology to all. He’s not with them.

Over time, and the proliferation of expert consumers of the introduced beverages, some of those conquered communities would create their own Dens of Camaraderie & Consumption. Therefore, no longer necessitating these Irish imports.

In the city of Rio de Janeiro, the entire city is blanketed by cheap botecos. A What? Picture a storefront with no walls, a glass countertop hiding mysterious fried snacks, and a sidewalk full of those cheap outdoor plastic patio tables & chairs. Sometimes, they squeeze a few inside, along the white subway tiled walls. The weather is always warm, and you can’t walk by one without hearing laughter. Beers are always shared. They come in large bottles, with as many glasses as the table needs. Occasionally, people get up to dance. Others play cards. Some table always seems to have a guy who brought his guitar.. But most just share good times. Like the Irish Bar. But local. Do you go to an Italian restaurant in China?

So, if you get invited to an Irish bar in Rio, be suspicious. It was sure to be full of the kind of people who ordered chicken in a SteakHouse.

Nobody in the area seemed to know where Flanagan’s was. C’mon people, surely this was some kind of Institution. I know where the All You can Stuff Brazilian Meat joint is in Chicago. And I’d never eat there. One guy thought he knew it, and with his conviction I trekked 10 blocks to be stuck at a closed Pet Food Store. Finally, after a 30 minute wander, there it was, just like GOD ordained. A little painted cloverleaf on the dark exterior wooden wall, a burly doorman with an Irish accent, and two drunk blondes hanging from the second floor balcony. Before I could reach the Leper-Con’s pearly gates, the doorman handed me a large sheet of paper, like those Scan-tron type things you took exams on, and listed the entire menu alongside the multiple choice answer key. Was I suppose to walk around with my score card all night? Ridiculous.

Why the card? Because nobody trusts anybody in Brazil. This is the result of a large economic class disparity, generations of corruption, and a bet somebody lost a long time ago. When you go to a store to buy, say, some pens, your transaction looks like this. First, you have a girl get you the pens from behind the counter. Then, she sends you, without your pens, to a different part of the store, where you pay. After, you go to another part of the store, with your receipt, which you trade for the pens. At the door, you go through an inspection to make sure you have the pens. Just like the dipshit who tried to blow up a plane with his shoes, the whole country has to be subject to this overprotective idiocy for the mistake of some embezzling stationary employees.

To get to the bar, I was forced to walk up this gauntlet of narrow wooden stairs. Every step had me wanting to turn around and never come back. And as the John Mayer song grew louder, I heard my Mommies voice say, ‘It will be ok. You can do it. School is not that bad.’ Being the good son I am, I continued the ascent, hell’s irony not lost on me. And then, as I reached the summit, and sulked in my first vista of Rio’s only Irish Bar (so I thought), I realized the new theme of today’s Irish Bar. It wasn’t there to necessarily promote camaraderie, but rather as a bridge to another culture. It was a home for the English speaking countries, where they could escape their unfamiliar Brazilian surroundings. It was where Brazilians could relive their trips to New York, or London. And, it also appeared to be the place where a local girl could find her Quick Exit Visa to HonkyTown.

If somebody was sick of Brazil, and say, needed a quick escape. Muito rapído. This was it. And really, in a country with little in the way of international dine & drink, what was wrong with a little escape. Except, most of these people weren’t Brazilians. Great. I’ll never understand why people make an effort to travel to other parts of the world, only to spend time with the same people and things they left behind. Well, for this adventure, it may prove useful. My mission: To locate a girl, that was a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend, all made possible by internet. Unlike my barely legal friends at barelylegal.co.uranus, no photo was provided for identification purposes.

Have you ever tried to show up to a crowded place and meet someone you’ve never met before? If you weren’t a moron, like myself, you would at least know what they’re suppose to be wearing. But this always seems to be an awkward question to ask someone you’ve never met; Excuse me, but what are you wearing or the alternative of answering, what do you look like? Do you appear modest, and tell them you are average throughout. Do you go self-deprecating, or do you start it off right, by telling them to look for the really handsome guy with the bulge in his pants, and the dark sunglasses? It doesn’t really matter does it, cause when you get to a crowded place, it’s chaos. Like trying to find a friend running in the New York City Marathon. You walk in circles, you hope the person recognizes your lost walk of shame. Then, without warning, grabs you from behind, calling your name, and rescuing you from Loser Alone in the Bar status. There would be no savior tonight. Barely audible whispers, of Paula, are you Paula, went unanswered. As the circles increased, so did that sinking feeling of being stood up, by a person I never met. Fine, she probably left with some other bulging guy.

The balcony would be a good place for a Loser to go stand, and wave my giant meal ticket card. At least the peons on the street would think I was that guy on the balcony having a good time, and maybe one of them, those people from below, would see me in the weeks to come, and approach me like some kind of almost celebrity. We saw you up there, they’d say. Where. What. Acting aloof for prestige sake. Then hoping all the other pedestrio-s would wonder who that guy was that people know, who gets recognition shouts on the street. The other week, on Flanagans balcony. Getting pensive, eyes, looking right, then over to the left corner, Oh yeah, yeah, sure Flanagans. Great night. Love that place. So, where are you off to? Quickly she’d reply, Were you up there, by, like, yourself? Alone and stuff. And the girl would turn to her even prettier friend, who would respond in a loud enough whisper, What a loser, Let’s get outta here.

My lonely ass looked for a railing spot, cause if you’re gonna go balcony, you at least need a piece of rail. As I docked myself casually against the cast iron grating, two women were talking beside me. Two darker skinned women. Morenas. But what made them Brazilian. That they knew how to look sexy. European women do a good job of looking pretty. American women do a good job of looking, well, American. Middle Eastern women do an A++ job of looking like they don’t exist. And Brasilians, they can take an average body, and they often do, and make M&M tits into full blown Ding-Dongs resting snugly along either side of a steep canyon of hopeful wanderlust. Asses come out of the Jean Oven like ripe summer melons on cool white plate. Cushion pushin’ Pudge ends up haltered washboard tight, imprisoned beneath some secret NASA invented fabric. Backs straight. Dark, wavy long hair. And a language so sensual, that a woman’s insult goes down like ice cream sundaes after a little league game. Or something like that.

“Would either of you be Paula?,” the gringo sputtered in Portuguese, that probably sounded more like a deaf Afghani speaking English.

The shorter one, with the red highlighted hair, and supersizeMe M&M’s, she replied in English. I asked her to reply again in Portuguese. Amazing how much nicer a simple word like NO sounds in the local tongue. I then asked her to call me a bastard, and a no good two timing backstabbing asshole. She said something, and it sounded very very nice.

Her taller friend, with the flower shoulder tattoo, and the summer melon bottom also confirmed that she was not Paula. So, she too was commanded to repeat in a local manner. Unlike her friend, she’d called me an ‘asshole’ in English. Not very nice.

Getting back to shorty, I abandoned my attempts at Portuguese, to really get to know this woman. But first she wanted my background. Very forward. Aggressive, these Irish Bar Brasilians.

I explained my status as a ‘scout’ for the US government, and that Paula was my contact. Due to some very poor planning, I was now in danger of losing my job, so that we would have to search together for Paula.

She asked for identification. Are you serious? I explained that people in my position were not allowed to carry official identification, of the kind she was seeking, due to the possibility of kidnapping, and such.

But before I could question her, she said she knew government types and I didn’t seem like a government type. Fine. Easy comeback. I’m part of the new Obama government that is trying to change the way the U.S. does business. Do you like what you see?

Obama is not even the president for you now. Are you tell me who you are? She followed with a bright brasilian smile that sapped the bullshit right out of me.

“Fine. Don’t tell anybody, Promise (she nods). I really like Brasil. No. REALLY. And my visa is going to expire soon. I thought the only way I could stay here, you know, permanently would be to find a Brasilian girl who would marry me. And what better place than an Irish bar. Are you interested?”

“Be serious. This is serious, Okee. Why an American want to come live here. We have nothing. I am not believe you.”

“Nothing. Are you kidding me. First, you have Irish bars. And Americans love Irish Bars. We’re like, at least, an eighth Irish, even the blacks. And more importantly, you have an economy. America is done. Empire is over. Acabo, as you say. I’m getting a head start. Before the rest of my people start to emigrate.”

“You are a crazy man. You are saying first that you have work for your government, and now you tell to me America is no more a good place. You are not understand the life here. You can not imagine. I have work many years with tourist before. They thinking, ‘Oh, it is so pretty a place and everyone so friendly is Brasil. Maybe we can move here’ Look to me. You are not understand the life. If you want to kill someone. And you pay to police. No problem. Other the time you are not get pay money from the Boss. Nothing to do, you can. You want buy something. Look how the much are thing are costing. I think more than America. And we are make much less money than you are doing. Oh so many thing. You not know.”

“We have poverty, violent crime, dishonest government, a shrinking DOW, a culture of over-consumption, an over-protective society, fat people so fat they ruin the scenery, AND we have to listen to Coldplay on the radio.”

Without losing a centimeter of smile, she asks me if I have seen the real Brasil. Launching back into a smiling harangue, she says, “You are not know to poverty. I take you for poverty. The people have no water. Many disease. Here in Rio, right here, somebody can kill you, and disappear. Too much we have the violent things. I am not certain of the things you also say. But I am hearing from you consume. You are meaning to buy things, right? In Brasil, we are not different. We also want all the things the American people are having. And we can not afford, so we have a credit system like you. Look in the store window, and you see price. That is price you pay for month. For 12 month. Why you think? Because we also want to same thing. The Ipod, the Nintendo, maybe we like a car. You are so have luck. There are always some job to have in America. You are having choice. And you have law. You see the people all the day here, having the fun, drinking, playing. You think you like. But they do not know if tomorrow they have job, if we have government problem and war happen in streets. Maybe you have some problem now, but are not having worry about craziness happening around country.”

“But Brazilian people, even with no money, always seem to be having fun, smiling, and trying to live life. Many Americans, even ones who make a lot of money, they are complaining, depressed, taking medication, and never satisfied. I don’t see that so much here.”

“So you are think I am happy, yes. Another happy Brazilian woman. I need to take you to meeting more persons.”

“Fine. Will you marry me?”

“ How much you pay?”

“Installment plan, or all at once?”

“Fine, you pay installment.”

At this point, the friend, who called me an Asshole, with a smile of course, joins in, speaking in a Portuguese English pidgin.

“Marry. Voce quer marry my friend. No gosto. No gosto. Voce marry me. I go to America. No paga.”

“You don’t understand. I don’t want to go back to America. But, listen, (and telling her shorter friend to translate when necessary) if you get me married here, in Brasil, you can get an American passport after. But I’m not going with you. You go by yourself. Just leave me the instructions to use the toilet. And I will give to you one Costco membership card. You’ll love it. So much toilet paper, like you’ve never seen.”

Now, on the balcony, nestled in the corner, are myself and the two local girls competing for marriage rights. The shorter girl with the red highlights is accusing the other girl of already having a foreign husband. She retorts something along the lines of needing and wanting something or another. They forgot about me. ME. I’m the proposer here. Let’s focus. I did wonder if I could go Mormon on them. But then I came to. Why the fuck would any man want a second wife? One bitching at you was enough. But two. Is it just for sex, cause really, it can’t be worth it. Especially based on the frumpy polygamites I’ve seen. You know, why does no culture have two guys, straight of course, who live with one woman. This way, the guy’s always got a buddy around to help him do house projects, drink beers, and halve the garbage dumping responsibility. And the woman, why she’d get twice the amount of people to bitch at, to moan to about her day, her endless physical pains, mental anguish, disintegrating beauty and so on. Plus, she’d have double the adoration, gifts, and opportunities for a date night. So, what, instead of the usual once a week obligatory lay, she’s got to put out twice. Seems fair. At that moment of marital fantasy, I felt a push on my backside.

“$#%@. Are you $#%@? I’m looking for this guy I am suppose to meet here.”

“Ahhhh. Paula. Yeah, yeah, it’s me, $#%@. I thought you might have been one of these girls, so I was talking with them.”

Looking at the body accompaniments of my dueling wives, she turned to me, with a smirk, and said, “sure, anyway, I am happy you find the place. I have to ask you though, how are you pronouncing your name?’”

“$$$#%@@. The last part is tricky to pronounce. Nobody ever gets that right. Just call me, ‘guy’, it’s easier.”

“$#&*%. Right. $#*%. Strange name. I have not heard this before.”

“Yeah, it’s a bit unusual. My parents liked to be different. My sister, she’s younger, they named her **#(@)(@)#**. Nobody ever gets that right. Even my folks screw that one up. Sometimes, when we were little, they’d just hold up a sign, with her name on it, when they were trying to get her attention. Every once in a while, I’d be in my room, next to my little sisters, and I’d see my Mom come running up the stairs, holding up a sign saying **#(@)(@)#**, waving it around hysterically, chanting, ‘Why don’t you ever come downstairs when I call you, c’mon, let’s go, we need you in the kitchen.’”

“Yeah. Huh. I always thought the American people were a bit strange. Well, no problem. Why don’t you come over here, and join me, and my two other friends.”

“They wouldn’t happen to be two women, who just happened to be looking for a husband, would they?”

“Ah, don’t you worry. This is Flanagan’s. They will find you.”

“You’re English is great. Where did you learn it?”

“Fucking foreign men like you. Good teachers. Bad sex. C’mon. Don’t look to me like that. I lived in New York for 3 years. Were those women really arguing about trying to marry you?”

We headed over to the other side of the balcony, a mere 12 feet from where we had been standing. I waved goodbye to my future wives, and told them we’d be talking, giving an extra wink to my shorter friend. Unfortunately, I always screw that up, so my wanna be sexy wink comes out looking like a bad eye tic. What a great country though. First I get two women to compete for my love, and now I’m being escorted by a pretty blonde white girl, yes, we have people like me here too, she says. To where, I’m assuming , to my waiting concubines. I begin to talk to a new girl, in a light pink blouse, who appears to be one of the concubines. But Paula stops me. Over here she beckons. Two people over. Oh.

These are my two Paraguayan friends, Tomas and Eddie. They are twin brothers. She whispers over to me, in English, I know how to find some interesting fucks, huh? And then continues, in Spanish, Tomas is in the Navy, and his brother is finishing college. Guys, I want you to meet $#%@.

The Paraguayan Navyman with the bald head asks me in broken English to say my name again.

$#%@. It’s hard to pronounce really. Just call me Eddie.

That’s my brother’s name.

Yeah, I thought it would be easier for you.

I can say that your name. $#(%&. It is ok. Right.

No. You’re not going to get it. Really, it’s just a name. Call me Tomas if you want.

That is my name. Are you Tomas? No, you are not, you said your name is $#@… it is difficult to say.

I told you this. No problem, we don’t need names, so, how ar-----

I want to say name. Let me try again. I will get it. $#(!.

No.

$%@#

No.

$##*@

No. In Spanish, look, it doesn’t matter. You can call me what you want, just make eye contact and I’ll reply. Names are overrated, and were created by patriarchal tribes to pass property on to the children of their choice. I don’t believe in that bullshit. I’m against a Will Society, and that means I’m against names. My parents, they were both part of the fledgling Anti-Willies, back in the late 60’s, which is how my sister and I got our names. Legally, if the Court can’t read the name aloud, then it is impossible to leave a Will to those people.

You are tell to me, that when you parents are die, they are not to give you the home, or money or some things.

Yes. That is correct.

Stupid.

You’re from Paraguay, and you’re in the fuckin’ Navy. The NAVY. Last time I looked at a map, you guys didn’t have an Ocean. That’s like Rio having an Avalanche Rescue Team. You’re stupid.

No. I am not. You are stupid.

Before things got stupider, Paula had interjected in Portuguese, So $#%@, I see you have met our beautiful women. Is this why you came to Brasil?

“For a wife, of course. Seriously, I’m part of the Human Genome Project, and they assigned me to Rio. I’ve got to map your guys DNA. If I can get it done in four months, I get a bonus.”

“Really, my ex husband worked on that. He is a Doctor in Sao Paulo. Maybe we could call him, see if he can help you.”

“Uh, uh, that’s alright. I’ll let you know if I need any help.” Turning to the Paraguayans, who had both taken seats on the balcony rail, presumably because the nation of Paraguay didn’t have balconies with such holding power, I inquired, “How do the women here compare to the monkeys in your country?”

Tomas laughed, but the obdurate waterless military man barked back immediately, in broken English to rival my stuttering Sammie Portuguese. “Our women are beautiful. Very very nice. Why you call to them to monkeys? Paraguay women are some most beauty women in world.”

“And how you know to this?” I hate when my English ends up mimicking the other person.

“You have see the Olympic. You see. Our woman is popular every country. Why. Most beauty. All the women like to this.”

“I will say this. You’re Olympic chairperson is smart. You have no athletes in that wasteland of yours. So you find the most beautiful woman in your country, and don’t get too excited here, cause even an inbred state like Oklahoma has a gorgeous girl or two, and you send her to the Olympics. Smart. The rest of Earth was trying to win an athletic competition, and your people went for the cheap press. I like it. Very American.”

“Wait the second. You want say we like ‘ok la homos’ persons. No. You can not say. Why are you say this? Are you to think I am not know what la homo mean? Gay. Yes? No. You not stand here and call the Paraguay peoples Gay. Eddie, {in Spanish, turns to brother} this stupid American is calling our people gay. Can you believe it?”

Eddie isn’t paying attention. He seems to be playing ‘smile & eyes’ with someone. No way. It is the little husband hunter, with the red highlights, and nice tush. His brother calls at him again.

“Eddie? Hey. What do you think?”

“About what? I’m trying to talk to someone. Why are you always doing this to me?”

“Who? Who are you trying to speak to? You are sitting here alone, next to me. What? Are you serious? You are playing those dumb eye games with her. Brother, please, she is a whore. Why do you want to get involved with that?”

“I’m on vacation. Leave me alone.”

“Fine, idiot. No matter. The American is saying that we Paraguayans are gay. Do you believe it?”

Eddie looked over to me, “You think are people are gay? What is this?”

“I never said that. I was talking about Oklahoma, you know, the state in America. And you’re brother, who insists on talking in English, didn’t understand.”

Eddie glanced over to his Officer brother, and curtly said, “You’re the idiot.” And then went back to hunting with the hunter.

Paula, who had been amusing herself with this conversation, rose from her seat and put her arm around Tomas, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and proceeded to topic change.
“$#%@ here wants to spend the festival season in Rio. And he is studying Portuguese.”

“How are you calling his name? This is not possible. I don’t know what language that is.”, Tomas blurted incredulously. “Hey, #@(*#$#, shit, anyway, let us hear some Portuguese.”

“I am only to start to my study now. I am know no many word or how to make pronunciation. It has for me be the language difficult pronounce. It more the different Spanish than I am think. But I is speak, not the problem”, I responded in high Portuguese.

Tomas returned to his English. “You sound stupid. You make practice. You have to must practice the more. You are to know Spanish than you can to learn the Portuguese. You take class. You make to speak. Ok. No have problem. When you hear me speak before, good, correct?, and now I sound like a person who to come of here. Tell to me, you are liking System of a Down, or how is about Creed? Good?”

This point in the conversation was inevitable. When meeting people in a foreign land, especially for Americans, one who is American must be prepared for the cultural smegma that seeps into the confused receptors of it’s foreign inhabitants. It was no joke when Americans used to kid about David Hasselhoff’s big German following. Perhaps, marketers of music/film people don’t need to promote their clients when they have a strong U.S. following. Often times, an American will be made to look culturally ignorant of their own culture, when some guy in Brazil, or Malaysia, or anywhere else asks about that movie, ‘Blood Mother’, or that band, ‘Crazy Cowboys’. What? Yeah, Americans knew our diplomatic (political) reputation had sunk to new lows, but few were prepared to deal with the entertainment reputation now plaguing the country. A strange kind of plague, as, people abroad seem to genuinely enjoy this crap. Maybe, we, or some of we, Americans have become too demanding of our artists. Perhaps, we have put too much value on plot, lyrics, or rhythm. Why can’t some of us sit back, and enjoy a movie involving competitive brothers who like to bloody each other to win the love of their mother. Movies stripped of intellectual hubris, that get down to primacy. Or bands that play the same chord on the guitar with such melodic tunes as, “Yeah, yeah…yeah, Yeah, you know it. Yeah, yeah. You need it. Yeah, yeah, yeahyeahyeah. Alright now…”

Sure. There is plenty of this nonsense floating around the third rate cable channels of America, or being played on basement broadcasted internet radio. Freedom of Expression. No one is complaining. But if the stuff you ignore, the stuff, you say over to your wife on the couch, ‘who listens to this’ or ‘I can’t believe somebody would make this’, and then you change the channel, well, imagine if that stuff, commonly referred to as crap, or shyte in England, so that shytecrap became the only window into which people judged you. As if Obama didn’t have enough to worry about, if he’s going to undo the diplomatic damage, he needs to make it a crime to represent your product as American, unless you’ve been pre-approved by The U.S. Dept. of Homeland Reputation, Arts & Media division. Damn liberal elitists!

Had I heard of these groups? Sure, I said. Then, to gain clout with the Paraguayan, I added, how about Motley Crue, or Twisted Sister. Poison?

“Yes. I love this. You know to that one song, {and he began singing something completely uncomprehendable}.”

And yet another phenomenon. Not only does the embarrassing hard rock cross borders, but it seems to peak in popularity 20 years after its demise. Which explains South America’s growing trend of faux gold plated house fixtures.

Paula asked about the boner I was sporting.

It’s just these shorts. The crotch part bunches up, gets really stiff. That’s true. Really.

The conversation continued in the Portuguese to English to Spanish back to Portuguese to English. A very confusing exercise for someone who is learning one language, and speaks the other with only moderate fluency.

More American byproducts were thrown my way, “You like K Town? How about Animal Man? What you like better, hippie hoppie, or hock and holl?”

“What is the difference?”

“Hippie hoppie. Like 50 cent and Jay Z. Hock and holl, you know. ACDC. You know, Scorpions.”

“It is hip hop and rock and roll.”

“Yes, we say this. Hippie hoppie and hock and holl.”

“There are no hippies that rap, that I know of. And hock…”

Paula spoke up, in English so I would definitely understand. “The ‘r’ has an ‘h’ sound in Brazil, and we add ‘ee’ to the end of many words, especially English versions.”

“So, you mean, sometimes, you like to take ‘testees’.”

“Of course. Sometimes. I don’t always like to take testees. Sometimes, when I was a student, I was so scared of testees that I would not go to class to take testee. I was really afraid of the big testees. For big testees, I needed to have special preparation time.”

Giggling, I told her not to worry, because I was afraid of big testees too.

The non militaristic brother, Eddie, had apparently been engaged in a cross balcony glance swap with my initial encounter of the evening. She had finally come over to our corner of the now tightly packed balcony. After some quick intros, Eddie immediately wanted to take photos. Digital cameras are going through the same phase they did in America 5 years ago (and sometimes still today). That phase, when every moment needs a photo, and then everyone has to look at the photo, and then, because one of the people didn’t like their smile or their red beady eyes, demands another photo, so that you spend twenty minutes taking the same photo.

As our little group took posing position, the husband hunter ducked for cover. She was refusing to be photographed. Strange. So we all harassed her, to no avail, when one of the Paraguayo’s noticed her wedding ring. She blushed, almost as bright as her highlights, and turned her back on the Image Capturer.

As the men, consisting of one gringo, and two very white Paraguayans, began laughing at the woman’s poor whoring technique, Paula spoke up to explain some ‘fact’ about certain Brazilian women.

“Here. We have some women, they have a marriage, ok. But it is not so good. Maybe they are having problems. Or sometime, they are not having sex with their husband, but they still love him. So maybe, one night, they go to a bar just to find some fun. You know nothing serious.”

“We have that in our country too. We call it ‘cheating’. An entire television show is dedicated to real life people who share their stories. The man who hosts it, for many years, he was our cultural attaché to the world, sharing America’s soul, that is, before movies like ‘Blood Mother’ took over. You don’t know Jerry Springer?”

Tomas interjected in his brusque English, “Jerry! Jerry! Jerry! Yes, in Paraguay, very popular. He is great. I am like this show very much. I ask to you, where are these people live, we are not having this people in my country.”

“You have them, you guys just can’t afford to make your own television programs.”

“George Bush, he is your president, right?”

That’s a trump card. You can make impoverished backward nation jokes all day, but when someone pulls out the W card, you’re screwed. Probably no other word in the American lexicon signifies the depth of American ills. And for pure profane sake, we have finally found a word (s) to abdicate CUNT from it’s previously indomitable position, as THE ultimate vulgarity.

Eddie had taken approximately 18 photos, between the four of us, in every conceivable permutation. And once the camera went away, the previously un-photographable ‘wife’, decided to join Eddie up on the balcony rail. Within minutes, her hand was on his thigh, and a special friendship was in bloom.

Out of the conversation loop, I surveyed the bar. Simple survey. Based on skin tone, about 80% of women were darker, Brazilian chocolate with a dollop of milk, versus the men, who appeared to be over 80% white with a dollop of milk (different than I remembered upon entry). It appeared, according to my keen powers of observation, that this was where certain Brazilian women, with Vanilla fever came to hunt. They probably didn’t factor that at least a quarter of their own country is White, and their neighbors even more so. The Paraguayan duo was as white as any hick on Jerry. Which means, that some of these women would not be receiving green cards. If you’re a white South American, having trouble meeting darker skinned women, and you’re in Rio, go to Flanagan’s, and speak in English. They’ll love ya. Just imagine, the woman who spends her whole night with a guy, assuming he’s Dutch, or German, and finds out he’s Paraguayan. Kinda like a Mexican getting to meet his new white next door neighbor, only to find out he’s Puerto Rican.

This informal study surprised me. Why? Because throughout the world, prostitutes gather in hotel bars and touristed nightclubs. These women were not hooking, but looking for a relationship, with benefits, of course.

I discussed my observations with Paula, shortened to, “Black guys probably don’t spend much time here.”

“I know what you’re thinking. It is not like that. Ok. Maybe some. A lot of the men here, they treat the women like shit. And you can never trust them. Especially the men here in Rio. The European men, The Americans, they treat you nice, they show you respect. A woman needs this. And sure, for some of them, the foreign man is exotic.”

Eddie came back from the bar with a round of beers. “This one is mine.”

“Aren’t they all the same.”

“No, this one Heineken.”

The import rule of quality seems universal. Clothes with a Made in Italy tag, Beer from Germany, Tobacco from America, Women from Sweden. In most foreign places, specifically those of the developing world, there is a branch of humanity, normally from the less educated classes, who likes to spend the extra buck on an Import. Despite having local products of equal or superior quality, they define sophistication by brand, just as the market intended.

The Marlboros sit conspicuously, peering up proudly from the table, so all the poor saps smoking the local manure can ogle. The owner, usually stinking of duty free Armani, will look endearingly at his status amulet, give a wry smile, a light throat laugh, and then gently unearth a fine stick of his American tumbleweed. He always shares, this guy, because he wants a flock, a minion who will see the local shoe cobbler as their Rockefeller, doling out little trinkets in return for their continued worship. Naturally, the pack returns to the table, just far enough from it’s owner so the others can see the Marvel.
And when he’s tired of drinking Heinekens, he gets Jack Daniels. If they don’t have it, he’ll try for Johnnie, and if that’s gone, he sticks with Heinies. Cause that’s what Import Whores do.

Tomas raised his glass of fine brew, in a toast, but his brother seemed oblivious, lost in the throes of cross-border romance. Tomas, wanting to speak more English, savoring the bitter piss of his overseas potion, slowly began to ask me about foreign policy. Normal questions when you travel. As an American, you need to be prepared. Know how the US screwed with basically every country in South America, the right wing dictatorships it supported, cause if you don’t they will give you hell. And then, to keep all balanced, you’ve got to talk about the positives, like the Peace Corps, the overall Good intentions of American people, citizen and government funded humanitarian organizations, and of course the shipment of large quantities of Marlboro. Tomas, being a military man, was upset about the US presence in Paraguay. Shit. Not something I studied up on, but being how Paraguay was slanted in that bad Richard Dreyfuss dictator comedy, I assumed it was to maintain stability, and more likely to curtail the rampant smuggling of American goods that go through there. He was more specific.

Lowering his head, square jaw jutting out, Heineken slowly swallowed, he spoke in confidential tones. “I am sure. You are say ‘sure’ or ‘certain?’ Yes. I am certain that..No. I am think it ‘sure’. Yes. I am sure that US come into my country to steal. From my PEOPLE.”

“What are they stealing?”

“We have, in Paraguay, very large water under the ground. Maybe most big in South America. The American government want to have our water. This is why.”

“What are we going to do with your water?”

“What you mean by this. You are take it. Bring to America for your people and no leave water for Paraguay people.”

The problem with hegemony, and the proliferation of bad, US made, conspiracy movies, now becomes apparent. Any problem a nation has, no matter the size of either nation or issue, the US is the Boss everybody loves to hate. Sure, Certainly, plenty of people love the US, but regarding the others, in their opinion, it’s because of the US that two groups of people practicing the same religion want to kill each other. The US is why certain ethnic male populations view fidelity as sleeping condomless with the same whore for a week straight. The US is why your wealthy people dangle spit over the backs of crippled beggars. Without the US, corrupt governments wouldn’t exist, and Peace on Earth would arrive. Whatever.

“You may be right. I heard we’re just trying to handle a few small logistical problems, like transport, and stuff like that. NO biggie.”

Eddie came running over to Sergeant Sibling, after having been occupied for the past hour, and, in Spanish, said they had to go. Now. Why? “Cause I think she’s a whore. I am not interested in that. Come on. Please.”

Tomas, saying his wisest words of the evening, simply bellowed, “You thought she ACTUALLY liked you.”

Within minutes, the brothers, and their local hostess, were bidding farewell. Eddie was scared. Paula seemed tired of babysitting, and Tomas couldn’t afford another Heineken.

Alone. Again. Getting late. A look around the bar showed many successes had taken place during the evening. A lot of broken English could be heard through some Oasis song. Looked like some kind of Racial sensitivity corporate training video, as disparately placed mixed raced couples talked, emotionlessly, but, conversing nonetheless. Amidst the little sea of darker women getting their late night glass of milk, I spotted two black men with a pair of blondes. Later, I would learn that Scandinavians frequently satisfied their dark chocolate fetish at Flanagan’s. Serving Rio’s culturally curious since 1978.TM

No one wants to be that guy, alone, at the end of the night. Why didn’t I leave with the group? I could have played air guitar to 80’s hair metal with the Paraguayans. But before I could chicken out of the Flanagan, one woman seemed partner-less.

“You come around here often? What happened to your love affair with the Paraguayan boy? Not white enough? Small Naval fleet?”

“You think I am come here for white men. You don’t know a thing. You, you look like one of the person who think you know everything, but I know, I am knowing that you do not. You don’t know a thing.”

“I know it’s 2am, and you’re sitting here alone. And that cute smile seems gone from your face.”

“And you, who are you with?”

“Um. You.”

“Fine. You are with me. Now what. Are we going to go back to your place?”

“I’m not that kind of guy.”

“So what, we are stay here.”

“Maybe we can talk for a bit.”

“Ok. Talk.”

“Tell me about your husband. That should be a good one.”

“He is not a my husband. He lives with me. More a boyfriend. And he is the father of our children. Listen. I am live almost 3 hour drive from here. I can not go home during week and make back for work. I have a house, near to Buzios.”

“Couldn’t you find a home a little closer to the city?”

“You think it that easy? It expensive to get land by here. There, I am have a house, and land, and plants, and animals. Very peaceful. Here you only have favelas. That is why those peoples are living like this. Costing too much to live in here.”

“How did you learn English, cause you speak pretty well, for a girl with red highlights?”

“Yes, I think you were also to think before I am just dumb girl looking for rich man. Hey, listen to me. I was rich before. I used to drive tourist people for one company. Some men, from Bermuda, they like me, and would come to here many times. They always ask for me. Then they send their friends here, only ask for me. So, I am start my own business, get one car, a small Mitsubishi, it is truck car. For many years I am driving all these people from Bermuda. Make good money. Then, I have some problem. My brother, he is broke, has no money. I love him. He had some problems and he was to getting better. I give him car for week so he can do some job. He make accident. Bad. And not fix nothing. Too expensive to make fix. I have no car. I buy older car. Chevrolet. I take people more time, but car not good, not big. It has problem. Too much money they want for fix.”

“Couldn’t you get the Bermudans to lend you some money? Lot of banks in Bermuda. Great shorts too.”

“No. I am not making this. I am tired of doing the business now. I make new business. I sell the second hand necklace, ring, and this thing here (wicker armchairs) in Ipanema. I have a store. Many customer. Then, the owner, he want to take more money from me. I can not pay more for store. He not to listen. I have to leave store.”

“Why wouldn’t he let you stay? Did he have someone else to move in?”

“I think they are racist people. I not know. But not many black people like me have store in that area. Many times, the white people are not liking us darker people. In Brazil, they do what want. You make money, somebody try to take it. You not pay, you not make more money. Such is our life.”

“And then what? You sell bananas in the market?”

“Ha. You are try be funny. I am work very hard. I not think you understand how it is here. I speak English, I can get many work. Then I find work driving for German woman. I take children to school, clean house, I am do everything there.”

“She doesn’t ever lock you in a special shower room, does she?”

“What you say? They are very good people. And they are pay me very good. Only problem, I don’t have place to sleep. They have no extra room. And I don’t go back home during week.”

“Ok, then where do you sleep?”

“I find the place. How about you? Am I going to come back, sleep with you tonight? You are far from here or not?”

“I may sound naïve but do you want a bed to sleep in, or do you want sex?”

At this point, she only talked in Portuguese, smiling again, presumably so the other gringos didn’t overhear, in case they were future prey. “Don’t be stupid. I am coming home with you to sleep. We have a good time. You will like it. And in the morning, I will have to leave for work.”


“Fine. Make me breakfast and Give me a 100 dollars, and I’ll do it. Deal?”

“Ha. Too cheap. 100. 400. 400.”

“Seriously, you give me 400, fine. I’ll even pay for the cab. I was going to make you take the bus.”

“Are you so crazy? Don’t play the games with me? Are we going, or not?”

“Me. I’m crazy. You agreed to pay me, and now you’re backing away. Liar. I don’t like be lied to.”

“I never make the lie. Why am I pay you for sex? Who pay a man for this thing?”

“A lot of women. I’m here to get rich, like you. I’m not just gonna give away this white diamond for nothing. If I thought we could fall in love, sure, I’d do it on an even trade, even kill your husband if I had to, but I don’t see love between us.”

“Love. Love. You talk to me about love.” At this point, she became perturbed, borderline yelling, “There is no such thing as Love. Money is Love. I will do whatever I need for Money. Do you understand me. With Money I can buy the love. There is no such thing as Love without the Money. And I will get the Money. You don’t give me. Fine. That is not problem.”

“I guess I know what to get you for Valentine’s Day. Love is possible. It must be. If Hollywood has taught me anything, it’s about the undeniable power of Love, and maybe killing your brother to win the love of your mother.”

“You are young. And maybe not understand. If I have money the love not important. With money I am free, I can do any that I want. No man, no person has the control. I am sell my body sometime. I not care. Money gets me love. With it I am happy. The more I get the more I am feel better.”

“Can’t you be poor and still be in love?”

“You are not poor, so you not understand. If you are poor, you have worry about money. All time. So you find way to make more money, and still, you have worry. And because you make the worry, you never have love.”

“Maybe you’re problem is that you don’t have a satisfaction point. Plenty of rich people never have enough money either. And they complain like you do.”

“Then, they are not rich.”

“Don’t you feel bad about using some guy for his money?”

“HA. Always you are surprise to me. You are think the white man is really love me. He get a beautiful woman. A woman to care for him, to make him feel like a man. What more he need. And the woman get money, so she feel safe, so she is to get anything she want to make her feel so beautiful, so powerful. You no understand life. All the history man and woman use to each other. Man provide protection. Womans is giving children and care for man. Today only is more the modern style. Do not believe in your stupid movies.”

“Right. Well, I’m taking off soon, I got a single bed, but I can put some sheets on the floor for you. Get you some Bermuda shorts to sleep in.”

“Ha. You are not interest. Fine. Go. You are only one more stupid white man. You don’t see.”

“But I’m confused. You don’t work until 9am tomorrow morning. Where do you spend the night?”

“I stay here until they close at 4, and then we have after hours place. I am strong woman. For me no problem. For you, problem.”


Was this what the Lords intended upon bequeathing the Irish this international house of Intox? Had the Irish pub been transformed from a place of inebriated brotherhood into a resource center for economic betterment?

A few days later, I met a new friend in another part of the city. Educated, pretty, and very Brazilian. She confessed she had a ‘thing’ for white men.

You should check out this bar, it’s called Flanagans.

She replied, “Great place. I go there all the time.”

Surely, Certainly, when that Great meeting between the Lords and the Leaders took place, one of the Holies, maybe it was the quiet Black God, sheathed behind a painted mask, he must have known that this White man’s watering hole would turn into a place where darks and whites, or perhaps simply the ‘haves’ and ‘have-nots’ could finally use each other, fairly, or Fair Trade, as the Organic types like to say.

The Irish Bar in the developing World, currently on tap: Money. Love. Status. Available to all.