worlds colliding

Well, it was inevitable. There wasn't really any doubt in my mind that if I stayed here long enough it would have to happen. Everyone knows that you really can't call a friend a friend until you sit down and watch Spinal Tap with them, and that's what I did last night with a few of my Brazilian friends. It was by their request - I wouldn't have dared to initiate this kind of insanity on my own since the blowback could be huge and I might never recover.

I've written here before that my friend and coworker Viny (I think he's 19) is a huge fan of heavy metal, or more specifically, death metal. (At the risk of getting totally off topic I'll just say that the idea of death metal appealed to me in principle, when I knew nothing about it, but once I heard and saw it performed a few weeks ago it was clear to me that it really just plain *sucks*.) Apparently Viny read in an interview with the guitarist and drummer of Primal Fear that Spinal Tap was their favorite movie. This, rather than my repeated suggestion, in pidgin Portugese that "You really gotta see that movie," is what got him to ask when we could get together to see it.

Even though Viny did ask to see it, I knew that I would be taking on a lot by watching it with him and especially Ivanildo, who is at best skeptical about anything related to heavy metal and never has a problem berating the crap out of Viny over how bad he thinks metal sucks. Luckily my (copied) DVD has Spanish subtitles, which helps out Portuguese speakers quite a bit. Both of them laughed at least a couple of times at language-only jokes (as opposed to some kind of physical humor) so they understood a good part of what was going on on their own. I of course was laughing my ass off the whole time, and many, many times was the only one in the room laughing. I'm more used to the opposite situation: everyone else in the room laughing and me being like "What? What?" ("Que? Que?").

Even the times when I stopped it I could tell that I wasn't getting through with a lot of my very circumspect explanations and again with the pidgin Portuguese. But, all told, they laughed a hell of a lot more than I expected them too. This was in part, I'm sure, just because I was laughing and they got their cues from me. Also since there's a lot of jokes that are either vulgar and/or regarding sex, they were able to relate without me explaining (thank god) since those subjects are somewhat universal, at least in comedy.

The one part which got fewer (i.e., none) laughs than I expected was when I explained the title of "Sex Farm Woman." I may not have translated it right (although I just checked it on AltaVista/BabelFish and it was the same) but all I got was blank stares. I, of course, could barely keep from laughing while I was talking, in part because of the subject matter, and also because of the situation. The concept of "working on a sex farm" is of course in itself pretty funny, but when in the middle of trying to translate it into Portuguese you think to yourself "I'm trying to explain 'Sex Farm Woman' to people in Portuguese," it's surreal in a very funny way. I almost had to ask myself "How much stranger could this situation be?" And the answer was: None, none more strange.

bombs you can take home and the festival of São João

This past Saturday was the festival of São João, which is a pretty big deal around here (yes, kind of like me), to some people even bigger than Christmas. The kids have this week off of school, and the only work anybody did this past weekend was to lift the 10oz beer glass from the plastic luncheonette table to their mouths.

Before going out to Camaçari to sit and stand in the rain and listen to mediocre Bahian country bands for 5 hours, I went with my neighbor/boss and his wife and 3 kids (aged 6 months to 10 years) to go and purchase the largest “arsenal” (Ivanildo’s word) of fireworks I have ever laid my hands on. Where the hell was this s* when I was 10? Prohibited by the government, as it should have been. Thanks to modern technology and surprisingly poor judgement on the part of the population, it is more easy to blow your hand off in Bahia than it’s ever been before.

Rather than go into the details of every little type of explosive whatever that we bought, I think it’s probably sufficient to just post a picture of the aforementioned arsenal and describe maybe the most interesting piece of equipment we got our hands on. We drove out to a place near the airport where there were a bunch of equally-sized shacks reminiscient of the kind set up at a fair where you go to lose your money shooting a water pistol into a little hole, for one of those rediculous pookie dolls or whatever they’re called. This is one of the few places in South America where I’ve seen a very prominent NO SMOKING sign. We looked around a few different of the shacks before settling on one where we got all of our arsenal. We spent a good 15 minutes deciding what to get, in between desperate shrieks on the part of Ivanildo’s kids to “Get this! Get that!” as you would expect. Towards the end there was a conversation between Ivanildo and the saleswoman that I didn’t understand, but he asked me to give him half of the R$20 or so was required for another woman to leave the shack and go behind it to some stash. Apparently that’s where they keep the fireworks that are too dangerous to keep in the shack, illegal, or both. My guess is that it was both. She came back with 5 of what looked like rolled-up 25 cent pieces with wicks on the ends of them.

After dinner we lit a little fire (not my idea) to light all of the stuff from, and commenced blowing s*it up. I fried my hand pretty good on a couple of large bottle-rocket type things, which I didn’t know you were supposed to throw in the air after you lit them. To be honest I don’t know if the original designed called for lighting them while holding them in your hand. Shouldn’t we stick them in the ground? I asked Ivanildo, but he gave me the kind of look you get from your friends in high school who have already gotten laid and you’re still a virgin.


I let him light the first one of the what we later called “hand grenades.” Not only was it loud enough that it send everyone running and covering their ears once it was lit, but you could feel the blast from 20 yards away *in the air*, which was something I’ve never experienced before. Ivanildo verbalized exactly what I was thinking when he said, “Imagine what a * real hand grenade* feels like.”

If you are a redneck and you would like to meet rednecks from other cultures, then you should come here for this holiday. On Saturday night around 10pm Ivanildo drove me and 4 women to the nearby city of Camaçari to go to what I’d call a massive public dance party / concert. It’s the kind of place that if you drive 10 miles further you will be in a cornfield surrounded by confused-looking donkeys with a rope around their neck that isn’t tied to anything. Camaçari was *packed*, primarily in an enclosed area that was in front of a stage and surrounded by people in tents selling food and drinks at insane prices. We got there before the first band played, and it was crowded enough that we weren’t necessarily elbow-to-elbow with people but it was unavoidable to brush against people, sometimes a little roughly. A woman (I hope it was a woman) in a train of maybe 10 or so 20s or younger women pinched my ass so hard that I turned around quick as lightning to see who it was and may have even let out a girlish yelp. She of course was gone by that time so I didn’t get to see if I should be flattered or disgusted. Damn.

A forró band came on first. I thought they were all right but everyone else said they sucked. Then after a 30 minute or so intermission a Bahian country singer came on, and I didn’t have to ask because it was *clear* that he sucked. But everyone knew all the songs, which was a little scary. Because it sounded a hell of a lot like American country music. Suddenly I realized that there were a hell of a lot of people wearing straw hats, and everyone was wearing jeans. What the hell is going on here?!!? These people are, like, hicks! The evidence had been there for some time but it took the country music for me to see it. I’m normally the type to try to enjoy myself as much as anybody (i.e., dance despite my clear lack of coordination, eat pigs feet, etc.) but this was too much. While everyone danced around having the time of their lives and singing the lyrics to all the songs, I stood there frowning with my arms folded, at least until my feet hurt so much that I sort of rocked back and forth just to try to give each one a break. It didn’t work too well.

you and your deodorant

I just posted a really long comment to a post on my sister's blog regarding the importance of deodorant choice as related to personal identity. You can see her post and my original comment, which is copied below, here.

I realize that I may be on or crossing the line into plagiarism, but I wanted to be sure to make sure I had my record of what I thought was some pretty insightful commenting, and that everyone would see that even though my posts aren't as frequent as they used to be, I continue to contribute (in quite a profound way, I might add) to online discourse (I refuse to say bl*gosphere).

The real question you have to ask yourself when making this kind of purchase is, as television tells us, "What deodorant best reflects my personality?" And that's a tough one. I relied Speed Stick Musk for years, until some douchebag in marketing or whatever decided to discontinue it in the late 90s, I'm sure because it broke into whomever's sales of cologne. I say this because I used to get all kinds of complements on my cologne, and I was more than happy to reveal how sharp I was by saying "Actually (clever-looking, self-congratulating grin), it's my deodorant." I'll admit when I realized that it was being discontinued I had to make non-trivial decision of whether I should buy every remaining stick I could find and stash/horde it in a warehouse somewhere. Of course it's always much easier to do nothing so I did that. But it was really tough having to revaluate my brand (and come on, let's face it, your choice of deodorant is pretty much the basis for your entire personality, as the title of your post implies.)

The one time I deviated from Speed Stick Musk was a complete disaster. It was my junior year in high school, and since I had limited funds and it was post-Christmas I decided to use the much more expensive smelling sample-sized stick I got in my stocking or wherever. Things went fine until I was almost at school, looking listlessly out the front passenger window of the van, until I realized that my eyes were shutting themselves on their own. I opened my window a crack and I was able to pry them open enough to say, "Mom, I think I'm having an allergic reaction to my deodorant." She was of course rather skeptical at first, although she had to be impressed at my ingenuity if she really thought I'd thought that one up to get out of school for a day. But no, it was true, and we had to head back home where I washed my armpits and used somebody else's deodorant. The tough part came when I showed up late in the vice principal's office and stated (I remember it word for word) "I had an allergic reaction to my deodorant," and handed him the note from mom. He, strangely, didn't bat an eyelash, and even said, "I know that smarts," as if a) he'd had the same experience, and b) he thought my armpits were on fire from some kind of rash, which they weren't. I don't think either of us wanted to go into detail and he told me to get the hell out of his office.

Sorry, Japan (not really).

The quietest moment I’ve experienced in the past 7 or so months came yesterday immediately after Japan scored a goal against Brazil in the World Cup to take the lead in the first 30 or so minutes of the game.  Complete silence in my neighbor’s apartment, as well as on the announcer’s mic, until he remembered who he was and then let out (quite unenthusiastically) the requisite long shout of “Goooooaaal …. !”

For those of you who don’t follow this kind of thing, which up until about a month ago included me, Brazil then came back to win 4-1.  The first goal was scored by Ronaldo with a head shot, which was fed to him by another player from the right who bounced it off *his* head (!).  Granted, there’s a lot of juggling back and forth in football (soccer) where things are frustrating and maybe a little bit boring, but seeing a shot like that live was something I’ve never experienced from a watching sports point of view.  I’ve never been a sports fan by any measure, as I’ve said before, but yesterday afternoon I was riveted.

Ronaldo’s second goal tied the all-time world record of number of goals scored in the World Cup by a single player (i.e., in his life) and passed Pele’s record of number of goals scored in the World Cup by a Brazilian.  The big news is that “Ronaldo is back!”  Where did he go? you might ask.  He, along with the rest of the team played quite crappily in the first two games, and there were complaints that he was overweight and sluggish, partly because there had been such high expectations of him and the team.  But he was in near-top form yesterday and I would say that people here were very nearly completely pleased with his performance yesterday.  Let’s hope he keeps it up.

Oh, and the US lost to Ghana yesterday which ended their chance for making the semifinals for 2006.  At least 5 or so people who thought they might be the first to break it to me yesterday said so in a subdued voice which made me think they were expecting me to break down and cry, which to them would be understandable.  I never fail to surprise – I was like, “Yeah, whatever.  Are you gonna eat that?”  Which of course was met with somewhat bewildered stares and blank faces.  I’ve told people millions of times what little attention is paid to the World Cup in the States, but it’s so contrary to their world view that they don’t seem to be getting it.  As an example, the sports section of the New York Times web page had as its lead story yesterday a feature article on an all-out-fighting league that’s like boxing where you can kick, scratch, etc., and the article on World Cup was about 5th down the list.  Not heavy coverage when you consider it was the US’s last chance for a shot at winning the whole thing.

And if you’re getting the strange feeling that the universe might be unraveling at the seams, I’m just as freaked out as you are.  Me discussing sports with anybody in real life or blogged is a first for everyone.  Don’t expect it to last, and if I suck (and I’m quite sure I do) don’t hesitate to say so.

Go Brasil.

anybody know what the Brazilian word for "football" is?

It’s probably not a surprise to hear that being in Brazil for the world cup is *quite* an experience.  Not only is it an engaging phenomenon to watch, but it’s downright contagious.  I, like most Americans, found football (I won’t stoop to calling it soccer until I’m back in the States) to be interesting in theory but a little slow and frustrating to watch on television, because scoring seems elusive and there’s a lot of time spent trying to get possession of the ball.  I’ve only seen two games thus far – the ones in the past week versus Croatia and then Australia two days ago.  But man, I’m hooked.  I’m now the one telling everyone else in the room (~5-10 of my Brazilian friends) to shut up so I can watch the game.  On the day of the game everyone, and I mean *everyone*, gets dressed up in yellow and green, from grandmothers to 2-year old children.  Each game is, without exaggerating, the equivalent of a national holiday.  Everyone goes to a party that is as big or bigger than the superbowl parties in the States.  Lots of the parties have a band.  The public areas all have wide cinema-sized projection screens for people who don’t have TV’s to watch the game.  Everyone stops working and the streets are deserted for the duration of the game.  Any suggestion of doing something productive while the game is going on is met with stares of incredulity.

On Sunday, I woke up from my (now increasingly regular) afternoon nap to the sound of extremely loud fireworks outside my bedroom window.  As should be to no one’s surprise, regulations on the sale, distribution, and use of fireworks here are much more lax than in the US.  It’s really easy to get your hands on something that when you light it makes a really, really loud sound, and also has a pretty good chance of blowing your hand off.  But I guess that’s part of the fun.  Because of the buildup for the festival de São João (festival of Saint John), fireworks have been going off during the day and night with increasing frequency since I arrived here a few weeks ago.  The World Cup games only add to the reasons for setting something off that is guaranteed to deafen anyone within 10 meters or so.  Before the games there is a crescendo of loud bangs, and even the smell of gunpowder in the air, until the game starts and you here everyone cheering in the streets and in their homes.  Then during the game, if there is a goal scored by Brazil (or sometimes even if there’s not) fireworks go off everywhere and you can hear everyone yelling and cheering in their respective apartments or wherever.  

During the game vs. Croatia, when the first (and only) goal was scored by Brazil, my neighbor’s kid (I was watching the game at his place because I don’t own a TV) ran outside to light some unbelievably dangerous-looking minibomb.  I, having no access to this kind of firepower in my own country, ran after him of course.  Unfortunately because it had been raining all freaking week it was nearly impossible to get a match lit let alone ignite the firecracker-thingy.  The kid tried a couple of times unsuccessfully, until I wrestled the matches and 2 remaining bombs out of his hands to show him how it was done.  After a number of unsuccessful tries and lots of swearing in both Portuguese and English, I gave up and so did he, and we ran back into the apartment to watch the rest of the game.

The next game is Thursday, versus Japan.

Brazil's first world cup game today vs. Croatia

Today is the first time Brazil plays in the world cup games.  Let me clarify that: today is the first world cup game for Brazil that I have any awareness or care about, since I’ve never had any inkling to or idea how to follow sports.  Until now, of course, because in Brazil *everybody*, and I mean *everybody*, is absolutely fanatic about it.  Old ladies.  Pimps.  Kids, their parents, teachers, and even their pets.  I’m wearing my one green and yellow shirt that says Brasil, not because I thought it would be cool but because one of my friends strongly suggested it, as if I might get beat up if I didn’t.  So if you see a picture of me later on looking about as American and/or non-Brasilian as possible, but wearing my Brasil shirt, keep in mind that I was only doing it for my own safety.  And because some hot Brasilian girl I know said it would be cool.

From what I’ve heard (I haven’t been there yet), there’s a huge public television set up in Pelhourinho where everybody is going to watch the game.  That’s a short walk from where I work, but today it is freaking pouring rain out, like it has been for the past week or so.  Which from what people say is out of the ordinary.  One guy told me that once it started raining at the beginning of June it wouldn’t stop for at least a month, and based on what we’ve seen so far that’s looking like a pretty accurate prediction.  But according to everyone else this level of unrelenting rain is very much out of the ordinary.  It doesn’t really bother me a whole lot except for the whole part about getting wet.  It can be pretty heavy at times, too, so it only takes like 5 seconds between the door and the car to get pretty thoroughly drenched.  On the bright side at least you’re not really cold once you get wet, at least by New York standards.

There’s a ton of things that have happened since I’ve been back (between 1-2 weeks, can’t remember exactly) that I should write about but don’t know if I have the time here to do it.

The second or third day I was here I was in the city of Feira de Santana (for the second time), about an hour outside Salvador.  Feira is about as third-world-looking a city as you could get.  Wandering around the marketplace makes me feel like I’m in an Indiana Jones movie.

There’s something I’m allergic to in the apartment I’m in right now, which is where I was living when I left.  I developed this skin rash which isn’t real serious but which itches like hell, like bad poison ivy.  I’ve been spending way too much time just trying to figure out what the *hell* it could be that’s making me itch, and of course there’s an infinite list of things it could be.  I went with a friend from work yesterday to a health clinic, just to see if I could get some relief and maybe an idea of what the problem might be, but as expected the doc didn’t have any more idea than I about what might be going on, but he did proscribe a bunch of things.  So now I have about 3 different types of girly lotions, all of which could, as far as I know, be toothpaste, to put on my rash.

I went to what I believe may have been Salvador’s first Heavy Metal music “festival” at the Rock ‘n’ Rio café at the Aeroclube with my friend Viny.  My standards of expectation were pretty low but it was pretty bad, since there were some death metal bands which just plain sucked.  Or maybe I’m just getting old.  The scene was a little piece of home, though, in a time-warp sort of way.  Imagine a crowd of Brazilians in eyeliner wearing Iron Maiden shirts (myself included – the shirt, not the eyeliner) and you’d have some idea of what the scene was like.  It’s probably better that you have someone like me to report on such a surreal scene than to come out here and see it.  Iron Maiden in Iceland was much, much cooler.

back in BA

I'm back in Buenos Aires, only for a day since I leave for Brasil tomorrow. I was in the States for around three weeks, to attend my brother Joe's (congratulations, Joe!) graduation from college, meet up with friends in New York and Maine, and even do a little (gag) business networking. The most frequent questions I got while I was home were the following, from most common to least:

1. Why aren't you tan?
2. Are you going back to work when you come back in November?
3. How many women did you sleep with?

The answer to the first is that I was in Buenos Aires which isn't tropical like Brasil, and since it's autumn here it's actually pretty cold (60 degrees and partly cloudy, right now) there weren't a whole lot of opportunities to get sun and/or go to the beach. But even when I was in Brasil I didn't get very tan unless I tried very hard since I was doing a lot of work inside and lying on the beach getting a tan, while it has its perks, to me is just really, really boring.

The answer to the second question is that I have no idea. I'm keeping all options open, and there are some very good prospects for when I come back, but who knows if they'll be there or where my head will be when I get back. A lot can happen in 5 months. But also nothing can happen in 5 months, so the only way to find out is to wait. I have been sort of poking around at graduate programs in Spanish/Portuguese language and literature. This is sort of a separate thing from work since I'd most likely still take a job somewhere if I went back to school.

And the answer to the last question seems like a Catch-22. If the number is low, then I'm a loser and everyone will know about it within days, and if the number is high then I'm a man-slut and everybody will know about it within days. While I'm as vain as the next guy, the idea of me being the subject of this kind of gossip is nauseating at best. My standard answer for this question is a knowing smile and nod and, "The women in Argentina and Brasil are *very* attractive" which of course is exactly true.