BlackNotBlack.com

The Problem with Bar Crawling

2010-03-08T07:52:00.000-08:00

Well, the problem is you sometimes have one drink too many, and think it's a good idea to steal things. I saw the above poster on the wall of a bar, and just had to have it for my website Pulp International because the image used is by Peter Driben, a famous pulp artist from the 1930s and 1940s. Really, grabbing it was no big deal because it's just a poster. The worse that could have happened is a scolding from the owner. But as an early indication of what the weekend held in store, it was pretty clear I'd end up looking like this at some point:

That's what people look like when they stay out until 5:30 in the morning. It is my birthday week, though, so I have an excuse. Everyone who knows me knows the hair never comes out of its restraints unless I'm having a really good time, and the scene of this particular crime was a bar called Etxe Kalte—probably my favorite place in town. But we'll get to that later.

Everywhere You Look There's Another Monoblock Chair

2010-03-04T06:35:00.000-08:00

I've decided I like this chair photo. I shot it from the promenade above Playa la Concha, one Sunday afternoon when I was out wandering. You see the bay and the island and the old quarter to the upper right, which is where I live. And you have the happy, middle-aged guys sunning in a row, and one of them giving me the eye. All very interesting. But the detail I like here is the blue chair right in the center of the shot. The lesson here is, just when you think you've exhausted the possibilities of monoblock chairs, something new appears. I will be sure to add this image to the chair gallery in the sidebar.

The Ultimate Bar Crawl, Part 2

2010-03-02T10:53:00.000-08:00

This will be a short one. Wandered into this joint just outside the old quarter on the Boulevard called Dickens. Without putting too fine a point on it, it should have been called Dicken' You, because the midget-sized, shit-vintage airplane wines were twelve euros and the Heineken bottles were six. To put it in perspective, you can get a beer for two euros almost anywhere in town. But the idea with Dicken' You wasn't that the customer would receive value for his/her euro, but that the riff-raff would be kept out so that wealth could mix with wealth.

I've been to so many of these places, from St. Barth to St. Petersburg, and I can spot them immediately. And they can spot me, too, because never once have I been treated respectfully in such places. But even for those designated as worthy, the service really isn't that special, and the drinks aren't any better than in other bars. The value in these places derives from the fact that anyone who resides for more than a couple of obscenely overpriced rounds has money—and that means they can feel safe with each other. At least in theory.

Sounds strange, perhaps, but there's an entire worldwide bar/club culture based upon helping rich meet rich without risking their entire fortunes. It's what country clubs, for instance, are about. How do I know this? That's another story. But I can tell you from my personal observations that for the rich there's no love deep enough, no lust powerful enough, to override their fear of losing their money. Dicken' You is one of the places where they don't have to worry about it so much. But in any case, you should give the joint a pass, because it's the least interesting bar in San Sebastián anyway.

The Ultimate Bar Crawl, Part 1

2010-02-27T10:07:00.000-08:00

I may have mentioned before that Donostia-San Sebastián has, according to various travel guides, the highest density of bars in the world. For no other reason than that I have the time, I've decided to catalog these places. My goal is visit every bar in town. It may not be possible, sort of like counting to a million, but nobody can say that I've ever backed down from a bar-related challenge. Last night I met some friends at the Paulaner München cervecería, so I'll start with that one.

The Paulaner may be the only German-themed bar in town. It's in the Parte Vieja or Old Part on Calle San Vicente, opposite the gothic Iglesia San Vicente, which you see in the shot below. The owner of this place is one of those big, jolly Basques who could moonlight as Santa Claus, if they had that myth here. He called the girls I was with "guapas," which means he's probably thinking about them even now. His bar is obviously named for the German beer, and I guess if they gave me all the branded gear in my bar I'd name it after them too.

The Paulaner is moderately local—the times I've been there my friends and I seemed to be the only tourists, but it isn't an intimidating place by any means, like many locals-frequented places can be. There's music, but not very loud music, a tray of snacks, but no bona fide pintxos, and only one television, which means this is a place where you converse. The clientele are late-twenties and up, normally. In the winter it's rarely crowded, but during the summer they set up their outdoor tables and with that view of the church it suddenly becomes one of the better outdoor spots in town, a good place to meet up early before heading out into the night. I rate it as take-a-pass during the off-season, and must-visit during the summer. Here's their website.

The Dying Art of Artistry

2010-01-31T12:11:00.000-08:00

As Americans we’ve lost any artistry we once had, and you see that in the above photo. It’s a shot of Loew’s Grande Theatre in Cincinnati, Ohio, circa 1925. I went to that theatre when I was growing up in Cincy in the 70s, and it was torn down while I still lived there. It was an impressive building, with its cornices, arched window wells, and columned 3rd and 6th stories, but it was by no means unique. Most buildings erected in the early part of the 20th century, even those destined for the most prosaic of uses, looked just as... well, grand as the Grand Theatre. But not anymore.

You see this architectural decline everywhere you look, and you have to wonder what happened to us. Sure, there are still artful projects, but they are celebrated precisely because of their very strangeness, as if raising a ruckus over the odd structural gem somehow makes up for the fact that our urban spaces are losing their souls. Is this happening because the devil of capitalism has made builders beholden solely to profits? Ornamentation costs money, so for the sake of cash it’s gotta go. But why did citizens allow this to happen? We no longer expect beauty from our edifices. It’s enough these days to have convenience and perhaps safety. Inspirational design? Forget it.

The problem is most severe in the States, but isn’t confined there. Here in Europe I can see the same process altering the low skylines of the Basque country. Like a mouth losing a tooth, a perfectly integrated old block will lose a building, which is then replaced by some blank pale structure of cast concrete and polished marble. Only the French seem resistant to this process—not immune, but resistant, somewhat. Their urban spaces remain the most carefully crafted in the world. The hundreds of square miles that make up the vast center of Paris retain their character even as they evolve. And because of that, the city remains a living museum.

Anyway, the shot of the Grand Theatre came from a website called Shorpy that shows my birth city of Cincinnati, Ohio—and many other cities—around the 1920s and 1930s. The photos I've posted below aren't about architectural wonders, but the shape of the past. It was only the Grand shot that got me wondering why our civilization has reached the point where it expects so little nourishment for the brain, and respects nothing save the quest for capital. It seems a prefect encapsulation of a future that is to be dreaded. As for the other images, I think my father will get a kick out of them, since he may recognize some of the spots. And maybe, after he sees them, he can explain why we’ve changed so much, and the art in our souls has withered and died.

Pamplona Calling

2010-01-12T11:37:00.000-08:00

When I began reading about the world outside my little house in a little ghetto in Cincinnati, I learned of places like New York, London, Paris, and Rio, and they all seemed quite interesting, so I began traveling and I eventually saw them all. But thanks to Ernest Hemingway, another place I heard about at an early age was Pamplona, Spain. And I just went there last week.

Of course, this is not a big deal. I live in Spain. It takes an hour to drive to Pamplona from where I am. But, it was still a thrill. I had not seen photos of anything other than the bull run, so I had no clear idea what the place would look like. I knew the town was Basque, so I figured it would look like my town. Yes and no. It was similar, but the architecture was better preserved in the city center. That isn’t because Pamplonistas are more civic-minded than Donostiarras. It’s because the center of Donostia burned down two-hundred years ago and had to be rebuilt. They did it in a hurry, and sacrificed charm.

I walked the route of the bull run, which happens during the Festival of San Fermín. The bulls run through the oldest part of town and into the impressive old plaza de toros. I knew Spike Lee had made a Nike commercial of himself running with the bulls, and I learned from a Basque friend that Dennis Rodman had done it too. I watched both videos, and I think, at this moment—which is months before the festival begins—that if Spike and the Worm can run the bulls, I can do it too.

So that’s the goal for spring. I’ve done lots of things more dangerous than run with some bulls. If you’ve read this blog you know that. And though I’m not in top shape, nor in the prime of youth anymore, if I don’t have enough physical ability to manage this, I pretty much deserve to die. In the Rodman video, he laments not starting farther back in the pack. The bulls never got near him. So I know that to make the event worthwhile I’ll need to start back in the pack.

If I survive this, it’ll be like a constant gift to my fiancée. Anytime she gets mad at me, I can say, “At least I’m alive. That certainly doesn’t have to be the case.”

Honestly, the hardest part will be the fact that I’m making a spectacle of myself. Around friends, I will do anything. I mean anything. But around strangers, I am pathologically low key. The idea of being (almost certainly) the only black American making the run worries me more than the bulls. But fuck it—you only live once. If I do this, not only will I have another deathbed memory (possibly the same day)—it might actually help me with my fear of being observed.

Yeah, just keep talking yourself into it, dumbass.

My Six Best Photos

2009-10-29T11:53:00.001-07:00

Or maybe they aren't my six best. But I was prompted to enter a photo contest, and the entry fee was waived because one of my semi-jobs is sponsoring the thing. I got six free entries, and if I'm extremely lucky (in a way I have never been in my entire life), I could win a trip to the Bahamas. Winning supposedly involves some skill, too, something about actually shooting a good photo, whatever. Most of these pix appear either in the sidebar at right, or in earlier posts, but here they are again. I know nothing about photography, but I like doing it. It's kind of like sex that way.

On another note, this is indeed my first post for the better part of a year, but only because I was focused on getting my website up and running. Now that it's getting a couple of thousand page views a day, I'm going to write for pleasure again for no readers at all. But that's the fun of it, right? Whereas with the website I am acutely conscious of people reading my stuff, el blog here is a sort of primal scream into an empty digital wilderness.

Would You Really Trust These Two Guys To Launch a Website?

2009-02-07T08:02:00.000-08:00

I don't think I'd trust them, but since I'm one of them, perhaps I shouldn't say that. Bryon and I have just about gotten our new website operational, and it is precisely this work that has kept me away from BlackNotBlack for so long. But it's almost done now, and then I'll get back to regular posts here. In the meantime, if you'd like a preview of what we're doing, click the link:

pulpinternational.com

Just be forewarned, the site isn't finished, so there are some misalignments in the upper sidebar which we will repair next week, and the entire lower sidebar still needs to be filled. But basically it's done. I'm pretty excited about this new venture—if it can be called new. In truth, we're resurrecting something from our past. That'll be clear to some of the people who know us. Anyway, click the link, and enjoy the preview. We'll be live in a week or two.

Of Chickens and Men

2008-12-06T12:14:00.000-08:00

Here's a little essay of photos I gathered from the web illustrating how the best laid plans can fall apart. In the first shot, a whale being transported on a flatbed spilled its guts all over the streets. It's sad, whereas shot three is extraordinarily profound. But my favorite is the last picture, which could be titled, "He's getting away!"

These photos apply to me because I've started five businesses—a tiny record company, a magazine, an import export company, a bar, and one other thing. Of the first four, only the import-export company remains operational with me as a participant. The bar is doing just fine, but I got out of that after my partner was kidnapped and held for ransom.

Anyway, the photos are a reminder that my fifth venture, much as I want it to be the one that really takes off, is just another plan that could fall apart at any moment. My goal is to keep the chickens on the damned truck, but it's amazing how hard that can be. You know the old joke right? No? Here it is.

How do you make God laugh?

Make a plan.

No Thanksgiving in Spain, but...

2008-11-27T11:58:00.000-08:00

...I never paid much attention to the holiday anyway (although it was always nice to eat sweet potato pie). Anyway, this is what happened five minutes ago. I shot these from my balcony, and now I'm rushing out to join the madness. I think this is going to be an interesting town.

Deluded?

2008-11-17T07:06:00.000-08:00

This could almost apply to me, except my grammar is not suspect and I do get out quite a bit. After all, my blog is about getting out. Anyway, I never worry about traffic because I long ago discovered a formula: whenever visits drop off I just post another story involving guns or nudity and things pick right back up again. And believe you me, I've got plenty more stories of that ilk.

More than Occasional Rain

2008-11-09T03:13:00.000-08:00

Terry Callier wrote and sang the classic tune "Occasional Rain." It's the perfect song for the town in which I find myself living. There's little I enjoy more than walking around in the rain. Somehow, it makes me feel as if I'm the only person on Earth or, if I'm lucky enough to be walking with someone else, that it's just the two of us. Hit the play button above, listen to the song, and scan the snapshots. You'll get a sense of the atmosphere here in Donostia-San Sebastián this time of year. It rained every day for almost two weeks—it misted, drizzled, downpoured, hailed, and dumped old ladies and sticks on our heads, as the locals say. I finally gave in and bought my first umbrella. Now all I need is a top hat, a monocle, and a painstakingly waxed mustache.

Deep Impact

2008-11-05T02:19:00.000-08:00

I remember seeing the Hollywood film Deep Impact and thinking to myself how funny it was that Morgan Freeman got to play the President of the United States right when the world was ending. I joked about it with several friends, so I know it wasn't just me who'd noted the irony. Deep Impact was dreadful, I think we can all agree, but was it prescient? Here's scholar Cornell West concerning Barack Obama: "The empire is in decline, the culture is in decay, the democracy is in trouble, financial markets near collapse. It's almost Biblical. And you can imagine what the black brothers and sisters in the barbershops and beauty salons say: 'Right when the thing is about to go under, they hand it over to the black man.'"

So what now, America? What happens now that Obama has been anointed Commander-in-Waiting? Fact is, his hands are tied in almost every imaginable way. Health care? Not with a 700 billion dollar giveaway on Wall Street. Bipartisanship? It's a nice word, but here's a better one—filibuster. Peace in Iraq? If you want to call a pullout from that shattered land peace, then maybe some facsimile of the concept will actually fill the vacuum, but even if Obama does remove the American boot from Iraqi necks, he has said he intends to place it upon Afghani necks, and meanwhile launch strikes inside the sovereign territory of nuclear-armed Pakistan. This is truly frightening, but let's face it—a country doesn't maintain more than 700 military bases around the world because it is devoted to the cause of peace.

I assumed the Democrats would lose yesterday and even made a twenty dollar bet to that effect about a year ago. The financial meltdown changed the landscape in ways I did not foresee back then, but still I was wrong, and I agree with Obama supporters: he was a better choice than McCain. McCain tried to talk a populist game, but he was just another taxcutter and deregulator. After sufficient time for the American sheeple to settle down and start munching the grass again, McCain would have channeled his inner Reagan, declared that government is the problem not the solution, and herded us all toward the abattoir. I am always amazed that a deregulatory rubric ever came to dominate America. I mean, here is a mega-society, interconnected and interdependent, in which the actions of a powerful few have far ranging and often unpredictable consequences, and yet the prevailing economic belief is, in effect, every man for himself.

This idea is the nth degree of derangement. How it passes for economics is a mystery to me. When I think of economists, the joke about three-hundred lawyers chained together at the bottom of the ocean comes immediately to mind. Economists believe there is a direct and empirical relationship between differential calculus models and the real world. They use advanced math, but they're just soothsayers playing in chicken guts. Periodically, the coven sends out a wizened spokesman who reiterates that, left to its own devices, markets will always correct themselves. This neo-liberal pseudo-science was pushed like a drug to the elitist ignoranti who pass as leaders and, before you knew it, the entire planet was caged by an economic doctrine even a high-schooler could tell you was destined to implode. Don't get me wrong. It's possible neo-liberal theories have some merit—but only in a timeframe that is meaningless to living humans. Don't know about you, but I personally don't want to wait two-hundred years to see if unregulated employers will pay me a living wage.

Have you noticed that conservatives are constantly on the wrong side of history? Consider it. Conservatives didn't want to give up their slaves. They didn't want women to vote. They didn't want children to go to school rather than toil in deathtrap factories where they would lose their arms and eyes. They didn't believe there should be such a thing as the Fair Labor Standards Act, which brought about a minimum wage, eight hour work week, and time-and-a-half. They didn't want seat belts in cars, or insurance for workers. They didn't want limits on how much lead they could put in paint, or how much mercury they could dump in rivers, or how much CO2 they could spew into the air. They didn't want blacks to be able to vote, or go to college, or eat at the same lunch counters as whites. It goes on and on like a bad slasher flick. And this is a proud tradition?

My favorite example of ridiculous, dogmatic conservatism is this: conservatives didn't want returning WWII veterans to receive free college educations via Franklin Delano Roosevelt's G.I. Bill. This program helped create the American middle class, including a large proportion of the baby boomers who now call themselves Republicans. How's that for a slap in the face? Help some folks out and they become everything you oppose. It would be great if we could just take away rewards from people who don't deserve them, but that's core Republican thinking. Liberal programs, on the other hand, tend to spread beneficial effects to society as a whole, which is good because (see paragraph three) we are interconnected and interdependent. Health care reform—good for society, admittedly bad for a minority of insurers and physicians. Sex education—proven to keep teen pregnancy and AIDS rates down (which in turn suppresses crime rates, homelessness rates, and imprisonment rates), admittedly infuriating for a minority of religious nuts. Social security—good for seniors, bad for people who would rather see the elderly starve or freeze to death on the streets.

In the next four years, I guess we'll just have to see whether Obama is a socialist, as his enemies say, or a typical center-right Democrat, as his record seems to indicate. But I think I know the answer already. I won't give it away. I'll just say that the rightwingers screaming that Obama is a socialist are frothing proof that my dad is right—as usual. He says, "Give some people a plate of dog shit and authoritatively call it cream cheese, and they'll spread it on a bagel and eat it." The people calling Obama a socialist have brown stains on their napkins. What they're eating tastes uncannily like feces, but it must be cream cheese because John McCain't said so.

But here's a question—what if Obama were a socialist? In the Guardian UK some Ohio hayseed who had clearly never seen even .01 percent of the world was quoted as saying the U.S. was now going the way of European socialist states—down the tubes. As a person living in a European socialist state, I'll consider Joe-the-Yokel's perspective as I go out this evening and watch the waves break upon the beach, and watch grandparents, parents, children, and lovers walking the promenade together, and listen to the abundant church bells ringing, and do all this in a spectacularly beautiful city without seeing a single cop, nor worrying that in their absence I'll be drawn and quartered by ravening criminals. And while I'm doing this, I will join the rest of the world in hoping—probably against hope—that November 4th, 2008 really does make a deep impact, and heralds a new beginning for us all.

World's Biggest Sausagefest?

2008-11-02T04:08:00.001-08:00

Non-existent readers, I'll give you a prize if you can spot the women in this crowd at one of the hottest clubs in Donostia-San Sebastián. There are two of them, if that helps. I swear, I couldn't make a move in this joint without someone's penis going in my pocket. Not exciting, and even less so for Lady Miss Di, who at a height of five feet two inches and three quarters was getting it in the mid-section. What was that famous Roberta Flack song? Killing Me Softly with His Schlong? Poor girl needed a torso condom. I said in the previous post that there is always a yang. My mistake. What I meant to say is that there is always a wang.

Arrival in Donostia-San Sebastián

2008-10-13T03:02:00.000-07:00

Two plane flights and a bus ride got me to the town. A cab ride got me to the neighborhood. Hoofing it three blocks with 80 kilos of luggage got me to the front door. Google Earth satellite shots had become Spanish reality. I scared the neighbors to death by trying to key into their apartment instead of mine, but after getting that smoothed over I had a glass of rosa and took in the scene.

And a beautiful scene it is.

The photo immediately below shows the view off our large balcony. The street you see is called Juan de Bilbao, and in the distance you see Monte Ulía, one of the verdant hills that surround Donostia-San Sebastian. At the foot of Ulía—hidden in the shot—is the Urumea, the river along whose banks you can stroll and almost be convinced you’re in Paris. But even Paris doesn't have what this city does—three big, clean beaches, the closest just three blocks from our flat.

The second shot looks north, the third south. We are hard against a hill called Monte Urgull, which you see in the northward photo. In Catholic countries there’s always a big Jesus somewhere, and in Donostia-San Sebastian, it is atop Urgull. As Christian idols go, this one compares poorly to others I’ve seen in person, particularly so to Brazil’s towering Cristo Redemptor. But I guess all idols look weak compared to that one.

I mentioned before that Donostia-San Sebastian contains the highest concentration of bars in the world. While there are indeed many, many bars here, so far I’ve seen little of the insanity I remember from other beach towns like Rio or Puerto Vallarta or West End, Roatán. In those places anything goes. Here, well let’s just say nobody has gotten naked (as long as you don’t count the sunbathers).

In the shot below you see Lady Miss Di gazing out over the sunset tableau on Juan de Bilbao, and in the final shot you see the action on our street Kalea San Jerónimo at about 3 a.m. Sunday morning. Our apartment is on the top floor six stories up—high enough that the constant roar of crowds is not a problem. It’s like soft radio static.

As soon as my Spanish resurrects itself I’ll venture farther afield and see what sorts of characters are lurking in this wonderful place. We chose Donostia-San Sebastian based on one brief recommen-dation and a few scans through travel books, but so far our impulsive decision to move feels like a good one. We’ll see if that feeling continues. The yin in Donostia-San Sebastian is that the town is as beautiful as something from a dream, the energy is off the charts, and our miraculous apartment is three times the size of our Stateside place. Stay tuned for the yang. There’s always a yang.

My New Home in Spain

2008-09-28T16:34:00.000-07:00

Well, the lovely Miss Diana has secured a place for us to live in San Sebastián-Donostia, Spain, and thanks to the myriad wonders of satellite technology, I was able to take a bird's-eye gander at the place before I sail off into the wild blue yonder. The apartment is pinpointed by the balloon icon, which is visible in all three shots. As you can see in the first image there are three beaches with a rocky promontory in the middle. The body of water is the Bay of Biscay. The winding river dividing the city in half is called the Urumea, and the riverside neighborhoods are supposedly some of the nicest in all of Spain.

As we zoom in we see the vicinity around the apartment a bit better. This is the old quarter, and it's easy to see the extent of the neighborhood just by noting the terra cotta coloring. Most of the streets here are pedestrianized, and most of the local businesses are bars. In fact National Geographic says this area has the highest concentration of bars in the world. Impressive for such a small city. In terms of how it impacts my living situation, let's just say it'll be loud, and certainly the potential for drunken obnoxiousness and raging testosterone is high in such a setting. But foreigners are usually afraid of me, and I get along okay with drunks, so we'll see if I have any trouble.

In the final shot you see the neighborhood in detail. Note the large church to the west, and the sprawling plaza to the east. The white objects in the plaza look like umbrellas, but given the scale of the photo may be something larger. I guess I'll find out when I get there. I'll be desperately poor after this move, but on the flipside I'll be in a place where I can feel good about paying taxes, where the money goes to society rather than the rich, and where quality of life and preservation of culture, architecture and nature are primary goals. In Europe I feel confident that I can finally put down roots—if not in Spain then in Portugal. This is assuming I can even survive. Stay tuned on that. In the meantime, friends, now that you know where I'll be, you can start making plans plans to visit. Hope to see you there.

Buried Treasure 3: Pulp

2008-09-19T14:06:00.000-07:00

As my band 40th Day staggered to an ending—this after quite a few years of travel through the lower forty-eight and a brief air kiss of courtship by A&M Records—the guitar player Bryon Bean and I did something amazing: we started a magazine. I didn't think it so grandiose at the time—we simply dreamed the idea up and did it. It only seems amazing now, after finding all the old issues in storage. Scanning them, it hit me what a bold venture it was. We had zero experience in publishing, but we secured an investor, lassoed a third partner to handle graphic design, and started printing.

The magazine was called Pulp. The first issue looked bad, sort of under-accessorized compared to its peers. But we improved quickly. By issue four, which you see above, Pulp was looking reasonably professional, ads were flowing in, and readers around Colorado were taking it seriously. That's Poe on the cover, who was white hot at the time and promoting her first CD. I remember she called personally and thanked us for doing such a good job with the interview and photos. Looking at the issue now, I can see why. It's a damned nice cover.

One of the coolest things about the magazine was that, as editor, I got to assuage any starfucker tendencies by meeting a lot of music celebrities. I interviewed Rage Against the Machine, Type O-Negative, Garbage (pictured just below), and many other bands. I received backstage passes to just about any show I wanted. I got VIP entry into parties and clubs, where I answered who/what/why questions from wannabe players then reveled in their looks of surprise at my answers. About ninety percent of the time they responded with, "You're the editor of Pulp?" Such moments are priceless.

Pulp was one of the first magazines to really integrate music with extreme sports, as you can see from the cover below. After a while we even started sponsoring extreme sports events. We put on a little something called the World Pro Snowboard Tour, which started in Korea and ended at Mt. Snow, Vermont. Magazine staff did double duty as coordinators, hosts, and stevedores. Our sponsors included Smirnoff and Playboy. We actually brought Playboy centerfolds to the slopes to do signings and host parties. One of my duties was to act as security for them. To keep the hordes at bay, I was given a canister of Sabre chemical spray. Later I would go on to work for Playboy, but that's another story.

Anyway, the World Pro Snowboard Tour went off fine in terms of competitions and publicity, but behind the scenes it was a spectacular disaster. Lexus was another sponsor, and they gave us two beautiful gold-colored SUVs to use during the tour. We kept a lot of gear in those vehicles and because so many of us needed constant access, some of the others took to leaving the keys on the front tires of the vehicles. I warned everyone it was a bad idea. When we were at Squaw Valley, Utah, I think I said something along the lines of, "White people steal too. You'll find that out if you keep leaving those keys out there." They didn't listen to me, of course, and sure enough, someone stole one of the SUVs. We reported the theft to the police and a chase ensued. The thief ran off the road and destroyed the Lexus. The story made the evening news.

Also at Squaw Valley, we had a 10x20 tent that we used on the mountain to host the Playmate signings. Someone (not me) forgot to stake it down one day and and gust of wind picked it up and carried it down the mountain, where it knocked over about a dozen skiers. There were other mishaps just as bad as the Lexus and tent episodes, but the Tour was also grand fun—we were out until two or three in the morning and then up at 5 a.m. to set up for the next day's events. We're talking professional level partying. Sal Masakela was our emcee. He's now on the E! Channel, and does a lot of extreme sports hosting for ESPN.

Below you see a few of my favorite Pulp covers. These were designed by Bryon, with possible assists from Dave Feroe, who was the third member of our little triumvirate. We tried to mix in local talent with the national acts we covered, and third below you see a cover showing Twice Wilted, who were Denver rock royalty.

Pulp also covered independent film, and as a longtime movie buff I appointed myself film critic and wrote under the name Juan Dos Passos. Actually I had four pseudonyms at Pulp, and I was so adept at inhabiting them that nobody had a clue they were all me. I realized this when my friend Jim told me one day how much he hated another of my alter egos John Saralan, that he was a giant asshole and his music reviews were always snarky and mean. I laughed about that for weeks.

I don't know if you've ever been to a film premiere, but there are two kinds—the ones for critics only, which are great; and the ones for both critics and fans, which usually happen on the Thursday night before the film's Friday opening. The latter variety are always packed, and seats must be reserved for critics. Sometimes the critics bring guests, or even give their tickets away, which means riff raff often infest the reserved section. These interlopers can get proprietary about the seats. Why, I don't know. They just do. And they're always typical Denver meatheads. No idea why that's the case either. Once, I attended a full screening and sat down in the reserved row and a couple of the aforementioned looked over and told me, in none too friendly fashion, that the seats were reserved.

I could have told them I was a critic, but one, they wouldn't have believed me, and two, I don't answer to meatheads. So I said, "Really? Who are they reserved for?"

One of the jokers said, "Quentin Tarantino." He and his friend snickered. I'm sure they thought they were extraordinarily clever.

I told them, "Okay, when he shows up I'll move."

These two suburbanites then decided to sic security on me. One of them got up and found the guard. I saw the conversation. I saw the confusion on the poor idiot's face. I saw the crestfallen look as the guard explained that I was a film critic, and by the way, sir, who might you be? That's a fond memory, and it encapsulates what was so cool about Pulp—it made me a party crasher, got me into places nobody, and I mean nobody, thought I belonged.

As a film critic I got to do cool things like fly to New York City and see Nelson Mandela host the world premiere of Cry the Beloved Country, and I got to interview Todd Solondz (who was shy), Maria Conchita Alonso (who was an amazing lady), Judith Godreche (cordial), Michael Rappaport (chill), David Caruso (bit of a tool, I must say), James Earl Jones (dignified), and many other fascinating celebs. I met Danny Glover, Richard Harris, and William Friedkin. I met Renee Zellweger early in her career, when she was at her most ambitious and beautiful, and spent an afternoon with her while a photographer named Jeff Navarro shot the below photos for the magazine. In the second shot she's holding an issue of Pulp featuring Bjork on the cover. If you read BlackNotBlack regularly, you may remember that I ran into Bjork in Iceland a couple of years ago.

And speaking of encounters with celebs, I couldn't resist posting this shot of me with the luscious Joey Lauren Adams. I was putty, as the photo makes clear. She was unable to build a lasting career for herself, but she did a couple of good movies, including Chasing Amy. She was super sweet. We talked about her voice, which at the time she said she was unwilling change even though it limited her career prospects (for those who have never heard Joey Lauren Adams' voice, imagine high b-flat with smoke on top).

Pulp also sometimes covered street fashion, and for one issue I was tapped to be a model. So there I am trying to look cool below, and I succeeded so spectacularly that I still look like that today. Did I just hear the sound of gagging out there? No, must have been the wind.

Anyway, even something as cool as Pulp had to end one day. We had enemies. Westword Magazine, which is part of the huge chain that includes L.A. Weekly, tried to steal our advertisers but failed. In fact, one of our advertisers showed us a letter Westword sent them that specifically suggested Pulp was not on the up-and-up with regard to readership numbers. It was an infuriating accusation, but it didn't harm us. No, what killed us was our sales manager, who was more interested in being a big shot than doing his job. He ran up a lot of credit debt on the magazine and kept it hidden until it all came to roost at once. He was a pure hustler, truth be told, and would have fit nicely into the Bush administration had he been politically inclined.

I ran into the guy a couple of years later. He pulled over next to me as I was walking along the road and offered me a ride. He was driving a station wagon and the back was filled with boxes. I asked him what was in them and he said meat.

I said, "Did you say meat, or did I misunderstand you?"

He explained that the boxes were filled with Kobe beef and he was importing the stuff now. There was big money in it he claimed, and I was thinking, People are going to eat meat that sat in the back of your station wagon? Anyway, that's the last I saw of him. These days, despite the damage he did to the magazine, I have fond memories of him. He was part of an amazing time, and, for a while at least, took an incredible leap of faith with us.

All this nostalgia is apropos, because the leap I am taking next is the most difficult thing I've ever done, and remembering what has passed gives me confidence for what is to come. I've always surged forward without looking and somehow survived—in jobs, in relationships, in everything. So starting in November the posts you read at BlackNotBlack will originate from San Sebastián-Donostia, Spain. I moved away before, of course, to Guatemala for two insane years, but that was a country where the dollar trades at 8-to-1 against the local currency. That same dollar is pure shit against the euro, and there is no doubt, I am not in financial shape to be taking this risk. But I'm doing it anyway, because, what can I say? That's who I am.

Buried Treasure 2: More Memories in the Junk

2008-09-13T15:25:00.000-07:00

This is the aftermath of the category 5 hurricane that swept through my apartment, as I turned my life wrongside up preparing to move to Spain.

Within the pictured chaos, I found yet more 40th Day memorabilia, including 2,000-plus band photographs spanning nine years. Some of them depicted moments so forgotten, so swallowed up in the dusts of time, that looking at them was exquisitely painful. Other shots were absurd, and a few were plain incomprehensible, like the one of our bass player Jim fellating a footlong dildo.

Below, you see the largest crowd 40th Day ever played for—7,000 people in Dallas, Texas. This was part of probably the most star-crossed tour in musical history, during which we—an alternative rock band that sounded like Siouxsie & the Banshees—opened for oldsters like Molly Hatchet, ELO and Eddie Money. We're pretty sure someone in Molly Hatchet stole one of our guitars. The day we opened for Eddie Money it was 100 degrees and concertgoers were sunbaked into a stupor. Many of the shows were lousy, with listless turnouts, surly clubowners, and generally uncomprehending crowds of yokels who did not get us. In fact, if I posted a shot of the crowd in Gunnison, Colorado, and put a thought bubble above every head, there would not be enough words contained within to form a coherent sentence. But this crowd in Dallas was great, and the club scene in Deep Ellum was excellent.

The next photo is of the sign for Rod's, in Madison, Wisconsin. If I remember correctly, Rod's was the upstairs section of the club we played. It was gay, while the downstairs section was straight. In reality all clubs are mixed, of course, so I never got the gay club/straight club thing, but whatever. There was nothing memorable about our show, but this penis-themed sign was priceless.

The coolest city we ever played was New Orleans, which is why I chose the below photo of a random courtyard somewhere in the French Quarter. Our shows in the Big Easy weren't well-attended, but the city was magical. Things have changed there. Since the hurricane, blackhearted Friedmanite economists and developers have been given lease by the State government to remake the city. Whatever they create will be a weak, pale distillation of the place I remember. I know this because that's what economists and developers do whenever they get their dirty hooks into a place—ruin it. I hope this little courtyard survives.

Choosing the worst restroom ever was a tough decision. The bathroom at CGBG was a reeking cretaceous swamp, complete with mosquitoes, and there was a rest stop in Nebraska so horrible that I shat on the floor rather than approach the toilet. Also, I used to hang out at a place down in Guatemala that had a bullet hole in the urinal, but that doesn't count because it wasn't tour related. So the filth-encrusted cubical you see below wins the repugnancy award by a pubic hair.

The craziest groupie award goes to the girl below and right. I don't remember her name, but I do remember she was a firecracker. She teased our bass player Jim to within an inch of his life without actually putting out. The blonde was interested in me, but I wasn't putting out either, so nobody scored. Girls like this are always loaded with cash. I have no idea why. But they bought the drinks and that's really all I cared about. There was a time in my life when I would have lamented this night as a missed opportunity—now I only lament that it took me so long to meet my fiancée, the lovely slice of German pastry I call Miss Diana.

Last but not least, below I've posted my all-time favorite band photo. It shows our lead singer Shawn Strub, in full ecstasy, at a show we played in Denver, Colorado during the RMMA music festival.

The shot is part of a roll that also produced the Icon cover I uploaded to an earlier post. I've seen other shots that impart a palpable sense of the band's essence, but none of them can surpass this grainy close-up, snapped by a photographer whose name I do not remember. He deserves major kudos, whoever he was, because his image captures the magic, power, and dreamy mysticism of a band that was weird, wild, and a bit ahead of its time.

We sometimes used The Church as our entry music. This was the scene: The lights would dim, the crowd would hush, and as the charge of anticipation built, the lyrics would float through the club:

"Oh, what an ending baby,
promise you'll remember me.
I'm not pretending baby,
your sweet and wicked treachery.
Water all my orchids,
save my dynasty.
I'm never, never coming back again.
I said I'm never coming back again."

Politics Can Be Beautiful

2008-08-05T11:26:00.000-07:00

I stumbled upon a wonderful website called Wordle that analyzes any text of your choice and rearranges it into visually pleasing graphic clouds. The java-based tool gives prominence to the most utilized words, and offers various menus for editing the final output. One of my favorite websites, Guardian UK, used the application on John McCain's official blog and discovered that the most utilized word was "Obama." Then they used it on Obama's blog and found that the most utilized word was also "Obama." Draw whatever conclusions you wish.

I used Wordle on my last two political posts and discovered that their contents aren't so awful to consider after all. In fact, I get an almost peaceful feeling from contemplating these two lovely clouds. The cloud below looks like the work of a Bronx graffiti tagger whose favorite paint store ran out of primary colors. Using Wordle magic to transform politics into soothing pastel babel has proven to me that there's truly beauty in everything if you are desperate enough to look for it. Maybe Cindy McCain possesses a sort of mental Wordle that fires in the blink of a synapse whenever she gazes at her scabby old troglodyte of a husband.

There's another intriguing website that functions very much like Wordle, using the speeches of American presidents to build what the site calls "tag clouds." By using a slider to go backward and forward in time, users see that the emphasis in speeches has changed over the last century. In just a few minutes of playing with this amazing little zeitgeist meter, I noticed that the word "constitution" was frequently utilized in presidential speeches for over a hundred years, sometimes even appearing as the most utilized word. But in speeches from the last decade "constitution" has pulled a Houdini and all but disappeared. Gee, I wonder what that means?

Buried Treasure 1: 40th Day

2008-07-27T18:11:00.000-07:00

Back in 1999 most of my possessions went into storage, and when I left the U.S. in 2002, I decided to keep them there. Through the years I occasionally considered clearing the space out, but for various reasons always chose not to. But my decision to move to Spain (or Portugal) changed that. So last month I emptied the space.

The inexorable march of time had erased all memory of what was stored there. As it turns out, what I uncovered were the artifacts of a life that had been so completely supplanted by newer experiences that going through the old possessions was like snooping in a stranger's attic. Every box I opened was filled with surprises. I realized I had to post some of the items, and tell some of the stories.

The photo at the top of this post is me, back when I was a real live goth. Oh, yes, there are black goths. I've know several. Note the hat. Dig how I'm way too aloof to show my face. Yes, that is a different person. It's my body, alright, but inhabited by a decidedly more ethereal personality, and shaped by experiences that were fantastic in some ways, but were also sorely lacking in breadth and diversity. Even so, it's a cool shot.

I used the image as a poster for my band 40th Day. There were five of us in the group, and we enjoyed a fair amount of regional success. We released two CDs, went on some tours, threw a lot of parties, and two of us ingested mounds of drugs. Back then I was all about drug cocktails—mixing two or more substances to achieve various effects. I was the pied piper of LSD. I was so well-known for carrying it that sometimes at the bars I would be approached by female friends, who would wordlessly open their mouths for me to place a tab directly on their tongues.

I think the posters hold up nicely, considering I had no computer at the time and slapped them together with tape, glue and magic marker. The image for the poster above and left is from a video I made of our bassist Jim Nasi, photographed from a television screen. The one next to it uses a friend's dental x-ray. These are typical goth images, but we weren't a goth band—we rocked harder than that, and were more organic in terms of the sounds we chose. That's probably why we got to open for the Smashing Pumpkins. You see the poster, designed by an artist at the club, below.

The Pumpkins show was magical. With rock luminaries like Perry Farrell, Siouxsie Sioux, and Henry Rollins in attendance, it couldn't help but be. At one point, Jim and I found ourselves sitting at a table with Perry Farrell, Dave Navarro, and Billy Corgan, and I told myself I would never forget that moment. But I did—it had completely fled my memory, along with the rest of that amazing night, until these posters stared up at me from a storage box.

I spent a few days with Jim recently, and we started talking about our paths, and he said that what we both took from the band was the conviction that life should be lived at a certain velocity. I thought that was insightful. Maybe that's why I forgot so much. When the scenery keeps speeding past how can you remember any of it?

Below at right you see one of my favorite 40th Day images, of our lead singer Shawn Strub, shot for the cover of Icon magazine. By this time we were an extremely accomplished group. In fact, I remember one review that began: "These guys know how to play and they want you to know it." It wasn't true, though. Virtuosity was not what drove us. We simply loved to perform, and practiced for hours and hours every week, and eventually became adept at our instruments. But we were never cheesy. Instead, having that kind of ability made us more confident about simplifying our sound. As we did so, people who saw us play live responded more passionately.

The success was both blessing and curse. We came to the attention of bigwigs in the music industry, but the pressure widened the fault lines in the band. Sometimes it seemed like people were deliberately trying to pull us apart. We had no idea at the time, of course, that doubts and fears were normal, and breakups on the cusp of success were the rule rather than the exception. If we'd known, we might have held it together. But no—we split up. One day we were there, and the next we weren't.

In addition to the posters, my storage space also contained a couple of thousand photographs. That really brought it all back. I sat there on a loading dock looking at faces and places long gone, and asked myself, "Did I really know these people? Did we really play CBGB? Did we really play for 7,000 people in Dallas? Did we really cross the Continental Divide during a lightning storm while tripping on acid?"

Another surprise in the storage space was my old folder of lyric sheets. God, but I was filled with angst. I suppose a lot of us are at that age. I wasn't the only one wandering around in all black, that's for sure. No regrets, though. I had way too much fun. And somewhere along the way I learned that life is not an impossible burden, at least not for me. Virtually any type of lyrics can work for rock music, but I tried hard to create a mood of yearning, of being embarked on a lifelong journey for answers. In particular, the last lines of "The End of a Day" still resonate:

Saw the Reivers in the south,
just a pair of eyes,
and an open mouth,
and time pushed out of mind.

Saw a beauty dancing,
down the path of vanished starlets,
heard an old romantic,
singing love but thinking debt.

I like those lines. And I liked those days. But I guess 40th Day was always destined to be just a detour in life, because from the time I was a junior high schooler what I really wanted was to be a writer. Actually, I wanted to be a writer who lived in an exotic land filled with romance and danger, and I'd drink and fight and love like there was no tomorrow. A childish wish, certainly, but I never outgrew it and guess what? It came wildly true.

Expat Games

2008-07-06T20:02:00.000-07:00

Because of Ari’s recent post about his blossoming romance, I was afraid y’all would think we were going soft at BlackNotBlack. So to dissuade readers from that notion, I decided to shift the theme from love to its opposite—no, not lust—exploitation. I’m not going to tell the story associated with these photos, because it isn’t my story to tell. And I'm not sure I'd want to tell it anyway.

I have to confess, I was never going to let these images see daylight. But they seemed a good juxtaposition to the last post. Also, the devil on my left shoulder has spent the last year battling the angel on my right, and today the angel tapped out after walking into a particularly vicious right cross followed by a brutal submission hold.

I guess the fact that my devil won means I'm still a work in progress. But let me state that I did not hire these women, nor would I ever do anything of the sort. But expats habitually get out of hand, and at some point all of us become the equivalent of photojournalists, recording others' antics without being involved. More than once I've been the one running around naked while others looked on in horror. Luckily, there were no cameras those times. Actually, I’d say that, over the course of my travels, there is a camera around for less than ten percent of the craziness that occurs. So just imagine what you’ve missed.

I think that’s all I’ll say about this, except for a public service warning: When hiring strippers in certain nations, understand up front that what you’ll actually get are prostitutes, that they won’t look like the beautiful one you saw earlier when you went browsing, and that their pimp will accompany them and carry a pistol just to make sure you don't want a refund. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Love In Finland

2008-06-14T22:55:00.000-07:00

Wish to make an ode to Shel Silverstein,
but that opportunity has yet to lift.
I said, ”Give me space to do my thing,”
and that's what she did.

Took a trip to Pärnu,
in Estonia, that is.
Looking to capture a little romance,
Why not add a splash of bliss.

Took the ferry from Helsinki,
not too early in the morning.
Not too easy to find a seat,
so we hung out near the awning.

We had a good time,
me and my woman
caught our sea legs.
So enough with the rhyme.

Hey, dear readers. I promised to sprinkle a bit of romance on the old blog fire, so here you go. This is my girl, my woman, my lover. All I can do is share some photographs right now, since I have to go feed her cat. No, that is not a metaphor, you perverts. She happens to be tending the bar at work right now and she has a feline who needs care and attention. And I need the practice of being a man.

Politics Redux

2008-04-23T11:10:00.000-07:00

When I posted about Barack Obama a few weeks ago, friends seemed surprised that I wasn’t on the bandwagon. No disrespect to Barack, but my candidate was John Edwards. Why did I like Edwards? Well, he was vocally anti-corporate. Why is that important? Because excess corporate power is the problem from which all other problems flow. Iraq would never have been attacked if it hadn’t been a profitable scenario for corporations. Jobs wouldn’t be offshored if it weren’t profitable for corporations. The U.S. news media would broadcast actual objective news if it weren’t so profitable to instead to sell God, prejudice, and patriotism. Obama and Clinton are battling for the nomination of a supposedly progressive party, but neither of them seems interested in fighting corporate power. In fact they are each, in their own way, in the pockets of corporations. And corporations are at war against the American people. Don’t take it from me—let’s have a corporate shill tell you in his own words:

The threat to our culture comes from within. In the 1960s, there were welfare programs that created a culture of poverty in our country. Now, some people think we won that battle when we reformed welfare. But the liberals haven't given up. At every turn, they tried to substitute government largess for individual responsibility. They fight to strip work requirements from welfare, to put more people on Medicaid, and remove more and more people from having to pay any income tax whatsoever. Dependency is death to initiative, risk-taking and opportunity. Dependency is culture killing. It's a drug. We've got to fight it like the poison it is.

This was Mitt Romney speaking on February 7th, as he shut down his campaign. I chose his statements because they outline conservative doctrine quite explicitly. You’ll get some version of what Romney said from pretty much any Republican you speak to. He suggests that largesse without responsibility is wrong, yet his party had no problem bailing out corrupt investment bankers to the tune of one trillion dollars. He thinks people who have minimal income should be obligated to pay income tax, while Republicans have reduced taxes on the rich over the past thirty years to an extent that has cost the United States trillions in operating capital. And he slams Medicaid, which is by far the most popular government program ever created. To make all this nonsense palatable to his hateful followers, he wraps everything in an attack on the poor, even making the insane claim that there was less poverty in the United States until welfare came along. It's all standard Republican speechmaking, a misdirection play designed to encourage people to punish those they hate, yet simultaneously gloss over the fact that the party's pro-corporate policies actually hurt all individuals.

Romney again: If you depress the private sector you depress the well-being of all Americans. That's exactly what happens with high taxes, over-regulation, tort windfalls, mandates, and overfed, overspending government. Did you happen to see, by the way, that today government workers make more money than people who work in the private sector? Can you imagine what happens to an economy where the best opportunities are for bureaucrats? It is high time to lower taxes, including corporate taxes, to take a weed whacker... Get out—get out that weed whacker and take it to regulations and reform entitlements and, by the way, stand up to the increasingly voracious appetite of the unions in our government (at this point Romney gets a round of applause, and it’s the apocalyptic sound of hypnotized thousands cheering a multi-millionaire who is begging for financial help).

So here we have corporations, through one of their shills, openly declaring that they would like to pay fewer taxes. Romney can spout this effluvium without being stoned to death because few Americans, not even his starstruck supporters, understand that more than sixty percent of US-controlled companies pay no taxes. That's right—zero. More than seventy-percent of foreign-owned corporations operating in the U.S. pay no taxes either. But this isn’t good enough for big business. Somehow, they’re still unduly burdened. Let’s revisit Romney for a moment: If you depress the private sector you depress the well-being of all Americans. I’ll just point out here that corporations that avoided taxes between 1996 and 2000 earned 3.5 trillion dollars in profit. It begs the question of how forgoing a nominal 35% taxation of 3.5 trillion dollars helps Americans. And along the same lines, why are there three trillion dollars available to fight a war, one trillion available to bail out Wall Street, but no money—according to George W. Bush—available for Social Security (which is a program an overwhelming majority of Americans support)?

Mitt Romney’s words are illustrative of corporate greed, but the fact that they are tolerated without cries for his public tarring and feathering are a symptom that Americans have surrendered. There was once a social pact that stated that if you took a job, worked it productively, and did not break the law, you would be rewarded with a stable existence and a peaceful retirement. You would be able to buy a house and raise a family. This promise was the impetus that drove the white middle class toward productivity (there were no promises made to blacks). Today, the entire middle class—white and black—are finding that they have been cast adrift. Everyone has heard about offshoring of manufacturing jobs. But how many people know that the Miami Herald newspaper recently outsourced a percentage of its copy-editing and design work to India? Sounds impossible, doesn’t it, but it’s true. Why pay expensive American professionals when Indian workers will do the same job for a fifth the wage? Just as a virus eventually destroys its host, so American corporations are in the processing of destroying America. No one listened when factory workers lost their jobs, but what about when professionals begin to feel their carefully built foundations crumbling? Are you an html architect? A graphic designer? That’s nice. I hope you’re also good at tending bar, because in another few years you’ll be mixing mai-tais eight p.m. to closing six days a week.

When a nation rescinds its most basic promises, can that nation thrive? The answer is no, and clearly, the United States ceased thriving a while ago. You hear quite a bit of propaganda extolling the rising GDP, but neither GDP nor the Stock Market possesses any real relationship to prosperity. It’s sort of like when you hear that a motion picture is number one at the box office. What has box office receipts to do with whether a movie is good? Nothing, of course. The same is true of GDP and the NYSE. Even as the corporate media conflate GDP with general prosperity, people’s pensions disappear, social security is attacked, and health insurance coverage vanishes for millions. The middle class and poor must constantly defend the few table scraps they possess from the rapacious rich, who already have enough resources to last ten lifetimes yet are still angry that a few gnawed chicken bones remain out of their reach. These sick monsters are like Daniel Day-Lewis in There Will Be Blood: “I cannot abide another man’s success.” Well, no need to abide it, because it doesn’t exist anymore. The American working class was once the most prosperous on Earth, but in a mere thirty years it has been politically disempowered, divested of its wealth, and left behind. Corporations were able to effectively abolish workers’ rights by taking control of every federal agency in Washington, including the Department of Labor. They were able to disembowel the regulations that made the country’s managed capitalism successful for the working class. All of these policies were conceived and enacted by players on the right side of the political spectrum, and went unopposed by those on the left. Because of this collusion everyone is now suffering—both inner city blacks and suburban whites. Under the circumstances, you'd think it was time to stop fighting each other and start fighting the real enemy—people who refuse to believe in limits to what they should possess.

By any objective measure, the United States is a nation in steep decline. It’s been in decline since 1973, when the bottom 90% of wage earners reported an average income in adjusted dollars of $33,000 for the year. Since then that number has fallen sharply. Let's reiterate: Wages for 90% of the population have been falling since 1973. Yet approximately half of that 90% continue to support policies that hurt them. The United States now trails most of Western Europe in life expectancy, health care, child care, and has higher poverty rates and infant mortality. Those in the conservative orbit deny these facts. Rudolph Giuliani comes to mind—he claimed that England’s prostate cancer survival rate was half that of the United States, and much of the millionaire press corps, led by Fox News, defended this bald-faced lie. Those few on the right who admit that, okay yes, the numbers tell the true sad story that Americans live shorter, sicker, more stressful, poorer lives than most Western Europeans, lay the blame on blacks and illegal immigrants for dragging down the metrics of healthy and productive white folk. But Europe has massive immigration patterns as well. And those who immigrate to Europe do so from the most crushingly poor regions of the world, such as Pakistan and West Africa. Yet this influx of desperate millions has not decimated European health standards. U.S. health problems stem from deficiencies in care, not people. Each year, according to the Institute of Medicine, 100,000 people lose their lives in hospitals due to medical negligence. 18,000 more die each year because they cannot afford health care. Some studies place these figures much higher, so high in fact that in many circles medical negligence is considered to be the number one cause of death among Americans.

In nearly every way imaginable Western Europe is a better place to live. Standard features of life include paid maternity leaves of up to six months and paid vacations of up to six weeks. European cities possess functional public infrastructures and full-service urban cores that reduce or eliminate the need to spend money on cars and gasoline, except by choice. Western Europe has low crime and incarceration rates, whereas in the U.S. one out of every one hundred adults is in jail or prison. Western Europe has miniscule rates of homelessness; in the U.S. half a million people or more live on the streets. There is more social mobility in France, Germany, and Scandinavia, than in the United States. The European Union attracts more foreign students than the U.S., and studies indicate this is not just because of the quality of education, but also because its consensus-driven polity is the societal model to which the developing world aspires. Western Europe is living proof that mixed-economy welfare states can be prosperous.

But in the United States the orthodoxy is that profits must always be at their greatest, whatever the cost to human beings. If a corporation makes a million dollars in a year but could make a million point two dollars by jettisoning on-site day care for its employees, it is obligated to do so, though this hurts the community. Not only is this an immoral philosophy, but the religion of growth-at-any-cost sells out humanity’s future. This is obvious to anyone who simply scans a WHO report. In order to feed the seven billion mouths that exist on this planet today, we need twice as much food and twice as much potable water as currently exists. By 2050, we will need three times as much. Water and food are not going to appear from outer space, so that means we’re already in serious trouble. The scarcity of resources forces nations to horde and fight for those that are available. Iraq needed to be destroyed not only to steal the oil for the United States, but also to keep it from China and India. More growth means more war. More war means more likelihood of nuclear war. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure this out.

Rather than continue to live the nightmare of war we can share resources, which would require collective sacrifice. This is the inevitable path for humanity if it is to save itself from destruction. Jeremiah Wright said 9/11 was “chickens coming home to roost” and was vilified for it. To deny that U.S. meddling in the Middle East set it on a course toward 9/11 is to deny that the Earth is round (or, better yet, to deny that killing nineteen of every twenty original inhabitants of North America was a genocide). Take careful note of those who are offended by Wright’s comments. The offended are people who have never read a history book, and would prefer that you didn’t either. I’ll accept people saying that Wright’s statements were difficult to hear because they were angry and accusatory. That I can buy—hey, even blackhearted conservative demagogues have feelings (though not for anyone else). But anyone who claims 9/11 occurred out of the blue, and had no relationship to U.S. policy in the Mid-East, is a liar or a mental case. Simply paying a fair price for oil from the very beginning would have been a good step toward preventing this tragedy, but the U.S. preferred to game the system. They preferred to replace Iran’s elected leadership with a dictator in 1953. It was kind of fun actually, like a spy novel. They fucked over naive Arabs while swilling martinis and noshing canapés. But somehow the Arabs grew sophisticated enough to drive tanks and enrich uranium. Hey! Hey now. Stop kidding around, Mahmoud. Play time is over buddy. You aren’t really mad at me are you? Mad at your Uncle Sam? After all I’ve done for you?

Believe it or not, it is possible to make an across-the-board social decision to not maximize profit. Stateside, the mere suggestion of forgoing growth and profit would get you laughed out of any policy discussion, but in Europe they’ve not only suggested it—they’ve accomplished it. They have assembled a social safety net, which is by definition a drag on growth, but in return have less crime, less imprisonment, and a greater social accountability than in the U.S., created by providing the working class a system they feel invested in preserving. Whereas in the U.S. one can only earn state assistance by humiliating oneself, in Europe assistance is considered a human right. Curbing desperation, resentment, and alienation in society is understood to be beneficial. It doesn't matter that you may not like the people you're helping—the positive effects are real, and outweigh your urge to be vindictive. It’s called socialism and it works. Europeans did not arrive at this choice by magic. Centuries of devastating warfare had a little something to do with their decision. They realized that warring for resources benefits only those who manufacture war machines. Sharing of resources does not prevent all upheaval, but if the alternative is to live like Americans, where the rich victimize the poor then retreat into gated communities patrolled by private shoot-to-kill police forces, then the Europeans have made their preferences clear.

There is quite a bit at stake in the upcoming election, and for the reasons explained above, I cannot support a pro-corporate candidate. Obama is an appealing character, but he isn’t campaigning to challenge the status quo. Quite the opposite—an Obama election would shore up American capitalism, make it easier to sell to suspicious third-world people who happen to be his approximate skin tone. And since securing a low-wage third-world work force even at the expense of U.S. prosperity is a major goal of business, Obama is a guy they wouldn’t mind having as the face of this initiative for four years. No matter which of the remaining major candidates is elected, the American decline gets steeper unless corporations are corralled and restrained. When will that happen? Well, let's just say that my pessimism on the subject is convincing enough to have spurred others to abandon the U.S. as I did in 2002. My friend Steve starts life in the Netherlands in July, and Charlie is now eyeing Spain. As for me, I become an expatriate again after Diana finishes her grad degree this summer. Perhaps leaving—and twice at that—is defeatist, but it keeps my tax money from greedy millionaires, which makes it a protest too. Leaving is also personally enriching, since life outside the States is quite beautiful for black Americans. That beautiful life is what this blog has mostly been about, and from now on I'll stick to that subject, and leave electoral politics behind (really this time).

On the Road with Evil Gods, Part 2

2008-04-15T14:41:00.000-07:00

Charlie, John, Lea, and myself were driving northeast through Honduras toward the port town of La Ceiba. Accompanying us were the gods Chac and Maximon, and two coatimundi in a cardboard box. Our non-sentient cargo included five deck chairs and many cases of Guinness. We had Port Royal beer and were loaded to our eyeballs. Once we reached La Ceiba we would catch a boat to the Caribbean island of Roatan. The trip had already taken a few unexpected turns, and now the gods, both of whom were believed to have influence over the weather, seemed to be stirring up trouble in the clouds. We let the coatis out of their box and they proceeded to crawl inside our shirts looking for either a comfortable place to sleep or a nipple to suck. My nipples gave no milk, never have sadly. I can't speak for Lea. We fed the coatis some sliced bananas and that seemed to satisfy them. By now Charlie had named them Stan and Ollie, or something to that effect, but I called them Zuko and Blixa and so they shall remain for the duration of this tale.

We stopped in a town called El Lano, or maybe Santa Rita, to have a new front assembly put on the truck. Hours later the dealer finally told us the Nissan mechanic was out until morning. We had squandered our chance of making La Ceiba before dark, which meant we had to find a hotel. The place we selected was hosting an art opening, and after checking in we milled with local well-to-do types in our sweat-stained clothes and discussed the merits of pieces that were, in truth, uniformly awful. I was quite nervous to look so road worn in such nice surroundings, because the last two nice hotels I’d visited with Charlie had kicked us out. It was his fault both times. Though being escorted off private property by men carrying shotguns is kind of funny in a way, and it makes a good story, I just wasn’t in the mood for the trifecta. So I retreated to my room and stayed there until morning.

The next day the mechanic replaced the Nissan’s entire front assembly right there in the hotel parking lot, and we were on our way by 10 a.m. We drove John to a small airport from which he planned to charter a flight to Roatan, and the rest of the trip to the coast was uneventful, which meant we were well rested for the ordeal to come. We dropped the Nissan at the car ferry, which you see pictured just above. This is a different ferry than the human ferry. The two facilities are about a mile apart. We thought we’d be able to catch a cab between them, but no such luck. There were plenty of cabs headed the right direction, but they were all carrying humans already. We had no choice but to walk a mile in the heat, toting all our luggage and valuables, and of course Zuko and Blixa in their box.

We reached the ferry building drenched in sweat, and bought tickets as the same bad skies from yesterday returned. We knew it was illegal to carry animals from the mainland to Roatán, because islands have delicate ecosystems and it’s dangerous to introduce new creatures to such habitats. This is an especially serious issue when you consider the case of the Galapagos Islands, which thirty years ago had no inhabitants, but today has 30,000 full-time residents and is overrun with cats, dogs and goats destroying Darwin’s pristine landscape. But on the other hand, horses are not native to America but look what their introduction did. Western movies would be totally different without horses. Cowboys would ride what—ladies in hoop skirts? So mixing species and habitats is a good thing. Unfortunately coatis make high-pitched squeaking noises—if you’ve ever watched Star Trek, they sound exactly like tribbles—so it wasn’t long before the customs folks noticed them.

At this point we had to resort to bribery. Bribery is a common transaction throughout the world, though most people don’t have the guts to try it. But it really works. For example, a bribe had freed me from paying customs duties on my G4 desktop in Mexico. Bribes had spared Charlie from trouble in Guatemala and Honduras. And just so that I don’t unfairly single out Latin America, I should mention that when I worked at Playboy, some employees kept porn movies in their cars because L.A. cops gladly accepted them in exchange for not handing out a ticket. Anyway, Charlie discreetly paid off two customs officials and they let us take the animals on the ferry (in truth it was more complicated than this, and involved a ruse to fool the customs supervisors and so forth, but the details don't really matter unless you want to bribe customs officials yourself, in which case, request info via comment).

The ferries that run from La Ceiba to the Bay Islands are pretty big. The photo above—which I borrowed from a website since I never thought to take a photo of the ferry—shows a vessel similar to the one we rode, except about thirty percent smaller. Another important difference is that we did not have good weather. No, Chac and Maximon had really been busy and the sky was gray and blustery. Charlie asked me if I was prone to seasickness. I told him no. He said there was a vending machine somewhere that sold motion sickness pills, and that I should buy some if I wasn’t sure. “I’m sure, dude. Why?” He nodded at the water. It was foot high chop, at the most—not even remotely worrisome. “That? That’s nothing.”

“Just wait till we get out of the bay.”

“I’ll be fine,” I told him. Instead of dismissing Charlie, I should have reminded myself that he does not fret all that much. He was in the Army, where you learn not to waste time and energy stressing. Army command keeps charts of battlefield survivability for various positions. Charlie saw his survivability stats once. For what he did in the Army, survivability in combat is considered to be less than five minutes. So Charlie isn’t a guy who worries much. But I could tell he was worried about this crossing. I ignored him though, because what I said was true—I don't get seasick.

The Roatán ferry carries more than two hundred people, and since we were near the end of the boarding line the only seats available for us were on the top deck, behind the captain’s cabin. I was charged with carrying Zuko and Blixa, and they were really squeaking up a storm now. We took our seats, a horn sounded, hawsers lifted, and we were off. I realized Charlie was right to be worried about the crossing the moment we cleared the breakwater. The sea simply reached up and grabbed us. Reasonably smooth sailing abruptly became a cold windy carnival ride. One of those carnival rides that is designed to make you scream, but with the distinct difference that those rides go three minutes whereas this would last more than two hours. Our places were as far from the surface of the water as could be yet we were soon drenched. The spray was climbing two stories and battering us in our seats. I was lucky I'd worn a rain jacket.

Charlie screamed, “Isn’t this fun?” Or maybe he screamed, “Isn’t this fucked?” It was hard to hear.

It got more fucked. As the water deepened the waves grew higher and more violent. Pretty soon we were porpoising, that is, diving up and down on the waves. The captain's cabin was ringed by large windows, like the cabin pictured in the previous ferry shot, but larger. From where I sat I could see through the cabin. When the ferry crested a wave all I could see was the point of the bow aimed downward toward the ocean. Then we would hit with a boom and a curtain of water would break over the top of the boat. I was getting the worst of the spray where I was sitting. Finally I could take no more. When the ferry began to climb the next swell, I surged from my seat, sprinted astern, crashed down on the wooden deck and wedged myself behind a brace of lifeboats. These boats were stacked about six feet high, so I figured if I sheltered behind them I would at least be safe from the freezing spray.

I was wrong, of course. Sea winds do crazy things on a ship's deck. If anything I was getting it worse, but I wasn't going to risk moving again. It was possible for people to get around—with difficulty—as long as they kept a deathgrip on the deck rail. But I had to hang onto Zuko and Blixa. I'd risked flying overboard already. I wasn't about to do it twice. By this time the box was soaked and they were clawing through the soggy cardboard. I squeezed my hand inside and stroked the little guys’ heads, but they weren’t having any of it—they wanted out. If they got out, they’d go overboard with the next wave. This was a bad situation.

By the time we were half an hour into the trip ten to fifteen people on the top deck had vomited. Some managed to drag themselves down the stairs to the main cabin bathrooms, but a few had simply heaved over the rail. Charlie looked intact, but Lea was turning the grey-green of a frog’s belly. The rough ride continued and people continued to barf, one by one. There were about seventy people on the upper deck and I’d estimate fifty of them lost their lunch, some more than once. By now the coati's box had pretty much fallen apart. I quickly shucked my rain jacket, wrapped it around what was left of the box and held on tight. I thought I was drenched before, but without the rain jacket I learned the true meaning of the concept. I got soaked to my underwear. My dreadlocks were so saturated they took until the next night to dry completely. Lea wobbled toward the stairs and disappeared, on her way to barf in the cabin. Someone’s hat flew past and sailed overboard.

Charlie came staggering my way and sat beside me. “Is it any better over here?”

“I seriously doubt it.”

At least we were close to the lifeboats if the worst happened.

To conclude this sad tale, we survived the crossing and straggled into Roatán's port town of Coxen Hole by 7 p.m. More than a hundred people had vomited. Lea had hurled twice. Charlie barely survived. "Five more minutes of that," he said, "and I would have barfed too." And me? I was fine. As I said, I don't get seasick. But that doesn't mean I can't get nauseated by other things. Walking through the enclosed lower deck to disembark the stench of vomit almost smothered me. I would have lost it if I hadn't rudely pushed my way to fresh air.

So that is the story of how Charlie and I were supposed to smuggle Guinness from Copán to Antigua, but instead ended up smuggling two coatimundi to Roatán. There are two epilogues. First, the Guinness, which did not belong to us and thus went unopened the entire trip, was simply too enticing to resist any longer. We drank it all, every can, over the next week of partying. Our friend Jan, who was the impetus for the road trip in the first place, didn't get a single drop. Second, in an effort to be a good parent Charlie took the coatis to a local vet to see if they perhaps needed shots. The vet gave them shots, and the shots killed them both. So this post is dedicated to poor Zuko and Blixa. If there's a coati heaven, they certainly earned passage by putting up with the likes of me and Charlie.

On the Road with Evil Gods, Part 1

2008-03-25T13:31:00.000-07:00

I was chatting via messenger with Charlie not long ago and he mentioned that, as a result of his kidnapping in Guatemala, he lost his laptop computer and all the photos stored therein. He asked to be sent some photographs of a roadtrip we had taken together. For a moment I was stumped—and then it all came flooding back. “Oh that roadtrip.” Yes, how could I possibly forget? I sent him a few photos and was happy to do it, because the memory of that trip is precious and should never be lost. I pondered it and realized that, perhaps more than all the other Guatemala stories, that particular tale typifies our lives there. It started simply, quickly became a standard Guate mess, and eventually grew into an almost Biblical testing of our limits.

It was also typical in that it began with beer. My friend Jan, pictured below, had run out of Guinness. This is only a minor problem for most people, but at the time Jan owned Reilly's Irish Tavern in Antigua, and since you can’t really call a tavern Irish without serving Guinness, she desperately needed to replenish her stock. But Guatemala had no legal avenues for Guinness importation, which meant the standard restocking technique involved smuggling it in from either Belize or Honduras. Charlie was already in Honduras attending to business at an internet café he owned on the Caribbean island of Roatán. Later I would go into business with him myself. If you're curious, click the link at upper right: The Black Pearl Bar. Anyway, word of Jan's predicament traveled the wire and Charlie came to the rescue by volunteering, via an exchange of e-mails, to buy the Guinness and drive it to Copán, on the Honduras/Guatemala border. Jan would send someone to retrieve the beer there and shuttle it back to her bar. The whole operation would take maybe fourteen hours. Easy as pie.

It was at this point that I became involved. I needed to travel to Honduras in an official capacity for my employers Revue magazine. Normally I would have ridden eight hours on a bus, but Jan and Charlie had found a driver for their Guinness caper and suggested I tag along to Copán. The driver would offload me, onload the Guinness, and I would accompany Charlie back to Roatán, which was my ultimate destination. Even with my added presence, this still seemed like it would be easy.

The driver’s name was Eduardo. We left before dawn and chatted while the countryside slid by, morphing from arid highlands to lush farmland broken by verdant forest. We reached Copán at noon, and the first problem arose: Guatemalan shuttle drivers need a special license to cross the border, and Eduardo didn’t have one. He had agreed to risk crossing without a license, and had done so, but Charlie was late, which was the crux of the problem. It meant Eduardo had to mill around in Copán risking police attention. The fine for breaking this strange law would have been enormous by Guatemalan standards, and as time ticked by with no sign of Charlie, Eduardo became more and more nervous. His jitters were compounded by the fact that if he was late leaving Copán, night would fall while he still out in the Guatemalan countryside. Night is when the bandits come out, brandishing their Glocks and Colts smuggled direct from gun shows in Texas and Florida.

Eduardo didn’t wait long. After maybe an hour he got in his van and left. Charlie showed up fifteen minutes later driving his new Nissan Xterra. I’m not sure why he was late, but it may be because when you have a new car you often have an irresistible urge to wander in it, just for the joy of driving. That’s probably why he volunteered to deliver the Guinness in the first place. His tardiness may also have had something to do with the fact that he wasn’t alone. He had brought along his friend John, and they had acquired a Dutch girl named Lea. John, I learned, was a builder on Roatán. He was one of the many American entrepreneurs down there slapping together prefab condos faster than they could be sold, and faster than Honduran authorities could fund environmental impact assessments or file suit to protect ancient, irreplaceable archaeological sites. He was an extremely cool guy with a problematic profession. Lea was less complex—she was your basic European traveler. Anyway, Charlie now had three passengers to drive all the way to the Caribbean, along with the cases of Guinness he had failed to deliver.

In my travels I’ve found that it’s crucial to get on the road immediately and worry about the details later. If you don’t, you may find yourself delayed for hours looking for gas, snacks, maps, batteries, just about anything, as the day slips away. It’s rule number one for me, and we violated it in Copán, which gave John a chance to browse in a local shop. Being on the receiving end of a Honduran sales pitch is like staring into one of those spiraling hypnowheels used by nineteenth century mesmerists. After a few minutes exposure John emerged glassy-eyed carrying a large statue of Chac, the Mayan god of rain and lightning. It’s hard to imagine a more unwieldy addition to the roadtrip—the god weighed probably seventy-five pounds, took up a lot of space, and needed protection from being chipped or scratched, but simultaneously had to be prevented from crushing delicate camera equipment, laptops, and pressurized Guinness cans.

To add to our worries, we weren’t sure how Chac would mesh with Maximón, another god we were carrying. Maximón is synonymous with the pre-Columbian god of the underworld Maam, who symbolizes chthonic male sexual power, an aspect which leads his devotees to shroud his visage from public view lest his sexuality run rampant. Primarily a bringer of rain and fertility, he is sometimes also called the saint of gamblers and drunkards, and brings wealth and worldly success to those who venerate him. He's also conflated with Judas Iscariot, thanks to hundreds of years of Catholic missionaries campaigning to discourage his worship by associating him with evil. In addition, he has one well-known aspect who is black. Talk about a complex character. Our Maximón, pictured at the top of this post, was a carved wooden idol only a foot high, but like Chac he presented difficulties in terms of transport. He was fragile, and if we broke him we would be fucked, no doubt.

We managed to get the passengers, the two gods, the cases of Guinness, and our bags and supplies satisfactorily loaded, and set out toward the coast around three o'clock, which was two hours later than we had planned. I mentioned earlier that Charlie owned an internet café. He had built a deck outside this place but hadn’t gotten around to stocking it with deck chairs, so it was providence, certainly, that an hour into the trip we drove by a roadside shack which sold handmade deck chairs. These were good quality chairs, and as you can see from the above photo, because of space constraints could only be strapped to the Xterra’s roof. After all the work of getting them up there I really could have gone for a Guinness, but they were too hot to drink and technically were not ours.

I may have mentioned in earlier posts that Charlie is the kind of guy who always has multiple demands on his attention, like a juggler with five balls in the air. Whether business dealings or just wild ideas, you’ll never get from point A to point B without detours if he's in charge. So after loading the chairs we were off again, but not to Roatán—not quite yet. Charlie had caught wind of some land for sale way out in the hinterlands and had managed to set up an appointment with a custodian to tour it. First I’d heard of this, but it explained why John was along on the trip. He and Charlie were both planning to take peek at this land. We had a quick lunch at some nameless outpost, then drove up a rutted mud track that snaked through rain forest. The area was deserted save for a few zinc-roofed shacks set back in the trees. We bounced along this mule track, nearly bogging down twice, until at the crest of the road foliage parted to reveal a long, misty valley, green as the greenest emerald, and totally deserted.

I’ve been lucky enough to see true wilderness several times in my life—swamps, volcanoes, beaches where there were no footprints other than my own—and it’s always an event that stops me cold. It usually takes a moment to realize I’ve stumbled into a place devoid of not only cars, lights and other people, but also the sights common in the National Parks that pass for wilderness Stateside, such as telephone poles, trail markers and garbage cans painted green to blend in with the landscape. When it happens—when you step into true wilderness—it’s a jolt that stabs right to the center of your being. There was nothing in this valley in Honduras—not a thing, just the trees and sky and clouds. I couldn’t believe the place was for sale and it proved, once again, that capitalism is the machine that will destroy the planet. We were quiet in this virgin place, nature’s cathedral, and then we frolicked and explored like children until we were drenched in sweat. Our last act was to climb to the top of a high cascade where the above photos were taken.

Driving the forest trail back toward the main road we again saw the scattered shabby homes we had passed earlier, and this time we saw the residents themselves. We stopped near one shack in response to a man's gestures. He was carrying a cardboard box. Inside were four baby coatimundi which he offered to sell to us. Coatimundi, for those who don’t know, are carnivores native to Central America, and they have elongated bodies, long flexible snouts, and hooked claws enabling them to hang upside down from tree branches or, potentially, protruding parts of your body. Another characteristic: they don’t like to be confined. I discovered this later.

We bought two of these little guys, more to save them from the dinner plate than for any need for companionship. After all, how could we need companions when we were already neck deep? There was Charlie and myself, John and the Dutch girl Lea, and the two gods Chac and Maximón. The animals didn’t help with the space situation either, considering we were hauling six deck chairs strapped to the roof, all the luggage and supplies, and those cases of scalding hot Guinness. Yet the poor creatures were stuck with us, though in an effort to escape they were already exploring the structural weaknesses of their cardboard box. It was as if they had caught scent of what was to come. They say animals can sense impending doom—earthquakes and such. They must have known we were headed toward the Caribbean and into a sea of difficulty.

Too Much Too Little Too Late

2008-03-03T16:51:00.000-08:00

Fortunately Mr. Ehlers brought blacknotblack around to a little something I can handle. Images of white chairs and yours truly lend no thread for me to weave an interesting tale. Politics I can handle. And right now I have a better idea for the campaign song for presidency this year. Ladies and gentleman, Lady Deniece Williams, escorted by Sir Johnny Mathis: link

As an American who placed himself on the Nordic side of the planet, I constantly have to answer questions regarding life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, mainly because I moved from Los Angeles to Helsinki, not the other way around as historical trends portrayed. Go west young man? That was the trek of my grandfather.

I moved in with a woman, met my Finnish family I had not known, and looked forward to escaping imperialism. "Freedom!" I screamed from the roof tops and the bar stools, and few listened or understood. I left the hospitality industry for documentation and specification of graphical user interface design. I found more humanity in technical writing and composing copy than serving food, drink and fare to actual human beings. I also had to tell more people more often why I chose to leave the United States of America for Finland.

Gratuitous use of blog entry as supplant of confession so I can sleep in on Sundays . . . CHECK!

The concept of America never existed. I never saw it, never smelt it. The weaning was difficult, since I certainly remember where I'm from, and do not practice in the hype of assimilation nor anti-assimilation of expat pubs or sports bars. I stand out in the crowd, but that simply keeps me true to my personal history. I am a loner from Los Angeles living in Helsinki.

Now that Barack Obama has a damn good shot . . . fuck it, I guarantee he wins, helping the American bourgeousie cut the albatross from its neck, smiling at the collection of new things white people like. Obama will win the election, most likely without any need of superdelegates, and must recognize his role as a janitor cleaning up the mess. The situation he shall inherit will provide enough smokescreen to obscure any special interest kickbacks he receives. Cue the Sergeant of Arms: Madame speaker, here's the president, beeyatch! Stepping through a joint session of Congress for the State of the Union, with veep Hillary Clinton and House Speaker Nancy Pellosi sitting upright behind their leader. A black man up front and proud with two white women behind him for support. Only in America.

I notice he said yes, he would certainly pay Raúl Castro a visit without any preconditions. I do indeed dig the rhetoric Barack Obama speaks in terms of international relations. Obama seems to recognize how the U.S. of A is nothing more than one political entity in the world, one nation on a planet in need of liberty and justice for all.

Meanwhile the pursuit of happiness lives on in Finland. They respect civil liberties here, such as walking home from a bar at 3 in the morning. If the cops show up to break up a party, there's good reason for it. The marketing campaign in Finland officially states, “The Police Are Your Friends”. I only know they can wear beards, and only stopped me for questioning once, to make sure I was OK, and said have a good night when I told exactly how many pints I'd had. I feel fortunate to have dual citizenship, especially since the taxes I pay show a good return on investment.

That Obama Glow

2008-02-27T18:51:00.000-08:00

My goodness, Barack Obama’s golden glow is beginning to make him look like a life-sized Oscar. In my daily jogs around the trusty interweb, I continually encounter articles which label his speechmaking as “soaring rhetoric.” It is symptomatic of America’s sunken ideals that a presidential candidate is beatified for expressing himself about as well as the average sociology professor. On the other hand, perhaps it isn’t such a surprise people are impressed by his intelligence, considering the fact that the current president’s staffers spell out world leaders’ names phonetically in his speech notes. Imagine how hard Bush works to keep from giggling every time POO-tin appears in front of him. If recent history is any guide, Obama’s eloquence may hurt him if he wins the Democratic nomination and finds himself pitted in debate against a quipping and unctuous John McCain. Swing voters, as we know, will look for any excuse to back a dumbass.

Barack Obama writes quite a bit about strategic thinking in his books. As I keep tabs on his campaign I can certainly see these ideas at work. Strategic thinking, as defined in the political realm, simply means working toward a single stated goal that will effect multiple changes which were unstated. It’s a magic trick which Republican politicians perfected over the last thirty years, in large part because they realized Americans were too liberal across the spectrum to want most of the things their corporate bosses were demanding. For instance, the vast majority of Americans, whether New Yorkers or Alabamans, are too liberal to believe that leaving the elderly to fend for themselves is a good idea. Thus dismantling social security became “social security reform” in the Republican playbook. But in reality the reform was just another attempt at a destructive privatization designed to benefit a wealthy few.

Many Americans hear the word privatization and immediately think it’s good. The reaction is a testament to the effectiveness of corporate brainwashing, particularly when you consider that one of the first resources to be privatized in the United States was its political system. Only recently are people finally starting to suspect that selling the government to the highest bidders is why the nation is at such a dangerous crossroads today. Of course, some of those across the aisle claim this is a crucial election for different reasons. And I suppose it is. For the millionaires, Bush’s tax cuts could become permanent and push the U.S. that much closer to a society in which they pay no taxes. For the fundamentalists, teaching children that the world is only several thousand years old could become a law, if not a constitutional amendment. For the chickenhawks, the U.S. could kill countless more human beings in another Middle Eastern nation, as behemoth war profiteers continue to bleed the U.S. treasury, this time past the point of recovery.

Amidst all that is at stake, Obama claims to be the candidate of change. The real change he represents is that of a black president in the White House, something I'd love to see occur. But politically Obama is of the same stripe as other right-of-center Democrats. He supports border fencing and the death penalty, and also backed a law that makes it more difficult for consumers to sue corporations. This from a former civil rights attorney. He voted against an interest cap to rein in predatory credit card companies, and flatly stated that an impeachment of George W. Bush was not an option, a move that certainly doesn't signal a strong craving for change. It seems that when Obama says "change”, he’s simply trying to tap into voter discontent with being shut out of the government. This is a clever move. After decades of deregulation and unchecked corporate rule, most Americans are finally realizing that the price of all this has been utter marginalization. Yes, it appears that—and I’m stunned to say this, stunned I tell you—that ceding governance to the moneyed elite has resulted in the elite taking even more money for themselves. Trickle down? Nigga please. The only thing that has trickled down is corporate poison into the community wellwater. How did these mega-millionaires manage such a flim-flam? They managed it by telling gullible Americans that it was Mexicans ruining things for them, or the French, or frivolous lawsuits, or black welfare recipients. The list is really endless, though strangely, never seems to include corporate crooks or billionaire tax cheats, who do more fiscal damage than all the former combined. Despite the omissions, it’s finally clear to all but the most rockheaded observers that the problem all along was the very people who were pointing fingers.

So into the breach comes Barack Obama, with his strategic thinking and his deliberately vague policy sketches. Hillary Clinton and others have suggested he is vague because he doesn’t know what he intends to do. They say he offers words to make people feel good, but no solutions when push comes to shove. Newsflash to Hillary—there are no solutions. Obama said himself that anyone who thinks Congress is just going to pass a health care bill while insurance companies stand by and do nothing is dreaming. With this mostly unremarked-upon aside, he told Americans to forget about having an efficient, functional system like in the E.U. It ain’t gonna happen because the insurance companies and their mostly Republican shills aren’t going to allow it. But in a democracy, surely the will of the people will win out, won’t it? A few corporations can’t resist the will of tens of millions of people, can they? Ladies and gentlemen, please take note of exhibit A: more than 70% percent of Americans want stricter handgun control laws, but for the power of only one corporation—the NRA—these killing machines remain epidemic. Ergo, according to my personal law of extrapolation, tens of millions of people, however passionate, are helpless against the insurance cartel.

The main obstacle to change is that in order for these changes to occur, the wealthy have to be divested of a portion of their resources. I don’t mean they have to be guillotined like in the French Revolution. I just mean that within the American economic engine universal health care, for example, would require insurance companies to forgo some profits. As Obama noted, that’ll happen when strawberry Yoo-Hoo shoots out of all our nipples (though he didn't use that exact phrase). It's a sad reality, because, if memory serves, the type of restructuring I'm talking about actually did happen in American history—from the middle 30s through the late 1960s. What occasioned this downward shift of riches? Well, a grinding depression necessitated policies designed to alleviate mass suffering. Those policies—called the New Deal—shifted money to the poor by putting them to work, and created a social safety net. Pretty soon a war came along and gearing up for that effort created more jobs and dragged America the rest of the way out the economic morass. New Deal programs, maintained through the 50s and 60s, effectively created the American middle class. During the late 1960s the downward shift of resources continued via the civil rights movement.

You may wonder, what were the greedy rich doing during this time? How were they neutralized? Well, there were quite a few angry citizens marching and rioting. During most of the 30s and again during most of the 60s, it looked as if a well-ordered society was disintegrating. The elite establishment realized chaos would eventually visit them even in their private country clubs. But they didn't give up right away—they're tougher than that. After thirty years of seeing American society become more equal at their expense they were ready to draw the line. So they shot some students, firehosed some civil rights marchers, and sent vicious attack dogs after unarmed protesters. But none of this silenced the cries for equality, and the elites saw clearly that nationwide chaos loomed. That would be bad for business, and this threat to their bottom line created a political opening that made change possible. Am I suggesting that riots are needed to effect change now? All I'm saying is that when people stand together—and I mean physically rather than in some e-mail deluge of a congressional office—the elite start to quake in their boots.

A while back I saw Sicko and was struck by a scene in which Michael Moore went to France and interviewed a group of American expatriates. The purpose was to ask people who had lived in both the U.S. and Europe to comment upon some common American beliefs about European health care. After the somewhat comical debunking session, one interviewee said the difference between the U.S. and France was that in France the government are afraid of the people, whereas in the U.S. it’s the other way around. In other words, a government in fear takes into account the wishes of its people, and that's why the French are always marching. I've never seen a march in France, but I've seen them in other countries and seen how seriously they are taken. Save for two brief periods, the reaction of the American establishment to citizen dissent has been sneering dismissal. They ain't worried folks, no matter how many e-mail petitions clog up congressional inboxes.

So when a guy like Obama—who is seeking to lead the smug clique of corporate puppets atop Capitol Hill—talks about change, can people take him seriously? Does he intend to engage a populace who are afraid of their government, when that fear is a crucial part of what makes government work such a sweet deal? In this privatized Washington, D.C., where the power players don’t want the insurance game or the empire game or the disaster capitalism game to end, will Obama really reject all that these conglomerates will offer him and instead help people who can’t offer him anything except gratitude? The possibility, though tempting to believe, sounds too good to be true. Does that make me a cynic? After all the corruption we have seen in Washington, is it cynical to think that for Obama to be different from the other Potomac slugs would be akin to a miracle? I don't think so. I mean, the guy would have to be Neo in the Matrix. He'd have to be Luke Skywalker. Shit he'd have to be another golden figure—not Oscar, but Buddha. Interestingly, Buddha and Obama have the same ears. And I fear another thing they have in common is that they're both fairytales.

Philippines Chairs

2008-01-16T23:17:00.000-08:00

My friend Bryon Bean wrote me: I was just in Manila yesterday at my fiancee's sister's house and saw the table with chairs like the ones you have on your blog so I thought of you and took the photo. So far the Philippines is amazing. Funny, after reading your blog, I notice that I'm having a lot of the same experiences.

If by same experiences Bryon, you mean blackouts and blood loss, I'm going to have to hear these stories. Great photo, by the way. Makes me wish I was there right now, kicking back with a beer. By the way, what does "kamusta kayo" mean?

2008, Not a Moment Too Soon

2008-01-02T14:14:00.000-08:00

Ari ventured from icy Finland this year end and we managed to spend a few days reliving our stint as roommates. Those were halcyon times back in Hell A.—he tended bar at the superexclusive W Hotel (where the mojitos cost sixteen dollars), I staffed at Playboy (which was . . . well, I'm not sure that I can really describe it), and all our friends were artists and musicians (truly the best kind of people to know).

Somehow, the only photos of Ari and I from last weekend are the ones above, shot by parties unknown. Don't remember where we were, exactly, but I know it was fun. I did a get a few other random party shots below as well. Such a curious holiday New Year's—it's not so much a celebration as it is a catharsis, a night when people party with a fever that borders on desperation.

Anyway friends, here's hoping your New Year's was everything you wanted it to be, and many happy returns. Look for more fun posts in 2008 as I whore out every friend I ever had, and profane every sacred memory.

Rubljovka Riches

2007-12-14T11:48:00.000-08:00

My nonexistent readers will remember that I wrote about Russian capitalists in last year’s post St. Pete’s Wicked Ways. German documentary filmmaker Irene Langemann’s new project Rubljovka has been making waves in Russian circles for shining light on the same subject. The film concerns Rubljovka Road, an avenue in Moscow that is the equivalent of Manhattan's Park Avenue, but extending 31 kilometers all the way into the wooded countryside. The road is where Russian elites live—where they must live if they’re really anybody—and is populated by politicians, real estate barons, oil magnates, and other unpalatable types. Having a pile of rubles does not automatically earn one entreé to this real estate—houses cost at least three million euros and full estates can soar to twenty million. Residents include billionaire and Chelsea FC owner Roman Abramowitsch, fur designer Helen Yarmak, and Boris Yeltsin’s daughter Tatiana Diatchenko. Langemann portrays these people living decadent fantasy lives and ignoring rampant poverty among their fellow citizens.

Vladimir Putin, a Rubljovka Road resident who is depicted as Napoleon on the film’s poster, is not happy with Langemann’s view of his nation. Her film is sprinkled with shots of Russian nouveau riches cavorting on ATVs and ripping around Moscow in Lamborghinis, images which are presumably juxtaposed against rickety old peasants brewing borscht. Much of the blame for this resides not with Putin, but with his embarrassing predecessor Yeltsin the dancing bear, who ushered in the legions of shock capitalists who crippled Russia. Nevertheless, Langemann’s portrayal suggests that Putin is disinterested in reining in greedy developers who commit acts of violence against dirt poor Rubljovka Road residents who refuse to sell out. The Rubljovka website explains: The last remaining huts of the poor are swept aside to make way for the palaces of the wealthy by means that could not be any more unfair or brutal. The Russian State, celebrating an imperial comeback bolstered by petro-billions, has declared open season on the weak and poor. That last sentence is incorrect, of course. It was Yetsin's capitalists who declared war on the weak and the poor, and when they were done thirty percent of the nation had descended into poverty. This percentage has decreased under Putin, even if he isn't particularly sympathetic to the poor who happen to live on his block.

Perhaps you’ve noticed that everything Russian seems to have a spy movie twist to it. The Max von Sydow plot complication here is embodied by millionaire art dealer Alexander Esin, who met with the film’s producer Wolfgang Bergmann in Frankfurt in September and offered 50,000 euros for the exclusive distribution rights to the film, with the exception of Germany, France, Austria and Switzerland, where the rights had already been sold. Esin said he wanted to establish a documentary channel and thought Rubljovka would make an ideal addition. Bergmann later told Speigel magazine: “No one else would have given me so much money.” But instead of distributing the film, Esin vaulted the project—his offer was a ruse to keep the film from reaching wider audiences. He later asked for worldwide distribution rights, even in the countries where they had already been sold. When Bergmann and Ingemann, refusing to be fooled twice, said no, Esin turned cold according to Lengemann, and delivered the perfect B-movie villain line: “You don’t know how difficult it’s become in Russia to get permission to film.”

Not to judge, but Bergmann and Ingemann should not have fallen for Esin’s initial offer. Esin is an art dealer. If that isn’t reason enough to be suspicious, he’s a millionaire art dealer. In St. Pete’s Wicked Ways I mentioned the disappearance of thousands of priceless artifacts from the State Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg. The odds that some of those national treasures ended up in Esin’s hands, and were later funnelled through his company, seem pretty good. I’m drawing conclusions, to say the least, but so is everyone else. Langemann and Bergmann claim that Esin promised to address the Rubljovka distribution issue in February, which has led to the suspicion that his buying the rights is a scheme to protect Putin ahead of the presidential elections in March. This saga is yet another example that criminals are the most cunning people. I left Russia without a single priceless artifact, not one crown jewel or Fabergé egg, which shows what a dumbass I am, despite my high IQ. At any rate, hopefully Rubljovka will see distribution next year outside central Europe. At the very least maybe it will appear on You Tube.

The Dumbbell Curve

2007-12-10T12:19:00.000-08:00

As a black person who skipped ahead in grade school, scored highly on my last IQ test, and is reasonably well-informed, I often derive amusement from dealing with someone who thinks I’m a moron yet himself couldn’t hit the ground with a stream of piss. Most people think they’re smarter than others, and they often apply deeply rooted appearance-based preconceptions to the people they see. I happen to be a person who has, shall we say, evolved beyond the need for haircuts, which means my appearance sometimes triggers these preconceptions. When you look like a rastafarian people treat you that way. While it's doubtless easier than finding out what I am actually like inside, I've also learned that people will often mistreat me because it simply makes them feel better.

This hunger to derive self worth from the mistreatment of others is particularly evident in the furor surrounding James Watson’s (above) recent inflammatory comments concerning race. Watson, the 1962 Nobel laureate, asserted that he was “inherently gloomy about the prospect of Africa” and its citizens because “all our social policies are based on the fact that their intelligence is the same as ours—whereas all the testing says not really.” Dr. Watson’s remarks created a stir, and the resultant row caused him to resign as chancellor of Cold Spring Harbor Laboratory, but it also created a legion of supporters who want desperately to believe blacks are inferior to them.

But is what Watson says true? Well, the data say no. But the data can scream from a mountaintop—proponents of race-based intelligence theories are hard of hearing. Such theories have always been with us, aimed at various ethnic groups over the centuries, but in regard to African-Americans they were given a boost in 1969 when Arthur Jensen published an article in The Harvard Educational Review maintaining that a 15-point difference in IQ between blacks and whites was mostly due to a genetic difference between the races. Dr. Jensen’s argument led to more literature on the subject, most famously from Richard Herrnstein and Charles Murray, who published The Bell Curve in 1994, and most recently from William Saletan in a series of articles in Slate.

All these writings claim that differences in black and white IQs are genetic, and can never be erased because of biological differences. I could question here whether race is even a legitimate scientific concept (most geneticists say no), or point out that nearly all American blacks possess 10 to 50 percent Anglo ancestry (which somehow fails to produce variations in IQ between light-skinned and dark-skinned blacks), but rather than waste my time, I’ll stick with the standard dogma espoused by Watson and others. That dogma states that IQ differences are hardwired by eons of evolution, and that for this reason black brains are less capable than white brains. The sluggishness of evolution is a central feature of the belief; the suggestion is that we should all accept the truth and get on with our lives because these facts will never change. Scientific researcher Kyle R. Skottke says, “Although thousands of years have passed since mankind migrated from Africa and populated the vast expanses of the world, there has been insufficient time for evolution to take effect and modify us to better fit our new environments.”

But the notion that evolution is the primary factor in racial IQ variation is blown to smithereens by James Flynn, the eminent IQ researcher who established during a global IQ study that in the western hemisphere, IQ collectively increased from 1947 to 2002. During that span IQs in the United States went up by 18 points. That's no small amount—IQ tests are calibrated so the average falls at 100. Since genes could not have changed in a mere 55 years to account for this astonishing rise, the gains were clearly the result of social factors, such as a shift that saw higher education become the American norm. If you heard a loud whooshing noise just now, it was reams of Jensen, Watson and Saletan papers going up in flames. James Flynn’s findings—irrefutable from any angle—tell us that if social factors can produce changes over time for the population as a whole, they can likewise produce changes between subpopulations.

New research tells us the IQ difference between black and white 12-year-olds in the U.S. has dropped to 9.5 points from 15 points in the last 30 years. If IQ were genetically predetermined, this rise could not have occurred. It is certainly not a coincidence that the 30 year period in question began at the tail end of a civil rights movement which resulted in blacks acquiring better access to education. In fact, during these three decades, reading and math improvement was modest for whites but substantial for blacks. The data tell us definitively that racial differences in IQ scores have nothing to do with evolution. Sorry racists. It also tells us—yet again—that good education is the key to avoiding the pitfalls of poverty and crime that later negatively impact all U.S. citizens. But sadly, education budgets continue to fall each year, which tells us quite clearly that American leaders have little interest in the future of the nation they so often claim to love.

There remains but one question pertaining to this discussion: We already know why Watson supporters exist—believing blacks are intellectually inferior pleases them—but why would a geneticist of James Watson’s stature make such statements in the first place? Well, the answer is provided by the nature of the truth surrounding this issue: since IQ differences between races have no relationship to genetics, how much can a geneticist truly know about it? Watson may possess a Nobel Prize, but he is also just a man whose own prejudices and preconceptions occasionally slip out. Watson said recently that he hoped everyone was equal, but “people who have to deal with black employees find this not true.” There is nothing scientific in that statement—it’s a racial smear uttered by an old man who was having a bad week. Steven Rose, a professor at the Open University and an acquaintance of Watson’s, said: “This is Watson at his most scandalous. He has said similar things about women before but I have never heard him get into this racist terrain.” He added: “If he knew the literature in the subject he would know he was out of his depth scientifically, quite apart from socially and politically.”

Expats and Their Guns

2007-11-29T10:42:00.000-08:00

“Magnus crashed his car into a house going to get more bullets.” This isn’t a sentence I constructed, but rather a quote I promised friends I would use to begin my long-planned Guatemala novel. As experienced a writer as I am, it surprised me how difficult it was to start this newest novel when the first sentence wasn’t of my choosing. Makes me think of the old sci-fi writer Harlan Ellison, who, legend has it, once sat in the front window of a Manhattan bookstore for a week and each day wrote a complete story whose opening sentence had been supplied by a fan. Yesterday, looking over my project, I reflected on the events leading to the utterance in question and realized the amazing fact isn’t that a friend crashed his car into a house going to get more bullets, but that it happened only once. After all, guns are not in short in supply in Guatemala. The place is almost an incarnation of the American old west—with cocaine instead of whisky.

The Guatemala tourist board would surely not want me to say so, but the reality is theirs is a dangerous country. About one in four of my friends was jacked, beaten, or kidnapped—at least once. A female friend was manually violated by the border police. “I’m not going to rape you,” he told her, as he shoved his fingers inside her. Even my adopted hometown—blissful Antigua—had its dangers. One acquaintance was attacked while riding his bicycle on the road to Cerro la Cruz. My pal Charlie had a gun pointed at him outside Monoloco. Yes, much of my crowd ended up in the crosshairs—except me. I don’t say that as a boast or to imply that I’m a tough guy, but to indicate that I have no basis upon which to judge my friends’ reliance upon firearms. I like to think that nothing could drive me to patronize the local gun dealer, but since I’ve never been attacked or victimized, I can’t really make that claim.

I do know this much, though. When you carry a gun around eventually the temptation to use it can prove irresistible. The night Magnus crashed his car there had been some drinking involved—always the case with us expats. In the picture at the top of this post Magnus is still relatively sober, but soon he and a friend were on the terrace shooting at bats. This has to be the definition of a fruitless endeavor, but the creatures had brazenly taken up residence in the eaves of the house and they had to be exterminated, pure and simple.

Nothing changes the mood of a party like gunshots. The guests would have bolted, but they were waiting for confirmation that panic was the best move. I got them calmed down, a few minutes later Magnus raced out the door on his ammo quest, and the party went on as before. The parties always went on. We learned the rest of the story the next day. Magnus had decided the one-way streets of Antigua were too much of a bother and driven the wrong way down 4th Calle, which is the main artery into town from the west. The police happened to be passing by and a chase ensued. Magnus lost control of his car, rammed a house, got out and took off on foot. He’d have been shot, I think, if he weren’t white. Nevertheless he went to jail for the night.

I think the first inkling I had that Guatemala has a love affair with the gun that rivals America’s was the first time Charlie and I escorted a departing friend to the airport. I noticed a lockbox at the entrance in which visitors are asked to voluntarily store their firearms while in the terminal. The first gun I actually saw was during a visit to the seaside town of Monterrico. We were hanging out at my favorite beach bar, El Animal Desconocido, and a gangster type rolled up, pulled out a chrome-plated .44 and fired off a clip. And while we’re going through the progression, the first gun victim I saw was in Zona Uno, Guatemala City—a fatal head shot.

Still, guns were not prevalent among my friends until crime skyrocketed after the election of Oscar Berger. Under his stewardship the country sank even deeper into poverty. Perhaps it was not his fault—Guatemala had been bullied into one of those disastrous free-trade agreements with the U.S. But setting aside the issue of blame for a moment, economic hardship undoubtedly made Guatemalans desperate. Workers became thieves, and foreigners became targets. My friend Brendan was pistolwhipped in a park at 7 pm. A group of friends were dragged into the woods and made hostages, while one girl was molested with a vibrator gunmen found in another girl’s bag. But the fun and games never stopped for us—we were partying at the end of the world.

In San Pedro men walked into a friend’s bar and robbed him at gunpoint. In Guatemala City a dozen men broke into a police impound in broad daylight and stole two tons of cocaine than had been confiscated in a raid the week before. It took them over an hour to load the drugs and nobody stopped them or bothered to call for help. Expats bought more guns. Carrying them created the illusion of safety. Firing them relieved the pressure of living in a place that was inching ever closer to hell.

Before I left the States, I would sometimes read about a terrorist bomb exploding in a nightclub in some warzone or other, and wonder why people were out socializing in the first place. It was beyond belief for me that people would go out drinking when bombs were bursting. Guatemala is no Gaza or Falluja—make no mistake about that—but I still learned the answer to my question. You never stop socializing because the interaction is an unquenchable human thirst. You’d swim a lake of flames for a good cocktail party. And you party until you're gotten by the bad guys or you get fed up and leave.

My friends got gotten and l got fed up. We scattered. We dispersed to San Francisco, Miami, London, Shanghai, Roatán, while others of us started traveling again and haven't stopped yet. Myself, I’m looking for another Antigua, but with fewer guns. That’s why I’m headed to San Sebastián. Of course, that’s in Basque territory, where an occasional bomb has been known to explode. But I hear the cocktail parties are tremendous.

Ballooning Bodies and Bank Accounts

2007-11-20T11:50:00.000-08:00

I got a query from Tony Brown in the comments section of my post A Torso from the Past. He said: "By the way, I am hungry for your comment on the whole Barry Bonds thing!" I've actually started posts on this subject a couple of times, and both times decided not to bother. But asked a direct question, I'll go ahead and answer before getting back to stories about carousing in the third world. So thanks for the prompt TB.

My main thought is that it amuses me how, in a country that values money above all other things, people continue to be surprised by what people will do to get it. Cheating is not just part of sports, but part and parcel of American life. Anyone who thinks otherwise needs to pick up a history book and turn to the chapters marked "Indian Treaties", and then flip forward to the chapters marked "Enron" and "Hedge Fund". America's top income earner last year was a hedge fund manager who made 1.1 billion dollars. Yes, you read that figure correctly. He did it by selling shady investment packages, the same ones that now threaten to destroy the U.S. economy.

So, if we're discussing this like adults, rather than like flagwavers or moral watchdogs (Won't somebody please think of the CHILDREN!) then I'd point out that baseball players who used steroids were rewarded handsomely. Take Ken Caminiti, who posted an MVP season on steroids. He was a solid but unspectacular player who, after the juice, became bionic. He was given a fat contract as a reward for his stats and profited, I'd guess, ten million dollars just for taking some chemicals. Most people would eat a bowl of feces for one hundredth that amount.

Take a good look at the photo of Bonds below. That is what he looked like upon joining the Pittsburgh Pirates. And he possessed the same physique, pretty much, for the next few years of his career. He was hitting maybe twenty-five, thirty homers a season, stealing some bases, playing good defense. He was a very good all-around player. But it was the homers everyone wanted. Now imagine it's 1995 or 1996 and baseball contracts are skyrocketing. You've performed well, but your clubhouse has some guys who are taking steroids and, league wide, team owners are rewarding these guys by dumping millions on them. Some of these guys strike out 150 times a year, wasting 150 at bats, but in forty five of those at bats they connect for homers, and for that they get enough money to last them ten lifetimes. And while it's true you're making good money too, it could all end tomorrow, with one injury. You've got a nest egg, but your expenses are through the roof, which means that with a little bad luck you could still end up doing used car commercials when you're 60. So fuck it, you give these drugs a try. Other guys are earning mints while your 30/30 seasons get you treated like some kind of warm-up act. And the drugs are legal, so what's the worry?

A few years later, after you've transformed into the Hulk, baseball starts to worry about steroids and bans them. But the substances keep evolving and the new ones aren't banned. And, by the way, you got that massive contract you were looking for, so you trust this stuff because it made you, and your children, and their children financially secure—for life. And let's not forget, if you quit and your numbers drop you'll have to deal with a raft of grief for not putting up your usual numbers. And lastly, not every player is planning to quit, as far as you can tell. If everyone quit, okay, maybe you would, too. But why give other players an advantage when it'll just hurt your earning power?

Another year or two passes and, weird as it seems, public opinion is turning against steroid use even as the crowds cheer you on. And somehow—maybe you didn't even believe it at first—the most hallowed record in American sports is dangling before your eyes like a ripe pomegranate. It's right there. Baseball is coming down hard on steroids now, but your chance to quit the juice with no questions asked was two years ago, or maybe three, so you're on the chopping block either way. You saw what happened to Mark McGuire. They crucified that guy and he never broke the law or the rules of baseball. He was smarter than you, though. He retired. The same record was within his reach and he walked away. Unbelievable. You should have done the same, but it's too late now. Fuck it. Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead.

Abandoning my dramatization of Barry Bonds' baseball life for a moment, we have to ask, does anything I wrote make steroid usage okay? Well, I don't believe any sort of drug use is inherently right or wrong, but you obey laws and rules—even stupid ones—if you don't want to get in trouble. Bonds didn't obey, and now he's in trouble. However if anyone out there believes the morality of the situation is black and white, I suggest they try to get the same corner table at Nobu that Bonds gets. They'll learn the harsh lesson that it is better in America to be rich than good or moral. Money is America's God, and Bonds worships it no more and no less than others. After he is ridiculed, after he is asterisked, and after his life is dragged through the mud, he'll stroll into Nobu and still get that corner table. He'll get it every day of his life. The politician, the slimy hedge fund manager, the juiced up athlete, and the tax cheat are all of similar stripe, doing what they do for the exact same reasons. So who can really throw stones?

Bonds took a risk, and though in one respect he may get caught, in a much more important respect—money—he succeeded spectacularly. So did Martha Stewart, and Oliver North, and thousands of other all-American liars who, when all was said and done, still got to keep the cash they cheated to get. Bonds may appear to whine about his current circumstances, but this is to be expected, for denial followed by contrition are required by the American public. Thus repentance becomes part of the stage show. In the words of the immortal William Butler Yeats, "How can we know the dancer from the dance?"

Bonds got the money, and he got the record he wanted. It was a struggle. He had to chase the sacred number while living inside a pressure cooker, under extraordinary scrutiny from fans and with prosecutors digging through his personal history. Although he has already admitted taking something given to him by his trainer, there is no doubt that performance enhancing substances were not available to him in 2007 as he gained on recordholder Hank Aaron. He'd have been busted if he came within ten miles of a steroid. Meanwhile every piece of dirty laundry he possessed was aired out in public—the affair, every bad thing he ever did. And what happened? He broke the record while having the greatest season ever by a forty-three year old player. Which conjures a most bittersweet thought: maybe if he had never taken anything he would have achieved it all anyway.

A Torso from the Past

2007-11-12T10:02:00.000-08:00

Authoring a blog has had unintended consequences and benefits, both of which manifested last week. First, some octopoidal American corporate entity tried to track down Ari by using BlackNotBlack. They called the phone number of the Tony Brown Gallery in the link at right looking for him. Which just goes to show that nobody can be bothered to read anymore, because if they had perused even one or two postings, they would have known that Ari is not at the Tony Brown Gallery, nor even in the United States. Note to octopoidal American corporate entity: Ari lives very far away, but you’ll have to read to find out where.

I assumed that was the end of people using the blog as a homing device, but then, just a few days later, my old friend Bryon found the blog and dropped me a query. I haven’t heard from him for years, but as you can see from the above photo of his redecorated torso, we had some good times together, though I think we would both agree, neither of us remember them. But that’s the great benefit of people arriving back in your life after an absence—it’s an excuse remind each other of the stunts you pulled.

I should explain that when the gory shot above was snapped we were pretty sure we were going to be rock stars, and in fact, we had already attained a measure of success—if success can be measured by two CDs, several tours, gigs at places like CBGB and the Cabaret Metro, a management deal, and some support slots for a number of internationally famous bands. Around that time Bryon and I also launched a magazine together—the one on whose cover we put Bjork—so he was especially thrilled that I saw her in Iceland.

Anyway, Bryon and I had our rock star fantasy and milked it pretty much dry, and they were interesting times, but I never name-drop or discuss those events in detail because the end of that era was the beginning of the best and most adventurous time of my life. I mean, if you’d told me on the day we called it quits as a band that I’d soon smuggle coatimundi in the Caribbean, take part in the runtur in Reykjavik, and see violently dispatched corpses in Guatemala, I’d have asked for a rail of whatever you were snorting. And because the future always seems to hold so much promise for more thrills, I habitually resist fetishising past antics (this blog notwithstanding).

But hearing from Bryon has made me reconsider my stance, because it stirred up the silt at the murky bottom of my memory and some remarkable items floated to daylight. So expect some gonzo posts in the upcoming months. I mean, what’s the point of good stories if you don’t share them, right? If people don’t want to hear them they don’t have to read the blog. Oh wait—I already have no readers. Almost forgot. In any case, Bryon figures in a number of good tales and I think I have permission to share. Boy, is he going to regret it.

Menchú Munched in Guatemalan Election

2007-11-06T15:37:00.000-08:00

Newsflash from my former home: businessman Alvaro Colom was declared winner of Guatemala’s hotly contested presidential election. His main opposition was Otto Perez Molina, a former army general who had pledged to fight crime with an iron fist. Sunday's vote was actually a runoff between the two top contenders of a previous balloting. In that vote, way down at the bottom of the tally, was Rigoberto Menchú (pictured), a Mayan whose activism and writings won her the Nobel Peace Prize back in 1992, the Prince of Asturias Award in ’98, and won her exactly diddly-squat this year. I'm disappointed in my ex-countrymen, to say the least. Not that I expected Menchú to win, but I certainly hoped she'd garner more than 3% of the vote. I keep trying to spin it one way or another, but 3% is a humbling defeat and that's all there is to it.

Perhaps my understanding of politics is upside down, but personally I would sooner expect a general or a businessman to get 3% of the vote when facing off against a Nobel Prize winner. What’s more, Menchú is Mayan. When you consider that Guatemala is 41% Mayan (as of the 2002 census) her poor showing is especially mystifying. According to a poll conducted earlier this year by Vox Latina and published in Guate’s Prensa Libre, 71.2% of respondents felt that an indigenous person could be elected president. It happened in Bolivia, so the precendent had been set in another country with a sizable indigenous population. But within the privacy of the voting booth, a dramatically opposite story unfolded in Guatemala.

Political and social analysts have, of late, agreed that polls often produce spurious results. This was certainly such a case. It is a medium that deals in hypotheses, after all, not facts. Polls asking about people’s beliefs are particularly apt to disconnect from reality. The question presented in the Guatemala poll was worded thusly: Do you think an indigenous person can be elected president in Guatemala? Upon inspection, the query is more about high ideals than actual voting preferences. And of course the question says nothing about electing a female candidate. Having lived in Guatemala, it is easy for me to imagine that many voters were reluctant to back Menchú for this reason, ridiculous though it may be. It is also possible that, even in a country where there are more than a dozen political parties, brand loyalty prevented people from supporting Menchú’s shiny new coalition.

As for her shiny Nobel Prize—it clearly didn’t impress. In the United States, an honor like the Nobel is denounced by foam-flecked partisan commentators as a political ploy, but in Latin America these types of awards usually possess only positive value. Óscar Arias, president of Costa Rica, has a Peace Prize on his mantel, and its presence there helped get him elected. However, several details of Menchú’s life story came under scruntiny, and these led to some calls to revoke her Prize. In the end, the Nobel committee concluded, quite rightly, that a few inconsistencies in the inspiring tapestry of a life are not sufficient to revoke a recipient's Prize. And there is no besmirching Menchú's activism—her works are public record. I can’t offer any insight on whether the scandal-mongering hurt her campaign, but I’ll go out on a limb and say that when you get 3% of the vote, it didn’t help.

The good news for Menchú is that, at only fifty three years of age, she will probably be around for the next election. This year’s winner finally succeeded in his third try, and it’s likely Menchú will need at least that many to have a chance. Now that she has entered the political arena, her profile should continue to rise, and Mayans will probably become more comfortable thinking of her as something other than an activist and author. She will certainly need them to, because social division in Guatemala runs deep and it’s unlikely that even the smallest fraction of non-indigenous voters would cast a ballot for her.

Swedish Chic '74

2007-10-26T10:00:00.000-07:00

I've never been able to figure out why most of the best music hails from the seventies, yet most of the worst style does as well. How can one decade have given us both Funkadelic and the leisure suit? Alas, it's too deep a mystery for me to fathom. Here's another painful example: our northern bureau (Ari Sawyer) sent us this link of awful interiors from Sweden in the 1970's which I simply had to share. At least the Swedes are consistent, though—their music was awful back then too. Nowadays Stockholm is Mecca for jazz, rap and wild-ass indie rock, not to mention poetry and literature, and they invented the party boat to Talinn, and they give out these things called Nobel Prizes, and and they're even noble (heh heh) enough to let the Norweigians present the prestigous Peace Prize in Oslo. So the truth is Sweden rocks, and I suck. Nevertheless someone has to answer for these terrible designs. I say blame Ikea.

Happy Birthday Ari

2007-09-28T11:49:00.000-07:00

This week is the immortal Ari Sawyer's birthday (at far left). Watch out ladies—the Madman of Helsinki is loose . . . and he's hungry.

A Delivery System for Sugar

2007-09-27T20:56:00.001-07:00

Over the past couple of weeks I’ve been discussing the upcoming U.S. elections with various friends, and I surprised myself by coming up with what I thought was a pretty good analogy for politics. Some time ago I heard a comic say that a cookie is simply a delivery system for sugar. You mix some flour and butter with whatever ingredients you prefer for flavor—peanut butter, for example, or chocolate chips, or oatmeal—and then you add in two cups of sugar. When you bite into the baked cookie the flavors taste great, but it’s the sugar that you were after all along. It’s the sugar you crave. There are other ways to get it—you could simply pour it down your throat. But that would be uncouth, gluttonous, and disgusting to witness. By using cookies as a delivery system everyone is happy.

In exactly the same way, politics are a delivery system for money. It would be incredibly disgusting if the government simply handed bales of tax money to the rich and powerful, so politics serve as the medium of transference. There are various other ingredients, but it’s the transfer of cash that is the ultimate goal. I doubt if Thomas Jefferson, George Washington and the rest truly intended it this way, but there is no doubt that, here and now, politics exist to funnel money upward. This process, unchecked since Republican deregulation and privatization began in the 80s, is the primary reason the gap between rich and poor is vast and widening. We are reminded what the concept of a wealth gap really means when we hear that the richest 225 people in the world have more money than the three billion poorest.

One of the subjects my friends and I discussed was how the Iraq war is a textbook case of disaster capitalism. When nine billion dollars went missing in Baghdad, this was a surprise to everyone except the contractors who had intended to steal the money all along. In Michael Moore’s film Fahrenheit 9/11, there is a scene in which a convention hall filled with American contractors meet to discuss the impending war. The buzz in the room is electric. The speaker begins by reassuring everyone present that there is enough money to be made on the war to make them all happy. He says, “We’re talking about a very big pie here, and there is plenty for everyone.”

The pie he is referring to is American tax money. Nine billion of it was shipped to Iraq—in actual cash—mostly in twenty dollar denominations. This tax money, which overworked Americans give in exchange for the government’s promise that it will be used to pay the costs of maintaining a healthy and safe society, was instead earmarked for the Iraqi people. I have no quibble there—the Iraqis needed a stable everyday currency, since theirs would be useless. At the time it was suggested that the money would be repaid through oil revenue. But the Iraqis got squat. Instead some of the money was sucked away by contractors who were overcharging the U.S. government for services—i.e. $420,000 for meals which in reality cost $43,000—and the rest was simply stolen. No wonder the room was abuzz in Fahrenheit 9/11. It was going to be Christmas in the fertile crescent.

But it isn’t quite as easy to steal money in a country that isn't shattered by war, so in the United States, sleight-of-hand is needed. Sometimes, in order to facilitate the flow of cash, American politicians use an illusion called “tax cuts”, which invariably are kickbacks to the rich. Sometimes they use a trick called "federal grants", which they give to businesses owned by people who need no financial help whatsoever. But in all cases, money earned by regular American taxpayers is given to rich men and powerful corporations. We have Milton Friedman, among others, to thank for such Machiavellian economics. If there is a hell, non-existent readers, there’s a special one for Milty and all the pseudo tough guys who worship him.

These days American televisions are occupied almost full-time by 2008 presidential candidates, all vying to replace George W. Bush. On one level, replacing jib-jab is a plum assignment, simply because nobody could do worse. After an eight year run that saw environmental laws gutted, the mad dog of business set loose on the American people, and the planet’s first civilization blasted into rubble, the next president could be selected from the ranks of the criminally insane and still outperform G.W. On the other hand, I have yet to hear anything to indicate that the new candidates are going rectify the systemic wrongs that have brought all this to pass. More disturbingly, I haven’t heard anything to indicate that Americans truly expect it. Which means the sugar will be delivered the same as always.

Improv Rodeo

2007-08-17T13:56:00.000-07:00

When the first bull charged swift and irate into the bullring his power was so palpable I pictured him as some mythic beast—a minotaur or perhaps some monster from The Iliad. The fifty men trapped inside with him melted away from him like he was radioactive, climbing the perimeter fence each time he bore down on them and then dropping back into the ring in his wake. This was a Guatemalan rodeo—a chaotic hybrid of a Stateside rodeo and a Spanish bullfight—and it was audience participation all the way. That meant the thrills and spills were going to be provided by everyday townspeople. It was improv rodeo where the trick was to face down an angry bull and escape alive.

Someone once said about Guatemala that it looks like Mother Nature spilled her paintbox there. When fiesta days arrive, what is an already colorful country becomes kaleidoscopic with streamers, carnivals, processions, and fireworks. Fiesta days also bring the rodeo, the centerpiece event of each town’s yearly holiday. San Antonio Aguas Calientes, a small town in the hills surrounding the Panchoy Valley, was staging their rodeo over two days near the town cemetary. They had built a dirt corral surrounded by a fence constructed of wooden rails and rope. You wouldn’t find a photo of this fence in the dictionary next to the word sturdy, but the best view of the action was from up there, so I had scaled the thing and straddled the top rail, about eight feet off the ground.

The bullring was unadorned inside save for a single defoliated tree, positioned in the exact center for no reason that I could discern. The fifty daredevils running for their lives were mostly locals, including a couple of festive-looking clowns and one kid in a Chicago Bulls jersey—magical number 23 naturally. Fireworks were exploding overhead, vendors were selling ice cream and cotton candy, and a mariachi band was blasting music from the bleachers. Through all this celebratory clamor the bull charged and wheeled, in search of targets who were too smart to get in his way.

But the spectators cheered for action, so before long one bold soul succumbed to the pressure. He took a stance maybe fifteen feet in front of the bull and did a disjointed dance that got the crowd laughing. And then everyone realized the guy wasn’t brave—he was drunk. While a drink or two has been known to improve one’s darts game, tipping a few before facing a bull is a good way to eliminate yourself from the human gene pool. The guy got twenty seconds into his routine, and then the bull charged almost perfunctorily and nailed him so hard he nearly rolled out of the corral.

By now the purpose of the mystery tree was clear—it was to hide behind. Which is exactly what about twenty people were doing. They stood in a line, each man with a loose grip on the man in front of him, and swept back and forth in unison like the hand of a clock. The idea was to keep the tree between them and the bull, which was fine for the anchor man, who barely had to move, but not so fine for the last man, who had to break into a full sprint to stay protected.

Maybe the bull noticed, because he went after the tail end of the queue. Any semblance of order vanished at that point, and there was a lot of stumbling and crawling, while the crowd gasped and the mariachis played trumpet commentary from the bleachers. The bravest men made sorties to smack the bull on the rump or even grab his tail, but there were simply too many targets for the creature. He got tired. Or maybe he just got bored. In any case, he stopped attacking and, not long after, his keepers lassoed him and led him from the corral.

A few minutes later bull number two charged into the ring and the crowd was treated to its first gringo appearance. Joining in on this kind of fun was pretty much established as an American tradition when guys like Ernest Hemingway and John Huston documented Spain’s Festival of San Fermin. Huston’s autobiography, An Open Book, features a photograph taken of him being nearly vivisected by a bull after he jumped from the bleachers of a Spanish plaza de toros waving his suit jacket. A few years ago Spike Lee reminded people of tradition when he filmed a Nike commercial featuring himself running with the Pamplona bulls. So foreign participation was no problem for the people of San Antonio—in fact they seemed to expect it.

The gringo mostly ran around with the masses but obviously accomplished what he’d wanted—to do it and survive. He got out of there after a short stint, and another went in. That was just about when bull two tired and his handlers came out and roped him. Everyone relaxed at that point, which is why when the bull slipped his lasso nobody was paying attention. I don’t think the gringo realized the bull was steaming in his direction until the crowd screamed. He looked up, saw he was booked on a free one-way flight back to the States—and froze. But there was another man standing next to him and for some reason the bull decided to blast that guy into orbit instead.

I had been to some traditional bullfights and come away each time deeply affected by the deaths of the bulls. Seeing animal suffering transformed into ballet arouses the polemicist in me, but the Guatemalan version was different. The bulls weren’t being tortured, slain and dragged out by their hooves. They were being led by rope back to a truck, upon which they would be carted to the next rodeo in the next town. And it was different in one other way—the bulls were winning the fights.

By bull five the perimeter fence was collapsing in three places and workers were scrambling with fresh rope to make repairs on the fly. Lightning licked nearby but the people in the pine trees weren’t about to give up their spots. The last two bulls had been disappointing and everyone wanted action. One man stepped forward with a towel and made the bull whiff half a dozen times. But there was a reason he was in San Antonio rather than in a plaza de toros in Barcelona and everyone found out why when the bull finally caught him. Amidst a chorus of screams the guy went down hard, got trampled and just missed having his delicate parts mashed into cracker spread. He was carried out of the ring incapacitated and bleeding from his nose. Since I don’t think he actually got hit in the nose, it was a pretty bad sign.

Throughout the day judges had been selecting winners in each bout—the honor being bestowed upon the bravest and most adept participants. A couple of men actually rode the bulls as they charged into the corral and they won on principle, although what they did looked more like a Jackass segment than a skilled ride. But the point of the spectacle was for men to show their bravery while entertaining the crowd and that was accomplished. With the food and music and drink it was a celebration for everyone—young, old, Guatemaltecos and extranjeros. Even the men who got trampled were happy—they all survived to tell the story.

And it was a good day for the bulls too, considering the alternatives. Not only did they make it through the rodeo without being tortured and impaled, any spectator would agree they had won every fight. Divest a man of his swords, saddles and spurs, and it really evens up the odds. No bull ever won the by-the-book bullfights I’d attended, and the horses and calves in the North American rodeo I once saw weren’t exactly bleating a happy tune. Which in my book makes the Guatemalan version better, and the Guatemalan participants braver, than any cowboy or matador

Misterioso Spotted?

2007-07-25T09:49:00.000-07:00

Check the immaculately groomed mustache. Dig the glowing suit and matching panama hat. Has Sr. Misterioso resurfaced? He had been missing since arson gutted one of his homes earlier this year, but if this shot is any indication, the world's most dapper jet-setter is once again cruising the glittery beltways of the international scene. It can only mean that he successfully hunted and destroyed the villains responsible for the attempt on his life, and is now engaged in some serious recreation. We don't know where this anonymous photo was taken—Miami? Ibiza?—but the instant fresh details come over the wire they will appear here, at BlackNotBlack. And let us be the first to extend a heartfelt: Welcome back, Misterioso!

Brave Old World

2007-07-21T21:52:00.000-07:00

The bull was named Colon—Spanish for Columbus—and when the picador speared it from horseback, a gout of blood gushed from between its shoulders as if from a fountain. All the most basic elements were finally extant in Puerto Vallarta’s plaza de toros—dirt, threatening purple sky, the shiny black hide of the bull, and now blood. Behind me a schoolgirl burst into tears at the sight. From American tourists I heard angry complaints that it wasn’t fair. They were talking about how the picadores entered the ring riding armored horses and, with the professional aplomb of S.W.A.T. snipers, speared Colon while safe atop their mounts. How could that be fair?

Personally, I thought for any gringo to talk about fair fights was laughable. As a culture Americans—throughout a history of conflicts both noble and ignoble—have proved to be little concerned with fighting fair. Como se dice “hypocrisy” en Español? And anyway, a bullfight isn’t supposed to be fair. That’s what few in the crowd seemed to realize. “Matador,” after all, means “killer.” To an aficionado, calling a bullfight unfair is like telling a baseball fan it isn’t fair that the pitcher throws so hard. The bullfight isn’t so much a true fight as it is a juxtaposition, an entwining of ballet and savagery. Fairness has nothing to do with it. That’s why the picadores spear the bull, shredding muscle in animal’s thick neck so it can’t raise its head—it gives the matador the edge he needs to do battle with a creature that would ordinarily smash him flatter than a corn tortilla.

It’s also why there are apprentice matadors called toreros helping torment and tire the bull before the real fight begins. The bull must be weakened, physically diminished. All the attendant pomp—the picadores, the shrill mariachi band which provides musical commentary on the proceedings, the gaudy traje de luces or suit of lights the matador wears—is rooted in tradition that dates back uncounted centuries. But as a wounded bull stands there wheezing like a massive bellows, covered in clots of gore, pissing uncontrollably into the dirt, it’s natural to see its situation as unfair.

Nevertheless the fight went on. Colon knocked down his tormentor, Pascual Navarro, trampling him and buffeting from his shoes and hat. But Navarro was not injured. He rose, killed Colon cleanly and was awarded by the presidente—the fight judge who sits in the stands—both the bull’s ears as trophies. Above you see him holding up the grisly prizes and beaming at the crowd. For the Americans in attendance, if there was some artistry to the battle or some satisfaction to be derived from being spectators at this ancient rite, they didn’t care. They were aghast, and by the third fight many of them had left the stands.

Three matadors, three messily slain animals. Each fight appeared identical on the surface, but in reality each differed in its details. Some matadors attempted maneuvers others didn’t. Some bulls fought better than others. But all the animals ended up collapsing bloodily into the dirt.

The last and best matador was a young man named Valente Reyes, who was tall and slender as a prince. He elevated the butchery to something more like art. He performed pases rodillas—passes from his knees—making a bull named Mago charge and miss five times. He swung his muleta—his cape—in arabesque patterns like an illusionist. The Mexicans in the crowd erupted at these maneuvers and Reyes stopped in the middle of the duel to bask in the adulation, handsome and arrogant, as the bull glared dully.

In fact Mago seemed all but defeated. So when, on the next pass, his horns sliced open Reyes’ sequined traje, it couldn’t have been more shocking. White linen hung from a slash in the brocaded costume and the matador’s façade of mastery briefly dropped. But as a chorus of cheers rose up from Americans who had stayed—the Mexicans shook their heads in disgust at this display of disrepect—Reyes rediscovered his focus. He taunted the crowd with a gesture that said, "Watch now, what I do to this bull you cheer." It was plain to see that Mago would be made into an example.

Reyes took up a pair of gaily decorated banderillas. Covered with paper flowers, these short, barb-tipped sticks spur the bulls on because of the severe pain they inflict. Reyes faced Mago. A quick pass and the banderillaswere deftly stabbed between the bull’s shoulders. It roared. Another pass and two more banderillasbristled from Mago’s back. The bull was foaming at the mouth. The blood and paper flowers and churning dust of the spectacle were all an abstraction by now. What I was witnessing wasn’t surreal or un-real, but heightened reality in which bull and man had become combatant-ambassadors for their species. It was the cruelty of all humanity I saw, and the rape of all nature.

The remaining Americans, even those who had protested, were mesmerized now by the grimness with which Reyes conducted his business. He walked with his last pair of banderillas to the edge of the bullring and broke them against the barrera, the railing. They were now half as long as they had been—and would be twice as dangerous to insert. Another thunderous charge and the harpoon-tipped sticks went into Mago’s hide.

Mago had already proved to be a smart bull. He had backed away from the picadores after being holed once, and it had been an unexpected but deliberate rotation of his massive head which had allowed him to nearly hamstring the agile Reyes. But in the next moment he proved just how smart he was. He looked around the ring for an exit. There could be no mistake about it. He made a half-circuit, staring at the toreros, perhaps considering whether one of them would be easier to fight. Then he lingered at the spot where he had originally entered the ring. But there was no door there now.

Meanwhile Reyes had gone to his mozo de estoques—his personal attendant in the narrow passage behind the barrera called the callejon—and retrieved his estoque, his killing sword. The last act had begun. With exquisite patience Reyes incited Mago to charge. On the first pass his blade glanced off some bony cleft or other and fell to the dirt. Reyes recovered it and Mago wheeled about. A second pass and the blade missed the mark again. The Americans jeered and Reyes goaded them with a gesture from his upraised hand. He was angry again, and that meant Mago’s time was up.

On the third pass Reyes finally drove the estoque in, high up on the bull’s back. Mago spun about from that last charge unaware that he was already dead. But the crowd saw the pommel of sword flush against his back and knew it was over. The bull’s heart had been pierced. Mago started to charge again, stopped. He paced about, bellowed loudly, and fell to his knees. A torrent of maroon aortal blood burst from his mouth and nose as if a faucet had been turned on. Reyes walked regally around the ring with arms aloft, pausing so that tourists with flash cameras could get good shots of his face. Mago fell on his side and stopped moving. Reyes earned two ears for his victory.

I knew from reading Ernest Hemingway’s The Dangerous Summer—that blood-soaked classic about a season-long mano a mano between two legendary Spanish matadors—that two ears were only half the trophies that could be awarded to a brave bullfighter. Reyes had probably earned those last two trophies—the tail and the hoof—a few times in his brief career. But as good as he was, even he would have been little more than a mozo to the greats of Barcelona or Mexico City, those storied matadors who can kill a bull instantly with their swords, severing the spinal cord and stopping it in its tracks.

Hemingway rhapsodized about the festival of San Fermin—ocurring this last couple of weeks in Spain—in which the brave run with the bulls. He described a love for bullfighting that is remarkable in its lack of apology, especially eighty years later. Unlike portrayals in anti-bullfighting literature, he was fully aware of the cruelty of the sport, but saw it as a great human art in a chaotic and hellish world. In a world in which savagery is continually cloaked in artifice, it was the ultimate art, a truth in an ocean of deception. It represented a reality which he felt many were unwilling to face—that for us to hold on to our humanity, death must remain close to us, close enough to see and smell and hear, and at the expense of the bulls.

We are presumed by some to be the only creatures who are aware of death, of the void. This will turn out not to be true, as animal science continues its inexorable march, but in 1926, it was stone cold fact. Hemingway felt sorry for the bulls. But it was man's ability to cloak cruelty in ritual that impressed him. He described matadors performing tremendously artistic passes called veronicas, mariposas, chicuelinas, and remates. These were all techniques unseen in Puerto Vallarta. The most exceptional matadors even kneel in front of a bull and touch noses with it. No one in Puerto Vallarta would have dared such a thing. Vallarta is the minor leagues. But the matador I observed—Valente Reyes—was young and ambitious, and might yet graduate to the great plaza in Mexico City. In a country where children fight bulls in pastures using t-shirts as muletas, the craving for fame in the national sport provides considerable incentive to practice.

And so after the dust cleared and dead Mago was dragged out by his hooves, I wondered what I had actually seen. I wished I was in Pamplona. That was a given. But beyond that, did the animal agony I had witnessed remind me of the quality of suffering or did it desensitize me to it? Is tradition a justification for cruelty? And originating as I do from a land of carefully pre-packaged savagery, where a football knee injury is considered mortal and mano a mano is when two hockey players square off to beat each other up, can I criticize this sport that does more than just simulate death?

Some days later I described these events to a friend, and told him he should experience a bullfight one day. He said: “If I want to experience a bullfight, I’ll just go out in my back yard and stab a puppy.” It was a curt reminder that, poetic or not, a bullfight is simply mythic, organized slaughter. But nothing I’d seen before, particularly nothing in sanitized American sports, ever affected me as deeply as did the deaths of four Mexican bulls. And it made me think about things no boxing match or pit fight ever caused me to consider. I wonder if that isn’t the sole reason the practice has survived so long.

Perhaps the strangest part of it all is that the plaza de toros in Puerto Vallarta is called la Paloma—the Dove.

Señor Misterioso: Travelling Companions, Part 2

2007-07-10T12:35:00.000-07:00

Speaking of good luck charms and trusted companions, an even more intimate friend and indispensable component of my travels has been the enigmatic jet-setter known only as Sr. Misterioso. Described by some as an amalgam of Ricardo Montalbán and James Bond, he is in reality more Houdini than he is 007, more Cary Grant than he is Mr. Rourke. But whatever Sr. Misterioso is, and however people choose to see him, he is doubtless one of the most fascinating personages of our time.

While certainly no recluse, Sr. Misterioso is something of a cipher who has spoken of himself on precious few occasions. To do so would be boring—pure anathema to a creature so circumspect and mannered (this did not, of course, prevent an unauthorized Greydon Carter profile from appearing in Vanity Fair in 1998). Because of Misterioso's cloak of silence, nobody knows for sure if his origins are cosmic or supernatural, but he first took earthly form in Rosarito, Mexico—that much is known. Which year this occurred is anyone’s guess. But it was in 2002 that Hollywood stuntman Daniel Forcey, while working on a film called Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World, encountered Misterioso in a curio shop.

Forcey related the tale: "I was buying cigarettes or mezcal, I can't remember which, when I looked down at the counter beneath the cash register where, hidden amongst the super balls, zoom flyers and clown wigs, sat nestled a plain black and neon green package. At the top of this package were five words: "Senor Misterioso! He's so mysterious!" I knew right then and there I had to have him."

Since that meeting, Misterioso has accompanied both Forcey and I on our travels to Mexico, Guatemala, and Iceland (he has been known to join others, but only those capable of providing the thrills and danger to which he is accustomed). Misterioso appears and vanishes according to whim, always garbed in his custom-designed atomic suit, which some say was crafted by Karl Lagerfeld, but which unnamed U.S. government sources say was actually created during a nuclear fission experiment inside an Area 51 atom smasher. Whatever the suit's provenance, it is legendary in fashion circles. Hanae Mori once shed tears of rapture at the sight of it. Jean-Louis Scherrer was critically ill for a year after a misguided attempt to incorporate radium into his own designs.

Like all celebrities, Misterioso has web cults devoted to him. One site states that he arose from obscure films, such as the 1966 Italian-produced Misterioso Señor Van Eyck, and the 1943 Mexican obscurity Misterioso Señor Marquina. Both attributions are false. There is a MySpace page, of which Misterioso disavows any knowledge, though there are whispers he mave have had the page constructed to disseminate disinformation. It seems likely, considering the obvious errors in its content. For example, the page claims he is a secret agent here to save the world. This has been floated more than once as a reason for Misterioso's movements on Earth, but nobody knows for sure why he is here—he isn't saying. Also, to be an agent one would have to have masters—unlikely. Another error—the page claims Misterioso is hoping to meet Mrs. Misterioso. This hardly seems plausible, considering he is an avowed bachelor who has romanced Alessandra Ambrosio, Anne Heywood, Isabelle Adjani, Lisa Bonet, Devon Aoki, Princess Leia, Bjork (once during her Sugarcubes days, and a second time as a solo artist), and other women comprising a fruit cocktail of modern beauty.

One website asks: “Is Sr. Misterioso an extremely dangerous man or just a harmless socialite in a glowing suit? His motives are unclear, but there is documentation of meetings with extraterrestrials, Howard Hughes, George Steinbrenner, J.D. Salinger, Chuck Norris, David P. Reinhardt, and Pee Wee Herman.” While Misterioso is a very dangerous man—when he speaks his mere words can sting like a whip and his gaze can flashfreeze watercress—his associations have never been as backalley as Pee Wee Herman. He has also asserted that he never crossed paths with Chuck Norris. He has stated explicitly that, as a man of taste, he doesn’t mix with opportunists, half-wits, or z-grade actors-turned-racist politicos, and would only meet with the likes of Chuck Norris to disintegrate him. As an entity with a Latin essence, it’s the least he could do. As for the Howard Hughes connection, that one is factual, but was a brief meeting in Macao in 1952—before Hughes lost his marbles—at which Misterioso introduced Hughes to aspiring movie starlet Maria Sen Wong. On the subject of extraterrestrials he is tantalizingly mum.

Misterioso is famously camera-shy due to several run-ins with overzealous paparazzi (who he was later forced to destroy), and from a need to protect the identities of some of the women with whom he trysts, who are often royalty. But when relaxed and enjoying himself among friends Misterioso is both talkative and willing to permit a snapshot or two. In the photo at the top of this post we see him reposing in one of his favorite towns, Ensenada. In the next shot he demonstrates the power of the force to attract smoldering space princesses. You may notice that Misterioso is out of focus. This is either due to radioactivity from the suit affecting the camera chip, or an autofocus problem caused by Misterioso's simultaneous presence in several dimensions at once. Indeed, by Misterioso's own declaration, any in-focus photo of him is a fake.

One last rumor should be cleared up—that the elimination of Sr. Misterioso and his atomic suit are of paramount importance to certain dark agencies. This is fact—one of his several earthly domiciles, an unassuming yet elegant mid-century modern south of Los Angeles, was recently consumed in a suspicious fire while he was inside. Nobody has seen Misterioso since, not in his villa in Capri, nor his hacienda in Ixtapa, nor even his palapa in Canggu. But most have faith that he used his vanishing trick to escape the conflagration, and is even now hunting the suicidal fools responsible in order to blast them into slag. But this is mere speculation. In the end it’s impossible to know Misterioso’s plans or whereabouts—he’s just too mysterious.

Die Hard Cooler: Travelling Companions, Part 1

2007-07-05T17:37:00.000-07:00

Yesterday my friend Charlie jingled me and asked if I wanted to go to the beach. Most people would welcome such an invitation, but the mere suggestion sent my pulse rocketing like someone had stuck a live wire in my heart. But then I remembered we weren't in Central America, which meant there would be none of the events associated with our most recent beach trips. There would be no shooting. There would be no judo matches in the pool. None of my friends would steal a horse. We would not snort salt up our noses and squeeze limes in our eyes. We were going to a sane beach, populated by sane people, and we would follow their example and behave in sane fashion.

Once my Central America flashback passed, I dug around in the darkest and most cobwebby recesses of my kitchen cupboard and found my treasured portable cooler. I brought the cooler to the beach and, as Charlie, Diana and I sat there together on the sand and sipped cold white wine, I realized this was possibly the most worldly tote in history. Comparing notes, we realized the cooler had traveled to many countries, nearly died three times, and had facilitated more than its share of debaucherous events. In a sense it is a totem, and an analogue of both Charlie and me.

The cooler originally came from Costa Rica, where Charlie purchased it in a hole-in-the-wall tienda during a road trip. For some reason he and another friend, Peter, made a bet that between them they had to finish a bottle of liquor every night. If this sounds a bit excessive, all I can say is these are the kinds of bets you make when trekking through the third world. Anyway, the cooler was the medium of choice for transporting the booze. Its role as a facilitator of debauchery was thus established. Later in the trip Charlie's truck, below, sank in a swamp, and the cooler went down with it. In the photo Peter is sitting on the hood, navigating so that Charlie won't drive into a sinkhole. Obviously, Peter failed at this task not long after the photo was taken. Eventually the truck was rescued, but the waterlogged cooler was quickly beset by mold. Charlie put it aside and forgot about it.

Two years later, one idle afternoon in Guatemala, Charlie and I, along with our friend Breigh, found ourselves shooting stick in an extremely dodgy pool hall. By dodgy I mean that it was a filthy and sweltering cinderblock bunker frequented by shirtless and shifty-eyed gangbangers. There were no windows and the bathrooms were festering black bogs. I think the locals were pretty surprised we dared to show our faces in there, three gringos—one of us black and another female. I said to Charlie, “These dudes think they’re going to bad vibe us out of here, but fuck that—I’m staying. They aren't going to bother us.”

Somehow this declaration evolved into a bet over pool, which I lost. But because we traded bets like stock shares, I took a wager our friend Abbie had lost to me the week before and traded it for my loss on the current bet. So Abbie ended up having to pay my bet. Strange, I know, but that’s how we do things. Anyway, the stakes of the bet were that for an entire night the loser would serve as the winner’s liquor caddie—essentially a personal valet loaded down with a night’s supply of booze. You can see why I traded out of this bet. Like a lot of black men, I just don't cotton to serving people. It's an ancestral thing. Perhaps you don't understand.

Do undertstand this, though—I adhered to the established rules within our group. So I didn't weasel out of paying—it was a legal and fair swap, even though Abbie was nowhere in the vicinity when it happened. She agreed to fulfill her duty, which was commendable, since within our group quite a few people lost bets they simply refused to pay off (usually involving full or partial public nudity). I once lost a bet of this variety—thumbwrestling, of all things—and was supposed to give a sort of public performance in a Speedo. For a week I cursed my own stupidity, but eventually the winner of the bet decided I could perform in a regular swimsuit. Thank the Lord.

Anyway, we knew we’d need quite a bit of liquor if someone was to caddy for Charlie. He'd decided the caddy had to serve anyone he designated, so Abbie was looking at supplying five or six people for the night, including me. Yes, that means I lost the bet, and somehow won it too, but Charlie was making the rules. I was just along for the ride. We pondered what to carry all this booze in. That’s when Charlie remembered the cooler, last seen sporting splotches of mold and smelling of swamp water, presumably one with the Earth by now. But Charlie found it a day or two later, and when I took a look at it, I decided we could clean the old girl up and use her.

It was a few weeks before we found a convenient night to settle our bet. By then the circus was in town, and since there is nothing quite as weird and unpredictable as a Central American circus, we just had to go. The night was also a going away party, because Charlie had decided to visit the U.S. for six months. We decided on our favorite cocktail—cuba libres—as the libation of choice, which meant the cooler needed to be stocked with rum, Coke, ice, and limes. Quite a load. We also wanted to bring a bottle of mezcal a friend had purchased in Mexico. To make Abbie’s job easier we bought a second tote.

Charlie’s going away party was epic—expat send-offs usually are. The next day I was treated to a hilarious story about some dope eating a mezcal worm off the ground. Turns out the dope was me. The circus was a blast—I do remember that. But since I’m planning a post on Central American circuses, I won’t get into the details just yet. About the cooler all I can say is that it served nobly that night, like the good soldier it is. Since Charlie was leaving, he gave me the cooler as a gift and I’ve owned it ever since. I hadn’t used it since Guatemala, so when I pulled it out yesterday quite a few good memories came with it. The cooler has been a companion, a witness, and a good luck charm. It’s survived swamp, ocean, volcano, rain forest, and two near-fatal bouts with Central American mold. And after all it has been through, it’s still in prime condition—just like me.

Dýnamó Höfn Poised to Dominate Malarvinnslubikarinnare

2007-06-29T17:26:00.000-07:00

The title of this post is actually a lie. Dýnamó Höfn, playing in Iceland’s Malarvinnslubikarinnare football league, are expected to be completely mediocre—again. Their first full season, in 2005, was total gash, an almost comically inept campaign during which they won no games—zero. They didn’t earn a point until the last round, when they lucked into a goalless draw against equally hapless Þórshöfn. Dýnamó manager Eysteinn Sindri Elvarsson was quoted on the subject of his team’s talent level: “These boys suck eleven cox, they are so goddamned awful.”

His words must have served as a motivational kick in the rear, because in the summer of 2006 Dýnamó were vastly improved—they won three games and earned three draws. I ran afoul of the team while passing through Höfn-Hornafirði. I was so impressed by Dýnamó's spirit that night. They wanted to fight my friends and I even though they only outnumbered us six to three. What courage! It was clear to me right then that Dýnamó Hofn were not ordinary men, but rather genetically engineered supermen whose bravery and sense of fair play is matched only by their good looks and extraordinary luck with the ladies.

I detailed the events of that night in the post Flags of Our Soccer Hooligans, Part 1, and I've followed Dýnamó's fortunes ever since. The start of another football season in Iceland is ample cause for rejoicing—or at least snickers of anticipation. As the matches get underway, I want to wish these exemplary lads all the best. Guided by leading scorer Ingi Steinn Þorsteinsson, and paced by stalwart midfielder Sigurður Óskar Jónsson, hopes are high that they will manage four wins this season, and their coach can go out in public without a Groucho Marx disguise. Good luck boys—I'll be watching!

I Want To Be a Firejuggler

2007-06-21T17:48:00.000-07:00

Today, for the first time, I began to suspect I’ve taken a wrong turn in life. I’m a writer, and while that is a useful skill which allows me to communi-
cate with the .01% percent of the population who read, it does not generate much in the way of instant validation. I toil alone late into the night, in a room lit by the glow of my flatscreen monitor, while in other

rooms, in other parts of town, musicians, actors, poets, and singers bask in applause. What I would give for some applause. Even painters and photographers receive instant validation in the form of gallery openings. Michelangelo worked on his back in the Sistine Chapel for years and was quite possibly miserable every millisecond of that time—but then came the day he unveiled his masterpiece and the gasps of awe from those assembled healed his pain like a balm.

I’ve decided that the only way I can satisfy my jones for exhibitionism and reap the free love I’m missing is to take up a performance medium. Firejuggling is a possible answer (“firejuggle” is a mutant verb I’ve constructed, just for the fuck of it, because, to my thinking, it’s more majestic as one word than two). You may be asking, Why firejuggling? Well, for one reason I can juggle already. I can only juggle three approximately spherical objects of the same basic diameter and weight, and only for twenty to thirty seconds, but the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Compelling reason numero dos: firejugglers are the ultimate in cool. They travel from place to place and work when they want to, usually at night, and for tax-free money. Sometimes the police hassle them, but that’s a small price to pay, considering the alternatives (office work, restaurant work, retail work). They sometimes smell bad, but they drink life like a fine syrah and that’s the only bouquet that matters.

Firejugglers are often Argentinian, I’ve noticed, or Spanish, or French. Why? Beats the shit out of me. I’ve met a few American firejugglers too, and they tend to go by monikers such as Red Sparks or Max Heat. I am inclined to roll my eyes at this cheesiness, but on the other hand the entire cosmos got used to ridiculous pseudonyms like Tom Cruise and Angelina Jolie —which means “pretty” in French—so who am I to rake Mssrs. Sparks and Heat over the coals? Let the names roll off your tongue a few times and they’ll start to sound better. Now try this one—Xanadu Black. That’s the pseudonym I’m considering for myself. It doesn’t have anything to do with fire, but I’m drawing a blank on how to work that element in right now.

During my research into this possible career makeover, I noticed that another cool thing about firejuggling is that it’s a great gateway toward mastering other invaluable skills, such as unicycling and stiltwalking. These can be combined, of course, so that you are a unicycling firejuggler or stiltwalking firejuggler. Multitasking like this is not as hard as it sounds. I saw the firejuggler at top in downtown Lisbon, and when my too-close approach caused his five dogs to boot from sleep mode into maul mode, he managed to call them off without dropping a single baton.

Right now I’m trying to find a firejuggler who will train me. Preferably one reckless enough to train me to sling fire indoors, like my friend above, from Guatemala. One of the links I’ve located is for a comedy firejuggler named Keith Leaf (again with the oh-so-cool names). His website—hilarious in itself—states: “The dynamic juggling act that Keith Leaf presents consists of fire juggling, dance, and manipulation.” I confess I am especially curious about the manipulation. The site goes on to say: “You’ll laugh, you'll cry, most of all you'll wonder why, because he is Keith Leaf, the Amazing Fire Juggler guy.” Right now a nation of rappers are smiting their brows in envy.

I know what you’re thinking, and no, I’m not letting the romance of this lifestyle blind me to its potential hazards. Some of the fuels used are carcinogenic, but fuck it—what isn’t? Some of you smoke. There is the danger of being robbed trekking those deserted roads from town to town. There are ticks. There is crotch-rot. But it’s the applause that matters most to me. The blessed applause—I can hear it now. Once I’ve perfected my act as Xanadu Black I’ll hit the streets and it’s bye-bye computer forever. No more wringing myself like a rag to dribble words onto an indifferent page. No more lonely nights. Only freedom, and flames, and endless ovations.

Getting Medieval in Guate

2007-06-18T23:20:00.000-07:00

My former home country of Guatemala has been popping up in the news quite a bit lately, for all the wrong reasons. First there was the giant sinkhole that swallowed half a dozen houses, quickly followed by last week’s 6.8 magnitude temblor. But those were just warm-up acts for the astonishing headliner. In the frontier town of Camotan this week, a mob numbering 2,000 people attacked three women on suspicion they had killed a young girl and stolen her organs to sell them. The missing girl—nine-year-old Mishel Diaz—disappeared from her home and was discovered a day later, mutilated and abandoned near a little-traveled dirt track. Reports said her arm was cut off, her eyes gouged out, and the skin on her chest removed in what looked like an attempt to steal her heart and kidneys.

In short order an angry mob, comprised of what witnesses say was the entire population of Camotan, went house-to-house looking for the three women they believed were last seen with the girl. When the crowd found 24-year-old Marciana Recinos, who was one of the suspects, they bludgeoned her to death in the central plaza using rocks, sticks, and plain old fists. Police rescued the other two women but only after the mob pulled a Mr. Blonde on one—dousing her with gasoline à la Reservoir Dogs and setting her on fire. The other woman, pictured below in a posed police photo (a uniquely Guatemalan tool for dispensing info to the local press) is currently safe in jail.

As bizarre as this story probably sounds to people who have never visited Guatemala, the fear among residents of their children being stolen and harvested for organs runs deep, particularly among rural Mayans. The fear has taken on the character of folklore, with most swearing it has happened to the daughter or son of a friend. I heard the stories firsthand, but in reality there is no substantiated proof of organ harvesting there.

But the danger from incensed mobs was well known among us expats, and we never shot photos of children without explicit permission from the parents (good manners in any case, but a potential life saver under those circumstances). My friends who visited, all of whom were first timers to the country, sometimes snapped photos of children and I always warned them to be careful—usually while distancing myself from the scene. In 2000, a Japanese woman was beaten to death for photographing a child in the town of Todos Santos, and her Guatemalan driver was burned to death as her presumed accomplice. I walked into the aftermath of a mob killing myself in 2004, and I also saw police photographs of mob victims, including one of a man who had been hacked to death with machetes and his head doused with gasoline and burned down to a blackened skull.

News reports on the latest incident all say that distrust of the police is a factor in vigilante killings. That’s true—local police are considered corrupt, and the general feeling among the Maya is that inviting them into their communities is to court disaster. They are not unique in this belief. In poor communities the world over—including in the United States—police are believed to hinder rather than dispense justice. In Guatemala, rural townsfolk prefer to handle arrest, judgment, and sentencing all at once. But in the case of little Mishel Diaz, her death seems far too clumsy to be a bona fide attempt at organ harvesting. There’s no word yet on post-mortem findings, but what seems equally plausible is sexual assault followed by mutilation as an attempt to disguise the true nature of the crime.

Usually when newsworthy events occur in Guatemala, I can find out details that didn’t appear in the press simply by e-mailing my old circle of friends. But cases like this are different. The Maya are a closed circle all their own, a mystery even to other Guatemalans, and police are not motivated to investigate when the people involved seem satisfied with the outcome. I doubt the truth will ever be known.

The Mechanics of a Leftward Slide

2007-06-08T13:13:00.000-07:00

Hugo Chávez by a landslide in Venezuela. Daniel Ortega returning from the political dead in Nicaragua. Michelle Bachelet becoming single mother to an entire nation in Chile. Néstor Kirchner in Argentina and Tabaré Vázquez in Uruguay. All over Latin America nations have embraced leftist leaders. There is analysis about it on virtually every news and poli-sci website you click to (not to mention on the shelves of those quaint relics called bookstores), but most of the material feels abstract, distant, like the events in question have been viewed from a Google Earth satellite.

Political journalist Jorge Casteneda says: “The combination of inequality and democracy tends to cause a movement to the left everywhere. This was true in western Europe from the end of the nineteenth century until after World War II; it is true today in Latin America.” Casteneda is an acclaimed scholar, and knows his stuff—you can Wiki him yourself—but again, phrases like “movement to the left” define the phenomenon from orbit. To understand from an up-close human perspective what is happening in Latin America, let’s hit zoom and touch down inside a specific event. Let’s land in Bolivia.

Several years ago, the Bolivian government privatized a water utility serving the central Bolivian city of Cochabamba. Privatization—the transfer of resources from public or government control or ownership to private enterprise—is a prerequisite for World Bank investment. The World Bank is a colossal lender in Latin America, but its billions are readily available only to countries which pursue a privatization agenda. Bolivia, under then-President Hugo Banzer, had been doing exactly that. Privatizing Cochabamba's water utility was part of this movement. It seemed like a good idea for all involved—the region was water starved, partly because its infrastructure was in disrepair. Whoever took over the water system would need to make improvements, but with only a slight rate hike they would, over the years, earn a handsome profit, while Banzer would take credit for serving the needs of his people.

Banzer's government struck a deal with a company called Aguas del Tunari. Aguas del Tunari was 27.5 percent owned by International Water Ltd., which was in turn owned by Bechtel Corporation of San Francisco. Determining who is truly in command in these situations is like trying to spot an army major in the field who refuses to wear his stripes for fear of snipers, but let's just say Bechtel was calling the shots. Aguas del Tunari promised worried Cochabamba residents that their water rates, if they rose at all, would do so by perhaps 35%. In exchange service would improve dramatically. A 35% percent hike seemed excessive to most people, but they adopted a wait-and-see attitude—since they had no actual say in the matter, it was their sole choice. To their chagrin, Aguas del Tunari's promises evaporated like a water mirage. Instead of a 35% percent hike, many people’s bills doubled and tripled. The reasons for this were simple—Aguas del Tunari was trying to meet contractually mandated profit levels. Faced with shortfalls, they raised rates. People in Cochabamba were outraged, but they adapted by depending more heavily on alternate water sources—wells, rainwater, river water. Aguas del Tunari continued suffering shortfalls, so the Bolivian government stepped in. Their solution was to draft legislation that would charge peasants for water which they drew from wells, and prohibit them from collecting from local lagoons, rivers, and the delta.

So the short version of the tale goes like this: the Bolivian government sold proprietorship of a public utility to a corporation; the corporation placed thirst for profit above their responsibility to provide a life sustaining resource at a reasonable price; and when people decided to collect the resource free from rivers and sky, the Bolivian government moved to criminalize this act in order to force people back to the corporation. The rest of this horror story is just as ugly as its preamble. Protests resulted, large ones, organized primarily by Oscar Olivera, a union official from the region. Violent clashes with police resulted, deaths occurred, and the city shut down. Aguas del Tunari offcials fled the country and President Banzer disappeared down a spider hole. Four days later he emerged and, in a cunning political backflip that would have impressed even a Cirque du Soleil acrobat, cited the departure of Aguas del Tunari officials from Bolivia as grounds to void the nation's contract with the company.

The Cochabamba debacle is not an isolated case. Right now there is a movement afoot by world business to remove all resources—such as water, education, social services, and national parks—from the public sphere and convert them into private commodities. As we hurtle further into the 21st century business looks for new avenues of investment, and public resources are an area that sends its Pavlovian drool reflex into flood stage. In the United States, for instance, Social Security—currently a public resource—is a target. Many of the people behind this movement contend that public resources should not exist at all. This might be sensible if corporations were legally required to serve the public interest, but they aren't—quite the opposite, in fact. Corporations are required by their charters and by the law to put their own interests above those of people, resources and ecosystems. In Aguas del Tunari's case, that meant whether the people of Cochabamba were able to drink was secondary to the bottom line.

Corporate advocates claim that the Bolivian Water War was an isolated incident, while corporate critics claim it was a real world test of the pitfalls of privatization, and that the same pitfalls will exist in each and every case. They believe Aguas del Tunari was complicit with the Bolivian government in attempting to bar people from collecting a resource which they needed for survival. It wasn’t necessarily that Aguas del Tunari/Bechtel thought they could get away with it—it was that it made financial sense to at least try. Heartless though it may seem, this kind of thinking is the modus operandi for all shareholder-owned corporations. The fact that U.S. politicians—primarily from the right wing—have passed laws allowing corporations to dominate American daily life is barely different than inviting Dracula into the house for a nightcap. Author Joel Bakan, in his book The Corporation, asked a psychologist to construct a personality profile on a typical corporation. It was not such a strange request—since a corporation has the same legal rights as a person, Bakan was interested in knowing exactly what kind of citizen was walking the American streets. The corporation as a person rated as a textbook example of a murderous psychopath.

Soon after the Bolivian Water War Hugo Banzer resigned as Bolivia’s president, bringing about the appointment of an interim ruler, and finally the election of left-leaning Evo Morales. Morales is the first president in Latin America of native descent, and a long awaited alternative to creatures like Banzer, who was the latest in a line of privileged, distant men descended from European colonists. Morales speaks to Bolivians of resisting the greedy capitalists from the north, and redressing previous corporate wrongs. The wisdom of his words seems self-evident to the people of Bolivia in light of the Cochabamba episode, which has grown to Homeric proportions as an example of successful resistance against greedy yankees. In Morales, Bolivians believe they have someone who won’t put them through an ordeal like Cochabamba again, nor be bullied by the World Bank, nor, most importantly, spout populist rhetoric while accepting cash-filled suitcases behind the scenes.

Meanwhile, back in San Francisco, the Bechtel corporation is nicked but defiant. A Bechtel website—which sorts right to the top of Google over hundreds of related links—contains the company’s version of events in Cochabamba. It is, of course, comprised mainly of denials. But reputable third-parties such as PBS and The Democracy Center have confirmed many of the stories told by peasants. Sadly, Cochabamba is just one example of corporations rushing to carve out profit in Latin America under the banner of privatization. When I lived in Guatemala it seemed there was a new scandal every week. The corporate response to these episodes was always the same—doublespeak so dismissive that it seemed obvious they considered Latin Americans nothing more than little brown nuisances. In response to Bechtel’s denials The Democracy Center sent CEO Riley Bechtel an open letter, asking him to explain his version of events. Rather than respond himself, he left it to one of his public relations androids, who said that prices never went up more than a small fraction.

Personnel from The Democracy Project, dredging figures from the same computer Aguas del Tunari used for billing, detailed example after example of families whose income was perhaps sixty dollars a month being billed twenty dollars or more for water. In their PR smokescreen Bechtel claimed that because they improved the water service, more water was being used by the people. But if water usage increased, as Bechtel asserts, why was it neccesary to draft legislation barring Cochabambans from collecting riverwater? The Democracy Project pulled data from the Aguas del Tunari computers proving that when rates skyrocketed usage immediately went down. Most notable was the case of a family whose water bill tripled even though they cut back on usage by 18%. A view from the Google Earth satellite reveals a giant raft of horse manure floating toward Bolivia from San Francisco Bay.

But when a company like Bechtel makes barely believable excuses for their behavior, they aren’t actually trying to defend themselves—they are reinforcing their dogma, declaring their infallibility. Bechtel, through its subsidiary of a subsidiary Aguas del Tunari, blamed the Cochabamba protests on a rival water consortium. Then they blamed them on drug traffickers. They were anybody's fault, everybody's fault—except Bechtel's. But even though such weak excuses resonate for a while in the media, and a few true believers in the far right quadrant try to spin them into something solid, the arrogance behind their creation eventually becomes crystal clear. This arrogance is a symptom of a larger feeling of entitlement which is pervasive within the U.S. business community, but which often trips them up in the end. It certainly did in Cochabamba, where people now understand that smooth-talking businessmen from the North always promise exactly what is most needed, while eyeing nearby necks for a tender vein. It is a major reason Bolivia is yet another Latin American nation sliding leftward even as the claw of corporate excess reaches toward it from the right.

San Francisco Magic

2007-06-04T00:20:00.000-07:00

San Francisco was proving to be a most interesting place. It had been a long time since I’d explored a city as jubilant and weird, as labyrinthine and challenging, as baroque in its riches yet as blighted by homelessness and poverty. I was reminded why it is considered one of the world's great cities, and also why greatness is often seen through rose-tinted glasses. There was still more to see—through my friend Steve I’d caught wind of San Fran’s yearly carnival, an event that heralded the real beginning of summer in the Bay. Steve flew up from San Diego and we planned a series of activities designed to last into the depths of the a.m. First problem—the day we chose dawned gloomy and cold, and the clouds refused to burn off. I was worried whether people would turn out for the carnival. But we had a baseball game to attend first and, after checking out the statues of great Giants past, we watched Barry Bonds drill homer 745 through blustery skies.

Steve is the ultimate baseball fan, and so I felt I’d recieve an informed answer asking him what the deal was about steroids. In all the high-decibel denouncements I’d heard, nobody ever explained why exactly they’re illegal in the first place. As they relate to performance enhancement, I didn’t get it. When an athlete who is overheating takes intravenous fluids during halftime of a game, isn’t that performance enhancing? What about cortisone shots in the elbow for major league pitchers? What about those 300-pound behemoths sucking oxygen on the sidelines of NFL games? And how about Tiger Woods and other athletes going under the (laser) knife for corneal surgery? I mean, if your eyes aren’t good enough for pro sports, isn’t getting surgery the definition of performance enhancement? And there are many supplements and chemicals that remain legal. What of those? Steve nodded through all this. Then the most informed sports fan I know said, “You’re right—it’s all arbitrary bullshit.”

That mystery solved, we adjourned to the carnival, leaving in the 7th inning of a game the Giants eventually won. San Fran’s amazing ballpark is in Potrero and the carnival was a short drive away in the adjacent district of Castro. The weather hadn't changed—it was chill and grey and gusty, and I was more worried than ever this Chernobyl climate would keep people indoors. But I learned that San Franciscans aren’t even remotely deterred by a little cold and wind. As you can see from the photo below, the locals were going to celebrate Rio-style come hell, high water, or hypothermia.

San Fran’s carnival will never dethrone Brazil's—let’s be straight about that. There’s no way it could—Brazilian carnival has an apocalyptic quality, as if it’s the last bash at the end of the world. They party with such supercharged finality that, come Fat Tuesday, it wouldn’t be a surprise to see a nuclear explosion on the horizon instead of sunrise. Seeing carnival in San Fran reinforced the truth that Brazil’s celebration is one of the few guaranteed life-changing experiences on this planet.

That said, the San Francisco version was excellent. Eight blocks of Harrison Avenue had been closed and, in this expanse, four band stages had been erected, as well as pavilions for drum circles, dance classes, and sports. There were food booths, beer tents (first stop for us) and capoeira demonstrations, and tens of thousands of particpants taking part. We edged our way through the crush until the sound of congas drew us down a side street. On a stage at the end of the block a samba band was playing. They were called SambaDa. Their music was a rugged and percussive amalgam of reggae and samba, and before I knew it, I was dancing. I really began to feel like I was in Brazil when a couple asked me to pose with them for a photo. This actually happens to me a lot, but I'll discuss that in another post. Anyway, just when I began to break out my authentic samba moves the fest shut down. It was 6 p.m.

But we had planned ahead—we had tickets to an early pool party at Bambuddha in the famous Phoenix Hotel. The Phoenix is a San Francisco landmark, sort of a north coast version of L.A.’s Chateau Marmont. Pop culture luminaries such as Keanu Reeves, Joan Jett, Vincent Gallo and Little Richard have called it home. We must have been radiating quite a bit of leftover carnival energy, because our cabbie asked us if we were a rock band. Since I was actually in a touring indie band for years, this was old hat for me, but I know it made my friends feel pretty cool.

When we arrived at the Phoenix, Marques Wyatt was spinning. Marques's name hasn't been enshrined in the pop lexicon just yet, but he’s a star—one of the great deejays in the game right now. I’d resisted the eight dollar ballpark Heinekens so I’d have cash for later on. Later on had finally arrived, and I wasted zero time—the drinks flowed fast and furious; shots appeared and were consumed. We danced in the front room near the fireplace and watched the beautiful people. The guests looked so cool, so perfect, and so diverse, yet nobody seemed to be trying too hard. It was an amazing crowd. All the hipness must have rubbed off because, after a while, we felt like beautiful people ourselves. The music went on and the fire burned and the drinks kept coming. Bambuddha finally died at eleven and the night was still young.

We wandered the mean streets, headed for a carnival afterparty somewhere, anywhere. Homeless men loomed in the cold like specters, or were huddled in dark doorways. Rubber gloves and bottles were strewn in the gutters. I got the shot at left through the wrought iron security gate of a rundown apartment building. San Francisco was at its most fantastic and stark. I loved it—big, glowing, kaleidoscopic, but dark and overwhelming too, like something out of William Gibson. Clouds racing overhead in the gunmetal sky. Marvelous and horrible. Magical and hellish. Loved it, but I could never live there.

Charlie said, “What about this place?” We were outside a bar called the Ambassador. We went through the doors and the place drew us in like we were longtime regulars. We didn’t even consider leaving until the lights came up. A staffer herded us toward the exit and we weaved through the night toward our hotel. I can’t remember the name of where we stayed, but it was a good place—traditional, venerable.

Sometime in the night one of the males in our group got up and went into the bathroom. I couldn’t see him, but I could hear him. He missed the toilet, totally drenched the bathroom. The Irish car bombs had affected his equilibrium, obviously. The next morning I was wondering what to say. What is the best way to tell your friend he hosed down the bathroom? He solved the problem for me. Getting dressed, he picked up his socks. He felt them, looked at me, and said, “Why the hell are these wet?" I laughed. “Well, my friend . . .”

Hot Rods and Unhot Bods

2007-05-25T20:16:00.000-07:00

My recent wanderings around San Francisco took me to the opposite side of the Bay, to lovely San Rafael, a community tucked into wooded foothills at the southern end of super rich Marin County. The day I arrived the town happened to be hosting that most American of events—a classic car show. Main Street—or whatever the central drag through San Rafael was actually called—had been closed down, and more than three-hundred gleaming examples of mostly citrus-colored automotive artistry were on display.

Sadly, nothing much of interest happened at this extravaganza, but I did see some mighty nice rides and felt compelled to post them here. It occurred to me that the whole event seemed to exist in an eddy where time had stopped moving forward around the time American Graffiti first hit the cinemas. Back then gas was plentiful and inexpensive, the American greenback reigned supreme, and the only thing anyone knew about the Middle East was that it had camels.

Walking around in this time bubble, I wished some of my international friends were with me. The streets were packed with the exact type of Americans they hate, but have never actually met. Yes, there were real patriots out and about—people who vote red, travel by motorhome, and believe global warming is nothing more than a confabulation of the liberal media. Freedom fries, anyone?

I’m willing to mount my political stallion and brandish the leftist standard any time I find myself within the camp of the enemy, but it’s pretty hard when faced with these all-American types because they’re so fucking nice. The car show was a reminder that I actually like these people. For one thing, they’re amiable. Just can’t get around that fact. They are also polite. Spend a little time in Los Angeles or New York and you get the feeling those particular Americans are just a nudge away from going Patrick Bateman on you. But these all-American types believe—incredibly—that the world is uncomplicated.

Faced with so many grinning examples of the species, I started to wonder if perhaps they were right. Look at this guy below with an engine on his head (and a gearbox or something coming out of his ass). Does he look like he has a worry in the world? Certainly he wants people to believe he doesn’t. What will be will be, he seems to be saying, even if the Buddha physique he's sporting hints at an angioplasty on his sunny horizon. But potbellies were the norm that day. This is where all the obese Americans had gotten to, it seemed, because I wasn't seeing any in sleek and toned San Francisco. In fact, I can only say one thing for certain about the day in San Rafael—when regular Americans come out of the woodwork, you see some seriously unattractive people. For me, that’s reason enough to live overseas.

Prague Again, and a San Fran Chicken Bus

2007-05-22T13:59:00.001-07:00

While Ari was spending May Day being smoke bombed in Prague, I spent Cinco de Mayo wandering around San Francisco and coincidentally found myself at a café called Prague. I was touring the town with my English friend Kim, who was passing through on her way to Oz via Cuba. I’d met Kim in Guatemala, where her humor made her a favorite among my friends. Accompanying us were Steve, who I have traveled with many times to places like Mexico and Portugal, and Dan, who was the impetus behind my Iceland trip, and whose antics are detailed in the posts Flags of Our Soccer Hooligans, Part 1 & Part 2. Dan flew to Guatemala for two of my three birthday fortnights there, and, being a stuntman, generally raised hell. He’s also Ari’s cousin, and we met working together at South Park, before he got his stunt career going. Hope you got all that.

So it was Cinco de Mayo, and Kim, Dan, Steve and I were all in San Francisco sitting in a café called Prague. Kim had never been to the Bay and had suggested a walking tour. The tour morphed into a pub crawl—everything morphs into a pub crawl with me because, truly, I like to get to know a city through its watering holes. Our crawl started at Prague (sedate, relaxing), moved to a place in Chinatown called the Buddha Bar (dingy, suspect), and thence downtown to the famous Irish Bank Bar. The Bank Bar is a lively place, with the wooden décor typical of its ilk, and an outdoor section set up in an alley between two tall brick buildings. The crowd was businessclones and financiers all the way, with a few local hipsters mixed in. Around 5 p.m. all this changed when a chicken bus pulled up in the mouth of the alley.

As most Central American travelers can explain, a chicken bus is an American school bus converted for use as intramunicipal transport. Because it is more cost-effective for poor countries than buying and operating modern buses, nations like Guatemala and El Salvador buy old U.S. school buses and use them as the backbone of their transportation system. Individual owners pimp the buses and what results is something that wouldn’t look out of place at your local drag strip. In Guatemala
these transformations are taken to the nth degree. We’re talking muscled-out engines, glitter paint jobs, chrome exhausts, crazy lighting systems, stereos that could drive a house party, and—always—a beloved's name emblazoned on the sides. The “chicken bus” moniker is derived from the myth that if you ride one, there will invariably be chickens running in the aisles. In truth, these buses get so packed that any animal would quickly be crushed. I’ve never seen animals or any other commercial cargo ride anywhere but on top, in crates or cages lashed to the luggage rack.

Anyway, like an apparition conjured from my memory, this chicken bus appeared at the Irish Bank Bar. Out tumbled about twenty Mexicans, along with a five-piece mariachi band, and some model types dressed in black tops and miniskirts. This crowd poured into the alley and began singing and dancing, as the model types distributed maracas and sombreros. Pretty soon there was a real party going on, and quite a few members of the suit-and-tie army were trying to make time with the freespirited models. I finally asked one of the girls what was going on, and she explained that this was the latest stop for them on an all day Cinco de Mayo pub crawl. I’m not sure if I knew it was Cinco de Mayo until that moment. I’ve sort of lost track of American holidays over the years (yes, I’m calling Cinco de Mayo an American holiday, just like St. Patrick’s Day).

After perhaps an hour the partiers gathered to head on to the next destination. I asked one of the model types if we could join them. She said, “Hell yeah, absolutely.” Not long afterward we were on the chicken bus. What I liked most about this part is that other people tried to crash the party and were turned away. I guess the Cinco de Mayo crazies could tell we were cool folk, useful at a party. Actually, while part of my motivation for joining the crowd was that I knew wherever they were going would be fun, I also wanted to see what it felt like to ride on a chicken bus in San Francisco. So much of my life has revolved around these things. I still remember my first chicken bus ride, into the wilds of El Salvador in search of the Tortuga Surf Lodge, only to end up lost at a coastal crossroads.

Inside, the San Fran bus was exactly as I remembered—too many people packed into seats meant for grade-schoolers, and a loud sound system blasting ranchero music. Where this bus beat those in Central America is that there was a giant tub of Tecates on ice, shots of tequila being poured, and mariachis playing in between bumps. It was a great nostalgia trip. In Guatemala I eventually boycotted the chicken buses, mainly because gringos always have to fight not to be cheated on the fares. It was draining after a while. No matter how good my Spanish was, nor how savvy I was about the local customs, my black skin told the cobrador—the fare collector—that I was a foreigner ripe for cheating. Whites have to deal with this too, of course—cobradores are equal opportunity cheaters. Eventually I learned to simply give the correct fare and ignore anything else that was said to me. Sometimes this worked fine, but other times the cobrador threatened to toss me off the bus if I didn't pony up more quetzales. My answer was always something along the lines of: “Go ahead, if you can.” I never got tossed off a bus. But even winning these battles felt like losing somehow, and after a year of this I finally went totally bougie and simply chartered a car whenever I had to travel.

But this particular day in San Fran, riding a chicken bus was about the coolest thing I could imagine. After a twenty minute journey we were deposited at another bar and more mariachi was played, more dances danced, more shots knocked back, until around sunset the party petered out. Everyone was headed home to get refreshed for the real partying later that night. We walked out into the San Francisco dusk with no idea where we were. Not only had the bus taken a circuitous route, its windows had been covered with banners and placards, making it impossible to see where we were going. We stood on a corner to hail a cab and a guy in a Lincoln town car stopped at the light and gave us the eye. After a moment he yelled that he’d give us a ride wherever we needed to go. Turns out he was the owner of a limousine service—FG Limo—and a hell of a nice guy. If you’re ever in the Bay and need a sweet ride, Rufus J. Fields is the man. For the price of a comparable cab ride he took us in luxury back to where we’d started—Prague.

Prague Spring and More Absinthe

2007-05-13T12:47:00.000-07:00

I promised myself no more absinthe, since this was my second visit to Prague in this lifetime. This time around, I wished to explore the capital of the Bohemian kingdom a different way. Already saw the castle and the cathedrals and every beer cellar over 500 hundred years old. Good things, no doubt, but this time around I needed to feel something a bit more modern and day to day. So I only had one beer on the plane, and made it to the Charles Bridge from the airport via bus and metro, all by myself. Feeling like such a big boy, I went on to meet up with my Helsinki mate who'd extended the invitation, and started sharing time with some new characters.

Actually, the first night of the trip, I did see Stan the Man rip up the guitar at Glen's again. But that's what you do on a Monday night in Prague, and the cellar was packed with locals, travelers, expats, and tourists alike. I also haunted a few pubs and cellars I had before, and I did stroll across the Charles Bridge more than a few times. But this time I had local rabbit and moose paté, as well as the usual cabbage soup or goulash. Definitely did not shy away from drinking beer with lunch. This is Bohemia after all, and Staropramen and Pilsner Urquell remain great draws. They may not run as cheap as 50 cents a half liter anymore, but about 1 euro on average does not make me cry. But spring fever does make want to me cry—all the way to church to thank god, any god, for excellent work in the continuing evolution of gorgeous beer maidens.

So back to the topic at hand. On May Day, had moose paté, followed by farmer's dumplings, sauerkraut, with a bloody mary to start. As a recovering barman, I always appreciate the classics, and this lunch establishment delivered a good, balanced, breakfast of champions in a glass. I finished the paté, then we heard it. Boom. Yep, that was a smoke bomb, right outside the front door of the restaurant. I noted excellent timing on our part, since we had drinks on the table, some nutrition in our stomachs, and a round of beer on the way.

Then the tourists made themselves obvious by approaching the window to take pictures. But in my experience political rallies are often on the edge of becoming outright riots, so I'd learned to stay away from the windows. A girl who sat at the table with me and my friend said it must be the anarchists. Sure enough, the kids were running around the street without any order of procession, setting off another smoke bomb. With colorful hair, piercings, and discount tattoos everywhere, they were ready to make their statement.

And here came their cause du jour—the fucking neo-nazis had organized a march, complete with police escort. I knew this looked worse than reality. I hoped it looked worse than reality. Anarchists never deal with the law, and nazis need order like a toddler refusing to wean; therefore, it appeared the Czech state goons, er, officers, protected the skinheads and pushed away the street punks. This modern spin on Quadrophenia (or was that West Side Story?), capped off quickly. The actors had their motivation, yet knew nothing about getting out of character. The tourist table next to us took a picture of a punk urinating in the street between two cars.

We skipped dessert.

Willing to wait out the battle between dumb new order and even younger chaos, we sipped our beers and made prudent plans. We would stroll through parks along the River Ultava, then find a cool beer garden we hadn't seen before, sit down, drink beer, and observe. Enjoy Prague in spring. My friend figured he could call up some old friends to join us. Since they were all struggling artists, they were waking up in the early afternoon, and had no problem having one or two beers before work. They just needed time to gather up the courage to go outside. Our friend who brought us to lunch had to run off to work, and suggested we meet up later at the pub for the Liverpool/Chelsea match. Funny thing about Europe, no matter where you go, football goes on.

Sitting on a terrace of an old flour mill, we enjoyed feeling the Earth rotate in the universe. Some of the locals and expats told me how Prague is mainly an atheist society. Funny, I could understand maintaining a large community as generally secular, but I never heard anyone say this is all atheist. But I noticed the cathedrals and synagogues are concert halls more often, and people do not attend mass or temple in droves as in Mediterranean countries. Bohemia commanded a different kind of pilgrimage.

The beer maiden came to the table with another round, and I had to find a god again, any god, just to give a nod, a thumbs up, more acknowledgments for nice work. As I walk my path to hell, any hell, I like to try and make out the local graffiti and figure out how people express themselves. Prague is the film capital of Europe, due to the low costs of location shooting and extensive experience in theater, it seems. A local helped to translate a few things which seemed to be out of Robin Hood. The stuff in the bathroom seemed somewhat more political. Quite a great place to take one's time for political expression. As we moved on to the pub to catch the football, I reflected on the day. May Day in my hometown of Helsinki has a different vibe. Then again, many things have a different vibe when compared to a spring afternoon in Prague. The grass, the leaves, the flowers, and the aroma cannot compare to anything else.

Time for another beer, and we hit the pub, missing the kickoff by about ten minutes. Not a thing to worry about, since friends of friends I just met had a few chairs free. The beer came to the table at a casual pace, but on a busy night, I could never get upset over casual service. When in Bohemia, start drinking early. Everything works itself out after that. We chatted about football, travel, and another place we should check out after the match. Turns out they had some good graffiti, and the actors I had met before would end up there after their performance or rehearsal or whatever.

When we got to the next bar, it was late and I wondered if they would serve us. I forgot that we were in Prague—service continues until you pass out or turn asshole. I met some new best friends, and one told me this was a dangerous bar. I noticed everybody was friendly, and asked what made it dangerous. She smiled and said, "You'll find out."

Perhaps my reputation preceded me.

I found my way to the toilet, somehow took more pictures of graffiti with my phone. Back at the table, somebody suggested something strong for a toast, since this was an excellent spring night, followed by an excellent spring day, and this summer was going to be the best. The Czech girl I had just met reminded me, "Like I said, this is a dangerous bar."

Realizing what she meant, I said, “How about some absinthe?”

I made it back to my room that night, worked all three keys through all three locks perfectly, and woke up on a spring morning in Prague. Some clichés grow from true experience. Bohemian life, I dig it.

Absinthe Goes Stateside

2007-05-07T09:29:00.000-07:00

A U.S. company has decided to manufacture absinthe for sale in the United States. For those who have never tried it, absinthe is an anise-flavored liqueur with a taste similar to that of black licorice—everybody’s favorite flavor. Well, perhaps not, but absinthe has always been about more than mere taste. Its reputation and history are of mythic proportions. It is the ultimate insider cocktail, the one that says you have been around the block—not just the block in your neighborhood, but the croisette in Cannes, or the Piazza Duomo in Milan. Absinthe possesses more cool factor than Hemingway’s mojitos and James Bond’s martinis together—shaken or stirred.

Absinthe originated in Switzerland, but reached the height of its popularity during the Belle Époque in France, particularly among Parisian artists and writers. Name the figure and he or she had a relationship with absinthe. Oscar Wilde penned verse about it, and painters such as Degas (his L’absinthe appears above), Toulouse Lautrec, and others made the drink a subject of their work—and a prime objective of their evenings. References to Pernod—the most popular brand of absinthe at that time—abound in early twentieth century fiction the way "Moet" pops up in American rap songs. Over time, absinthe gained a reputation for being dangerously addictive, even psychologically damaging, with the chemical thujone being fingered as the culprit. By 1915, the drink was banned in many European countries and the United States, even though there was no evidence—then or now—showing it to be any more psychoactive or addictive than ordinary alcohol.

A black market for absinthe arose. Owning a bottle became a sign of prestige. People plied one another for their absinthe conections. In the early 1990s the European Union legalized it once again, but in the United States, the chemical thujone remained a controlled substance. Fortunately, the law of the U.S. has never yet been the law of the world, and Americans could try absinthe simply by boarding an airplane and flying far away. The first time I tried the drink was in Finland. I discovered that despite the presence of thujol, star anise, fennel and grand wormwood, absinthe’s main ingredient is really its cloak of ritual. Even in a crowded bar in Helsinki, where people probably drink absinthe fairly often, people tend to observe the process. As the drink is prepared, you begin to feel spotlighted, like a violinist about to take a solo.

One reason people may watch is because preparing an absinthe is a detailed undertaking, with a somewhat illicit taint. The machinations bear superficial resemblance to those for preparing a spike of heroin—this is if you use the burn method, which was preferred in the bar I was at (pictured above). In the burn method, a spoon containing a sugar cube is placed over the glass and the liqueur is poured over the cube until the glass is filled. The cube is then lighted. As it burns, cold water is dripped over the sugar, extinguishing the flame and diluting the drink to taste. The components that are not soluble in water, mostly those from the anise and fennel, cloud the drink, resulting in a milky opalescence called the louche. The flame also burns off some of the alcohol, doubly tempering the drink—not a bad idea when dealing with a substance that commonly tops out at 140 proof.

By the time you bring the absinthe to your lips things will have quieted down a fraction in the bar. People will have noticed the cool blue flame, and are perhaps discussing the first time they tried absinthe themselves, or explaining the ritual to friends. In that way, absinthe seems a superior drink to me—it changes the mood in a bar, very slightly. In that way it’s very much like the pop of a champagne cork. It’s a signal to others that the evening is gearing up just a little.

There are other methods for drinking absinthe. The bar where I ordered it in Portugal just a few months ago didn’t subscribe to the flame technique. I did a round with the bartender and a girl, and the bartender filled a shot glass first, added a sugar-covered lemon and skipped the water entirely. He mentioned that a good quality absinthe doesn’t necessarily require sugar either, but that girls overwhelmingly prefer the drink sweetened. I knew from looking at labels that some Swiss distillers recommend sugar-free consumption of their brands, but for my money, the sugar helps. In this case he used brown sugar—a surprise, but a pleasant one.

As far as absinthe driving men to madness, I can say that while I may have gone mad later that evening, it had nothing to do with the absinthe, but more likely the many cuba libres I drank afterward and the fact that I stayed out in the bars until 4:30 a.m. Every time I drink absinthe this happens. But I think it simply means that I only order it when I mean to signal unusually evil intentions for the night. I used to carry a small lock which I used as a keyring, and it served the same purpose. On certain nights I would use a key to open the lock. The open lock meant Lord Pig was loose. Absinthe is the same for me—it means my primal self is free.

The U.S. company planning to market absinthe—Viridian Spirits of Manhasset, N.Y.—has invented a version free of thujol to avoid any nasty legal entanglements. It also plans to cut back the anise flavor, producing something more palatable for Americans. Other manufacturers have done exactly this in other countries. For instance Czech absinthe contains little or no anise, which makes it considerably more bitter, but also does away with the black jellybean flavor. Whether Viridian’s absinthe-lite will catch on is another question entirely. Already I hate the brand name—Lucid—because it seems like a disclaimer, a one-word public service announcement stenciled on a bottle of 140-proof booze. When you can already see the minds of the legal protection team at work in the name of a product you have to feel some suspicion. Perhaps Lucid's marketers don't mean it that way, but in the end the name doesn't matter. The idea of American absinthe doesn't sound quite right. As I told a friend: “It doesn’t really have that cool factor, does it? It’s like smoking a cigar that isn’t Cuban.”

The Worst Album Covers Ever

2007-04-30T15:26:00.008-07:00

Not long ago Ari sent me a link to a site that purported to list the most awful album covers of all time. I deejayed in college and later reviewed CDs for a magazine, and saw some horrifically bad covers, so I got curious whether I could find any of them out there in cyberspace. When I searched, I found that there were hundreds of sites devoted to the subject of bad album covers. In light of such overwhelming interest, I culled some of my favorites and today present for your enjoyment a collection of the worst album covers ever—with the usual BlackNotBlack twist. We start off with some plantation variety racial stereotyping:

It's hilarious that this is on the Columbia Masterworks label. Looks like master is in a spot of trouble.

Tragically, old Bones never made a follow-up record—the black face and white lips disguise was too effective, and he was beaten to death by a mob of redneck cops who thought he was smuggling powdered donuts.

Regarding the two covers above, yes, that's Maya Angelou at top doing a little hotfoot calypso there by the fire. On the Safari with Sabu cover note that the loincloth-clad tribesman is playing a three-thousand dollar kettle drum. They borrowed it from their friends over at the Philharmonic because the Darky Accessory Outlet was fresh out of bongos.

Jimmy Jenson gazes upon the idyllic scene before him, while holding a hatchet and a brown bag that could, were he inclined, transport the head he's planning to chop off.

How to overcome discouragement? Step 1—don't look at the album cover.

There's quite a bit going in both of the above tours de force. First, regarding the Richard and Willie cover, I think the accepted spelling of "honky" is the one I just used, without an "e". Also, the woman administering the smoker is holding an American flag, which is a profound statement of some sort—I'm just not sure what. Lastly, the expression of anticipation on funky honkey's face suggests to me that once he goes black, he's never going back. Masterpiece two, by the immortal Tony Tee, is a perfect example of how our visual cues change over time. When the album was released the cover was probably considered a scene of devastating masculinity, a moment of such incandescent male power that it turned women to putty and made lesser men green with envy. Now it just looks gay.

In case you can't believe your eyes, this is indeed an album of demons speaking through people (very much like my god and mentor Lord Pig sometimes speaks through me). There are subliminal messages on this record. Play it backwards and you can understand them—they call you a sucker for buying it. The kid on the cover is clearly possessed by the ancient demon Pickaninny.

Hmm, what do you suppose Francisco y Fernando are going to do when they get to the beach?

You gotta love a man in a uniform—even if it's a boy scout uniform.

Run run, is more like it.

Pretty much in the same vein as the previous few.

For those who thought Willie Nelson was once young and handsome, here's the proof his face always looked like a burlap sack. Also, the unfortunate album title sounds like what you do just before you start drinkin your own sperm.

Sensuous, indeed. But neither of them would allow you to touch their hair. Also, notice that the position at 9 o'clock on the sex wheel actually came from a Heimlich pamphlet.

Just for counterpoint, we have John and Yoko, who would have allowed you touch their hair, forcing you to leap headfirst out the window instead.

Seriously though, we love John Lennon. Last but by no means least, we have a couple of favorites at left—Joyce (a Brazilian bossa singer, some of whose music I own) and the German singer Heino. All I can say is glasses are, will always be, and always have been, sexy. For some reason Heino, whose name really should be Gecko, makes me think of Frau Frabissina. I am deeply afraid of this woman.

Seriously though, we love Heino. BlackNotBlack does not endorse any of the views expressed by the album covers, and disavows any blah blah blah. For more terrible album art, try the links below:

rateyourmusic.com, octanecreative.com, coverbrowser.com

Last Night in Rio

2007-04-29T11:47:00.000-07:00

I woke up the next afternoon before the sun went down. I'd made a choice after the beginning of the trip, and realized late parties would prevent any chance of appreciating Rio under the sun. I missed breakfasts, lunches, and all of the basics most people enjoy during daylight.

I opened the mini-fridge in the apartment, found only water, juice, and crackers—no beer. For once, I felt relief finding the fridge without beer. We had partied the past ten nights and early mornings. Time to slow down and soak in the city. The guys collected without many words until I asked if I missed anything after leaving the esplanade the night before—no, wait, that morning, or . . . damn, head hurts. Where the fuck are my shades?

Wondering aloud what to do the last night of the trip, the boys handed it over to me. Your choice, Ari, lead the way. Step one—sandals, wallets, and keys. Step two—hand our room keys to the staff at the front desk with a casual nod and smile. Pointless to say good morning at sunset. Step three—quick stop at the store across the street to grab a big bottle of water for a walk to Copacabana. We'd already begun strolling downhill, so gravity narrated the rest of the tale for the evening.

Just stroll with the flow downhill, and we were pulled right back to our regular locations. We headed straight to the same terrace of the same restaurant, with the same professionals pulling out chairs and arranging a table for us. Don't recall what the other dudes ordered, but I asked the waiters for suggestions along the line of mariscos, and dined on fruits of the sea I'd never seen, studied, nor dreamed. I thought about one last caipirinha, but no need for that. Just beer, sangría, and water sufficed.

A special peace settled on the streets and beach of Copacabana that evening. No hurry, I just wanted to soak it all in. Skipping dessert and coffee, we strolled across the street to our regular baizharinha. I would hesitate to label us regulars, since we only visited the location for ten days and nights. The people offering service and the locals hanging out alongside made us feel like we were sharing a community living room.

Then the band appeared. Never noticed them setting up, only felt the drums and heard the guitar strings. I wondered aloud if someone had a good stereo in a taxi passing by. Then I wondered aloud if it was an axè, or one of the other Brazilian genres I noticed in a local music paper. Then Doug asked why I always wonder aloud.

The rhythm, the melody, the tune, and the atmosphere all felt exactly like what I expected for a Rio experience. This was why we ran around the town in a taxi trying to hunt down the spots we discovered in every travel book, rumor, and website. All along we had no need to hunt for anything. We only had to wait patiently, take it easy, and Rio brought us what we wanted.

The bossa nova hippies played on, and we chatted with one of the dudes who was picking up cans for income. I asked if he could drink on the job, and he laughed. So I bought him a beer. The one musician who played some funky mix of bossa nova and reggae handed his guitar to the sound man. He walked right over to us and smacked hands with a snap and a knock. We stood stage left, so he probably had a good view of us kicking back and digging his music for real, something unique and forceful we'd never experienced, but which we knew waited for us in Rio.

Sabrina, our favorite waitress, laughed at us travelers trying to revel in the local cool. The soundman took the stage, and the locals began shouting out requests. The guy looked like a generic middle-class old guy who would fit in better on an American softball team. He fomented the emotion of the people as they all danced and sang along with the music of their lives. I had no idea if he played standards or modern hits of bossa nova or folk songs, but the people enjoyed the vibe, and we felt good.

But the musicians could not play forever, and we could not stay much longer. We had plane tickets and stupid jobs back home. We were travelers, picking out our clichés of choice. The band possibly moved down the beach to play for another crowd of revelers, or simply headed home. Sabrina sat down with us after the crowd left, and shared some details about her life. She lived alone, somewhere in the favelas. All of her family lived back in the nordeste, Northeast of Brazil. I forget what town or state she mentioned, but knew it must have been more remote than Recife or Salvador d'Bahia.

I expressed my emotions as best I could, and the boys encouraged me. I said no way, not cool. But these cats have a pact to indoctrinate new friends into their fold by pushing them into doing something out of the usual mode. Egan, Doug, and Steve built an Egyptian personhood of sorts while in school in Colorado. They choose hieroglyphs rather than Greek letters in order to differentiate themselves from the frats and sors—fish-eye-guy going like that. . .

Feeling bitter, I took the push and asked Sabrina out for a dance after she checked out of work that night. She told me she was only going home to sleep alone, so nothing was going to happen. Unhappy getting pushed into that corner spotlight, I wondered aloud for another round of beer. Nobody refused, so we enjoyed our last white sunrise in Rio. I'd traveled there looking for nothing less than an epiphany, a life changing experience in a legendary city, maybe meet a woman made of dreams.

I must admit I fell in love with one of the Finns we met on Copacabana the sunrise of Ash Wednesday. I moved to Helsinki the next year, and eventually met my Finnish family I had never had much contact with previously. The relationship did not work out, but my life in Helsinki goes on. I have my friends, family, and contact with the planet Earth I could never feel in California. I now have certified world citizenship. I demanded a life changing experience from Rio, and she delivered as promised. Blame it on Rio, baby—she can make it all dance.

A Bright White Sunrise, Part 2

2007-04-23T14:01:00.000-07:00

What Ari wrote in his post "Finally Scored Some Shades" is true. I threatened to kill the bloke from Southampton. I don’t normally threaten people’s lives—in fact, this was the only time that I can remember doing it. But this primitive character, who looked like he probably gutted sheep for a living, took such joy in dominating a prostitute that I thought he should experience a little domination too. What I told him exactly, was to look into my eyes and tell me if he thought what I next said was a joke. Then I explained to him that he was sixty seconds from the end of his life if he didn’t apologize to the woman. I asked him if he believed me. He said, “I believe you, mate.” And he apologized.

Thinking back on it, it was inevitable that I’d try to take a stand, however futile, against this particular niche of capitalism that makes whores of us all. And as with the boy who I lectured for pissing on another boy’s face, I don’t think the Southampton bloke learned anything. I sometimes ask myself if I really would have killed him. All I can say is that I meant what I told him. And in the midst of our standoff I whispered to Doug: "Do not step in no matter what happens." But as it all unfolded, the hooligan understood what was in my eyes, and he got the hell out of there. I never saw him again.

That morning of the bright white sunrise was my last Rio encounter with the Finns too—they were flying out the next day. But my friends and I had finally discovered the Copa kiosks, and they were our home now. Each had a particular character—some were social and some were for quiet reflection; some were international and some local, some had live music, and some were just for drinking the night away. The carnival was over, and hundreds of thousands had returned home. A hurricane had passed and the sun had returned to Rio. Storefronts that had been sealed with corrugated riot doors lifted to reveal beauty salons and butcher’s shops and stationery stores. The street where we were staying in Arpoador took on a pleasant neighborhood feel—no different from a block of midtown Manhattan.

Doug and I visited Corcovado—just the two of us. It was a sunny day, and the park was crowded. Scores of tourists were taking photographs of the famous statue Cristo Redentor. I wandered around and sought a shot that didn’t look as if it came directly from a postcard. A small cloud sped across the mountaintop and I saw dozens of cameras lowered as their owners paused, waiting for the sun to return. In that brief few seconds I raised my camera and made the shot at the top of this post. I have never seen another photo of Cristo Redentor like it.

Rio changed all our lives. We learned what it truly was to immerse ourselves in another culture, to buy airline tickets on a whim and just fly away. We have since visited—together or separately—places like Reykjavik, Budapest, Dublin, Puerto Vallarta, Lisbon and many others. There have been countless adventures—Ari was once held hostage in a Budapest strip club; I once rode stormy seas smuggling two wild animals onto a tropical island. Ari and I actually did see the Finns again—six months later when we flew to Helsinki to meet them. Only a few months after that I moved to Guatemala and Ari left the United States too. But Doug’s story is probably more interesting than all ours.

Arriving as he did, days after his father's death, the trip was a chance to shed his entire bad history. He attacked Rio with an intensity that astounded me. He danced and drank with ferocity, laughed and joked like a madman, and everybody who met him loved him. He broke every rule of safety imaginable, from passing out overnight in a Rio gutter to scoring drugs from shifty street hustlers. He was invincible. He simply knew nothing bad would happen to him. After I moved to Guatemala I tried to get him to come and visit, stay for a few weeks or even months. But he could never quite manage it. And then a year later Steve passed word along to me—Doug had committed suicide.

We discussed why, and we all had opinions. I think his family drove him to it, and I think in the midst of all their negativity the invulnerability he felt in Rio was impossible to hold onto. But in the end it doesn’t matter what I think. Though god and country would have us believe otherwise, each person’s life is his or her own to do with as they wish. Only Doug knows the reasons for choosing to end his existence. But as a friend, I trusted him with my life, so it pretty much follows that I trust him with his own. I support his decision, even if I disagree with it.

There is a world in my mind where Doug still lives, and in that world, there is only one city—Rio de Janeiro. The same sun rises over and over, bright and white as burning acetylene, and "New Year's Day" is playing. The photographs I took, some of which are below, don't seem to originate from any terrestrial place, but rather from deep space. They are like fragments of interstellar static assembled to form images of events that occurred billions of years ago. And that’s how I’ll always remember Rio—as an instant in eternity, a flash from the other side of the universe, gone now save for a few shards of color so beautiful yet so weird it’s difficult to say whether they ever really existed. I guess that's how I'll remember Doug too.

Don Imus, 50 Cent, & Good Old American Capitalism

2007-04-18T10:37:00.000-07:00

I tried to wait until after our last couple of Rio posts were up, but I didn't quite make it. So I'm postponing the conclusion of that series, briefly, to discuss the Don Imus affair. I know—it makes me cringe too, but if it's any consolation, non-existent readers, I'm not writing about Don Imus per-se, but rather about the mass of pundits circling over his body—and one in particular.

Jason Whitlock, a columnist for the Kansas City Star daily newspaper, recently published an editorial discussing Imus. Through the wonders of internet technology, I stumbled upon the piece and read it. I actually agree with Whitlock on several points, particularly those he makes about the relative importance of guys like Imus. But then he goes on to bash hip-hop culture. He says: "While we’re fixated on a bad joke cracked by an irrelevant, bad shock jock, I’m sure at least one of the marvelous young women on the Rutgers basketball team is somewhere snapping her fingers to the beat of 50 Cent’s or Snoop Dogg’s or Young Jeezy’s latest ode glorifying nappy-headed pimps and hos."

He goes on: "I ain’t saying Jesse, Al and Vivian are gold-diggas, but they don’t have the heart to mount a legitimate campaign against the real black-folk killas. It is us. At this time, we are our own worst enemies. We have allowed our youths to buy into a culture (hip hop) that has been perverted, corrupted and overtaken by prison culture. The music, attitude and behavior expressed in this culture is anti-black, anti-education, demeaning, self-destructive, pro-drug dealing and violent.

"Rather than confront this heinous enemy from within, we sit back and wait for someone like Imus to have a slip of the tongue and make the mistake of repeating the things we say about ourselves. It’s embarrassing. Dave Chappelle was offered $50 million to make racially insensitive jokes about black and white people on TV. He was hailed as a genius. Black comedians routinely crack jokes about white and black people, and we all laugh out loud.

"In the grand scheme, Don Imus is no threat to us in general and no threat to black women in particular. If his words are so powerful and so destructive and must be rebuked so forcefully, then what should we do about the idiot rappers on BET, MTV and every black-owned radio station in the country who use words much more powerful and much more destructive?

"I don’t listen or watch Imus’ show regularly. Has he at any point glorified selling crack cocaine to black women? Has he celebrated black men shooting each other randomly? Has he suggested in any way that it’s cool to be a baby-daddy rather than a husband and a parent? Does he tell his listeners that they’re suckers for pursuing education and that they’re selling out their race if they do? When Imus does any of that, call me and I’ll get upset. Until then, he is what he is — a washed-up shock jock who is very easy to ignore when you’re not looking to be made a victim."

There's more to the editorial, but you get the gist, I'm sure. I sent Whitlock a response at the Star, which read as follows: "Good article, however like most protestations of this sort, it leaves out an important point. You discuss violent hip hop like it's a cancer. Hip hop is no cancer—it's a capitalist explosion. It's show business. Millions of dollars are funnelling into America's black community that wouldn't otherwise. That is America, and the game is: Get the money any way you can. I don't like this game, nor do I really understand its rules, but these rappers do. What does it matter to 50 Cent what happens in the black community? It's every man for himself, and that is the alpha and omega of American capitalism. How is destroying the capacity for free thought in the black community any different than chopping down a forest, or dumping mercury into a lake?

"The answer is it isn't. 50 Cent, in that way, is quintessentially American. He's about profit first. So all this raises the question of who is mired in primitive thought. You say it's 50 Cent, but he'd say it's you. Actually, he probably isn't smart enough to say much of anything, but you get my point. 50 Cent and other rappers behave like pure capitalists. Your editorial suggests that they shouldn't. If Fiddy took your advice and aimed for loftier pursuits, all he would be is a black man who has read many books but who can't get a table at Lutéce. I think he prefers the table at Lutéce."

I don't think the Star will publish my response, or that Whitlock will ever see it. But I enjoyed banging it out, and since it only took me five minutes, it wasn't any great interruption of my daily routine. I think I raised a point you rarely hear in these types of discussions—that guys like 50 Cent actually are playing by the rules. And guys like Whitlock (and Bill Cosby and others) are in denial. I don't particularly dig violent rap, but all it does is damage a resource, the same way other capitalist pursuits damage resources. It's supremely fucked-up, but under the American corporate system—which famed author and shareholder activist Robert Monks once described as "a doom machine"—it's also squarely within the realm of what is normal.

Finally Scored Some Shades

2007-04-12T09:44:00.000-07:00

Fortunately, Egan provided a few photos that hepled me recall which sunrise he meant. I recalled a few white sunrises, but I always need some decent sunglasses in order to enjoy the sunrise. Yeah, the photos provide proper detail how to enjoy local culture.

The bloke from Southampton turned to me after skipping a good scrap with either Doug or Egan. Shit, I have no clue what he tried to say, I just could not believe he sat down uninvited, then made a woman cry, then tried to drum up a scrap. In my experience, no redneck starts shit when they have equal numbers, let alone minus numbers with a working girl on the elbow. I started looking over my shoulder, certain the bloke had some mates behind our backs ready to fight. Well, bless Rio, because I saw nothing.

I walked around properly, which means I took my casual time investigating a good place to take a leak in public. After my visit to the water, I watched all the health enthusiasts joining the community on the beach.

Shit, they just woke up, I thought.

Shit, he's fucked up, their glances suggested.

I get back to the table, and Egan goes into Peace General mode. He adds some complexion to balance out the redness on the neck of the man from Southampton by smacking him on the gut: “You have 60 seconds to live the rest of your life if you do not apologize to her right now.”

Egan jabs him in the shoulder: “ You now have 55 seconds, if you do not apologize.”

Those who had stayed up so far into the morning laughed as much as remaining energy allowed. Egan kept making the idiot's belly and shoulder as pink as his neck. “You now have 45 seconds to apologize. What do you want to do? What the fuck do you want to do?”

I cannot remember if he actually apologized, or left. I simply remember a better vibe hit, so I could go to bed with a mellow conscience. And a young working girl could understand how to segment the market when customers get aggressive. Next morning, Doug and Egan tell me I missed something.

A Bright White Sunrise, Part 1

2007-04-06T16:45:00.000-07:00

It’s all a little hazy in my memory, but I remember that the sound system at the kiosk we favored began playing "New Year’s Day." Ordinarily, that song wouldn’t encapsulate the joys of a night in Rio, but the apocalyptic message spoke to me. It said: “Enjoy yourself now because tomorrow may be too late.” So there I was dancing to U2 on the esplanade in Rio, and other 24-hour party people were dancing as well, and somehow we merged into a large group. The newcomers were Finnish, and we chatted and got to know each other over beers and cigarettes. I didn’t smoke, but I did drink, and since I’d been rolling when we arrived at the beach, the beers made me pretty loopy.

When the summer sun rises in Rio the day instantly becomes scorching. It must have been 90 Fahrenheit by 8 a.m. Guanabara Bay had been fogged over earlier, and as the light came up the water steamed like the coriander soup served in local restaurants. The sky was pure white, as was the sun, the sand, and the façades of the Copa high rises. I’d never seen a pure white sunrise, and haven’t seen one since. I wanted the others to take notice. I cried, “Ladies and gentlemen—our Sun, a four-billion year-old nuclear explosion!”

My friends are nothing if not indulgent of my enthusiasms.

Doug and a Finnish lad named Sami decided to cool off. They traversed the wide beach, stripped off their clothes at the shoreline and dove into the bay. Meanwhile the rest of us compared notes about the samba parade, our lodgings, and what we had done during the week. The waiters at the kiosk kept rounds of Skol coming our way. The sound system blasted "Sandstorm" by Darude, who is Finnish. It seemed providential, so there was more dancing. Afterward, I went on a quick photo excursion and got the shot at the top of this post. Walking back I came across a kid standing on the edge of the esplanade pissing. He was probably about ten. As I neared I saw that he was pissing on the face of another kid who had passed out on the sand below.

It was a devastating buzzkill—but as I said in an earlier post, in Rio your ecstasy is always somehow tempered.

I went back to the kiosk and rejoined my friends. I had more beer. They chainsmoked more cigarettes. At some point, Doug and Sami returned from the water and Sami was naked. We stared at him, and he said simply, “The sea took my shorts.” Matter-of-fact, like the bay had a will and had made a conscious decision. Or like it had been decreed by the gods of Corcovado.

At this point, I should mention a little known fact about Rio: full nudity in public is prohibited. I know, I know—seems unlikely, considering that the country spawned Brazilian-cut bikinis and other fashion innovations barely deserving of the term ‘clothing’, but it’s true. The Avenida Atlantica is the main throughfare through Copacabana, which meant there were substantial numbers of drivers getting eyefuls of Sami's white ass, and the early morning joggers and skaters seemed surprised, as well. The waiters flipped out. They cried, “No, no, no,” and, “Policia, policia, policia.” Sami wrapped a shirt around his waist. It didn’t really cover him (as you can see in the photo above), but as long as he remained seated it looked like he was at least wearing shorts, and that got the waiters to calm down. One of them was even kind enough to hose Sami clean.

One of the other Finns—Niko—suggested that perhaps the lost shorts would return. It made sense—the sea taketh and the sea giveth back. He sauntered down to the beach.

At some point either just before or just after this, an English bloke arrived at our table with a prostitute in tow. He and the girl just plopped down without an invitation. This fella looked like a coal miner—he was gigantic, ruddy, and ugly. If he was drunk at all he was sweating most of the effects away in the incredible heat. About then I felt a hand on my arm. The hand was encrusted with filth, and was attached to a kid begging for money. He was also severely beaten up. He had two black eyes and numerous scrapes. I reached for my cash when recognition dawned—this was the kid who’d been pissing off the esplanade. I hadn’t gotten a good look at his face before, but it was him—same clothes, same hair, same kid.

Suddenly the whole situation was morally complex. I am the type who gives money if I have it. I consider it my obligation as a human being. And I don’t think about it beyond the concept of duty—which is to say, I don’t expect a reward in gratitude or karma, and I don’t feel any pride about my deeds. Giving what I don’t need is just what I do. But this was different somehow—so I said no. In porteñol I told him, “I saw what you did to that other boy and I will never give you money. I will never give money to someone who does that.” And then I made certain nobody else at the table gave him money either, and I even made Ari explain to the kid why in Portuguese.

But I could see that the lesson was completely lost on him, and as he wandered off in search of other tourists I immediately regretted my decision. Who was I to judge? I said as much to Doug: “Maybe the kid he pissed on is the same kid who gave him two black eyes. How the fuck do I know? I should have just given him some money.” Doug said something like, “An adult gave him those black eyes—trust me, I know what I’m talking about. You did right. He shouldn’t be pissing on kids’ faces and he needed to be told even if he didn’t listen.”

So we come full circle to the original question: What is Rio? And as the immortal Frankie Beverly once sang, it is joy and pain—but while we can immerse ourselves fully in the former, we can only bear mute witness to the latter. What does it mean? What lesson do we learn? The answer to those questions consists of another question: What kind of person are you?

I glanced bayward and noticed that Niko was headed back to us. It looked like he’d found Sami’s shorts, so at least the waiters wouldn’t give us any more grief. I was sitting with my back to the beach, so I didn’t actually see Niko approach. Everyone else was too busy socializing to notice him. When I sensed him drawing near I glanced over my shoulder again and discovered that he had not found Sami’s shorts—he had found a dead fish. It looked like it was once some kind of catfish, but now it was a reeking carcass, its head rotted to the bone, two ghastly black sockets where its eyes had been. As casually as you please, Niko said something like: “Didn’t find your shorts, Sami, but I brought you this.”

Sami rose from his chair and took the fish. The shirt he’d wrapped around his waist was gone. He placed the carcass over his cock like some horrible fig leaf and launched into a jig. I’m sorry to say I was too stunned through all this to take a photograph. Even the waiters looked too shocked to protest. These Finns really knew how to cut loose.

Again, things are mixed up in my memory, but sometime after this the English bloke—I do have a photo of him, just below—got hostile. He had been mean to his hooker all along, which did not sit well with us, but now he focused his attention on Doug. I probed the man, to find out what his problem might be, and he explained that he didn’t like blackfellas. He said that he’d never met one he liked and was willing to fight about it if we had something to say.

Doug rose wordlessly, walked the few steps to the beach and traced a square in the sand. It was about eight feet on a side. It was boxing ring or, if you prefer, a wrestling ring. When he was done he gestured to the English bloke with both hands: bring it on. I nudged the Englishman, “He’s waiting for you—go ahead.” And this giant coalminer-looking dude backed down, and not very gracefully. He sputtered, “Wot, 'e’d run bloody circles around me!” I didn’t bother to point out that running around in circles didn’t seem to be part of Doug’s agenda at the moment. Doug returned to the table and the Englishman nodded at him respectfully. “You’re alright, mate. Anyway, it wasn’t you I had a problem with—it was him.”

He was talking about me. I said, “I’ll beat your ass too—right now.”

And he said, “Well, it wasn’t you either, really, it was him.”

He was talking about Ari now. So I understood that this was some sort of test, some kind of barnyard confrontation to establish pecking order. I think the presence of the Finnish girls had something to do with his behavior. But what I didn’t understand was why he felt the need. He’d bought himself a woman—she was sitting right there next to him, a done deal, his for the taking, and she would do virtually anything he wished the moment he snapped his fingers. I was still rolling, so I was predisposed to see the good in this ogre, but that feeling was rapidly giving way to something else. I could almost hear Homer Simpson in my ear: "Urge to kill . . . riiising."

Truth in Advertising

2007-03-31T09:01:00.000-07:00

I still wonder why I avoided this story for so long. Yeah, I paid for it. Perhaps I did it without hesitation, blaming the caipirinhas, and giving in to the fact that I was no don magic casanova juan. To tell the truth, I can't remember where the deal went down, except that it was a posh hotel, where the front desk handled the transaction with my visa quite rapidly. My credit card statement came back with the hotel restaurant as the location billed. As if I would let my wife look at my finances.

Can't remember her name, but I do recall her kisses meant everything. But she could not fuck with passion. So I blew up one cliché, and built a new one. Maybe she was a turn-and-burn type of service provider, not necessarily keeping the kitchen open until a potential regular customer is good and ready to complete a fine dining experience after coffee. She had an excellent marketing strategy, yet finished poorly on delivering the service. A good way to turn-and-burn, yet a horrible technique to maintaining regular clientèle.

As I return to focus, this all happened outside the discoteca HELP, after closing down, when we returned to the beach after the Sambadrome. Once again, I understood why the club picked such a cheesy moniker. They advertise what they serve.

So what did we do next? I believe the clock struck 9:00 already, and the morning sun cooked my corneas well. Again, forgot to purchase sunglasses at the bazaar the night before, and the vendors would not return until later. They need some sleep as well, and I figured that to be a good idea.

Egan could tell you how I missed out on an escapade to one of the greater wonders of Rio, but as I figured later, 'twas better to leave something untouched, so that Rio would call me back someday. Hey, Egan, help me out here. Am I thinking about the same morning, or was this after Ash Wednesday? I cannot recall too well, since I break the fast of Lent on the first day every year. I just became so confused by all of the joggers, surfers, and sun worshipers populating the beach. I wondered how we could enjoy the rest of our holiday, exhausted. I hoped Rio would give us something different to help germinate the epiphany.

The Sambadrome

2007-03-26T20:19:00.000-07:00

The truth is, I forced everyone to attend the samba parade. I can admit that now. We were undecided about going until taking a cab to the Sambadrome Sunday night to look around. The parade runs for two days, divided between Sunday and Monday, so we had an opportunity to observe the spectacle from outside the stadium. The chaotic scene we witnessed—part Bourbon Street and part fall of Saigon—sealed the deal for me. I told the group we were going to the parade the next night—money be damned. And to squash any protests I offered to pay for anyone who didn’t have the cash. Tickets were said to run from two-hundred to two thousand dollars, but I didn’t care how much it cost. This was the central event of the biggest party in the world and I wasn’t going to miss it.

Back at our apartment house later that night, Ari asked the doorman to find tickets for us. This is not the recommended method, especially when the admission is rather exorbitant and the scalpers are rather shady (they ask for payment and bring you tickets later, presumably because they don’t have sufficient cash in the kitty to buy them beforehand). But I had the money to throw away—partially because I’d broken my key off in the room safe the previous day and was denied access to my cash on what would otherwise have been the most expensive night of the trip (at Discoteca Help, which Ari discussed earlier). So we shelled out the reais and our scalper showed up the next evening with four embossed tickets to the Sambadrome.

An insightful friend of mine once said of a completely different event—Formula 1 racing—that it is a unique experience in that it overloads all the senses. For the ears there is the roar of engines; for the eyes there is the spectacle, the banners, the crowd; for touch, there is the vibration of the cars roaring past. Lots of experiences tease those three senses. But Formula 1 engages tongue and nose with its pervasive petrol fumes, which can be both smelt and tasted. The best experiences, such as races and concerts, overstimulate all five senses. The samba parade qualifies also. There is noise and spectacle and vibration. And the taste and smell are not petrol, but fireworks and booze.

The Sambadrome is a marvel. Think of the grandstand at Churchill Downs, but elongate it by ten times. Or picture a football stadium where the field is normal width but half a mile long. The Sambadrome was once a street, but was long ago enclosed by concrete bleachers on both sides. These bleachers seemed to extend to either horizon. We had fretted about which section our seats would be in. We thought we’d end up far from the action because we'd relied upon a scalper. But you can’t end up far from the action in an arena whose floor is only fifty yards wide. Still, some seats are more desirable than others because they are closer to the judges boxes, where the samba schools stage the key parts of their performances in order to impress the panel. We got lucky. Our section was across from the judges boxes—our scalper had gotten us five-hundred dollar seats.

It is impossible to describe the majesty of the carnival floats. They are much larger than they appear in photos—most of them are three stories high. And there seemed to be no limit to the themes encompassed in their construction. One described fertility and harvest, and had four waterfalls on it. I don’t mean trickles, like from a fountain—I mean waterfalls. Another was a Spanish galleon with working oars. Many had moving parts—platforms that rotated with glitter-clad dancers atop, sculpted beasts that spun, devices that rose and lowered. The whole of these floats shook and bounced as their occupants danced and the music throbbed.

Each float was surrounded by throngs of dancers garbed in regalia that weighed up to fifty pounds. They danced and spun and paced the float as it moved along the length of parade grounds, continuing for up to an hour non-stop. Oftentimes dancers collapsed from exhaustion and medics sprinted from the sidelines and heaved the prostrate figure onto a stretcher. Then the ranks of the samba school closed and it was as if nothing had happened to disrupt the flow of the party. The party had to continue at all costs—that was clear.

The same songs we’d been hearing in the streets all week were now being performed live by hundreds of musicians. Most of the lyrics described adventures related to sex, love, and cachaca—the local cane rum. The parade had begun at sundown, and around eleven I handed out the ecstasy I’d brought. Did I forget to mention that? Well, it wasn’t much—about ten doses. Doug had never done it, and was dubious but willing. Ari passed—not his bag at all. Steve was game, as always. Three of us dropped.

The parade got louder and crazier. It seemed like a million people were dancing and sweating and singing. There was no strife, no hate, no barriers between the thousands of participants. We were individual cells that had merged into a single organism, with a single consciousness. It was the most supremely inspiring moment of my life. We met a group of Japanese girls nearby. We met Scandinavians, Mexicans, Australians—all flushed with excitement, staggeringly drunk, and so insanely jubilant I wouldn't have been surprised to see them launch into the night sky like rockets. The entire planet was dancing. Half an hour after I’d given Doug his pill, he looked at me—wild-eyed, sweaty, generally hyperactive—and said: “I don’t feel anything.”

I nudged Steve: “Did you hear that?”

Steve smirked: “Ten minutes, max.”

Ten minutes later Doug threw his arm around my shoulders. “I feel woooonderful.”

The parade lasted until dawn, but thousands left before then, exhausted. We didn’t leave because I wouldn’t allow it. My rationale: “I did not come all the way to Rio to say I left before it ended.” We stayed until the end, and staggered out as the sun rose, whereupon we were treated to a marvelous spectacle. The thousands of samba dancers, after a night of wearing their heavy costumes, had simply shucked them after their performances. The streets were littered with samba costumes.

Steve and Doug donned golden wings within seconds; I chose something I couldn’t wear, but which seemed to call to me from amidst all the scattered regalia—a gigantic golden bull’s head, which I immediately named Baal. We cabbed back to Copacabana and Steve, still bewinged, began blessing everyone he came across with: “Domus onum, domus onum,” which I think is from a Monty Python skit. Doug crossed paths with a wandering hooker and got himself a blowjob on the beach. Unfortunately, his tryst was interrupted by the cops. But nothing could dampen his mood after the parade and the X, and he seemed blissful as escorted the girl back to us (pictured—note the wings) for introductions.

The sun was fully up now, casting bright white light on what was to be—I didn’t know at the time—the craziest morning in Rio yet.

Carnival 2007

2007-02-22T10:59:00.000-08:00

The 2007 Carnival is officially over, but we haven't quite finished telling our stories at BlackNotBlack. Our Rio series concludes this weekend with a few more strange tales. In the meantime, we managed to track down a few images from Monday night's big finale.

HELP!

2007-02-15T14:47:00.000-08:00

We spent maybe 4 or 5 hours dining at Sobre as Ondas, and around twenty past midnight I saw the doorman at HELP! lay out the velvet rope. I could see where everybody wanted to go, and we decided to join the scene. We had to see why this place had a reputation of ill behavior, a quick moving queue, and an English name. The club was already packed, though we had hit the doors right after opening. I recognized the staff—they were the ladies parading the Avenida all night.

We saw nothing but encouraging smiles. Just like that, we found the perfect blend of chaos, insanity, and paradise. With a slamming beat. Of course everything in Rio has a beat. Steve wondered how they could allow cameras inside with all of the travelers set up for blackmail. I headed for the kiosk to purchase drink tickets. Doug, he . . . wait a minute, where the fuck was Doug?

Doug was running—no shit, actually jogging in place, warming up his A-game. Doug speaks English only, and somehow I got stuck with translating duties, which included fetching drinks. I had plenty of laughs for a short while, yet slowly had a headache growing from the sound sensitive strobe lights and techno-latino.

Fortunately, the band kicked in with the rhythm everybody came to dig. Samba does not exactly produce a dance—more of a trance. You have to move, because you will not find a seat. I couldn’t even find space to work the wall. Fortunately, I’d already cut myself off the caipirinhas, so I had plenty of energy left for the rest of the night. Trying to figure out how to politely decline services from the freelancers, I also needed to bounce away the other tourists requesting my wisdom. Even in the bathroom, other customers sought me for advice: “How much do they charge?”

I gave no answer, since I have no idea why anyone would expect a sincere answer to any questions in the bathroom. I left, trying to remember where the rest of the guys could be. I walked to the first bar, couldn't find them. I remembered the club had maybe ten bars. I centered myself toward the stage, lost and confused, then heard my name. Doug and his service providers required more of my translating skills. I required another beer. I just pointed at my empty beer can while heading for the drink ticket booth. What do you know, I bump into Steve and Egan. We grab a round, I ask them if they've taken a visit upstairs. I suggest we find out what else HELP! offers.

Chairs, tables, and a little more air than downstairs. Give yourself a minute to chill and observe the festivities. We could see Doug down there, all right. With a trail of freelance professionals haggling over his time. Plenty of dudes with more cash, credit, and spare key-cards for 5 star hotels had to wait for a night when Doug decided to party elsewhere. I wish I made this shit up, people, but even my imagination has its limitations. Doug had chosen carneval as the place to get his game back.
I worked on my rap as the samba troupe kept the beat. Don't worry, I did not try to touch a microphone nor make any impression with my peckerwood skills. Too much heat and rhythm and soul filled this room. I wondered what else a customer could find upstairs, but I saw nothing. No hidden doors nor stairwells popped into view; then again, that may only be open to a special market segment. If this were truly a brothel, I assumed they knew how to let the girls bring the punters through a separate door. Like the front door of a luxury hotel (foreshadowing? . . .stay tuned . . .).

Time came for the club to close. Only understood this when the band quit playing for the first time in five hours. Egan mentioned how in samba, when the band has 10 drummers, 10 horn players, and 10 singers, they can rotate their breaks while keeping the beat. No need to punch out for fifteen minutes, nor wait for the lunch whistle. And the dancers on the floor simply kept on dancing as the doors opened for all to exit. At this point, many of professionals wore nothing but glitter and pumps. Of course, they cannot get their feet dirty and sticky—so unprofessional and uncivilized.

Right across the street, a dj spins, more drummers drum, people dance, and the sun rises over the ocean, na praia de Copacabana. Egan said the sunrise looked pearl white, and went to grab some beers. I said it looked a little too bright, and went to the bazaar to buy some sunglasses. Doug said the sunrise had a touch of pink, and wondered why his entourage left him for a bigger payday. Steve said it looked like a sunrise, and went back to the apartment to crash.
A couple beers later, and a few more samba shuffles, we finally introduced ourselves to Sabrina, the mesera taking care of us all week at the same baizhirinha. Asked if she worked again the next day, she said she worked every day. We said we'd see her again, after the samba parade.

Avenida Atlantica Vice

2007-02-10T13:15:00.000-08:00

Every customer comes with those bulging, moist, expectant eyes of a man who has escaped from his prison for a week or two. It may be the puritanical monotony of the working week that drives the men to seek relief: not raging bulls, exactly, more like cows waiting to be milked.

John Burdett
Bangkok Tattoo

On night four we went in search of dinner and ended up in Copacabana. We’d had some great adventures so far, only some of which I've described. In short: three allnighters, an excellent street party, two meltdowns, a near-death experience, and a gas-filled apartment that—in a building full of smokers—did not explode. All typical vacation fun. But on Copacabana’s Avenida Atlantica on Sunday night, near a disco called Help, we walked into ground zero of a citywide vice explosion. There were scores of outrageously dressed women. I’m talking bikinis and high heels, red capes and devil horns, negligees and fairy wings, and countless miniskirts that revealed more ass than they covered. Professional girls, these? Indeed. In fact, we had wandered unknowingly into one of the most famous hubs of the global sex trade.

There was an outdoor restaurant called Sobre as Ondas right next to this scene—we snagged four chairs and rubbernecked while eating dinner. The Avenida was the floor of the New York Stock Exchange and Bartertown rolled into one. The whores were magnificent, and came in more varieties than simply the nearly naked. For instance, see that girl riding a skateboard and wearing baggy camo fatigues? Yes, she’s a prostitute. See that perfectly coiffed woman wearing a business suit and carrying a briefcase? Yes, she’s a prostitute too. The meter maid? Her too. The Brazilians had taken the oldest profession, added a dash of niche marketing theory, and frappéd them into a moneymaking miracle.

Music, singing, and drumming were constant. The street crackled with the energy of a high-tension line. There were hard and fast negotiations going on everywhere—I mean serious business, with frowns and demands and counteroffers. The men involved were mainly of a certain type—those so steeped in sexual ineptitude that people could almost see it stamped on their foreheads. But the rules of the sex trade gave them control. Female free will had been abolished. Two-hunded bucks in pocket now equated to superheroic virility. These men whistled, shouted vulgar come-ons, and generally behaved exactly like losers given carte blanche in a sexual Disneyland.

Amongst this throng Doug, Ari, Steve and I were clearly non-participatory—other than the fact that we were having a great time just watching. I’d say twenty percent of the men were chill and seemed to have their shit together. The rest were problem children from north of the equator somewhere, and just like the Brazilian water supposedly went backwards down the drain, Brazilian hookers were going to reverse every failure and blow-off they had ever suffered. For their part, the girls made their preferences clear—they flocked to the non-predatory guys, including us. It made sense—if you’re going to fuck for money, first try the guys whose eyes aren’t spinning like the reels on a slot machine. No need to service some overwrought social misfit if you can avoid it.

We made it clear we didn’t want to partake in the wares, but that we didn’t mind the company. Several girls joined us after Doug gathered some chairs (he may have been browsing at this point, but I’ll get to that in the next post). There were two types of girls on the stroll—year-round pros, and opportunists. The pros had no time for nonsense, no time for socializing. One of them might pretend for a minute to be friendly, but soon she’d segue into her pitch: “Serious now, handsome, you wanna party with me or what?” When we said no she’d leave fast enough to burn rubber. The girls who sat with us and stayed were the second breed—opportunists. They had plenty of time to shoot the breeze because they didn’t consider themselves hookers. One of them laid it out for me: “I work all year up north in a store and make like three-thousand dollars. I come here for carnival and make three thousand in a week. What would you do?”

We bought pitchers of sangria. Girls rotated from our table and others replaced them. There would be a few whispers traded as our companions presumably informed the newcomers: “These guys? No, they’re not buying pussy—just drinks. But they don’t mind if you join them.” Occasionally one of the girls might doublecheck our intentions: “Have you changed your mind yet, baby?” But generally they didn’t pressure us. Why would they? Why would they waste their time when the street was jammed with men eager to ransack their bodies? The ones who decided it was time to sell simply left. The ones who wanted to socialize stayed. And we all laughed like we were at a frat party as the ancient spectacle of sex-as-commerce pulsated wildly around us. We spoke Spanish and Ari had a little Portuguese and we were communicating fine.

Rio’s year-round pros are into volume, while the opportunists are about quality. They don’t want to have sex with twenty men during carnival then go back to their secretary or hostess jobs up north with what they perceive as a lie in their hearts. They’re hoping for the most benign of johns—the Canadian who would never cheat on his wife but wants dinner with a beautiful woman and is willing to pay for the company. Or the German who will buy her for ten days straight—twenty fucks from one stranger translating to something more forgivable than the alternative. Forgiveness is an important part of the milieu, keep in mind, because every one of these girls is at least nominally Catholic—which means they’re expertly schooled in the art of burdensome guilt. To avoid that guilt, they will stiff you in a second. They’d rather run off with your money than go through with the sinful deed. How much money they can make without actually ending up on their backs in a hotel room is another of the many games played during carnival. And yes, free drinks are part of it too, so perhaps they were working us as well.

Just a few doors south stood Help, which Ari mentioned last post. Travel guides explicitly warn to stay out of the place. It's the largest disco in South America. It was closed at the moment, but many of the people on the Avenida seemed to be waiting for it to open. We asked our girls about it. They said the place was great—wonderful music, strong drinks, all night dancing. We filed that away. Quarter after midnight or so Help opened and half the people on the street poured inside. Our girls said farewell and we were alone. We took a survey—continue to relax and enjoy the spectacle on the street, now considerably diminished, or go to club Help?

First Hangover, Second Daytrip

2007-02-08T11:46:00.000-08:00

Definitely need to lay off the caipirinhas.

That I remember from the first day waking up in Rio de Janeiro. Luckily, the curtains kept the direct sunlight from piercing through my eyelids. Did not stop me from covering my eyes with my forearm, just in case. One of the guys walked in as I awoke, asking, “Are you alive?”

“Technically,” I answered. Not an attempt at sarcasm, just reflexive dialog.

We’d bumped into some dude the night before at a club who informed us that they were not pouring good cachaca. Naturally, I did not let this stop me from ordering more caipirinhas. The first two rounds definitely tasted like rotgut. The third round tasted better, and each round thereafter tasted just perfect. Easy to presume the whole town planned to pour the cheap stuff during carneval, and I did not study up on brand recognition, so it basically made sense to stick to beer and wine from here on out, since the parties should last past sunrise.

In need of some breakfast, at 3 or 4 in the afternoon, I hustled the mate who was able to walk to join me for some pizza on the beach. Strolled down to Copacabana, had a pizza and beer at a baizhairinha. Could be the same spot from which we watched the sunrise. I recognized the club across the street every travel book said to avoid. HELP! the marquee advertised. I wondered if that advertised what they served, since the books said it catered to pushers, hookers, and thieves. We needed to find out the next night, because the sun was blazing pretty hot at the moment, and the rest of the population had a different rhythm than we could feel. Travelers shopping, locals jogging and playing volleyball. The energy felt better to explore one of the natural sites.

So we hopped in a taxi, requesting a trip to Pão de Azúcar—Sugar Loaf. The taxi driver was playing bossa nova, and he did not try to break any local speed records. The fare was cool, and the gate to Pão de Azúcar was visible. The gondola ride up to the first rock moved smooth and mellow. Perfect recipe for my current health and equilibrium. The second gondola took us up to the top, the actual loaf of sugar that seems to either grow from the Earth or was laid down gently an eon ago.

Even big pieces of rock can enjoy carneval.

The view does the reputation justice. We could look upon different communities around the city, as everybody seemed to flock to the beaches. It hit me how foolish it was to think to conquer every party in town during one trip. This city is huge, and carneval brings in an additional population. Nothing to conquer here, no need to make an impression, this place commands a bit of liberty. Sitting on top of this rock, I found it easier to examine one tree at a time, one flower at a time, as the bird songs set the ambiance.

A different place to live a different way. The university sits near the foot of Pão de Azúcar. I wondered how so many successful intellectuals, artists, and designers could live in Rio full time without going crazy.