Just think,if years ago the first cell phones had been been shoe shaped, we would all be walking around talking into shoes. Yeah, who'd be crazy then?

I awoke, and went for a run. As i ran at 8 am as opposed to 6 am, there was a whole different cast of characters out. As no one runs on the streets here, i think i prefer the 6 am time slot, when there are much fewer curious eyes undressing me slowly, trying to perve through my running shorts.
I believe if it came down to it, i would be the fastest person in BA. If nothing else, the fastest person in my neighborhood. While it appears that the idea of "jogging" has made it this far south, i feel that something was lost in translation. It's as if they jog, because they have seen other people do it in movies, yet the don't understand that it is meant to be an athletic activity. People are either heavily overdressed (as if they were going out), moving so slowly they are practically jogging in place, or smoking (yes, smoking, i have at the minimum, seen 3 confirmed smoke-joggers).
Outside of that, i haggled with the painter of what was and what was not, technically, considered mold, bullshitted with a locksmith for half an hour, and went to the bank, though after seeing the line nearly out the door, i thought better of that decision and decided to wait until tommorow. Banking is a bit of a sore spot here in Argentina. Not only are they incredibly slow and inefficient, but something like 7 years ago, they closed for between 2 weeks and a month. Argentinians are a suspicions lot, both as a result, and just inherently.
My landlord is breaking my balls. She thinks if the owner buys a new couch and mattress for the apartment she can raise the rent on me. Ohh friend, i think not. If it comes down to it, i'm going to explain the inner workings of a recession. I'm convinced she intends me bodily harm. Luckily i have "doom hammer" and "kurosawa," my flying feet capable of inclicting the very deepest depths of bodily harm, to back me up.

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Just think, if years ago the first cell phones had been been shoe shaped, we would all be walking around talking into shoes. Yeah, who'd be crazy then?

Dinosaurs may have been able to read and write. However, as dinosaur is a dead language, like latin, we will never know.

12/3/08

My early mornings at the office have afforded me some interesting sights. Today, as I sat at my computer, engrossed in my attempts to organize some financial and managerial matters, I heard what appeared to be Madonna being blasted over a loud speaker. You can imagine my surprise, as it was only about 8:30 in the morning, and I had gotten the impression that Madonna was more along the lines of mid-afternoon to early evening singer here in BA. Upon further review, I was able to locate the point of demarcation for said “Like a Virgen” lyrics, and it appeared that through a line of trees some 200 yards away, there was an undulating throng of small people, perhaps children. While my view was partially obscured by the trees, I could make out the occasional little being running this way or that, in what looked like a giant game of tag, or more precisely, duck-duck-GOOSE! I say that only because the halflings followed the same concentric circle in their haphazard all or nothing trip around the playground, but as I was unable to see what lied within this imagined circle, thanks to our friend mother nature, I will never fully no. As of now, I assume that I witnessed recreational time at a prison for incredibly short people, however, were new information to come to light, the indicated otherwise, I will consider passing this along. Ohh, I also heard Bon Jovi and Guns and Roses, which now that I think about it, might be a little advanced for the sensibilities of small children, only further strengthening my dwarf-prison theory.

 

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They say that if you drop a penny of the top of the empire state building, it would be able to kill someone below. I disagree.  However, if killing someone is your aim, a roll of pennies should do the job.

 

When all the emotions get together for reunions, I envision doubt as being fear’s ugly little sister. The one who never has a date and lives with a lot of cats.

12/5/08

As I get to spend a large part of my working day outside of the office, and a good part on construction sites, I thought it who to ingratiate myself with the fine Argentinean gentlemen that work there. Ramon, the foreman, is a rarity, so far as i can tell here. He is the only person I have met to date that both delivers on or under budget and on time. In a country where “soon” can mean anything from 4 hours to 3 days and “around the corner” represents anything from within 10 blocks to the border of Paraguay, these are sought after qualities.

My typical visit to his site consists of 50% work related discussion, and the other half of the time I’m getting brought up to speed on anything of interest that has happened within his laboring family and Argentina as a whole. We’ve at one point or another, touched upon topics including, but not limited too: why fransisco wasn’t in yesterday, and today he is wearing gauze around his head; the neurosis of argentine women; and that which keeps Argentina from rising to the level of a world power, specifically Argentinians.

Today, I showed up to find that they would be cooking an asado, not unlike the one I previously wrote about, just less gay. I was honored to be invited to partake, as I was to learn later that this is not an invitation extended to many, and went about my day content with the knowledge that I would be eating free meat later on in the afternoon. I returned at the pre- specified time of arrival, only to find that I had childishly not incorporated the standard 1 hour extra it takes to do anything and everything here, so as such I had to cool my jets a little before eating. But eat I did.

Lunch was served on a piece of plywood, 7 feet long by 2 feet wide, supported by cinder blocks of various shapes and sizes. Plates were not to be seen, and the slabs of meet, chicken, and sausages were cut on the table. One was required to commandeer their own seating accommodation, and I had the god fortune of being offered what I believe was to shortly become part of the deck. There were no glasses to speak of, everyone drinking from the same bottles of coke, fanta, and red wine, depending on their preference. Between the 8 of us, there was 3 knives and one fork, which were passed around as needed. You cut a piece of meat, to your desired specifications, wrapped it up in a piece of bread, and went about eating it. I tended to cut pieces that were a little too large, no doubt a result of my inexperience and the relative unavailability of the lone fork. It was simple and it was delicious.

They say here that the asado of the work place is the best there is, on account of the pride they take in their cooking and them using real wood to grill. While I still have little experience in the Argentinean art of the barbecue, I am unable to find fault in their conviction.

 

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I often wonder what keeps pets from getting together and attempting to overthrow their evolutionary masters. Probably a lack of centralized leadership. If you see what looks like two dogs plotting, be wary.

 

If you accidentaly throw a shoe out the window, is the pair then half empty or half full?

            As promised, the awesome story I had relayed to me.

            (Not story, fact) On Saturday night, it rained a shit ton. I’m talking metric gallons here.  In the span of 12 hours, I didn’t see one road that wasn’t completely inundated with water (thanks in large park to BA’s antiquated sewage system I’d imagine). After getting drenched three separate times, I gave up changing my clothes and just rolled with the wetness. After seeing a dog float by on a piece of cardboard, I gave chase, but the current was too fast and I couldn’t fun in the water. Sometimes things just stack up against you.

            While I was dining on Saturday night (previously described), my boss was called to one of the properties that my company manages. Apparently, the house (small building) was flooding, from the inside out. (Note: Argentine buildings commonly have inner courtyards). While all results have not yet been tabulated, early reports indicate that some errant tree leaves (general crap) in conjunction with a lazy cleaning lady (her name was edith and she got canned) all helped bring this house to floods-town. With the drain for the inner courtyard clogged, the water had nowhere to go, but up, and up it went. When I boss arrived, the people who were staying there had barricaded themselves in the living room, where there was already 2 inches of water ( as compared to the 1 to 2 feet in the courtyard) and they had constructed makeshift sandbags to prevent further inundation. My boss, the man of action he is, opened the levies to try his hand at the courtyard. After thrashing around a bit, and realizing a battle of strength was useless, as he would never land a successful punch against such a watery opponent (I inferred that last bit, was not explicitly stated), he attempted to bale the water out of the courtyard, over the wall, and onto the street. Unfortunately, there was far too much water and pessimism got the best of him. However, before he was able to submit to a watery demise, the college engineering student (here I am serious) who was staying in the house with his family, remembered something he had learned in class (I hope). He recommended that they utilize Bernilli’s last and most often overlooked principle of water hose dynamics, i.e. they siphon water through a hose over the retaining wall and into the street.  After finding a hose, the college kid went outside and began sucking on one end, while my boss help the other under the raging currents inside, and success, the water began to pour out. However, after realizing that the courtyard was taking in water faster than it was letting go of it, the pair decided to make 2 and then 3 more side-wall water-hose fountains. In the end, then situation was taken care, not before substantial damage to the building. The family opted to leave some 2 hours later.

            Work continues to go along swimmingly. However, as I get home pretty late, usually shooting around 9-10, my social life has slowed.

            Last night, I cooked dinner, and as I hadn’t seen my friends in a couple days and I was relatively confident that all they had eaten all day would have consisted of potato chips and soda, I invited a number of them over to partake in the festivities. We had tentatively agreed on a 10 30 rendevous, which I have learned should only be used as the most general of framing tools, so while everything was ready to be cooked by 10 30, I didn’t get things on the grill till more along the lines of 11 30, when these clowns began to slide in.

            Dinner consisted of a home made past sauce which I have been working with. It currently stands at about 2 pounds meat, onions, garlic, and a combination of tomato and cream sauces, specifically those which are on sale when I go to the supermarket. I’ve been told it’s delicious, which I state sheerly for informational purposes, as my opinion counts for little considering I’ll eat about anything. If nothing else, it is edible, with a fatality rate low enough to easily pass the most stringent of Argentine health codes, of which I’m sure there are none. I also cooked steak, as per that it remains the cheapest food stuff one encounters.

            After dinner, say 12 or 12 30 ish, my building lost power. Not to worry, dinner had been eaten, and all sharp utensils had been holstered in the kitchen sink. It didn’t bother me that power had gone out, as it is not infrequent during the summer here, the thing that struck me as odd was the haphazardness of the power outage. For instance, my building lost power, my neighbors, no. The guys across the street, pitch dark, the people next to them, showering in light. It was unseemly to be honest, these people no doubt sitting in their bastions of florescent brilliance, rubbing that pure, unadulterated light all over their bodies as they watched us and laughed as we scrambled to light the candles that were scattered around my apartment (a remnant of a romantic dinner the roommate had prepared for his now ex girlfriend). I texted some people to see the extent of the blackout, and I was to learn that 1) it was not far reaching, as everyone else I knew had power 2) to some, this confirmed that I in fact lived in the ghetto, which I still continue to contest. Power came back some two hours later, and just in time, as we had almost gotten to the point of drawing straws and eating someone.

At some point during this fiasco my roommate came home, tried to enlist others to smoke with him (he was unsuccessful), got high as balls, and complained that his girlfriend was no longer giving it up. I tried to console him, but he was convinced that the lack of sweetness the last two times they had hung out, was in fact the beginning of a dastardly sinister plan aimed at robbing him of all physical pleasure. As such, he would be boycotting their weekend retreat to the beach, as it made no sense to go now that he would never again know her in the biblical sense

            I got relatively few responses on the Chinese laundry man dilemma I posted earlier, however Jorge’s recommendation that I go “American psycho” on them was taken into consideration. As such, I delivered a load of laundry that consisted of only one of every sock, and I covered three of the cheap shirts I bought a while back, (the ones that fall apart a little more every time I wash them) in ketchup (or what passes for ketchup down here). The young gentlemen was unable to took me in the eyes after he pulled out the shirts, and I stood there and smiled sinisterly. In the end, I was actually given back more socks than I dropped off, meaning he had been hoarding my socks from the beginning, in preparation of just such as occasion.  Take note friends, as this very well may signal the beginning of a conspiracy.

            There is currently music bombarding me from every direction. We have what appears to be Spanish show-tunes coming from the neighbors, and reggaeton from the roomie. The only thing powerful enough to combat these two, would be the Boss. That’s right, Jersey’s holding it down yet again, defending my right to not have to listen to crappy Spanish music.