@danieltunnard

The Apology

2012-01-27T01:49:00.000-03:00

I met Matthew Zadrozny at an asado half a block from my old flat in Palermo. He impressed me with his tale of interviewing former Argentine economy minister Domingo Cavallo at Harvard a couple of years after economy minister Domingo Cavallo had made his lamentable metamorphosis into former economy minister Domingo Cavallo following his, in hindsight, foolhardy idea of confiscating every Argentine's savings back in good old 2001.

I've never met the "Johnny" responsible for the colourful missive below, but I certainly hope to one day.

The following is copied from Matthew's blog, which you can and must read here. The moral of this story is: don't fuck with me if I do a translation for you, but if you must fuck with me, at least apologise in a literary fashion..

Matthew writes:

I am blessed with some marvelous friends. And occasionally they regale me with tales of their exploits.
I was reminded of this last night, in conversation with one. His story I cannot (yet?) post. But here, by permission of the author, is another’s. Names have been changed.

A bit of background. “Johnny” called me up a few months back to ask, Could I possibly do a last minute translation, English to Spanish, because he was up to his eyeballs in work? Sadly, no. So I suggested a friend from my time in Buenos Aires, an expat Englishman with his own agency, the polyglot, writer, and wit, Daniel Tunnard. Weeks passed, I heard nothing from either, I assumed nothing had come of it. Then one day in early fall I got an email from Daniel politely requesting I give Johnny a nudge.

And this is the jewel that came of it:

Mssr. Tunnard:
I sincerely apologize to both you and to my dear friend, Mssr. Zadrozny, for my failure to honor my commitment to you — in a timely fashion — for the translation you brilliantly provided me some months ago. I would ask that you please not allow my negligence to reflect poorly upon the character or judgment of Mssr. Zadrozny. In the unlucky circumstance that you already have, allow me to respectfully disabuse you of such notions: Mssr. Zadrozny has known me very well for a very long time, yet my descent into this current roguish and insolvent state of affairs has been a recent one. I assure you that I will remit payment to you on November 15th. I was asked to complete the translation by a friend of a friend, always an interesting way of doing business, and he has indicated his full satisfaction with the work but has, nonetheless, not remitted payment for it. On November 15th, I will send you the full $150.00. Obviously, that obligation is completely independent of my receipt of any amount from any third party and always has been a right vested in you and you alone, without contingencies, without rights of set-off, without protest, and with nothing short of gratitude and admiration.

I have expressed to you my trials as of late. Unfortunately, tempests and a certain tempestuous woman have been my financial ruin. I was falsely accused of brandishing a samurai sword, which cost me several thousand dollars in legal fees, not to mention the embarrassment of six police officers in bullet-proof vests and assault rifles arriving at my place of work. The affiant, my accuser, is an actress with whom I shared my bed for two and one-half foggy years. The minx sold my belongings on the internet while I was not legally permitted entry into the apartment for which I was legally obligated to pay rent. I had the allegations put to rest through the judicial process by the end of July. I should mention that she has been convicted of domestic battery. It happened in Las Vegas. She stayed, but only for two weeks: the sentence was suspended. That was a long time ago.

I drove home to Los Angeles through the Joshua Trees in Death Valley with the Countess von S. and M.P. We left as four and returned as three and I decided it was time to leave California. I did not anticipate that the Minx would follow.

From August through October, I traveled between Los Angeles, Washington DC, and Chicago in order to save a $300 million dollar bank. I am poorly compensated, but usually effective. My eviction proceedings, the cause of which was the samurai incident, were dismissed as of August. For that, I incurred an additional $5,000.00 in legal fees. In Chicago, I missed a flight when my Enterprise Rent-A-Car was stolen. More fees. In September, I unwittingly drove into a flash flood, which swallowed my car with me inside. I had arrived in Philadelphia on a red-eye from Los Angeles that morning and the remainder of my belongings which were not sold by the Minx were in my car and lost in the flood. I jumped from the window into a moving pickup truck. Some of my belongings I found in the mud the next day.

I currently have $15.00 in my bank account. I will be paid on November 15th. I will remit payment then. Until then, please understand that I never meant to cause you distress.
I met the Minx, by the way, at a Halloween party in Hollywood in 2005. She was dressed as Holly Go-Lightly. I was Johnny Cash. The details of our courtship, and of our parting, have taken no small amount of a mythic quality. I plan to translate those details into fiction as *If You Must Go, Then Go Lightly*. I should note that, while driving home from court on the day of reckoning when I beat the samurai accusations, I accidentally stumbled upon a radio station which played Bob Dylan’s “It Ain’t Me, Babe”:

Go lightly from the ledge, babe
Go lightly on the ground
I’m not the one you want, babe
I will only let you down
Again, I apologize, and I will make you whole.
Best,
Johnny

To which, Daniel, no less brilliantly:

Well it was worth the wait just for that e-mail. You’re in the wrong business, you should be writing. Although you’d make even less money (I’ve made $23 so far this year). I look forward to working with you or hearing from you in the future.
D

I was a teenage refuse collector.

2012-01-27T01:14:00.000-03:00

I first heard of Second Story (every last Thursday of the month at Absinthe Bar, Bartolomé Mitre and Rodríguez Peña) about a year ago, and then put off going for six months. Nothing new there, I once bought David Bowie's Hunky Dory album and didn't get round to listening to it for a year. It's been my second-favourite album ever since. Second Story is now my second-favourite night of the month, second only to those nights when friends come round for dinner, tell me what a great chef I am and then ask me to regale them on the piano. I miss those nights.

This evening, or if you're reading this tomorrow, last night, I told my third story at Second Story. But before I get to that, check out these bus tickets:

In case you're like the six nonplussed people I showed these tickets to this evening, I should explain that these tickets are palindrome tickets. A palindrome is a word or number that reads the same backwards, like "A man, a plan, a canal: Panama!" or "14741". (An emordnilap is a word that spells a different word backwards, like "stressed" or "evil", but my wife slumbers in the adjoining bedroom and I haven't the time to go into that.) Palindrome bus tickets in Buenos Aires are magic. I'm not sure why, someone told me this once and I forgot to ask. I got the 606 palindrome on the bus on the way to work this morning, and the 1881 palindrome on the bus to Second Story. Both on the 151 bus, itself a palindrome. If you're unimpressed by this, considered yourself in exalted company.

Considering that I've taken half the buses in Buenos Aires in my quest to take all the buses in Buenos Aires, a quest which I seldom tire of telling people about, you'd think I'd know where the buses go and where to get them. Sadly, this is not the case, less so in the case of a bus like the 151 which I've taken every day for the last month and still managed to get off two stops too early for the Second Story venue (every last Thursday of the month at Absinthe Bar, Bartolomé Mitre and Rodríguez Peña).

Hours later, I left the Second Story venue (Absinthe Bar, last Thursday of every month) and singularly failed to walk in the right direction of the 151 bus stop. So I walked up to Ayacucho, thinking I knew that that was where the 60 stopped. It does, but only after you've walked down it for five blocks. Now, palindrome tickets come along once every three months, even if you spend all your free time taking all the buses in Buenos Aires, which is something I do, as I may have mentioned earlier. I eventually get on the 60, thinking what are the chances of getting three palindrome tickets in a single day. Here comes that ticket...

Yep. 493. Not quite a palindrome, but a valiant attempt. Anyway, here's the thing I read at Second Story.

I was a teenage refuse collector.
Refuse. That’s what I’d collect.
Waste was the essence of my adolescence.
From thirteen to nineteen, from sunrise till nine,
all the wheelie bins in the world were mine.

The quintessence of my adolescence.
Nothing defined me more,
than refuse,
heretofore.

The minimum wage spheres of my teenage years
were spent among rubbish and trash.
My foe the glow of hot ash:
The phosphorescence of my adolescence.

The garbage of my neighbourhood was a mortgage on my boyhood.
For what use my youth?
For what sake did I awake
each dawn to see my youth had speeded, been superseded.
Oh yea! My teenage prison was an anachronism:
The obsolescence of my adolescence

For I was a teenage bin boy,
looking back on the boy I’d bin.
And my hands were hard from all the shards.
Of glass.
That left me raging, prematurely ageing:
The senescence of my adolescence

(Senescence is a word that means growing older and showing the effects of old age.
I didn’t know that either, I had to look it up.
In an online dictionary.)
I got my education in the waste sector,
the cab of the dustvan was where I got my lectures.
I was a teenage refuse collector.

But one day my mum said “No more!”
“Go now my son, return to your youthful heaven!
Be merry and bright and stay in bed until eleven
On a week day.”
And I looked to my mum and I said to her:
“Yeah, all right.”
The acquiescence of my adolescence.

For I was a teenage refuse collector,
and now I look back in disgrace.
My disgrace interlaced with the bitter taste of a youth misplaced.
My adolescence wasted
on waste.

(PS. In accordance with Second Story rules, this is a true story, as long as you replace "refuse" with "milk" and "collector" with "deliverer".)

El 57 y las tres cosas que me faltan para ser un verdadero hombre argentino

2012-01-22T21:14:00.000-03:00

Hay tres aspectos míos, algunos dirían defectos, que aseguran que nunca podré considerarme un hombre verdaderamente argentino: no me emociona el truco, nunca usé alpargatas, y no digo piropos.

Si, y es un gran ‘si’, sos una mujer extranjera que vive en Argentina pero que no habla castellano y que se estaba preguntando qué le estuvieron diciendo todos estos hombres en la calle y que recurrió a este blog con la certeza de que yo soy la fuente de toda sabiduría, un piropo es lo que dice un señor a una señora (o señorita) en la calle cuando dicho hombre se siente atraído por dicha señora (o señorita). Esto puede variar desde lo poético (‘La pampa tiene el ombú, y el ñandú la ligereza. No te hagás la boba, que para vos esta cabeza’) hasta el poco imaginativo ‘te chupo todo’, y su primo menos generoso, la petición inevitable de succión recíproca.

Entre otras posibles ofrendas para bellezas transeúntes está el chistar, un ruido que se usa primordialmente en el mundo civilizado para llamar la atención de los perros y otras mascotas, y tocar la bocina. Un hombre argentino ve a una mujer atractiva y automáticamente la trata como si ella de alguna manera hubiera cometido una infracción de tránsito.

Ahora, llamame Señor Oídos Delicados, pero el sonido que hace una bocina es el segundo sonido más odioso de la humanidad, y solo está en segundo lugar por la trágica existencia de la canción ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You’ de Mariah Carey. Digo, yo soy bastante torpe a la hora del levante, pero hasta yo sé que si tocás la bocina hacia una mujer, tenés las mismas chances de incursionar en su bombacha como Mariah Carey tiene de incursionar en la mía.

Aparte, Mariah, si estás leyendo, ya prometí mi bombacha a otra mujer. A lo que vengo es que el otro día estaba hablando con mi amigo Matt. Matt es un escritor de verdad que descubrió como hacer para que otros le paguen para que escriba, por lo cual le presto atención, con la eterna esperanza de contagiarme algo de esta perspicacia financiera. Me dijo que el proyecto se estaba poniendo un poco repetitivo: cada vez que yo salgo, tomo un colectivo. ‘¿Alguna vez se te ocurrió’, me sugiere, ‘salir y no tomar un colectivo? ¿Entendés? Darle un vuelco revolucionario a la cosa.’

Claramente, Matt no entendió del todo el concepto esencial de Colectivaizeishon, que es tomar todos los colectivos de Buenos Aires. Pero luego llego al 57. Y el 57 nunca llega. El 57 es un micro de media-distancia disfrazado de colectivo de ciudad, y aun si lo esperás media hora en Puente Saavedra, no te deja subir. Aparte, ya lo tomé en todo su recorrido en Capital para visitar a un amigo que vive en el Wild West de Ituzaingó.

Entonces, en un intento de reanimar el interés algo marchito de mi amigo, camino las cincuenta y cinco cuadras desde Puente Saavedra hasta Plaza Italia, esperando pillar algún argentino alfa en el momento de expresar su aprecio por algún transeúnte. No tengo que esperar mucho. Dos hombres están parados al lado de un kiosco de diario con lo que parece ser la intención expresa de pasar la mañana a pleno piropeo. Una cuarentona pasa caminando. ‘Te chupo todo’, viene el comentario inevitable.

Siguiendo por Cabildo, camino detrás de una chica atractiva en sandalias, quien al llegar a la entrada del subte es notificada por dos hombres que está usando sandalias. ‘Sandalias’, dicen. ‘Sandalias’. No estoy captando del todo el tono de sus voces, que vendría a ser clave aquí, pero es algo parecido a ese primer día en la escuela después cortarse el pelo. Así es la vida diaria para una gran parte de la población femenina argentina.

Entonces esa noche le cuento a mi esposa y una amiga que voy a escribir sobre los piropos y como son considerados, por algunas, un acoso callejero. Me miran como si acabara de hacer una petición inevitable de succión recíproca. Dicen que no les molesta para nada. Por lo general los comentarios son complementarios, y cualquier mujer extranjera que se ofenda es “del tipo de mujer que no caga’. Las palabras de mi esposa, no las mías. Fue su boca sucia que me enamoró. Pero esta conversación termina jodiendo este capítulo. Otra persona con la intención de sabotear mi proyecto es el tipo de la boletería de la línea 57 en Plaza Italia.

-¿Puedo sacar un pasaje para ir hasta Puente Saavedra? (Puente Saavedra es un puente en Saavedra, de ahí el nombre.)
-No, tenés que ir hasta Panamericana. (Panamericana es una autopista hecha de panas americanas, de ahí el nombre).
-¿No puedo bajar en Puente Saavedra?
-No. Mira: hay cualquier cantidad de colectivos que podés tomar hasta Puente Saavedra. ¿Cuál es tu problema?
-Tengo una misión de tomar todos los colectivos de Buenos Aires y ser inglés, para mi libro Colectivaizeishon: el inglés que tomó todos los colectivos de Buenos Aires.
-¿Qué quiere decir eso?
-Me parece que el título es perfectamente auto-explicatorio. Estoy tomando todos los colectivos de Buenos Aires y escribiendo un libro al respecto. Siendo inglés.
-¿Y por qué no caminás el recorrido del 57 mejor? ¿Entendés? Darle un vuelco revolucionario a la cosa.

Este capítulo va dedicado a Bruno Martínez, que me proveyó del piropo del ñandú.

The 57 and the three things I lack to become a real Argentine man

2012-01-22T21:06:00.000-03:00

There are three things about me, some might call them failings, which ensure that I will never be able to consider myself a true Argentine man: The merits of the card game truco are lost on me, I have never knowingly worn a pair of espadrilles, and I don’t do piropos.

If, and it’s a big if, you’re a foreign woman who lives in Argentina but doesn’t speak Spanish and has been wondering what all these men have been saying to you in the street and have come to this blog safe in the knowledge that I am the source of all wisdom, a piropo is when men say things to women in the street. This can vary from the poetic, (‘The Pampa has the ombu, the Darwin’s rhea the lightness, don’t act like you don’t know this dick’s for you.’ Admittedly, my translation leaves much to be desired) to the unimaginative ‘te chupo todo’, or ‘I will suck all that is yours’, and its less generous cousin, the inevitable petition for reciprocal suction.

Other related offerings to passing fancies include making a noise that, back in civilisation, we used primarily for gaining the attention of dogs and other pets, and honking one’s horn. And I’m not speaking euphemistically, although I am renowned in certain circles for speaking euphemistically. An Argentine man sees an attractive woman and automatically treats her as if she has somehow infringed the Highway Code.

Now, call me Mr Delicate Ears, but the sound of a car horn is the second most odious sound known to humanity, just missing out on the top spot due to Mariah Carey’s rendition of ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You”. I mean, I’m pretty gash at getting gash myself, a failing that may partly be down to my referring to women as gash in an ironic manner that may be misconstrued as in earnest, but even I know that by beeping at a woman you have about as much chance of getting into their knickers as Mariah Carey has of getting into mine.

Besides Mariah, if you’re reading, I’ve promised my knickers forever to another woman. But what I’m coming to is that the other day I was speaking to my friend Matt, who is a proper writer who has worked out how to get other people to pay him for what he writes, so I listen to him when he speaks and hope some of this financial acumen rubs off. He said the project was getting a bit repetitive: every day I go out and take some buses. ‘Have you ever thought,’ he suggested ‘going out and not taking a bus. You know, shake it up a bit?’

Clearly, Matt hasn’t fully understood the fundamental essence of Colectivaizeishon, which is to take all the buses in Buenos Aires. But then we come to the 57. And the 57 doesn’t come. The 57 is a long-distance bus disguised as a city bus, and even if you wait the half-hour wait at Puente Saavedra, it won’t let you get on. Besides, I’ve already taken the 57 all the way along its Buenos Aires route, to visit a friend in the Wild West of Ituzaingó.

So in a bid to revive my friend’s flagging interest, I walk the fifty-five blocks from Puente Saavedra to Plaza Italia, hoping that I’ll catch some alpha-Argie in the act of expressing his appreciation. I don’t have to wait long. Two men are standing by a newspaper kiosk with what appears to be the express intention of a morning’s piropping. A forty-something woman walks past. ‘Te chupo todo’ comes the inevitable comment.

Further down the street, I walk behind an attractive girl in sandals, who on reaching the subway is informed by two men at the subway entrance that she is wearing sandals. ‘Sandals’, they say. ‘Sandals’. I’m not really capturing their tone of voice here, which I feel is key, but it’s all a bit like the first day at school after having a haircut. Such is daily life for much of the Argentine female population.

So I tell my wife and her friend that night that I’m going to write about piropos and how they’re kind of a considered by some as ‘a bad thing’. They look at me as if I’ve just made an inevitable petition for reciprocal suction. They say they’re not arsed. In general the comments are complimentary, and any foreign women who get offended by it are ‘the kind of women who don’t shit’. My wife’s words, not mine. I married her for her potty mouth. But it kind of screws up this whole chapter. Another person intent on sabotaging this chapter is the guy at the 57 ticket stand in Plaza Italia.

‘Can I buy a ticket to Puente Saavedra?’ Puente Saavedra is a bridge in Saavedra, hence the name.
‘No, you have to go all the way to Panamericana’. Panamericana is a motorway made from American pans, hence the name.
‘I can’t get off at Puente Saavedra?’
‘No. Look. There are any number of buses you can take to Puente Saavedra. What is your problem?’
‘I’m on a mission to take all the buses in Buenos Aires whilst being British, for my book ‘Colectivaizeishon: The Brit Who Took All The Buses In Buenos Aires.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I feel the title is perfectly self-explanatory. I’m taking all the buses in Buenos Aires and writing a book about it. While being British.’
‘Why don’t you walk the 57’s route instead? You know, shake it up a bit.’

This chapter is dedicated to Bruno Martínez, with thanks, for providing me with that piropo about the Darwin's rhea.

Entrevista en Canal 26 / Interview on Canal 26

2012-01-19T19:48:00.002-03:00

El 12 – Jesucristo y la monoceja

2012-01-16T22:10:00.001-03:00

El 12 es el colectivo favorito de mi esposa, porque siempre hay un asiento libre y siempre viene rápido. Trato de ser como el 12 para mi esposa, asegurándome de que siempre haya un asiento libre para ella, entre otras consideraciones.

Por primera vez en Colectivaizeishon, me toca sentarme en un asiento viajando para atrás, mirando las caras de mis co-pasajeros, y no puedo sacarme los mocos de manera discreta. Pero tiene sus ventajas, sobre todo si estás escribiendo un libro sobre como es tomar todos los colectivos de Buenos Aires y se te ocurre en un inspirado momento literario describir las caras de los pasajeros, sabiendo que los escritores de verdad hacen descripciones con muchos adjetivos y que de esta manera te acercás un paso más a ganar algún premio literario y así saldar la deuda de todos los boletos de todos los colectivos de Buenos Aires (van 76 pesos con 75 centavos hasta ahora, o 17 francos si estás leyendo esto en Suiza.)

Ves todo tipo de gente en los colectivos. Punks con tatuajes que parecen hechos con birome, chetas que parecen tener asco por todo, parejas de ancianos que parecen divinos pero tanta divinura encubre un pasado oscuro de genocidio, adolescentes con su primer intento paupérrimo de barba, hombres de negocio que escriben en grandes filofax que sugieren que sus negocios no van tan bien, villeros y estudiantes, hippies y hipsters, madres y padres, niños y neonatos, gente obesa que no se veía tanto diez años atrás, gente anoréxica que se veía mucho más diez años atrás, cara de feliz, cara de orto, cara se alquila tel. 4782 4300, personas con un brazo enyesado, personas con una pierna enyesada, personas con tubos saliendo de sus narices, viejos en gorro de paño, mujeres con tres mentones, hombres con tres cuellos, hermafroditas en un intento de hacer de esto una descripción más inclusive, hombres feos con novias mil veces más atractivas que ellos y viceversa, viejas glamorosas que realmente deberían estar en una limosina si van a vestirse así, y víctimas de las peores cirugías de labios jamás vistas que han descuidado el resto de su apariencia para realzar su cirugía trucha.

Ahí tenés suficiente descripción. Más adelante en este libro, intentaré describir los árboles, pero por ahora me quedé pensando en las cejas. Los argentinos tienen las cejas más impactantes del mundo. Este orgulloso pueblo ha logrado tomar las tres mayores culturas cejeras del planeta (Europa austral, Medio Oriente, indígena sudamericana) y combinarlas en la monoceja más impresionante que el mundo jamás ha visto. Y no me estoy burlando de mis peludos compatriotas adoptivos. La verdad es que lo hago por envidia, porque mis propias cejas se están desvaneciendo con el avance de los años, haciendo que me parezca a un egresado argentino que se quedó trágicamente atrapado para toda la eternidad en su último día en la facultad.

Los hombres tenemos tan solo dos opciones a medida que vamos entrando en la mediana edad: o cejas que parezcan tarántulas amazónicas o nada de cejas. Tengo la mala suerte de haberme tocado la segunda de estas opciones. Digo mala suerte, porque por lo menos existen métodos confiables de depilación para los hombres que se parecen a Frida Kahlo en macho, pero ¿que se supone que haga yo? ¿Teñírmelas? ¿Pintármelas? ¿Hacerme injertos con los pelos de mis pies, cuyos pelos crecen a razón invertida al descrecimiento de mis cejas?

Pasamos por el Palacio de las Aguas Corrientes. Si alguna vez hubiera un nombre maravilloso para un palacio, es el Palacio de las Aguas Corrientes. Cada vez que paso por este edificio me pregunto porqué semejante palacio terminó siendo sede de algo tan humilde como una empresa de provisión de una utilidad pública. Pero luego mi cabeza pensativa se llena de otros pensamientos, y los pensamientos anteriores se trasladan fuera de mi cabeza, utilizando un mecanismo parecido a una llave de paso.

De hecho, la respuesta por la existencia de tanta gloria palacial es bastante sencilla: el edificio se construyó a fines del siglo XIX, y cualquier edificio que se construyera en Buenos Aires en ese época, por más que sea para albergar tanques de agua, iba a ser de por sí un palacio lujoso, por ley, probablemente. ¿Te imaginás como estaría Buenos Aires hoy si se hubiera seguido esta gran tradición arquitectónica, aplicando semejante estética a cualquier edificio, sea cancha de fútbol, estacionamiento o supermercado? ¿O te imaginás si cada tanque de agua arriba de cualquier edificio residencial estuviera coronado con esmeraldas y guirnaldas de marfil? Buenos Aires sería una ciudad de constantes maravillas arquitectónicos, y no podrías caminar por la calle sin romper en llantos espontáneos por la singular belleza de tus alrededores, y nadie podría trabajar o cumplir con sus tareas y responsabilidades porque estarían todos constantemente distraídos por la intensa hermosura de la ciudad. Menos mal que se dejaron de joder los arquitectos y llenaron el resto de la ciudad con monstruos de hormigón armado.

Después de casi trece años en Buenos Aires todavía no sé cual es cual entre San Cristóbal, Monserrat y Balvanera, y sospecho que algo como 35% de los porteños hacen como yo y prefieren los términos “tipo Constitución”, “tipo Congreso” y “tipo Once”. San Cristóbal debe su nombre a un santo que se llamaba Christopher pero sus amigos latinoamericanos le decían Cristóbal. Medía dos metros y media y ayudaba al público a cruzar el río, algo como una versión bíblica de Buquebús. Un buen día llevó al mismísimo Jesucristo, que era solo un niño pero era tan pesado como el plomo, algo así como muchos religiosos hoy en día. Esto pasó en 1485, porque Hieronymos Bosch estaba presente para pintar el episodio.

The 12 – Jesus Christ and the Monobrow

2012-01-16T22:09:00.000-03:00

The 12 is my wife’s favourite bus, because there’s always a seat free and it always comes quickly. I try to be like the 12 for my wife, always making sure that there is a seat free for her, among other considerations.

For the first time in Colectivaizeishon, I get to sit facing backwards, looking into the faces of my co-passengers, and cannot pick my nose discreetly. But it has its advantages, especially if you’re writing a book about what it’s like to take all the buses in Buenos Aires and it occurs to you in a flash of literary pretension to describe the faces of the passengers, knowing that proper writers tend to do that kind of description thing with lots of adjectives and if you slip in a bit of that you might be a bit closer to winning a literary award and thus pay off the cost of buying all the bus tickets of all the bus routes in Buenos Aires (76 pesos and 75 centavos at the time of writing, or 17 francs if you’re reading this in Switzerland.)

You see all kinds of folk on the buses. Punks with tattoos that look like they’ve been drawn on in felt tip, trendy women who seem to be revolted by everything, elderly couples who look lovely but whose loveliness conceals a dark, genocidal past, teenagers with their first and fluffy attempt at a beard, businessmen who write in large filofaxes that suggest that perhaps business isn’t so good, slum dwellers and students, hippies and hipsters, mothers and fathers, children and new-borns, obese people who you didn’t use to see so much ten years ago, anorexics who you used to see a lot more of ten years ago, happy face, arse face, this face for rent tel. 4782 4300, people with their arm in plaster, people with their leg in plaster, old men in cloth caps, women with three chins, men with three necks, hermaphrodites in a bit to make this an more inclusive description, ugly men with girlfriends a thousand times more attractive and vice versa, glamorous old women who really should be in a limo dressed like that, and victims of the worst lip jobs ever seen who have neglected the rest of their appearance in order to highlight this surgical abomination.

That’s enough description for now. Later in this book, I will attempt to describe some trees, but for now I need to talk about eyebrows. Argentines have the most impressive eyebrows in the world. This proud people has managed to take the three greatest eyebrow cultures on the planet (southern European, Middle Eastern, indigenous South American) and combine them into the most astonishing monobrow the world has ever seen. And I’m mocking the hirsute inhabitants of my adopted homeland. The truth is I’m jealous, because my own eyebrows are disappearing with the passing of the years, making me look like an Argentine graduate forever stuck on the day of his last exam (they shave all your hair off when you graduate here, Argentine life being an eternal extension of school in so many ways. They cut the crusts off their sandwiches too. Even the grown-ups!)

Men have two options as we enter middle age, either eyebrows that look like Amazonian tarantulas or no eyebrows at all. I have the misfortune to have landed the second of these options,. I say misfortune because at least men who look like a male version of Frida Kahlo can turn to depilation, but what am I supposed to do? Dye them? Paint them on? Get implants from the hair on my toes, which grows in direct proportion to my eyebrow shrinkage?

We go past the Palace of Running Water. If ever there was a marvellous name for a palace, it is the Palace of Running Water. Every time I go past this building I wonder why such a palace should be used for something so humble as the provision of a public utility. But then my thoughtful head gets filled with so many other thoughts, and earlier thoughts are transported out, using a mechanism resembling a stopcock.

In fact, the reason for such palatial glory is quite simple: the building was built in the late 19th century, and any building that was built in that period, even if it was just a place for storing water tanks, had to be a sumptuous palace, by law, probably. Can you imagine what Buenos Aires would be like today if they’d kept this up, applying the same aesthetic to any building, whether a football stadium, multi-storey car park or supermarket? Failing that, perhaps you’d like to picture a city where every water tank above every residential building were crowned with emeralds and marble garlands? Buenos Aires would be a city of constant architectural wonder, and you wouldn’t be able to work down the street without bursting into spontaneous fits of sobbing at the singular beauty of your surroundings, and no one would get any work done or meet their responsibilities because they’d be constantly distracted by the city’s intense gorgeousness. So it’s just as well that the city’s architects stopped fannying about and filled the rest of the city with Classless Ugly Nugatory TravestieS.

After nearly thirteen years in Buenos Aires I still don’t know which is which between the barrios of San Cristóbal, Monserrat and Balvanera, and suspect that some 35% of porteños are just like me and favour the terms ‘kind of Constitución’, ‘kind of Congreso’ and ‘kind of Once’ instead. San Cristóbal owes its name to a saint whose name was Christopher but his Latin American friends called him Cristóbal. He was two and half meters tall and helped the public to cross the river, kind of like a biblical version of the Buquebús ferry to Colonia. One fine day he took across Jesus Christ, who Argentines call Hay-soose, and even though Hay-soose was only a baby he was as heavy as lead, a bit like so many religious people nowadays. This happened in 1485, because Hieronymos Bosch was present to paint the episode.

The 10 – Wild times in Wilde and wild phone calls

2012-01-11T23:13:00.004-03:00

After the 37 and its pimped-up fancies like air-con and tinted windows, the 10’s retro style is a satisfying return to form. Not so long ago, every bus in the city belonged to its driver, and bore the idiosyncratic mark of its owner. Now the buses belong to the companies, and the city is less colourful for it. But some drivers are still doing their thing, as is the case on the 10.

Above the driver’s seat, there is the kind of luxurious mirror that you would only buy if you had a considerably heightened sense of irony. On this are etched the names Evaristo and Danny (co-drivers rather than lovers, one imagines) written around a top hat and a magic wand. No, me neither. There is also a clock that stopped working at 12.35 some ten years ago, perhaps by magic.

In the style of these classic colectivos, there is a blue curtain covering the back window, in case you fancy a nap or were just looking for a little alone time. I’ve also noticed in the last couple of months that many drivers choose to decorate their bus interiors with the Playboy bunny logo. What is going on here? Are bus drivers legendary lovers? Or do they just have fairly bad, predictably eighties tastes when it comes to interior decoration? No. They are legendary lovers.

This is the first time I’ve been on the 10, despite seeing the bus thousands of times in all my years working in Barrio Norte and Palermo. I’d always had half an inkling to find out what Wilde was like, and whether it was anything like the urban equivalent of Oscar Wilde: witty, sophisticated, poetic, the suburb most likely to be imprisoned for sodomy. It seems not. It’s more likely that Wilde got its name from the doctor Juan Antonio Wilde, uncle of famed doctor and politician Eduardo Wilde, who wrote an award-winning thesis about hiccoughs. Yes, hiccoughs. I wonder if Stephen Fry might play the part of Eduardo Wilde in the film of his life.

‘Doctor, I’ve got hiccoughs’.
‘Have a glass of water’.
‘Thank you’.
‘Did that help?’
‘Not much’.
‘Interesting…’

I fear this version of Wilde may not carry the same dramatic punch as the first ‘Wilde’. Besides, I’m not even going to Wilde today, I get off at Puente Pueyrredón and go back to Palermo.

One of the expectations I had when I started Colectivaizeishon was that I would have the chance to eavesdrop on lots of strangers’ spicy phone conversations and put them in the book, turning said tome into a compendium of rumours and scandals of porteño society over the period of spring 2011-summer 2012. No fucking chance. Of the conversations that I have the dubious fortune to overhear, very little can be salvaged for a literary work of the present calibre. This is partly due to by inability to catch all the conversation in Spanish, and young people’s reluctance to enunciate.

Worst for this are teenage boys, who answer their phones (they never make outgoing calls) in a low voice and mumble in monosyllables (it will no doubt interest you to know that the phrase ‘monosyllabic’ does not translate readily into Spanish because by the very nature of the language most of the words are at least bi-syllabic, and if you say a teenage boy is bi-syllabic it’s open to all sorts of unwarranted interpretations. Then again, the worst Argentine teenagers are in fact monosyllabic, because they reduce the multisyllabic ‘nada’, ‘bueno’ and ‘boludo’ to ‘naa’, bue’ and ‘bo’u’o). Teenage girls beat their male counterparts when it comes to conversing in a comprehensible manner, primarily because they’re fucking loud and you can’t help but listen. But their conversation lacks spunk, in both senses, and I have to stop myself from turning to them like a creepy uncle and telling them that, as much as I haven’t understood or paid attention to half of their conversation, their boyfriend is a twat and always will be.

When I started this project, my wife’s aunt said the book would write itself from the conversations I’d overhear on the buses. How wrong she was. While a handful of adults’ conversations are just about suitable for a daytime soap, in general I’ve discovered that most other people’s conversations are as interesting as most other people’s pets: you can see that they held them dear, but you couldn’t give a shiny shit about them. An example:

‘Hi. I’m on the bus.’
‘…’
‘Could you buy some spuds and I’ll do mash with the schnitzels.’
…
‘Are there any spuds at home?’
…
‘Could you buy some just in case?’
…
‘Where are you then?’
…
‘No, I’m getting off now and buying the schitzels.’
…
‘OK bye’.

Inspiring stuff.

And as uninteresting as that conversation may be, it has at least a certain literary merit, one of those typical women’s conversations you get in a Manuel Puig novel, where you can’t follow who’s talking or where they are but it nevertheless strikes you as a lifelike conversation and you try to remember whether Puig was gay or not. All the more commonplace, and how it grieves me, is the following conversation:

‘Hello?’
…
‘I’m on the bus. Where are you?
…
‘I’m on the bus!’
…
‘I can’t hear you!’
…
‘I’m on the bus!’
…
‘Where are you?
…
‘I can’t hear you!’
…
‘Listen, I’ll call you back.’
…
‘I said I’ll call you back!’
…
‘Bye!’
…
‘I said bye!’
…
‘Bye!’

Ninety-nine percent of phone conversations on the bus entail informing the interlocutor of the speaker’s position on a bus, of the speaker’s inability to clearly hear said interlocutor, and of the speaker’s intention to resume the call at a more suitable hour. I don’t know why people spend so much on mobile phones when this is clearly their only purpose. Unless the purpose of owning an expensive mobile phone is to show how credulous you are vis-a-vis telecommunications companies’ advertising.

I travel with a mobile, but it’s a Motorola from the year of the fart, to calque an Argentine phrase, that I use solely at my wife’s insistence, who thinks it will come in useful in the event of my being mugged in some godforsaken place in the south of the city, ignoring the very likely possibility that in the event of my being mugged, my phone will surely be one of the first items in my imagined adversary’s swag bag, hence I could not telephone my wife to inform her of my coming a cropper, unless my would-be assailant bypassed my phone in order to steal my collection of some seventy bus tickets that I’ve been amassing in my secret manbag pocket, which will surely have an enormous artisto-literary value in years to come.

El 10 – El médico del hipo y las conversaciones ajenas

2012-01-11T23:11:00.003-03:00

Después del 37 y sus chiches tuneados como aire-acondicionado y ventanillas polarizadas, el estilo retro del 10 viene como un gran alivio. En otras épocas, cada colectivo pertenecía al chofer, y llevaba la marca inconfundible de su dueño. Ahora los colectivos son de las empresas, y la ciudad es menos colorida como consecuencia, pero algunos chóferes siguen haciendo lo suyo, como es el caso del 10.

Arriba del asiento del chofer, hay un espejo lujoso del tipo que uno solamente compraría si tuviera un sentido bastante profundo de la ironía. En ello están grabados los nombres Evaristo y Danny (co-choferes más que amantes, me parece) escritos alrededor de una galera y una varita mágica. Yo tampoco entiendo por qué. También hay un reloj, que dejó de andar a las 12.35 hace unos diez años. Quizás por obra de magia.

En el estilo de los colectivos clásicos, posee una cortina azul que cubre la ventana trasera, por si quisieras tomar una siesta o buscaras simplemente un poco de privacidad. También he visto en los últimos meses que muchos chóferes eligen decorar sus colectivos con el logo de conejo de Playboy. ¿Qué onda? ¿Los colectiveros son amantes leyendarios? ¿O simplemente tienen un gusto medio grasa, ochentoso y altamente predecible a la hora de decorar sus colectivos? No, son amantes leyendarios.

Esta es la primera vez que viajo en el 10, a pesar de verlo miles de veces en mis años trabajando en Palermo y Barrio Norte. Siempre quise saber como era Wilde, y si de alguna manera era el equivalente urbano a Oscar Wilde: ocurrente, sofisticado, poético, el suburbio más propenso a ir preso por sodomía. Parece que no. Es más probable que Wilde debe su nombre al médico Juan Antonio Wilde, tío del médico y político Eduardo Wilde, quien escribió una tesis premiada sobre el hipo. Sí, el hipo. Me pregunto si el actor Stephen Fry haría el papel de Eduardo Wilde en la película de su vida.

-Doctor, tengo hipo.
-Tomate un vaso de agua.
-Gracias.
-¿Te ayudó?
-No mucho.
-Interesante…

Me temo que esta versión de Wilde no va a tener el mismo dramatismo que la primera ‘Wilde’. De todos modos, hoy tampoco voy a Wilde, me bajo en el Puente Pueyrredón y vuelvo a Palermo.

Una de las expectativas que tenía al comenzar Colectivaizeishon era que tendría la oportunidad de escuchar picantes conversaciones ajenas y volcarlas en el libro, convirtiendo dicha obra en un compendio de los rumores y escándalos de la sociedad porteña en el período primavera 2011-verano 2012. Esto realmente no está sucediendo. Entre las conversaciones que tengo la fortuna dudosa de escuchar, hay muy poco que se puede rescatar para una obra literaria de la calidad de esta. Esto se debe en parte a mi inhabilidad para captar toda la conversación en español y la falta de modulación en los jóvenes hoy en día.

Los peores en este respecto son los adolescentes, porque contestan sus celulares (nunca hacen llamados) en voz baja y hablan cerrado, en monosílabos. (En inglés se dice hablar en monosílabos, no se aplica tan bien en español porque casi todas las palabras tienen por lo menos dos sílabos. Pero si te digo que los adolescentes son bisilábicos, vas a entender cualquier cosa. Aunque pensándolo bien, los peores adolescentes argentinos son monosilábicos, porque reducen las palabras de dos sílabos a monosílabos, como ‘naa’ y ‘bue’ y ‘bo’u’o’) Las chicas le ganan a sus co-adolescentes a la hora de conversar de manera entendible, principalmente porque son gritonas y no te queda otra que escuchar, pero les falta conversación realmente jugosa y me dan ganas de interrumpirlas y decirles que corten con ese novio porque es evidente aun a mí, que ni entendió toda la conversación, que aquel muchacho es un pelotudo y siempre lo será.

La tía de mi esposa me dijo cuando empezaba este proyecto que mi libro se escribiría solo con las conversaciones que iba a escuchar en los colectivos. No sabe lo equivocada que estuvo. Si bien algunas pocas conversaciones adultas son aptas para un culebrón barato, por lo general he encontrado que las conversaciones de otras personas son igual de interesantes que las mascotas de otras personas: entendés que son importantes para la otra persona, pero no te interesan a vos en lo más mínimo. Un ejemplo:

-Hola. Sí, estoy en el colectivo.
-…
-¿Podés comprarme unas papas así hago puré con las milanesas?
-…
-¿Ya hay papás en casa?
-…
-¿Y no comprás por las dudas?
-…
¿Y vos dónde estás?
-…
-No, yo bajo y compro las milanesas.
-…
-Listocháu.

Alta conversación.

Y eso que aquella es una conversación que por menos interesante que sea, tiene cierto mérito literario, una de esas conversaciones típicas de las mujeres de las novelas de Manuel Puig, donde no entendés quién está hablando ni donde están, pero igualmente te parece una conversación bastante verosímil y tratás de acordar si Puig era gay o no. Aun más común, lamentablemente, es la conversación siguiente:

- ¿Hola?
-…
-Estoy en el colectivo. ¿Vos dónde estás?
-…
-¡Estoy en el colectivo!
-…
-¡No te escucho!
-…
-¡Estoy en el colectivo!
-…
-¿Vos dónde estás?
-…
-¡No te escucho!
-…
-Mirá, te llamo después.
-…
-¡Te llamo después!
-…
-¡Chau!
-…
-¡ Dije Chau!
-…
-¡Chau!

El 99% de las conversaciones colectiveras celularísticas consisten en avisarle al interlocutor de la ubicación del hablante arriba de un colectivo, de la inhabilidad del hablante de oír a dicho interlocutor, y de la intención del hablante de comunicarse en un horario más apto. No sé para qué la gente gasta tanto en telefonía celular, siendo esto su único propósito. Al menos que el propósito de tener un celular costoso era para demostrar lo crédulo que es uno frente a la publicidad de las empresas de telecomunicaciones.

Yo viajo con celular, pero es una Motorota estilo Chomier del año del pedo, que uso solamente por insistencia de mi esposa, que piensa que me vendría útil en caso de que me roben en algún lugar desconocido del sur, ignorando la posibilidad de que si me lleguenn a robar, mi celular seguramente será uno de los primeros ítems en el botín deseado del supuesto delincuente, por lo cual no podría llamar a mi esposa para avisarle de mi desgracia, a menos que mi supuesto delincuente pasara por alto mi teléfono para robar mi colección de unos setenta boletos de colectivo que vengo juntando en mi bolsillo secreto, que seguramente tendrán un enorme valor literario-artístico en los años por venir.

El 37 – Las comodidades modernas de la civilización, y los colectivos

2012-01-08T17:47:00.004-03:00

Como muchos otras líneas de colectivo hijas de puta de experiencia reciente, el 37 tiene carteles que indican paradas donde sus colectivos dejaron de parar ya hace varios años. Se supone que uno adivina que esta parada está en desuso porque está un poquito más chota que las paradas que siguen funcionando, pero la habilidad para analizar el nivel de chotitud en una parada de colectivo es una habilidad que no tengo muy bien desarrollada todavía.

Entonces me paro a unos metros del Puente Victorino de la Plaza, admirando la vista de la villa cercana y inhalando el perfume del Riachuelo, hasta que pase un colectivo de la línea 37, cuyo chofer, en lugar de detenerse, me hace señas con la mano para indicar que estoy en cualquiera. Gracias, chofer. Camino dos cuadras por Avenida Vélez Sarsfield hasta la parada y espero diez minutos más.

Me entretengo recordando la historia de cómo el Club Atlético Vélez Sarsfield llegó a nombrarse así, por la cercana estación de tren que llevaba el nombre de un ministro de hacienda del siglo XIX, Dalmacio Vélez Sarsfield. Por esto, Buenos Aires quedó con un equipo que lleva el nombre de un ministro de economía. Es como si hubiera un equipo de fútbol llamado Club Atlético Amado Boudou, o Deportivo López Murphy.

En mi novela Freddiementary, Brian May le cuenta este chiste al protagonista de la historia, mientras comen choripanes afuera de la cancha de Vélez, donde Queen tocó en 1981, y adonde Brian May lleva al protagonista en el 34, pero la cancha está cerrada. Se me hace que el presente libro de Colectivaizeishon se va a editar antes de la novela, así que estoy volcando todos sus mejores chistes, para que usted, melancólico lector, pueda reírse un poco más.

El 37, cuando finalmente llega, va más lleno que un tomate en la cocina de una vieja que mira demasiado Utilísima, y viajo parado casi todo el recorrido hasta Palermo. Este es el primer colectivo que encontré hasta ahora con aire acondicionado. No me gusta. Le quita un poco de la magia de viajar en colectivo. Quiero sentir el sudor correr por los riñones. Quiero sacarme el codo por la ventana y tener una bronceada impar, como los camioneros. ¿Para que sirve escribir un libro sobre viajar en los colectivos porteños si esto se transforma en una actividad cómoda y civilizada? Si quisiera las comodidades modernas de la civilización, ¿acaso viviría en Buenos Aires?

Justo me toca la mala suerte de quedarme parado encima de una mujer que ha hecho mucho esfuerzo para que se vea su escote. No hay ninguna desgracia en mirar el escote de una mujer en un colectivo. Mirar un escote es como mirar un linyera horriblemente desfigurado en el subte, no hay que mirar pero es físicamente imposible resistir la tentación. Mientras tanto, otra mujer lookeada en anteojos negro fashion y botas chetas trata de leer Metafísica de Aristóteles, pero le distraen las ofertas de zapatos en un local sobre avenida Santa Fe. Así es la metafísica.

Por avenida Callao pasamos por las oficinas de quien era, en mis arduos días de profesor de inglés, mi alumno más anciano, un ginecólogo de ochenta y ocho años. El hecho de que fuera ginecólogo no tiene nada que ver con la historia, pero siempre lo tengo que mencionar. También daba clases a su esposa, una pendeja de ochenta pirulos, en su mansión de Barrio Parque. Era bastante difícil corregir cualquier parte del inglés que ambos habían aprendido de alguna institutriz del siglo XIX. Y como el tipo era el máximo jefe de su departamento, se había desacostumbrado desde hace mucho tiempo a prestar atención a cualquier joven que le hablara, así que en lugar de clases de inglés solía cobrarle por pasar una hora escuchando sus anécdotas.

La mayoría de estas anécdotas eran el tipo de anécdota que solamente escuchás si te están pagando para que escuches, pero me desperté el día que me contó de aquella vez que fue a Montevideo… ¡para ver la final del primer mundial de fútbol de 1930! ¿Cuánta gente de la que estuvo en el Centenario ese día puede estar viviendo todavía hoy en día? Me contó del difícil retorno en barco desde el puerto de Montevideo, que se llenó de hinchas uruguayos tirando piedras a los perdedores argentinos. Todavía me cuesta creer que un pueblo tan manso y tranquilo como el uruguayo se haya comportado con tanta violencia, o que haya podido tirar piedras cuando tenía el mate en una mano y el termo debajo de la axila.

The 37 – The modern comforts of civilization, and buses

2012-01-08T17:47:00.000-03:00

Like many other bastard bus lines of recent experience, the 37 has bus stop signs in places where their buses stopped stopping many years ago. You’re supposed to guess that this bus stop has fallen into disuse because it’s a little more knackered than functioning bus stops, but the ability for analyzing bus stop knack levels is an ability I have yet to develop fully.

So I stand a few metres from Puente Victorino de la Plaza, admiring the shanty-tastic views and breathing in the Al Gore antagonist that is the Riachuelo river, until a 37 comes. When it does, the driver performs an elaborate hand signal to indicate that I am a moron for standing where I’m standing. Thanks, driver. I walk two blocks down Avenida Vélez Sarsfield and wait another ten minutes.

I amuse myself by recalling the story of how Club Atlético Vélez Sarsfield came to be called this, due to the nearby railway station named after 19th-century finance minister Dalmacio Vélez Sarsfield. As a result, Buenos Aires has a football team whose name is that of a former chancellor of the exchequer. It’s like having a football team called Norman Lamont United, or Sporting Gordon Brown. I’d love to do a US equivalent of this joke but I don’t recognise any of the names of former secretaries of the treasury. Paul O’Neill Dolphins?

In my novel Freddiementary, Brian May tells this joke to the protagonist of the story, as they eat choripán outside of the Vélez stadium, where Queen played in 1981, and where Brian May takes our protagonist on the 34, but the stadium is closed. I get the feeling that the present Colectivaizeishon book is more likely to get published before the novel, so I’m putting all the best jokes from the novel into this book, so that you, o melancholy reader, can laugh just a little more.

The 37, when it finally arrives, is fuller than a turducken, and I have to stand almost all the way to Palermo. This is the first bus I’ve come across with air conditioning. I’m not keen. It takes away some of the magic of travelling by bus. I want to feel the swear run down the small of my back. I want to stick my elbow out of the window and get an uneven suntan, like the truckers. What is the point of writing a book about travelling on all the buses of Buenos Aires if this is transformed into a comfortable and civilised activity? If I wanted the modern comforts of civilization, why would I be living in Buenos Aires?

It’s just my rotten luck that I have to stand above a woman who has clearly gone to great lengths to display her cleavage. There’s nothing wrong with looking at a woman’s cleavage on the bus. Looking at cleavage is like looking at the horribly disfigured homeless guy on the subway, you’re not supposed to look but its’ physically impossible not to. Meanwhile, another woman dressed in trendy shades and fancy boots tries to read Aristotle’s Metaphysics, but she is distracted by the special offers in a show shop on Santa Fe. That’s metaphysics for you.

On Avenida Callao we pass the offices of a man who, in my arduous English teaching days, my oldest ever student, an 88-year old gynaecologist. The fact that he was a gynaecologist has nothing to do with the story, but I always have to mention it. I also gave classes to his wife, a young slip of a girl of some eighty years, at their mansion in Barrio Parque. It was quite difficult to correct any of the English that they’d learnt some seventy years earlier from some 19th-century governess. And has the guy was the big boss of his department, he had become unaccustomed some time ago to paying attention to anything the young had to say, so instead of English classes I used to charge him for spending an hour listening to his anecdotes.

Most of these anecdotes were the kind of anecdotes you only listen to if you’re being paid, but I woke up one day when he started telling me about the time he went to Montevideo… for the 1930 World Cup final! How many of those who were at the Estadio Centenario are still alive today? He told me about the tricky trip back by boat from Montevideo port, which was full of Uruguayan fans throwing stones at the losing Argentine fans. I still find it hard to believe that such a gentle and easy-going people such as are the Uruguayans could have got themselves so worked up, or were able to throw stones with a mate in one hand a thermos under their arm.

Interview in the Buenos Aires Herald

2012-01-08T12:05:00.002-03:00

P
Or probably easier to just read it here.

The 44 books I read in 2011

2012-01-06T14:34:00.002-03:00

The last few weeks of 2011 saw a personal tumult of speed reading because I thought I was close to reading 50 books in the year. Turned out, I'd miscounted. My aim for 2012 is 52 books and I've read two so far, even if one was Allen Carr's Easy Way To Give Up Smoking (read for the third time, I await the publication before September of Carr's Easy Way To Not Start Smoking Again Nine Months After Giving Up. It'll be a long wait, he's a bit dead, bless.) 2012 will see me tackling such thick works as DF Wallace's Infinite Jest, DeLillo's Underworld and Keith Richards' autobiography. And I'm pretty sure that next year I won't have the 6-week honeymoon followed by 5 months of underemployment in which to plough through so much reading as I did this year. But it's nice to have the challenge.

This list is inspired by a French writer, I think it was Malraux, who at the beginning of one of his published diaries listed the books he'd read that year. There were over a hundred. And proper old books. Most in French. He probably lived off some old woman's inheritance.

I know of at least two bloggers who've posted their long lists of last year's reading, so I'm not the only braggart around here. My books of 2011:

Peter Carey – Wrong About Japan We were supposed to go to Japan on the honeymoon, but there was a bit of a tsunami so we went to Russia instead. By then I'd already started reading up on the place. In this book, Peter Carey, whose Oscar and Lucinda novel everybody owns two copies of but has only read half of one, goes to Japan with his son and is non-plussed. So was I.

Simon Napier-Bell – Black Vinyl White Powder Wham's former manager tells his tale of the gay influence on straight pop music over the years. I imagine he was a better manager than a writer.

Martin Amis - Success One of Amis' earlier works. We'll leave it at that.

Graham Greene – The Heart of the Matter The last Graham Greene novel I ever read. Fell asleep before finishing it.

Nelson Algren – The Man with the Golden Arm Great, grimy tail of drugs and drink and decay in 1950s Chicago, written by a man who was pals with Simone de Beauvoir. So grimy, I didn't quite finish this one either, but I thoroughly intend to one day.

David Peace – 1974 Don't read this at 3am if your wife's away on her hen weekend and you're a bit perceptible to creaking noises in your flat.

EL Doctorow – The Book of Daniel
EL Doctorow – Ragtime
EL Doctorow – Homer and Langley
EL Doctorow – City of God Doctorow was my writer of the year, The Book of Daniel is compelling, Ragtime is delightful and the best book I read this year, the other two are pretty good too.

Daniil Kharms – The Old Woman Read this in St. Petersburg, translated by the man whose guesthouse we were staying in. Interesting, but I just can't get into Russian lit. Fantastic guesthouse, mind you, stay here if you're ever in St. Petersburg.

Flann o’Brien – At Swim-Two-Birds Wonderful nonsense. One of those books where you finish it and then look up on Wikipedia and go "ah, so that's what it was about". I could read it again, I could.

JG Farrell – Troubles
JG Farrell – The Siege of Krishnapur Troubles was highly recommended to me by writer friend Matt Graham and it didn't disappoint. Siege of Krishnapur not so good, and the third book in the loose trilogy, The Singapore Grip, is still sitting on the shelf.

David Foster Wallace – A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again Really, truly, great collection of essays and a book I keep meaning to re-read for Colectivaizeishon so as to crib Walace's footnoting technique and look clever.

Junichiro Tanizaki – Some Prefer Nettles
Natsume Soseki – Kokoro My thoughts on my experiment with Japanese lit here. I'm not very bright, it has to be said.

Richard Brautigan – Trout Fishing in America Fantastic book, another of my discoveries this year. This is what I do, discover writers who died 25 years ago and who were wholly unaware that they remained undiscovered.

Italo Calvino – If on a Winter’s Night a Traveller Meh. Wikipedia's entry on post-modernist literature has a lot to answer for.

Bill Bryson – At Home Despite his connections with the Daily Mail, despite his penchant for folk etymology, despite this being the kind of book you buy half-price at a supermarket in Wales, I'm a sucker for Bryson. I'm sorry.

JM Coetzee – Summertime
JM Coetzee - Boyhood - Many thanks to Declan for getting me into Coetzee this year (pronounced "cutsy", I'm reliably informed. By Declan.) Summertime and Boyhood are a masterclass in how to write a memoir without looking like you're writing a memoir.

John Otway – Cor Baby That’s Really Me Great musician and comedian. Needs to take tips from Coetzee on memoir writing.

Christopher Isherwood – Goodbye to Berlin Bought on recommendation of tour guide in Berlin who said this book was all about pre-Nazi Berlin, the cocaine city and Cabaret. I thought it was mostly inconsequential toss, and when my wife hid it somewhere while cleaning with twenty pages still to go, I didn't care.

Jean Dominique Bauby – The Diving Bell and the Butterfly Famously written by the locked-in Bauby by blinking to a nurse. To be frank, a story more interesting than the story told herein.

Michael Jones – Leningrad: State of Siege All jolly good and forthright. I used to read loads of history and biography until I read somewhere that it was a very manly thing to do. Went out and bought a load of novels immediately.

Mark Leyner – My Cousin, My Gastroenterologist
Don DeLillo – White Noise - Both mentioned by Wallace in A Supposedly Fun Thing.., My Cousin... felt a bit dated but White Noise is up there in my 2011 top 10. I can hear DeLillo celebrating from here.

Stephen King – On Writing The tenth and last book I ever read about writing, and the best one.

Glen David Gold – Carter Beats the Devil Entertaining enough, just didn't care enough after 350 pages and no end in sight.

Loree Rackstraw – Love As Always, Kurt A fond memoir about Kurt Vonnegut, but one of those memoirs that suffers from the writer being a bit too fond of her subject. I'm more intrigued by the prospect of this and this.

Kurt Vonnegut – A Man Without a Country Vonnegut's last book, kind of goes over stuff he says in Timequake, only less interesting.

Kurt Vonnegut – Breakfast of Champions I've read so many Vonnegut novels in the last 3 years that I get them mixed up. This was pretty good though. What's it about? Dunno. Free will? Nice drawings.

John Irving – A Prayer for Owen Meany Kurt Vonnegut's former writing student. Just to be different to the rest of the world, I liked this a lot more than

John Irving – The World According to Garp which goes on a bit at the end when Garp's dead already.

Julio Cortázar & Carol Dunlop – Los autonautas de la cosmopista Read this as I started my bus adventures. Julio and wife Carol take the long way to drive from Paris to Marseilles, stopping at all the rest stops and sleeping at the second one they get to each day. I hadn't read Cortázar for about ten years, so it was a pleasure to discover that I write a bit like him, only because Cortázar often feels like he's translating himself from another language.

Sam Lipsyte – The Ask On many people's lists of the books of 2010. Not on mine.

John Kennedy Toole – A Confederacy of Dunces Recommended snootily by someone who didn't think much of Freddiementary. JKT's tactic for getting published was to commit suicide and get his mum to publish this for him instead. Bit of a cop-out, but what a nice mum, eh?

BS Johnson – Cristie Malry’s Own Double Entry Marvellous anti-novel. More of this kind of thing. Who needs plot and character?

Cormac McCarthy - Blood Meridian Tremendous prose. Really, really tremendous prose. This man has a huge vocabulary. Got a bit tiring towards the end. From what I could make out, everybody dies. Not very jolly, but there's a time and a place for jolly.

Mikhail Bulgakov – The Master and Margarita Highly recommended by two people, who must have read an annotated version. Read 500 pages of this satire of Stalin, waiting for big Joe to make his appearance. Nothing doing. Russian lit and me just weren't meant to be. I'm too jolly.

AJ Jacobs – The Guinea Pig Diaries Hurray for AJ when you're in a rush to read more books to complete your list for the year. Read this in 4 hours on the coach back from Concepción. Fine book. Not as good as his other books, but a fine book.

Howard Jacobson – The Mighty Walzer What a beauty. The tale of a young Manchester Jew growing up in a world of pingpong. Stockport Market gets several mentions. My kind of book.

Felisberto Hernández – Las Hortensias Yep, only two books in Spanish this year, although that's two more than the previous two years. This one's all right if you like that kind of thing.

What books did you really like this year? Go on, tell me.

El 45 – Gran peligro mortal en Turkmenistán y Barracas

2012-01-04T22:23:00.001-03:00

Nunca había estado en Ciudad Universitaria antes de empezar Colectivaizeishon, y ahora ya estuve tres veces en un mes, que debe ser una asistencia más alta que muchos de los mismos alumnos.

El 45 sale hacia la Costanera Norte. Contemplo el Río de la Plata en modo contemplativo y me acuerdo de los días oscuros de 2007, cuando debido a una depresión invernal y mi aparente fracaso en mi búsqueda de segunda esposa, o cualquier mujer que me bancara más de dos meses, decidí que iba a volver a Inglaterra. Esta decisión fue seguida casi inmediatamente por otra decisión: iba a volver en barco.

Todavía se puede viajar entre Buenos Aires y Europa por barco, aunque sea un barco de contenedores en lugar de un lujoso vapor de antaño. No viajás adentro del contenedor, te dan un cuartito y comidas, y vas paseando bien lentito por Montevideo, el norte de Brasil, a veces Senegal, hasta llegar a Europa al cabo de veinticuatro días, si no te morís del embole primero. (Ojo, yo nunca me muero de emboles, de hecho busco activamente el embole para poder después escribir cómicamente sobre semejante embole).

Hubiera vuelto a Inglaterra en barco si no fuera por dos factores: descubrí que el costo era tres veces más que el vuelo (y si hay dos cosas que me dan miedo son los perros a la medianoche en Avellaneda y los costos innecesariamente altos); y llegó la primavera y me enamoré de otra chica argentina; y llegó el verano y me separé de ella y me enamoré de mi segunda esposa argentina y todos vivimos felices y comimos faisanes, o algo así.

Sin embargo, me quedó la ambición de realizar un largo viaje en barco, como secuela de mi libro sobre otros viajes al pedo en colectivo. Me siguen ocurriendo ideas para viajes poco tentadores para mi próximo proyecto, y aquí aparece Brandon Therun. Brandon me escribió el sábado pasado para contarme que se iba a trabajar para el gobierno estadounidense en Turkmenistán. Esto no es nada nuevo para Brandon, que ya trabajó en Iraq, Afganistán y Uzbekistán además de otras aventuras en el Cáucaso y África. Brandon dice que trabaja en “desarrollo”, pero sabemos que es espía, porque es re carismático y sabe preparar un vodka martini (para no comprometer su misión, Brandon Therun es un nombre inventado; su nombre verdadero es otra canción de Wings).

Resulta que Brandon me invitó a visitarlo en Turkmenistán, y justo estoy yendo a Europa en agosto del año que viene para la boda de mi mamá (porque hay una ley en mi familia que todos deben casarse dos veces), y podría aprovechar para pasar una semana de vacaciones a cinco kilómetros de la frontera con Irán. Previamente, podría pasar tres meses haciendo un curso intensivo de turkmeno, y escribir una nota bastante interesante sobre la experiencia. En fin, ¿para qué son las vacaciones si no para exponerse a un riesgo mortal de vida con tal de poder escribir una nota más o menos interesante?

Me gusta el plan. Lo charlo con mi esposa. No estaríamos yendo a Turkmenistán.

Es por culpa de Brandon que ya tuve una aventura con riesgo mortal de vida sin tener que gastar una fortuna en un vuelo a Niideadondestán. En abril de 1999, mientras ambos vivíamos en el legendario Hostal Del Águila en La Paternal, Brandon y yo decidimos gastar nuestros primeros sueldos de profesor en coñac y habanos de Cuba (los lectores viejos y nostálgicos se acordarán de los días cuando se conseguía una Corona de Romeo y Julieta en Buenos Aires por lo que hoy cuesta un atado de cigarrillos). Era un viernes a la noche. Yo había quedado con mi futura ex-esposa en ir a buscarla a la medianoche de su laburo en Barracas. Ya te podés adivinar como termina esta historia.

A las 11 de la noche tomé un colectivo hasta el centro e hice combinación con el 45. Después de semejante ingesta de coñac, me quedé medio distraído en el colectivo y cuando me di cuenta dónde estaba, me di cuenta de que no tenía idea dónde estaba. Claramente había salido de la Capital y estaba en algún lugar de Avellaneda. Yo no tenía que estar en Avellaneda, menos un viernes a la medianoche.

Salté apuradamente del colectivo y empecé a caminar hacia la capital, esperando sin suerte que pase un taxi, ignorante del hecho de que pocos taxistas pasan por esta parte de la ciudad a la medianoche. Una jauría de perros enojados vino corriendo y ladrando hacia mí. Si hay algo que me da más miedo que estar en Avellaneda a la medianoche, son los perros enojados en Avellaneda a la medianoche.

Vienen corriendo y ladrando, pero de milagro se quedan parados del otro lado de la avenida. Cruzo el Riachuelo y llego a la oficina de mi futura ex, que ahora tiene una cara que llegaría a reconocer en demasiadas ocasiones en el transcurso de los próximos seis años.

- Llegaste tarde.
- ¡No sabés la aventura que acabo de tener!
- Estás borracho.
- Reitero: no sabés la aventura que acabo de tener!

No hay caso. Nos metemos en un taxi y ella se desquita con un viejo taxista que apoya el gobierno de Carlos Menem. Con toda la furia de una porteña que ha tenido que esperar más de cinco minutos, mi futura ex-esposa se saca toda la bronca en este pobre viejo. Habla bastante mal al taxista, también.

Doce años más tarde, paso por esta oficina a medida que el 45 se dirige a Remedios de Escalada, en Lanús, pero esta vez estoy lo suficientemente despierto como para bajarme en el límite de la Capital. Ya sabía que la localidad de Remedios de Escalada debía su nombre a la esposa de San Martín. Lo que no sabía era que Remedios tenía tan solo 14 años al contraer matrimonio con San Martín, quien tenía 34 años. Hoy en día, más que prócer sería pedófilo.

No sé mucho sobre Lanús y no voy a aprender mucho más hoy, porque bajo en el Puente Victorino de la Plaza (que debe su nombre a un presidente que lamentablemente dio su nombre a un puente y no a una plaza, y nos quedamos sin una Plaza de la Plaza). Dos cosas sé sobre Lanús: 1) es la ciudad con mayor densidad de población del mundo. Me lo contó un chico de esta localidad en una fiesta. No le creí nada. 2) “Lanús” en francés suena igual a “l’anus”, o “el ano”, algo que causa mucha gracias entre la comunidad francesa de Buenos Aires, sobre todo cuando el Club Atlético Lanús se enfrenta a Colón.

The 45 - Great mortal danger in Turkmenistan and Barracas

2012-01-04T22:16:00.001-03:00

I had never been to the Ciudad Universitaria before starting Colectivaizeishon, and I’ve now been here three times in a month, a higher attendance rate than many of the UniverCity’s own students, I’ll warrant thee.

The 45 sweeps out to the Costanera Norte, which sounds really fancy if you call it the Northern Promenade, so we’ll call it Costanera Norte. I contemplate the River Plate in a contemplative fashion and remember the dark days of 2007, when a wintry depression combined with my apparent failure to find a second wife, or indeed any woman who’d put up with me for more than two months, and I made my mind up to move back to England. This decision was followed almost immediately by a second one: I was going to go back by boat.

You can still travel between Buenos Aires and Europe by boat, albeit a container ship rather than a luxurious bygone steamer. You don’t travel inside the container, they give you a little room with meals and that. And you drift along nice and slowly via Montevideo, northern Brazil, sometimes Senegal, and get to Europe twenty-four days later, if you don’t die of boredom first. (Mind you, I never die of boredom, in fact I actively seek out boredom so that I can then write about how comically boring it all was).

And I would have gone back to England by boat if it hadn’t been for two factors: I found out it cost three times the cost of a flight (and if there are two things that fill me with fear it’s the midnight dogs of Avellaneda and unnecessarily high costs); and the spring came and I fell for another Argentine woman; and then the summer came and I split up with her and fell for my second wife, and we all lived happily and ate partridges, as the Argentine refrain goes.

However: I still want to go on a really long boat journey, as some kind of sequel to my book of pointless bus journeys. I keep coming up with ideas for uninviting journeys as my next project, and this is where Brandon Therun comes in. Brandon wrote to me last Saturday about his new job working for the US government in Turkmenistan. This is nothing new for Brandon, who has already worked in Iraq, Afghanistan and Uzbekistan, as well as other adventures in the Caucuses and Africa. Brandon claims to work in “development”, but we know he’s a spy because he’s really charismatic and knows how to make a vodka martini (so as not to compromise his mission, Brandon Therun is a made up name; his really name is a different song by Wings).

So Brandon invites me to Turkmenistan. I’m already heading for Europe next August for my mum’s wedding (there’s an unspoken rule in my family that everyone has to get married twice) and I could easily hop over there and spend a week’s vacation three miles from the Iranian border. I could spend three months doing an intense Turkmen course, and write a pretty interesting article about the experience. After all, what are the holidays for if not to expose yourself to a mortal danger in order to write a pretty interesting article?

I like the plan. I talk it over with the wife. Not going to happen.

It’s down to Brandon that I’ve already been in a situation of mortal danger without even having to spend a fortune on a flight to Turkeymanistan. In April 1999, when we were both living in the legendary Del Águila Hostel in la Paternal, Brandon and I decided to spend our first teachers’ wages on cognac and Cuban cigars (older, nostalgic readers will recall the days when you could get a Romeo y Julieta Corona in Buenos Aires for the price today of a packet of cigarettes). This was a Friday night. I’d arranged with my future ex-wife to go and met her at midnight from her work in Barracas. You can already guess how this story ends.

At 11pm I took a bus downtown and got on the 45. After such notable consumption of cognac, I was a little absentminded on the bus and before I realized where I was, I realized I didn’t have a clue where I was. I’d clearly left Buenos Aires behind and was somewhere in Avellaneda. I wasn’t meant to be in Avellaneda, least of all at midnight on a Friday.

I leapt hurriedly from the bus and started to work back to the capital, hoping against all hope that a taxi would pass, oblivious to the fact that very few taxi drivers are stupid enough to drive around this part of town at midnight on a Friday. A pack of angry dogs comes running and barking towards me. If there’s something that inspires more fear in me than being in Avellaneda at midnight, it’s a pack of angry dogs in Avellaneda at midnight.

They come a-running and a-barking, but miraculously they stay on the other side of the avenue. I cross the Riachuelo and make it to my future ex’s office. She has a face which I will come to recognise on too many occasions over the next six years.

“You’re late.”
“You would not believe the adventure I’ve just had!”
“You’re drunk.”
“I reiterate: you would not believe the adventure I’ve just had!”

Nothing doing. We get in a taxi and she takes out her frustrations on an old taxi driver who’s made the mistake of telling her about his support for the government of Carlos Menem. With all the fury of a porteña who’s been made to wait more than five minutes, my future ex takes it all out on this poor old man. She speaks pretty badly to the taxi driver, too.

Twelve years later, I go past this office as the 45 heads for Remedios de Escalada, in Lanús, but this time I’m sufficiently awake as to get off at the city limits. I already knew that the town of Remedios de Escalada was named after the wife of Argentine founding father San Martín. What I didn’t know was that Remedios was only 14 when San Martín, aged 34, married her. Nowadays, more than a founding father he’d be called a fiddling father.

I don’t know much about Lanús and I’m not going to learn much today because I get off at Puente Victorino de la Plaza (named after a president who unfortunately gave his name to a bridge and not to a square, which would have been called Plaza de la Plaza). Two things I know about Lanús: 1) it is the most densely-populated city in the world. A Lanusian at a party told me this. I didn’t believe him then and I don’t believe him now. 2) Lanús in French sounds exactly like “l’anus”, or “the anus”, something which causes much mirth among the French community of Buenos Aires, especially when the football club Lanús comes up against Colón.

Buenos Aires Bus Tours Interview

2012-01-02T21:45:00.003-03:00

Jonathan Evans of Buenos Aires Bus Tours recently interviewed me about Colectivaizeishon. I gave him a reach-around, for want of a better term.

What brought you to Buenos Aires and why did you stay?

I chose Argentina because I met a juggler on a beach in Spain and he was from here and told me I should try it. It all turned out OK though, I came here on holiday in 2007 and had a lovely time drinking Malbec and eating steak. After my holiday I went back to Geneva where I was living at the time and within a week had decided to sell my house and car, leave my job and come back. Buenos Aires is the opposite of Geneva in almost every single way, I live here as a reaction to my 5 years there. I need at least 5 years of chaos to regain equilibrium.

What's this bus tour nonsense then?

Catching a bus here is an adventure - you're never guaranteed to get to where you're expecting. If the driver feels like taking a diversion he will. There's also lots of codes and non-spoken rules - it reminds me that I'm in South America even if the streets around me could be in Paris. I figured that as I had cracked (most of) the code that I could show visitors to Buenos Aires how it all works. A crash course in the art of the colectivo if you will, without the crashing. Well, most of the time.

I've even heard there's some English guy who is catching every single bus in Buenos Aires, which strikes me as a very stupid idea. I am however slightly pissed off that I didn't think of it first.

I hear you also do walking tours and people say wonderful things about

you on tripadvisor...

Well, my tour (see here) is a mix of walking and catching the bus for the reasons given above. We take 2 - the 29 from Plaza Italia to Abasto and the 168 from Abasto to Congreso. The 29 is like travelling in business class compared to the 168, which goes through Once and is always packed with stroppy grannies and gangs of girls chewing gum. The tourists love it though - it all adds to the experience, and yes, I'm lucky enough that people do say very nice things about me on TripAdvisor.

What part of Buenos Aires do you like where tourists don't often go?

I take the tour to Abasto which is pretty much off the beaten tourist trail and as a tourist attraction I love showing it to people. It's full of Porteño history, street art and Carlos Gardel. It has a lot of Carlos Gardel. When I'm not on the tour I like Barracas, especially the Levi's outlet.

Do you tango?

Nope. Tried it, can't do it. I believe in playing to my strengths.

You have a beard. Is it a pleasure to live among the facially hisute

of this fine city?

Growing a beard is without a doubt the best thing I've ever done. Every so often I find myself sitting on a bus comparing beards with the other beard-owners around me. Apart from the occasions when I'm overdue a trim, I generally find I come out quite favourably.

You also run one of the city's best pub quizzes. How did that come about?

I'm lucky enough to have a friend who loves pub quizzes and is part-owner of a bar which has a fantastic room upstairs which is just the right size to a hold a pub quiz . I've been running it for just over a year and it attracts a good bunch of regulars from the US, Europe and Argentina, plus people passing through. The mix of nationalities makes it a bit harder to write questions as I have to avoid asking about Coronation Street and Eastenders which is a bit limiting to be honest.

What's the best question you've ever written?

Who became briefly involved with an Australian surfer named Blaine after splitting up with Ken Carson in 2004?

I'm guessing at Madonna. Hang on while I google. Ah, I was nearly right. In no way connected to that, your girlfriend is Colombian. Argentine women not good enough for you, eh?

Anything I say in answer to this question will get me into trouble. Can I take the 5th?

Only if you're American. Heard any good jokes lately?

Q: What do you call a sheep with no legs?

A: A cloud.

That's going in the book. What's next?

More tours, more quizzes, more colectivos. I might even try and catch a bus with that English guy.

Pedido urgente de dadores de sangre en BsAs

2012-01-02T20:51:00.001-03:00

Mi ex-suegro Adolfo Kerman necesita 16 dadores de sangre para una operación

cardíaca el 12 de enero. Por favor, los que puedan concurrir a:

HOSPITAL ITALIANO LUN-VIE 8 A 15 HS / SAB 8 A 11 HS

BANCO DE SANGRE INTRAHOSPITALARIO

HOSPITAL ITALIANO

Juan D. Perón 4190

ACLARAR QUE ES PARA ADOLFO KERMAN

RECORDAR LEVAR DNI

Gracias!

My ex-father-in-law Adolfo Kerman needs 16 blood donors for a heart operation on 12

January. If you can, please go to the above address and state that it's for Adolfo

Kerman.

TAKE DNI OR OTHER ID (PASSPORT)

Thank you!

Article in Matador

2012-01-01T23:51:00.002-03:00

I've published an article in Matador with the highlights of Colectivaizeishon so far. Read it here. It's been stumbled upon some 162 times. I didn't know Stumpleupon had that many active users.

Entrevista con Juan DiNatale

2012-01-01T23:36:00.000-03:00

Me entrevistó Juan DiNatale en la Rock&Pop hace un par de semanas. Podés descargar la entrevista acá.

(Próximamente salgo en Canal 26)

Interview with Jonathan Evans

2012-01-01T23:32:00.001-03:00

I've been interviewed by Jonathan Evans. That's Jonathan Evans the Buenos Aires bus-tour man, not the occasionally acceptable Man United defender. You can read it here.

R2D2 Mosque

2011-12-30T16:43:00.000-03:00

It has been brought to my attention that the roof of the mosque in Palermo looks like R2D2's head.

It's true, it does.

The 136 – Random observations from a really boring bus

2011-12-28T20:30:00.001-03:00

Versión en español

I have a schedule with the order I’m supposed to be taking the 141 bus routes in Buenos Aires, which is available for your relaxed perusal on my blog. This monument to my own obsessive-compulsive disorder took me four days with my head in the Guía T and various websites, and I managed to undo a good part of my geeky work on only the fourth day of Colectivaizeishon when I took the wrong bus and had to reshuffle the whole damn program. After that slip-up, I am resolved to follow the rest of the schedule to the letter. But I’m standing at the 163 bus stop for twenty minutes in Liniers and the 163 just ain’t coming. What if the 163 doesn’t exist anymore? Do I stand here for all eternity, renowned as “the Brit who tried to take all the buses in Buenos Aires but got stuck waiting for ever for the 163 that never came”? Not much of a title for a book. I give up and take the 136, which does the same route, is the same colour and practically the same number as the 163, if you’re colour-blind and dyslexic. As soon as I get on the 136, two 163s whiz past.

Once again I find myself in the unenviable position of trying to come up with something interesting to say about the stretch of Avenida Rivadavia between Liniers and Primera Junta, the sixty monotonous blocks that make up the 136’s route in the city of Buenos Aires. And even if I manage that, I’ve still got four identical journeys to go on other Liniers-Primera Junta buses. This is a disadvantage of keeping this experiment within the city of Buenos Aires. It makes a trip to Morón look tempting, if only for the sake of finding something interesting to write about.

So we set off from Rivadavia at 11600 and at 11400 I ponder to myself how many bus lines are operated by companies that have the same name as a beer, national or foreign. I count them. There are five. If you can guess what they are, you win a trip on the 136 from Primera Junta to Liniers (answers at the bottom at the page. And yes, I’m lying about that prize.) Sadly for me, by the time I’ve finished counting all the beer buses, we’ve only covered five blocks.

At Rivadavia at 10700 I wonder if the owner of the Wild West-style bar “Palo Alto Saloon” ever wonders whether his clientele suspect that said bar hasn’t been there “since 1865” as it says on the door, but in fact “since 2004” when the paperwork from the loan came through, and whether said clientele care about the linguistic inconsistencies on the signs promising “hamburguesas” and “coffee”. Probably not.

At 9900 I see that there is a street in Liniers called Victor Hugo[1], surely in honour of this man’s famous commentary of Maradona’s goals against in England in 1986. The following streets are also named after lesser-known football commentators of the Mexico World Cup, such as Virgil (Greece), Lope de Vega (Spain) and Molière (France).

At 9500 I see a chicken butcher’s which like 89% of chicken butchers in the city is called Entre Ríos Farm. I think about how I’ve been to Entre Ríos about thirty times in the last three years and not once have I seen a chicken running free across the meadows, and I wonder why these shops can’t be a bit more honest and call themselves “Factory Hen Scum” or “Slaughterhouse on the Outskirts of Town” and I already know the answer, and besides it was a rhetorical wondering and no answer was required. I conclude that “farm” is to the united free chickens of Entre Ríos what the “whiskerías” are to whisky on Route 14 (they don’t sell whisky, they sell sex. And possibly whisky, but you go there for the sex and the whisky is considered a bonus.)

At 8900 I see a butcher’s called The Affectionate Calf and wonder if this is the least appropriate shop name of all the shop names I’ve seen so far, but then in the next block I see an adult nappy shop called Abracadabra and we have a new contender.

At 8800 I go past a shop called Disguises, but written in Disney-style letters, and I remember the Armando Ianucci joke about that disappointing time he took his kids to Disneyworld, only to find that it was Casual Friday and the magic was lost.

I also remember the story of when Walt Disney came to Buenos Aires round about 1940, to make a gaucho-themed animation as part of the US government’s “Good Neighbour” policy, and that a lot of people think Walt Disney was a spy, and I wonder if so many people think the USA would have a government so stupid as to send one its most famous figures over on a top-secret espionage mission, and conclude that yeah, probably.

And at 8600 I see a sign that says “Christ is coming, wake up Argentina” and I remember that a few hours ago in Once I saw a stencil with the outline of the Falkland Islands that also said “wake up Argentina” and try to work out if the two are related. I’m taking a subtle dig at Argentine foreign policy here, but I doubt they’ll get it.

And at 8300 the subway advances and the traffic stops.

And at 8100 I wonder if there’s really any difference between crap domestic appliance giant Garbarino and crap domestic appliance giant Frávega or if they’re really the same company, in the same way that you never see Horacio Quiroga and Raúl Castells in the same room.

And between 7800 and 7500 I count three furniture shops called Queen.

And at 7400 on the corner of Nazca (named after the place in Peru but also the subjunctive form of the verb “nacer”) and I wonder about all the other streets in Buenos Aires that have the subjunctive form, like Coligue, Cortes, Escurra, Guise, Metan, Palme and Valle, and if this has some kind of effect on the inhabitants of those streets, if they doubt more, if they’re always missing something, if they’re always waiting or desirous, as if they lived their whole lives in the subjunctive form.

And at 7100 I go past another butcher’s and realise that despite eating nearly every part of the cow in the last twelve and a half years, I still don’t know what “bofe” is, and I don’t think I want to know. I look it up later. It’s lung. I told you I didn’t want to know.

And at 5500 we get to Primera Junta and I see that by magic I have managed to conjure up a chapter out of nothing, and I’d say “abracadabra” but the word suddenly has other unwanted connotations.

(Those beery bus companies: Sol de Mayo (the 4), Los Andes (the 78), Antártida Argentina (the 95), Expreso Quilmes (the 98), y Microómnibus Quilmes (the 159).

[1] There’s a radio chap and one-time football commentator called Victor Hugo Morales who did a famous commentary of Maradona’s goal. You can skip this paragraph, it isn’t even funny in Spanish.

El 136 – Observaciones aleatorias desde un colectivo aburridísimo

2011-12-28T20:23:00.002-03:00

English version please

Tengo un cronograma con el orden en que voy a tomar los 141 líneas de colectivo de Buenos Aires, que podés examinar con detenimiento en miblog. Este monumento a mi propio trastorno obsesivo-compulsivo me llevó cuatro días de trabajo con la cabeza metida en la Guía T y varios páginas web, y logré destruir gran parte de mi trabajo recién en el cuarto día de Colectivaizeishon cuando tomé el colectivo equivocado y tuve que re-escribir la cosa maldita. Tras esa caída, tengo la intención firme de seguir el resto del cronograma a la letra. Pero estoy en la parada del 163 en Liniers durante 20 minutos y el 163 no viene. ¿Y si no existe más el 163? ¿ME quedo parado acá para toda la eternidad, famoso por ser “el inglés que intentó tomar todos los colectivos de Buenos Aires pero se quedó para siempre esperando el 163 que nunca vino”? No me gusta como título de libro. Me rindo y tomo el 136 que hace el mismo recorrido, tiene el mismo color y casi el mismo número que el 163, si sos daltónico y disléxico. Ni bien subo al colectivo, pasan dos unidades del 163.

Otra vez me encuentro en la posición poco envidiable de tener que inventar algo interesante que decir sobre el tramo de la avenida Rivadavia entre Liniers y Primera Junta, las sesenta monótonas cuadras capitalinas del recorrido del 136. Y aun si logro hacer esto, me faltan cuatro viajes iguales en el mismo recorrido por otras líneas. Es una desventaja de querer mantener este proyecto solamente dentro de la capital. Hace que un viaje hasta Morón parezca tentador, con tal de encontrar algo interesante.

En Rivadavia al 11200 me pregunto cuántas líneas de colectivo hay que son operadas por empresas que tienen el mismo nombre que una marca de cerveza nacional o extranjera. Son cinco. Si podés adivinar cuáles son antes del final de esta nota, te ganaste un viaje en el 136 entre Primera Junta y Liniers (Las respuestas al final de la página. Y sí, estoy mintiendo respecto al premio.) Lamentablemente para mí, al terminar de contar los colectivos cerveceros veo que solamente han pasado cinco cuadras.

En Rivadavia al 10700 me pregunto si el dueño del bar “Palo Alto Saloon” de estilo Wild West, se pregunta si sus clientes habrán sospechado que dicho bar no existe “since 1865”, como dice en la puerta, sino desde 2004, como dice en los títulos del préstamo, o si les importa la inconsistencia lingüística de prometer en su cartel “hamburguesas” y “coffee”. Probablemente, no.

Al 9900 veo que hay una calle de Liniers nombrada Victor Hugo, seguramente en honor de su narración del gol de Maradona contra los ingleses. Las calles siguientes también tienen nombres de otros comentaristas menos conocidos del mundial de 86, como Virgilio (Grecia), Lope de Vega (España) y Moliere (Francia).

Al 9500 veo una pollería que como el 89% de las pollerías de la ciudad se llama Granja Entre Ríos. Pienso en como fui a Entre Ríos algo como treinta veces en los último tres años y todavía no vi una gallina corriendo libremente por el campo, y me pregunto porqué estos locales no pueden ser más honestos y ponerse nombres como “Fábrica km 64” o “Matadero Zárate” y ya sé la respuesta, y de todos modos era una autopregunta retórica y ninguna respuesta era necesaria. Concluyo que “granja” vendría a ser para los pollos libres unidos de Entre Ríos lo que son las “whiskerías” para el whisky sobre la Ruta 14.

Al 8900 veo una carnicería llamado La Ternera Mimosa y pienso que debe ser el nombre menos apropiado de todos los nombres de locales que vi hasta ahora, pero en la cuadra siguiente veo una local de pañales adultos llamado Abracadabra y me cambio de idea.

Al 8800 paso por un local que se llama Disfraces, pero escrito con la letra de Disney, y me acuerdo del chiste del cómico italo-escocés Armando Ianucci, de la decepción que sintió al llevar a sus hijos a Disneyworld, solo para descubrir al llegar que para el personal era el “Casual Friday”, y se perdió la magia.

Me acuerdo también de la historia de cuando Walt Disney vino a Buenos Aires ahí por el 1940, para producir una animación argenta para que Argentina sea “buen vecino” de Estados Unidos durante la segunda guerra mundial, y que mucha gente piensa que Disney en realidad vino de espía, y me pregunto si tanta gente piensa que Estados Unidos tendría un gobierno tan necio como para mandar una de sus figuras más famosas para una misión de espionaje altamente secreto, y concluyo que sí, probablemente.

Y al 8600 veo un cartel que dice “Cristo viene, despierta Argentina” y me acuerdo que hace unas horas en Once vi un stencil con un imagen de las Islas Malvinas que también decía “despierta Argentina” y trato de pensar si las dos cosas están relacionadas.

Y al 8300 el subte avanza y el tránsito se detiene.

Y al 8100 me pregunto si hay realmente una diferencia entre Garbarino y Frávega, o si son en realidad la misma empresa, de la misma manera que uno nunca ve a Horacio Quiroga y Raúl Castells en el mismo lugar.

Y entre 7800 y 7500 cuento tres casas de muebles que tienen Queen como nombre.

Y al 7400, en la esquina con Nazca, me quedo pensando en todas las otras calles de Buenos Aires que tienen la forma subjuntiva, como Coligue, Cortes, Escurra, Guise, Metan, Palme y Valle, y si esto tiene un efecto sobre los habitantes de aquellas calles, si dudan más, si siempre les falta algo, y están siempre esperando o deseosos, como si todas sus vidas fueran en forma subjuntiva.

Y al 7100 paso por otra carnicería y me doy cuenta de que a pesar de comer prácticamente todas las partes de la vaca en los últimos doce años y medio, todavía no sé qué es bofe, y no sé si quiero saber. (me fijo más tarde: es el pulmón. Te dije que no quería saber.)

Y al 5500 llegamos a Primera Junta y veo que por arte de magia he logrado inventar un capítulo desde la nada, y diría “abracadabra” pero la palabra ya tiene otras connotaciones.

(Esas líneas de colectivo cerveceras: Sol de Mayo (el 4), Los Andes (el 78), Antártida Argentina (el 95), Expreso Quilmes (el 98), y Microómnibus Quilmes (el 159).

The 65 – The tabloid-tastic Argentine equivalent of ‘Strictly Come Dancing’, and really precious little about the 65 bus

2011-12-23T20:16:00.000-03:00

Versión en español

Original column in La Razón

The 65 goes past the studio of ‘Ideas del Sur’, a name which in Argentina evokes images of the rugged Argentine south, but which in English translates as ‘Southern Ideas’, which depending on whether you’re English or American might evoke perfumed teas or lynching blacks, neither a good thing. ‘Southern Ideas’ is the production company that makes the most-watched Argentine TV program, ‘Showmatch’, commonly referred to in the British press as ‘the Argentine Strictly’ when in fact the two have about as much in common as a ballroom and a brothel.

I had managed to entirely ignore the existence of this program for the past twelve years, but this year my wife’s cousin, the lovely Julieta Sciancalepore, entered the fray, and since then I’ve become something of an expert in the ups and downs of its contestants and judges. This and my expert knowledge of South American buses will surely stand me in good stead in whatever economic hardships may litter my existence. A book purporting to be about Buenos Aires circa 2011-12, even if said book is in fact an excuse to make snide remarks about predictable targets, would not be complete without an in-depth analysis of Argentina’s favourite past-time, so a few nights after taking the 65 I stay up waiting for Showmatch to start. (Why Showmatch? I don’t know. It used to be called Videomatch. Put it down to the global belief that anything in English sounds cool, regardless of how incoherent it may be to a native speaker.)

If, like me, you go to bed at 10.30 every night, saying that you’re going to get up at 6am to write, but end up hitting the snooze button every 9 minutes for 54 minutes until turning the alarm off and being woken when your wife leaves for work two hours later, your literary ambitions in ruins, you wouldn’t even be aware of the existence of Showmatch if it wasn’t for every other TV program devoting most of their airtime to showing whatever scandal you missed the night before. Showmatch must have the latest timeslot in the world for such a high-rating program. If you turn the TV on in England at 10.30, you’ll most likely get a documentary about WWII bombers, a repeat of Friends and a half-hour wait until a slightly raunchy film starts on Channel 5.

The part of Showmatch I most enjoy is when they present the judges, because they all have their own little jingle. Moria Casán, for whom I struggle to find a British-American equivalent, but think Dolly Parton with less taste and more malice, has ‘Believe’ by Cher, because she believes an excess of age and plastic surgery warrant such a comparison. Aníbal Pachano (theatre impresario) has the heavy bit from ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’, because a man with a multi-colour top hat and sculpted moustache could have no other song. Flavio Mendoza (theatre impresario) has something I don’t recognise, and Marcelo Polino (theatre impresario) and Carmen Barbieri (Moria Casán-lite) have to settle for the cheap lift music that gets played throughout much of the rest of the program. (The long-standing theme tune for Showmatch and its earlier incarnations is The Beatles’ ‘Twist and Shout’, a musical choice that has robbed the song of all its cool for every Argentine I know.)

Although Showmatch is presented as a dancing contest, what you get is a fine blend of gossip and cat fights with a spot of dancing on the side. Before my wife’s cousin and her dancing partner, celebrity Peter Alfonso (famous for, er, producing Showmatch last year) can perform their stunning aquadance, we have five minutes of chit-chat between Peter and host Marcelo Tinelli about Peter’s girlfriend. The conclusion of said chit-chat is that they might have a baby maybe, or maybe in a couple of years. Top gossip, lads.

I used to think that this program and its inevitable brouhahas were scripted, but Julieta tells me this isn’t the case. On the basis of tonight’s evidence, I believe her. And the low level of gossip on the show is even more disappointing considering the tremendous gossip you hear about the show’s host and judges, which due to decency and libel laws cannot be repeated on air nor on paper. It would make for a reality show that would leave even Showmatch’s ratings in the shade.

Tinelli tells Juli and Peter to get ready, but before they can dance we have the first of many, many product placement spots that are at once the bane and the bread and butter of Argentine TV. ‘Eat hamburgers!’ Tinelli advises us, proving once again my theory that the primary reason for television’s existence is to sell stuff, and any entertainment or, God forbid, education it may provide is purely coincidental.

The dancing finally starts. Peter leaps and sashays in his water tank like the man in the Chester Ice advert with the world’s biggest eyebrows, which I’m glad to report you can see on youtube. Seriously, stop reading this and watch this advert tothe end. I will never be this funny.

Did you enjoy that? Told you. So, Peter’s fantastic dancing is a huge achievement considering that six months ago he danced more or less like me, which isn’t so much dancing as the equivalent of your dad at a wedding having an epileptic fit to ‘YMCA’. In fact Julieta, who is dancing perfection incarnate, prepared for the challenge of dancing with a non-dancer such as Peter by dancing at our wedding in April for several hours with my dad, who hadn’t danced since just after the release of ‘Thriller’.

Showmatch and the other selected works of Marcelo Tinelli and his contemporaries are denigrated by a considerable sector of Argentine society who believe that every time you watch Tinelli, a book commits suicide. I considered myself firmly within this camp until I started watching Showmatch. The prejudice against Showmatch has a certain classist element, and a certain prejudice against dance, as if a televisual dance-off were somehow less artistic or cultural than a televised poetry showdown. (“Sonnets with the Stars” is a show I’m trying to sell to producers. In this program, the couples consist of a professional poet and a celebrity, for example, Andrew Motion and Pamela Anderson, and every week they have to come up with a new poem in the given style of that week. On the jury, Germaine Greer, Tom Stoppard and Moria Casán.) It may be that the human mind is so used to seeing people dancing that it forgets how difficult this combination of art and sport really is. The effect of watching Juli and Peter’s waterdance produces the kind of jaw to the floor effect I usually get when watching Olympic gymnasts.

Here comes the jury with their scorecards, but first, more product placement from Tinelli: ‘Buy chemicals for cleaning your swimming pool!’

Carmen Barbieri can’t believe that Peter Alfonso has improved so much in so little time. ‘A scandalous ten!’ she cries, perhaps oblivious to the fact that she doles out ten points every week and said score has been lacking in scandal for some time.

They’d made a fuss earlier about how Julieta got a huge bruise after slamming into one of the aqua tanks in rehearsals, but Flavio Mendoza doesn’t think this was anything special. The music from ‘Jaws’ plays, and I’m not entirely sure why. Extreme aquadance? Maybe for next season. Flavio gives them an 8.

Moria Casán says that watching Juli and Peter gave her ‘chicken skin’. She means goose pimples. She says she was in Chile the night before, ‘at a show dedicated to me’. Thanks for the news, Moria. She says ‘secret vote, but it’s looking good, eh?’ Not very secret, then. I’m beginning to have doubts as to whether Moria is the right woman for my literary jury.

Aníbal Pachano, he of the exaggerated headwear as if this were a Victorian freakshow, and in many ways it is, gives them a 7, then kicks up a fuss about Flavio Mendoza’s earlier comments about Julieta’s bruising. There’s an extended and somewhat heated debate on this while we forget all about the dripping contestants. More than a dance contest, Showmatch is frequently a contest to see who can make the most scandalous comment and hog the headlines the next day.

The jury finally calms down and we move on to Marcelo Polino. Polino, in the style of many a panel-based talent contest, is like the father who never loved you. He gives them a 6. Getting a 6 from Polino is like getting a 20 from Barbieri.

Peter and Juli walk off contented. They’ll almost make it to the semis, until Peter channels my dad at a crucial moment in a complex quarter-final boogie. ‘Buy a telephone!’ Tinelli advises his audience. I’m off to bed, it’s way past my bedtime.

El 65 – Colectivaizeishon por un sueño, y una propuesta indecente para Moria Casán

2011-12-22T07:52:00.000-03:00

English version

Columna original en La Razón

El 65 pasa por el estudio de Ideas del Sur donde se graba el programa más visto de la televisión argentina, Showmatch. Había logrado ignorar por completo este programa en los últimos doce años, hasta que este año la prima de mi esposa, Julieta Sciancalepore, entró en el concurso, y desde entonces me he vuelto medio experto en el programa y los vaivenes de sus concursantes y jueces. Un libro sobre Buenos Aires en el 2011-12 no sería completo sin un análisis del programa que miran tantos argentinos, y por ende unas noches después de tomar el 65, me quedo en vela esperando el comienzo de Showmatch.

Si sos como yo, y te acostás a las 22.30 todas las noches, diciendo que te vas a levantar a las 6am para escribir, pero al final apagás el despertador cada 9 minutos durante 54 minutos hasta apagarlo completamente y tu esposa te despierta a las 8.30am y sentís que ya se arruinó todo el día, ni siquiera estarías consciente de la existencia de Showmatch, si no fuera que todos los otros programas de televisión se dedican a mostrarte lo que te perdiste la noche anterior en Showmatch mientras dormías. Con este horario tan tardío, debe ser el programa ratingero que más tarde sale en el mundo. Si prendés la televisión en Inglaterra a esa hora, hay un documental sobre los aviones de la segunda guerra mundial, un episodio recontra repetido de Benny Hill y todavía falta media hora para que pasen los diez minutos de pornografía gratis.

La parte que más me gusta de Showmatch es la presentación de los jueces, porque cada uno tiene su propia musiquita. Moria Casán tiene “Believe” de Cher, y estoy empezando a creer que ella realmente cree que es Cher. Aníbal Pachano tiene la parte rockera de Bohemian Rhapsody, porque un hombre con galera colorida y bigotes esculpidos no podría tener otra canción. Flavio Mendoza tiene algo que no reconozco, y Polino y Barbieri tienen que conformarse con la música berreta de ascensor que se escucha al fondo durante la mayoría del programa. Vimos a Carmen Barbieri en el aeropuerto de Santiago de Chile hace unos meses, firmando autógrafos. También vimos en Ezeiza a Jorge Rial, pero nadie le pedía su autógrafo.

Aunque Showmatch se presenta como un concurso de baile, la realidad es una mezcla de chismes y peleas con algo de baile de vez en cuando. Antes de que Peter Alfonso y Juli realicen su impresionante aquadance, tenemos cinco minutos de conversación con Peter respecto a su novia, Paula Chávez. Llegamos a la conclusión de que podrían llegar a tener un hijo quizás, o quizás en un par de años. Alto chisme, chicos.

Antes pensaba que el programa y sus peleas estaban todos guionadas, pero me contó Juli que no es así. Basado en la evidencia de esta noche, le re creo. Y el bajo nivel de chisme dentro del programa es aun más decepcionante considerando que hay todo tipo de chisme y barbaridades sobre los integrantes de este programa que por leyes de decencia y/o calumnia no se pueden repetir ni en el aire ni en el diario. El reality que reality-mente merece el público argentino es el que sigue toda la vida privada de Tinelli, Rial, Luis Ventura y demás durante un año, pero lamentablemente estos nunca aceptarían que tal programa saliera.

“¡Preparensén!” grita Marcelo Tinelli, sin ningún dejo de ironía, pero antes de que Juli y Peter puedan bailar desde sus tanques de agua, tenemos el primero de varios spots de publicidad. “¡Coman hamburguesas!”, nos aconseja Tinelli, comprobándose otra vez más mi teoría de que la televisión existe primordialmente para vender cosas, y cualquier entretenimiento que brinda es una consideración secundaria.

Empieza el baile. Peter salta y se mueve en esas piletas como si fuera el tipo ese de la propaganda de Chester Ice, él de las cejas más grandes del mundo. Es un gran logro, porque hace seis meses, Peter bailaba más o menos como yo, lo que no es tanto bailar sino el equivalente de tu papá en un casamiento en pleno ataque epiléptico. De hecho Julieta, que es la perfección del baile personificada, se preparó para el desafío de bailar con un no-bailarín como Peter bailando varias horas en nuestro casamiento con mi papá, que no había bailado desde que salió ‘Thriller’ de Michael Jackson.

Showmatch y demás obras de Tinelli y sus contemporáneos son denigradas por un considerable sector de la sociedad argentina, que creen que “cada vez que prendés Tinelli, un libro se suicida”. Me contaba dentro de este sector hasta que empecé a mirar detenidamente este programa. El prejuicio contra Showmatch tiene cierto componente clasista, además de cierto prejuicio contra el baile, como si un concurso televisivo de baile fuera menos artístico o cultural que un concurso televisivo de poesía. (“Rimando por un Sueño” es un show que estoy tratando de vender a varias productoras. En este programa, las parejas consisten en un poeta profesional y un famoso, por ejemplo, Juan Gelman con Karina Jelinek, y cada semana tienen que escribir una nueva poesía en el estilo de esa semana. En el jurado, María Kodama, Alberto Laiseca y Moria Casán.) Quizás la mente humana está tan acostumbrada a ver a gente bailando que uno no se da cuenta de lo difícil que es esta combinación de arte y deporte. El efecto de mirar el aquadance es parecido al efecto que me produce mirar las gimnastas en las olimpíadas.

Se vienen los puntajes del jurado, pero primero, otra propaganda de Marcelo: “¡Compren productos de limpieza para su pileta!”

Carmen Barbieri no puede creer que Peter Alfonso haya mejorado tanto en tan poco tiempo. “¡Escandaloso diez!” festeja ella, quizás olvidando que ella regala diez puntos a cualquiera y dicho puntaje en sus manos dista de escándalo desde hace un tiempo. No salió nada al respecto en las noticias, pero me parece que lo que llevó a que Barbieri se desvinculara de Showmatch y que la eternamente juvenil Graciela Alfano la remplazara se debió a que esta última tiene un vocabulario mucho más extenso, y será mi segunda opción en “Rimando por un Sueño” en caso de que Moria esté ocupada con algo menos glamoroso.

A Flavio Mendoza “no le pareció tan terrible” el golpe que se dio Julieta en la práctica. Es cierto, si te agarraste a piñas con Ricardo Fort, ningún golpe te parece tan terrible. Se escucha la música de la película “Tiburón”, y no entiendo muy bien por qué. ¿Versión extrema de aquadance? Para el año que viene, quizás. Flavio les da un 8.

Moria dice que mirar a Juli y Peter le puso “piel de pollo de gallina.” Dice que estuvo la noche anterior en Chile, “en un show dedicado a mí”. Chocolate por la noticia, Moria. Dice “voto secreto, pero pinta, ¿eh?” ¿No era voto secreto? Me entra la duda si Moria realmente es la indicada para mi jurado poético.

Aníbal Pachano, él que usa los sombreros exagerados como si esto fuera un espectáculo de freaks de la era victoriana (y en cierto sentido lo es), da un 7. Se arma un escándalo por el comentario anterior de Flavio Mendoza respecto al golpe que se dio Julieta en la práctica. Hay una discusión extendida mientras nos olvidamos de los concursantes mojados que deben estar muriéndose de frío. Más que un concurso de baile, Showmatch es un concurso para ver quién puede decir la cosa más escandalosa en el curso del programa.

Se calma el jurado y pasamos a Marcelo Polino. Polino es como el padre que nunca te quiso. Igualmente, les da un 6. Recibir un 6 de Polino es como recibir un 20 de Barbieri/Alfano.

Peter y Juli se van contentos. Casí llegarán a las semifinales. Otra propaganda de Tinelli: ‘¡Compren un teléfono!” Me voy a dormir, que es tardísimo.