My few and potentially devoted,
I have corporeally returned from Our Neighbor to the South and have begun the arduous task of trying to remember sequences of events, various indigenous place names with startlingly few vowels and dozens of people who, while endearing themselves to me, led me, my uncle Steve and my darling cousin Mary through a land of charm and omnipresent black hair.
As a teaser, ask yourself these fine questions:
Did Domonic, at any point in his trip, dramatically supplicate to the Infant Jesus for His divine intervention?
Did Domonic get served food that made him pray for the ability to never eat again?
Did Domonic, as was portented, contract Montezuma's Revenge?
Did Domonic, in conjunction with the above, drink the damn water?
Until later, I remain,
Domonic (unabletoadequatelylearnNahuatlorZapotecintime) Potorti
Friday, July 28, 2006
Sunday, July 09, 2006
Take me to the prairiedog city.
Dusk comes late to the Russian countryside in the dead of summer; late, but with the swiftness and sureness of impending vodka-assisted cirrhosis. As the shadows lengthen, babushka-girded women and their be-flanneled men gather their ghastly pale children close and trundle them off to the simultaneous comfort and crushing ennui of a night at home. For tonight, as every night on the vast Eurasian steppe, something unspeakable stalks the land:
Vladimir Putin.
In a statement that would seem crass anywhere but a country where fully three out of five adults can't point out the subcontinent of India on an unlabeled map, I honestly didn't give the President of the Russian Federation much of my time. Oh, I could have told you who he was, where he was born, sundry stories of his presidency and his favorite cocktail - but then again, you could do that too, right?
Needless to say, when I read this, I came to simultaneously understand three very important things.
1) Good ol' Vlad's gone quietly out of his motherhumping gourd.
2) His PR people, who'd probably seen their share of sleepless nights after the Kutsk submarine fiasco and the whole Chechen-rebels-killing-small-schoolchildren things, were most likely hastening to open various blood vessels in hot baths, perhaps even en masse in a grisly show of solidarity. And who could blame them? How can kneeling down, opening a five-year-old's shirt in Red Square and tenderly kissing his belly "like a kitten" be made into something that is even remotely OK, let alone light-hearted and innocent? Shet, I've got the fecking willies, and I live on another goddamn continent. And I am 26. It's skeevy, sketchy and creepy on nearly every level one can imagine.
3) Sometimes blog-fodder falls directly from the sky, like sweet, nutritious Little Debbie cakes.
Vladimir Putin.
In a statement that would seem crass anywhere but a country where fully three out of five adults can't point out the subcontinent of India on an unlabeled map, I honestly didn't give the President of the Russian Federation much of my time. Oh, I could have told you who he was, where he was born, sundry stories of his presidency and his favorite cocktail - but then again, you could do that too, right?
Needless to say, when I read this, I came to simultaneously understand three very important things.
1) Good ol' Vlad's gone quietly out of his motherhumping gourd.
2) His PR people, who'd probably seen their share of sleepless nights after the Kutsk submarine fiasco and the whole Chechen-rebels-killing-small-schoolchildren things, were most likely hastening to open various blood vessels in hot baths, perhaps even en masse in a grisly show of solidarity. And who could blame them? How can kneeling down, opening a five-year-old's shirt in Red Square and tenderly kissing his belly "like a kitten" be made into something that is even remotely OK, let alone light-hearted and innocent? Shet, I've got the fecking willies, and I live on another goddamn continent. And I am 26. It's skeevy, sketchy and creepy on nearly every level one can imagine.
3) Sometimes blog-fodder falls directly from the sky, like sweet, nutritious Little Debbie cakes.
***
In five days, I will board an airplane and, for the second time this summer, depart from the sacrosanct airspace of the United States for ten days of loping about in our Neighbor to the South. The Big Burrito. The Hot Tamale.
May-hee-co.
If you want the God's honest truth, I'm ready to shet my bretches. Nobody I know is offering me any sane advice. An example of this so-called "sane advice" would be, oh, letting me know how to say "Thank you for your offer, but I do not wish to purchase and consume undercooked animal offal" in Espanol. From what I have gleaned from several people who have gone and, dehydrated and dry-heaving from their puckered o-rings, returned, I should not:
- Eat the corn-on-the-cob from the street people, because the last thing they do before they give it to you is DIP THE WHOLE FECKING COB IN MAYONNAISE. I politely informed them that this wouldn't be a problem for me, because the very idea of consuming this "treat" made me want to strap on a pair of steel-tipped boots and kick a nun to death.
- Buy a small, hairless dog, because when I brought it home and took it to the vet's to get some medicine, I would discover that it was *weary gasp* a Mexican sewer rat. With rabies. And distemper. And diarrhea.
- Allow a busty lass to sidle up to me in a bar, because her drinks will melt my credit cards. *twiddles thumbs* No problems there, my friends. None whatsoever. [whistling]
Oh, and uh, if one more person tells me to not drink the water, I am afraid I may have to kill yet again, and I am out of lime and my shovel's in the shop getting a new handle.
I'm sure I'll be fine. Yep. No worries here.
[packing economy sized box of anti-diarrheals]
Until later this week, I remain,
Domonic (ontheplusside,Mexicoisoneofthemaskcapitalsoftheworld) Potorti
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Uh, no.
Subtitle: Just Because That Works in (insert country name here), Doesn't Mean It Flies Here.
Subsubtitle: Or, How to Make an International Student Weep in Your Office.
When I lived in the Land of the Galloping Mare's Head for a semester more than five years ago, I became intimately acquainted with the subtle fineries of bargaining. By "subtle fineries" I mean "dance of death that, frequently, exhausts you physically and emotionally until you don't even desire to purchase the goddamn thing anymore and are therefore being motivated purely by spite." It was a rare object or service that had a lovely, fixed price attached to it, and unless you were ready to bicker, belittle and lie through your butter-colored teef, you just didn't go shopping, like, at ALL.
The prime example of this was the day I elected to go fetch a pair of not-so-shetty sneakers as mate to my $1.50 Turkish "Ortopedik" shower-shoes. I tattered through Ankara on the Bilkent shuttle to downtown, I disembarked near a shoe establishment whose exterior bespoke of the splendor of, say, Kabul in February. Nonetheless, I set to my appointed task and quickly separated the chaff from the grain. When asked how much the enchanting, size 12 sand-colored Adidas were from the attendant, his starting price HIS STARTING PRICE was $250. It was at that moment that I knew as well as he that this would be a Herculean battle of wills, and that many glasses of hot apple tea would give their sweet lives before it was over. As I and my buddy/partial interpreter reclined for the battle, the tea-boy magically arrived, tinkling glasses already being poured for the battle pitch. Çay istiyor musunuz, effendim?, he crooned softly, and I, unwilling to lose face, took one of the tulip glasses.
Two hours later
I'd discovered, early on, that the way to arrive at a price you both can live with is to trade delicious insults first. The $250 asking price for a pair of ordinary shoes was an insult to my intelligence, and I told him so. Well, that, and I suggested that his male member resembled, in size and shape, the wood mushrooms often to be found on swollen corpses. He swilled from his glass and smiled slightly. "What, therefore, would you like to pay?" So I told him what I would "like" to pay, which was $25, or ten times less than his asking price. His sepia eyes bulged in their sockets as though I had, at that astral moment, rammed a two-inch circumference wooden dowel up into his nether-regions sans lubrication. He then politely informed me that I should commence canid-style relations with my sainted mother rather than waste his precious time.
Yet both of us sat there still, drinking and eyeing each other over the ridiculously small tea glasses.
Two hours later
My bladder had distended to the point where merely fantasizing about urinating had preoccupied about 95% of my mind's and body's attention and functionality. As my kidneys left for a smoke break and my liver went on a polite siesta, I became slowly aware that I had remained in the dingy little shop not because I was desperately in love with the shoes, but because I would somehow surely lose a piece of my soul were I to give in to this bastard. I was motivated, at that moment, by sheer animal spite, and spite tastes a lot like "backed-up urea." Just as I was about to black out from the sheer effort of remaining continent, he placed his tiny tulip-glass in the Liliputian saucer and sighed.
"Forty-five dollars and not a lira less." I leapt up, wincing with the effort, paid for the shoes and ran outside to piss against a Dumpster in a dank alley. When I came back to collect my shoes, the men of the shop had gathered to slack-jaw stare at the foreigner who held his tea-piss for nearly five hours rather than drown in the sullied eddy of "getting ripped the feck off." They were proud, and I was proud too.
I became a man that day. All that blood in my pee became nigh insignificant when I wore those tan Adidas, symbol of imperialist, insensate evil.
Bloomington, Indiana: Present Day, My Third Floor Belfry Office
The small, pearly-blue vein in my temple beat a grim tattoo in my ear as the student swept into my office and slumped down in one of my snot-rocket green office chairs. Volutes of cologne elped from his very skin, as though he'd been vivi-embalmed with Hugo Boss. His hair was slicked back with what I can only assume was unprocessed crude oil collected from Prince William Sound.
He cleared his throat. Our eyes locked.
I crammed a fist down into my seat to ground myself and clenched my jaw hard enough to generate sparks as he began.
I politely listened to his sweeping tale of woe. At one point, he became so involved that he began to mimic some of the major player's voices, pausing momentarily to take off his socks for shadow puppets. After twenty minutes, he arrived at the crux of his visit: the simple, Bambi-eyed query.
"So, can I do that?", he begged, his eyes filled with sparkling dew.
Uh, no, I said.
This is the difference between the US and the rest of the world, I believe. No, they don't "hate our freedom" - a phrase that, in case you want to know, makes me want to beat an orphan to death with a brick. You see, gentle readers, in most other countries in the world, "no" means, frequently, "yes, but only if you meet me halfway." Or "not really, but maybe..."
Or "Umm, I see your point, but I believe you have snacked on brain tumors recently."
They hate our NOs. How can there be no budge room? No space for polite argument, say, over some tea? How is it that I am permitted to tell a student that he or she absolutely cannot do something?
Oh, that's right.
Because I goddamn can, that's why.
Until next time, I remain,
Domonic (metamorphingintoamegalomaniacinachrysalisofimmigrationregulations) Potorti
Subsubtitle: Or, How to Make an International Student Weep in Your Office.
When I lived in the Land of the Galloping Mare's Head for a semester more than five years ago, I became intimately acquainted with the subtle fineries of bargaining. By "subtle fineries" I mean "dance of death that, frequently, exhausts you physically and emotionally until you don't even desire to purchase the goddamn thing anymore and are therefore being motivated purely by spite." It was a rare object or service that had a lovely, fixed price attached to it, and unless you were ready to bicker, belittle and lie through your butter-colored teef, you just didn't go shopping, like, at ALL.
The prime example of this was the day I elected to go fetch a pair of not-so-shetty sneakers as mate to my $1.50 Turkish "Ortopedik" shower-shoes. I tattered through Ankara on the Bilkent shuttle to downtown, I disembarked near a shoe establishment whose exterior bespoke of the splendor of, say, Kabul in February. Nonetheless, I set to my appointed task and quickly separated the chaff from the grain. When asked how much the enchanting, size 12 sand-colored Adidas were from the attendant, his starting price HIS STARTING PRICE was $250. It was at that moment that I knew as well as he that this would be a Herculean battle of wills, and that many glasses of hot apple tea would give their sweet lives before it was over. As I and my buddy/partial interpreter reclined for the battle, the tea-boy magically arrived, tinkling glasses already being poured for the battle pitch. Çay istiyor musunuz, effendim?, he crooned softly, and I, unwilling to lose face, took one of the tulip glasses.
Two hours later
I'd discovered, early on, that the way to arrive at a price you both can live with is to trade delicious insults first. The $250 asking price for a pair of ordinary shoes was an insult to my intelligence, and I told him so. Well, that, and I suggested that his male member resembled, in size and shape, the wood mushrooms often to be found on swollen corpses. He swilled from his glass and smiled slightly. "What, therefore, would you like to pay?" So I told him what I would "like" to pay, which was $25, or ten times less than his asking price. His sepia eyes bulged in their sockets as though I had, at that astral moment, rammed a two-inch circumference wooden dowel up into his nether-regions sans lubrication. He then politely informed me that I should commence canid-style relations with my sainted mother rather than waste his precious time.
Yet both of us sat there still, drinking and eyeing each other over the ridiculously small tea glasses.
Two hours later
My bladder had distended to the point where merely fantasizing about urinating had preoccupied about 95% of my mind's and body's attention and functionality. As my kidneys left for a smoke break and my liver went on a polite siesta, I became slowly aware that I had remained in the dingy little shop not because I was desperately in love with the shoes, but because I would somehow surely lose a piece of my soul were I to give in to this bastard. I was motivated, at that moment, by sheer animal spite, and spite tastes a lot like "backed-up urea." Just as I was about to black out from the sheer effort of remaining continent, he placed his tiny tulip-glass in the Liliputian saucer and sighed.
"Forty-five dollars and not a lira less." I leapt up, wincing with the effort, paid for the shoes and ran outside to piss against a Dumpster in a dank alley. When I came back to collect my shoes, the men of the shop had gathered to slack-jaw stare at the foreigner who held his tea-piss for nearly five hours rather than drown in the sullied eddy of "getting ripped the feck off." They were proud, and I was proud too.
I became a man that day. All that blood in my pee became nigh insignificant when I wore those tan Adidas, symbol of imperialist, insensate evil.
Bloomington, Indiana: Present Day, My Third Floor Belfry Office
The small, pearly-blue vein in my temple beat a grim tattoo in my ear as the student swept into my office and slumped down in one of my snot-rocket green office chairs. Volutes of cologne elped from his very skin, as though he'd been vivi-embalmed with Hugo Boss. His hair was slicked back with what I can only assume was unprocessed crude oil collected from Prince William Sound.
He cleared his throat. Our eyes locked.
I crammed a fist down into my seat to ground myself and clenched my jaw hard enough to generate sparks as he began.
I politely listened to his sweeping tale of woe. At one point, he became so involved that he began to mimic some of the major player's voices, pausing momentarily to take off his socks for shadow puppets. After twenty minutes, he arrived at the crux of his visit: the simple, Bambi-eyed query.
"So, can I do that?", he begged, his eyes filled with sparkling dew.
Uh, no, I said.
This is the difference between the US and the rest of the world, I believe. No, they don't "hate our freedom" - a phrase that, in case you want to know, makes me want to beat an orphan to death with a brick. You see, gentle readers, in most other countries in the world, "no" means, frequently, "yes, but only if you meet me halfway." Or "not really, but maybe..."
Or "Umm, I see your point, but I believe you have snacked on brain tumors recently."
They hate our NOs. How can there be no budge room? No space for polite argument, say, over some tea? How is it that I am permitted to tell a student that he or she absolutely cannot do something?
Oh, that's right.
Because I goddamn can, that's why.
Until next time, I remain,
Domonic (metamorphingintoamegalomaniacinachrysalisofimmigrationregulations) Potorti
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