Damelo! (Give it to me!)

Dear Candy,

It’s been a while since I wrote. Disculpame. All these things keep happening and I keep thinking, “I need to tell Candy about this!” and then I keep not telling you about them and now they’ve piled up into this huge pile and I don’t know where to begin. So, themes:

{Theme: The name Juan.}

I haven’t seen much of Juan or Juani lately, but I have been spending quite a bit of time with my new dear friend Juantastic. One of the volunteer students from the TEFL course (a component of the class was practice teaching sessions), Juantastic (referred to as such because when I saved his phone number in my phone, I had too many Juans—other people liked it, and it’s stuck) is a 58-year-old filmmaker of sorts (for unknown reasons he sometimes introduces himself as Tati, after the French comedic filmmaker Jacques Tati, which contributed to the formation of “Juantastic”), has lived all over the world (but currently with his mother in BA), and speaks bits and pieces of many languages, all at the same time. This makes him almost as hard to understand in English as in Spanish. Presumably, he is Argentine, though vaguely black and, depending on the day, he will tell you he is “from” Zaire, Brazil, Paraguay, France, or Switzerland. His stories include, but are certainly not limited to: the time he proposed marriage to Princess Diana at a nightclub in Italy, his close friendship with Charlie Chaplin or one of his wives, and where he got his black-and-white-checkered flannel shirt (“chemise,” he says) that is identical to my black-and-white-checkered flannel shirt and why he failed to wear it on the day we designated as our twin day. When questioned on the trueness of Juantastic’s tales, K assured us that bits and pieces of all of them (but all of none of them) are true.

Juantastic has a car, which he refers to interchangeably as “The Porsche” or “The Ferrari.” The rear passenger side door doesn’t open, and the front passenger side door must be opened from the inside because the outside has no handle. The backseat slides around, and there is a constant and overwhelming reek of fume. I didn’t check, but I believe there is also a hole in the floor in front of the driver’s seat through which Juan sticks his feet and runs to make the car move. One evening after class, a few of us TEFLers decided to journey to K’s house in the “suburbs” (think the Bronx, not Westchester) for some wine, Tango, and pizza. “It is good thing I bring the Ferrari today,” Juantastic said, as K, Raymi, and Anna positioned themselves on the oscillating backseat and I climbed into the front with Juantastic’s Bernese Mountain Dog, Shakira. Riding in a car with Juantastic is never not an adventure. As a general rule, he doesn’t recognize red lights or one-way signs, and on the return trip from K’s, he all but came to a complete stop in the middle of a busy street, so that we could observe the policemen beating some (apparent) drug dealers on the sidewalk.


{Theme: Places that used to be theaters and are now other things.}

A while back, Juan (the younger) took me to the bookstore El Ateneo, which used to be the theater The Grand Splendid. It is grand and splendid and everything that literature and theater ought to be (Juan used the word “classic”). It has billowing crimson curtains and a soaring ceiling painted with angels and things that fly, and you can curl up with a potential purchase in a box seat. Juan and I sipped espressos while a tuxedoed man played the piano in the café that was once the stage where such Tango legends as Carlos Gardel performed. Reciting Spanish sentences amidst all this splendor and grandness, I felt a bit like I was acting a part myself.

There is a club/bar here on the outskirts of Palermo that also used to be a theater, aptly named Teatro, where I attended an “underground,” or “indie” (read: hipster) fiesta called Bubumara, at which I was introduced to a local band that made me think of both the Moldy Peaches and Gwar, though less for their sound than for their use of costumes: a keyboard-playing marionette (he wore a giant hand hat with strings that connected to his wrists), a guitar-or-bass-playing piece of popcorn, a flute and horn section (as I recall, they were shiny and striped and possibly resembled bumblebees), a man-sized iron (as in, with which to de-wrinkle clothes), and a singing/electric-banjo-playing pirate. I think there was also an accordion (if not, I wanted there to have been one—Boobie Circus, too, needs an accordion, in my opinion). I turned to Nacho, the cute history and economics student from La Plata (a city about an hour away from BA), who was standing next to me and whose name makes me think of chips and who taught me that popcorn is “pochoclo,” and with whom I later discussed French New Wave in Spanish (barely, but how proud are you of me!).

“Uh, disculpame… Conoces… Como se llama esta banda?” I said. “La Manzana Cromatica Protoplasmatica,” he said, and I said “Queeeee?” and he laughed and wrote it down for me on the back of an old Subte card. Supposedly, their lyrics are funny. Due to my current knowledge of the Spanish language (or lack thereof), I am unable to confirm or deny this claim at this time. I can, however, verify the existence of a song called “El Payaso Existencial” (“The Existential Clown”). Likewise, I can safely say that I am a fanatico of the song “Elastico.” En mi opinion, es fantastico. La Manzana Cromatica Protoplasmatica can and should be viewed here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qGNXk9FiN_E&feature=related.

Next up: the grocery store that used to be a theater. I bought some frozen broccoli.

{Theme: Bands that wear funny costumes.}

My new fashion designer friend, Raffaello, took me to see his friends’ band play the other night. The band is called Anetol Delmonte, and the show was “arbol aqui arbol alla” (tree here tree there). The band members had large tree hats, which are exactly what they sound like. They also had a dancing tree, which was really a dancing person dressed like a tree. What was stranger was the somewhat formal setting of this “recital,” which was café-esque, with tables spaced evenly apart in rows facing a stage. We sat, sharing a nice bottle of red wine (I would expect this type of music to be enjoyed while standing and drinking cheap beer, possibly out of a Styrofoam or red Solo cup). What I believe is Anetol Delmonte’s cover of a Sumo song can be viewed here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KTRS0w_Vq9E&feature=related.

{Theme: Nachos (short for Ignacios and unrelated to ground beef, guacamole, or sour cream).}

An accidental peep show the other night turned into my befriending my across-the-street vecino (neighbor), Nacho the kinesiologist. It went like this: Anna and me settling down to watch Lara Croft, Tomb Raider (I’d like to say it was dubbed in Spanish, but that would be a lie). Me saying, “Che, that guy across the street is taking off his shirt.” Us watching. Him noticing. Him waving. Us waving. Later, Anna going home and him writing his gmail on a piece of paper and holding it up in the window and me not being able to read it due to lighting. Me going out on my balcony to tell him I couldn’t read it due to lighting and him opening his window to tell me to meet him downstairs. Me meeting him downstairs. Him handing me the piece of paper with his gmail written on it. Us returning to our respective apartments and gchatting. He doesn’t speak any English, which makes him, conveniently, my target audience for Spanish practice. With his kinesiological expertise and assistance, I’ve increased my Spanish body part vocabulary: espalda (back—also, his professional specialty), piernas (legs), cuello (neck), hombros (shoulders), tobillos (ankles), rodillas (knees), caderas (hips), pantorillas (calfs), rostro (face), pechos (breasts), pezon (nipple), cola (butt), cuerpo (body), exhibicionista (exhibitionist).

{Theme: I miss you!}

Lots and lots and lots of love,
Sandy

How funny that I was coming home to write about languages and saw that you beat me to it!

I had a very humorous exchange this evening at dinner with my dad, my stepmom, and her mother in SoHo. We're eating a variety of fish and discussing Solzhenitsyn when the women at the table next to us interrupt me:

"Excuse me, would you like a martini? [flattery followed. I can't repeat it here without embarrassing myself] You look like you drink martinis."

"Hi, ok, thanks!"

"Can we take a picture with you and your family?"

"...OK."

"Wow, you're American?"

"Yes, I live in New York."

"That's so great that your dad and your mother are here to visit you!" [note: they were referring to my stepmom's mother, and couldn't quite figure out where my stepmom came into this picture]

"They live in Brooklyn, too."

I took a photo with them, they took a photo of me and my family, and they continued to flatter me while I wanted to continue discussing Solzhenitsyn's critique of Tarkovsky's Andrei Rublev, but such is life. It shocked me that they were so surprised to hear that I spoke fluent English. I suppose it makes sense since to that point, they had heard me speak another language (and therefore assumed I only spoke that one?), which was quite shocking to me as I usually speak 2-6 languages a week (last week involved English, Russian with the family, Spanish in the blog, Sanskrit at yoga, Japanese at Kaoru's taiko class, and I usually toss around some French even when not in the midst of a full-fledged French film series).

Having spoken 2 languages since I was 5, I find the idea of speaking only one language so foreign that I had to think for a minute about why they thought I wasn't American (Is it my wrap dress? My sexy grandma shoes? My bangs? My wine? Oh, wait, maybe it's because I'm speaking another language).

Interestingly enough, they started talking about family values and about how "dads rock" and I didn't have the heart to tell them that I come from a "broken home," and that the woman they referred to as my mother was my step-grandmother.

*****

Well, that was all I was going to write, but I also read what you wrote and feel compelled to add my thoughts on this chicken coming before the egg. Most people find it quite amusing that I have a band before I can play an instrument, but I need to be able to see the big picture before I can focus on the smaller details (in this case, learning to play an instrument). So it's pretty safe to say that I would not be learning to play an instrument if it were not for Boobie Circus. By the by, I've drafted someone to play ukelele for our cover of "Judy is a Punk." Soon enough I can start scoping out a place for us to have our first rehearsal.

*****

What did I tell you about Flight of the Conchords and beer????

*****

Hey, about our meeting in February: let's plan it! Dates and airports should come first, followed by Carnival plans. Si?

P.S.

I love the lyrics! Especially, "Brunch, you're my favorite, you kick dinner's ass!" I miss brunch. They do not believe in brunch in Argentina.

The blue and red footed boobies are pretty perfect. Somehow we should incorporate the phrase "Boobies on Parade" into an album or song title, I think. "Boobies on Parade" could be a good follow-up album to our debut self-titled album.

the rest of the backward blog

I'm in the process of translating my first Your Mama joke, but all I have so far is "Tu mama..."

Bang on, Candy, bang on.

Dear Candy

THIS IS NOT A TEST

We interrupt this program to inform you that the (Inter)National Weather Service Doppler Radar has indicated a line of severe people-renting-their-babies-to-sketchy-people-on-the-street-so-that-you-will-be-more-likely-to-pity-them-and-give-them-money-and-less-likely-to-suspect-them-of-mugging-you-and-walk-with-purpose-in-the-opposite-direction. The National Weather Service in Buenos Aires, Argentina, has issued a severe Not Their Babies Watch for the following Capital Federal barrios: La Boca, Constitucion, San Telmo, Monserrat, San Cristobal, Balvanera, San Nicolas, Retiro, Recoleta, Palermo, and Almagro. This watch will remain in effect until further notice, Eastern Standard Time plus and hour.

This throws a wrench in the Baby-Safety Ratio, to say the least. I am afraid to leave the house.

for example, come again.

Sandy, Sincerely

It struck me (like lightning, twice) that, to a traditionalist, it may seem unconventional, if not backward, to form a band before knowing how to play any instruments. But then I started thinking about what “band” really means, the word itself (band of merry men, rubber band), which, in turn, started me thinking about HOMONYMS, and then words in general. Then I started thinking about languages, specifically English because it’s the one I speak in, let alone think in—and then I got on a tangent thinking, in English, about how it’s said (passive voice) that you know you’re becoming fluent in a second language when you start thinking or dreaming in it, which has not happened to me with Spanish, unless you count the one where I was being chased by a giant ham and cheese croissant, which I was referring to, in the dream, as la medialuna con jamon y queso muy peligrosa. But I don’t think you should count that one.

Then I went back to thinking about English, which segued nicely into thinking about teaching English, which is what I’ve been spending (present perfect progressive) the last month learning how to do. By this time I had forgotten (past perfect) how I came to be thinking about teaching English and had to read the first sentence again:

“It struck me (like lightning, twice) that, to a traditionalist, it may seem unconventional, if not backward, to form a band before knowing how to play any instruments.” It’s kind of like moving to a foreign country before learning how to speak the language. Also, a little bit like walking around places backward. Both of which I have been known, on occasion, to do.

Bands and languages have quite a few things in common. For example, they both have quite a bit to do with making sounds and hearing. The less you know about them while trying to [do] them, the more likely you are to sound like an idiot. People will often tell you how great you’re doing because they feel awkward telling you you suck (of note: the difference between the pronunciation of “sucks,” “six,” and “sex” is difficult for the non-native speaker to hear, so BE CAREFUL!).

Last night, I was lucky enough (que suerte!) to get into a cab of which the conductor did not feel awkward about telling me I suck. In fact, he shamed me the entire ride for my terrible Spanish (I doubt he would have appreciated my guitar skills, either). The worst part was that my Spanish is now good enough to understand people when they’re making fun of me (also when they’re catcalling at me), but not yet good enough to talk back. No, actually, the worst part was that the whole reason I had gotten into the cab in the first place was to escape the man who had been following me home and insisting on taking me out for a cup of coffee despite the fact that I told him I didn’t speak Spanish or English. (It started with him chasing me down in the crosswalk as I crossed the street to avoid him and went like this: “Oy, que hermosa—” “No.” “Queres un café—?” “No.” “Hablas espanol?” “No.” “Ingles?” “No.” “But how beautiful—” “No.” “But—” “No.” “But—” “No.” But—” “Taxi!”)

Juani (with whom, I’m sort of sorry to report, formal guitar lessons have been for the time being replaced by activities like watching Flight of the Conchords clips on YouTube and consuming large bottles of beer—btw, you can return the empty bottles to the little stores here and then the next beer costs less because they refund you the price of the bottles. It’s great!) tried to convince me that, unlike in America, here, women enjoy receiving catcalls (piropos). I refused to be convinced, but it made me wonder if the men in the States are under the same misconception. If so, someone should tell them we do not.

Some notes on vocabulary: In Spain, a pija is a high-class woman. Here, it’s a cock. Related is the fact that, while in America a fanny is what your grandmother threatened to whop your mother on if she misbehaved, in other English speaking countries (I learned from my Australian roommate, Andrew), it's a vagina. Thus, Andrew thinks fanny packs are pretty funny (but not for the same reason that we think they're funny). Likewise, what we call a flip flop, Andrew calls a thong. And when his thong is very old and the piece between the toes pops out of the bottom, he might say, "There's been a blowout in my thong." But back to Spanish. I should probably point out that “embarazada” means pregnant, not embarrassed. This is called a false cognate, which is the pitfall of the adding-things-like-ada-or-o-to-the-end-of-an-English-word-to-make-it-a-Spanish-word technique, which often (usually usually) works, but in some cases can lead to confusion and embarrassment or, in the worst-case scenario, embarazo.

Abortion is illegal here, but cosmetic surgery is free.

I had my first drum class today, at which I shared my reason for taking the class: "I'm staring a band, so I have to learn to play an instrument. This is the one I want to learn." It was physically strenuous, and taxing on my abilities to relax and, at times, distinguish left from right, but on the whole thoroughly enjoyable and enlightening.

First we said some things in Japanese. Then we followed Kaoru around a circle for a while, doing various things with our arms and legs. We brought our arms up and down, and then had them hand heavy and swing from left to right in timing with our steps. When we joined this with a third step for which we had to bend backward and touch a hand to the opposite foot -- well, this will take practice. We kicked our knees up and our feet back and jogged and took a water break. I was really glad I didn't go to yoga that morning and chose to sleep in instead.

After our water break, we partnered up and had to test the extent to which the other person relaxed their arms. This is accomplished by moving the arm around, back and forth, and dropping it. The people being tested are supposed to relax their arms, though they will often help or resist their tester. My arms did both. At one point, the tester dropped my arm and it stayed in place, and Kaoru came over to try to show me how a relaxed arm is supposed to move/make fun of me.

Then we learned how to bring our arms up and bring the sticks down. The idea is that your torso does the moving and your arms follow the inertia of the rest of your body, conveying more force to the swings down (rather than using your arm to hit the drum). When this idea was applied to actually hitting the drum with the sticks (bachi), my arms became very involved and are now very sore.

*****

I asked a friend who played taiko if he thought that they could be incorporated into an indie rock band. He thinks so. He also won an award for singing karaoke in Japan (in Japanese) and I recruited him to sing some vocals in Japanese. I think Boobie Circus will be big in Japan.

*****

It has been brought to my attention that there are also blue-footed boobies. Having a circus of red and blue-footed boobies (the bird itself is white) conjures patriotic images. Something to think about.

*****

How are your guitar lessons going? I hope you have been practicing!

My Jivamukti yoga class yesterday involved chanting in Sanskrit about Krishna. I think we should have a song about Krishna, and find someone who can sing in Sanskrit for the chorus. I don't know what the song should be about because I don't actually know what I was chanting.

I listened to Sumo and I like "Mejor No Hablas de Ciertas." "Heroina" and Wolf Parade's "Modern World" serve as a good Point/Counterpoint: "I'm in love with this modern world" and "I'm not in love with the modern world," respectively.

My grandma has Worishofer sandals. She is officially a sexy grandma.