Nog! Nog! Nog! and other stuff.

Observe the gloopy wonder that is Argentinean heavy cream. Makes American whipping cream look like skim milk. And no, this isn't sour cream, or any kind of condiment - it's just thick, rich, nearly unpourable goodness. And with it, I made thick, rich, and eminently pourable eggnog, which we served to our lovely guests on Christmas. I like to think a good time was had by all, though at some point my brain shut off but like always, my mouth just kept going, so I'm certain I talked a ridiculous amount of shit and came up with ideas like "Hey! Let's go see if that nice waiter from downstairs wants to come up to our party!" The truth that things that seem like madcap and zany fun when drunk are actually obnoxious drunkard activities is one I should have absorbed long ago, but no. From now on, I'm going to write "IT WON'T BE FUNNY LATER" on my palms whenever I take to drinking. Perhaps a tattoo is in order.

Today, I met with an incredibly nice girl who writes a knitting blog here, and serves as an unofficial sherpa to people visiting the yarn district - her blog has attracted lots of travelers with yarn problems, like myself, and like the nice lady who took coffee with us today. I forgot my camera, naturally, but I will put up some photos of some yarn I bought recently, because I know how to bore and alienate my friends. Whatever, dudes, this is like 40 bucks worth of yarn. Scarves for everybody! Anyway, a total sweetie, and we were joined by a very nice lady celled Marcela, an Argentinean living in LA - very good times, and good for my knit-geek tendencies.

And in dog news, I made as if to pet a little sweet looking fellow who looked lost and sad, sitting in the doorway of a house - and leapt back in horror as he turned into a whirling, snapping flash of teeth and snarls. As it turns out, not every dog wants to be my friend. Sr. Opposite of Waffles, I am sorry that life has ruined petting for you. I am glad you did not bite me.

A Farewell to Meats

So, we didn't go to the asado because we're idiots. The asado-having dude wrote down the date (three times, in fact) as "Viernes, Dec. 23rd" and YES I know Viernes means Friday, but Dec. 23rd was burned in my brain and then when I looked, I realized Friday was the 22nd, and we we missed the whole thing. Ah well. Perhaps he will grill meats at some other time, and invite us again. But what I did do Friday was reach a whole new level of assholery by going to a goddamn fancy spa and paying ladies to squeeze me in places I can't reach and apply things to my face in sequences I can't memorize. Turns out gay shit like that is WAY CHEAPER than in New York and also, that I love gay shit like that. So Megan and I went to Home, which is this fantastically frou-frou boutique hotel where, natch, the Bush whores stayed when they came here, and has a spa, and well, I emerged well-rubbed and facialized. Then I ruined it all by drinking a pile of insanely delicious girly minty drinks and then switching to bourbon when it got to be too much and finally just shoveling down a pile of empanadas and cigarettes and more bourbon and, well, today mama feels like she got hit by a truck. But we are having a little Christmas party down here on Christmas Day. I'm making eggnog (with cream that is 42% milkfat, eat it bitches) and John got this awesome little tree made of like plastic and rat turds which I will post pictures of, and one thing I like is that down here they don't assault you with Christmas crap everywhere and canned carols in all the stores and a fat man in a red suit on every corner looking to bad-touch your five year old and for that, I say hooray. Hooray!

In which Johnny makes a friend, and there is the prospect of grilled meats

Who says drinking doesn't pay off? John and I have been invited to an asado (grilled meat party, a barbeque basically) by this older poet fellow who holds court in a bar we frequent, said bar being the one where we were given coca leaves to chew. John spent some time time talking to a big dude of Native descent who made it very clear that he would kill anybody that fucked with us. This wasn't due to any particular awesomeness on our part, I don't think; they guy just had that spoiling for a fight glint in his eye. He also gave us a ride home, which ended with me, in full on jello-mold drunkie mcdrunkerton mode, mush-mouthing some sort of thanks and getting the exact response I deserved - "Yes. Yes. Get out of my car now." Not the first time I've heard it. Anyway, I'm excited about the asado. I'll be sure to bring the camera and regale you all with pictures of delicious grillitude.

In news less dripping with whiskey, we went to see a band called Massacre at the invitation of Moira and Agustin. Moira and Agustin: fun and awesome. Band: also fun and awesome. Thumbs up all around. No pictures to post, as I forgot my camera - that's why they call this blogging, not journalism. Nobody's tried to give me any dogs all week, though I did take a cab in which the cabbie had posted a sign for a Dobermann puppy for sale. Luckily the dog was not physically present, lest I have a Herr Waffles to add to the pile.

The Argentinean Plot to Kill Me with Free Dogs

So Johnny and I took a little train ride up to Tigre today, which is outside the city and boasts an amusement park, which we did not visit, and a giant craft market, which we did. Upon typing the words "craft market" a fanny pack sprouted as if by the blackest of magic on my hip. Anyway, I was wandering around in kind of a retail haze after buying cheap earrings and things made out of sheep and then John said, "I probably shouldn't tell you this, but there are puppies over there." Yeah, nice work, Pastore. Not just puppies, a BASKET OF PUPPIES. That they were giving away for FREE. Why is Argentina trying to kill me? Sr. Waffles II, welcome to the dog pound in my heart.

On a non-dog related note, we went out Friday night with some friends of Ana, an Argentinean living in New York who had the unenviable task of trying to teach me Spanish before we came here. They were extremely great people and I hope we see them again. The experience also opened my eyes to a curious fact: while folks here do indeed, uh, rock it to the break of dawn - literally, the bars close as the sun comes up - they don't, for the most part, seem to get drunk. Walking home among clutches of revellers who, while boisterous, are not actually weaving or falling down is both weird and a bit shaming, to me, seeing as the only reason I never noticed nobody was drunk before is because I was too busy busting my knee on the sidewalk and trying not to walk into walls. Clearly, I am the sort of steady, responsible person who should be allowed to own a dog

Mama said something about knocking you out, but I wasn't really paying attention, were you?

By far my most favorite thing about this boxing class is watching the guys greet each other with enthusiastic kisses on the cheek. I wish they did that shit at Gleason's. It would be a sight to behold. All in all, I appreciate the cheek-kiss thing they have going in this country. I'm kind of shy to initiate it, on accounta it's not automatic for me and what if I go the wrong way and kiss them full on the mouth or just whack them in the head with my forehead or something? - but I'm more than willing to accept it. But when I leave class I'm going with just saying "chau" and scooting, so I hope I'm not coming off as some don't-touch-me uptight type. Actually I think my "type" is more "hapless nincompoop who freezes like a deer in the headlights anytime anyone addresses her with the simplest of questions." It's pretty awesome, being a foreigner. Now I know how all those Korean chicks felt in my Vis-Com Core class in college. Tonight, I study verb conjugation.
Also, getting whapped with boxing gloves on a sunburn? It does not tickle. I think "I have a sunburn" is "tengo un quemadura del sol" or "estoy quemado" or "el maldito sol es mi ENMIGO, mira, mira, el piel es tan rojo y quemado, soy un monstre" but I didn't want to be some kind of, you know, pussy. But I'll be one here: owwwww.

Circus Drunk

What would happen if you stuck a clown in a blender? And maybe added some cotton candy, circus peanuts, and the wails of frightened children? Probably something like this. A shade of pink just one lighter than the ol' Pepto Bismol, it tastes JUST like this pink medicine I used to look forward to as a kid, and it's 28 motherfuckin' proof, y'all. I anticipate some ugly nights on this shit. I can already hear the organ-grinder. In every sense of those words.

Rock Lobster

We got us some bikes! Which means John feels human again and I'm back to tootling along behind him, hoping he won't forget I'm there and go full on bike commando. I am not so brave or so fast as John. Also, my bike is a total girl bike. It's turquoise and has big fat tires and a fucking BASKET and weighs about a billion pounds. I've come to love the basket. It makes me wish I had puppies to put in it. Ohhhh, Sr. Waffles!!

So anyway, we took our bikes up to a nature preserve and saw the river. There are all these boulders along the bank that are actually big chunks of a brick wall that have been rounded by time and weather and look awesome and weird. I angered a man selling french fries by giving him 2 2-peso notes for 2.50 purchase ("you don't have any change?" he asked me. No, dude, don't you??). Much fuss was made before I got my six quarters and I left feeling terrible. I did a completely half-ass job of putting on sunscreen, so my arms look like I should be in the Duran Duran "Rio" video. White hand splotches, streaks of lobster red. But dang, doesn't that just prove how good sunscreen is? I mean, the shit WORKS - where I did manage to put goo I'm as ghostly white as ever. Secretly, however, I am looking forward to peeling. And I hear melanoma's a party.