Argentina Travelogue II

     Many apologies to the two of you who read this hideous blog,

For which I don't get paid

"Nobody's forcing you to write."

Good point.

but I've been pretty busy the past couple of weeks.  The biggest demand on my time is that I'm renovating my living room, removing a nasty old carpet and replacing it with super swanky vinyl plank flooring.

    To say things aren't going as quickly as I hoped would be an understatement.

    For instance....  

THE ENTIRE FUCKING WEEKEND

    As I'm quite tired (and may wave the white flag tomorrow and hire me some Mexicans)...

"Unless I get them first!"

I thought I'd relax with yet another Argentina travelogue.

    As you know, I spent half of October there.  Besides being at a loss as to most of whatever people were talking about, I had a bueno time.  I learned quite a bit about the culture while I was there.

They're more than just bidets, you know

    An interesting bit of what they do south of the equator comes from how they handle disposing of household waste.  Each house has some sort of wire cage at the front of their house for garbage.  They dump their trash bags in it and, a few times a week, the city (or fairies) whisks it away.  Easy peasy.

"Someone say 'fairy'?"

Some are bigger than others.  This particular one was for four homes!

    While I think this is a pretty neat way of getting rid of garbage, I really can't see something like this becoming standard practice in the United States.

We tend to generate more trash.

    You'd have a better chance of Americans using bidets. 

"IF I WANT A DIRTY BUTT, IT'S MY RIGHT AS AN AMERICAN TO HAVE ONE!"

    Perhaps not.

The Eleventh Hour of the Eleventh Day of the Eleventh Month

 

     Happy Veterans Day!

    I know most of you are expecting my typical wise-guy approach (for those of you who aren’t, what have you been reading?).  Most of the time I oblige because there’s a lot of the ludicrous in our lives (if you think I’m wrong, just remember:  Donald Trump's hair). 

    This one time, though, no wisecracks, no innuendos, no witty asides.  In a break from my usual “shtick,” I’m going to play it straight and briefly speak on the significance of the eleventh day of the eleventh month.

    NOTE:  Okay, one wisecrack.  Aren’t “innuendos” Italian suppositories?

    On November 11th, 1918, the Germans surrendered to the Allied powers in the Forest of Compiegne, ending what was then known as the Great War.  Little did they know there would be a sequel nearly 21 years later.

    But that’s another story.

    The following November, noted scold and racist President Woodrow Wilson declared that “Armistice Day” would henceforth be observed in honor of those who had fallen during the “war to end all wars” (kinda dropped the ball with THAT one, didn’t we?).

    Following the Second World War (the “good” war, an oxymoron if I ever heard one), the town of Emporia, Kansas changed “Armistice” to “Veterans” Day.  The idea was to honor everyone who had served in the armed forces rather than only those who’d fought against the Kaiser.

    As the years went by, the idea of setting a special day aside for veterans took hold throughout the nation.  In 1954, Congress made the name change official while President Eisenhower called on all Americans to observe the day.  But, surprisingly, it took until 1971 for Richard Nixon to declare it a federal holiday.

    In the years since, it’s become little more than an excuse to hold blowout sales on everything from bed linen to used cars (“Buy this Chevy because Patton would have wanted you to.”).  Ceremonies marking the day have been lost in the madcap frenzy of pre-Christmas commercialism.  In fact, what was once a universal day off has turned into pretty much a “federal government employees only” respite.

    It’s like Columbus Day that way.

    I don’t have a problem with this, per se, if it was still recognized for the solemn event that it is.  After all, Veterans Day is much more than sleeping in late and watching Sponge Bob Squarepants in your pajamas while wolfing down a bowl of “Chocolate Frosted Sugar Bombs.”

    Unfortunately, many people don’t even know what Veterans Day is all about.  While at work on a November 11^th many years ago, I was flabbergasted when the morning announcements at the school where I worked proclaimed Veterans Day merely as a “day to recognize older people who had a lot of experience.”

    What!?  Now, I don’t wish to denigrate Grandpa’s fly-fishing prowess and, boy howdy, ain’t it cool that Great-Aunt Tilly can knit a quilt with her feet, but c’mon!  Since when is bowling a perfect game the same as convoy duty in Afghanistan?  Quick answer-it’s not.

    As a result, I spent the balance of the day quizzing my coworkers on whether they knew what put the “veteran” in Veterans Day.  Sadly, I was depressed by their appalling lack of knowledge, as very few of them actually understood what all the fuss was about.  But, you can bet your bottom dollar they knew who the frontrunners were on “Dancing With the Stars.”

    Shocking as it was, I know they weren’t the only ones who had no clue that the 11th of November was different than any other day.  It goes without saying there’s a need to set a few things straight. 

    So, I call on all of us who know better to teach others about Veterans Day.  Urge those around you to take a moment to remember our veterans and those who are still in harm’s way.

    You don’t have to go to a flag-raising ceremony, attend a parade, or even buy one of those “Buddy Poppies” (although I do, because I enjoy talking to those guys).  You don’t have to agree on this war or that war and you certainly don’t have to watch The Sands of Iwo Jima at attention.

    If nothing else, reflect on the service of all those who have worn, and continue to wear, our nation’s uniform.  From Lexington to Kabul, they deserve our respect and our thanks.

    As a veteran myself, I salute them all.

 

Socks in the Bidet

 Argentina Travelogue

Surprisingly, not a handwash for little people.

"Well, what the fuck are we supposed to use then?"

    As most of you know, I spent half of October in Argentina.  Not to scout for elderly Nazis, you understand,

"Whew!  Thank Gott!  Errr....I mean 'Gracias a Dios!'."

but because my wife's parents were born there.  Before they emigrated to the United States in the early 60s. 

    You know, before it became a shithole.

"I feel attacked.  You?" 
"Well, we're both dead, so screw him."

    Anyway, she still has family there and wanted to visit.  Since she hasn’t been back for thirty years, she figured it was high time to return.  Even though everyone has changed.

    She, however, has not.  She is as beautiful as ever.

    NOTE:  CYA in case she reads this.

    She had a great time.  Me?  I had a good time, as well.  Even though all they speak is Spanish down there and I learned in short order that my high school Spanish wasn’t up to the task.

I did my best to fit in, though.

    So for thirteen days I sat in a corner like a dummy, unable to understand a single word.  Besides, "I don't understand" and “Where’s the toilet?”  Because that kind of knowledge is pretty important.

    Except for the language barrier, Argentina is a very nice place.  Once Juan and Eva Peron faded away, that is.

    NOTE:  Euphemism for “died.”

"Wait.  What?"

    There’s a slew of cultural differences, mostly good.  One example is that, when people arrive, they immediately kiss each other on the cheek (on the face, you perv), perfect stranger or no.

    Since I didn’t speak the language, I chalked this up to the fact that I am wildly cute.

    Then, my wife burst my bubble.  "No, you narcissistic nitwit," she explained, 

"Narcissist? I'm your huckleberry."  

"they do it so people are immediately put at ease." Apparently, doing so relaxes folks who, even though a stranger just planted one on their face, they have nothing to fear.

Although, I steered clear of Uncle Tico.

    I think this is a great way to interact with each other.

Until I remembered Judas greeted Jesus with a kiss.

    I wouldn’t mind settling there.  However, that would put thousands of miles between me and my children and grandchildren.  And that I will not do.

    But, we’ll go back next year.  I hope to learn more Spanish phrases than the location of the john by then.

    Possibly, "Oops, I plugged the toilet."

    Oh, the title of this post?

    One of the cultural realities of Argentina (and, to be honest, much of the world), is that every bathroom has a bidet in it.

    The morning after we arrived (after saying “Donde esta el bano?” to our host-high school taught me that at least), I used the facilities to...uh...do I need to draw you a picture?

    Following my sojourn on the throne, I planned on showering.  However, when I moved my clean clothes to the shower stall, I dropped my socks in the bidet.

    I quickly retrieved them.  Since they appeared to be unscathed by a (thankfully) unused bidet, I still put them on.  I figured that, if they were tainted, they’d be on my feet under my shoes anyway.  So, I felt reasonably safe.

    Besides, I had no choice.  I didn’t know Spanish for “I have potty ewwwww on my socks.”  

The Day After

"So, back in the attic I go, eh?"

     It's November 1st.  The day after Halloween.  Youthful extortion for all manner of tasty goodies has come and gone.

    Although I'm sad to report that we only had one trick-or-treater last evening.  Numbers of little urchins knocking on my door have been dwindling over the past several years, but last night was a new low. Perhaps next year I won't even bother getting candy...?

    Oh, hell, who am I kidding?   When October 31st, 2026 arrives, I'll still have a bowl of candy in case anyone comes a-knocking.  I just won't rush home from work to do so.

    Still, the dearth of little superheroes, ghostly critters, and, yes, Blue Man Group impersonators has left me sad.  I guess it's a sign of the times and a possible shift in our culture.  Don't have to like it, but there it is.

    On the bright side?

Leftover candy is mine.  All mine.

 Bonus blog bit:

Since I went to Catholic School (aka "Penguin Academy")...

"I never liked that term.
Knuckles if ye please, cheeky boyo."

my brothers, sister, and I could sleep in the next day, All Saints Day.  To those “in the club” (so to speak), November 1st was a “Holy Day of Obligation” and so, was a day off from school (a point rendered moot if it fell on the weekend.  In that case, we groused that we were ripped off by Jesus).

NOTE:  I'm not sure if it still is a Holy Day of Obligation.  Or, if so, Catholic School inmates students still have the day off.
Since today is a Saturday, I guess that means they can suck it, though.

    This meant we could shove candy down our throats when we got home until we passed out, woke up, ate some Sugar Smacks, inhaled more Three Musketeers, watched cartoons, and made fun of the public school kids as they trudged off to class.

     This was the best part of having the day off because the public school kids were beating us up the rest of the year.   Even the girls.

Those public-school kids really had no sense of humor.

Next:  I'll begin my "Argentina Travelogue."