Flora and fauna
I won't lie to you: the other night, while preparing a lovely green salad, Dacia discovered a frog in our lettuce. It was smallish, about the size of quarter, and clinging stubbornly to the inside of the lettuce bag. I don't know if frogs believe in cryogenics (really, I study literature, not science) but this guy had been living in our refrigerator for about two odd days, since the time we brought him home from the grocery. But it was fine. After we recovered from fact a frog was in our lettuce, we were fine too, and it all turned out to be a very National Geographic moment.
Outside the apartment, there was a guy sitting on a bike, starring at me as I dangled the plastic bag over the bushes. It was too dark for him to really see what I was doing, my little service to nature and all, and I imagine instead of witnessing this heart-felt repatriation, he saw only the unfathomable workings of some gringo. I tried to think of the Spanish equivalent of “hey, it's not what it seems, buddy, it's just a frog,” but I couldn't remember the word for frog, which was crucial. So after a successful bag-to-bush download, I went back inside.
Speaking of resilient species, this guy had a mullet —more accurately, he had a South American Soccer Mullet (mulleto futbolicus), which is everywhere down here. As those who don't play hockey or drive camaros already know, this hairstyle has been officially banished since the 80's. But down here, as if crossing the equator inverts certain northern truths, it's just the opposite. Mullets are worn with such authority and gravitas you feel as if you're observing an alternative path of history—a parallel dimension where the business-bangs and party vines only grew more legitimate with time, more rooted in the social norm. I won't go so far as to quote Michel Foucault, but the mullet definitely harbors power here, and those without them, that follically aberrant company of lesser men, they are sent beggarly to the Porteño periphery, in contempt of all things stylish.
A confession: although I remain mullet-less at the moment, I'm really just a few snips away from having one of my own (see picture). All that really stands between me and my mane of manhood is that cauterized shame brought on by Bon Jovi and his crimped ilk. But I must say, I've felt a remote desire to blend in, to go culture chameleon and upgrade my Argentinity to the level of fashion paragon. As long as I keep my mouth shut, sequestering my fragile Spanish as best I can, I think this foray into dilettantism would go more or less undetected. The only downside—and that may or may not be a mullet metaphor!—would be Dacia having the unenviable task of looking at me and my raccoon hat everyday. But it sure would be interesting. And journalistically speaking, a mullet would grant me unparalleled access to the cabal of porteño vanity—a topic which, in the spirit of brevity and procrastination, I will discuss at length in a later post. Bis dann.
Outside the apartment, there was a guy sitting on a bike, starring at me as I dangled the plastic bag over the bushes. It was too dark for him to really see what I was doing, my little service to nature and all, and I imagine instead of witnessing this heart-felt repatriation, he saw only the unfathomable workings of some gringo. I tried to think of the Spanish equivalent of “hey, it's not what it seems, buddy, it's just a frog,” but I couldn't remember the word for frog, which was crucial. So after a successful bag-to-bush download, I went back inside.
Speaking of resilient species, this guy had a mullet —more accurately, he had a South American Soccer Mullet (mulleto futbolicus), which is everywhere down here. As those who don't play hockey or drive camaros already know, this hairstyle has been officially banished since the 80's. But down here, as if crossing the equator inverts certain northern truths, it's just the opposite. Mullets are worn with such authority and gravitas you feel as if you're observing an alternative path of history—a parallel dimension where the business-bangs and party vines only grew more legitimate with time, more rooted in the social norm. I won't go so far as to quote Michel Foucault, but the mullet definitely harbors power here, and those without them, that follically aberrant company of lesser men, they are sent beggarly to the Porteño periphery, in contempt of all things stylish.
A confession: although I remain mullet-less at the moment, I'm really just a few snips away from having one of my own (see picture). All that really stands between me and my mane of manhood is that cauterized shame brought on by Bon Jovi and his crimped ilk. But I must say, I've felt a remote desire to blend in, to go culture chameleon and upgrade my Argentinity to the level of fashion paragon. As long as I keep my mouth shut, sequestering my fragile Spanish as best I can, I think this foray into dilettantism would go more or less undetected. The only downside—and that may or may not be a mullet metaphor!—would be Dacia having the unenviable task of looking at me and my raccoon hat everyday. But it sure would be interesting. And journalistically speaking, a mullet would grant me unparalleled access to the cabal of porteño vanity—a topic which, in the spirit of brevity and procrastination, I will discuss at length in a later post. Bis dann.
To mullet or not to mullet?
posted by This is borrowed time at 11:05 AM
1 Comments:
ory is hilarious!
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