The Lord Loves me Best
The beer is cold. Ice fucking cold. For reals. The refrigerators have large LCD thermometers, -3 deg (C, of course), -8, -15, sometimes it comes frozen. It’s mostly (at least in your average bar) Pilsner style–good but not great but, fuck me in the face, it’s cold.
I was dropped off today in a neighborhood called Savassi (in Belo Horizonte)–possibly to meet up with a tattoo artist friend of Luciana’s. She was cool–looked like a tattoo artist chic–a little bit hot, a little bit rundown but I hella made a tattoo appointment with her for Friday. What to get? I’ll work it out.
Ok.
I’m fucking moving here. Not because it’s great. It is great but everywhere is great when you’re on vacation. Steve needs me. It’s hard down here for him–it would be hard for anyone–but that’s not why either. I need adventure. I crave it. I need the the stimulation. I need to learn a foreign language. Think about it–I could come down here in June with about 10,000 bucks, live on that easily for six months or longer and be a friend to one of the greatest men that I have ever know, Steve Blanton. Of course, why wouldn’t I? And I’m young. I could live here for six months, a year, fuck….five years and still come back to SF (with a hot brazilian wife) and open a restaurant.
Oh, and another rad thing. Thumbs up. The thumbs up is a goddamn passport in this country. Thumbs up and hang loose. Thumbs up to the security guys–to your waiter–thumbs up to the guy who gives you directions. What a great country. Everyone is ecstatic to be alive here. I’m ecstatic to be alive here.
