The view from Bar Bocaiúva. I miss you, Bolinho de Carne. I miss you, Marta.

If I say you’re from Sacramento it’s because I think you’re lame.

See you in church.

Here’s the numbers:

In the spring of 2007 I was 275lbs (125kgs - for the Brazilians).  At 6′1″ (185.4cm).  That’s fat.  Obese.  No matter how you parse it.  I didn’t really care because I loved food and beer and the lord and didn’t really want to live forever.  So there.  Well, I cared sometimes and I would try to lose weight lamely and always fail.  And then, in the spring of 2007 I thought to myself, “Dude.  It’s super easy.  Light exercise and portion control.  You’re active so you don’t really have to do much there.  Just eat less.  Eat whatever you want, just eat less of it.  And do a cost benefit analysis of everything you eat.  Is this fucking worth it?”

Bricka bracka firecracker sis boom bah!

By spring 2008, after one year of the patented J. Beaman diet of “is this fucking worth it?”  I was down to 215lbs (98kgs).  A net loss of 60lbs (27kgs).  And it continued to be easy.  I spent some time in Brazil and hovered between 215lbs (98kgs) and 225lbs (102kgs).  No biggie.  Awesome.

But, fuck you, America.  I’ve been back for 2 1/2 months and I’m up to 245lbs (111kgs).  It’s been a hard 2 1/2 months, I know, but this is a huge bummer.  Or an opportunity, as Steve Blanton would say, for spiritual growth.  But, seriously, fuck you, America.  I’m blaming you with your sneaky bullshit and your delicious candy bars and your sour cream and guacamole and your braised meats and pizza and hamburgers.  Oh, hamburgers.  You’re so tasty but so fucking evil.  I will not be lured back into fatlandia.  I will not allow it.

I’m going to be back to 215lbs (98kgs) before I return to Brazil at the end of August.  Maybe I’ll go on a fast.  Fasts are like temporary anorexia but you don’t have to feel guilty about it because you learned about it in Yoga class.

The rest of you should just listen to it all the time.

Left as Rain

The Dirty Projectors?  ABC News?  Pitchfork?  I don’t get it.

Oh, and I got a job.

Oh, and zero side effects from Chantix.

All kinds of good news.

Now, there was a note about….well this is the note:

“Some patients have reported changes in behavior, agitation, depressed mood, suicidal thoughts or actions when attempting to quit smoking while taking CHANTIX or after stopping CHANTIX. If either you, your family, or caregiver notice agitation, depressed mood, or changes in behavior that are not typical for you, or if you develop suicidal thoughts or actions, stop taking CHANTIX and call your doctor right away. Also tell your doctor about any history of depression or other mental health problems before taking CHANTIX, as these symptoms may worsen while taking CHANTIX.”

All medicine is dangerous and I’m pretty adventurous and I want to quit smoking.  Plus, people are spazzes and something like 20% of people probably freak the fuck out on a goddamned sugar pill.  Big babies.  I felt that way.  Past tense.  Until I read this scary motherfucking shit:

“One afternoon, I was typing away at advertising copy, and as I did so, I began to wonder how I had succeeded in fooling myself that my life had any sort of value at all. Writing? Sure, it was what I’d wanted to do since I was 6—but at the end of the day, who cared? Maybe I should just go downstairs and leap in front of a tour bus. Or launch my head through the computer screen. All this seemed logical, but also weirdly funny, even at the time: I could see how crazy these impulses were, I could recognize them as suicidal clichés. But I couldn’t make them go away.

A few minutes later, they did, and I thought, Who was the depressed seventh-grade goth girl who had just muscled into my brain? I hadn’t thought of suicide in any serious way since I was a teenager, and that had just been adolescent posturing. I had no interest in killing myself—that’s why I wanted to quit smoking in the first place.”

And this:

A week into my Chantix usage, I started to feel as if the city landscape had imperceptibly shifted around me. Mundane details began to strike me as having deep, hidden significance. The neon arch above McDonald’s: The lights blinked on and off in some sort of pattern, and I needed to crack the code. One of my co-workers was messing with some papers: What is he trying to imply with all that damned crinkling? Sitting in the subway: A man hurries to get inside. His hand, holding a cup of coffee, gets stuck in the closing door. I watch the hand wriggle. The lid bursts open and steaming brown liquid hits the floor. Fingers twitch and splay. Coffee splashes in crisscrossing slats through the subway car. It was a sign—something bad was going to happen.

Oh, god, Oh, god, we’re all going to die.

I wrote my doc a nasty-ish email reminding him that I had asked about side effects and he responded with dreams.  Whoo-fucking-hoo.  Nothing about suicidal ideations or intense moodiness or hallucinations.  I’m a bit of a moody bitch anyway (I told the doctor this when I asked him about side effects) so things could go really bad.  But then again, something like 6 million motherfuckers have taken it and 27 have offed themselves.  I should be in good shape.  But if you see me staring at the lights outside the Lone Palm or sending undecipherable emails (more than usual) tell me to get off this shit.

Then again, if I off myself, I won’t have to look for a job anymore.  Always looking at the bright side.

I will say a few things without being too specific.  There are a ton of restaurants on this list that would never hire me.  I’m just too J. Beaman most of the time and am light years away from compromising my constitution.  And, there are a few restaurants that I would never work at.  But, I will apply to them all

The Resume:

J. Beaman
San Francisco, CA 94110
415.200.7344

The Point (the cover letter)

Resumes.  Even in the good times a million of them come over the fax and (now, more and more) in the email but now that things are a little rough all over it’s a staggering proposition to sift and sort and categorize them all.  Reading them.  Writing them.  I wouldn’t be unique in saying I hate writing them but it has always seemed to me such an exercise in narcissism, an advertisement for yourself.  “Hey look at me!  I’m awesome!”  Distasteful, yes.  Necessary, yes.  I’ll keep it short as to not bore you.

I am not an architect.  Or a unemployed graphic designer.  I am not a writer or a painter, nor do I have secret dreams of moving to New York and opening up a boutique gallery.  I am a waiter.  A bartender.  Restaurants are in my blood and there are not words to describe the joy I feel, the rush of comfort and warmth, when I walk through their doors.  Dining or working.  I would at times find myself in a foul mood bumping through the this and that of a normal day of normal living but watch it magically turn around with the cutting of limes and stocking of wine.  By the time the first customer walked in the door, it was a whole new world for me.  And it’s about service.  I love making food sound desireable.  I desire fine food (Well, I desire bad food, too) and I think that passion is contagous.  And it’s about the joy a customer experiences trying something new, of relishing something old and learning and relearning the singularly unique joy that is dining.

Curriculum Vitae (from now to then, sort of)

Brazil 2008-2009
Ok, it’s not a job but it does qualify in some ways, right?  I lived in a gorgeous blue collar city in the interior (yeah, no beaches) of the country for almost a year, learning portuguese, trying to figure out the culture and drinking cold beer in the sun.  The siren song of SF hummed ceaselessly and I finally came home.

Firefly Restaurant - Bartender/Waiter - 2005-2008
www.fireflyrestaurant.com
Maybe the best job ever.  I’m honestly not sure if I’ve ever worked in such a magical place with such a delightful and charming group of folks.  It is without exaggeration that I tell you that this joint, this little unassuming restaurant in Noe Valley, singularly changed my life, made me a better man and infused my soul with a some kind of something that I will carry with me until the day that I die.  Food that will make you believe in Love again and conjure fond childhood memories that you didn’t have.  All of this with no pretense.  You may not believe it; I don’t believe it either sometimes, but it’s true.  And in your best third grade voice maybe you’re saying, “If you love it so much, why don’t you marry it?” and that is a great question.  They would like me to rejoin the team but I think it’s time for me to move on, to learn something new and to expand, stretch and morph my love of food in San Francisco.

Karen Lo (Manager) or Brad Levy (Owner) - 415.821.7652

Alamo Drafthouse Cinema - Austin, TX - Waiter - 2002-2005
www.originalalamo.com
It’s a movie theater, with food and buckets of beer.  Every other row of seats has been removed and replaced with a row of tables.  What to say?  I waited tables, was charming and efficient with the people, got along well with my co-workers and employers (managers and owners), and loved my job.  It is missed.   If any new job, and any new bosses (read: you), are half as great as these fine folks I will do a dance in the street.  It will be a funny dance because I dance kind of funny, but it will be one from the heart.

Karen Davis (General Manager) 512.422.5771

Hole in the Wall - Austin, TX - Manager/Bartender/Booker/Enforcer - 2001-2004
holeinthewallaustin.com
Mid-2004 I was behind the bar on an afternoon shift and noticed that a beefy, wobbly drunk with the high and tight hairdo usually associated with cops and marines was wandering from woman to woman throughout the bar. I walked over to one of the women and asked, “What is he looking for?” “He offered me a hundred dollars to go home with him.” Oh, Jesus. I watched him for another moment. He was clearly offering money to all the women in the bar. I walked over, put my hand on his shoulder and said, “Hey, man, you can’t be doing that here. I think it’s time for you to go.” He left, dejected and head down, as drunks are wont to do, and I thought to myself, “Wow, if it were always that easy.” Forty-five minutes later, the door slowly opened, and my new friend came in, hunched over, with leafy branches in his pockets and tucked behind his ears. He dropped to his hands and knees and crawled over to the far side of the main room, and I said, firmly, “Dude, you cannot be in here.” “You can’t see me,” he whispered. “I am wearing camouflage.” He was knocking over tables and chairs as he was crawling and striking fear in the hearts of the patrons. Mine, too. I handed the phone to a glassy-eyed regular and said, “Call 911,” and walked over to Puck. He immediately picked up a pool stick and swung it at me. I spent the next five minutes trying to calm him down, waiting desperately for the cops to arrive. When they finally showed, they just stood in the doorway and watched me talk to him. Eventually he decided to leave and made it all the way out the door before he took a swing at one of the cops and it was over for him at that point. After he was subdued, I asked the police why they hadn’t intervened. I was obviously in harm’s way. “You were handling it well, and we thought if we stepped up and made a scene it would go poorly. We try to let you do your job, and we’ll do ours.” I think that was the nicest thing a cop ever said to me.

Brooks Alan Brannon (Day Manager) - 512.477.4747

Ken’s Christmas Trees - Black River Falls, WI - Worker - 2000-2003
(or the great escape - the short version)
In the summer of 2000 I ran from my big-city life, my big-city job and my big-city problems (you know, rent, dating, car insurance) to chase the bohemian dream of freight-train hopping, eating beans from the can on the roadside and maybe, if I was lucky, doing some migrant farm work.  I would write it all down, and clove-smoking teenagers would read it in suburban coffee shops in twenty years.  Fate led to more fate, and I met Dave Guenther, owner of Ken’s Christmas Trees (Dave, son of Ken) in Black River Falls, Wisc.  Courtesy of Dave, I learned how to use a chainsaw, how to load a semi full of trees, and more than anyone would want to know about firs and pines.  I loved the work so much, I was lured up north to sell trees three years in a row.

Two Note Solo - Austin, TX - Creative Director/Co-Founder - 2001-Present
In addition to sorting through the massive slush pile of submissions, my tenure at Two Note Solo has had me developing my own skills as a writer as well as harvesting the words of other talented people. Of course, there’s more to printing a magazine than what goes on the page, and the severe lack of talented art directors, web designers and personal assistants who are willing to work for free forced many of those tasks on me. There is also the challenge of finding money to reproduce those pages, and through Two Note Solo I’ve been a part of special events ranging from Open Screen Night (think open mic night but with crappy movies instead of folk songs in the pre-YouTube days), the Drunk Film Festival and Chemistry 101 (a home-grown dating show).

Henri Mazza (Editor) - 512.297.7269

And today’s applications go to:

A16
Acquerello
Aqua
Aziza
Bar Bambino
Beretta
Betelnut
Bistro Aix
Bix
Bocadilos
Boulevard

“Straight Huggin’.  No tolerance for intolerance.”

The quote for our age.

Brunch. Beer. Tacos. Dolores Park. Seriously.

This is what Oliver looks like when he east meat at Mercado Central.

Carmen shaking that pandeirão.

Matias shaking his own version. Not as hot but still pretty cute.

This girl came up to me at the end of night and shouted, “When are you going to stop hating me!” Right then was the answer.

That’s the end of day one and Oliver didn’t think that it could get any better. But it did.

Most beautiful day ever, Santa Tereza. My little hood.

On the viaduto. To our left is Parque Municipal and forward is Centro.

Filipe is very untrusting.

Yeah, foxy. Yeah, crazy.

Tender love.

The waitresses as Casa Café Lounge. My favorite.

Lily Allen - It’s Not Me, It’s You (February 10th)

People hate on Lily Allen but people are dicks.  I’m seriously going to wee myself when I finally get a copy of this record.  And I love love love this cover:

Other best, unheard records of 2009:
Dan Auerbach (Black Keys singer) - Keep It Hid (February 10th)
M. Ward - Hold Time (February 17th)

Neko Case - Middle Cyclone (March 3rd)
Bonus mp3 from her new record - People Got A Lotta Nerve:

And, Anti will donate 5 bucks to the Best Friends Animal Society for every blog that posts this mp3.  Neko Case loves kittens!  Puppies!  Internet hype!

Dan Deacon - Bromst (March 24th)
The Decemberists - Hazards Of Love (March 24th)
The Wrens - ???? (dunno)

Antony & the Johnsons - Epilepsy is Dancing - From The Crying Light

And, the bonus, a fucking stunningly beautiful, creepy, epileptic hallucination cabaret number.  With butterflies.  This kind of shit is the reason that I wake up in the morning.  Cut me in quadrants, leave me in the corner.

Standard Def here (but if you can shrink this window and wait for the high def to load, I highly recommend it:

High Def here:

Great article in New York Magazine this week about Antony.  Fuck a bunch of Animal Collective.

Best Day Ever.

Average people listen to cool stuff when they’re twenty and then become idiots. I know, it’s like saying the sky is blue. But what about super cool, interesting culturally engaged folks? When do they die out? My uncle (check here and here) was beyond fucking cool in the 70’s and 80’s but now he’s a didactic bully who hasn’t listened to anything new since 1997 (and that was just luck).

I think it’s finally happening to me.

Let’s get to the goddamned marrow of this shit. I hate the new Animal Collective record. It’s boring, droney, shapeless, drum circle, hippie bullshit. I saw an interview with them last year and they talked about how much they loved the Dead…I squinted my eyes at the computer, sipped my coffee and closed the window. And now this Merriweather malarky.

The Internet is Bella Swan and Merriweather Post Pavilion is Edward Cullen and I want to throw up.

It’s he beginning of the end, you guys. My cool friends can point to this day, January 19th, 2009 as the day that I started to not matter (my friends that aren’t as cool as me, I’ll still be cooler than you because, whether you like it or not, you’re getting lamer everyday too). And I’m blaming it all on Animal Collective. Fucking dicks.

Girl Talk, eat you heart out.

From New York - 23%
From Scandinavia - 10%
From countries where English is the primary spoken language - 87%
Bands with women - 31%
From cities I have lived in - 15%
Bands that are new to me - 67%
Percent that I agree with Micael - 88%

It started with Matias coming over with a huge pork loin with peaches and cinnamon and tasty fatty bits (he even brought a baster - which I still have), basmati rice and yummy potato salad made by the world famous Carmen Burns’ mom. We ate, we drank, we watched some TV and drank some more.

A note on Christmas in Brazil: It happens on Christmas Eve and it happens fucking late. The shit usually doesn’t end until 1 or 2am with family and gifts and food. Matias had the idea of having a Christmas Eve after family party at my house. A party that starts around 1 or 2am. Srsly. Only in Brazil.

Just me and Matias. Fuck the world.

So, with bellies full of beer and tasty pig and minds full of cheesy overacted melosupsensedrama, Matias and settled down to await the arrival of the family folks. The phone would ring and Matias would say with a wry smile, “Come over! Everyone’s here!” No one was there. Well, Matias and I were. Which, I suppose, are the important folks. But people believed him and what proceeded was the best first party at my house ever.

We should really start with this:

That’s fucking Art. Ok, now we can move on.

Maíra and Hudson showed up and Maíra was fucking wasted. She needed a nap and thanks to the hammock, she got one.

CFB. For the win.

The obligatory super-sexy shot of Carmen.

Lovinglyish.

Maíra is angry because we woke her up.

That’s Mari and Bella. Bella, the guest of honor.

Filipe and Mari. I was in the grocery store the other day and the cashier wrinkled her nose at me and said, “Those glasses are for girls. Pink?!”

Bella’s sad because there wasn’t enough beer for her.

Hudson. Pooping.

Blurry group shot.

At about 4am, Maíra decided that we were going dancing. She can be, let’s say, persuasive. Matias, Carmen, Julia and Mario decided to just hang out at my place to drink and talk the rest of the night away while Hudson, Maíra, Mari and I decided to go dance the night away.

We went to a few places but then ended up settling on A Obra, a cavernous, sweltering basement shithole (lovable but a shithole nonetheless). There was beer and sweat and dancing.

As scary as it looks.

We exited A Obra at around 7:30am in search of breakfast. We found it a fancy hotel, downtown. We were a little worse for wear but delighted by scrambled eggs, bacon, pão de queijo and other vittles.

9am. Time to go home. Ah, but the smiles.

Lykke Li - Breaking it up - (From - Youth Novels)

Me and Kniquii have both been obsessing. Plus, my favorite video of the year. Check out those awesome Stevie Nicks moves!

Breaking it up – alternative live video. Filmed by: Christian Haag from Lykke Li on Vimeo.

M83 - Kim And Jessie - (From Saturdays=Youth)

Swoony, dreamy shoegazer pop picking up where MBV left off. Plus, second best album cover of the year.


Marnie Stern - Transformer - (From - This Is It and I Am It and You Are It and So Is That and He Is It and She Is It and It Is It and That Is That)

If you can keep yourself from bouncing around the room shouting, “The future is yourself let this part in, the future is yourself let this part in!” then I don’t think we can be friends. Best album title and best album cover of the year.

Mgmt - Kids - (From - Oracular Spectacular)

This is on everyone’s list. This and Fleet Foxes. I wanted to hate it and even told Josh that it’s for average people. But I can’t fucking help myself. It’s contagious, sucks you in like reality TV. Amazing driving music.

Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds - We Call Upon the Author - (From - Dig, Lazarus, Dig!!!)

The man is fifty years old. What the fuck was Sir Paul McCartney doing at fifty? Or any of those Rolling Stone douchenozzles? I hope I’m at the height of my awesomeness at fifty…or sixty. Always be getting better.

No Age - Cappo - (From - Nouns)

I played this song for Oliver, really loud, in his little dreamy apartment and he said, “Oh Ok. I get it now. Fucking awesome.” Listen to this shit really fucking loud.

Together:
Parts and Labor - Nowheres Nigh - (From - Receivers)

Plants and Animals - Bye Bye Bye - (From Parc Avenue)

Both of these bands would probably be annoyed that I grouped them together but they just seem to belong together. Some kind of magical “post-classic-rock-new-psychedelia” nonsense. Radical.

Ponytail - Celebrate The Body Electric (It Came From An Angel) - (From - Ice Cream Spiritual)

What a beautiful, noisy fucking mess.

Quite Village - Victoria’s Secret - (From - Silent Movie)

Megan McArdle hates this record. Megan McArdle is clearly an idiot. Stick to economics Megan, for all of our sakes.

Ra Ra Riot - Dying is Fine - (From - The Rhumb Line)

The Ruby Suns - Tane Mahuta - (From - Sea Lion)

This reminds me of 800 things and I love them all.

Santogold - You’ll Find a Way - (From - Santogold)

Another favorite of the world. At first it annoyed me but now I love it. Bonus video I took from SXSW this year.

Santogold from J. Beaman on Vimeo.

She & HIm - Sweet Darlin’ - (From - Volume One)

This has no real place on this list. The best? Really? But Zoe Deshanel and M. Ward? I’ll take it. Yep.

Shearwater - Leviathan, Bound - (From - Rook)

I remember feeling sad when Okkervil River skyrocketed into the glowy love of indie semi-stardom leaving poor little Shearwater in the dust. But this year I was reminded that Shearwater’s brand of heartbreaking melodrama is like a dream. SBC, pause the Bon Iver and throw this on.

Sun Kil Moon - Heron Blue - (From - April)

I never really cared much about Red House Painters. Mark Kozelek ate at Firefly and I was like, “Meh.” That was huge mistake. I hear it and I want to make out with a dark and stormy, art school dropout with a recurring heroin problem. As I write that I realize that it doesn’t take much.

The Tallest Man on Earth - Honey Won’t You Let Me In - (From - Shallow Graves)

Micael told me to listen to this forever ago and I didn’t. Then I did and it makes my heart sing. Thanks Micael.

Vivian Girls - Where Do You Run To - (From - Vivian Girls)

This album is 22 minutes of pure garagey, spectory bliss.

The Walkmen - I Lost You - (From - You & Me)

A few notes: I’m not going to write about all of them and the things that I do write will be short and dry. And this is not a list of the best songs of 2008 but a single sample of my favorite albums of 2008.

And, open this shit in in a browser and you can listen to all the songs.

Key: Band - Song - (From Album)

Air France - Collapsing At Your Doorstep (From No Way Down)

Another incredible band from Gothenburg, Sweden. What the fuck do they put in the water? All I have to say about this is, “Sorta like a dream. No, better.”

Crystal Castles - Crimewave (Crystal Castles Vs. Health) - (From Crystal Castles)

Infectious 8-bit dance pop. It may already be played in your home town but I still love it.

Crystal Stilts - Crystal Stilts - (From - Alight of Night) So. Fucking. Dark. There’s some dark music on this year’s list. It’s not my fault. I’m sunny, with rainbows.

Cut Copy - Feel the Love - (From - In Ghost Colors) I don’t really know what this song is about but the line “All the girls I’ve known are crying” reminds me of one of my favorite Irish folks songs (about death, like most great Irish folk songs) “And of all the sweethearts that ere I had , they wish me one more day to stay.” I’m saying Feel the Love is an “at your own funeral” song.

Deerhunter - Little Kids - (From - Microcastle)

I didn’t really care about their record from last year, Cryptograms, even though everyone else was apeshit about it. I saw them at SXSW and was bored. But Microcastle is amazing. I’m listening to it almost everyday.

Department of Eagles - Teenagers - (From - In Ear Park)

The Dodos - Ashley - (From - Visiter)

Whoever she is, I’m think of Ashley, too.

Fleet Foxes - White Winter Hymnal - (From - Fleet Foxes)

If The Beach Boys made you feel like you were actually surfing without leaving your living room and Lupe Fiasco’s Kick, Push did the same for skateboarding, Fleet Foxes make me feel like I’m in the forrest, eating granola, watching hippie chicks frolic. And I fucking love it.

Flying Lotus - Golden Diva - (From - Los Angeles)

I’m usually not a fan of this glitchy electronica garbage but this record cool as shit.

Foals - Balloons - (From - Antidotes)

It’s fucking dance pop math rock. WTF? Bonus - Awesome video (Dancing girls in black dresses):

Fuck Buttons - Ribs Out - (From - Street Horrrsing)
Worst band name ever.

The Gaslight Anthem - Great Expectations - (From - The ‘59 Sound)

You know I love it. A messy, punk-ish Bruce Springsteen. All day, everyday.
Girl Talk - Shut the Club Down - (From - Feed the Animals)


The Hold Steady - Stay Positive - (From - Stay Positive)

You’d think I’d get sick of it but, nope.

Hot Chip - Ready for the Floor - (From - Made in the Dark)


Ida Maria - Oh, My God - (From - Fortress Round my Heart)

Oh, my god. Probably my favorite song of the year. Bonus Video (and rumors have it that Josh Duty has been copping the karate chop dance stylings - see em at 2:08 - around ATX)
Bon Iver - The Wolves (Act I & II) - (From - For Emma, Forever Ago)

That voice makes my hair stand on end and my small parts tingle

Jorge Ben - Bebete Vãobora - (From - a bunch of different records)

Totally cheating. This is the only thing that didn’t come out this year. It probably came in in 1974 or so. But it’s one of my favorites of this year anyway. Suck it!

The Kills - Black Balloon - (From - Midnight Boom)

Every fucking song on this record is unstoppable. I swear to Christ, the day I turn 70, I’m putting on this record and shooting dope. Everyday for a week. May 6th, 2044. Wanna come?

The Kills - Black Balloon from kenneth cappello on Vimeo.
“That is some creepy, awesome shit!” - Oliver Fross

Steve spent two full days painting and hanging shelves and generally being a great friend.

The list of shit that Matias has done is ridiculous. Moving, calling, finding, searching. My go-to fucking guy.

Carmen Fucking Burns. “Calm the fuck down, J. Everything’s gonna be fine.” I’m eating off her plates and drinking out of her glasses.

Hudson, one of my fiadors (co-signers) and refrigerator delivery man (with Matias) and über-patient helper.Mariana, my other fiador and the dreamiest friendliest funniest person to fall down with on a Friday night.

Filipe. A case of fucking beers. ‘Nuff said.

Maíra. My Santa Teresa drinking buddy. CB at the BB, G. Don’t fuck it up, you crazy bitch.

And to those awesome people who bought me housewarming gifts…you’re the greatest! What? Who? You don’t know what I’m talking about? You can read all about it here.

The new neighborhood is Santa Teresa and it’s just outside Zona Sul in a super traditional neighborhood. I’m working on a little video of the neighborhood but it’s been raining like crazy. I should just walk around in the rain and shoot the damn thing.

The pics:

Matias in the rede (hammock).

My awesome homemade closet. Note the awesome blue (teal…wft-ever) paint!

the workspace

the couch/spare bed. come fucking visit.

the home theater

this is where i hang out in the mornings.

a blurry kitchen shot. That brown thing in the corner is this amazing water filter. All natural ceramic filtration nonsense. I love it.

My little yard. And, yes, a mannequin leg.

And my first little get together - burgers and baked beans.

Mari.

Maíra

Hudson.

I swear I had a picture of Filipe but I can’t find it now. I’ll see if I can get a nude one of him later. You’ll like that.

And my new address (for postcards and stuff):

Rua Bom Despacho, 153 Apt 2

Barrio Santa Teresa

Belo Horizonte - MG, 31010-390 Brazil

The point of this post, as tacky as it may be, is to let you, my dear friends, have the opportunity to shower me with housewarming gifts. I had a moderate amount of money budgeted for the entire move and exceed said budget. Really exceed it.

Any amount would be super radical and you can consider it a donation to God’s work. Because that’s what I’m doing down here. The work of the Lord.

Here’s some examples of what you dollar amounts will buy:

5 bucks - an awesome kitchen knife

10 bucks - a cutting board

12 bucks - all my silverware

20 bucks - my kitchen table

30 bucks - really cool clay water filter

40 bucks - the modem for the webs

50 bucks - all my cleaning supplies (broom, mop, tons of other shit)

60 bucks - my stove

80 bucks - my refrigerator

200 bucks - my undying love

I’m also going to use this space to publicly thank all the folks who have helped make my new life here a reality:

Oliver - couldn’t ask for a better friend
Alice and Magaly - the only ones with the balls and the love to come and visit
The Ritual crew (Eileen, Ryan, Naya) - for giving me something to do. thanks for making me feel valuable
Steve - for not getting cranky with me when I’m being a bitch and always being available to help out (we’re painting tomorrow)
Brad and Jennifer and Essie and Elisha - for thinking of me and reminding me that I can have my job back anytime
The Brazil Crew (Matias, Carmen, Hudson, Maíra, Mariana and Filipe) - for co-signing (seriously!) on my new place, for driving me around and moving fucking furniture and endless streams of great advice. a bunch of free stuff. and for, most importantly, drinking beer with me in the afternoon..

I’m gonna ride that for a month.

Can some1 plz tell me when “Paper Planes” became a GIRLZ NIGHT IN anthem?

Mainstreamers luv it

Where is the online tutorial for the PPR PLNS HAND SIGNALS dance?

Even AZNs have ‘found out’ about PPR PLNS.

Yall. I thought that song was authentic. It sucks that it’s pro-terrorism, tho. At least that’s what I read in some blog thingy. Not sure if M.I.A. is a terrorist, but it would kinda suck for all these girls who have her as a role model 2 find out that M.I.A. h8s America.

The only reason people like Paper Planes is cuz of the gun shots–people r inherently violent, especially white tweens who don’t fit in and minorities.

And my favorite (from the “What Happens after u die?” post):

I think God ‘N Me might make make a music video for M.I.A.’s paper planes.

Here’s the first that HRO wrangled “[HIGHLY TUGGABLE BARELY LEGAL ALTS {circa age 15}]“:

This morning, in the artful beauty of life avoidance that is the internet, I did a simple YouTube search for Paper Planes. What a fucking goldmine:

best. comment. ever. “lmao ya lo0k like dumasses lolz ” it’s true.

Parents! Monitor your kids internet uploads. Jesus. What’s with the teddy bears?

This one is incomprehensible.

And this girl is really excited about her Am Appy and “the new shirts of the future.” I’m old. Old enough to remember “the new shirts of the future” from 25 years ago.

If you didn’t watch any of these videos (and you don’t really need to) watch this one. It’s actually almost awesome.
If I ever have daughters they will not be allowed to upload shit to shit. But, girls, No one on the corner has swagger like any of you. I promise.

Update:I know it seems from the previous two posts that I’m staying here because of California. Not true. I’m staying because it’s the right thing to me to do. At least today.

I beg my gay brothers and sisters: do not let them drive you back to the “psychosis and depression” of the closet. No one can make you feel inferior without your consent. Know that your love is real; cherish it; hold your spouses closer; build your families; take care of your kids; live your dream.

What the Christianists want is to destroy your self-esteem and self-worth. It’s over the wounded souls of gay people that they construct their politics of fear and division. But we endured centuries of cruelty, and after our first taste of liberation, we faced a plague of devastating proportions. But we came back stronger than ever. For the sake of those who never dreamed we would ever see civil unions, for those who died of the plague, for those whose marriages through the ages were never recognized but were as real as any backed by law: fight on. Do not lose faith. Law never trumps love. And one day it will echo it.

And here.

The challenges to Prop 8 have already begun. More here. I’m not enthusiastic. I think, perhaps quixotically, that civil rights movements tend to gain real momentum when the victims of discrimination are publicly humiliated by majorities with power. How we react is very important. We need not to sue; we need to explain. We need to respond with self-confidence. And with charity. Remember King.

And Stephen Bainbridge throws out some esoteric lawyer shit, wondering if the whole thing is bogus.

There will inevitably be a court challenge and that’s when things will get interesting.

Issue # 1: Did Prop 8 amend or revise the Constitution? There are two modes of changing the California state constitution. First, there is an amendment. An amendment can be effected in either of two ways: (1) passage of an amendment by a 2/3 vote of each house of the state legislature or (2) by ballot initiative, as was the case with Prop 8. Second, there is a revision. In order to revise the California state constitution, the change must be approved by a 2/3 vote of each house of the legislature and thereafter approved by public referendum via a legislatively-initiated ballot proposition.

Prop 8 opponents made a pre-election challenge of the proposition’s placement on the ballot on precisely these grounds; namely, that Prop 8 is a revision rather than amendment and therefore can only be effected by the revision process, which required legislative initiation. The California supreme court simply decided not to decide that issue. Now it presumably will have to face it.

I hope so.

And to quote the warm and hopeful Sarah, “I’m inspired and amazed by obama’s win, but there IS a lot of work to be done. a hell of a lot of work. It’s gonna be hard, but i’m ready.”

I’m ready, too.

I’ve been read Kottke for a few years and her rarely goes carnal. (link)

“You cuntnuggets went and passed Proposition 8. Assgobling fucktards.” (link)

“Seriously California, what the fuck is wrong with you? I thought you were all granola-eating tree-hugging leftie communist pinkos. I thought you were all for the gay lifestyle. I thought you were all for equality. You guys used to piss off the social conservatives all the time, what with your San Franciscos and your Berkeleys.”
But no, apparently you’re all a bunch of bigots. At least, 52% of you are.
Come on, what the fuck? Since when has California been a beacon for bigotry? Since when has California been a beacon for intolerance? Since when has California been a beacon for fear and hatred? That sort of thing we expect out of backwards states like Arkansas, but California?
Jesus Christ you Californians are fucking idiots.” (link)

“I never thought I would say this, but FUCK YOU CALIFORNIA. Fuck you EVERYONE who voted yes on 8. Who raised you? seriously. Who says, “making people sad? Sure, I’ll vote for that”. FUCK YOU.” (link)

“Really, California, Really?” (link)

Fuck you, California.
And the Mormons you rode in on. (link)

and from twitter:
Meredith122: If you voted for prop 8 FUCK YOU
Smalltimejazz: PROP 8 can go to hell. Fuck religion.JamesJumpsuit: Fuck my parents for voting YES on prop 8nexusdivine: fuck you prop 8… fuck you. right in the ass. with a REAL mans cock. deets: Fuck you California and the Mormon Church for passing Prop 8. Seriously, go fuck yourselves
matthewebel: Good morning. Pretty day. Good coffee. Fuck California. Safe travels.
lady_cherry831: Fuck you Prop 8. Way to shit the bed California!
lorna26: So, same sex marriages are illegal again in california. Fuck that douchey noise.
nfreader: Dear California’s fundamentalists, Fuck you. Love, Everyone else, especially the gays.
davidwynne: Oh for fuck’s sake, California. You had to shit in the punch, didn’t you?
pims: you’re morons…

and the voice of reason?
jaycee: Uh, internets? “Fuck you, California” is not really a constructive way to deal with the prop 8 thing.

nah.

We have read parts of your blog, some of it makes us so sad and we can read the anger in it. Some of it we just have to skip over.

Ha! I wonder what parts they (him and my aunt and my cousins, I presume) had to skip over? I’ll write him back soon. “Anger is art.” I’ll say. It’s cathartic, sure, but mostly it’s just fun write angry screeds and make people uncomfortable. It’s a hoot.

But today. I actually am angry. It’s not just for fun. It’s for really reals.

As most of you know I have been an ardent supporter of Barack Obama. I’m thrilled that he has been elected and I see it as a turning point for the US and the world. But, people, we have a huge fucking problem.

The people of the my great state of California have apparently amended their constitution to eliminate the right of same-sex couples to marry. And I’m pissed. FUCK THESE PEOPLE. The christians. The mormons. The fucking uneducated (see here. Every single county in California where less than 10% of the population has a bachelors degree voted for this shit.) Who the fuck do they think they are? And I know, some of your parents voted for this. Some of your Aunts and Uncles and cousins. Loving and kind people who are charming and helpful. Well, fuck them. They’re bigots and they should be shamed into obscurity. Some of you are moderate, loving, good religious people who think this amendment is awful. And I love you for that.

One other important thing. And this is key. DON’T GET MARRIED. To loosely quote Henri, “If the Christians want to play keepaway with the word marriage let them have it.” If our gay friends, relatives and loved ones can’t get married the we have no fucking right to either. No Fucking Right.

Let’s amend the constitution so that if you’re IQ is under 120 you can’t get married. Or have children. Or fucking vote.

And a direct message to those who voted for this: How fucking dare you? You have no right to strip a whole class of citizens of the right to marry. In America. Fucking America. I despise you and a day will come when you are social pariahs. And I will dance on your cultural grave. James Dobson, Chuck Colson you will be shamed and shunned from any civilized discourse. You are the new Jesse Helms and Strom Thurmond.

Am I bad for the movement? Probably. But, thankfully, no one really cares what I think.

Shit. I just watched Obama’s victory speech and now I feel like a crank. Everything’s is going to fine. It’s all ok.

I don’t know what the fuck to do.  So, I am soliciting opinions and I will weigh and balance and shift and sink and figure this shit out.  I have a return ticket for January 13th.  Do I use it?

Staying or leaving.

Why I should stay:
a. It’s super fun down here.
b. I will speak just enough Portuguese in January to forget it all if I don’t practice enough.
c. Although the girls down here are a goddamned treat I think it’s unlikely that I will meet “her the one”.  I know I don’t really act like I’m looking for that but I am.  Just like everyone else.
d.  With the work from Oliver and Ritual (and maybe a little bit of teaching) I should be able to live pretty well.
e.  The food in Brazil is amazing
f.  The challenge is really good for me.
g.  I would like to stay and continue being a friend to and supporting Steve.
h.  Steve is planning and plotting some business opportunities that I could be involved in.  That could be awesome.
i.  “I lived in Brazil for six months.” doesn’t sound nearly as cool as “I lived in Brazil for three years.”

Why I should go:
a.  Matias and Carmen are leaving in February anyways.
b.  It’s Oliver’s birthday on the 14th of January and it would be awesome get there on his birthday
c.  With the work from Oliver and Ritual I should be able to live pretty well but not nearly as well as I did in SF
d.  The food in SF is amazing.
e.  I miss Firefly.
f.  I miss riding my bike all over the city.
g. I miss my friends.
h.  The comfort is really good for me.
i.  I don’t really like the idea of being tight on money.  I could live well-ish down here but I don’t think I could make enough money to be totally free.
j.  I might be an illegal immigrant.

Please comment.  Fix my problems.

Unacceptable comments:

“Come home!  We miss you!”
“Stay, dude.  I can’t visit until next year!”
“I would just assume you stay because you’re kind of a douche.”
“Don’t be a pussy.” - Matias, Henri - that’s for you guys.

Get your feet wet at Mercearia Lili (Rua São João Evangelista, 696, Santo Antônio, 55-31-3296-1951), a regular participant in Comida di Buteco. It is one bar of many in Santo Antônio, an upscale neighborhood of steep hills that require superhuman parallel parking skills or, preferably, use of the city’s metered taxis.
The bar is typical in many ways, not least of which is the furniture: yellow plastic tables and chairs, with the maroon Skol beer logo, spilling out onto the sidewalk (600-milliliter bottles of the Pilsener Skol, to be shared in small glasses, are the citywide order of choice). The buzz of conversation and the clink of bottles — not a D.J. — provide the soundtrack; grey hair and what in the United States would be underage youth share the tables.

Without a doubt the best Carne de Sol com Mandioca that I’ve had in the city.

Note the little glass in the top right corner. I no longer drink beer out of a bottle or a can. I require a small glass. I’ll be bringing some home.

The view from the bathroom.

And this. More third world ingenuity. In this, greatest of all countrys, cartons of cigarettes come wrapped in paper and these fellas take that paper and staple it together to make a notebook to write down all the orders for the night.

And here’s the owner explaining the financial problems the U.S. (the world) is experiencing. As I understand it, our problem is that we sell a bunch of shit that has manufactured values. A piece of paper here and a piece of paper there, ad infinitum and no one know what the fuck they’re buying or selling. I love this because I love restaurants, restauranteurs, people that provide real services to their communities. But mostly it’s just cool to watch him talk.

Carmen is Matias’s girlfriend (Matias, who will never make it on here. He’s got some ego problems) and is equal parts charming, hilarious, angry, beautiful, helpful, don’t take no shit from nobody, volatile, thoughtful and…angry. I know I said it twice but it bears repeating.

Case in point. Last night:

“What’s wrong with you?” To me. She glares.
“Nothing.”
“I hate it when you do that.”
“Do what?”
“You’re bored. I hate that.”
“I’m not bored.”
“Shut up. You are too. You’re not leaving me here.”
She glares. She’s right. I’m not going anywhere. I fear her.

She throws things. Lighters. Mostly at Matias (he deservers it 73% of the time) but threatened me with a phone last night.

Every time she’s mean (which I love. The fire.) she calles the next day to make sure I’m not mad at her. I never am.

Angry Carmen.

Dirty Carmen: We were talking about blow jobs and how some girls don’t really like them. Carmen’s response? “That’s crazy. I love dick.”

Semi-Retarded Carmen.

Scary, Sexy, Mean. Awesome.

Here she is talking about her dad (I know it’s in Portuguese but note the perfectly placed “Tom Fucking Burns” and the artful “Ha! Não sei” as in “Ha! I don’t know!):

Matias drinking beer in the gas station at 2 in the afternoon on a Saturday. Quality of life.

Third world ingenuity.

[Obama] voted for nearly a billion dollars in pork barrel earmark projects, including, by the way, $3 million for an overhead projector at a planetarium in Chicago, Illinois.

Um, really? An overhead projector? God, What a dick.

Photo: Dave Bullock / eecue

Three million dollars of pure fucking awesomeness. And there’s one in Oakland. From Wired:

The projector, which has 60 motors and 130 projectors, can project an image of what the sky looked at any time during the past 10,000 years, or what it will look like during the next 10,000 years.

An innovation of the Model IX is its ability to project the sky from locations in space — previous projectors could only provide earth-bound views of the heavens.

The projector uses digital images acquired from space — and the help of two Windows NT computers — to provide these views. On its website, Zeiss said that it is especially proud of the Model IX’s projections of the Milky Way galaxy, which for the first time is “rendered by an in-focus optical image” instead of the “blurred silhouette projection” of old planetariums.

The Universarium’s projections of the Milky Way look so much like the real thing, Zeiss said, that “visitors might even use binoculars to discover more of it.”

Why did John McCain turn into such a douchenozzle?

The black skin of my girl. Blue eyes. White smile. I am not leaving. Calm sleep. Her body. I’m thinking about her, is she thinking about me?

There is so much in this song that I understand. It’s a little bit of a Portuguese breakthrough. Although I probably have it all wrong.

Com malícia.

I looked up malícia and everywhere (the internet, my little dictionary) it said malice. I didn’t understand. This girl is not malicious. Listen to the way he sings about her! I pulled down the big dictionary.

malícia f - 1. malice 2. cunning 3. licentiousness

That’s it. Licentiousness. With Licentiousness. Com malícia. Sing along.

I want to stay here so bad. Today. Tomorrow I’ll want to come home.

Dos olhos azuis, do sorriso branco
Não está me deixando dormir sossegado.
Será que ela não sabe que eu fico acordado.Pensando nela todo dia, toda hora
Pensando nela todo dia, toda hora
Passando pela minha janela todo dia, toda hora
Sabendo que eu fico a olhar
com malícia.
A sua pele preta
com malícia.
Seus olhos azuis
com malícia
Seu sorriso branco
com malícia.
Seu corpo todo enfim,
com malícia.
Com malícia…
Será que quando, eu fico acordado
Pensando nela, ela pensa um pouco em mim?
Um pouco em mim
Com malícia.
Um pouco em mim
Com malícia.
Um…pouco em mim.
Com malícia.
Essa menina mulher…
Da pele preta
Não está me deixando…
Dormir sossegado.
Será que ela não, não, não
Pensa um pouco em mim, pensa.
Com malícia, com malícia.
Pouco em mim, Pouco em mim
Pouco em mim, Pouco em mim.
Com malícia, com malícia
Um pou pou pou pou pouco em mim
pouco em mim.
Com malícia.
Com malícia.
Essa mulher…
Da pele preta
Da pele preta
Do sorriso branco,
Dos olhos azuis
Não está deixando me…
Dormir sossegado…

“Noooooosssssaaaaa!”

That was a fucking head scratcher. Why would you say that? I was just about to ask when she hit the arm of the couch and shouted, “Nossa Senhora!” and it fucking clicked. “Our Lady!” the Brazilian equivalent of exclaiming, “Jesus Christ!”. I loved it. Now that I know it, I hear it all the time. And there’s something distinctly Brazilian about the tone. It’s my new favorite thing. I ask some people to help me out and show you guys the charm and grace that is Nossa!:

Nossa! from J. Beaman on Vimeo.

A Copo Sujo (literally dirty cup) is a term that (I think) originates in Belo Horizonte that refers to a small, poorly attended bar, not particularly known for it’s hygiene. It seems (an I may be wrong) that they’re just about as clean as any of the other Botecas in Belo but they’re divey and usually filled with old drunks. Think of all of those dive bars you know before they got invaded by coolsters in shutter shades but tiny; tiny as in 10ft by 20ft.

I found a bacon cheeseburger.

My favorite Brazilinan food. Carne de Sol com Mandioca. Little bits of beef with fried mandioca (yucca root). You can get it almost anywhere and it’s a neat treat.

A weird-ass monkey that was cruising round at Luciana’s parents farm.

Something weird happened here with my iPhone but you get the idea. Taken at Bolão, in Santa Teresa. Open till 5am, Sepultura shit all over the walls (apparently those guys grew up in the neighborhood). Best meal ever.

On a little hike with Steve.

In portuguese the verb, to stay, is ficar. As in, “Eu estou indo ficar no Brasil” (literally i am going to stay in the brazil). But it’s also used as a verb, to hook-up, as in with a tall, gorgeous, fashion designy, Bikini Kill listening broads. Anyway. Eu fiquei (the past tense of ficar) com ela duas vezes. That’s it. Two times. And she blew me off. I went all mopey mcgee about for about a week. It really surprised me but it shouldn’t have. Surprised me. Must crush the oppressive burden of high expectations. Plus this fucking place is littered with girls to ficar with. It was made for it.

It was also slightly more complicated than that. Something about vulnerability and a person’s innate desire to be good at things. Maybe I want to be good at things more than the average person. It’s hard to be the charming and hilarious wordsmith when you don’t speak the language. And with that vulnerability (being blown off, not being able to express my awesomeness) came some old shit. Some old darkness.

Here’s an aside:

Last night, the subject of my mom came up with Marcelo and, god bless his good intentions, he began advise me on how I should not talk about it so casually; how it could/might/will inhibit my ability to ficar with pretty, young girls. He began to share an anecdote about how he told a girl at a party about some trouble he had in high school and how he found out later that she was turned off by his over-share. He, naively and stacked up with good intentions, tried to equate tough high school days with an unspeakable trauma. I like him so I mostly let it go. But I did explain this: I do it, talk about my mom casually, because I have to. Because if I don’t, it just sits there like a puss-filled, festering sore. Besides, I don’t really like secrets. If you’re easy with your secrets, they’re easy on you.

So, the over-share:

I was kicked out of the Navy because I had post-traumatic stress disorder. From the whole dead mom dealio. When I was a little dude and I would have a fever I would have these terrifying waking nightmares that I described to my shrink (Mark) as screaming, screeching, battling clouds. It would only happen when I was sick and, in turn, I fucking hated being sick. I still hate it. I fall apart when I have a fever. Terrified. And it suddenly stopped when I was 10 or 11. Just went away. But, like all awesome things, it came back. When I was 16 or 17 I started having them regularly and not only when I was sick; in class, at the dinner table, with no warning and fucking relentless. They would last for 2 to 10 seconds and the longer they lasted the more debilitating they were. Sometimes, with the longer ones, I would actually drop to my knees and dry heave. The feeling, as I’ve read, is similar to a panic attack.

Well, I got kicked out of the Navy for it. I had no problem with this. I wanted out of the Navy and I even initiated the kick-out (with a shrinks help). A few years later, I wrangled myself a delightful, dirt-worshiping shrink in San Luis Obispo (Nancy) in my early 20’s and through the magical fucking miracle of talk-therapy I pretty much had them under control by the time I was 24. In the last 10 years I typically have 1 or 2 a year and they usually only last 1 to 2 seconds. Not bad. Totally liveable. And not entirely unwelcome. You see, I don’t really want to be “all better”. I crave the memory of what happened and I always want it to hurt. To be terrifying.

Back to vulnerability. Sick as a little kid, adolescence, the navy, my early 20’s. All incredibly vulnerable times for me. Well, it happened four fucking times last week. Four Fucking Times. Twice in one night.

So, that’s why I haven’t been writing.

Everything is fine now. Thanks for asking.

“It’s only been one night. Can’t do nothing about that.”
I fucking love that line.

More later, I promise. With pictures.

But I went. Because I do things. That’s one of the secrets to my quality of life. Do shit, dude. Do things reluctantly and with a churny stomach and a chain-smoking desire but do them. She arrived a half hour late (Ela é Brasilera) and I was three cigarettes and two beers in. She looked amazing. Her hair was wavy (she had straightened it for the party where we met) and wet, draped over her slight shoulders, in a little summer dress. How do you describe a brazilian black (mulata? brown? Minera - a girl from Minas Gerais?) girl without sound offensive or like an douche? I’m going to try and avoid the color cliches (nothing about mocha here) but I’ve never seen women like this. The freckles. Jesus.

We talked awkwardly for a few minutes but then hit a flow (and by flow I mean she talked and I pretended to understand) and then the subject of my parents came up. It always comes up and is never uncomfortable for me and always uncomfortable for everyone else. I usually try to put folks at ease by make a joke or emphasizing my comfort with the conversation. And, I’ll admit, at times is my life I’ve been less than forthcoming with my comfort even managing to wrangle a few tears when dropping it on a well placed second date. But what do I do here? A translation:

“My mother is dead.”

“And your father?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Oh.”

“OK”

“No, you don’t have to tell me.”

“No, It’s ok. My father…hang on.”

I pulled out my dictionary. Murder murder murder murder murder. Got it. Assassinar. Conjugate it. Simple past. Assassinou.

“My father murdered my mother.”

Wide-eyed she grabbed the dictionary from me to make sure she heard right. She did.

“Wow.”

“And he’s in prison.”

She teared up a little bit and gave me kiss on the cheek.

I’m never going to be able to get rid of this girl. Maybe I won’t want to. Right.

In bars here (mostly botecas) each person is often given their only little slip of paper with your name on it and every time you order a beer the waiter will just check it off. I love it. No fucking around at the end of the night trying figure out who fucking ordered what. At Social (I’ve written about their bathroom signs), they asked me my name, I said it, I spelled it and it looks like my Portuguese needs a ton more work.

More cute bathroom signs. At Baiana.

And a bonus, just for Josh. The Mineras. They are a gift from the Lord himself. Obrigado O Senhor

Update: This girl isn’t even a Minera. She’s just super-cute
Update2: She is also 20 going on 12 and maybe semi-retarded.  These things take a while to figure out in Portuguese.  I’m glad I had the goddamned sense to walk away from this one.  Walk away.

She was interviewed by Trip a few years ago, and they asked about what color she thinks she is, her reply was something like “People want to tell me I’m white because I’m famous now, or they’ll say I’m a mulata or whatever. That’s ridiculous, I’m black. My father’s black, I have thick lips and a huge ass, I’m black.”

I don’t know what’s going to happen to me when I go back to the U.S. Sad times, indeed. Does anyone have any work for me down here. I want to stay forever.

So, I got home around 8am with plans to meet steve at 12:30pm requiring an 11:45am bus-catching in turn requiring a 10:30am wake up. Do the math, it sucks. But I made it happen, got to the bus stop and realized that on Saturdays it’s at 10:45am bus. I took a deep breath, grabbed my phone but was unable to get in touch with Steve. I flopped onto my bed back at the apartment at about 12:30, got a call from Steve; he forgot about me.

I hung up the phone and I put on my fucking grouchy pants.

I want to go home. I hate Brazil. And it’s only going to get worse. Eduardo is leaving a few weeks. Matias and Carmen are leaving in February. I should just take the money I have and move to New York now. Or back to SF. But I can’t move back to SF because I will spend the first month explaining to everyone why I came back. “Because I’m a pussy.” Or I could lie. But I tired of lies in my early 20’s. Too much to remember. Or I could make any potential lies true. Examplo: Go into a favela to buy drugs and and get shot/stabbed/beat up. Have scars and a good reason to come home. Or I could go to Austin. People love me enough there (and would be so happy to have me) that they wouldn’t mind that I’m a pussy.

It goes on like this for a few hours. I couldn’t sleep. I studied Portuguese most of this time (even at my worst I know that answers to my problems - patience and hard work). I finally fell asleep at 4:00pm.

I wake up at 6:30pm, slightly refreshed and only moderately grumpy, walk out of my room and hear from Marcelo (my roommate):

“Dude. Did you talk to Leco? There’s a big party tonight. 600 people. Tons of girls. One of our friends is getting married. I’m leaving in 20 minutes, do you have a suit?”

Like a little tropper, I put on my suit and wash my face. Marcelo comes in:

“Aren’t you gonna take a shower? Are you going to wear your hair like that?”

“Dude. I didn’t fucking have time to take a shower. And this is how my hair always looks.”

“Sometimes it looks better.”

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?

“Fuck it. I’m not going. I’m hungry and I’m tired and I can’t be fucking rushed right now. Go without me. I’ll be fine. I’ll go to the movies with Steve and just relax.”

I was pissed.

I hate my life. I want to go home.

I took my jacket off, threw it on the floor. Took off the shirt, walked back to my office and lit a cigarette. Itunes: Teenage Fanclub. Deep breaths. Marcelo walked in with his phone and I knew it was Leco. I placated him and told him that I would come with no intention of actually coming. I handed the phone back to Marcelo and told him.

“I’m not coming.”

He insists.

“I don’t want to fuck up your night. You’re already late. Just go, dude.”

I hate my life. I want to go home.

“My night’s already fucked up. I’m already late. Don’t sweat it. Take a shower and let’s go.”

I do.

I’m exactly as grouchy as I look.

The party is fancy. The guests are fancy. The guests are white. But the booze and food is free and the bride and groom are impossibly cute. I clench my fists and dedicate myself to fun. A glass of whiskey on the rocks holds my hand.

Leco, Marcelo and I

I can’t remember this guy’s name but he was integral in my fun having. Charming and crazy.

This is Bird with some broad. He is exactly as awesome as he looks. Which is hella awesome.

I am the definition of fun

Leco was on the fucking prowl. It’s amazing to watch him work. He just walks around a room (bar, party, restaurant…it doesn’t matter) stalking his prey. He talked, smiled, danced and smiled some more. He finally zeroed in on a group of girls that were all there together (about 12 of them) and works his magic. Introduced me to a girl (his heart’s in the right place but I’m just not like him) and I played along, danced and talked and even smiled some. The girl he introduced me to is one of 2 brown girls in the whole building and she seemed genuinely interested in talking with me even though I sounded like a fucking retard. She asked if I was hungry, I nodded, and she led my by the hand to get food and move over to their table. We talked and ate and I asked every question I could think of in Portuguese. She seemed to be having a good time and I was pleased with my ability to communicate. We headed back over to the dance floor. One of her friends came up to me,

“She’s a nice girl. Make your plan.”
“What? Make your plan?”

Shakira with Wyclef was blasting on the sound system.

“She likes you.”

Make your plan. Make your move. I got it. I saw Leco in the corner and go over to talk to him,

“How’s it going, man!” He was drunk.
“Good. She’s nice. I got her phone number.”
“You have to kiss her tonight. This is Brazil, man. Things are different here.”

Things are different here. As Matias likes to say, “What you call daterape, we call courtship.”

But, Leco was right. I had to kiss her. So I did.

The party was about 20 minutes outside of the city, just a mile or so from where Steve and Luciana live (Retiro das Pedras). Steve sent me a text message, “We’re staying in the city if u guys need to feel free to sleep at our place.” I informed Leco. He shined those flashy teeth at me slightly menacingly,

“We have a plan. Let’s take the girls to Retiro. But it will be very difficult.”

The dude was getting off on the fucking game of it. I loved watching him but I had no intention of taking anyone anywhere. I let Leco plan and plot and he ended up convincing the little “make your plan” blonde to go home with him. I fortunately went home alone with a phone number and a belly full of booze.

I’m even smiling.

Recap: I am crazy lucky to have a couple of friends like Marcelo and Leco that make me go out when I would rather just stay and home and be a mopey bitch. I’m not going to make a life here by sitting in my room, watching reruns of Mythbusters and chain smoking Lucky Strikes. Instead, with a little loving prodding, I made out with a hot, brown personal trainer, drank a shitload of beer, whiskey and Prosecco but still managed to stay less drunk than all my friends. Rolled into the apartment around 5am thinking that Brazil may be fine after all.

No matter what happens to me in BH, a stabbing on the streets of Centro, big romance with a little favela girl, Dengue Fever or if I just go home after a few months to work in restaurants and flirt with waitresses, pasta night will always be what I remember the most fondly. Something started by his father when Matias were young and taken over by Matias in his adult years. It’s exactly as it sounds; people come over, pasta is cooked coupled with talking and drinking and eating and smoking until the wee hours. For me the first pasta night was:

1. My first great night in BH
2. The night I knew I would have friends that were like me
3. The night I knew I would have friends that that I would like
4. The first night I watched the Brazilian sun come up over beer, cigarettes and conversation

However, my vagina has been bleeding lately (my vagina and the truth are not very close) and I spent a bit of Friday night’s pasta party mopey. My whine sounds a little bit like this:

Fuck. All I have are my fucking words. I can’t make myself or my ideas understood in Portuguese. And if I’m speaking English I fell like I’m putting an unpleasant burden on folks (minus Matias, Carmen and Eduardo who speak better English than I do). It’s especially hard when I’m hanging out with that crew because there’s little romance for them in talking with foreigners (they all have lived abroad) and when they’re speaking Portuguese, they’re usually expressing complex ideas that are totally fucking lost on me (in contrast to the Average people who are excited to talking to me just because my accent is cute and they don’t talk to Americans much and who speak in a simpler language, expressing simpler ideas). So, from time to time, when the Portuguese was flying left and right I found myself lost in my own thoughts and wishing I was at Maverick drinking blueberry mimosas and flirting with Sarah.

Thankfully, Matias has little tolerance for my whine.

“I think I’m gonna go home. I’m tired and having a hard time understanding things. I need to study.”

“Shut the fuck up and sit down.”

How do you respond to that? You sit down, take a deep breath and man up. It’s always the right choice. And I had a great time. And we talked until 7 in the morning. And it is, and always will be, my favorite.

Yeah, I shaved the beard and am starting to grow a mustache. And, yes, I’m wearing non-prescription, sweet, Karl Lagerfeld glasses. And, yes, you’re jealous.

Pasta night=costume party. Karl Lagerfeld’s lover.

Yeah, he scares us, too.

Chico Buarque, a dreamy, swoony Brazilian musician, loved by all here, is probably my favorite.

His song, Deus Ihe Pague, is the first I’ve chosen in the unit. So, I say, try it for yourself. Here’s the song and the lyrics and try and sing along.

Por esse pão pra comer, por esse chão pra dormir

Deus lhe pague

Pelo prazer de chorar e pelo “estamos aí”

Deus lhe pague

Por essa praia, essa saia, pelas mulheres daqui

Deus lhe pague

Pela cachaça de graça que a gente tem que engolir

Deus lhe pague

As far as I can tell, it’s just listing all kinds of awesome things (the skirts of women, the beach, gulping down cachaça) and thanking god for them. But then also listing some unpleasantness.  I don’t understand it.  But it’s fucking beautiful. (if you’re into it, send me an email and I’ll send you the record)

If you’re lucky, Matias will translate it properly in the comments.

There’s a cute girl who works at the grocery store (read: poor and uneducated. or maybe I’m just a cynic. But if I am a cynic, it’s all Matias’s fault) who smiles at me all the time. I’m going to ask her what her name is tomorrow and then (two days later. or never) I’m going to ask her out. It will likely go badly. Keep your eye out for updates.

My less responsive but more reliable girlfriend changed her clothes:

I thought I would arrive in Brazil and learn Portuguese in the beds of daughters of captains of industry but instead I just sit hunched over my computer memorizing flash cards and embarrassing myself in the cell phone store.

Muita areia para o caminhãozinho

Too much sand for the little truck.

And more specifically:

Ela é muita areia para o caminhãozinho dele

She is too much sand for his little truck.

Explain:

This country (or maybe just BH) if full of beautiful, charming, brilliant women who waste their days with clunky, dopey, moderately attractive men. I am hopelessly unreliable when it comes to analyzing these women. I am smitten by the Mineras. I know this. I had my first complete conversation in Portuguese last night (it felt really good) with a dude named Freddo. He said to me, “Do you love BH or do you love the Mineras?” Yeah.

Here’s to hoping I have a big enough truck.

It’s a drive through fucking zoo. It’s amazing. Ric had told us that his friends use Simba Safari as slang for people watching. I LOVE Simba Safari.

Now it gets exciting. We had to roll up our windows (we got a two inch crack…you know, for ventilation) to get into the monkey area. There was a clear notice that you were not to feed the monkeys. And you were not allowed to show the monkeys food. But….we had bananas in the car and one thing led to another and they attacked our car. It was incredible. There were 5 or 6 monkeys all over the car, reaching in for a banana. I love monkeys!

No rules against feeding the deer. And deer loves themselves a banana.

And I’ll leave you with this dude’s balls. Yoaza!

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Matias and I hopped on the Metro and heading to the city center and did some T-shirt shopping in a great little market filled with rock and roll T-shirt shops, tattoo parlors and cheap food. It was a wasty, wandery afternoon comma-ed by a delicious P.F. (a common dish here, Prato Feito). There was some trouble getting our room squared away but it all was warm and fuzzy in the end (it always is). Tereza (Ric’s delightful and charm filled girlfriend and an ancient and super-close friend of Matias) told us about a cafe nearby where we could grab an espresso and wait for them to finish out their friday business.

Oh, fuck. Wait a minute. Back. The. Fuck. Up.

The first São Paulo treat: We were about 200 meters from the hotel, exhausted and a little dirty, walking along the edge of a wide boulevard when Eduardo lets out a girlish shriek, holds his meaty hands daintily up to his mustachioed face, and skirts behind Matias and I. I look ahead, unsure of the shriek-worthy event to see 5 or 6 SP motorcycle cops, guns drawn, pointing just beyond us to our right. It was AWESOME. They had been (apparently) chasing down some guys on motorcycles who had stopped just behind us. I looked back at them, their hands up, vigorously over-compliant. We skittered to the left, out of the line of fire and marveled, momentarily, at the violent spectacle of it all. I’m not much of a gaper and neither are Matias or Eduardo (thankfully) so we continued on with a little adrenaline and some nervous laughter.

The second São Paulo treat: The cafe Tereza sent us to, Santo Grão, was a goddamned joy. Outstanding espresso, great service (Alexandra was incredible) and a few hours of coffee and chat and cigarettes. Sorry, non-smokers, but I would be stoked to smoke a few cigarette inside the Ritual.

I know it’s blurry but nice, eh? Matias and I went there every morning for our entire trip and drank copious amounts of the Yergacheff and Kenya and plenty of the Brazilian coffees.

And for you snobs who know the look of a mocha, yes, this has chocolate in it. We sent it back but it’s the only one that had it’s picture taken.

Ricardo and Tereza showed up around 10pm. Ric marveled at how much Portuguese I’ve learned (the Brazilians are prone to blow smoke up your ass - they call it being nice - I call it bullshit. Thankfully Matias is a no bullshit kind of guy so I at at least have some point of fucking reference for the truth) and they were super excited to see us. After another hour of coffee and cigarettes (Brazilians are never in a hurry for anything) we moved on to our next bit of radical living.

São Paulo treat #3:

Fucking La Tartine. Five hours. Three bottles of wine. Three courses (I had some kind of roasted rabbit stew. Tasty fucking business). Cigarettes. A famous Cellist hit on Tereza and Ric got pissed followed by a delightfully tense moment. Thankfully we were all laughing about it 20 minutes later. At least I think we were. I certainly was. Some SP slut slipped the waiter her number to give to Matias. He has a girlfriend that would make the most hardened bachelor wish they had a girlfriend but, jesus, that kind of think will make any man’s head swell. And Matias is prone to head swelling. I was jealous.

Charming mismatched tables and chairs. Nudie pictures of Bridget Bardot on the walls. The aromatic mix of roasted meat, quiches, cigarettes, Argentinean Malbec and slightly jealous boyfriends. It was a dreamworld of magic and one of the best eating experiences I have ever had. And, this, was hanging in the bathroom.

I really wish that those pics were taken in that actual bathroom. I like the idea of imagining all of those things happening right there.

São Paulo treat #4:

Ricardo’s birthday party. So, yeah, Ric is amazing but his friends are lame. Third world rich is way worse than first world rich. I’ll just leave it at that. But the beer was cold and the Picanha was tasty (if slightly over cooked) and we drank and ate and talked. Some friends of theirs pulled Tereza aside and pointed over at us and asked, “Who’s the band?” As a narcacistic bunch who marvel at our own coolness (ok, maybe just me and Matias) we ate that shit up.

Here’s a few more great pictures of the party.

Ric, Matias, Eduardo and me.

Matias, Tereza and Branca.

Matias and Tereza.

Matias and Pedro.

Pedro and Tereza.

The aforementioned cuddly mustachioed bear. Eduardo.

Me and Pedro.

Wait for the Simba Safari post.  Boy-o.

Redes:
Brazil

Status de relacionamento:
Solteiro

Data de nascimento:
6 de maio de 1974

Cidade atual:
Belo Horizonte, Brazil

Solteiro. Like a motherfucker.

If you look closely you can almost see up her skirt.

Cost R$9

Eu gosto Brasil.

Update: Just a little clarity here: This was served in a restaurant and is not uncommon. These people are obsessed with cold beer. I love them.

Social (worst website ever.)

From Café Com Letras (one of the coolest places in BH).

I can’t remember the name of this place (but i’ll find out). By far my favorite. I love her little pointy boobs.

This is in Mercado Central and those rope-like coils are tobacco of some kind. I’ll write about Mercado Central another time but it is, doubtless, the coolest place in all of BH.

Mercado Central.

Mercado Central.

Cerveja. I love it.

A new friend (even if he is a Paulista), Ricky or Ricardo (I’m sure the spelling on that is dicey….sorry Ricky)

Carmen, another new friend, with beer and cigarettes (old friends).

Matias…”What the fuck is wrong with you? You’re so Average!”

We actually didn’t even go in this bar. We drank at the gas station next door. Yeah, seriously. Walked into the gas station bought some beers, opened them, drank them and smoked copious cigarettes right in the gas station parking lot. There were many others.

Cigarettes, food, new friends.

Dinner party for Hudson’s birthday at him and his wife’s (Maira) amazing place. They are awesome.

Steve and I on a hike behind Retiro das Pedras (where he lives).

Great little waterfalls and pools.

View of Retiro from the hike.

Steve “I’m a badass” Blanton.

Leo and one of his little pals. (Aurturo, I think)

My new little office. It’s my other favorite place in Brazil.

This is a dream come true.  All praise and thanks be to Dudu.

Saidera: Last Drink or “one for the road” - From the word Saida meaning exit. There is never just one Saidera.

Gata: Female cat or hot girl

Pedreiro: Bricklayer - I especially like this one because I asked my friend Matias for a good (bad) working class Brazilian cigarette and he suggested (reluctantly) Derby. I grabbed a pack and they were sufficiently nasty and authentic but when I pulled them out at a party, Raphael, laughed and said, “Cigarro do Pedreiro!” Perfect.

Sala de estar: living room but directly translated (I think…wtf do I know?) as salon of the being.

There are a bunch of different Sala de ……. phrases. The Brazilians seem to do this a bunch. Instead of having 20 different words for things they just say blah blah of the blah blah.

Por exemplo. Another favorite

Fio de cabelo: hair

Fio dental: dental floss

Fio elétrico: electrical wire

I’m sorry I’m not putting much up here. I have a few things in the works but I’m finding myself working a little more than expected. I’ll take the work and take the money because I’ve got penty of time. I hope everyone is well and I miss some of you a whole fucking bunch and the rest of you quite a bit.

Sorry about yesterday’s post. I think I just had to bleed my vagina out a bit.

As promised, documentation of the paragliding adventure:

Leco, Steve and I arrived, late because this is Brasil and everyone is late, to a flurry of activity and Portuguese chatter. Ten people were standing on a cliff (a ridge, really); some drinking beers, some just watching the majesty of a man floating 300 meters out over the valley. Because we were late, there was little time for introductions and less time for safety instruction (not that I would understand it anyway). Leco gets strapped up and strapped in and I stood there wondering how I was going to communicate when things went bad.

I watched, with mild terror, as Leco abandoned me to the Portuguese gibberish. The Brasilian pilots, noticing my nervousness, kept repeating “Tranquilo” which according my dictionary means calm (duh), clear, easy, or certain. I felt none of those things.

Leco flies away.

Leco flies by. Note how I dropped the camera when they got close to the building. I think I subconsciously didn’t want to film Leco’s death.

They strapped me in and tried reassure me. Calm, clear, easy, certain. The guy in the red shirt in the pic above helped me get clipped and buckled and explained the process to me in rudimentary Portuguese. Hold (segurar) on here. Walk (andar) as the parachute fills with air and lift (levantar) my legs and fly away. Calm, clear, easy, certain. The pilot (Steve and I are sure they were saying bombeiro-firefighter or bombardeio-bombardment but we’re not certian. those don’t sound right) spoke no English. Fala nada. Speak nothing. We were not even on the cliff for more than 12 minutes and I was away.

We zigzagged back and forth along the edge of the ridge and it was marvelous. The wind, heated by the iron in the ground (this is the state of Minas Gerais - literally meaning general mines ) whips along the valley floor and up the slope of the ridge and into our parachute and up we fucking went. Calm, clear, easy, certain. After about 15 minutes of staying near the ridge (remember I have no idea what the fuck is going on - do we land back on the ridge? do we land on the valley floor? how long are we going to be up there?) we began to move out to the wide world; the really real world. 650 meters up and cruising along at about 40km/h. No shit.

Leco off in the distance. Again I stopped filming when Leco’s death seemed imminent.

After a bit I figured out that we were going to land way, way far away (3km, it turns out) from where we took off. As we started to descend, my pilot, emphatically repeated, “Levantar! Levantar!” and tapped my legs. I lifted my legs and we glided down and crashed through some bushes and slid our asses along the ground, somewhat ignobly but safely.

I was relived to be on the ground. And I was even more relived that about 100 meters from the landing sight was the coolest, tiny country bar with a few pilots and a few country people hanging out in it drinking beer.

These kids were parked out front in classic youth fashion. Miscreants. Teenagers. With big block Dodge. The world is the same everywhere.

I haven’t mentioned that Steve had been up on the ridge this whole time, patiently waiting his turn. And, not surprisingly, my favorite part of the whole adventure was hanging out down there at that awesome bar, drinking with these crazy Brasilians for hours while Steve and Leco drove up and down the ridge, shuttling the pilots and themselves.

View from the bar to the ridge.

Steve’s flight in.

I was fairly drunk when Steve came in for his landing. Living the dream, right? Right.

Steve’s landing.

So, what have we learned? I’m a big baby. Everything is not going to be ok, everything already is ok. And there could be worse ways to learn a foreign language.
Tchau!

You see, I moved to Brasil and I think i’m going to throw up. I don’t know how any of this shit works. Here are a few of my anxieties in outline form:

1. I don’t speak Portuguese and as smart and good with languages that I think I am, I’m not.
2. I won’t be able to find a place to live.
3. And when I find a place they won’t rent to me.
4. And when they do rent to me it won’t have anything in it. No refrigerator, no stove no nothing.
5. And if I can get that stuff it’ll be in a terrible neighborhood and my neighbor across the hall will kill me.
6. And you will all eulogize me as an adventurous bon vivant but god will know that I’m just a chickenshit.
7. And god’ll be pissed about a bunch of other shit, too.

I know this isn’t the best 2nd Brasil post but it is. It’s unfortunate because I’ve already done some amazing things. Including, but not limited to the following:

• Hung out at a super cool bar until the wee hours of the morning, making new friends and enjoying old ones.
• Jumped off a cliff with a parachute dragging behind me (ok, and a Brasiian dude attached to me) and paragliding way the fuck up. 650 meters they said. It’s hard to say because as you may have heard, I don’t fucking speak the Portuguese (pics and video to follow).
• Was invited to a pasta party by the previously mentioned new friends and talked and drank and smoked until 8 am. I think i met the coolest people in all of Brasil.
• A bike ride (a short one only to evidence that my bike arrived safely).
• A swim (a short one only to evidence that I’m faster than Steve).
• Amazing Feijoada at TiaRe’s.

The other day I tried to explain The Grey Album to a girl (they fucking love the Beatles down here and don’t know who the fuck Jay-Z is). She didn’t get it. Later when I explained that I just packed up and picked up and blasted down here, she gasped and said, “What’s her name?”

I got 99 problems but a bitch ain’t one.

The line of the night: TiaRe (pronounced chia-hey - Tia meaning Aunt and Re short for Regina) shouts from the back room, “Jay! Jay! Victoria wants you to come watch her in the bath!” As much as I may love to hear that from a lover or some random Brasiliera and have a night of passion and lusty nonsense; I would take the simple giggles and games and Portuguese lessons from Victoria anytime.

Hello, Belo Horizonte.

So, check it out. iplaythehits.com

RadioLab is the greatest thing on the radio. This is a super short bit about earworms and how to get rid of them. Listen to it.

FREE-RANGE CHICKENS

“Well, it’s another beautiful day in paradise.”

“How’d we get so lucky?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care.”

“I think I’ll go walk over there for a while. Then I’ll walk back over here.”

“That sounds like a good time. Maybe I’ll do the same.”

“Hey, someone refilled the grain bucket!”

“Is it the same stuff as yesterday?”

“I hope so.”

“Oh, man, it’s the same stuff, all right.”

“It’s so good.”

“I can’t stop eating it.”

“Hey, you know what would go perfectly with this grain? Water.”

“Dude. Look inside the other bucket.”

“This . . . is the greatest day of my life.”

“Drink up, pal.”

“Cheers!”

(Laughs.)

(Laughs.)

“Hey, look, the farmer’s coming.”

“Huh. Guess it’s my turn to go into the thing.”

“Cool. See you later, buddy.”

“See ya.”

Maybe it was my new MBP (things just look better in mail.app), maybe their design doesn’t suck assholes or maybe the first post south by VBS.tv email had something interesting. I’m into it, though. I’m into Lightspeed Champion.

I’m into No Age.

I like the easy going interviews. Both of these videos are from a series they call Practice Space.

They also had a great five part Norwegian black metal semi-documentary that was creepy and cool. Check it out.