Cora wakes me from my slumber.
There occurred an episode in the club which I am unsure that I want to/lack the creative energy to describe right now. I may return to the theme.
In any case, directly after the episode, I was motivated to leave the club very quickly. However, I did not leave with my friend, Brad.
This is his story.
While I was sitting on a bus, reflecting on my life-changing experience, Brad thought that I was still in the club and commenced to search for me.
I was not to be found. Brad, apparently not terribly concerned about my disappearance, decided to stick around inside the club to hear the band play.
I should take a minute to explain that cumbia villera is really pretty bad, all things considered. Musically speaking, it is about as complex as a ham sandwhich, which is to say, easy enough to make, but capable of killing Mama Cass.
Yeah.
The band begins and the people in the club just started freaking out. For all of you interested in the absurd schedule of the place, the badn began around 5 in the morning.
Brad reported to me that literally every song began with a little keytar solo (cumbia villera must have keytar) but it was the lamest, dorkiest little solo you can imagine. Dat datdat Dat datdat Dat datdat Daaaah sort of thing.
But the audience would cheer, jump and shout for these two measures of 5th grade piano skills. Brad reported fear and disgust at this point.
The band played on, disgustingly bad music evoking totally disproportionate response all the night, until the show closed. At the end, Brad stood by the door as the audience filed out, in search of me his headband that was lifted by a weird old lady.
Sighting the lady, he danced with her briefly to the shitty music they play to make everyone leave. Using this contrived distraction, he grabbed the headband and bolted out the door.
Good work, Brad.
06:30, Barrio Once, Calle Rivadavia, Brad opens his bus schedule to look for a ride home.
A "drunk dude" approaches Brad and ask for change. After Brad (who's spanish is not stellar, I must admit) denies him twice, he grabs Brad around the neck in a manner that Brad assiduously avoids describing as a headlock and offers to let him meet some friends.
The man's friends form a circle around Brad whilst the "drunk dude" hurls racial slurs at Brad.
I'd like to take a minute to pause the story and contemplate this cultural mix-up that is the modern world:
Brad Babinsky is the great-grandson of Japanese immigrants to America who maintained a purely Asiatic appearance by marrying within the Japanese population of California until the generation of his mother, who married one Mr. Babinsky, a man with a thing for Japanese girls. Now, this grandson, encouraged by experiences with Colombian musician-friends, is in Argentina trying to learn Spanish, but at in this point in the narrative is being ridiculed by a group of punks who, according to Argentines, are probably from Paraguay or Peru, refer to him as Chino, as they would anyone who happens to have slanty eyes.
On with the story.
Brad's less-than-stellar Spanish isn't quite capable of deciphering rainstorm of colloquialisms he found himself in, but he attests that he other members of the group reacted with considerable surprise to what one would assume was the viciousness of the barrage.
I must sincerely salute Brad's unshakable cool; he said that he wanted to keep the situation cool so he cracked jokes.
"Hey watch out man, I'm a chino so I know karate and stuff"
His efforts, which he said made him feel like an Uncle Tom (another cultural mixup that I won't go into), couldn't stop the robbery in progress. But thanks to the advice of my host mom, they didn't come away with more than one of two pesos brad had in change, his bus schedule and his shitty digital watch.
A majority of the thieves left, two remained with Brad. Brad said that they looked a little guilty, as if they wouldn't have robbed so much as they just went along with their drunken ringleader.
They began to interrogate in true villero style.
"Chino! What the fuck are you doing here man!"
"Oh, I was, uh, at the show."
"LOCO! Chino, what show!"
"Las Damas Gratis"
"Chino, WHAT! Cumbia villera!? You're loco, chino."
Brad says that they were as fascinated with him as he was with them.
They stayed and chatted for awhile in that fashion. Until Brad decided that he had better go home. However, having mentally prepared himself to waling home when the robbery began, he hatched a plan.
He stuck his hand in his pocket, palmed his last 1 peso coin and said "Me llamo Brad" and proffered his hand in introduction. The punk shook his hand and found the coin.
"Man! What the fuck is this, chino?"
"No, go ahead, take it, you said you needed change for the bus ride"
"No, man! We can't take this, its yours! God, Chino"
"No, c'mon. Take it. Please"
Or something like that. Ultimately they accepted it. Totally willing to rob some poor-bastard, lost-immigrant Chinese guy, but unwilling to accept his peso.
Brad walked home. Nobody robbed him again.
There occurred an episode in the club which I am unsure that I want to/lack the creative energy to describe right now. I may return to the theme.
In any case, directly after the episode, I was motivated to leave the club very quickly. However, I did not leave with my friend, Brad.
This is his story.
While I was sitting on a bus, reflecting on my life-changing experience, Brad thought that I was still in the club and commenced to search for me.
I was not to be found. Brad, apparently not terribly concerned about my disappearance, decided to stick around inside the club to hear the band play.
I should take a minute to explain that cumbia villera is really pretty bad, all things considered. Musically speaking, it is about as complex as a ham sandwhich, which is to say, easy enough to make, but capable of killing Mama Cass.
Yeah.
The band begins and the people in the club just started freaking out. For all of you interested in the absurd schedule of the place, the badn began around 5 in the morning.
Brad reported to me that literally every song began with a little keytar solo (cumbia villera must have keytar) but it was the lamest, dorkiest little solo you can imagine. Dat datdat Dat datdat Dat datdat Daaaah sort of thing.
But the audience would cheer, jump and shout for these two measures of 5th grade piano skills. Brad reported fear and disgust at this point.
The band played on, disgustingly bad music evoking totally disproportionate response all the night, until the show closed. At the end, Brad stood by the door as the audience filed out, in search of me his headband that was lifted by a weird old lady.
Sighting the lady, he danced with her briefly to the shitty music they play to make everyone leave. Using this contrived distraction, he grabbed the headband and bolted out the door.
Good work, Brad.
06:30, Barrio Once, Calle Rivadavia, Brad opens his bus schedule to look for a ride home.
A "drunk dude" approaches Brad and ask for change. After Brad (who's spanish is not stellar, I must admit) denies him twice, he grabs Brad around the neck in a manner that Brad assiduously avoids describing as a headlock and offers to let him meet some friends.
The man's friends form a circle around Brad whilst the "drunk dude" hurls racial slurs at Brad.
I'd like to take a minute to pause the story and contemplate this cultural mix-up that is the modern world:
Brad Babinsky is the great-grandson of Japanese immigrants to America who maintained a purely Asiatic appearance by marrying within the Japanese population of California until the generation of his mother, who married one Mr. Babinsky, a man with a thing for Japanese girls. Now, this grandson, encouraged by experiences with Colombian musician-friends, is in Argentina trying to learn Spanish, but at in this point in the narrative is being ridiculed by a group of punks who, according to Argentines, are probably from Paraguay or Peru, refer to him as Chino, as they would anyone who happens to have slanty eyes.
On with the story.
Brad's less-than-stellar Spanish isn't quite capable of deciphering rainstorm of colloquialisms he found himself in, but he attests that he other members of the group reacted with considerable surprise to what one would assume was the viciousness of the barrage.
I must sincerely salute Brad's unshakable cool; he said that he wanted to keep the situation cool so he cracked jokes.
"Hey watch out man, I'm a chino so I know karate and stuff"
His efforts, which he said made him feel like an Uncle Tom (another cultural mixup that I won't go into), couldn't stop the robbery in progress. But thanks to the advice of my host mom, they didn't come away with more than one of two pesos brad had in change, his bus schedule and his shitty digital watch.
A majority of the thieves left, two remained with Brad. Brad said that they looked a little guilty, as if they wouldn't have robbed so much as they just went along with their drunken ringleader.
They began to interrogate in true villero style.
"Chino! What the fuck are you doing here man!"
"Oh, I was, uh, at the show."
"LOCO! Chino, what show!"
"Las Damas Gratis"
"Chino, WHAT! Cumbia villera!? You're loco, chino."
Brad says that they were as fascinated with him as he was with them.
They stayed and chatted for awhile in that fashion. Until Brad decided that he had better go home. However, having mentally prepared himself to waling home when the robbery began, he hatched a plan.
He stuck his hand in his pocket, palmed his last 1 peso coin and said "Me llamo Brad" and proffered his hand in introduction. The punk shook his hand and found the coin.
"Man! What the fuck is this, chino?"
"No, go ahead, take it, you said you needed change for the bus ride"
"No, man! We can't take this, its yours! God, Chino"
"No, c'mon. Take it. Please"
Or something like that. Ultimately they accepted it. Totally willing to rob some poor-bastard, lost-immigrant Chinese guy, but unwilling to accept his peso.
Brad walked home. Nobody robbed him again.
Comments
I would like to meet this brad.
He is deemed worthy.
on everything Cora said.