Skip to main content

estamos perdadores



When I think of exotic, foreign lands, I tend to think that everyone over there is cooler than where I'm from. Stupid to have the lurking "grass is always greener" syndrome lurking behind something so large. But it's there, and it gets me when I'm not careful.

But people are the same the world over. Not the details, but in broad strokes, we are all very similar, and have the same drives, in the same order: food, shelter, health, leisure. So it shouldn't be as surprising to me as it was to find that clubgoing, quasi-indie youths in Argentina look just as lame as they do in the U.S. I think the kids in the last 2 pix are throwing the Vampire: The Masquerade LARP sign for "I'm invisible!" (Dood, you're so not!) I guess what worries me most is that these kids, as well as the ones in the U.S. have bought into the "alternative" scene as packaged and sold by the RIAA. Slipknot, Korn, Marylin Manson, t-shirts in fantastic representation: the best dissident goods an allowance can buy.

I come away with two things after finding those pix: (1) Most young people are dorky, whether or not they're in the in-crowd, the alternative crowd du decade, in a band, in the school band, or on the math team -- all dorks, and that's fine. It's a relief. (2) It's good to see Destro out and about. That guy needs to get a day-job.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

dan simmons’ fiction

“I came back for my own purposes,” said the Time Traveler, looking around my booklined study. “I chose you to talk to because it was . . . convenient. And I don’t want you to do a goddamned thing. There’s nothing you can do. But relax . . . we’re not going to be talking about personal things. Such as, say, the year, day, and hour of your death. I don’t even know that sort of trivial information, although I could look it up quickly enough. You can release that white-knuckled grip you have on the edge of your desk.” I tried to relax. “What do you want to talk about?” I said. “The Century War,” said the Time Traveler. I blinked and tried to remember some history. “You mean the Hundred Year War? Fifteenth Century? Fourteenth? Sometime around there. Between . . . France and England? Henry V? Kenneth Branagh? Or was it . . .” “I mean the Century War with Islam,” interrupted the Time Traveler. “Your future. Everyone’s.” He was no longer smiling. Without asking, or offering to pour me any, he ...

jerks gone wild

It shouldn’t be too much of a surprise to find out that the guy behind Girls Gone Wild is a jerk. It is surprising to find out just how much of a jerk he is: Joe Francis, the founder of the Girls Gone Wild empire, is humiliating me. He has my face pressed against the hood of a car, my arms twisted hard behind my back. He’s pushing himself against me, shouting: “This is what they did to me in Panama City!” It’s after 3 a.m. and we’re in a parking lot on the outskirts of Chicago. Electronic music is buzzing from the nightclub across the street, mixing easily with the laughter of the guys who are watching this, this me-pinned-and-helpless thing. Francis isn’t laughing. He has turned on me, and I don’t know why. He’s going on and on about Panama City Beach, the spring break spot in northern Florida where Bay County sheriff’s deputies arrested him three years ago on charges of racketeering, drug trafficking and promoting the sexua...