Look Mom, I swallow: A follow-up

So after spending valuable time and money, the fourth doctor in the saga of "Veronica's swallowing problem" determined that I will need to have more studies conducted. Phew! For a second I thought someone was going to diagnose me with something.

But when the doctor is young and tall, and "Just got off the plane this morning after biking through Patagonia", it's easy to forget that you may possibly have Eosinophilic Esophagitis, that pesky allergy of the esophagus. Which just goes to show, good looking people can get away with murder. Note to hospitals.

In any event, both the good doctor and I were in agreement that my problem is more likely psychological than physiological, but as he said, let's do a biopsy just to be certain.

So let's! Let's put little Veronica under sedation (the right way). And let's stick a lighted instrument down her throat and scrape out little chunks of her esophagus.

I'll let you all know how that goes.

Punta del Este ain't for sissies

After a bit of hobgobling around Buenos Aires, stuffing our faces despite the heat, and knocking back Cinzanos without shame, we decide that its time to make a move. And thanks to SunTime travel, in a day we were on our way across the Rio Plata to visit the friendly neighbor to the North, Uruguay. A country, as I've been told, that exists only to act as a buffer between the mega-powers that are Argentina and Brazil.

I've also been told that Uruguay, in this intermediary position, gets the good fortune of being neglected in the world's political/social forum, thus leaving it to its own devices. Which are in no way significant.









Now, don't get me wrong, I'm sure Uruguay has something good to offer the world. After all, Punta del Este, a city located on the coast, sprawling with beaches and yacht clubs, has been called the Monaco of South America. But still, a harbinger of culture it most certainly is not. And if i can be frank, the only things of significance in Punt del Este are the beaches, which are reminiscent of the Mediterranean, and the boys, which are exceptionally nice. And young. And show off their sinewy limbs while walking shirtless in the streets. That's worth a trip to Uruguay.

You see, Punte del Este's biggest import is Argentineans. And not just your regular, run of the mill Argentines with their mulletesque haircuts. Oh no my friends, these folk are the upper crust of Argentina, who obviously come from the right side of the tracks. Blonde and blue eyed, with really great bone structure, and smokin' hot bodies.

But more than just the nyph-like appeal of these vacationing Argentines, what interests me is the fact that these argies are aesthetically different from the other argies. Mar del Plata, Argentina's big resort town, for instance, brings a more down-home kind of crowd. And I'm not just talking about the family Campinelli and some of their friends. No, I'm talking about an evacuation of 60% of the city of Buenos Aires in January alone. So, imagine if you will, hordes of dark skinned and dark haired Argentines. All sad eyes and sly smiles, bustling about with their "catarra-catarra", playing fútbol on the beach, no less than two feet from "prima Milli" and her girlfriends from secondary school. Blankets and towels practically on top of each other. And then compare that with the lackadaisical world of the buxom Punta del Este crowd.

I think what's going on here is work in tandem. For instance, money and good looks went up to Uruguay, where a little more dough can buy you the peace and tranquility of pi-pi-cou-cou Punta del Este. While the working class folk and the cabezitas negras went four hours South to the rocky shores of Mar del Plata, where space is tight but nice all the same. After all, every Argentinean deserves a vacation carajo!

Which is not to say that Mar del Plata is a shite town. Not at all. Its a beautiful city, with great jagged cliffs that jutt up against the sea. And indeed, while the people are darker, they are also ridiculously hot (Argentina is a genetic phenomenon). And they like to eat and drink and stay out late. And really, in the end, it doesn't make much difference. After all, Mar del Plata like Punta del Este, is the kind of place where it ain't summertime until you've drank maté on the beach at dusk, had yourself a meal on the dock, and witnessed a pack of 8 year olds reaking havoc in the streets at midnight, drunk with sleep deprivation.

Chinchulines, the real way

According to my sources, Chinchulines are typcially cooked by FIRST soaking the intestines in milk for about a half hour. Then the caca is flushed out using the sink faucet. AND, chinchulines aren't commonly cooked on the grill, but ALWAYS cooked on the grill.

So now we've cleared that up.

Monday Movie Madness - The Diving Bell and the Butterfly

As you all know, I love the French in a way that can only be classified as an "unhealthy obsession". Then how is it possible, you ask, that a Francofile such as myself would not keep up on the latest Fraunch films. Well,this is because while I love all things French, I don't necessarily understand them. I know this sounds cliché, but all cliches hold some truth. And when it comes to French cinema, the truth is that the French simply love to examine the tribulations of human emotion. And consequently, the more one suffers, the more convoluted the plot, the more insufferable the film. And just in case you think I'm being pedestrian, let me throw out a few films as an example: Le Moustache, Jeux d'enfants (Guillaume Canet, hello handsome), that movie with the violinist that falls in love with the crazy person, and then the one about the con-man that falls in love with American journalist, anything Goddard.

That said, there's really nothing more splendid than going to the movies on a Monday at 2:45pm. Especially when you know that besides the handful of other extraordinary individuals who somehow managed to evade the drudgery of "work", everyone else is slaving away at a computer while you're watching French cinema. Yes, my friends, life is good. And after watching The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, the latest Julien Schnabel flick, I may even venture to say that life is a gift.

Or in the least I'd say, when life gives you shit luck, you should write a book about it. That way when everyone else is carrying on about their pitiful lives you can feel superior. Content in knowing that you have overcome a great deal of suffering and put forth a wonderful work of art that is tender and inspirational. And that kids, is a most gratifying feeling.

With that in mind, let's proceed with my completely arbitrary review of the film The Diving Bell and the Butterfly.

1) Mathieu Almirac, France's answer to Andrew McCarthy only less creepy, and the second dreamiest French actor next to Malik Zidi, should win some sort of acting prize. Even with his eye all aflutter and practically popping out of his head, he still manages to be ridiculously charming and absolutely cute. Kudos to Almirac for making me think naughty things about a man in a vegetative state.

2) On that note, I love that Jean-Do remains saucy even in his vegetable-like condition.

3) Schnabel did an amazing job capturing the absolute horror of what it must be like to be trapped in one's body. And cinematically the imagery was all around amazing. The blurry faces and disembodied voices, the non-peripheral views, the flashbacks, the diving bell buoying in a vast sea of green and blue, were all perfect. The scenery was fantastic, with Breck looking desolate and bleak, all the while quasi-therapeutic. I really loved what he did with this movie. And thankfully Schnabel had the right mind to limit the gratuitous befuddling scenes to a minimum. Like when JD is on that pier like object in the middle of the ocean, yeesh, what's that supposed to mean?

4) Sometimes I got mixed up with the female characters. Perhaps my memory is bad or perhaps the females all looked somewhat similar, but sometimes I couldn't tell who was who. Like when they took their trip to Lourdes. I believe he went with the prettier nurse, not Henriette, but I just can't tell. I don't remember her having been so tall until I saw the Lourdes scene, but maybe that's because Jean-Do was always laying down. On second thought, did the trip to Lourdes even happen? And then there was that scene when JD was shaving his father, and at one point there was no shaving cream and at another there was. These are the kinds of continuity issues that my brain tends to harp on. However, I can overlook all of this simply because I understand that poor Jean-Do is living solely on memory, and if memory is anything, its erratic (and often fictitious), so it would make complete sense that images would be tangential and the dialogue circuitous. Applause to Schnabel, even I got that one.

In sum, this movie was excellent on many levels, and thus deserves a rating of 9.0. I was moved and entertained, which for someone like myself who has often been deemed cold and unresponsive further proves that this is a great film. I'd also like to note that despite being a simpleton, I understood this film. And even I can truly appreciate the notion that life can be brief and arduous, but beautiful all the same.

Food, Glorious Food: A Buenos Aires story continued

Turns out that all things good in Buenos Aires are ingestible. For instance, the "Super Vermicelli con Tuco y Pesto" from Pippos restaurant (located on Montevideo b/w Saramiento and Corrientes) will make your brain explode. Its that delicious. And the whole experience of slurping down a plate of homemade pasta amidst the work-a-day lunchtime bustle of the porteños; Half smothered with a pungent pesto sauce and half with a meaty bolognese, and you'll see what's what.

And let's not even begin to talk about Argentinean ice cream. It tastes exactly as you imagine a delicious ice cream would taste, except without the horrible realization that what you're really eating is made out of styrofoam. The "crema de fresas", strawberry ice cream, is exactly that. Strawberrys and full-fat milk, frozen. So good.

Then we have the "milanesa" made of beef, and of course the "milanesa suprema"made of chicken. Both of which go great with Ensalada Rusa. Then you have the pizza, more commonly referred to by the Argies as "pitzack". Entirely different taste then American Pizza, and with a thicker crust that's soft and buttery. There's also "facturas", the Argentinean answer to morning croissants. Yum.

However, Argentina also has foods that make a foreigner go, "Hmmm". Things that seem to exist without rhyme or reason. Take "faina". A bland, dry, flat cake-like substance, that the Argies put on top of their pizzas. Why bother, I ask, when the pizza is good on it's own.

Then there's "chinchulines". The lower intestines of the cow. Generally soaked in lemon and then doused in salt, and most commonly cooked on the parrilla. If you don't like being surprised about what might squirt in your mouth as you chomp down on your food, then chinchulines aren't for you. And while we're on this subject. I applaud the fact that Argentineans believe in eating every part of the cow, but really, if it smells like piss, it probably tastes like it too. And, well, piss tastes bad.

But of course, what takes the cake, chews it up and then barfs it out, are any, neigh all of the delightful dishes that mixes cream and fish. For instance, "Merlusa al Rochefort", one of the most disgusting things i've tasted in a long time, is served with a long, flat oily fish called Merlusa. Three or four of which have been rolled up, and covered with a cream sauce made of rochefort.

Now, imagine you take the sickening thought of that flavor explosion, and magnify it 10 times. That would become a dished loved by 3 in 4 Argentines, "Vittell Toné". A dish whose name betrays itself to anyone who is familiar with the romance languages. Vitell=Veal Toné=Tuna. Oh yes, dear friends, veal and tuna. Or rather, thin slices of veal, smothered in a sauce made of tuna and mayonaise, served cold.

Note the picture above. A table laden with plates upon plates of salads. You see, its dead summer on New Year's, so everything is served cold. Then you hear,"Don't give her any vegetables, she'll only eat the Vitell Toné". And you can't understand how anyone could think that the combination of meat and fish could be enjoyable in any way. Its frightening.

And just for good measure, I realize that I never mentioned the "Asado". Its a grill and meat. Nuff said. But for your viewing pleasure.
A typical asado.

Meat, Pharmaceuticals and Rock Nacional

I know, I know. I said I would write and I didn't. Which just goes to show that along with my firm belief in coupling ones vices, these kinds of empty promises will ensure my children at least 10 years of therapy. However, I'm not completely heartless. In fact, a part of that black little lump of coal that I call a heart really wants to make good on fallen promises. So I'm going to do what my parents always did whenever they ended up disappointing me - indulge you in ad hoc gratuitous gifts, which in this case, and basically because I'm cheap, will be stories of all the revelries, mishaps and banalities (that I can remember) of my trip to Argentina.

Firstly, I'd like to note that I'm probably one of the best travelers there can be. When flying I anticipate delays and discomfort, and thus am content with sub-par standards. I never argue with the stewards over there not being any alternatives to chicken for diner, I could care less when children shriek at the top of their lungs (poor things can't rationalize cabin pressure or turbulence), and I only roll my eyes when other passengers get up from their seats even when the seat belt sign is lit. However when flying on a plane full of Argentineans, my general placid demeanor slowly starts to ruffle.

The thing is, not yet minutes into the flight and already I've came head to head with the ever irritating, yet often endearing Argentinean character. Classified as bittersweet and plagued by unwieldy polarities in nature, the Argentine can be simultaneously charming and loathsome. While the passengers are loading into the airplane, I notice that the Argentines are incredibly flippant in respect to common courtesy. Their acts of benevolence towards fellow passengers, which while being manifold, are bristly and insincere. And when viewed as an outsider is an eerie reminder that if the plane goes down, the kindly act of allowing women and children to go first out the emergency exit is to ensure that their corpses can be used as comfy floatation devices.

You see, it’s no exaggeration when I say that I’ve never come across a culture that’s anything like that of the Argentineans. Say what you will about the French and their sang-froid disposition, or the tarty Italians, the English with their pomp and snobbery, and of course we horribly irksome and loud Americans, but the Argentines are a special breed that seem to have perfected the art of platitudinous discourse. And when coupled with their particular Spanish "sh-sh-sh" dialect, that somewhere along their ancestral history has acquired the off-putting dissonance of whiny cat, one begins to realize that it’s a wonder that Argentina continues to peacefully coexist in South America.

The truth is somehow the Argentineans have acquired a national bipolar persona, and I hope that through recounting my trip I can help uncover why this is the case. I imagine that it’s part of their pedigree that has resulted from being the product of a country whose illimitable Pampa allows for endless forays of the imagination and that also fosters a kind of desperation. A country with its jungles to the North, mountains to the West, the Atlantic to the East. It has the widest river, the largest street, the Southern most tip of the Americas. A country that was built by immigrants, with cities that have streets named "O'Higgins" and an airport named "Jorge Newberry". A dictatorship that spurred paranoia. Decades of monetary deflation that manifested ambiguous work ethics. And a general distrust of everyone and anything. A country where anyone kisses everyone when greeting. A society that is culturally progressive, harvesting some of the world's most revered literati, and yet remains politically antiquated. A people whose acrid complaints are copious and yet always told with a laugh. In short; The tristesa of the tango, the fanaticism of fútbol, the grisly "asado". Beloved Argentina.

Salty Academic does Argentina

Ok kids, Mommy's heading on a little vacation. Don't worry, your great aunt Irma will be staying with you. Won't that be fun? No, no, don't start crying, Mommy will be back soon enough. Yes darling, I promise to write while I'm away.

That's right kids, as the year winds down and the post-holiday depression starts to set in, sometimes the best thing to do is take a two week vacation to Argentina! I don't know how I finagled this one, but I left the office last Thursday with my boss' blessing for a bon voyage. So I'm going to leave my care-free world behind, and head down South to an even more care-free world (if that's even possible).

However, fret not my dear little ones. I shall continue to post whilst traversing the globe. Why? Because not only do I love you, but because if you're reading this blog you're probably in dire need of a diversion. And I promise that I will do my darnedest to supply it. So while I'm not cajoling some cute little porteño with my big American dollars to do despicable acts in a dirty bathroom just so he can pay for his biology textbooks, I'll be recounting all my misadventures here.

And if last year's trip to Buenos Aires is any indication of what to expect this year, then be ready for one heck of an emotional roller coaster ride. And I promise, this time Auntie Veronica will not get tipsy and fall on top of little Guadalupe during a game of chasey-chasey in the living room.

Fútbol Clip of the Week

Eventhough I'm still picking up the pieces of my shattered spirit after witnessing AC Milan wipe the tomato sauce off their chins with the wet rag that was my beloved Boca Jrs. in this month's Club World Cup, I muster the courage to post this week's fútbol clip of the week.

Looking to the English and their bounty of ridiculously good imported players, this week's clip highlights the Arsenal v. Tottenham match (2-1). All around excellent playing by the Gunners and the Spurs, with the young and agile Fabregas making some exceptional plays.



Online Videos by Veoh.com

all in a days work

Its 5 o'clock, I haven't showered and I'm still in my PJ's, which coincidentally have acquired an unknown stain at the right hem. Very odd. At any rate, I was just catching up on today's stock tradings and perusing the New Yorker's archives, when I came across this picture of those supposed lesbians that form Russia's pop band t.A.T.u

And then I thought, do animals ever think their fellow animals are crazy? For instance, say a dog were frolicking in the park, and he came across another dog that was rolling around in its own shit, would dog A think, "motherfucker is crazy". Furthermore, do animals have the capacity to make those kinds of judgements? If so, that means that animals also have the capacity to reason.

The thought follows, craziness is a concept that is construed when an action does not follow the contrived practices that make up day-to-day reality. Laws and other social/cultural rules are in place not just as a gentle reminder of how we should function within society, but also to perpetuate certain standards and conventions that solidify what is considered "normal" behavior. Drive on the left. Eat with utensils. No sex between first cousins.

It's when we do things that are out of the parameters of what is considered "normal" that we get labeled crazy. It is acceptable to think about going against the norm. However, these are just "finite provinces of meaning" that like day dreams are, "...enclaves within the paramount reality marked by circumscribed meanings and modes of experience" (Berger and Luckman). Stay too long in your finite province of meaning and motherfucker is crazy. And really, from there it's a stones throw away from talking in third person i.e "Cheney's going to go up the path and then straight to the snatch, you see?"

That said, I still don't understand why financially profiting off deception and the murder of hundreds of thousands of innocent people can be considered normal. Just based on sheer demographics, 300 people who conduct that sort of behavior does not trump the 303 million who don't. So I ask, who's making the rules here? These people are crazy and need to be locked away!!

Awww, but Salty Academic, its Christmas...Ok, then we'll just have to tickle them to death.

Happy Holidays?

I went to a holiday party last night, so today I have a terrible headache. The kind you get when imbibing alcoholic beverages without rhyme or reason. Although it can be argued that, "all beverages were fermented from grapes" is a kind of genus, and "simply because I can" is a fairly good reason. However, chasing red wine with champagne, then following champagne with white wine, and finally, when clean glasses are no longer accessible, drinking some kind of Greek grappa from a used glass, is not what one would consider orderly drinking. But hey, that's what the holidays are all about, hence last years debacle with the pirate leg and the two black eyes (I'll save that story for another day).

The good news is I wasn't drunk enough to do or say anything incredibly inappropriate. And while my conversations tended to veer to the scatological, I assure you that's not atypical of any other day. Yes, I had the tendency to hug (a.k.a assault) unsuspecting party goers and erroneously make air quotes with my fingers, but this can be viewed as more charming than imbecilic.

And frankly, I should be commended for successfully suppressing my desires to french-kiss every male at the party. And really, the term Dirty Sanchez only came up once in conversation. Then why, Bacchus great god of disorderly drinking and orgies, have you punished me with this splitting headache?

Is it because at one point I squeezed my own breasts? Or is it because I accused the door man of letting someone steal my coat, only to realize I was looking for my black parka, when in fact I had worn my purple pea coat?

It's because I overdid it with the air quotes isn't it?

Yes I may have exhausted a lifetime of air quote usage in a single evening, but seriously, the air quote conveys a world of information via nuance, and sometimes, well, I like to be subtle. And you must understand, for we Americans, nuance is not something we fully understand how to accomplish. Look no further than US TV programming, nothing implicit there (except for those insipid and questionable exchanges on the Hills). So while we Americans may not understand when to use air quotes, we're still quite enthusiastic and prolific about it.

You see, here in the US of A, as I assume in most English speaking countries, we make our air quotes by forming a V with the index and middle fingers on each hand. Then we flex the fingers at the beginning and end of the phrase being "quoted." As such:

The Germans, on the other hand, sometimes comprise one hand inverted relative to the other in order to imitate the German-language quotation mark, which I believe looks like this:

And Le Fraunch also utilize the V-shape as a means to imitate guillemets, which look like this:

So you see, while the air quote differs in presentation from country to country, the use of satire in common parlance does not. And I'll wager that the abuse of air quotes by tipsy revelers is also not dissimilar across the globe. So please, Bacchus, enough with the headache. Bring me four Advil, and maybe just a nip of Glenlivet.

Rogue feelings - River Plate underwear

more like warm tingly feelings...

Ah, Mondays...

Oh you like that do you? Want more good, wholesome fun? Check out Neil Swaab's 'Rehabilitating Mr. Wiggles' under Sites I Fancy.

Fancy a shag?

Psychosexual development is a funny thing. And like Freud I ask, who are we really if not a molé of our adolescent sexual experiences? In fact, I gladly assert that all of my more accessible childhood memories are sex related. Which is why it's no surprise that Dan Savage's column is brilliant. If not simply for the plethora of insight that Savage, the ambiguously sexually-oriented sex guru, bestows upon the act of doinking, but also because other people's sex lives are superiorly more interesting (and freaky) than my own.

Let's give a big welcome to Dan Savage's weekly column 'Savage Love' under Sites I Fancy.

Fútbol Clip of the Week

Today I bring you Liverpool vs. Marseille (4-0) from last week's UEFA match. And while my love for the French is tantamount to obsessive drunk dialing, I find their footie to be repugnant. But in the game of love (read stalking), a little shitty football isn't enough to deter my affection.

Not Mr. Wizard's World

Remember how Mr. Wizard would explain scientific theory through fun experiments? Well, I do. And more than just watching a grown man and a child work a Bunsen burner, Mr. Wizard's World was a cacophony of audible stimulation, which for a seven year old is as arousing as humping a giant stuffed animal. And I will admit dear reader (big ups to nobody i for being my only consistent audience), to this day nothing titillates me more than hearing someone cut construction paper on TV.

That said, things have changed since Mr. Wizard's World, and science, as I know it, has become much more complex. And when you mix science and art together you get something far greater than a dry ice experiment. In fact, what you do get is a "grown a replica of an ear with living human skin cells, miniature wings with the flesh of a pig and mouse cells in the shape of a tiny leather jacket". Or so, that's what you get when you're a bioartist, forging the boundaries of ethics and fashion.

Ionat Zurr, of SymbioticA, a bioart laboratory in Australia explained that the bioart process works by choosing cells from an animal, "painting" them onto a three-dimensional scaffolding made of degradable polymer (a type of plastic), and then allowing the cells to grow over whatever shape the scaffolding takes, turning it into a living sculpture of skin. One of SymbioticA's latest projects was a steak made up of frog tissue, that the artists later fried up and ate.

This idea is both horrific and intriguing, which is why I love it. And if anyone had any sense they would make an entire collection of clothing from skin cells from the cast of The Hills. And then people can dawn on the outfits, LC and Whitney masks included, and bring those interminable silences to life.

Evolution strikes again!

As if I needed more reasons to believe that pregnancy is something out of an van Vogt novel, scientists have discovered a new element to the mechanism of birthing. According to the article on NPR News, evolution has adapted women's vertebrae to be wedge shaped, unlike their testicular counterparts whose vertebrae has remained the same. These wedged vertebrae allow for the spine to become more S like throughout the pregnancy. This helps the back muscles support the cumbersome load of the growing fetus and the gallons of goop and goo that encase it, thus making pregnancy easier. So now the only hard part of spawning is trying to remember who the father is. Sigh.

One of the authors of the article, Liza Shapiro, explains that the evolutionary impetus is a result of being a biped and having to carry the load in the front of the body. Shapiro likens the experience to that of carrying a box, and states "The weight of the box is trying to pull you forward, so in order to offset that weight, you have to … contract your back muscles to push your spine the other way." And while harbouring a fetus is like carrying a box, once you put down the box, the box doesn't shit itself every other hour and then grow up to disappoint you.

None the less, I like evolution's chutzpah. Specifically the way it turns a blind eye to over-population and dwindling resources, and forges ahead with its agenda to facilitate human procreation. Never mind helping tigers and other endangered species adapt with claws that turn into Kalashnikov-esque assault rifles, or in the least, giving them Aristotelian reason and the ability to speak in human tongues. I also tip my hat to evolution for making females more evolved than males, which consequently helps to purvey my dream of institutionalized male servitude.

Lastly, I'd like to note that i was born without wisdom teeth, which makes me super-highly evolutionized. And if evolution were to ask me what I would like to have adapted, I'd say that I would like to have my tail back. Because frankly, tails are sexy.

As Long As The Music Is Loud Enough...

I don't get out much, and unfortunately, I also don't have a particularly exciting home life. This I'm sure can be attributed to television. And while I'd like to think that I control my life through my own volition and not via a roster of mind-numbing reality TV shows, I'm also quite realistic. Which is why Sunday night's lack of must-see TV makes passing the time hard for me. And often I feel like a baby whose pacifier has been abruptly yanked out of its mouth, cruelly dangled in front of its face, and then tossed by the wayside. Which is also why, when there isn't anything on the tube, I turn to TV's more sophisticated sister, le flick.

Last night I had the pleasure to watch a fantastic movie. The premise; Queen Elizabeth travels through time with the aid of a mystical being and finds that present day Britain is bleak and horrid. Part Clock-work Orange, part punk, part Nazi revival, stir with a little anarchy, add some kink, and you've got Derek Jarman's Jubilee.

However, The reviews of this movie on IMDB are incredibly mixed. Those who loved it did so for Jubilee's art-house flavor and interesting imagery. Those who hated it thought it was watered down punk or unnecessarily violent and crude. And while I'm as punk as George W. Bush is literate, I can understand why people who "know" movies and/or the punk scene may think that Jubilee is obvious and overly conceptualized. However, I'm all for the glaringly evident, and I don't see why ideas have to be masked behind frilly metaphor. So for people like me, Jubilee is great in that it conveys all sorts of sociological phenomenon through an amped-up visual lens, leaving little to be parsed. In fact, and without giving anything away, Jarman reaches just beyond the grasp of the imagination. And for a square such as myself, I'm awed at his ability to put picture to thought in a way that is far more sophisticated than my level of creativity. And while at times Jubilee is disjointed, what it lacks in continuity, it makes up in spirit.

Fútbol Clip of the Week

This week I bring you another blast from the past with Dennis Bergkamp's goal from a 2002 Arsenal vs. Newcastle match. Bergkamp, a Dutch master of sorts, pulls some fancy footwork right in front of the box. Watch it in all its glory.



I promise to start bringing some more current clips soon enough. Hopefully the FIFA Club World Cup will reunite AC Milan and Boca Jrs for another excellent match (2003 ended Boca winning in pk.s).

it's definately not teen spirit

Cat behavior is peculiar to say the least. So when my cat spent an entire day in one spot staring intently at nothing, I knew something was up. Unfortunately, it took me two days to realize that what was "up" was the time of whatever creature decided to make a coffer of my living room wall.

So now the smell of some unholy decomposition is emanating from my wall and permeating the entire left side of the room. Sometimes I counteract this smell by lighting incense, which makes the smell not only bearable but, if i may, enjoyable. And I imagine myself like Laura Ingalls, when the whole family moved to the prairie and lived in a knoll. Just for a second of course, that thought is hard to sustain.

I give props to Ingalls for being an early 20th century female writer. And for being able to create such good TV fodder. And also for introducing me to the afternoon snack. When I was in the fifth grade I would come home from school everyday, make myself a mayonnaise sandwich and watch Little House on the Prairie. One day I came home, made my sanguie, sat myself down to watch the show, and then realized, thanks to a lack in ambient noise, that my parakeet Freddy had died. Well I'll tell you, from that day on I would have nightmares of being perched on the edge of a HUGE jar of mayonnaise and feeling inexplicably compelled to eat all of it. I gave up mayonnaise all together. And while for years i forbade mayo's condimentation, I never gave up Little House on the Prairie.

the Salty Academic takes on religion

As you all may have noticed I had not posted in the last few days, mostly because I've been working (a.k.a not getting drunk before noon), so I have quite a bit to catch up on. And lately the topic of religion has been all the rage in the papers, so I think I'll start there.

I'd like to preempt this entry by acknowledging that openly discussing religion, much like kicking a little dog in the face, is an impulse one mustn't act on without careful consideration. However, not only am I stupidly impulsive, I'm belligerent to boot. So, naturally, religion ranks as one of the favorite topics of discussion.

With that in mind, the AP wire "Germany Seeks to Ban Scientology" caught my attention. Those familiar with Scientology probably are in the know thanks to the the crazy shenanigans of Tom Cruise and other well-to-do media elites. And while Scientology garners unconventional philosophies, it does have specific texts, a kind of hierarchy, and an astounding membership, all of which, I believe, makes it a religion. Some people, however, might call Scientology a "cult". But really, all religions are cults. That is, a cult as defined by Webster "1. A community or system of religious worship and ritual". And surely if its alright to believe that women were created out of a rib from a man (as is the case in Christianity), then it should be equally alright for one to believe that humans evolved from mollusks (cheers Scientology for that one).

That said, Germany's claim that Scientology is, "a commercial enterprise that takes advantage of vulnerable people", thus threatening Germany's "peaceful democratic order" is ridiculous an appalling. Firstly, all religions are commercial enterprises that take advantage of vulnerable people. That's it's shtick. And any Marxist or Weberian can attest. However, to reduce Germany's claim as a matter of mere economics is too simple. Yes, Scientology can be likened to a kind of mafia, but again, this is no different than other religious groups. So, what's the real problem Germany? Is this an attempt to reclaim some kind of global democratic notoriety in the face of a sullied past? Well, if so, you've got it all wrong.

There can be no democracy, no 1st amendment if you will, without a pluralistic state. This is to mean, a country must accept different worldviews and the institutions that support them in order to be considered truly democratic. And this idea extends particularly to religion. Now, those of you in the "religion is bad" camp will probably say that religious systems have resulted in numerous wars and other sorts of blood-shed, so Germany is on the ball. But this is not entirely true. The 20th century had numerous wars and plenty of genocides. Clearly one of the bloodiest periods in history. And yet none of these were the result of religious persecution. And if you're going to ask, "but what about The Holocaust?". I will answer that the Jews, while the greatest beneficiaries of that horrible suffering, were amongst a slew of other groups to perish under Nazi nationalism (Gypsies, Slavs, Poles, gays, mentally disabled, etc.). And, if one day Judaism would address whether it should be considered a religion or an ethnic group, I will gladly revise my position. Until then though, and for the sake of the argument at hand, I'm sticking with ethnic cleansing.

So, with that in mind, I take us to Mitt Romney. According to journalists and political pundits, Americans have reservations about voting for Mitt Romney because he's Mormon. Nevermind that Romney switch hits on social issues, or rather, doesn't address any issues. No, the fact that Romney is Mormon is more than enough to make people feel "very uncomfortable" (AP-Yahoo poll).

This is understandable. The Mormon Church, or The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints as they are referred to on the many heart-warming commercials they diffuse throughout TV, gives off that strange, "cultish" vibe. Maybe its because the Mormon Church was founded by some random guy who claimed to have translated the Book of Abraham from papyrus rolls before the Egyptian hieroglyphics were decipherable? Or maybe its the polygamy? I don't really know. But one thing is for sure. The Mormon Church is the American religion par excellence. And while you may not have to agree with their doctrines, you do have give put up with them. Otherwise, you obviously hate America.

In sum, if you're going to vote, definitely don't vote for (or against) religion. Because while religion can bring you a world of interesting ideas and fanciful visions, it probably won't bring you any economic capital (and no, being the owner of mega-church doesn't count).

*This last statement, while being completely valid can also be refuted (with empirical evidence). However, I'm not getting into it.

Somethings I will never understand

There are a couple of topics that I'm actively avoiding because I find them too perplexing and complicated, like Middle East politics.

However, there is something that I've been trying to wrap my head around for some time now, and while it is equally perplexing and complicated, it merits investigation. This is, why is Antonio Banderas the voice of the animated bee in the Nasonex commercial? Seriously, why would a doofy little bee, with its sleepy little eyes, have a Spanish accent? I wonder what that marketing pitch was like.

Executive Myspace

I alert you, dear reader, to Nicholas Carr's blog http://www.roughtype.com/

Now, I really don't know anything about this Carr except that, presumably, he's versed in technological matters and he's published two books. I came to his blog somewhat circuitously and read his Nov 28th entry. Here Carr shares his ponderings on the imminent invasion of social networking software into the corporate sphere.

Carr writes a bunch of interesting musings, of which I'll spare you all of them. But basically he's saying that one day, the "formal" organization of the corporate world, which is construed by conventional IT systems, will be replaced by "informal" organizational systems akin to Myspace and Facebook. However, Carr also states that current informal systems include "email, PowerPoint and Excel", which frankly are as informal as getting a hand-job from the Queen of England, but I see where he's going. Carr is thinking, improbably, of an office full of executives that post memos and other such material on their personal sites, and where their little minions log on and look at them and post comments.

Fun! Except you're still answering to this guy.

The Salty Academic adds a new feature...

Notice if you will the new feature to the Left "Sites I Fancy".

The one site listed (thus far) belongs to an intelectually superier Norweigen named Bård Edlund.

Check out his comics and other broody material, my favorite being:
Empty - An 11-page epic. More French film than Hollywood blockbuster. Operates on its own internal logic.

Don't bogart the genetic decoding, man

I'm all for science. After all, I claim to be somewhat methodological in nature myself. So when I read this month's cover story from WIRED magazine "Your Life Decoded", I was happy to see that the business of genetic decoding was being handed to the common man.


Indeed, it would be great to put a little spittle into a cup (2.5 milliliters to be exact), send it off to the lab, and in a few months get an e-mail with all your genetic history splayed out for your perusal on your very own e-file. However, as I mentioned this is a business, and genetic decoding don't come cheap. Well I'll be honest, the genetic decoding service provided by 23andME, a company that claims to "give people a look at their genome and help them make sense of it", isn't all that expensive when viewed with bourgeois sensibilities. In fact, the entire 23andME service costs a mere $1,000, which is chump change when compared to all the other gadgets and gizmos, and frivolities that we purchase these days (you can also get your entire genome examined for a silly $250,000).

So for this mere $1,000, here's what you get: navigate through your 23 chromosomes, a scholarly investigation that relates your genome with current research on various health conditions like diabetes and Chrohns, an ancestral overview of your DNA, and a type of DNA networking page where you can compare your genome to those of your familiars. So essentially, with this service you can learn what diseases your prone to get in the future so that you can take measures to rebuff them in the present. Thus, you can live longer, stronger, and happier, knowing that while you cheated death for a decade or so, your fellow humans are dying away and suffering terrible, fatal diseases. Go you!

However, the sociologist in me can't help but give a disconcerted head-shake. Once again science is evading a large demographic of individuals who can't afford to fork up for a little genetic decoding. Demographically speaking, in the US, Hispanics and Blacks have lower household incomes than Non-Hispanic Whites. So frankly, I'm starting to think that along with cryogenic freezing and stem cell therapy, this new service is all part of the scientific community's ploy to promote an all-White planet Earth. That's right, ladies and gentlemen, science is racist! And since Jesus loves all the little children, it's easy to see why so many poor folk turn to God instead of science. Mystery solved.

But becuase I'm in favor of science and against racism, I'm sort of in a moral bind. Should I let God win the hearts and minds of the poor and/or colored? Or should I let science triumph in the name of racism?

Well, fret not poor and/or colored people of the US! I have a similar and free service for you. It's called, numerology. Basically, you add the digits of your birthday to get one single "Life Path" digit. Then you go here:

http://www.astrology-numerology.com/num-lifepath.html

From there you can figure out what your life is all about; what wills you and what will be your demise. Now I know that its not really the same as genetic decoding, but frankly, who cares. Only the rich and over educated are paranoid enough to take proactive steps to increase their longevity and forsake some of life's greatest pleasures like drink, and chocolate, and threesomes. And I don't want to toot my intellectual horn here, but isn't numerology a kind of rudimentary genetic decoding? Or put differently, isn't DNA a set of genetic instructions guided by numerological precepts like division and addition?

So take that science! You're plan for a "Bright White Future" has been foiled.

As for you God, I'll deal with you later.

The Fútbol clip of the week

I've decided that every week I will show 'The fútbol Clip of the Week', hopefully highlighing the week's best play. However, I haven't been watching many games lately and of what I did see on the internet, like Tevez' goal vs. Sporting, I wasn't much impressed. England is making him soft.

This week I am going back to my maternal roots and showing you a clip of my familiar team (although this is disputed by claims that we are actually of San Lorenzo). The noble River Plate. Nicknamed Los Millonarios. Here we see a stupendous goal against Estudiantes, finished by Falcao.

Look Mom, I swallow

I know many of you who have been wondering what ever happened with that mysterious ailment that had been plaguing my body and slowly killing my spirit for the past year. Well I’m pleased to say that as of today we are one step closer to solving the mystery. Thanks to the wizardry of modern medicine, trial and error has once again proven that my swallowing problem is not a condition of the throat.

In case you need a reminder, over a year ago I had what I thought was anaphylactic shock triggered by a piece of breaded shrimp that I ate while sitting in the back of a BMW convertible speeding down some Long Island highway. Firstly, if you know me, you know that not only am I the world’s worst driver, I also am the world’s worst passenger. Even if I were being driven in a children’s parade, I would still have the overwhelming fear of having my legs smashed to bits in a terrible accident. So my uneasiness about being in an careening automobile coupled by the fact that I was being suffocated by my own body while my hair was painfully whipping my face, then multiplied by the fact that I was in Long Island, made this event horrible on multiple levels.

After that terrible day I confidently assumed that I had an allergic reaction to shellfish. However, the following months would prove that there was something amiss. And eventually all types of food would make my throat clam-up. A visit to two separate allergists proved that I have no allergies whatsoever. This news was quite disheartening. And I was angry that I had wasted so much energy carrying around a bulky epi-pen in my purse for half a year. I was told it was anxiety. Of course, I thought, one would have anxiety when their body decides to strangle itself.

"Less stress would be the cure", they said. "But if I’m anything its not stressed", I argued. To which they answered, "Well, if it makes you feel bad, don’t eat it". And that’s when I realized with certainty that doctors know fuck-all about health. Yet despite my dubious and perverse feelings on modern medicine (thanks in part to my acupuncturist), I’m not opposed to seeing more specialists.

Which brings me to my latest attempt at understanding my bodies rebellious nature to food. Over the last couple of months I’ve been choking on more mundane foods like bread, so I decided to have another go at conventional medicine. This time I went to see an othorhinolaryngologist, less respectively called an Ear, Nose and Throat doctor. Now, I actually like going to doctors. Mostly because other than this small swallowing issue I’m in great health, and I love having people confirm this. I also love to tout that I have abnormally low blood pressure and the resting heart rate of a dead person (I also have thin wrists and ankles).

Well, 45 minutes in the examination room and after already having been visited by the nurse, who much like a stripper, leaves you feeling unsatisfied, the doctor comes in and starts the second round of questioning. Although I know that doctors don’t need much information to make an assessment, I like to inundate them with anecdotes related to the problem. Like the bard, I tell my story with enthusiasm, allowing the doctor to relive my horrors and relish my heroism. I use this time as a kind therapy. And frankly, after having been made to wait in the exam room with nothing more a bunch of pamphlets on sleep apnea to leaf through, I feel I’m owed that much.

And then the doctor does what she was trained to do. She takes a device and sticks it in my nostril and gently pushes it down into my throat, mentioning ever so casually that it may be "slightly uncomfortable". Now I’m no stranger to having things crammed down my throat, so in the least, this silly device was nothing more than mere a tickle. This doctor also happened to be well trained in the art of suspense. So while she’s servicing my throat, she utters not a peep. Not an "aha!" or "hmm…that’s weird". Nothing. After she pulls the device out of my head and waits a few moments to further build suspense, she assesses that I have some kind of irritation. "Really? Tell me more" I say. "Well," she continues, "you seem to have some kind of irritation caused by reflux. But you don’t actually have reflux. The reflux may be caused by something else. You will need to see a gastroenterologist". Apparently, and here’s where it gets good, I may have an allergy in my throat.

And that my friends is the beauty of modern medicine. Of course she prescribed me some reflux medication which I obviously turned down, since, as she had just stated, I don’t have reflux. But I did take her recommendation on the stomach doctor, because unlike Scooby Doo, I don’t think one can solve a case by running away from fear and eating scooby snacks. Nay, like Sherlock Holmes, one must solve the mystery with the aid of an intellectually limited yet resourceful doctor, who despite being analytically inferior is brave and efficient.

Damn that feeble heart!

After my last three entries, I realize that I haven't exactly taken on any hard-hitting topics as I had originally advertised. I scoured the interweb this morning trying to find some news worth mentioning, but because Dick Cheney survived yet another heart problem, I lost interest.


We'll get you next time Cheney...

Come and knock on my door...

The only thing that brings me more joy than deciphering a Thomas Pynchon novel is deciphering Lauren Conrad's wordless expressions. That's to say, despite being a sophisticated intellectual, I love TV. More specifically, I love reality TV. And when people refer to reality TV as "mindless garbage" a little piece of me dies.

The Hills, for instance, is to the 21st century what Three's Company was to the 20th century. An incredibly entertaining, often creepy display of sexually ambiguous cavorting, incestuous enterprises, and emotional abuse, all set in a place where there are palm trees and roller skaters. And now that I think of it, most reality TV is set in sunny locations with palm trees. Which i suppose makes sense, since as we all know, you can't see titties beneath a parka.

I also love The Real Housewives of the Orange County. Do I care where Orange County is? No. Does Lauri's face reflect the look of someone who's been sitting in a pair of piss-stained trousers? Yes. And why do these women's mouths remind me of vaginae? Its a subconscious archetype. Like Santa Claus, this show is beyond ridiculous and thus can be classified as magical.

Don't get me wrong though, I'm not completely indiscriminate. I tried Keeping Up with the Kardashians, and well, fell behind. But when Kim Kardashian feigned modesty, worried about taking her clothes off for Playboy, it was just too much for me. This from a girl that gives blow-jobs on tape for profit. Haven't the Armenians suffered enough?

Reality TV aside, scripted TV (now don't get confused) is equally entertaining. For instance, I still watch The Nanny despite having exhausted every episode. And thankfully its awkward morning time slot of 8am does not affect my commute. And then there's the food channel. This channel has the best of the worst. Rachel Ray, who needs to stop tucking in her shirt, and Giada De Laurentis, whose head is ginormous (yes, bigger than mine), both have multiple shows that are simultaneously annoying and engaging. And then there are the shows where people go ghost hunting. I also love these. Why? Because like a dog that stops to lick it's balls in the middle of the street, there are just some things that are so good they defy reason.

Viva Mexico Cabrones!

A breakdown of the demographic of those that make catcalls to me on the street shows that 5% are working class, 15% are African Americans, 20% are homeless, 10% are drunk by midday and an astounding 50% are Mexicans. What does this show besides the fact that I can do simple mathematics? Mexicans make up my #1 fan base.

I am not bothered by the catcall (as frequent as they may be). In fact, most, if not ALL of my self-esteem is confirmed when I hear a stranger tell me that I'm looking good. I even give props to the more creative spectator. For instance, a while back as I walked by a lunching construction worker I heard him say, "Look at those ham-hocks". And while It is ordinary to hear commentary on the girth of my thighs, I thought the reference to a savory and delicious holiday dish merited a fair amount of kudos.

On that note, I will say, perhaps inexplicably, I hold the Mexican catcaller dear to my heart. Maybe its their bold attempt to engage me in conversation with a kind greeting like, "Have a good day"? Or the way they've adopted the "Ga Blesh You" of their brethren? But the Mexican catcall is different. Gentler. Respectful. And while I hardly ever respond to most catcalls, the Mexican earns my nod of approval. And in the end, I'd like to think that with our mutual exchange, the world is better place.

I've tried to wrap my head around what Mexicans can find so attractive about me. After all, let's face it people/person, I'm not a conventional beauty. And perhaps therein lies the secret. Briefly, I have a giant head (so I've been told). And my facial features gravitate around my bulbous nose as if attracted by a powerful magnet. So I can say with certainty that my good looks are not intimidating. I'm also fairly squat, measuring a modest 5'2 and strong like a bull. But i think the clincher (pun intended), is that I have a squoval ass, and that my friend(s), is like honey to the bee.

Now I know one can't simply lump ALL Mexicans in the same pool and claim to be their goddess. But if this blog is about anything, its about sweeping generalizations (see description), so yes I can. That said, I'm not so uncouth. Obviously, there are differences between the Mexican from Puebla and the one from Mexico City, and those differences are important in ways that I can't really understand. Mostly because I'm American and the class/race systems of other countries eludes me. But in the end it doesn't matter. I don't care from which part of Mexico you hail, or if you are dark-skinned or illegal. Just, por favor, don't stop worshipping me!

It's not you, it's the tryptophan

Generally against my better judgement, I'm always ready to jump on the bandwagon. So its no surprise that after years of hearing about these things called "blogs" I have decided to join the fray. After all, who could be better suited to make commentary on newsie social issues (i.e anything that strikes my fancy), than someone who has not one, but two masters degrees. And really, what better time to get started on such an endeavor than after a weekend of binge eating, shameless consumerism and high school reunions? If the great masters of art and literature have shown us anything, it's that inspiration springs forth from commercialism and the kind of self-loathing that can only come from an evening of tryptophan-induced awkward mingling.

Yes, I liken myself to Rembrandt and Balzac. Yes, the word "mingling" sounds like a sexual maneuver that involves bamboo shoots. No, I did not attend my high school reunion (or was invited for that matter). However, if I did, believe me, I would be filled with the kind of self-loathing rivaled only by Mary Cheney. Although, I will maintain the assumption that not having a drug problem or eating disorder puts me ahead of most of my old peers both in intelligence and general emotional stability. So actually, when I say self-loathing, I really mean unbridled hubris.

That said, like a good upscale hooker, I don't want to give away too much too soon. Lest I satiate your hunger and loose my audience. But since I'm only proverbially fellating, I'll say, dear reader, not only have you the greatest intellect I've ever seen but i can do wonders with puns and have an extensive vocabulary. And by extensive I mean limited to the 1000 words I had to learn for my GRE.

Stay tuned for my next post as we explore why Mexicans make up my #1 fan base...